"Tell you about William?"<br/>This was a natural question of course, as blind sided as the man was by Vivian, she too by him. Weaver himself seemed startled by this notion, as in this flow<i>forward</i>in time they were all caught up in the Heir’s tidal pull. As if to suggest the full impact of such a singular thing as the Pet’s query, even Chef did something out of the ordinary.<br/><br/>Head tilted towards not the floor but Weaver, parted blond long hair to uncover but a slice of her features. Hard but beautiful lines of young face, possibly even younger by a hair than Vivan herself, but it wasn’t that which stood out. It was that eye, that one eye that was on display that was… the color of copper. Small gears ticking away in motions as springs and other hidden mechanizm’s work, the orb, for there was no other way of describing it, implanted in the beautiful woman’s skull twitched its attention towards Vivian.<br/><br/>Chef bowed her head once more in the smooth decompression of almost perfection machine work unless she danced. All visage hidden by the drape of almost too perfect blonde hair.<br/><br/>“He..”<br/>Tongue fumbled, twisted, and was struck with a poker. A displeased look on the Weavers face passed away into a quick smile as if to hide away something. So easy was his voice, that it seemed odd to simply get a single word out before throat closed, but there were other ways. Yes, don’t you worry now your little head Darling.<br/><br/>“I can not tell the whole of it, none of us can, but if I tell you a story though, you’ll wear the dress? Well. Okay. There we have an accord.”<br/><br/>Hands clapped together twice, and on that second reverberation…<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><script class="js-extraPhrases" type="application/json">
			{
				"lightbox_close": "Close",
				"lightbox_next": "Next",
				"lightbox_previous": "Previous",
				"lightbox_error": "The requested content cannot be loaded. Please try again later.",
				"lightbox_start_slideshow": "Start slideshow",
				"lightbox_stop_slideshow": "Stop slideshow",
				"lightbox_full_screen": "Full screen",
				"lightbox_thumbnails": "Thumbnails",
				"lightbox_download": "Download",
				"lightbox_share": "Share",
				"lightbox_zoom": "Zoom",
				"lightbox_new_window": "New window",
				"lightbox_toggle_sidebar": "Toggle sidebar"
			}
			</script><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Flh3.googleusercontent.com%2FhxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8%3Ds0&amp;hash=4bc3a8717d9cdeb130470f95103ac79c" title="hxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8=s0">
<img alt="hxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8=s0" class="bbImage lazyload" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Flh3.googleusercontent.com%2FhxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8%3Ds0&amp;hash=4bc3a8717d9cdeb130470f95103ac79c" data-url="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/hxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8=s0" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" style="" title="" width=""/>
<noscript><img alt="hxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8=s0" class="bbImage" data-url="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/hxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8=s0" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Flh3.googleusercontent.com%2FhxHYpLBwaMPH5GHVtor6NRdSwNoF4Zxxw77qFXahGZvYieytPwbwSOqoqrk_YmszCS5BNUo5g-ylNWOIdZBBRjfbVuNlwfRUtQaHA19ojHi_v2JcDr-BuizBWweWSITd2isth-O8%3Ds0&amp;hash=4bc3a8717d9cdeb130470f95103ac79c" style="" title="" width=""/></noscript>
</div><br/><br/>The world was enclosed in shadows, leaving but a voice to touch existence. Sweet, delicate, Mister Weaver was there in guiding tones somewhere in the lack of light. As if in a loving<i>cocoon</i>the serenity of it was that of a womb. It was not oppressive but instead cradling to the senses, and freeing to the mind. It was warm, gentle, without any resistance to movement, yet it held every inch of a body with the love that only imagination could have.<br/><br/>In the modern world, the world of science, disbelief and realism, the reaction was that of a sensory deprivation tank. It was a world enclosed within a world. It was a Spider’s web attached, but freeing from the gravity of a world that once Vivan was born to.<br/><br/>“Once upon a time, there was a boy who sat near the waves…”<br/><br/>It was not the whole image to which the shadows were playing upon a distant wall, but instead a performance. Mister Weaver knew no other way but to put on a show. Yet, since Weaver did nothing<i>simply</i>the outlines were not simply of shadows, but of representation.<br/><br/>Flowing water, but a suggestion of colors against the distant black wall. Blue swirls filled in the outlines of a man who could only be one person in that color. The words clearly stroked to life with a steady delicate brush of ink stroke, and it could be only the penmanship of Mister Weaver. Those images seemed to be the only thing in existence, the only focus… here in the warm, cradling, cocooned black.<br/><br/>Yet there was that voice, sweet as honey and promising it would be alright in every letter of the words spoken.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><i>The day was overcast, the waves low upon the horizon, and with blue eyes the boy sat upon the pebble beach… just looking out into the ocean. Now, I say boy because his face was youthful, but the truth is numbers are lost now. No one else was around for miles, just him, and the limping man who passed by.<br/>
<br/>
You could swear to him as an angel, bathed in but dim light as if heaven had turned a blind eye. Gaze so lost in the distance that not even a blink seemed to cross that captured image of the horizon. It was William, no more than nineteen, a roundness had still yet to be worn out of his features. Though even then, on that beach, there was something deep below those turbulent eyes of his.<br/>
