The gentle musk of Arsenaal was soothing to whatever nerves that had arisen in relation to the shipment someone was dropping off for Davante. Comfortable in the belly of the shop, the man that joined me posed very little threat and didn't invoke any kind of anxiety, not any more. In the first moments when we had met I'd admit that he was... No, I'm not lost for words. It's just... The glint of potential malice and the capacity for violence that was evident in the man's vibrant, emerald eyes was familiar; too familiar. So many boys grew into vile, heathen men as products of their environments, birthed unto horrific circumstances. Those men weren't human anymore, no. Subject the victim to the hands of pigs like that; I would consider myself well versed in the appalling acts of men. I consider myself expert enough on the subject matter that I would recognize it in their eyes. Some of these men take their horrendousness to another level â€" they brutalize beings less strong, less confident; more delicate, more fragile. They shatter these people and it's almost impossible to recognize the victims afterwards. While those pigs exist, there is another category of heathen men. The other kind of men are charismatic, they're enigmatic, they're kind when they choose â€" but they're also violent, brutal, sociopathic or even psychopathic. They're the men who bring flowers, who say the right things; they're the men you have to be even more afraid of. When I look into the crystalline eyes of my brother, I see the latter form of a man and I know that some people should tremble. Some do. But behind the vulgarity, behind the horrendous soldier of a man, there is a soul that's waiting to be put back together. He's the victim too.
Was that what I saw in the depthless emerald eyes that caught mine in the din of Arsenaal?
I ran a hand through my hair, allowing it to fall in ringlets down my back as if to pretend like I hadn't been wandering down memory lane. Memory lane was a place, in my mind, decorated year round with what could only be classified as realistic Halloween decorations â€" oh, the demons of memory lane looked real to me, most of the time. Instead of dwelling on what lay in the shadows on that very road, I allowed my features to rearrange themselves in a soft expression which would lead Tetradore to understanding I was very amiable to the situation and at ease there. Beside him, it was too difficult to deny that there was something incredibly predatory, incredibly masculine, and incredibly feral about him. I could say the same for my brother, but this was different â€" this wasn't unpredictably feral, this was animalistic instinct and it was clearly something that made the man uncomfortable that I'd noticed. And that naturally brought another amused smirk to my lips.
"It's kind of endearing that you think you're mysterious," I chirped, having one hell of a time keeping the amusement from my voice. He clearly didn't want to go into any details about whether or not he was a were-feline of sorts, so I gently dropped the topic by indulging in silence for a moment. The light-created feline patted at the shadow for only another moment before the light dissipated, rendering me free to sit on top of the work table and train my gaze back on the messenger of sorts.
"Of course he wasn't; leave it to the man to be inconvenient at best. Elenore Dorian." My words were soft spoken but not timid, for it was merely an introduction that he deserved after I had guessed his name. I didn't stand up, but I did offer my slender hand to him as a sign of manners to conclude our introduction. Instead of staying seated for long, I couldn't help myself bouncing up to shut the back room door as there were visible customers in the shop and I wasn't about to have anything to do with that. "I'm not a fan of prying eyes... But I am curious to what's in the box. So if you'd like to watch me turn into a 5 year old with excitement you're welcome to stay." Without waiting for him to say anything, I tore my way into the box to inspect the artifact that the man had brought.
"This isn't as exciting as I wanted it to be." I really didn't mean to pout. "Is there a chance you're feeling deviant and you want to show me why Davante wanted it in the first place?"
