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.
➥ Devil's Nest, March 1
[If anyone side-eyes him from another room as he heads down the corridor - sheathed sword hovering through the middle of an intangible ribcage, freshly dusted with snow from outside - he doesn't pay it any mind. He'd gone in a back way to avoid the bar proper, but he can't do anything about any looks up here - besides, most of them probably also have... circumstances. He's gonna worry about his own instead.]
[Namely, hurdle number one - how to knock when the reason he's here is that he can't unthinkingly rely on corporeality anymore. For a moment, he stares at his claws, curling them - then he solves the problem with a twitch of his other hand's fingers, levitating his blade forward and rapping on Greed's door with the hilt.]
—Boss? ...got a bit of a problem.— [It's undeniably Stocke's voice, but there's an odd quality to it, a mix of an echo and the crackle of an old tape.]
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[Under the crack of Greed's door, the tell-tale heat is a calling card. It blisters beneath the frame, roaring red then idling out like the heavy breathing of a furnace. The door knob smolders to the touch, the metal locks and bolts wavering with the temperature.]
[When Stocke's hilt knocks, silence follows at first. A heavy groan escapes from beneath the door and the thin layer of smoke seeping out retracts inward, coiling back as if switched on the reverse. The bolts and locks holding it closed snap back in a series of clicks and then:]
It's open - [Greed's voice sounds from inside, but it's tinny. Like a communication through cans and the distinct ping, ting, ting of clattering coins chimes through. The door groans open not a second later, its hinges threatening to buckle right off. A breath of air billows out with the intrusion removed and a potent smell of charring wood and ash washes out into the hallway in a violent sigh.]
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[But what the temperature is doing is setting off sparks of concern; normally, Stocke's seen Greed keep it more... contained. The slice of a superheated spade-tail or claw through ice, wafts of steam tossed up by a boot, flakes of ash. This time, there's smoke, metal brightening as if held over flame, and combined with that groan -]
[He lets his sword free from his telekinesis; the wooden sheath clatters lightly against the floor, falls to stand tilted against a corner of the corridor. Stocke glides through the doorway, tendrils pulled warily against his back against any future blazes of red glow, some winding through vertebrae. But what he actually says is a careful:] —Are you alright?—
[He sets his own problem aside for now. Greed still needs to be told - if Stocke's lost a physical presence permanently, (as, deep down, he fears,) there are some jobs he won't be able to do. Greed will need to figure out new uses for him. But it's not within-the-next-minute urgent, or even the next ten, twenty, thirty. It can wait.]
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[Greed plants his hand to the back of his skull, his jaw open wide. The groan that escapes is softy, smoldering; thick. An exhale of smoke lingers by his mouth, lighting up now and again with a few pieces of still-hot ash. They blaze with a wicked red, then blink out of existence when he twists. The bones in his back snap together, running a rhythm of crunches and cracks. A snap, a crackle, a pop and everything's right back where it should be.]
[Circumstances aside.]
[One eye peels open in the dark, the white of it reduced to nothing more that of a hollow socket. Black; from the tips of his hair to the sharps of his claws. Thin vein work lightens with the touch of fresh air and Greed's head sways to the side. At the edge of his frown, a pair of fangs have protruded similar to an under-bite.] Ah-? [He finally manages and his torso lifts, his boot swings out. And the pitch-black roll of smog takes momentum for a test-drive, exiting the room in thinning threads that touch and caress as they move further down the hallway.] It isn't the first time, Stocke. And it would take a lot more to hurt me.
[But the change in Stocke's voice makes his eye narrow and Greed sways in the direction of the sound. While it had been hard to see at first, what with the onslaught of molten ash and blackened smoke, the other's predicament comes more into focus as the after-burn makes its exit.] Oi, oi, oi - [The tinniness to his voice fades with his baritone and the Sin sinks into his spine, jerking around to get a better look at just what sort of problems the fog has brought this time.]
[There's nothing much left to Stocke, in all honesty. Wisps of shadow cling helplessly to exposed bone, the hollows of his eyes wander without pupils to guide them. Greed takes one step forward and his tail cuts through the air, slicing a fresh line ash free from the tip. He doesn't hesitate in the slightest, moving in to further inspect what's his] - you've got it a bit worse, hmn?
