Nothing quite sells power like a ball and no one does it quite like the Empire, especially when the occasion's all about catering to the most esteemed and noble of them all. No expense has been spared; no corner untouched. Fountains run crystal-clear water under lights of gold and towers of marble so high, the display itself seems both a challenge to creation and a dare for anyone, any thing, to test their might.
No one could deny the statement.
A pyramid of fine glass sermons at the center room surrounded by bottles in an ever-winding circle of tastes: rosé, champaign, chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, pinot noir. No, nothing has been spared and why not? Even the stage is decorated, the red-wine silks hanging about it like the flow of a thousand, waiting dresses.
It is a proclamation. A production. A show.
Escaping the Empire is a futile effort.
But them, oh them. They weren't from here, nor did they follow mortal rules. By all accounts, they were the other. Something wicked and cruel born from the absence of everything and left only to want more. And now that they're here?
All there is to do is take. At least, somewhat.
Greed watches Lust out of the corner of his eye, the deep panes of his sunglasses reflecting the wealth about him in all its splendor. An hour or so before, they had just finished a dance routine that would have made even the most devote blush. Reconnaissance may be the name of the game tonight (among other things), but having a little bit of fun on the side wasn't against the rules. The unintended effect just added a bit of a bonus.
And while Lust, or as she is currently known as, Lady Dominique Razzka of the esteemed Razzka Family made political talks and arms deals with men who craved conquest, Greed took to more feminine company. Empire women, especially military wives, were a good source of information. Rumors, tactics, battle arrangements - women really held them all and more. The true generals with painted smiles and cat-groomed claws.
"She's beautiful, your wife," a woman at the corner of his ear purrs, breaking the silence. "Though, she's just as lucky to have a man like you." The lady's ruby-red nails bite into the leather of his long, fur-collared coat, making it groan.
Greed's lip crests upwards. "I guess you could say that. Though, it's more of a family arrangement." Which isn't a lie, per say. More of a twist on words. The Sin tilts his neck, letting one of his longer earrings graze the woman's skin with a purposeful tease. "Enough about us though, lovely. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" The hand on his coat trembles while he whispers sweet viciousness into the crook of her neck. If nothing else, he was made for this; to mingle among mortals, to pull their deepest desires out and play them string for string like a fiddle. It was almost too easy. Little did they know what actually lurked behind, lurked deep, in his all-too-sure smile.
He, she, all of them: they were monsters. Demons. Hell-spawn sent only to destroy and swindle whatever they could.
"Me, sir? Oh, I am but a housewife. The commander over there is my husband." She lowers her voice, reaching up underneath his coat to touch his chest while the room's preoccupied. "He's a terrible brute. Not one for romance at all. Makes a woman desperate." The scritch of her sharp fingers force the fabric of his layered suit to a skip.
"Does it now." Greed's smile is daggers and heathenism. "That's a shame, love. Maybe there's something I can do."
A change in music alerts them both and the woman quickly pulls away to compose herself. The tune in question calls for a slow waltz; a melody for two.
"The brute calls for me, Lord Razzka. Can I - ?"
Greed's eyebrows knot together, his teeth disappearing in single, sly line. "Of course. Can't keep the lug waiting, can you?" He tosses his fingers to wave her off. "After."
The woman curtsies and as she leaves, the Sin turns his attention back to his partner in crime. Lust has a man snagged in her clutches for the next dance; a bureaucratic hierarchy type from the looks of him.
Greed almost feels sorry for the poor bastard. But so be it. He has his own pleasure to deal with and when a server comes around, he beckons the man over with a curl of two fingers.
"Ah, Lord. No encore performance?"
"No, not yet. Maybe if I find the right partner." He sizes up the server, legs spread and arms wide like a shark on land looking for a snack. The man's face wrinkles and his spine goes suddenly sharp, as if something foul's washed over him. "I - uh. Right. Can I get you - ?"
"The forty age on the rocks. Make sure it's poured high, will you?" Greed hums. "Thanks."
The server doesn't even bother sticking around. He makes a beeline to the back. Greed follows him on his exit, all the while scanning for the next opportunity.
Opportunity knocks as the waltz comes to an end. The doors swing open at the far end of the hall and a hush sweeps over the heads of those gathered, a single name on everyone's lips:
Solus zos Galvus.
