Roll Dice And Cry

Anthony Argent sits haphazardly on a chaise lounge, its feet scuffed and slightly crooked from where he painstaking dragged it down into the caverns beneath the castle. Down here, he has not heard the impact that rocked the upper levels mere minutes ago. Here, in his secret chamber of reflection, the only sound is the music he makes. He ceases playing, for a moment, to touch the scars on the side of his head. All these years later and he still winces as he runs his fingers across them. He had been distraught back then, forced to shave his head to avoid infection. Of course, the youth of Behren immediately shaved the sides of their own heads in response. A fashion trend, or solidarity perhaps, but at the time he had believed them mocking him and shut himself away in the castle. The scars had faded in the intervening years, diminished from their ugly red lines to soft and subtle white ridges, and he'd kept the haircut. Perhaps the time to heal the interpersonal scars had come, as well. It had been a s