[He comes in close, but the space given is somewhat of an unspoken agreement. Light, fire - whatever Stocke's become, that much has been made clear. A weakness of sorts and the former homunculus tips his chin. At the edge of his nose, his sunglasses shine in a fiery glow. As gold and red run races across the silver rims. Greed nudges the pair up his eyes with the edge of his knuckle and while it's hard to hear, the growl in the back of his throat lights up. Stoking his neck to a brilliant shade of gold. But then it's gone and the color of his skin quickly fades back into that of cooling charcoal.] You all right?
[The leathery whip of his tail slithers along side Stocke, its barbed tip poised to strike. It finds its intended target and his tail coils around the still-warm knob to the door, slowly easing it shut again. Greed's a bit closer now and the grin he has is a little more forced. Weary.]
Looks like we've run into some bad luck.
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[Greed doesn't lie. But Stocke knows very well the trick of using your own standards instead of those of others, of making an 'I'm alright' mean anything from a surface graze to 'well, I'm not dying.' And 'it isn't the first time' doesn't mean anything besides, maybe, 'not as much of a surprise.' He stares at Greed, unblinking, making sure for himself; white glow cuts through pitch smoke, finally thins to curved lines as he agrees.]
[Worse...?] —Could make an argument the other way. This saved my hand, earlier.— [His voice keeps its customary evenness, but it's strangely light, as if he's trying too hard to make a deadpan joke. And maybe that's what gives it away.] —Then again, not sure I wouldn't rather have lost it, if that was the exchange.—
[(Stocke's terrified, frightened down to the - ha - bones of not being able to have any control. First he lost the Chronicle, then his humanity, and both of those he could've dealt with. But then it was choice, eating people, sacrificing them, and now it's his body; he's only glad he's got telekinesis, or he'd be reduced to a ghost. What's next? His voice? His mobility?)]
[- he's fine. Fine. (He is also lying to himself. That's another trick he knows.)]
[Obligingly, he straightens when Greed comes closer; his arms spread slightly to the side instead of hanging in front of him. If held naturally, the claws dangle past his knees, arms so long and thin as to unnerve. It's as if someone were putting together a human and screwed up the proportions past all repair. His head, neck - they're still solid, if mouthless. But down further it's a tracery of ribs and spine, at least until it reaches his legs, which are almost as bad as his other limbs.]
['Bad luck' nets a sizzle-crackle-hiss, not quite a soft, short laugh. But if it were one, it'd be bitter, or filled with dark amusement, or both. That's one thing to call it.] —Borrowing my question?— [Again, it's a subtle difference, but it sounds just a tad too blithe. Stocke seems to realize, because he pulls himself together; he's slipping slowly, and he doesn't like it. He needs to actually be fine, and the first step to it, in his own mind, is to say it aloud.] —A little inconvenienced, but I'm in one piece.—
[Then it's back to the reason he's here. Abruptly, words businesslike despite the static, he adds:] —I can't go solid. Not sure if I'll get it back, but either way, for now I'm limited in which of my normal duties I'll be able to do.— [There's only so much telekinesis can do.] —...there may be new ones I can help with. Going through walls shouldn't be entirely useless.—
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[The air thins with the release of smog and the tip of Greed's tail scurries away from the door handle. The metal piece is a bit misshapen in the aftermath, the smooth surface concave in some places.] It's a bit inconvenient - [The Sin starts in and when his tongue touches his teeth, it's like a crack of a molten-hot whip. The forked piece glows in hell-fire, snapping off then rolling back into his mouth. A few sizzles graze inside his cheek, illuminating his bones in an ashen shade of black.] - though I guess it's to be expected. Things being as they are, well -
[He's interrupted by a belching squeal and one of the doors further down the hallway flies open. Greed instantly perks at the sound, his jaws setting into an uncanny frown. The large, curved-teeth on either side of his mouth slice, then open. Releasing a breath of ash that plumes out and dissipates.] Tsk. Our friends aren't exactly very giving, are they.
[Thankfully, he knows what to expect. At least, he has an inclination. Once the fog dissipates, the more monstrous transformations should subside. Though it's speculation at best and the Sin's eyes narrow behind his sunglasses when he rights them again. The blare of red behind them burns and fades, lingering back in bright, scurrying streaks.] Ha - ! I guess you could say that, but I've already told you: I don't let anyone take what's mine, Stocke. Fog god, or not.
