[Now he can dance properly! Well, almost. He's still without hands, but let's consider that a blessing. Lobelia can only do so much harm when he has no fingers to snap.
In addition to sparkling radiantly, he also has a cute little hat on his head. Nala is a kind soul.]
Mm! That would be because I took a dunk in the well! Thankfully, cher Ramuda was kind enough to retrieve this vessel after that brutish man with the silver hair left me to drown.
Ah? The enfant? no, they merely stabbed me in an attempt to kill me! Ahhh, I was so disappointed with the outcome! Try as I might, I can experience no pain through this wretched marionette! Dieu m'a sûrement maudit!
Oui! That is correct! I assure you that I am far more beautiful than this hollow vessel would suggest.
[While Hansa rests his weary old bones, Lobelia is sprinting in circles around the well, enjoying the sound of wood striking dirt and stone.]
Why? Because it reminds me I exist. Every snap, every fracture, every note of agony... it's proof that I am still part of this world's harmonie. Salvation is silence— no pulse, no song. But pain? Pain is music, and I am a collector of beautiful sounds.
Then that makes two of us, appreciating beauty in all its forms! Though unlike you, perhaps, I am perfectly content to wait for good things to come in due time. And if I were to give you an answer, would you be inclined to believe it?
[Most wouldn't, and Lobelia hardly expects otherwise. He seems entirely unbothered either way.]
You see... Sage considers it a matter of safety that we appear before you as these marionettes. If you want my honest opinion, none of you pose a threat in your current states, but I understand Sage's caution all the same. Some of us are a little more... délicat than others.
[Perhaps that would ease a few minds, though Lobelia doubts it will do much good. Regardless—]
I have my suspicions, though they remain only theories. Typically, a being with both the interest and the means to drag others into a new world has some grand design in motion— something it requires living hands to see through.
That is, of course, assuming there is such a greater power at all. What say you, ma cher père?
You've noticed it as well, haven't you? The absence of birdsong. No cheerful children singing their tunes, no animals roaming the wilds. To call this place cursed would be no exaggeration. The silence is dreadful— and altogether unnatural.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[That sure is...another leg, but okay! He has something to ask! First! He is already sort of exhausted.]
Maybe later. Let's have a chat. [...] Why are you glowing?
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In addition to sparkling radiantly, he also has a cute little hat on his head. Nala is a kind soul.]
Mm! That would be because I took a dunk in the well! Thankfully, cher Ramuda was kind enough to retrieve this vessel after that brutish man with the silver hair left me to drown.
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Someone tried to drown you?
[...]</small< Was it Siffrin.
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...
So your body isn't here. It's somewhere else? This is just a vessel?
[He's just going to move to sit near the well for now.]
Why do you want to feel pain, anyways? That's not a way to salvation.
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[While Hansa rests his weary old bones, Lobelia is sprinting in circles around the well, enjoying the sound of wood striking dirt and stone.]
Why? Because it reminds me I exist. Every snap, every fracture, every note of agony... it's proof that I am still part of this world's harmonie. Salvation is silence— no pulse, no song. But pain? Pain is music, and I am a collector of beautiful sounds.
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[What a thing to say. Hansa thinks on it for a bit, watching the puppet run around.]
Why not come out with your real body and just. Fight someone, then?
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Heh! And what is it you mean to suggest, ma cher père? Would you accuse me of hiding when I could so easily be revealing myself to you instead?
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[You know! Normal thoughts!]
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Tch, tch! And should a man of the cloth be so covetous, I wonder? Can you not wait until the curtain rises?
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[A tilt of the head.]
When will the curtain rise?
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[Most wouldn't, and Lobelia hardly expects otherwise. He seems entirely unbothered either way.]
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[But fine, fine, he will be patient.]
Lobelia. Could I ask you something? Why do you think we're here?
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[Perhaps that would ease a few minds, though Lobelia doubts it will do much good. Regardless—]
I have my suspicions, though they remain only theories. Typically, a being with both the interest and the means to drag others into a new world has some grand design in motion— something it requires living hands to see through.
That is, of course, assuming there is such a greater power at all. What say you, ma cher père?
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[He frowns, though, silent for a moment.]
You think this place has some sort of malice behind it, then.
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No. This place feels hostile. I don't like it.
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You've noticed it as well, haven't you? The absence of birdsong. No cheerful children singing their tunes, no animals roaming the wilds. To call this place cursed would be no exaggeration. The silence is dreadful— and altogether unnatural.
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[He wipes a hand down the face, feeling tired.]
And now someone is dead? Tell me if that's a joke.
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What will you do, père? Rather, what can you do?
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[What can he do?]
[What should he do...?]
I suppose some would say I should deliver divine justice. But I don't play judge and jury. Only the executioner.
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You know... you carry the scent of blood on you. I would scarcely have taken you for a saint, had you not declared it yourself.
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[He smiles, rueful.]
Only the blood of monsters. How did you sniff that out?
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Mm? I simply have a nose for these things. Does that concern you?
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No. I simply don't like scaring people off. I'm a nice guy!
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