The man himself pauses on the threshold, surveying the room as an eagle might survey its domain: with a cold eye and tilted chin. Though his stature is slightly less than those gathered, no-one with any respect for their own life would dare point it out - for this is the man responsible for the Empire's success. Its influence. Its might. At a mere thirty-five years of age, Solus zos Galvus has not only cemented and consolidated the Empire's rule but also installed himself as its first ever emperor.
The imperial regalia he wears clinks quietly as he strides down the centre of the room. The crowd parts to murmurs of 'Your Radiance', salutes, and curtsies. As zos Galvus passes Greed and his kin, his gaze shifts briefly towards them and he holds their gaze for the briefest of moments. Something in that instant seems to pass between them. Some manner of recognition of other.
--But it's gone in the next second as he strides past and ascends to a balcony with an unrestricted view of the stage. Once he is seated, he waves a hand.
How the crowd parts, how the world falls so silent, the head of a falling pin could be heard miles away: that's power. Ultimate, unyielding, and relentless. No matter how important anyone else saw themselves here, they all bowed to the arrival of their better. Like deer bending under the will of a taught, strung-out bow.
A shrewd smile passes over his lips, faint and sharp.
The guest of the fucking hour had finally arrived.
Greed shrugs to himself and as he presses the flats of his hands across the front of his suit, he gingerly rises out of his seat. The recognition doesn't surprise him much. They're all out of this picture in some way or another, aren't they? Above it all, watching time and its patrons scurry to the next oblivion. It's always the same, even if the backdrop switches out every now and again. There's always a crowd, always a civilization, always men and women clambering to impress the top.
The Sin weaves through the crowd with a sense of purpose. He spins on his heel one way, tips the other, and while his movements remain fluid, his fingers keep busy. They snag small trinkets: a couple of coins to line his pockets and a note or two of personal scandal. No doubt nothing that would even mildly intrigue his intended guest, but things he would appreciate later.
It's only when a guard gets in his way, does the procession top.
"Sir, you aren't allowed here."
"No?" Greed hums. "Ah, I must have been mistaken, then. This isn't the way to the courtyard?"
"No, it isn't. I'm going to have to ask you to step aside, sir." The guard's hand shoots up; a clear signal that any step further will have drastic consequences.
The Sin's mouth cracks. A moon's crescent sliver in the shape of harmful daggers. "You'll have to excuse me then, friend. Meant no harm." He puts a slur to his words. Not entirely a lie, but not entirely a truth either. He had been drinking; it would be all too easy to assume he was just another overindulgent guess. And that? Well, there was some truth to that, wasn't there?
The guard's audible sigh says he's right on the money. "Sir, you've had a lot to drink tonight. Please, return to your seat."
"Of course," Greed leers forward and his knuckles spread out across the center of his chest. A mocking imitation of cordialness. "But before I do, could you do me one favor?" He comes in close, too near that some might take it for affection. And maybe, the guard does. After all, what sort of party doesn't come with a few who've had a bit too many? It's par for the course. Expected.
The Sin wraps his hand around the back of the guard's neck, coy and delicate. And as his index raises between the point of the man's bones, he cranes his head, allowing his nose to almost touch the other's in a single moment of intimacy.
"What is it you really want?"
"What - ?"
Greed's lips shrink, puckering, and his shades slowly slide down. "I asked you - " The color of his eyes shift, like the tail of a red fish fleeing to the deep. "-what do you really want?" The Sin's nail trembles to a point and pricks into the man's skin. A needle, unknowing and faint.
"What I ..." The guard's words drop off. "-I want to go home. I hate this job. I just want to the tavern and spend the night with Veronica."
"Then why don't you? Don't worry, it'll be our secret, hmn? I'll make sure you don't get into too much trouble. Besides, you only have this one life, don't you? Why not have it all." Greed lifts his hand away and the point of his nail trembles to nothing, leaving behind normal flesh and blood. "Go ahead and take it. I've got things from here." Like a snake releasing a dearly departed meal, the Sin unravels and the guard stumbles away. His motion, his whole self, as dazed as a man wandering through a dream.