[Greed tosses his hand into the air, the jagged markings of inky-black skin heating again with the movement. On fire; from deep, deep down he can feel it. A burning sensation that has nothing to do with the physical manifest. A need and oh, is he parched.] No, it shouldn't be. [He extends his hand, gently prying open his claws to further inspect the other. Trails of black shift through his fingers, twisting through the gaps like stray smoke. Again, his expression falls and the former homunculus takes one step forward, then another.]
Haven't run into any other trouble, have you? [He starts in again, but not without a distance in is voice. His head is pulsing, his core racing. The heavy drum beat thudding his temples, screaming out for one thing only:]
["More."] Either way, it looks like we'll have a long night ahead of us - [One eye rolls around in his socket, turning back to Stocke.] - think you can handle it?
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[Regardless, besides his eyes widening slightly, he doesn't move when Greed extends his claws. He floats deathly still - trusts that much.]
[Smoke and shadow bends around the talons; bones stay sharply defined, smooth dark curves wreathed in black, but they're no more corporeal for all that. (Cold, that's the only thing they are - nothing near sub-zero, but they might as well be in the contrast of the demon's room.) Stocke lifts an arm and waves it through the edges of Greed's open claws to demonstrate - same's true for them. Same's true for everything, really. Greed needn't have opened the door after acknowledging the knock; Stocke could've drifted from one side to the other unobstructed as soon as he set down his blade.]
[What, trouble other than the offhand mention of nearly losing an arm and whatever was the fog god's doing?] —...nothing besides that caused by the new group starting to change. City's been quiet since yesterday.— [In part thanks to the festival held in Bavan - he'd darted over there for a bit once he'd noted the lack of activity in Vandare, all focused elsewhere - and in part thanks to the fog since then. Long nights as they caused for the monsters, they were worse threats for entirely human inhabitants of the peninsula.]
—Haven't got a choice but to handle it.— [But whatever his words, he's more than ready for anything that'll let him prove to himself he can still do things, even like this. Half to mentally emphasize that, he reaches out with telekinesis, catches one of the clouds of ash Greed's breathing out. He loops that once around his upraised arm, a controlled circle, before letting it free to dissolve.]
[Only after does he realize Greed's 'mine' didn't throw him off - he didn't even note it until almost a full minute or two after. Right, well... chalk one more up to 'getting used to it.' It has been something like two months.]
[To make up for the momentarily disoriented flicker in his eyes, he adds,] —...I tracked down that second name.— [The one from the squealer Stocke'd caught and Greed'd... terrified out of his wits.] —Businesswoman heading one of the peninsula's shipping companies. Widowed. Moved to Bavan with the rest of her family a bit over a month ago.— [And there was why, even though he'd traced her a while back, he hadn't done anything; she'd gone, and left the Devil's Nest temporarily alone.] —But she's coming back by herself in a week to administrate.
[After a second, he continues:] —...her younger daughter was eaten by one of the transformed, late last year.—
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[Then, gone.] That so - ? Don't get me wrong Stocke - she might end up being trouble for us, but I've still got my rules. I don't fight women. [But that doesn't mean he'll idly sit and wait it out either. Not with how dismal his would-be second looks; not with how parched he feels. His hand falls loosely at his side and the tips of his claws barely touch one another. The pounding in his head is worse, the heat at the corners of his vision more so.]
[He just doesn't seem to care.] Humans tend to get righteous when it comes to that. Not that I blame her - [The former homunculus' throat recoils and starts to drop. The heat source falling and falling and a pulse-beat undulates further in his chest. Where a heart should be, but off somehow. Greed throws his foot, slowly bringing his heel down first to let the rest of his boot pat against the floorboards with a distinct, sharp click.] - but we've got a bit more of a problem on our hands.
[Hunger. That's the word for it; not for food or for drink. Not for sleep or for sex. But for everything; everything and anything and the Sin's shoulders rise up, his body leans forward. The brush of shadow at his backside is cooler, chilled. Rinsing over him and the small bursts of fire veining through his arm huff and die out. They'll reignite again, now doubt. But for now - ]
No, you don't have a choice. And I've always been a fan - never been one to work for anyone else. [Greed's voice is lofty, air. As he tips his head, eyeing Stocke through his sunglasses a second time 'round. They're warm to the touch, the metal holding them together wafting with edges of steam. Red blares against the backside of his sunglasses, the strength of it waxing and waning every-so-often. He sneers blindly; not at Stocke, but at something else. A feeling down in the 'Pit; wriggling and tugging him to a destination.]
Looks like you could use the favor this time.
