Faeries, shards, seelie and unseelie, it's ludicrous. The Darkling is a man in perfect control of his world, of his sphere. He thrives on that. Here, everything is wrong. The creatures, the faeries and pixies and whatever they're calling themselves, they're nothing to him. He bats them away with a flick of his hand, leaves the confusion of the unseelie court behind while he searches for one thing. One thing, only.
He'd been so close. He'd been there, in Os Alta, in touching distance of the one he sought, and now suddenly he's here, and the door back to his world, to all that he understands and to the victory that was waiting for him, is closed entirely.
Rage burns inside him, fury like a wave concealed beneath an outer shell of coldness. He's a tall, pale figure, bathed in kefta woven from entirely black fabric. It matches the shock of dark hair on his head, but his eyes are grey and sharp. His locket is held in one hand, tightly as though he means to break it. He looks at what's on offer in the station without seeming to care for any of it. Nothing about it is anything like his home. Though his face is a mask of calm, his movements are quick and precise. He will find the way out of this. The petty little games of these courts are nothing to him, nothing that he cares for and nothing that interests him. He will find his way home, if he has to destroy every mewling, whimpering little faerie who crosses his path. ]
The Darkling | Grisha Trilogy
[ What nonsense this is.
Faeries, shards, seelie and unseelie, it's ludicrous. The Darkling is a man in perfect control of his world, of his sphere. He thrives on that. Here, everything is wrong. The creatures, the faeries and pixies and whatever they're calling themselves, they're nothing to him. He bats them away with a flick of his hand, leaves the confusion of the unseelie court behind while he searches for one thing. One thing, only.
He'd been so close. He'd been there, in Os Alta, in touching distance of the one he sought, and now suddenly he's here, and the door back to his world, to all that he understands and to the victory that was waiting for him, is closed entirely.
Rage burns inside him, fury like a wave concealed beneath an outer shell of coldness. He's a tall, pale figure, bathed in kefta woven from entirely black fabric. It matches the shock of dark hair on his head, but his eyes are grey and sharp. His locket is held in one hand, tightly as though he means to break it. He looks at what's on offer in the station without seeming to care for any of it. Nothing about it is anything like his home. Though his face is a mask of calm, his movements are quick and precise. He will find the way out of this. The petty little games of these courts are nothing to him, nothing that he cares for and nothing that interests him. He will find his way home, if he has to destroy every mewling, whimpering little faerie who crosses his path. ]