the name's greed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nestingdevil) wrote2014-11-10 09:21 pm
nestingdevil) wrote2014-11-10 09:21 pm
(no subject)
WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, avaricious. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 012.07.333.07 *** avaricious has joined 018.07.154.55 <avaricious> ithsihoitiwrks ? <BANNED USER> SCREENED MESSAGE. UNSCREEN? Y/N -- <avaricious>thdvllsnst <avaricious> vdndrere | ||||
CONTACTS
0.0.0.0 ♦ "MASON" | Heather
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ ZOLF J. KIMBLEY
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ EDWARD ELRIC
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ "XANDER" | SANDRATH
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
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[He's almost surprised at the amount of relief he feels when the demon's red flares back up, but he sets that aside; more importantly, that shouldn't happen again. The kid's grip is still slippery; it's hardly any work at all to yank the shotgun out of his fingers telekinetically, send it flying off towards the far wall. It doesn't quite reach, hitting the floor and spinning past glittering shards of glass before it slides to a halt. Meanwhile, Stocke hasn't been paying it any mind since the first tug and fling; before the kid's even had any chance to yelp, the shade's snapping that same mental thread towards the leader's rifle.]
[This he doesn't try to pull away - no guarantees on how tightly the man's holding, he might have a chance to shoot. If Stocke knew anything about the innards of firearms, he'd have messed with them; as it is, at least he knows what the trigger's for. He jams it, holding it tightly in place; if the third man's got something to shoot, Stocke gives it the same treatment, spooling out another metaphorical line.]
[Telekinesis isn't foolproof - there's a limit to how much Stocke can carry with it. But counteracting the efforts of a finger, two? That's nothing. If the rifle-holder tries to shoot, the trigger shouldn't budge. To make it even better - unless these natives are experts on the types of monsters Ryslig holds, there's nothing to say that Greed didn't do all that. No evidence of a second monster pulling any strings.]
[Stocke's tendrils quiver tensely, invisible in the ceiling's darkness. He wants to do more, but Greed still hasn't motioned him forward. There's a difference between taking initiative and suddenly acting like he can't trust the demon to handle this, and he's not crossing it.]
[Your move, boss.]
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[Greed's already up, his head bowed. A grip of claws holds his neck and he groans slightly, twisting at the muscle and bone locked underneath his palm. The leader of the group takes no pause, his rifle rearing up in a shining sheen: no unlike a tank posed to fire. He goes to pull the trigger. Goes again - ] "Piece of god'mn shit!" [He furiously pulls back the cock-pull hammer, releasing an unspent shell onto the floor. It rolls away, the pointed tip catching moonlight before it disappears into a corner.]
[It's enough of a pause.]
[While he doesn't have the usual tricks, Greed's talons grab the wooden length of the rifle. He can't slice it apart like he'd normally would, but one good twist snaps the man's wrist clean. The weapon drops and the Sin's look is put-upon. As if this is all merely a bother.] Oh-? Probably hurt yourself that way, Chief. [The tone of his voice is sharp, sing-song. Even as the elder of the bunch wails, his sodden lip smeared in a wet sheen of aged, tarry tobacco. Greed holds him firm, parting only a brief glance upward to signal his would-be second.] I told you, I wasn't interested in hurting anyone. But you're not really giving me much choice.
[Greed's other hand shoots off like a gunshot, his claws snaring the older man's collar. Behind him, his wings are a terrible looming of brimstone - their shape fading by the outline. One beat has the two of them against the opposing wall and the former homunculus uses the side of it to lift the older man up and off the floor. His aged old boots hang and the laces dangle as his last lifeline. This close, he can practically smell it on him; a soul quivering deep down with a boy's kind of fear. Something that old men try to bury over time.]
[It's sickeningly sweet.] That's twice now - why don't we try not to make it messier than it has to be this time, hmn? [His free hand is out, his arm gesturing slowly to his side. The two others stare on, the youngest one frozen in the corner. Greed cricks his head to the side as he draws eerily close to the leader's face. His eyes are wide behind his sunglasses, the pricks of his pupils thickening out with the idea. It's been a while since he last consumed and the ping of hunger brought on by the recent fog isn't doing him any favors.]
[Thankfully, chance luck seems to be on his side.] "I'll fuckin' see you n'Hell f'er I make no deal." [The man finally speaks up, his voice choking on his own spittle. Greed's eyes settle, his lids hooding with a small sneer.] Eh - that's a shame. [Under the demon's grip, the appointed leader tries to furiously snatch at his cross. It causes the Sin to reel back slightly, his frown more pronounced. His grip loosens just a tad, fabric sliding between his claws in a silent whispers of linen.]
