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.
Heh! If you say so, then I have no choice but to believe you, non? But you'll have to forgive me if that's no mean feat to accept. Men like you tend to be delightfully unpredictable.
Ah, but if I told you, that would spoil the fun, non? Let's just say you wear the mask of a gentleman very well... though I do wonder what sort of face hides beneath.
Ah, but that's what all the dangerous ones say, isn't it? "I am what I am..." It sounds so honest, so simple— almost like a confession meant to distract from the rest.
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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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And what are "men like me"?
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[He stares at Lobelia for a long moment.]
Don't flatter me. I'm hardly a gentleman. And I don't wear many faces, either. I am what I am. That's all there is to it.
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Ah, but that's what all the dangerous ones say, isn't it? "I am what I am..." It sounds so honest, so simple— almost like a confession meant to distract from the rest.
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[Again, a simple confession.]
Were you expecting something more drastic?
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