A tug as his jacket and the Sin straightens himself. He takes the stairs deliberately. Counting each step, feeling the press of wood against his heels as they click and clap his ascension. It's almost too easy. Too simple.
And by his sheer expression, he absolutely cannot wait to see what the rest of the night will bring.
"Laid low, evading capture. A lifetime on the run. Don't know the day when I last saw the sun."
The change of the next millennium had brought with it a renaissance of sorts; where technology reigned supreme and superstition had turned the corner towards more mainstream entertainment. No longer did the masses fear what lurked behind every corner. Science had given them the answers to their questions and explanations for whatever went bump in the night. It was an admirable and impressive half truth. A way to calm the herd and keep progress on the ever-chugging train track towards advanced civilization.
But not everyone was on board. And those that still held on, those that still knew, still believed, were the very reason he'd ended up here in the first place.
Greed watches one of the copper pipes hanging above him. He'd noticed the slight crack in it months before. How it rattled whenever the sink a few floors up switched from cold to hot; the way it groaned and whined whenever the weather took a turn for the worse. Today, it's a few healthy inches of rain giving it trouble and as the sliver of a window in the basement's upper corner films up, he catches the small crack bleeding out again. The steady trickle of water, a thunderclap in all his silence.
A tired smile teases on his face. He should have known better, really. Avarice - for him, it meant honesty. Everything he was, everything he is: it's clearly defined. What he wanted and craved, forever worn on his sleeve. Mortals, however, came with the complexities of their small moments on earth. And when one is faced with the idea of being lost for eternity? He can't blame them for being desperate. For deciding to fight, claw, beat, and escape from a cage of their own making, no matter what could be the cost.
The deal had turned a corner as soon as he was summoned. Usually, he knew when someone was going to give him a call. There'd be a hint, a visit, anything. This, however, came with more than a touch of desperation. The man had been frantic when he first arrived: sweaty skin, ringing hands, eyes bulged out like saucer plates on the bad end of a cocaine line. It was if, finally, he knew his end was coming and it was time to clean the ledger and get all that red, Lord all that red, out, out, out.
When the priest showed up, Greed had laughed. Really laughed. After all, what could an average holy man really do?
He hadn't anticipated the angel masquerading as a demon hunter and that.
Well -
Greed lifts his hand, bringing with it a thick chunk of industrial-grade chain. With a snap of his fingers, he calls what he can from the world. A single cigarette crackles between his knuckles - its tip smoldering and smoking from whence it came. He brings it to his mouth. What little he can savor, he does, and while a familiar sensation burns at the back of his throat, his eyes retrace the long pipe again. No, he hadn't been prepared for that little surprise. It wasn't one of the ones he knew, far from it. A new white-collar hot shot looking to climb the ranks. But he, she, they had everything they needed to get the job done. And in the end, he was bound, chained, and dragged down into the bowels of some God (the irony) forsaken basement of a church miles away from his previous destination.
That was in what humans called July; when the humidity really set in and the roaches of the world multiplied in the hot, persistent damp.
Greed winces as his wrist turns just enough to let him exhale through his teeth. The shackles against his skin have been treated to an almost militant schedule. Fresh holy water first, blessed wine second, and a touch of real divinity to seal the deal. Honestly, under any other circumstance, he would be impressed by the whole thing. Each detail of his imprisonment is perfect; the execution of it, air tight. And isn't there a story the mortals used to tell once upon a time? The man of Greece who once tricked death -
His teeth bite into the filter of his smoke, squishing the padding and warping it into a tangled, lumpy mess.
In times like these man made new gods of neon and static, sent their prayers into wires and microphones and their tithes into electronic voids to feed that ever growing hunger. At it's core greed was their most universal sin, the one most human and in truth the one that drove all others. The most consuming, the most dangerous...
And for their nature, the most necessary.
Capturing the very essence of the Sin himself, in the flesh and whole on the mortal plane was absolutely a victory worthy of the highest accolades. One should be proud to have trapped him so thoroughly and it was only appropriate that he be exalted above his given status, that ladder free to climb for one so ambitious. And foolish. Of course, the angel in question had been careful. The prison as it was had been hidden in plain sight, making finding it the proverbial needle in a haystack. Or hay in a haystack, as it were. The city was rife with leaking run down basements, old abandoned tunnels, and all manner of other secret places within which one little demon might be spirited away. With the proper wards put in place it would be all but impossible to find.
