#working w humanity & murder👌

[eritvita]

❛ You die when you kill. You feel you deserve to die and you stint on nothing. ❜ / couldn't decide on just one so i sent both, feel free to choose c:

@ariveth

How poetic, how marvelous, how terrible that cycling Path of violence of the Boethian cultist: Roland sits upon a fallen log, splattered with scarlet blood still pooling in their congealed rainbows as the dead, silent body of that raving madman lies skewered, and very, very dead, at the place of his booted feet. He holds his face in his hands; staring.

The reasoning is simple: survival, to prevent his own blood to splash upon that sodden, black ground in the rhythmic Beat of Roland's own Life, and to keep living, and the war screams of that secular band still ring within his wind-mussed head.

His face is haggard; his eyes wide and red-ringed from crying, now dried; staring.

The cultist is dunmer, their black hair cut short. Is their family looking for them, this forever-gawking vigilant? Didst they claim continual contact with them, their mother, father, nieces and nephews, whence fled for that wargod in Her many Forms and iron stone?

He makes no movement hath her heard his Darling in her strict, vital statement, and merely sits, and stares, and contemplates his own, precious morality.

What hast he done?

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (1994) .