Virtuous. Virtue? What a strange word that was. Or is? Holding such an alluring... scent, like a flower no less grand than life, than death.
A madman's banter. Banterous even in thought. Even banter, oh... indeed, eloquence be its anima; even such ramblings are a flap, a flab. Too utterly pointless, so they even border with the concept of... noise.
And that, itself, was a funny thought. Eerily meaningful on its sundry backdrop. Dangerously so. Noise speaks of music and of taste. Of personality and preference. Of order. Contrived, machinated systematic input-output based anchors to existence, and that is too, too, too...!
A small grunt, chewed and spat out, incised the noise.
He was never really sure about it, what the grating sound was. Not the snort; that was his, but... the other thing that resembled coherent speech, uttered in forced exaltation. Solicited praise spoken like a prayer to a deity that did not care. What was that?
Ludwig felt refreshed. By the scene, perhaps, so he took what was left of the moment to clear his mind, still groggy even though it had not slept. Or perhaps 'groggy' was the wrong word. 'Hazed' suited it more, for better or worse.
As if tasked with a mundane ritual, the crimson-clad man forced his senses active: the sight of orange flames and blood; the smell of sizzling flesh coupled with a rigid texture to the touch. 'Exquisite,' he'd call it, and the notion pierced him with elation.
Yes, steady understanding soaked into him. Mystery loosed a clutch or two and, suddenly, the present seemed much less alluring than it was, for he could understand it.
It was a village, where he stood. A dull settlement in a meaningless place full of boring mammals. Except that the settlement burned, the place was wilting and the mammals... came pre-butchered. 'Like broken toys.'
Slowly, Ludwig keeled his stature straight as demanded of him by some enigmatic notion of dignity. He wanted to survey the surrounding carnage for the rest of the time-deprived moment he was given. It wasn't an oft-claimed painting that he was suddenly drawn, thus he cherished it even if it was spontaneous and made no sense. Confusing? Probably. But so was existing, and then there is the paradoxical paradigm of peremptory and pre-built, purposeful destination often called 'profuse' for its petulant finality. Death. A most divine motif, votive and serene.
But indeed, glossed over or no, the present is one and just that. Ludwig could not avoid adhering to its simplistic factuality. A burning skeleton of a village, a burning remnant of what were villagers and amidst their fertile demise -- confusion, sprouted like a weed. Where death has passed now remained Ludwig, not fully aware of the what or the why.
So he stood, mired by the hideousness of such an unholy conclave.