<br/>
The limping man, pant leg nastily torn, and old blood crusted and dried spoke of deeper damage to skeletal structure. Lithe, perhaps once an elegant suit having seen better days, but the man had strength enough yet. Head was held low and the swollen shut side of the face turned away. The man merely wished to pass along till the path up the side of the cliff could be found. Effort pained the limper, but quietly he moved by William who was lost in that blue.<br/>
<br/>
“Give me his name Mister Weaver.”<br/>
<br/>
Voice soft against the hissing retreat of a wave but it was loud enough to make the limping man pause.<br/>
<br/>
Never had they met face to face, but Mister Weaver knew now who was speaking. It was the melody that took over even the ocean's lapping of tides. It pushed against the moon and stars. It was a voice that was out of the harmony of music that the limping man so adored. An outsider. A stalker. A voice in the dark.<br/>
<br/>
No, they had never met, but Mister Weaver knew a devil’s deal when he heard one.<br/>
Turning took effort and effort hurt. So, it was with a wince that was on his face as once more Mister Weaver turned to the boyish figure on the rock. Position hadn’t changed, attention still out there, blue eyes upon blue skies over blue waves.<br/>
<br/>
“And wuf..” Words twisted by swelling, wincing, and pain. “..the payment?”<br/>
<br/>
“I like you Mister Weaver, there is no payment required this time. I merely need you to say his name and stay here for a bit… say... till sunset.”<br/>
It was a cold calculated voice coming from an almost unmoving body. It was unnerving to someone like Mister Weaver who every word could be an expression of self. Knowing his name, and obviously knowing how he ended here, William just sat there looking out into the vastness waiting for a name.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, a deal with A Blue Devil it was.<br/>
<br/>
As if betrayed by his own body, lips moved, forming the name before Mister Weaver understood what was happening.<br/>
<br/>
Simple as that, William at last looked at Mister Weaver and nodded.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</i><br/>“I don’t know why I didn’t wait till sunset, I didn’t even really wait long at all. I followed William almost right there and then, knowing I’d be damning myself in the process”<br/><br/>Images dimmed into the calming dark. It coaxed in soft brushes through hair like a mother and child, and sung with soft humming only a parent could match. Vivian belonged here in this cocoon, everyone did, peaceful unity with self and shell.<br/><br/>“I had been led astray… told secret confessions of love… just to lead me to a cliff side. Beaten, broken, bloody, they tossed me off for the tide to take the garbage. Maybe that’s why I found William there waiting for me...”<br/><br/><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Flh3.googleusercontent.com%2F7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe%3Ds0&amp;hash=03c3fe77e416b88de962bdc0bb4c1d50" title="7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe=s0">
<img alt="7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe=s0" class="bbImage lazyload" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Flh3.googleusercontent.com%2F7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe%3Ds0&amp;hash=03c3fe77e416b88de962bdc0bb4c1d50" data-url="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe=s0" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" style="" title="" width=""/>
<noscript><img alt="7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe=s0" class="bbImage" data-url="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe=s0" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Flh3.googleusercontent.com%2F7xHjYpV-24gg8uDH8JvGL1iTGplPsLyuIVRUIyc6kXZ5Khr1GsSOvCgPhojK8F09WYI5xyzy-MIviD417dJgZclssXXOja7lS33vRP1K4bWG-93CUlGVQxGodmPaGM-gN42r4xCe%3Ds0&amp;hash=03c3fe77e416b88de962bdc0bb4c1d50" style="" title="" width=""/></noscript>
</div><br/><br/><br/>Mister Weaver didn’t follow William into the Whitmore Manor, feet had been frozen in a mixture, fear, terror, and awe that still the strange young man he’d found on the shore still progressed. Mister Weaver hadn’t been there when the screams began, no, he had remained outside like a coward.<br/><br/>So understand the image next, that thing that was a dragon and not, neither chaos nor shape, laughing, mocking, with a hundred eyes and mouths, was seen through a window. Thank the Gods above, it was only seen through a window.<br/><br/>It only took a<i>moment.</i><br/>So much silence… made in a moment.<br/><br/>No servants inside dusting. No laughter. No feasting. No heartbeats… nothing…<br/>Even the air around the building, in which Mister Weaver stood, suddenly felt empty.<br/><br/>Click.Click.Tap.<br/><br/>The young man had gained a new trophy, a silver tipped walking stick.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>“I am not so ashamed to say I cried Vivan. I cried for lost loves, for broken hearts, and for all those who felt betrayal. I was changed. Saved. By seeing not a mere shadow of the truth, but the whole… even if from a window.<br/><br/>I followed him from that day on, for he was the first man who I had met with a sense of justice.”<br/><br/>The curtains pulled back their silk, revealing slowly once more the real world. Once more she was no longer within confines that made her feel welcome, an almost addictive feeling, but Mister Weaver fancied himself that anyway.<br/><br/>“Hm, that smells good. “ A small drip on the edge of Vivian’s plate, syrup, was swept away by the elegant stroke of Mister Weaver’s fingertip. It placed the sweet nectre upon his lips and the man winked laying the dress over a chair nearby.<br/><br/>“Now hurry up, eat, and keep your word.”