"why are you looking at me like that?" (barok to kazuma!)
Question Prompts || Accepting!
((Since you didn't specify which version of Kazuma...... 👀👀 -tHROWS THE MASKED APPRENTICE AT YOU- :3c))
There were many things about London that he didn't understand.
The Apprentice had thought everything would make sense here. He'd been certain of it when he'd taken his first steps onto this city's shore; more than blind hope, because a feeling so strong had to come from somewhere. Surely the minuscule scrap of his mind that had brought him here had only remained for the purpose of leading him back to himself.
But he knew better by now. These past days had been swift teachers.
Nothing made sense in this city full of strange people, outlandish sights, overwhelming sounds. This office where whispers followed him around every corner and eyes constantly watched from the shadows. This place that, despite its chaos and unfamiliarity, was—for some utterly inconceivable reason—where the Apprentice had to be.
And naturally, one couldn't forget the crown on top of it all: his enigmatic mentor.
Indeed, Lord van Zieks was perhaps the most confounding aspect of London thus far, and it wasn't even the man's own fault. For Lord van Zieks had done nothing to slight him. He had caused no offense and done no harm, and yet...
Something burned deep within the void. Entirely beyond the Apprentice's comprehension, yet undeniable. Visceral in its power over him.
The Apprentice loathed this man.
...and he didn't have the faintest idea why.
Not for the first time, he'd lost himself in an effort to discern that very answer. Piercing eyes studied Lord van Zieks as he worked at his desk as if trying to peer into his soul. With his mask and cloak obscuring all but the crackling charcoal of his irises, the Apprentice hadn't expected to be noticed. His shoulders squared upon being called out, but before he could instinctively shake his head in dismissal...
He didn't know if he was allowed to ask the question poised at the tip of his tongue, but truthfully, he didn't much care about offending the delicate sensibilities of London's nobility. He had to know. He could think of no other possibility.
"Why—" It had been days since he'd last spoken. The sensation felt wrong, like his lips were fighting each other as they moved. But neither the slow cadence of his speech nor the rasp of his tone could undermine his resolve. "Why...do they call you 'Reaper'"?
