It was a vital part of the hybrid’s existence that he wear a mask at all times. The facial covering needn’t be anything physical, nor did it need to extend any sort of physical protection, though it was true that he preferred it when his equipment was capable of soaking up any assault from potential foes. No, the mask that needed to constantly be attached to the Avriel’s face was a mental and an emotional one. It was true that the hybrid was a terrifying entity, but that did not mean that he did not on occasion feel fear when confronted with the cosmic beings which occasionally interacted with him from beyond his mere concept of reality, nor did it mean that he was brazenly overconfident in his abilities, and did not think that a mere crossbow bolt could just as easily end his life as any other implement of war.
Yet, a solid portion of the fear that he extruded had to do with the fact that people rarely considered the avian warlord to be a person, but rather, that they thought of him as a monstrous abomination. It was far easier to be frightened by something when a person didn’t consider that it had emotions and thoughts and feelings about the world around it, that it could become nervous at the pivotal moment of a fight, or that it could feel the stinging tear of guilt whenever it laid down to rest when’s the trial’s violence had come to its grand conclusion. Such weaknesses were often concealed, only ever let out of their proverbial cage when the Avriel was alone so that no other living being could spy upon his humanity… but occasionally glimpses of that hidden inner personality could seep through even the strongest mask, just as the light of a flickering candle will burrow through the hardest steel gate.
Perhaps Navyri could pick up on the fact that he kept his mask upon him at all times, or perhaps she had managed to notice the brief flicker of surprise which had been elicited by her prior appeal. Regardless, she now questioned him on the subject, inquiring as to whether there was more than a physical barrier that he had enacted in order to keep others away from him. The hybrid simply nodded his acceptance of that, a brief smile twisting across his wicked features as she spoke of understanding the plight of blocking others out. No… she thought that she could understand him, because she thought that he was some bestial atrocity, a fellow denizen of the darkness and the night and the wicked deeds that such residence provides, but whereas she was greedy for coin and sensation, and it was evident in the way she meandered throughout life, the hybrid was charitable… his kindness hidden away by the brutality of his gifts.
She now began to question him on the subject of his equipment. It was true that the hybrid rarely changed out of the outfit, though, he made certain to clean it rather regularly and to ensure that he was not covered in absolute filth so as not to allow any sort of septic infection to seep into his flesh and ruin any of his well-laid plans. Some of the most powerful generals and soldiers of the world had been laid low by the trivial effects of illness and disease, and it was important to remember that the most dangerous enemies were those that could not be slain with mace, nor bow, nor talon.
“It means that I’m frugal enough to understand that I only need one suit of armor.” He smiled briefly, crimson eyes locking onto her visage for several moments as he analyzed her, attempting to discover a decent answer for her question.
“You like to be effective, but you want to fit a certain style while you do it.” He began, allowing the smile to dissipate over time as he continued his predatory analysis. “You try to be classy, to be… better than the others around you. Sometimes, I imagine you do it for yourself, and other times for the watchman who spies upon your every move.” He tittered with a sigh. “Most people I’ve met who try so hard to display their grandness are merely afraid of losing it all, of losing any advantage they have over anyone else… of being rendered into little more than a memory and a fraud.” There was no acute accusation there, but the implication that she could be affected by such an emotion hung in the air between them, the hybrid solidifying his statement with a mere nod of his head.
The hybrid gradually stepped over towards the bottle, his gauntleted hand rasping across the glasses’ surface as he picked it up, refilling his own cup before taking a long and deep draft of the liquid, allowing it to burrow into his body, feeling as it plunged into his abdomen with a fizzling burn before he planted it back upon the table.
“Ah. The greatest question of all. Not how, or what, or when… but why.” He leaned back, crimson eyes searching the ceiling, as though looking for a pattern that did not exist. “Motivation is a fascinating thing to consider. What drives a merchant to sell all of his properties, and to drive a wagon halfway across the world? What permits the conscious of a thief to stealthily pervade the property of others? What makes a person lift up a knife, and kill their fellow man with seldom a second thought?”
“There are a great many motivations in the world, Navyri. Some people find that they are attracted to coins and money. They place monetary goods above all else, and worship at the altar of mercantilism, of gold and silver. Wretched metals. They are only good so long as anyone uses them, and they do not buy anything of lasting worth.” He reached slowly for the adamantite mace at his side, laying it vertically upon the table for her to view. “A hardy and powerful tool in the right hands… and yet in ten arcs will it be here? What price would it fetch on the market? What could be bought with the money which would not itself merely decay? What happiness is there in mere metal?
“I could become long-winded, Navyri. I could speak of other motivations… but let us focus merely upon those which you would consider even vaguely valid. The want to perfect oneself, the desire to earn money, the hope to be accepted by others, to fit into a society… to be free, and not limited by the stern laws of community.”
“Time and hate and fear… they send all such hopes into little more than spectral considerations of their past selves, and yet… people devote their entire lives to chasing such feats. We live in a world of such violence, of treacherous persons, of wicked deeds that cannot be counted. We live in a world of hypocrites who pray for peace whilst they sanctify the altars of those very beings who drive them to war. They throw their lives away in meaningless conflict for dreams that amount to… nothing.”
“Ah. But what motivates me, Navyri? Do you think that I care for power? That I want to rule over the world with an iron-fist? What of money? Should I care whether my coin purse jingles with detritus, or whether it remains silently clipped to my side? Must I become the best warrior in the world, or the grandest leader? Shall I bend the knee to a godling, and pray mercy for my soul when time too turns me into little more than feathers and dust?”
“I want to save the world, Navyri. That is all I want. I want to remove the pestilences that plague our mortal-kind. All of them. I seek paradise.”
The Diri attached to his very being outstretched one of its virulent and incorporeal hands, grasping at the mind of the Naer as the hybrid spoke, beginning to gently thrust images of paradisiac conditions towards her, to give her a glimpse of the reality that the hybrid wanted to build, of the peace that he would enact when all the bloodshed had ceased.
“And… what monster can be blamed for that?”
