#/ i think loux has a very negative perception of his body and what's happened to it

[astarab1aze]

They've been staring. Again. Which is not exactly unusual, but the pressure of burning gaze must truthfully be unbearable— "can Ah see?" Silence breaks with single, well-meaning question. And in truth, the godling barely asks for anything ( though, they realize, this might be the hardest thing to request of loux ). "Ah mean- wit'out th' glamours an' all. Can... can Ah...?" Their confidence in the ask fades the second time, turning to a meager muttering of own voice, claws futzing and eyes glancing away.

Loux'd been up to his usual shtick - minding his own business, grinding his own flesh into a powder to be used in potions later when he had the time to sit down and brew them, the rest of him rippling and vibrating and changing and weakening after days on end of sleeplessness and despicable, foul actions-- Not an inch of his body was clean under his robes, blood perhaps still under his fingernails, dry and flaky now. Unmerciful, cruel, to prove a point he was getting tired of proving. Intimidated as he was by the Red Hand, he would not allow their sleights to slide - this game of sabotage and retaliation, manipulation and murder would not stand. Too many valuable clients stolen from him, coerced into abandoning existing contracts and agreements - and all so he would be forced into reducing his prices. So he went after their personal supply lines, slaughtered several of their smugglers, and burnt three safe houses that he knew of to the ground, clawed at the ankles by the vampires daring to pull one over on him - as if he could ever allow himself to be trounced by the vilest creatures to ever walk the earth.

Blows to his pride, among other things, throttled his present mind, lulled him into a malformed sense of urgency and preparation, so focused on rushing through the processes again and again and again. The storm of his gaze flit about but did not linger, and he paced this way and that across his hovel, fluidly purposed yet entirely transfixed on the task at hand. Too much to do, too little time; If he didn't finish this quickly enough and get the next batch started, then he wouldn't have enough time to heal his leftover wounds. Days old by now, still just as gross as the day he got them - and they would not heal; Ice burns never healed. Frankly, it was a miracle he was even able to get up that morning, let alone change the bandages. His chest still ached, every breath an unenviable wheeze, and he was so very tired, everything constructing his careful facade one by one falling away.

Kaen's questioning hadn't helped matters any. Ordinarily, he might've been angry, defensive, lashed out with violence and a sharp tongue, had they been anyone else. But their heart was in the right place, curiosity urged on by a vague urgency neither could rightly understand in truth. Emotions always muddled things, and hearts were fickle, tragic beasts - his had been no exception, recoiling at even the gentlest of efforts as if his skin would tear off at the slightest pull. How pathetic was he, then, to race past them like his ass was on fire, and for each and every one of his illusions to fall away, revealing the ugliness of his face and body for the deerling to see? Ugliness; Throat torn open by long, gnarled claws, right side of his face partitioned down from the eye and across his nose, lips shorn, so much of the back left half of him missing, lost to countless ice burns, claw and bite marks so large and so wide it seemed as if whatever'd tried to kill him then was certain to have eaten him, twisting veins and sunfire canyons trailing after the nerves, blackened, destroyed- There was hardly anything left of him, mottled and in utter disrepair, wordlessly offered as Loux continued on his frantic dash around his home, telekinetically gathering what he needed, vanishing other things, hunting hunting hunting--

He would allow them to see, but if he stopped and acknowledged it beyond the confines of his barely-together mind, he wasn't so sure he could keep his cool anymore. And Kaen was the last person he wanted to subject to his volatility. Not right now. Not when he needed--

He palmed at his face with dirty palms and crusty fingernails, feeling the grooves of his scars beneath them - he felt sick. So sick. Illusions shattered, his ineptitude made real and tangible, called for the fraud he was by vampires so snide and smug as the Red Hand. What was he to do but give in to the taunting banging on his skull like a drum? Satisfying a curiosity to only shame himself, display all that he's survived and can never heal from - all that he rightfully deserved. He had no business feeling sorry for himself. The world was cruel, but he was crueller, and he cared little for the consequences of his actions, the tempers he flared and the boundaries he broke. This was deserved, a punishment. To be rendered a disfigured mockery of the boy he once was, no longer a person but a walking reminder of pain caused, damage done, responsibility yet to be truly taken. His lungs squeezed out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and all at once he came to an abrupt stop, fist pounding into the wall beside him for him to lean on for support. Everything was so hot, sweat beading down the sides of his face, eyes burning with acrid smoke signifying an emotional response he couldn't physically have- He grit his teeth, head running at full speed, reeling. It was starting to hurt, the bags under his eyes heavier than the weight of all the world.