Little Bill
"Your mask, Abel. The Paladin would see you today."
His breath hitched, his mind pulled from vacancy. The Basilisk perched silently at the edge of his bedsit, his head felled toward the floor and draped in the soft darkness of his veil. Soft, drawn breaths were perhaps audible from beneath the blindfold, laced with a peculiar serpentine sound. The scent of his visitor was familiar to him, and even without the bearing of sight, Abel knew well of the voice which befell his ears. What had he been dreaming of, again?
"Abel."
Ah. His head tilted ever gently, and a clothed hand reached blindly to his side, allowing his fingers to curl into the eye holes of his beloved bronze masque. Artisan movements saw the mask lifted carefully beneath the veil, pressed against his jawline and rubbing slightly against the thin scar tissue which decorated his unseen cheeks. In time, the veil was lifted, and The Basilisk's head rose to look safely upon his appointed Knight who had been sent to retrieve him. Nought but a silent agreement followed, and Abel walked willingly as he had always done. He had long lost count of the years in which he had been deemed as a possession. But it was better this way. Safer.
Abel's presence amongst the chapel was perhaps subtle despite his nature, and he stood still and stiffly amongst his assumed brethren. Peculiarly, his usually low-hanging gaze had lifted ever so slightly, as to absorb and contemplate the image of the Paladin who spoke biblical riddles before him. The air was lacquered with the taste of his unease - fear. His nasals filled with many scents, particularly those of the monstrosities and their emotions. Though one in particular seemed to pine him, and his head turned ever so slightly as to catch her in the corner of his gaze behind the mask. His tongue ran across his teeth, the scent of the arachne causing his heart to flitter and yearn to taste. The sound of her voice poked many needles into his mind, and he longed to steal it. Twist it. Devour it.
But he would never.
His attention was pulled away by the sound of gentle tinkering, and he turned back to receive what he presumed was his aforementioned gift. A wind chime it was; crafted of dull metal tubes and a coin pendulum. He lifted his hand slowly, as to not startle the knight who presented it, and hooked the string onto his finger. Abel drew the chimes to his ear, listening vacantly to its gentle ambience. A pretty gift no doubt, albeit a cruel one; for what good is a wind chime in a windowless cell?
"..."
A near-silent hum emanated from Abel's throat, his voice dry and disused and his attempt at speaking proving painful and short-lived. After spending many days in silence, the human tongue was painful to wean himself back onto, and he instead dipped his head slightly in an obligatory thank you, handing the wind chime back to his tender.
Mild curiosity provoked The Basilisk into guiding his eyes carefully over the others, observing the supposed gifts they had been given with the quiet intention of grasping their personalities. The gentle beast was almost storybook, reflecting many dreams he had witnessed before. And the boy - clearly disturbed by his surroundings - who spoke distantly into the air. Peculiar it would seem to others, but the eyes of The Basilisk percieved many things, and Nahash lingered in the rafters, whispering silent words in a language unknown.
"A cat lurks, Abel."
Abel moved his observations quietly onward, to a man more refined than most, who held a scroll in his palms. A slight tilt of the head followed suite, and he perceived the scent of an ancient; perhaps more ancient than he. And the spider -- he deemed it best that he not allow his thoughts to linger on her for too long.
