[Call it a contradiction. Or say something else about prophets; someone spreading a word doesn't have to spread one of virtue.]
[Stocke exhales a long, not-quite-silent groan, a stream of colder air in among the weight of ashen embers. The shade's claws pull free of the wall in a single crack, shards and splinters of wood crackling down to fade in a fog made of devil's smoke. Shattered lights outside flicker a short lamp-light motif, a spark jumping between split wire curls - a shade's power of short-circuit snapping energy free.]
[Greed takes it slow, stretches it out through the fall of an hourglass, and it's just too much. Stocke inhales to speak - breaks off in a strangled sound as the Sin hums, vibration traveling what feels like all the way up the shade's spine. Tries again -] Boss - Greed - [Name and title and reflection of 'Yours, aren't I?' all together now,] - please -
[Stocke's not oft one to beg, but just this once he'll make an exception.]
[The shade's not watching, and that's his mistake; there's the whooshing spread of the Sin's wings, fire buffeted up by wind and fuel, and then Greed pulls back and pauses, daringly. Stocke's eyes snap open, and he stares down wild-eyed and near-feral. Free tendrils lash, a snick of partially-formed shadow against the walls. Prophet help him, boss, you're going to kill him.]
[But he can't say he hasn't been enjoying the ride.]
[The shade's fingers curl into the hair at Greed's nape, pulling tight but in no particular direction. Even breathing hard as he is, even a-quiver with tension, Stocke can't bring himself to take in the way the Sin's challenging him to do; too hard and fast a dagger against who he is. But he can match the game his own way.]
[A tendril snakes under the border of Greed's built, tracing slowly down. Winds in careful loops around the Sin's shaft, stroking up the underside.]
this only took forever OTL and also i'm out of icons, here's this one
[Stocke exhales a long, not-quite-silent groan, a stream of colder air in among the weight of ashen embers. The shade's claws pull free of the wall in a single crack, shards and splinters of wood crackling down to fade in a fog made of devil's smoke. Shattered lights outside flicker a short lamp-light motif, a spark jumping between split wire curls - a shade's power of short-circuit snapping energy free.]
[Greed takes it slow, stretches it out through the fall of an hourglass, and it's just too much. Stocke inhales to speak - breaks off in a strangled sound as the Sin hums, vibration traveling what feels like all the way up the shade's spine. Tries again -] Boss - Greed - [Name and title and reflection of 'Yours, aren't I?' all together now,] - please -
[Stocke's not oft one to beg, but just this once he'll make an exception.]
[The shade's not watching, and that's his mistake; there's the whooshing spread of the Sin's wings, fire buffeted up by wind and fuel, and then Greed pulls back and pauses, daringly. Stocke's eyes snap open, and he stares down wild-eyed and near-feral. Free tendrils lash, a snick of partially-formed shadow against the walls. Prophet help him, boss, you're going to kill him.]
[But he can't say he hasn't been enjoying the ride.]
[The shade's fingers curl into the hair at Greed's nape, pulling tight but in no particular direction. Even breathing hard as he is, even a-quiver with tension, Stocke can't bring himself to take in the way the Sin's challenging him to do; too hard and fast a dagger against who he is. But he can match the game his own way.]
[A tendril snakes under the border of Greed's built, tracing slowly down. Winds in careful loops around the Sin's shaft, stroking up the underside.]