lazarus ( incubus ) . (shatterings) wrote in light_of_may, |
Entering the dreams of another was easy enough for Lazarus, someone so practised and experienced, over the centuries he had been alive he had been in the minds of thousands of victims, he had disrupted and destroyed countless dreams, twisting them into nightmares. So many minds had been torn apart and broken into splinters and Lazarus had never hesitated even once to shatter and demolish and poison others in such a deeply invasive manner. In the time they had been in Scarlet Oak he had kept up with the practise, it was like any muscle that needed to be stretched and kept at its best, and so when his mother had requested he delve into his mind of the tiny creature with whom he shared blood -- at least on one side, the very notion of having anything to do with the dumb creature Seraphina had used in order to create the child practically nauseated him -- he had been only too happy to oblige. Every mind was different, a new puzzle to unlock and rearrange as he saw fit, and so ever since his mother had made the request of him he had been creeping in at the edges, growing ever bolder until finally his curiosity got the better of him and he stepped out of the proverbial shadows and into the light.
It was probably a good thing he could control a dream as he saw fit, over the years he had done so for any number of reasons but sometimes subtlety really was the best thing he could apply by manipulation, as he did now, altering his appearance just enough that the girl wouldn't recognise him on sight in the hotel if their paths crossed. Seraphina might yet want them to meet without giving things away and so Lazarus would do what he could to avoid interfering with his mother's ongoing plans until he knew more about them.
Affecting an accent was such a small thing, such a subtle touch, but it could achieve so much. When Lazarus spoke he sounded English, his voice level and precise as he said, "Who decides what is real?" Keeping a victim on their toes, confusing them in little ways, however he could, was one of the best methods Lazarus had discovered of pushing an individual closer and closer to madness. If he let them find their footing and understand completely what was going on around them his time in their minds would have been wasted. "What are you chasing, little girl?" His eyes, no longer black flared through with red but a green-flecked brown, a soft sort of hazel, looked over her head and beyond, down the hallway she had been travelling, as if looking for the source of the sound she was pursuing when he knew very well what it was.