But Murmur was never one to give up, no matter how daunting a task. He had a familiarity with the shifting underbelly of dark and twisted places that most of his brethren would balk at in horror. His status, order of Angels and order of Thrones equally allowed him to slip largely unnoticed. Angels of the lowest rank and lowest sphere, nothing to be concerned about, and Thrones of the highest and most alien order and yet believed mindless machines, their inner workings no more complex than that of gears. If there was one truth about his duplicitous brethren it was this: to exist only within the light was to render oneself blind.
Almost as soon as he'd heard the news Murmur had gone to work trying to locate the captured Sin, but the other angel had been unusually thorough. With wards and bindings galore they had ensured that for as tiny and uninspired as Greed's cell was, it was hidden even from the piercing eyes of the Angel of Sight. However, he hadn't gotten as far as he had relying on singular methods alone. Eventually the angel slipped, just enough, and Murmur found his way.
The irony of utilizing an old church basement hadn't been lost on him, but Murmur couldn't risk going through the front door, no, not for this escapade. It was one of those basements with a narrow window just above the ground, against which mud and water pooled in the torrential rain. Hardly the most dignified approach, but one subtle enough all the same. As quiet as he could manage, though the old hinges creaked and screamed their protest that was fortunately drowned out by the thunder and rain, Murmur managed to pry the window open enough to poke his head in.
"You've got yourself in something of a predicament, I see."
It was impossible to tell if the waft of cold was from him, or just from the air outside given the ferocity of the storm.
The chill is different from that hanging about the basement. It's fresh and almost inviting; a sigh a life creeping through all that damp, all that wet, with a sarcastic promise of freedom. Greed's smile, as tired as it is, sharpens behind his bruised fingers. Ironic that his saving grace would be a touch of grace itself. A lordly usher from high above, yet oh-so tangled in the ick and stink of the mortal plane that it stuck to him like tar.
A flare of orange ignites as he takes another drag off his cigarette. "You could say that," he hums behind the soft part of his hand. Thin wisps of smoke peel between the cracks of his fingers only to die on his skin and morph into heavy, numbing clouds. They have no where to go and just like him, the smoke wanders aimlessly for an exit; their metaphor not lost on him in the slightest.
Scabby blood splinters on his forehead as he arches his eyebrow. Greed lowers his hand from his face and his wrist cracks the side of the metal slab he's been chained to with a ghostly rattle. "You sound like shit yourself." The Sin's lips quirk to reveal his unnaturally sharp teeth. By the looks of it, he's been down here a while. The small splits in his lip are dry despite the basement's dank disposition, his skin's pale, and the chains biting into his flesh have left their tell-tale marks. Around his throat, a reddish-purple bruise angrily festers. Of course, it won't last - they never do. But with a thorough binding, even devils have their limits.
For the time being, he's at their mercy.
Greed flicks his fingers to send a wad of ash wafting to the floor below. "Had a little run in with one of yours," his voice hisses through his teeth and another rush of smoke drives itself out of his nose. It cruises across his chest; the look of it like a dead-man's army rushing to the battlefield. "-they interrupted one of my deals. Kind of rude, if you ask me." A touch of humor plays in his tone and on his face. Just because he's pinned like some sort of museum prize, that doesn't mean he's defeated. Far from it. After all, what is it they say?
Idle hands and the devil?
One of his ankles fidgets and the chord of heavy metal laced underneath the table strangles to a tight, hard line. "Don't suppose I can still count on you to be a little more reasonable, can I?" Greed tries to turn his neck to peer at the window, but his prison quickly puts an end to that. A few links of chain grip deep into his throat. They reopen a couple of the half-crusted wounds, making them crack, bleed, and split into fresh reminders. "Shame, I don't even get to have a good look at you. What a pain in the ass."
Again, he tries and again, he fails; the sudden, choking grunt in his throat a clear indication.