[Another thunderous quake vibrates from the basement, the sound muted through the various floors. The walls shake once, then stop. Greed coils his head around the door and for flash, his frown is back again. It doesn't fit his face, that look. Almost angry, feral.]
[Wrath.] Tsk - [A forced grin presses on his jaw line and the Sin takes the lead. Down the hallway he goes, the remaining light bulbs beating out. Whether it's him, them, or the situation, it's difficult to say. But as the minutes count down and as slowly-trickling fog creeps in, the 'Nest falls dim. Shadows lick where light used to be, replacing it in an eerie silence.]
[It'll be a long, long night.]
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[Apparently that doesn't make a difference in this; Stocke can't blame the woman either. Can't feel much besides pity, really - even without Greed's 'I don't fight women,' he wouldn't have wanted to do anything to her. All the same, his job is to protect this place, the monsters here.] —No need to fight.— [Quiet.] —Just convince her the 'Nest isn't worth the trouble.—
[How is the harder part; small things aren't likely to dissaude someone with that sort of grudge, and more extreme ones are - tasteless. Especially considering the circumstances, and the slightly older child she has remaining. Something he'd rather leave as a last resort. So the first thing that comes to mind that's still available -] —...maybe find something to keep her busy enough in Bavan, once she returns, that she has no time to invest in Vandare.— [Then all they have to do is last out the couple of weeks she'll be here first.]
[As Greed goes, Stocke floats after, eyeing the floor under him as it shakes, tendrils swishing uneasily at Greed's expression. (Usually he sees less scowling, more of a voluntary grin - if a wolfish one.) Dark swirls around them, and mist, leaving Stocke just a pair of glowing eyes - at least until he reaches for his sword's sheath as they pass, dragging it back through the air and into incorporeal ribs. He'd rather have it with him, have something to resort to that isn't ripping out people's souls -]
[Stocke swallows as ravenousness hits him with the thought, but it feels stilted without a mouth or real throat; the noise it makes is a thin electronic whine. (Like a pale imitation of an actual swallow made by someone solid.) He's hungry, been pushing himself as near to the limit as he dared again, and using his invisibility recently had only made it worse. (In fairness, he hadn't known it would - most of his previous uses had been not long after he'd fed, hadn't made enough of a difference to be notable. But now...)]
[Stocke lifts one dangling claw slightly to his side - but his sword's hilt isn't there, not with the way he's carrying it now, and his fingers wouldn't be able to curl tight around it even if it were. He doesn't have the luxury of that little tell, nothing material to ground himself with. So instead he glides in Greed's wake silently, shadowing.]
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[The matter of the woman from Bavan is shelved for the time being. He can’t think straight, not with that constant drumming in the side of his skull. Greed’s teeth shine off as he rounds the corner towards the stairwell, his fangs illuminating in a soft glow. Below them, the entrance to the ‘Nest bangs unlocked and a soft gust howls through the empty bar. On nights like this, when the fog yanks the true monsters to the surface, the lack of patrons isn't surprising.]
[What is is the sound of whispers, the loud commotion of uneven feet blindly walking through the dark.] "This is the place boys - I know it." [A pause, a crash, then:] "Hey watch it - !" [The voice sounds older, gruff. Grinding through teeth soaked in spit. Footsteps knock off hollow on the bottom floor and whoever it is, they've brought company. Their boots are thick and heavy - their stance labored, yet tight. Greed's mouth pulls into a sneer, his upper lip peeling away to show off his new set.]
"Shit. You don't think anyone's still here, do ya?" [Another - this time a bit younger, with a farm-bred accent to tell of his upbringing. Two whistling plunks tremble with unsteady hands and it's hard not to know what's going on: the barrel of an opened shotgun, a reloading of slugs. A rather loud click breaks the silence and someone breathes heavily outward.] "Looks like the fuckers cut and run. Whatever. We'll show 'em I ain't no one to mess 'round with. Had a tail on that g'damn little bird thief. Ain't gunna be chased out this time."
[The Sin slowly takes one step and the conversation abruptly cuts off from below. The merry band of men alerted, they quiet down and hunker. It's a contrast of two forces and Greed casually takes the stairs, his hands slipping into his pockets. His smile is dangerous, deadly. And still oddly friendly; coaxing.] Oi, oi, oi - now what's all this, hmn? You'd have to be pretty stupid to try something here, friend.
[Despite their luck? Fate sometimes offered a better deal.]
