nestingdevil | (no subject)

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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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[The leader's arm stretches out slowly, unraveling like a flower in bloom. His fingers are white and pale, making the blood vessels and veins stick out against his skin. They almost glow in the dark; as moonlight passes through the 'Nest in watery, waning wisps.]

[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.]

['He's all yours.' It'd have been easier, somehow, to have been commanded there, one way or the other - but Stocke shouldn't want the easier route. And yet - if Greed'd said to let the man go, that would've been the end of it, and if he'd indicated concretely in the other direction, then Stocke could've said he hadn't made the choice. (But it still would be; he'd chosen to join up, he chose whether to obey or not. Not getting out of it that easily.)]

[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?—

[As the body takes the fall in slow-motion agony, Greed eases to stand. The last dying breath of the man's soul is crushed between Stocke's ribs, giving a strobe-light effect to the bar once again. Lightning in a thousand bottles and the Sin slowly removes and opens his sunglasses. The lip of his thumb nail peels an earpiece open, letting it swing wide with a click. With the threats gone, the bar goes quiet again; deathly so.]

[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.]

[There's a silent acknowledgement of Greed's condolences in the guttering light of Stocke's eyes - he appreciates it - but it's not so much him doing it the shade cares about as it is the soul-eating happening at all. One more time, he looks at the almost-corpse; this group knew what they were doing, going after what might as well be a monster stronghold, and it's not as though he hasn't killed before, but... (But.)]

[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...?]

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