The Sin lets his head fall back with a solid thd against the table, and he lets out a short laugh. "You haven't changed at all. Not that I expected to you, but - " His tongue touches his lip and drags it back into his mouth. He can taste his blood again: how foreign it almost feels and how familiar it is now. Greed's finger traces out what's left of his cigarette. No, nothing does change. Angels don't change, they're bound by their decrees. Devils don't change, they're pulled by their nature. And mortals, ah mortals. They aren't even close to an exception. Even as the world turned towards something different, those inclinations, those wants, those needs, those fears - they would still be there, wouldn't they?
Yet maybe, just maybe -
Another pillow of ash falls from his smoke, forgotten and lost to the unforgiving concrete. Greed edges his eyes open. "I wasn't going to kill him, y'know. His life had already done that for me. I never actually kill the ones who take my deal. That's their choice." He swallows and the collar clamped to his neck shifts ever so slightly. "You'd think they would know that by now, but it always comes down to this. They beg for their life back, but I never even took it in the first place. Ha - !" The Sin barks, coughs, then quickly returns the cigarette back to his mouth.
"I give them every opportunity. And don't get me wrong, some do. They turn their lives around, take what I've given them, and go out for more. Hope," slurred are his words; his voice merely strings and whispers of smoke. "-there's nothing wrong with having too much hope. Yet, yours would say that's somehow a bad thing and that they deserve whatever's coming for them."
The cigarette shrinks under that need of his and its orange glow dampens. "Kind of a rotten deal, don't you think?"
With the chill of winter months forgotten, the warm, stretching days of summer bring about a different kind of commotion. Humans (be them locals, tourists, or those on an unholy sabbatical) crowd the 'Nest throughout the day. Most have come simply for a drink or the peculiar name; a place off the beaten path with enough localized charm and vague appearance that curiosity often won over caution. However, for those who knew what it stood for, it was a place to offer up their patronage. All throughout the day, the Sin is constantly in and out. Hour by hour, minute by minute, he reappears behind the barback only to disappear again into one of the building's many backrooms; his private deals and struck bargains saved for more intimate settings.
By the time night rolls around, most of the patrons have either shuffled away on their own or have been coerced into doing so (namely through Roa's heavy hand), leaving the establishment quiet into the lull of the morning. Shrunk candles and lazy smoke sag sleepily in the dim; their wind down, a perfect match for the welcome silence. Yet, isn't it true?
There's always a calm before the storm.
Despite all of their attempts, it was only a matter of time before someone (or something) came knocking. It starts with a simple hush: the candles go out with a sudden breeze, the electricity hums and vibrates.
And that is when everything goes south, south, south.
The door to the front blows wide, sending bottles and glasses alike smearing like wet paint across a wall. Because what's on the other side aren't their usual guests, oh no. There's a group of them. A group of them with scowling looks and enough distaste and disregard that it's all too obvious that they aren't here for anything good. While most of the group appears to be in somewhat of an order (the way they similarly scan the building with a cool sense of superiority), the smallest stands out like a sore thumb. They're slim, slimy; a tiny thing with long, spiked-black hair and a ghastly expression that's sourly bitter.
Because out of all the Sins, isn't it just Envy to be so, so rotten.
When the fight breaks out, it's messy. Feathers and tar, fire and smoke: they fill up the space in a blackening cloud, swallowing up everything and smudging the insides as angels and devils alike claw in a clash. Some people try to make an escape when one of the angels cuts them off with a gouging slice, leaving the head of the party split from the stomach upward. Bido (who had been near the front) starts to scramble away. Butt first and terror in his eyes, he shuffles blindly through the blood and gore. Bits of what had been a person stain his hands, and as the angel makes for him, the small creature swallows deafly at his own, coming demise.
He doesn't expect it when the angel falls face first onto the floor.
"Just who the fuck do you think you're messing with?"
Greed's voice rolls out, ushering in a thick tornado of soot. With one foot on the angel's back, his body leers out of the dark. Giant horns peel from his skull to grind at the hallway entrance, causing the wood to splinter like bite marks. The angel makes a noise into the floor, but as they try to stand, the Sin presses harder into its back; his raptor(ed) toes digging, just digging, to find a bit of flesh.
