[There's something about moments like these. The night is lazy, the air a touch humid. As if time's clock had been metaphorically punched and the world around had been left to go on without it. Seconds pass like hours, hours like days, and as the final street lamp plunks out of existence, the Sin's jaw unwinds. No longer is his smile so jeering, no more do those teeth flicker like lanterns in the dark. A warmer expression now, yet still weighted with all the heaviness of a sinner at an empty confession.]
["Gotcha."]
Sorry, huh? [He echoes. The displaced shadows scatter as he lifts his hand to his face. Built for it and here, on Ryslig's shores, it seems the transformations haven't changed much. The black scales along his skin shift in the gloom - the dark filtering over his knuckles like water out of rusty, fluorescent-fluttered tap. He touches the frames of his shades - his search for chrome-allure ending with nothing more than a whimpering png.]
[Because, right now? He's got a more pressing itch.]
[The former homunculus hooks his sunglasses by the nose piece. One catch and they lift from his face; a signal and an expression all at once.] Not like you had much of a choice, hmn? [He hums. The pair hang in his nest of claws, the ear pieces directing to the ceiling above. He doesn't look at Stocke - not at first. Instead, his lazy eyes maps out the pair. As if they're priceless; as if they hold some sort of safe-guarded secret he's finally come to terms with.]
[One click however, and they're gone. Shoved at the lip of his collar: the devil's would-be tie.]
[And now - now it's back to business.]
[The slits of his eyes peel into his peripheral. He can't help chasing that echo. A predatory need, a desire as hot and sickening as a destroying fever. A thin huff cues from his nose and with one more step, he greets the tendrils head on. Throat exposed, chin tilted, and that heat of his brought down to a comfortable, low-light simmer.]
[The one gift he'll ever give. Signed, sealed, and delivered.]
A lot happened while you were gone. You'll need to catch up. [As he talks, the Sin begins tightening a circle around the other. It's bullshit, really: both of them know better. This is just the song, the dance, and he's got the whole thing memorized. The Heathen's Waltz in D Minor. The backs of his boots clack sharply along the floor and with an air anticipation, he lifts his head. As if daring the shadows to just try.]
[Because why give when there's just so much to take.]
no subject
["Gotcha."]
Sorry, huh? [He echoes. The displaced shadows scatter as he lifts his hand to his face. Built for it and here, on Ryslig's shores, it seems the transformations haven't changed much. The black scales along his skin shift in the gloom - the dark filtering over his knuckles like water out of rusty, fluorescent-fluttered tap. He touches the frames of his shades - his search for chrome-allure ending with nothing more than a whimpering png.]
[Because, right now? He's got a more pressing itch.]
[The former homunculus hooks his sunglasses by the nose piece. One catch and they lift from his face; a signal and an expression all at once.] Not like you had much of a choice, hmn? [He hums. The pair hang in his nest of claws, the ear pieces directing to the ceiling above. He doesn't look at Stocke - not at first. Instead, his lazy eyes maps out the pair. As if they're priceless; as if they hold some sort of safe-guarded secret he's finally come to terms with.]
[One click however, and they're gone. Shoved at the lip of his collar: the devil's would-be tie.]
[And now - now it's back to business.]
[The slits of his eyes peel into his peripheral. He can't help chasing that echo. A predatory need, a desire as hot and sickening as a destroying fever. A thin huff cues from his nose and with one more step, he greets the tendrils head on. Throat exposed, chin tilted, and that heat of his brought down to a comfortable, low-light simmer.]
[The one gift he'll ever give. Signed, sealed, and delivered.]
A lot happened while you were gone. You'll need to catch up. [As he talks, the Sin begins tightening a circle around the other. It's bullshit, really: both of them know better. This is just the song, the dance, and he's got the whole thing memorized. The Heathen's Waltz in D Minor. The backs of his boots clack sharply along the floor and with an air anticipation, he lifts his head. As if daring the shadows to just try.]
[Because why give when there's just so much to take.]