07-26-2024, 12:45 AM
A cold wind signaled the shift into winter, and with it, the chill invigorating his very essence. This was his time of year when Sámiel was ecstatic, manically so, and today, like the wind itself, he roamed the streets, restless and aimless. Though dressed loudly in patterned bellbottoms, a ruffled shirt wide open at the throat and a heavy wool overcoat, he moved with a quiet presence.
He was absorbing the busyness and tourists filling the Red Square, savoring the energy of the place, when a strange yet captivating sight caught his attention near St. Basil’s. A man in a long purple robe, with a high collar curling around the back of his neck and the symbol of the Brotherhood sewn upon the back, was passionately orating to the onlookers.
He was drawn to man’s intense features—the sharp lines of his face, the fervor in his eyes, and the strong call of a voice that seemed to match Sámiel’s own presence in an inexplicable way. The physical attraction was immediate and profound, a spark that ignited within him as he watched the man speak with such intensity and conviction.
The Brother argued with one of the Red Devils, the city's armed security, and Sámiel observed the exchange from a distance. He noted the frustration in the man’s voice, the determination etched into his expression as he was forced to move on. There was something undeniably magnetic as a shadow draws darkness.
He followed until the man relocated to a corner outside an artist's gallery and witnessed the same impassioned speech once more, his words infused with the same fervor despite the change in location. Those passing offered a mixed reaction, some nodding in agreement, others slithering past without acknowledgement.
Satisfied that he had seen enough, Sámiel made his way to a nearby café. He ordered a cup of hot tea, the steam rising from the cup as a reminder of the warmth it held, and carried it out in a to-go cup. With the tea in hand, he approached.
"With all that speaking you are doing," Sámiel said in his characteristic eerie, melodic tone, "your throat must be dry.” He offered the cup of hot tea towards the Brotherhood, eyes roaming the symbols on clothing.
He was absorbing the busyness and tourists filling the Red Square, savoring the energy of the place, when a strange yet captivating sight caught his attention near St. Basil’s. A man in a long purple robe, with a high collar curling around the back of his neck and the symbol of the Brotherhood sewn upon the back, was passionately orating to the onlookers.
He was drawn to man’s intense features—the sharp lines of his face, the fervor in his eyes, and the strong call of a voice that seemed to match Sámiel’s own presence in an inexplicable way. The physical attraction was immediate and profound, a spark that ignited within him as he watched the man speak with such intensity and conviction.
The Brother argued with one of the Red Devils, the city's armed security, and Sámiel observed the exchange from a distance. He noted the frustration in the man’s voice, the determination etched into his expression as he was forced to move on. There was something undeniably magnetic as a shadow draws darkness.
He followed until the man relocated to a corner outside an artist's gallery and witnessed the same impassioned speech once more, his words infused with the same fervor despite the change in location. Those passing offered a mixed reaction, some nodding in agreement, others slithering past without acknowledgement.
Satisfied that he had seen enough, Sámiel made his way to a nearby café. He ordered a cup of hot tea, the steam rising from the cup as a reminder of the warmth it held, and carried it out in a to-go cup. With the tea in hand, he approached.
"With all that speaking you are doing," Sámiel said in his characteristic eerie, melodic tone, "your throat must be dry.” He offered the cup of hot tea towards the Brotherhood, eyes roaming the symbols on clothing.