His Supreme Nascency.

two, part

"Pl... ease.. Anse- lme.."

His tentative belfry atoned for its wrong doings thereby estimations. The corrosion of purity in its most decadent state, two, the invasion of caliginosity amongst silk, liquid becoming of it then to cast it limpid. Of what purpose? Of course, to infuse it with his own musk. Of ownership meant to imprint it, a signature, if you will. Ever bound by the numbness of choice. His prying hands were meant to deal the actions of a brute, therefore intruding upon any and all future conspiracies. Of no direct purpose, of no indirect purpose. Senseless, aptitude of a dog. Therefore, the feigning of flesh torn from bone, in reputation of a sound similar to medium-well steak separated by force. Aside, this flesh is tepid -- Dressed with cruor plentifully, when consumed, ever warm. Sensations of the kill meant to extirpate, in short, to end all ties of that human with its rightful world. A hound such as he, of bearing fangs bore into flesh, meant that he would simultaneously consume the soul -- Howbeit, upon such -- Sensation of vulgarity tore into his chest, coercing him to halt. He choked, regurgitated, a part of him, of Sunday, comes forth. An eye, which hung thereby tendon, dwindled near his right cheek as were the other which remained placed correctly within its niche, rubberneck his majesty. 

In grudge, his adenoidal tone consumed by cruor (presumably) entrapping his airways. As canine's fangs tore away fresh of his neck, again to the right side of his face, this a respiring creature--This being. He was human? He would cease, surely.  Arisen smirk about the labium of Sunday, left of his mouth which remain unscathed. "You really think.. I would die that easily?" Pardon? These ideations were immensely unlike Sunday, for the prior two years Anselme did note his demure and overall illustrious aptitude. As a pupil well-versed for his skill albeit an underdog of few acquaintances. Anselme in troth had consistently underestimated him. From his ability to perceive properly as he wore glasses, to his ability to write. His meliora had been his appearance, as despite his Alopecia, the eyes were competent and familiar with their beryl-ashen effulgence. Although, he collapsed, Anselme would complete his feast throughout the duration of the ride onward of the Estate. 

Thud, if he were human, he would have ceased fairly easily. Would he not? Experiences told him otherwise, it belittled his knowledge. How could he speak with such loss? Anselme, It's him. I'm telling you, it's him. "Anselme?" Anselme, he had been one to manipulate reality, in that he could summon things--Caliginous creatures. "Anselme, will you please speak with me?" Do not stop me, Anselme. Arisen, agape is his mouth as were respiration to expel itself rapidly, throe cast to his chest; unfamiliar, yet... It has purpose. "What? What would you like from me?" Grating timbre due to dry airways, a plethora of rummaging thoughts convey themselves before him, remembrances. Step from the bed, of legs that had been previously draped about its edge, onward of the door of which he should open sluggishly. Before him stands a blonde woman, older than himself, is perched with clothes loosely draping her silhouette. "You arrived and immediately retired for the day. As your wife, I would like to know what happened." Entirely, she suspects of me foolish misdeeds, as if I were to commit such things. On a Wednesday, no less. Scoff of the boy, arisen brows. "Pardon me, can a man not do as he pleases?" Slouched, hand beneath his chin, slender and refined as it belongeth to her. "First, you are no man, you are a boy. Secondly, I will reiterate. As your wife, I need to be aware of what you are doing when you are without my sight." A smirk, arisen to the annealing of his spinal cord, coerce the hand caressing his chin from him. "As I once stated. Although my uncle forced me to marry you, I have no emotional feelings towards you." Smirk, hand to arise, with force is drawn hellward onward of his cheek. "If you were to leave, he will see you off. You may never lead another life. Do you not worry of that outcome?" He is to retract as to stand upright, upon her statement as it hast been well-neigh seethed through teeth. "Our son is proof, you are my husband. Please enjoy this with me." Truly, she had been keen on reiterating her purpose. "The boy is ill, he won't live much longer. Once he dies, perhaps the depression will take you with it." Penetrating, had it coerced her to retract. Hues of russet beryl bore into her. "You are heartless, Anselme. He is your son." Of denude shoulders to shrug. "Off with you." Sudden, infectious, and tempered. A surge, a mask unhinged thereon beguiled him, a desire or... A duty. 

"Anselme? What's the matter? Anselme!" Quickened glisse, denude plantar collide with rustic wooden floorboards. Each milometer anticipated with either excitement or the unknown, it was not a sight nor scent, rather.. A sensation as incomparable with prior experiences. Upon reaching his father's vacant bedchamber he would halt. At which he envisioned familiar sculptures, those of elks and bears which dress the furniture atop. At the lowermost quarter of the cherry wood dresser lie a child, perchance seven years of age. In what world could a child just fabricate themselves to this spontaneity? Before him is this vessel doused and festooned by revulsion as well consternation. Thoughts sprung abroad Anselme, the missing doll... Was this possible? Towards the child, a stench of irrepressible abhorrence, for as a larger hand grasp a much smaller wrist--He is to coerce the child to walk,  howbeit, he'd fallen. Tears tore the youth asunder as lilliputian legs were incapable of maintaining such an increased stride. "Anselme, stop! It is a child!" Tilda, whose heart disclosed for those of such a nature as the helpless as innately incapable as they had been, should merely been soaring the depths for any kindness anyone could spare. Therefore, she would fight for them. Step, howbeit her attempt to apprehend Anselme is tattered, pride asunder therewith her footing as she were to be heaved aside by a strengthened right arm. "Don't hurt him!" To Anselme, children a tactile and adaptable estentia to be fitted with situations best dealt with by an adult. In short, aware that children could misunderstand, but not yet aware that they withheld intelligence far behind that of one older by even one year. He is to halt, due to the likeness of his father's vacant bedchamber within darkness, there were details which went unnoticed until light approached. The child is released whence lucent bulbs came to fruition revealing all in his grandeur as were he able to view lengthy mane, microchimerism affecting natural blonde with brunette to his left portion of mane, as well -- fangs as well claws visible, those of a wolf. The boy is denude of all clothing, each aspect is visible yet nothing as foreboding as the particulars of a wolves anatomy. "Who are you?" Anselme... Be careful. Of his frontispiece rather demure, similar, familiar.  He crouched. The smaller tends to recede with emotion as tears embellished his cheeks and lower eyelids with glisten therefore catching reflection of luminosity. By the wrist Anselme is to upheave him, coerce him onward of his father's vacant as well lackluster bedchamber as he were to release him, behind the deep mahogany door he stood with an arisen timbre. "I will entrap you here until you tell me who you are." Restricting himself from entering such a room, as there remained desire to extirpate him. There loomed... Power. Immense spiritual unrest.