Vourdalak, who do you like best of all of Carmille's romantic prospects? // anonymous
The point of his nails still their drumming against the glass. The black crystal cries out in distress as he draws them up to his pasty palm, turning his face towards the curious party. He lifts his face, mustache and wrinkles continuing to droop towards Hell, as golden eyes survey them.
His Miliy, and her ever-giving heart, and all the men and women who so readily take of it. What a privilege. What a burden. He can only pray she has her mother's strength, and not the eternal wilt of his never-healing wounds. Let her withstand the storms. Let there be someone on the other side of the thunder.
"There is no lead in that race," he rumbles in that smooth, gentlemanly purr. Thirty years ago, he might have passed for a version of his son who could be adored. Instead, he is this, and his Hawk is anything but that.
"Only a stiff competition for the bottom."