“I’m hardly being opaque, terrorist.”
Amusement wound its way through the dry tones of the monarch, like snowflakes carried on winter winds. A death god’s intuition alerted him to the reaper’s secrets, so tightly wrapped up in leather and metal. Dead yet not dead, once human and never again. A ghost trapped in a mortal coil.
How utterly delightful.
“Intimidating though your mask is, surely the face beneath would serve you better at frightening your enemies. So it must be vanity that spurs you to wear it.”
He stands there, head tilted slightly in curiosity. "Do my reasons for wearing a mask make any difference to you?" His face was an aberration, smoke and mist and the eyes of monster that buried himself into the center of a corpse. A man that once used to be. "Those who oppose me will find fear soon enough.” He hesitates, sharing the nature of his mask with the other, a GRINDING halt to his train of thought that could be felt in the air. “Santa Muerte comes to those marked to die in the form of an owl. She offers protection to the afterlife, I offer.... a faster commute.”
