[Dark as hell beyond the entrance - and maybe that's appropriate phrasing, given the occupant. Skipping embers and lines of crimson, flashes of light that mess with night vision enough to make the room stay dark. Lucky Stocke's a shade, then - and even so, it's the the gleam of Greed's new fangs that makes Stocke trace free his silhoutte from the rest of the room, black demon instead of odd dark shape.]
[Greed doesn't lie. But Stocke knows very well the trick of using your own standards instead of those of others, of making an 'I'm alright' mean anything from a surface graze to 'well, I'm not dying.' And 'it isn't the first time' doesn't mean anything besides, maybe, 'not as much of a surprise.' He stares at Greed, unblinking, making sure for himself; white glow cuts through pitch smoke, finally thins to curved lines as he agrees.]
[Worse...?] —Could make an argument the other way. This saved my hand, earlier.— [His voice keeps its customary evenness, but it's strangely light, as if he's trying too hard to make a deadpan joke. And maybe that's what gives it away.] —Then again, not sure I wouldn't rather have lost it, if that was the exchange.—
[(Stocke's terrified, frightened down to the - ha - bones of not being able to have any control. First he lost the Chronicle, then his humanity, and both of those he could've dealt with. But then it was choice, eating people, sacrificing them, and now it's his body; he's only glad he's got telekinesis, or he'd be reduced to a ghost. What's next? His voice? His mobility?)]
[- he's fine. Fine. (He is also lying to himself. That's another trick he knows.)]
[Obligingly, he straightens when Greed comes closer; his arms spread slightly to the side instead of hanging in front of him. If held naturally, the claws dangle past his knees, arms so long and thin as to unnerve. It's as if someone were putting together a human and screwed up the proportions past all repair. His head, neck - they're still solid, if mouthless. But down further it's a tracery of ribs and spine, at least until it reaches his legs, which are almost as bad as his other limbs.]
['Bad luck' nets a sizzle-crackle-hiss, not quite a soft, short laugh. But if it were one, it'd be bitter, or filled with dark amusement, or both. That's one thing to call it.] —Borrowing my question?— [Again, it's a subtle difference, but it sounds just a tad too blithe. Stocke seems to realize, because he pulls himself together; he's slipping slowly, and he doesn't like it. He needs to actually be fine, and the first step to it, in his own mind, is to say it aloud.] —A little inconvenienced, but I'm in one piece.—
[Then it's back to the reason he's here. Abruptly, words businesslike despite the static, he adds:] —I can't go solid. Not sure if I'll get it back, but either way, for now I'm limited in which of my normal duties I'll be able to do.— [There's only so much telekinesis can do.] —...there may be new ones I can help with. Going through walls shouldn't be entirely useless.—
no subject
[Greed doesn't lie. But Stocke knows very well the trick of using your own standards instead of those of others, of making an 'I'm alright' mean anything from a surface graze to 'well, I'm not dying.' And 'it isn't the first time' doesn't mean anything besides, maybe, 'not as much of a surprise.' He stares at Greed, unblinking, making sure for himself; white glow cuts through pitch smoke, finally thins to curved lines as he agrees.]
[Worse...?] —Could make an argument the other way. This saved my hand, earlier.— [His voice keeps its customary evenness, but it's strangely light, as if he's trying too hard to make a deadpan joke. And maybe that's what gives it away.] —Then again, not sure I wouldn't rather have lost it, if that was the exchange.—
[(Stocke's terrified, frightened down to the - ha - bones of not being able to have any control. First he lost the Chronicle, then his humanity, and both of those he could've dealt with. But then it was choice, eating people, sacrificing them, and now it's his body; he's only glad he's got telekinesis, or he'd be reduced to a ghost. What's next? His voice? His mobility?)]
[- he's fine. Fine. (He is also lying to himself. That's another trick he knows.)]
[Obligingly, he straightens when Greed comes closer; his arms spread slightly to the side instead of hanging in front of him. If held naturally, the claws dangle past his knees, arms so long and thin as to unnerve. It's as if someone were putting together a human and screwed up the proportions past all repair. His head, neck - they're still solid, if mouthless. But down further it's a tracery of ribs and spine, at least until it reaches his legs, which are almost as bad as his other limbs.]
['Bad luck' nets a sizzle-crackle-hiss, not quite a soft, short laugh. But if it were one, it'd be bitter, or filled with dark amusement, or both. That's one thing to call it.] —Borrowing my question?— [Again, it's a subtle difference, but it sounds just a tad too blithe. Stocke seems to realize, because he pulls himself together; he's slipping slowly, and he doesn't like it. He needs to actually be fine, and the first step to it, in his own mind, is to say it aloud.] —A little inconvenienced, but I'm in one piece.—
[Then it's back to the reason he's here. Abruptly, words businesslike despite the static, he adds:] —I can't go solid. Not sure if I'll get it back, but either way, for now I'm limited in which of my normal duties I'll be able to do.— [There's only so much telekinesis can do.] —...there may be new ones I can help with. Going through walls shouldn't be entirely useless.—