He dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
Feet patter along the tiles, the right one turning left, the left one turning right; dancing in circles around the jagged lines. Hands stretch out to touch the jagged ceiling above and the sound of hooves hitting the cobbled streets pounds faintly over rushing water. Candles flicker, like the faint remnants of the past's ghosts, reaching out to touch a strand of flaxen hair. But her eyes are not focused on the marked lines below—nor the swaying candles or the ceiling above. No, they watch as fingers stroke the frail figurine, exploring the contours of the gentle bends and nooks, watching as silver glints in the pale blue light.
What is this strange thing?
"Flower."
She jumps, the delicate thing clattering to the ground as the voice speaks in her ear. Bending down, the long frame of a man appears before her, grasping her treasure in bloodless fingers before straightening up. By the way the head tilts she knows he will try to look her in the eye and she focuses on the dual black oval boots before her instead.
"It's a flower," he says again, almost as if to coax her into a reply. "Look, see?"
The long fingers hold it out toward her, skimming along the silver curves. "Petals."
But she does not know. She shakes her head, reaching out to snatch her treasure back as quickly as possible.
"Alright." The response is gruff, slightly... angry? Irritated? It is like all the other times when she would not answer, that tone in their voice. Like they hated her for this.
She only chances a glance when she hears him turn and she catches the very tip of the inked scar, dancing across his face, as he walks away from her.
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"Signor Luca, please rise." A pair of black button eyes surveys him from behind a pale hand. They watch. They wait.
"I hear that you have come with a proposition." Stated, not asked. Two long fingers pluck a morsel from the plate. "I assure you, I am at your service."
The tiled floor is white. Marble. Perfectly clean except the minor flaw in the square three rows to the left and five up. A quiet, gray-black crack twists and curves at the border, slowly, sinuously making its presence known, a flaw in this marble tomb.
"You flatter me, Your Majesty," Boidae says, pristine and collected in the cool assurance of his being. His blood eyes are averted as the Rat King flicks a chicken bone onto the floor. "I must thank you for your hospitality and graciousness. Never have I seen halls whose elegance and regality bear such a magnificent charm as yours."
The Rat King honors the compliment with a small tilt of the head, his lips stretching upward into a smile. His eyes flash with the hint of a sewing needle. The crack in the tiled floor grows.
