Nature.<br/><br/>Humanity has given a name to the world as if it were separate, and yet the very being of it was like as William is. Foolishly people think it may be apart, but it was also inside. That single word we gave makes it seem as if they were not bound together, one inside the other like old resting Russian nesting dolls.<br/><br/>Then, we are so bold as to use those letters when we deem it useful to our hypocrisy.<br/><br/>Nature of a Man.<br/>Nature of a Beast.<br/><br/>Does this explain anything at all?<br/><br/>Mister Weaver, a spider, didn't know<i>why a hair brush or book</i>was there inside of her, but he could sure enough hear tugging on those strings. It was his nature, his being, who he was, that knew to place them upon the clothes to which Vivian wore. All that it was known was that these were effective images to wrap her in, to hold her limbs in his silk, and what more was there to that simple question thought...unheard... and unspoken.<br/><i><b>How did he know?</b></i><br/><br/>Chef had wanted order, safety, a world under her control. She wanted grace, poise, and wanted to dance not for others but for herself. It was in her nature. It was part of her as sure as strings were played by those of the eight legged variety. It was in the way Chef looked at the world, and even the eye she looked at the world with.<br/><br/>William though was not only per usual a variance to the music, but still had a<i>nature</i>to him that was not separate. Not external but internal all the same.<br/><br/><i>Greed<br/>
<br/>
As Vivian turned her gaze to that book, fingers coiled backwards against the softer warm skin of palms. Something so treasured near something that was treasured caused heartbeat to miss a step upon the thunder of typhoon wings. Like gorge in his stomach, something wanted to rip, hot, wet, violating out of William's throat. Wanted to use him as an entryway into this building, place, world. Only for the mere fact that someone, anyone at all, looked at what belonged to him.<br/>
<br/>
Violence<br/>
<br/>
How easy would it be to simply throw her over the desk right now. How easily would it be to grab that 'silver stick' and use it to chock her while violations could occur? How easily would her hair give way if the man tangled his hands into it, and used it to bend her body to his will? How easy would the little lamb snap if teeth sank into her shoulder, pinning her down like an animal.<br/>
<br/>
Dragon.</i><br/><br/>The walking stick was abandoned, not a mention to the comment, or either this growing attitude of hers. Instead, hands remained locked at the back of the small along spine. Attention flicked here or there, every constant persistent need to owl the surroundings keeping those blues tilting this way or that. Searching, looking, always for something it would seem. Either out there over the oceans breath, or even here in walls that could offer no stories.<br/><br/>"You are right in that. I  haven't paid much attention to much of the world beyond my ambitions. Though I suspect you know the feeling as well. Rivers don't flow in all directions. They may wander, roam, or even dead end... but they're trying to go to the same place."<br/><br/>A position of a guard, not that of an owner, master, or lord. Half a step back, near her right edge of shoulder William moved to match her pace not his own.<br/><br/>"The book I understand, but what is the brush for?"<br/><br/>Only now had he noticed the symbiology of her dress. Only now unlocked enough from what was deemed in such a simple word as 'ambition' as if it was outside of him. Only now did William smile a bit brighter at the understanding of his<i>own hypocrisy. <br/>
<br/>
Maybe not all the human of him had been hollowed out to make room.<br/>
Maybe William was still just enough of a bastard to count as human yet.</i>