I've only seen the man a couple times, but in the slums where I (used to) live, he's a living legend. Stories about what he can do, just by saying a few words, or twitching his fingers, or flicking his wrist, are passed through the streets, told to children at night, but not believed by most. I don't know which of those stories are true and which ones aren't, but if any of them are, I should be cowering from him.
Those stories have been around since I was born, and longer. Granted, he should be an old man by now. He isn't. Or, he doesn't appear to be. His hair are deep black and long, not gray and wispy. His back is straight, not bent, like it should have been. His eyes are strange amber, and are a deep, endless abyss. His nose is straight, his chin pointed, his mouth a thin line. He is dressed in long, flowing robes, which are dyed a very deep, dark blue, like a night sky. All in all, he looks like a man not to be trifled with.
So I should be cowering from him, not staring him straight in the eye with a look of defiance and anger on my face. Of course, I'm doing the latter.
"Hello, Quill," he says. His voice is silky and deep, sonorous.
I don't answer, just keep glaring at him. I won't give him the satisfaction of communication.
"You're wondering why I'm here, I imagine."
Because you're the heartless bastard who killed my parents and you've come to apologize, I think, but I wont speak.
"Maybe not," he says, "but I will tell you anyway. I'm here because I need your help."
At this, I can't help but give a small, sarcastic laugh. "You want MY help? After you killed my parents?"
"They weren't even your parents," he says. "They weren't even human. Trust me, one day you'll consider it a favor."
I scoff. "The day you go to hell, that'll be the only day you'll be doing a favor for me."
He looks at me, for awhile. Then he speaks. "Suit yourself. I was going to get you food, but it looks like I'd be wasting it."
Then he's gone.
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