"Sorry, I don't think I caught that - " Greed's mouth hardly opens when he talks. Instead, his teeth grind together, causing wafts of ash to foam over his gums. "What, did you think I wouldn't notice? You do know who I am, right?" Mountains of gold pillow under his foot only to grow, wither, and melt like flowers in a sped-up drought. They meet the constant stream of spit running from his mouth and forehead in a flurry of pops and hisses. For that crown of his is a molten one. A thing of desire spiling out, stretching further, to burn everything it touches.
Avarice is all consuming, hungry, and corrosive. It shouldn't be surprising that it's true namesake is the same.
Another pile of coins erupts on the angel's back, withers, and seers into its flesh. Greed leans in closer.
While every now and then Murmur would make a point to complain about this or that about the Nest he still stuck around, the complaints were almost a game at this point. A flitting presence here and gone again, yet somehow he always seemed to be around when he was needed. He wasn't perhaps friends with all of the demons, but he minded his manners and had at least made some headway with the one who made and stocked the tea that he liked.
Tonight, however, something had kept him away when the fight first broke out.
Bar fights weren't uncommon, so much so that by now the angel had grown accustomed to ignoring the cacophony whenever it sprung up. The demons would deal with it handily and things would go back to their usual murmur of noise. At first he'd thought it was just that, right up until the scent of brimstone and charred feathers caught his nostrils.
A blast of frigid air cutting through the heady gloom announced his presence before he appeared, eyes black as they took in the carnage. He moved too calmly, too certain through the chaos to be picked out easily until it was too late for one of the attacking angels who only had enough time to let out a gutteral scream before hitting the floor sans heart. Another, responding to his brother's call found himself slammed across the room first by a massive wing used in lieu of a fist, then pinned under an unforgiving spike of ice. Murmur would always argue he was no warrior, and yet in a moment like this he was as cold and certain as an executioner's axe.
"What is the meaning of this?" He boomed, a voice resonant like thunder, that shook the very foundations of the building. If nothing else he hoped to spook the others away from their onslaught. Make it easier to chase down the responsible party.
Like an iron spoon churning molten honey, the Sin's tongue begins to roll out of his mouth. It crosses over his teeth, lathers over his chin. Under all of his oppressive heat (the suffocation of it, the scorch), Murmur's arrival is a welcome chill. It snaps at the bite of his burn and quells his temper down, down, down just enough for him to think clearly again.
Still, Greed's eyes don't leave the angel he has pinned beneath his claws despite the storm calling him back. No, instead his smile stretches itself fast over his face, yanking what little give he has left. "Looks like my little shit heel of a sibling decided rubbing elbows with some of yours was worth the trouble," he hisses and a wad of spit bubbles from his gums. It squeezes through his teeth, low and slow; the look of it similar to a volcano drooling its lead. When the head of it finally finds the angel's back, it instantly causes the flesh to angrily blister. Red boils, white scorches, and the skin rises in milky, filmy pustules only to inflate, strain, and burst with all their weight in gold.
And oh, how ugly Sin could be when scored.
Greed breathes and a funnel of ash shoos from his throat. "Ha - ! Guess we can be friends after all, handsome. If your lot is willing to fuck around with mine just to get me." His claws sink in deeper to find what he's been desperately searching for. "Hold that thought."
He's not going to ask for permission this time; his core won't let him. Not when he has so much to pay back, not when the angel below him (bleeding, silent, yet still too egotistical to let it show) is just where he wants him. Greed's toes flex and as the bones in his talons wriggle and bury themselves into muscle, a realization sparks in his prisoner's face.
Clipped birds don't sing. And angels? Ah, well -
"Wait - ! Wait - !"
The Sin's eyes twitch, something internally crunches. And when the ash clears, the angel is no more. Greed slides his toes out from a whimpering husk - his feet, his ankles, all but baptized in his cruel foot bath. He smears the floorboards with the leftovers. "Mine, Mur - get them out of here. If you can do that, I'll let you decide what happens to the rest."
On the outside, the building's in a sad state of dilapidation. The heat's cooked the old brick to a chalky kind of white. Like the bones of a beast long-since dead, they loom baked and forgotten; the stamp of a former business, a faded memory. Even the windows don't give much away. Nailed-in boards cover what had probably once been full panes of glass back in its prime and the shutter-door tin around front's pocketed in rust holes that gap and gasp as if trying desperately, so desperately, to take a breath. The town's a ghost. A tomb. One empty, quiet, and made of dust.
