[Stocke's off like a shot at the demon's signal, dropping with the barest flicker of movement in the dark. His sword follows - he directs it away from him with a motion of his hand, more because that makes it easier than because it's really necessary, then sinks into the ground.]
[The blade flutes off towards the kid, sheath smacking lightly against his throat. Slowly the sword begins to slide out, gleaming brightly, red and orange and fire-gold playing over it thanks to Greed; finally, the wooden cover clatters to the floor. It's not close enough to cut, Stocke doesn't want that, but it's a warning. Stay in the corner and don't move.]
[The shade, meanwhile, rises up out of the floor behind the last man while Greed's bargaining, the intruder frozen in place and staring. Stocke's soundless up to the point where he darts claws through the man's back; once he clutches the soul, though, there's such a strong sudden urge to (rip it out, now) that he nearly does. It's only the resistant clinginess of a soul desperate to stay in place that snaps him out of it, arm halfway free - he returns the soul to its original position carefully, with the feeling that his heart would be hammering if he still had a human form. (And maybe the static hammering through him is similar enough, even if it's doing it out of hunger.)]
[That should leave these other two pinned - Stocke's eyes rise in time to see Greed's almost-lazy flinch, hear the sigh before the little cross hits the floor. His gaze traces its outline, curious, memorizing; mistakenly, he assumes it's the material that it's made of that's the problem. Salt inside? Not that it matters; now it's out of reach and out of mind, useless to the man as something on the other side of the bar.]
[Then Greed does something, something that pulses brightly through the room to Stocke's senses. It draws him like a moth to a flame - only maybe it's more like the soft light of a glowing creature underwater, with the way the rest of his perceptions dull in comparison. If Stocke still had pupils, they might have dilated; instead his eyes widen, gaping holes of white. It's a pattern of ripples through the room's natural static, stronger with the older man's limpness, until Stocke can hardly believe he'd never felt it before with other souls -]
[The sensation vanishes when Greed's jaws snap shut, and Stocke realizes he's taut as a string, claws twitching gently around the intruder's soul. It's an effort of will to yank himself back from the precipice of instinct - he can't make decisions based on that, even if his actions eventually end the same, or he'll lose all grip on reason to the fog god's curse. And with the return of clarity, he knows he hasn't felt anything with this intensity earlier, or the whole town would've been shaking constantly every time a soul was torn free. It's due to hunger, has to be.]
[In the corner, his blade's just begun to wobble. Stocke steadies it, leaving the edge a centimeter from the kid's neck; steadies himself with it, then straightens up to his full height. Gangling thin and tall, with the stretched proportions of a shadow cast by a faraway lamp - human, Stocke was about average, but now he practically looms.]
[Whatever his resolutions, Stocke's voice feels distant, disembodied when he finally speaks, like his mind's still following the soul down Greed's throat.] —Anything you want me to do with these two?— [He nudges the man he's caught forward with a gentle push on his soul, but without loosening his grasp.]
[There's a delayed, dull shock as the 'and there's another soul gone forever' hits him. A flash of worry that he's only feeling it at all out of obligation, rather than true distress, thanks to the holdup. But nothing speaks to it, not even motion in his tendrils - he's gotten better at controlling them when he has something he wants to keep to himself - and it's soon drowned by the feeling of luminous quarry in his hand.]
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[The blade flutes off towards the kid, sheath smacking lightly against his throat. Slowly the sword begins to slide out, gleaming brightly, red and orange and fire-gold playing over it thanks to Greed; finally, the wooden cover clatters to the floor. It's not close enough to cut, Stocke doesn't want that, but it's a warning. Stay in the corner and don't move.]
[The shade, meanwhile, rises up out of the floor behind the last man while Greed's bargaining, the intruder frozen in place and staring. Stocke's soundless up to the point where he darts claws through the man's back; once he clutches the soul, though, there's such a strong sudden urge to (rip it out, now) that he nearly does. It's only the resistant clinginess of a soul desperate to stay in place that snaps him out of it, arm halfway free - he returns the soul to its original position carefully, with the feeling that his heart would be hammering if he still had a human form. (And maybe the static hammering through him is similar enough, even if it's doing it out of hunger.)]
[That should leave these other two pinned - Stocke's eyes rise in time to see Greed's almost-lazy flinch, hear the sigh before the little cross hits the floor. His gaze traces its outline, curious, memorizing; mistakenly, he assumes it's the material that it's made of that's the problem. Salt inside? Not that it matters; now it's out of reach and out of mind, useless to the man as something on the other side of the bar.]
[Then Greed does something, something that pulses brightly through the room to Stocke's senses. It draws him like a moth to a flame - only maybe it's more like the soft light of a glowing creature underwater, with the way the rest of his perceptions dull in comparison. If Stocke still had pupils, they might have dilated; instead his eyes widen, gaping holes of white. It's a pattern of ripples through the room's natural static, stronger with the older man's limpness, until Stocke can hardly believe he'd never felt it before with other souls -]
[The sensation vanishes when Greed's jaws snap shut, and Stocke realizes he's taut as a string, claws twitching gently around the intruder's soul. It's an effort of will to yank himself back from the precipice of instinct - he can't make decisions based on that, even if his actions eventually end the same, or he'll lose all grip on reason to the fog god's curse. And with the return of clarity, he knows he hasn't felt anything with this intensity earlier, or the whole town would've been shaking constantly every time a soul was torn free. It's due to hunger, has to be.]
[In the corner, his blade's just begun to wobble. Stocke steadies it, leaving the edge a centimeter from the kid's neck; steadies himself with it, then straightens up to his full height. Gangling thin and tall, with the stretched proportions of a shadow cast by a faraway lamp - human, Stocke was about average, but now he practically looms.]
[Whatever his resolutions, Stocke's voice feels distant, disembodied when he finally speaks, like his mind's still following the soul down Greed's throat.] —Anything you want me to do with these two?— [He nudges the man he's caught forward with a gentle push on his soul, but without loosening his grasp.]
[There's a delayed, dull shock as the 'and there's another soul gone forever' hits him. A flash of worry that he's only feeling it at all out of obligation, rather than true distress, thanks to the holdup. But nothing speaks to it, not even motion in his tendrils - he's gotten better at controlling them when he has something he wants to keep to himself - and it's soon drowned by the feeling of luminous quarry in his hand.]