[The Sin sighs - dramatic, overly so. As his hand snakes around back, effectively plucking the clasp of the necklace to make it fall to the floor. It drops once; like a heavy piece of lead, or a bad omen in the making.]
[Then he has his head against the other's, foreheads touching. The older man finally goes still, a dreamy look washing over his face. At peace, for a moment. His arms hang at his sides, his eyes turn milky in their stare. Had it been anything else, the act might look intimate.] I really am sorry, you know. [The Sin hums rather pleasantly. But then his jaws are opening, his teeth glint. What happens is a reaction and something slips out of the opening in the man's lip. A vacuum to dust, wrenching a whispering form out from his teeth. In comes in slowly, time ticking almost to a halt.]
[Then it's gone. Down Greed's throat with a simple rattling of his tongue. The older man's eyes roll back into his skull and Sin lets loose his grip. He stares down at the unconscious form, his expression mixed with distaste.]
no subject
[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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[Greed's careful to sidestep the offending appendage, his heels making a short semi-circle around spread fingers. They seem to be reaching in the aftermath - trying to catch something so-far gone.] Eh- [A groan wheezes out of him, his claws already wrapped around the metal frames of his sunglasses to pull them off. The pair hang loosely in his fingertips and the red-light pouring from his eyes is haunting and wicked. A nightmare wrapped neatly in a package and the boy's head leans back, his Adam's apple throbbing just a breath away from Stocke's sword.] - seems like we've got a problem here, don't we.
[Fire churns in his chest, his throat. The shade of burnt-orange cooling back to that inviting kind of gold. The kind men yearn for, the kind he owns. Greed's eyes flick to the older of the two left, watching as something writhes and twitches in Stocke's ever-so-delicate grasp. Whoever the man is, it looks as if he still has a soapbox he wants to stand on.]
[Too bad said soapbox is merely soaked cardboard by this point.] Don't get me wrong -I didn't want to have to do that, but your friend here didn't really give me much choice. [A tip has him leering at the other, a scavenger on his last inspection.] And it looks like you aren't either, are you? [Greed closes the gap between himself, Stocke, and the man trapped between them. His middle-aged face flat-lines between contempt and rage. When he goes to speak, he chokes out a word or two. The hand at his side tries to pull at a buck-knife on his belt to no avail.]
[Greed's eyes hood and his frown falls strongly on his jaw.] Guess we have to do this the hard way. [A quick jerk of his glance has him looking at Stocke, his shoulders slumping. The sunglasses in his claws flip over his knuckles, catching moonlight only to disappear at the lip of his vest. The decision ultimately falls on Stocke, but:] He's all yours.
[The man hitches when he hears those three, solemn words. Rage morphs into cold-chilled fear and the thudding in his chest is almost audible in the bar's silence. His eyes turn to pin-pricks in his skull and he tries to protest, but he can't. Like a some sort of force has been put on him and as he pushes to catch Stocke in his peripheral, a horrible red seeps around Greed's face. Humming like a lonely night in a district made for better company.]
[Greed turns his attention back to the youngest.] And that leaves you - gunna guess you're not as stupid as the rest of 'em. [He crouches down, his tail grinding across the floorboards in a warning. The terrible light in his eyes fades and Greed sinks his hands between spread out thighs.] As long as you don't plan on coming back here, consider this my one time offer. [One claw presses into Stocke's blade, urging it away from the boy's throat. No calm comes to his face, however. The fear frozen, his exhales fast and erratic. The Sin offers him a solid smile - one not filled to the brim with razors.]
[The young man looks at his companion, looks at Greed, then promptly jolts up on his legs like a newborn fawn. A table falls over in his exit and the door bashes when he tears it open. A few jolting steps and whining breathes send him out and gone to whatever the rest of the night has in store.]
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[Either way - as it is, the decision's on him. And nearly everything points to taking the man's soul - it'll get rid of him, when this one's likely to come back again, it'll feed Stocke so he won't have to prey on someone else, it'll... and yet, he's still not entirely sure he's not being urged to it just because he's hungry. Would he make the same arguments without that weighing on him?]
[The man's attempts to turn, struggle away... the shade hardly notices them, in comparison to the terrified shaking to his core. An elbow or shove will pass through nothing but cold air.]
[Stocke breathes out, a quiet crackle - it's nothing more than a gesture. A shadow doesn't need to breathe. Then, as dispassionately as he can manage - he wrenches back, quick and violent.]
[The soul doesn't want to go; it stretches like taffy for the short second it has a chance to, blazing bright but quick and weak as the beating of a dying heart. Then it snaps free and the man's eyes go blank - slowly, without something to motivate action, he sinks to the floor, fingers loosening from the knife he was grappling for. Stocke, for a second, tries to loop an arm under the man's shoulder, lower him to the floor himself; it shouldn't matter, anymore, but somehow it does. His hand goes through with a whisper of black, and he pulls it back. Right.]