It goes against everything he is, being back here. The garage had once been his haunting ground; a place he lurked, did business, and turned a would-be profit. Those times had been different. He still had a mild connection with them back then. Not friendly, not in line, no, but a cordial kind of relationship where one of them could drop something in his lap and instead of trying to kill him, all they asked was, "How much?"
Funny, how life comes full circle.
Greed pushes a chair back, making it tilt unevenly on its legs. The man he has strapped to it looks like he's seen better days. His skin is sickly and blue; the sweat sticking to him is filmy like soap scum. His eyes, though: those are the most telling. Even under the cop-bright swing lamp, they glow a smokey kind of green. A neon toxic, poisoning with otherworldly radiation.
The Sin leers forward and as his claws grip and hold the edge of the lamp, his jaws curl upwards. The cigarette in his mouth all but illuminates his smile in a fluorescent, wet-slick sneer. "Hey, hey," he snap his fingers in front of the man's face. "No, you don't get to quit on me just yet, friend. We've still got some things to talk about."
In response, the man spits a glowing wad of wet onto the floor, painting the concrete in a blacklight smear. Greed merely looks at it, and with a petulant look and an exasperated grunt, he swipes the tip of his boot over the spittle. "Ehh - see, that wasn't very nice," he slurs his words through curtains of smoke. They part over his face as soft as a graying blush, kissing and dusting his expression.
The devil sighs, removing his cigarette. "I get it. I really do. But that sibling of mine did something pretty stupid, even for them. And because they couldn't help themselves, and because you don't seem too different, we've now found ourselves here." He inhales sharply, causing a flutter of leftover smoke to wind on the corner of his mouth. "So, I'll ask you again. Where is Envy now?"
"I told you to fuck off - " The man hisses. Where his voice should be hoarse and dry, the tone of it is thick. Gurgled. It splits in two in his throat: one, that sickness. The other, a desperate, raspy sound like a drafty window or a gas leak. The man is sick, and not in the normal way humans get. That bright, throbbing green in his spit, the way his veins squirm like worms, the corpse(y) shade of his skin. It's a cancer. An envious leech, consuming everything he is, everything he was, until there's nothing left. The deep bruises under his eyes sink into his sockets and a foam slowly froths and shrinks on his lips, slicking the cracks to a gross, Vaseline sheen.
Greed's frown dips. He shakes his head and ashes his cigarette on the man's thigh. "Yeah, already too gone, aren't you? That's a shame - " With a vacant look, the Sin leisurely begins to crush his cigarette into the other's forehead. Twist by twist, grind for grind, he drills the ember into the man's skin; the hiss of flesh and burnt hair crawling in whiffs of green disease.
The familiar voice came from above, emotionless as ever. Little more than a dark silhouette punctuated with two copper-sulfate fire eyes perched on a beam as comfortable as though he'd been there the whole time. Perhaps he had been, Murmur did have a terrible habit of being where he wasn't wanted for far longer than anyone might desire. Even Greed.
He didn't budge from that perch, merely watched Greed with that peculiar intensity of his. Just what, exactly, was he offering here?
Halfway deep into the man's forehead, the Sin calmly pauses. His eyebrows stretch sleepily up his forehead; his look, a comical combination of slight annoyance and dramatic exasperation. Because, of course, the Angel would speak in riddles even now, wouldn't he?
Greed pulls his hand away, shaking the cigarette out before tossing it to the concrete. "Y'know, it would be a lot easier if you just cut to the chase, Feathers," he starts in through a cracking smile. Because he couldn't stay mad at Murmur, no. Not after all he's done, not after everything they've been through. Truly, he should be used to it by now. Where devils are clear cut with their intentions, angels? They're vague, abstract creatures with tongues laced in enough convoluted and ambiguous directions that'd it be easy, all too easy, to get lost in a simple conversation.
So instead of guessing, the devil merely throws his hands over his head in slack surrender. "If you've got a better way, I'm all ears," he hums and turns his wrists, exposing his palms to the ceiling. "Otherwise, I'm gunna do him the favor." Greed grips his hip on one side and uses his other hand to lift the man's head back, showing the knotted veins writhing in his throat.
