Red. The color of life and blood and the color of his counterpart, as well. Spirits of slaughter that one could not tell if they were clad or covered in it.
While he did not feel ill toward them, he, himself, was a god of gentle death. Of a spirit quietly slipping through the window on a cool breeze in their sleep. Ever since he was a child, really, hair long an bare feet quietly perching on the windowsill. Making nary a sound as humans waited for him to arrive.
They fear him more, now. A figure seemingly stalking the battlefield, when he is simply...There. Drawn to it by necessity of profession and not by desire to do so. Becoming less gentle by virtue of his charge and not by his own nature.
And thus the other, clad in red, made him feel ill at ease. Not living, but not quite dead. Something that existed in between but was not of the Underworld.
âWhat are you?â The unnatural reverberation of his voice gave his question an edge he did not full intend. But curiosity in the mouth of a god of death could never truly be dulled nor without an edge.
@ladanssemacabreâ
