Drystan had thought more than once in watching the man and listening to his sermons, and he had been listening despite seeking to appear as though he was just watching for a mark, that he was glad he had not happened upon him - or that he had not been there to preach, whichever it was - when he was younger.
Soon after he had been sent out of the brothel and away from his mother and the home he had always known he likely would have gone right to the man, unhindered by his appearance which was warm and lively compared to many of the things he saw in his dreams and imagination so frequently and his voice and sense of kindness would have been an easy lure for the little blond boy who stood outside the brothel sobbing for his mother and only ever being dragged away back into the streets.
Then, a little older and weary of the streets and the struggle the message may have had just as much if not more appeal than the feeling of him that would have drawn the little boy in. Hungry, desperate, growing bitter and aware of the things he could and must do to continue his survival, he would have seen such appeal in the message.
Then again, here he was - listening, visiting, watching even as he tried to pretend to be there only for the crowd and a touch of curiosity. Yet, he told himself, he wasn’t there for the comfort or the preaching that others came for, he was here out of a great deal of curiosity - and other desires. He had no desire now for his own death - he did a great deal to avoid just that. If he wanted to die, painlessly even, he could. No, there were other things that compelled him there - the darkness of him, of the isles - the way his own dreams pushed him towards such things, and the power that the man might offer.
At least, that was why he had come to watch at first, and a great portion of why he returned, but there was also…Well, he was quite the orator, this dark priest.His words were well woven, his voice entrancing and melodic, and his features a dark sort of art to the blond - something more real than his dreams, but less dangerous than the horrors of the Harrowing that swept through - far too dangerous for even curious and at times seemingly fearless Drystan to wander into for the chance at looking, at touching. Drystan had never claimed that he was particularly good at resisting temptation, and as it turned out the strange preacher offered good temptation.
And, more pragmatically, a good source of a small crowd to pick a mark out of.
He had seen those shocking blue eyes turn his way and had intended to glance away as they moved his direction, to break off at that point and find himself a man with coin for an hour or so. However, as he started to look away it was as though he could feel that gaze - not moving on, moving over him, but staying locked there. His own blue eyes returned to the preacher and found his gaze locking with the other’s. He felt something like a jolt in his heart - and he was not sure if it had leapt or stopped.
The gesture came - a single hand lifted, a finger beckoning him forward paired with that gaze that refused to accept anything but his approach. Blond brows raised briefly. Drystan thought to himself that he could, of course, just turn and walk away then - with no problem or hesitation, even as he felt the pull of the preacher’s gaze. But, he continued, he would choose to go forward as beckoned. Why not? After all, he had wanted to get closer, to know a bit more - perhaps to see a bit closer, to touch. But, of course, it was entirely by his own will that he slipped from where he had perched himself, hands swinging softly by his sides and gold bracelets giving a gentle little clink as his feet dropped to the ground.
He stepped forward, smiling a sweet and sultry smile at the strange, dark, fascinating, horrifying preacher, “You seem to have grown more popular over these passed lessons, preacher,” he said, tone near playful, “You are good for business, if you don’t mind me saying~ Ah, but your flock may be dispersing once the Harrowing is close enough to remind everyone of their hiding places.”
Karthus smiles and waves a forgiving hand. “No, no- whyever would I mind? You are a clever boy, to be picking the pockets of such a crowd. Keeping oneself happy- that is no sin, my child. I remember picking pockets when I was half you age a long, long time ago.” A slight, polite chuckle.
Despite the hideous, haunted reverberations of his voice and his twisted appearance, he sounds for all the world like a gentle but street-savy preacher, wise to the ways of the world. Tolerant. Kind. No wonder some of the congregation was prone to close their eyes when they listened. The lich’s face, unnatural powers and distorted frame was a reminder of the Harrowing, of the unknown, of fear. It undid a little of his spell at least. For most people.
“A symbiotic… relationship, shall we say, is not objectionable. You are polite, complimentary, and certainly a very pretty face to see darting among the faithful.” He lets go of his staff, pressing his clawed hands together expressively. There is a shadow there of a preacher’s practiced, expressive gestures. “But ..what say you, my child? You worry for the flock, but not for yourself? How do you normally shelter from the cleansing storm of the Harrowing? You certainly cannot have seen many…” Another smile, more honied words. He drifts a little closer, gently alighting on the ground, standing much closer to Drystan now.
The faithful are mostly gone by now, and the remaining cultists are snuffing the candles, doing small chores, slowly discussing the next meeting and other secrets and they seem to be politely paying their idol no mind, as if trying to give Karthus and the graceful young man some measure of privacy.
His arms were crossed loosely, releasing briefly to brush some of his blond hair back with a light flick of his fingers and a soft tinkling of the bracelets around his slender wrist. He offered a smile as he listened to the preacher - the strange and inhuman figure hardly seeming to disturb him. He had seen several in his flock close their eyes or glance away or become unnerved even as they were soothed by his words. And that was understandable - he looked just like the sorts of things that came to hunt them when the mists came.
Drystan did not seem fazed though - nor disturbed, not once glancing away as he spoke with the otherworldly preacher. He was terribly curious about him - about why he was here exactly. Certainly not just to speak to wayward souls that wandered to his sermons. There had to be something else, didn’t there?
“I haven’t been a pickpocket for a while,” he said with a light shrug, “At least,” a playful smile, “Not as a main source of income - sometimes it’s just a little too easy and a little to rewarding not to fall into old habits. Fortunately, members of your flock seem to be terribly eager for a warm body and a good fuck after standing out here for some time. A bit of life to go with their death - I suppose.”
The smile ticked up a little more, playful and amused, “Oh, I agree - I make good money off of you...And I’m more than happy to lend a little pretty to the crowd...Although I hadn’t thought you’d noticed me too often, clearly you see more than I had guessed.”
He spoke with a Bilgewater accent, surely, but not entirely the way that might be expected for someone who had grown up in the part of Bilgewater he had - and who had grown up on the streets. That was a matter of practice, really - careful pronunciation and tone picked up to make himself sound a little sweeter.
The arms were loosely crossed again when the topic came to his own experiences with the Harrowing, “I haven’t been through as many as some, certainly - but I’ve been through enough of them to know where and how to keep myself safe, and I don’t particularly care to share my means - no offense meant, of course. But those are the sorts of things you don’t just share with...anyone.” Particularly anyone like the preacher before him.
