Asterion/Open
He had known that he would be attending the benefit as soon as it was announced. Of course, there were days that Asterion thought himself heartless, and perhaps a part of him was; he had killed a great many mortals in his lifetime, some whom he loved and others that he had never known...but he had never devastated, he had never wreaked the level of havoc that any act of god could. He could not deny that the beast desired that level of destruction, but the side of him that was more animal than man simply lacked the power to wreak such great affect. Frankly, it was a relief. His transgressions seemed so small in the wake of such great tragedy.
And yet...he couldn't help but think of the destruction he had caused, and those he must have hurt. Ambivalence had become his token reaction, a sharp divide between his humanity and the side of him that had become, rather inevitably, a monster. Yes, there were aspects of Asterion that felt guilt, and aspects that felt nothing at all, and perhaps in some blind attempt to assuage them both he had decided that this event, in particular, was one that he needed to attend. He could dance, he could donate (already thousands had been sent toward relief efforts, all anonymous and all the proceeds from his most recent show) and at the end of the night, perhaps he could exhaust himself enough to...well, he wasn't sure. But there was some absolution in the dance, and he needed it. Craved it.
And so off he went, dressed not so much to impress but rather just to move; dark jeans, long sleeved black shirt, nondescript black shoes. He paid his cover, and paid his penance as well, money slipped into the boxes here and there until it was gone, just a few dollars left on him for water, perhaps. He wouldn't be drinking tonight. Quietly, the artist slipped through the crowd, let the music pour through him, run over him, let it wind it's way through his muscles, let it crawl deep into his bones. He danced, not with anyone specific or with any great intentions except to feel, except to sweat, except to let himself go, wear himself down.
Was it dangerous? Perhaps, but the beast was sleeping...had been sleeping for a great while now....and he hungered, oh how he hungered for this...for something. For anything to let him feel alive, for an innocuous way to burn off energy...and yes, for inspiration. Always for inspiration.