[There's a short, almost ridiculous moment where Stocke tries to figure out what he's supposed to do next, without a mouth to feed with - but the hand holding the soul's already lifting it up to his ribcage, nudging it inside. The soul beats against the edges like a caged bird, as if there are invisible walls between the bones. Then, moments later - it rips into shreds, dissolves into sparking lights and is gone. It leaves behind nothing more than a inaudible impression of something very like a wail, tinny and remote.]
[Stocke swallows, the action as fruitless as his breath, even as everything goes sharp and clear with the crispness of just having fed, an overabundance of detail. It fades enough for him to pick out his telekinesis being shoved against - he lifts his head and rotates towards it, leaving behind what might as well be a corpse on the floor. The kid's already running, door slamming behind him - Stocke's not even sure if he saw what happened to his second associate or was spooked off beforehand. Either way, the shade pulls the sword away so Greed's no longer holding it back, slips it gently back into its sheath. It glides almost casually back to Stocke's side.]
[He doesn't want to say anything, right now - instead he releases the threads he had attached to the mans' weapons, uses the ability instead to right the toppled table and lift the firearms onto it. The bodies... mechanically, he decides he probably wouldn't be able to do much more than drag them, they're too heavy for anything else. He leaves them where they are for Greed or someone else in the Nest to handle.]
[A thought a moment later has his tendrils twisting towards the door; he drifts towards it and sticks his head through, checking for any more backup outside. Not expecting any - they'd have called them in upon confronting Greed - but not leaving it up to chance. It takes him another few beats to find his voice again once he pulls back. If there are reinforcements it's a warning, but otherwise, quiet...] —What was that down in the basement, before?—
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[Greed presses the shades to the crook of his nose, pushes the glass with his fingers, and rights them. It's a souring waste, but not something to change his mood too much. After a few seconds, his smile slices wide open. With his back to Stocke, the fur of his collar rises to cradle his neck and throat.] I'm sorry you had to do that. [It's the only solace he gives. The trembles from the basement below have all but subsided and Greed pivots, a catch of moonlight turning his skin a pale shade of blue. He turns his head to examine the body briefly - it isn't dead, but maybe death would be a better fate. He steps over the lifeless wrist and the knuckles on the man's fingers are white. Tight, as if he still had a last ditch effort to stand on.]
[Greed's close to Stocke not a moment later. Silent for a moment or two, taking his would-be second with a glance. If there's worry on his face, it's short lived.] Probably one of the others. [The Sin turns his head over his shoulder, straightening his spine. The howling and wailing, similar to a symphony of banshees, is gone. Nothing but stillness, a death rattle's last call.]
[Greed waves over his other shoulder, beckoning Stocke to follow.] I'll take care of everything up here. Better check on anyone downstairs. Wouldn't want anymore surprises tonight. [It's been a long time since he's had to deal with a body, but he's no stranger to the concept. Greed's wings unfurl, a new fire kindling between the veins. He takes one step forward and a circle of ash burns in his heel.]
[He won't ask if Stocke's all right; physically, there's nothing to show of their encounter. What sort of lingering aftermath? He can only guess. They had been similar; war stories that haunted. That clawed when night settled in, making them remember.]
[He doesn't need to press the issue.]
[Instead, Greed's hand lowers to the older man: the leader of the pack. His claws wrap round a limp wrist and the body jerks up with an odd kind of ease. Like a rag doll being dragged behind a young child, the man slides across the floor. His old leather boots bounce when they hit a snag and Greed pauses. A chill wind whistles under the entrance and the door jitters a bit in the dark.]
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[Souls are another matter. A life taken will move on; a soul taken... ends.]
[It's hitting him harder without the fog of hunger, but at the same time he's glad for that. He doesn't want to reach a day when he stops caring, whatever the kind of person. That's a slippery slope to head down.]
[Shoving the feelings back for later, on the other hand, is fair game. Especially the kind of later where he's too tired to think about them. He pulls himself away, follows Greed's motion.] —I'm on it.— [Maybe he'll get a glimpse of that elusive basement-dweller, while he's at it. Though if he hasn't seen them yet...]
[The shade glides across the bar, by little sparkles of glass sunken safely into cracks in the floor and trails of Greed's ash on the floor, marks of where the demon's swaggered. Angles of moonlight reflect off coloured bottles as he passes, made dull by the dark's grayscale vision; the tabletops gleam with glimmers of hellfire thrown off Greed's wings. A turn of Stocke's wrist has his sword following him as he heads down.]
[Long night, was it...?]