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[He listens as they hiss back and forth, claws tensing in the dark; finally, his eyes crack barely open, just another line of moonlight from a window or a gleam off an abandoned bottle. Greed's moving glow is sure to draw more attention - Stocke takes the opportunity to rise silently up to the ceiling, guide his sheathed sword away from him, above the intrudors. There's no reflection off the unpolished wood, but even so, Stocke waits a moment or two before following. As he passes Greed - just before the demon heads down the stairs - he lets one tendril droop, trail through Greed's shoulder. It's just another flicker of darkness in the gloom, a whisper of cold, but what it means is 'I'll be waiting up above for a signal.']
[The intruders wouldn't be expecting anything from above; people rarely did. Flight-capable monsters might've changed that, some, but within the enclosed confines of the bar, without the sound of flapping wings, there'd be no forewarning.]
['Little bird thief'... do they mean Mason? Or some other harpy that hangs around here? It'd be a lot easier to pull up possibilities if he hadn't started pulling at the seams hungrily as soon as static whispered (prey), so he shelves the thought and focuses on the present. His eyes, still thin slits, fix on the shotgun.]
[It's not a magical firearm like back home, he knows that after the months he's spent here. Ammunition, not spells. Stocke's not too worried about being shot, but if they aim at Greed - can he stop a slug? It'd be moving too fast for his telekinesis, he thinks; not safe to test now if he's right. Instead he reaches out a mental thread to hook the firearm itself. He doesn't twitch it, not yet, but if there's a move to shoot - he'll try to yank the barrel upwards.]
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[The quiet touch on his shoulder is acknowledged in a span of exposed teeth. Reading it for what is is: a gesture that if things turn sour, all he needs to do is ask.]
[Iron trembles underneath his stride, the stairs rocking in groans of exhausted metal. Stocke's right in his personal assumption - the spill of liquidity gold and brimstone alerts the gang of three even more-so than the thunderous baritone of the Sin's voice. The shotgun gets cocked and poised. Thrown into place to rest against a shoulder. Unfortunately for them, the one sporting said-firearm just happens to be the youngest of the group. A blind sheep follower that, sadly, ran into a wolf den on the worst of nights.]
[Bad luck, bad decisions.]
Now, that really isn't very nice - not really smart, are ya? [Greed's pitch is tainted in the same half-drowned tin, scratching at his throat. The inside of his mouth glows, causing the bones of his jaw to illuminate in a terrible black. Not unlike a photo in a negative. But then the fire's swallowed again and he turns the last corner with a pleasant smile. Meeting the double-barreled gaze of the shotgun.]
"Call it sumthin' personal - ain't nobody gunna say shit once we get this taken care of. Should'a jus' stayed out m'business, devil - " [The older gentleman replies. He hasn't brought his farming equipment as a makeshift weapon this time: lesson learned. Instead, he's got a rifle lazily dangling in his fingers. A soft touch of moonlight glazes across a metal chain around his neck, illuminating a gold cross in a milky white.]
[Greed ticks his eyebrow up in mild humor.] That's not how it works, friend. Besides, I really couldn't have you messing with one of mine. [The Sin answers, not without a sneer. In the pitch-black of the bar, his outstretching wings loom behind him. Similar to shadows widening, they're marred in a fresh frame of ash. The youngest member of the band starts to tremble and the shotgun in his grip rattles.]
[Then his hand slips, his palm too sweaty to hold his bravado together. The twin barrels of the shotgun flare with a deafening bang.]
"F-Fuck!"
[The slugs meet their target in a spewing of ash. Greed's back hits the wall with a violent thud, causing one or two bottles and a mirror to crash onto the floor. The kid panics, his fingers missing the release on gun more than once. When he finally gets it, the smoking shells eject and roll onto the floor. The older man curses, his words unintelligible as he waves his rifle in the air.] "You dumb little shit!"
[The boy's lip quivers as he fumbles around for two more shots. Unfortunately, they forgot one thing.]
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[But as they talk, a wicked red flickers. A twitching skitter sounds off. Greed's claws move in a quick-jerk motion, like someone who's just had an electrical shock to the system. His body slowly raises from the wall, a faint trail of smoke wafting from his bowed-down head. His left hand opens up, cradling his neck. Then he twists, it snaps, and he groans out a sigh:] Ah- that hurt.
[Salt. They had forgot the salt. And now it's game, set: match.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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...?]