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[Tom is outside, in his long black coat, staring down intently at a gravestone. He has been there for close to three hours, his green scarf fluttering in the wind as he tilts his head, to read the name once more. No matter how many times he reads it, it does not change --
Merope GauntHe has been told that if he stays long enough, he will see ( Read more... )
Merope GauntHe has been told that if he stays long enough, he will see ( Read more... )
It was packed with something, magic? Souls? Who knows.
The city transformed itself into a mass graveyard. A city of the dead.
How quaint. And oddly fitting.
In Camelot, some would say the Lady Morgana had a talent to move about without a sound. A gift that had perfected from childhood. But even she went somewhat noticed these days. After all, she wasn't a ghost.
To some, she'd look as if she belonged in this atmosphere. A lady of pale skin and dark hair, covered in a hood and a cloak that dragged behind her. She was white and black and crimson red.
Perhaps this, too, will one day become part of her myth. Morgan Le Fay, she had heard that whispered here and then.
Morgana Le Fay, she's insist, if they had to. And she wasn't too disturbed today, though the next day, she will look convincingly so. She'll cry and throw herself at the tomb and shut herself in her room and look weak and fragile ( ... )
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[ only now that toxic anger and bitterness start to rise. ]
He dared to ask me why.
[ she nearly wanted to laugh when he did. Bitterly so. The nerve.]
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[Quietly, and Tom fixates his gaze upon her, the tiniest smile appearing on his lips.]
Allow him his ignorance. You grow to be a legend.
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[ The rest less so. ]
My powers are growing. But to know that Animus can make them disappear is hardly becoming.
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[Quietly, with a small smile.]
They'll grow more with each passing day.
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