09-02-2024, 01:19 AM
Sámiel allowed a slow, knowing smile to play on his lips as he observed Quillon's reaction. The man was so certain, so fervent in his beliefs, and it was precisely that intensity that drew him in.
His eyes flicked to the symbol on Quillon’s chest, recognizing it as a mark of authority, a badge worn by those who believed themselves to be shepherds of a divine truth. Sámiel could feel the weight of it, not just in its physical form, but in the way Quillon carried himself—an embodiment of conviction, of self-importance.
The name—Quillon Hawke—echoed in Sámiel’s mind, marked by the kind of gravity that often accompanied those who were used to being followed, listened to, obeyed. Sámiel found it almost amusing, how seriously men like Quillon took their roles, how they built structures and titles around themselves to feel powerful.
And yet, there was something about Quillon’s invitation that piqued Sámiel’s curiosity. Not the temple itself, nor really the rituals or the supposed divine that the Brotherhood proclaimed, but rather the spectacle of it all—the performance of belief, the intricate dance of power and submission. It was something that fascinated Sámiel, though he played it by different rules, rules that eschewed any worship except for the natural, chaotic forces of the primal world that had shaped him.
He tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch between them just long enough to create a sense of expectation, of tension. Then, with a voice as smooth as silk and as dark as midnight, he replied, “I’ve heard of your Brotherhood, of the temple you speak of. And yes, I think I would like to see it.”
He let the words hang in the cold air, a promise and a challenge all at once. His emerald eyes held Quillon’s gaze, probing, assessing, as if searching for the truth behind the man's grand proclamations. “Belief is a curious thing,” he mused, his tone almost teasing, “it binds and blinds, lifts and limits. I have always been drawn to see where it leads those who claim it so strongly.”
Sámiel took a step closer, not enough to invade Quillon’s space, but enough to let the Veilwarden feel his presence, his aura of quiet, unsettling power. “Lead the way, Veilwarden,” he said, the title rolling off his tongue with a hint of mockery that was almost imperceptible. “I’m curious to see what lies beyond the veil you guard so zealously.”
His eyes flicked to the symbol on Quillon’s chest, recognizing it as a mark of authority, a badge worn by those who believed themselves to be shepherds of a divine truth. Sámiel could feel the weight of it, not just in its physical form, but in the way Quillon carried himself—an embodiment of conviction, of self-importance.
The name—Quillon Hawke—echoed in Sámiel’s mind, marked by the kind of gravity that often accompanied those who were used to being followed, listened to, obeyed. Sámiel found it almost amusing, how seriously men like Quillon took their roles, how they built structures and titles around themselves to feel powerful.
And yet, there was something about Quillon’s invitation that piqued Sámiel’s curiosity. Not the temple itself, nor really the rituals or the supposed divine that the Brotherhood proclaimed, but rather the spectacle of it all—the performance of belief, the intricate dance of power and submission. It was something that fascinated Sámiel, though he played it by different rules, rules that eschewed any worship except for the natural, chaotic forces of the primal world that had shaped him.
He tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch between them just long enough to create a sense of expectation, of tension. Then, with a voice as smooth as silk and as dark as midnight, he replied, “I’ve heard of your Brotherhood, of the temple you speak of. And yes, I think I would like to see it.”
He let the words hang in the cold air, a promise and a challenge all at once. His emerald eyes held Quillon’s gaze, probing, assessing, as if searching for the truth behind the man's grand proclamations. “Belief is a curious thing,” he mused, his tone almost teasing, “it binds and blinds, lifts and limits. I have always been drawn to see where it leads those who claim it so strongly.”
Sámiel took a step closer, not enough to invade Quillon’s space, but enough to let the Veilwarden feel his presence, his aura of quiet, unsettling power. “Lead the way, Veilwarden,” he said, the title rolling off his tongue with a hint of mockery that was almost imperceptible. “I’m curious to see what lies beyond the veil you guard so zealously.”