[Mikhail Vashael]

Mother Fletching Mikhail Vashael... What are you getting yourself into, you fletching whoresmeat c'nt. The dark orbs readied a snow white heart, scrubbed clean from yahren of deception. The self? never.. He never lied. To himself. It was borderline suicide in this field of hopes and dreams. You accepted your vice, your crime, your guilt. You mounted it on a wall and kissed someone everytime you passed under. It was a boon, it was you.. your truth. Your smile. Everything may as well be a lie, but you weren't. Not to yourself.. That much was chiselled stone cold fact.

Stepping on heels that didn't give two copper damns whether they moved nor stayed, Vashael swaggered after the altered child while pausing to steady his gait on a tree branch or three. Coming across the men sleeping, he started to laugh as their bodies emptied.. It was the drink of course, no rational souless bastard would laugh at death....

Then to embrace it, To ENJOY it.. That was another thing all together.

Watching what was left of Cale slip to shadows almost broke down something true inside him, it was a playful caress of careless abandon.. a dire swagger that viewed the entire telath as a stage, and himself but a single player being tailored for a suit .. Yet the Gods did always give him such good dialogue and meaty roles that it would become a tragedy if Mikhail did not ultimately step up to the part and deliver with real passion. This was now opening night, and the roses were already at his feet.

Vashael entered through, expecting the pain.. but said experience delivered far more then romantic idealism, the sensation was viceral to a point of regret. A shocking purge that delivered not only authority but the weight and depth of terror and acute cerebral hemorrhage.
It was a Fletching rush.

Crossing over, the man could see the remains of the two comedic devices. He was numb to this all somehow, like each piece and playmate only single elements of some grander scheme.. One which now pulled at him, painted his face white with bashful red cheeks then shuffled him under the spotlight...
Rereading the script, he'd want to only fake his death until a later act, perhaps finding redemption to forgo final poetic justice. Who knew.. all the cards were in the air now and watching them fall like colored rain was simply beautiful to watch. Snatching up the fool card, he could see through it like a prism... all light being absorbed into the black expanse which the child inside himself seem to love. It was exciting and nullifyingly heavy to be here.. in the Twilight realm. But he knew what it was .. he'd known for months.. the experience had been waiting inside him.. building.. changing him, directing and augmenting his very structure. Bones, veins, matter.. it all vibrated and channelled at new peak and direction. They had been preparing him, warning him... down to a cellular level.. pushing his physical frame to such a blank edge that even something as simple as a human would be able to stand the extremities of the experience. Especially the first time, others had died from this.. he knew it... HE COULD FEEL IT.

As his host molded each stallion to it's final pose, Vashael couldn't help but reach out to the static surrounding him; the sheen of silver, grey and flat tone and try to touch the landscape beyond. He'd half-heartedly attempted to push and force his fingers back into the land of realized spectrum, to find the relationship between himself and each polarity. Smearing his index finger over the pigment Mikhail watched the lad climb his new mount with a tried smirk.. forgoing all theatrics the man swung his own hips and jumped aloft soon after. 'Said nothing.. didn't need to.. he knew what was happening, something inside of him did. The man was letting his hand ride, it was a gambler's patience mixed with vermouth. Yet what was to be offered? He could only imagine the subtlities it would take from him... each haunting dreams since Alyxandrya had provided ample material to forgo wonderment... Were they dreams, hallucinations.. or steeped in faded touches of past life? The blunt end of a stick to his temple would never tell. This stooper of hard liquor left him reeling.. drunk on the displacement of the euphoric disparity he now existed in. A laughing, mocking existence to the shallow surface of past regrets and beautiful accidents. This was a perfect play, but it was not yet time for his opening soliloquy.