[Stocke takes the cue without order; Greed can feel the slight chill leave his back, the retracting tendrils like a phantom in passing. Despite what could amount to some serious trouble, a proud flash passes over his expression. Luck or otherwise, he's glad to have Stocke. He hasn't proved a bad investment in the slightest.]
[The quiet touch on his shoulder is acknowledged in a span of exposed teeth. Reading it for what is is: a gesture that if things turn sour, all he needs to do is ask.]
[Iron trembles underneath his stride, the stairs rocking in groans of exhausted metal. Stocke's right in his personal assumption - the spill of liquidity gold and brimstone alerts the gang of three even more-so than the thunderous baritone of the Sin's voice. The shotgun gets cocked and poised. Thrown into place to rest against a shoulder. Unfortunately for them, the one sporting said-firearm just happens to be the youngest of the group. A blind sheep follower that, sadly, ran into a wolf den on the worst of nights.]
[Bad luck, bad decisions.]
Now, that really isn't very nice - not really smart, are ya? [Greed's pitch is tainted in the same half-drowned tin, scratching at his throat. The inside of his mouth glows, causing the bones of his jaw to illuminate in a terrible black. Not unlike a photo in a negative. But then the fire's swallowed again and he turns the last corner with a pleasant smile. Meeting the double-barreled gaze of the shotgun.]
"Call it sumthin' personal - ain't nobody gunna say shit once we get this taken care of. Should'a jus' stayed out m'business, devil - " [The older gentleman replies. He hasn't brought his farming equipment as a makeshift weapon this time: lesson learned. Instead, he's got a rifle lazily dangling in his fingers. A soft touch of moonlight glazes across a metal chain around his neck, illuminating a gold cross in a milky white.]
[Greed ticks his eyebrow up in mild humor.] That's not how it works, friend. Besides, I really couldn't have you messing with one of mine. [The Sin answers, not without a sneer. In the pitch-black of the bar, his outstretching wings loom behind him. Similar to shadows widening, they're marred in a fresh frame of ash. The youngest member of the band starts to tremble and the shotgun in his grip rattles.]
[Then his hand slips, his palm too sweaty to hold his bravado together. The twin barrels of the shotgun flare with a deafening bang.]
"F-Fuck!"
[The slugs meet their target in a spewing of ash. Greed's back hits the wall with a violent thud, causing one or two bottles and a mirror to crash onto the floor. The kid panics, his fingers missing the release on gun more than once. When he finally gets it, the smoking shells eject and roll onto the floor. The older man curses, his words unintelligible as he waves his rifle in the air.] "You dumb little shit!"
[The boy's lip quivers as he fumbles around for two more shots. Unfortunately, they forgot one thing.]
1/2
[The quiet touch on his shoulder is acknowledged in a span of exposed teeth. Reading it for what is is: a gesture that if things turn sour, all he needs to do is ask.]
[Iron trembles underneath his stride, the stairs rocking in groans of exhausted metal. Stocke's right in his personal assumption - the spill of liquidity gold and brimstone alerts the gang of three even more-so than the thunderous baritone of the Sin's voice. The shotgun gets cocked and poised. Thrown into place to rest against a shoulder. Unfortunately for them, the one sporting said-firearm just happens to be the youngest of the group. A blind sheep follower that, sadly, ran into a wolf den on the worst of nights.]
[Bad luck, bad decisions.]
Now, that really isn't very nice - not really smart, are ya? [Greed's pitch is tainted in the same half-drowned tin, scratching at his throat. The inside of his mouth glows, causing the bones of his jaw to illuminate in a terrible black. Not unlike a photo in a negative. But then the fire's swallowed again and he turns the last corner with a pleasant smile. Meeting the double-barreled gaze of the shotgun.]
"Call it sumthin' personal - ain't nobody gunna say shit once we get this taken care of. Should'a jus' stayed out m'business, devil - " [The older gentleman replies. He hasn't brought his farming equipment as a makeshift weapon this time: lesson learned. Instead, he's got a rifle lazily dangling in his fingers. A soft touch of moonlight glazes across a metal chain around his neck, illuminating a gold cross in a milky white.]
[Greed ticks his eyebrow up in mild humor.] That's not how it works, friend. Besides, I really couldn't have you messing with one of mine. [The Sin answers, not without a sneer. In the pitch-black of the bar, his outstretching wings loom behind him. Similar to shadows widening, they're marred in a fresh frame of ash. The youngest member of the band starts to tremble and the shotgun in his grip rattles.]
[Then his hand slips, his palm too sweaty to hold his bravado together. The twin barrels of the shotgun flare with a deafening bang.]
"F-Fuck!"
[The slugs meet their target in a spewing of ash. Greed's back hits the wall with a violent thud, causing one or two bottles and a mirror to crash onto the floor. The kid panics, his fingers missing the release on gun more than once. When he finally gets it, the smoking shells eject and roll onto the floor. The older man curses, his words unintelligible as he waves his rifle in the air.] "You dumb little shit!"
[The boy's lip quivers as he fumbles around for two more shots. Unfortunately, they forgot one thing.]