"Envy's been using this one for a while, so either way, he isn't coming back from it once we're done."
[ When it comes to moving cash safely and effectively, there are very few as proficient as him. Not only is he accustomed to pressure and multitasking but he is also dogged when it comes to completing these tasks.
Which is why, complete with the threads to make him look the part, he saunters through the crowd with a briefcase in tow. Unlike what one might see in a movie there are no supersized bodyguards flanking him or an ornate golden chain connecting the case to his wrist. Why? Because they know better than to test him.
The last time someone got Greedy he broke their hand, apologized, and even had the wherewithal to take them to get their hand treated after. Michael abhors violence, choosing only to use it when absolutely necessary and even then, he tends to take it easy on those weaker than him. Is that an award winning combination for someone affiliated with the mob?
Not unless your nickname happens to be The Angel — not just for his kindness. He can also just as easily send a man to an early grave if they choose not to relent when he gives them a choice. A few take his grace and even thank him for it but there have been several who chose to fight. Whether they still roam these streets or not, he really wouldn’t know.
Eventually, amidst getting lost in his thoughts, he finds himself at his destination: The Devil’s Nest. He can smell it before he even sets foot inside, the remnants of tobacco, alcohol and the familiar scent of bodies likely tangled in intimate embraces. But he isn’t here to watch the show, he is here to deliver the case to the owner of this decadent little house of sin — a tithe, from the smaller fish that share the pond.
And he spots him, it would be difficult not to. The timber of his voice, the way everyone seems to gravitate to him by the bar as if waiting for the show to begin. In this world, information is key and no one has more of it than Greed. Michael doesn’t have to call him, he simply waits for the man to feel his eyes on him and turns to walk into the back room with the case in tow.
This may be Greed’s place but he isn’t about to trust a roomful of strangers to abide by the rules of the house. Once there, he sets the briefcase on the table, opens it, and leans back against the table to peer through his sunglasses at the door, waiting.
Truthfully, the case isn’t the only reason he is here. When he hears footsteps, he murmurs the next words out. Jealousy has no place here, not with them, he looks more amused than anything else. ]
You kept me waiting, though I see you were busy. As usual. It’s all here, I counted it twice. They were appreciative and hope to continue doing business with you in the future.
[Names. They have a meaning, don't they? A means of ownership, of individuality, of identity. He's had plenty in his time, none of which are his real one. No, that was wiped away years ago. And where there's a mystery, there will always be rumors: something about a ship sinking off the coast decades prior, a story of a warehouse conveniently burning down under more questionable circumstances. None of them are right, of course. But that's the thing - people will always fill in their questions with answers of their own. And his?]
[Ah well, have they always counted on it.]
[If he were a different man, he might have thanked them. But he isn't, and he never will be. He left them for a reason, after all. Maybe that's why he chose this spot in the first place. What had once been a thriving industrial district, the city's Southside has now become a cesspool of sorts. Boarded-up buildings stand empty on the street and the few businesses that have stuck around have either closed down for the night or are just starting to open up again; their rolled-tin shutters, whining and skipping to the tune of thick, rust-caked chains.]
[No one goes to the Southside unless they have a reason to go to the Southside. And usually? It's a single destination they have in mind.]
[A sliver of light cuts across the bar, and Greed slowly lifts his head. Two women flank either side of him. They tangle themselves over his shoulders and torso, loose and unbothered; their wandering hands only pausing once they realize just who has come walking through the doors. Michael may not be a regular, but he has a reputation. And considering what he's brought with him? It wouldn't take too much stretching of the imagination to guess why he's here.]
[Greed slides a wedge of lime across the lip of a drink before anchoring it on the edge of the glass. No, they all know exactly where Michael is going and as he disappears into the back room, the man named Sin mouths something against the jaw of the woman to his right; his smile, teased in threads of smoke.]
[By the time he makes his way out back, what's left of his previous company are trinkets. A thin touch of lipstick stains the side of his neck peeking from the fur collar of his jacket, and a hint of perfume halos all around him. The smell, a mix of him, them, and the constant, heavy afterburn of cheap tobacco. Greed nudges the door closed with the back of his heel, letting it shut silently behind him. This deep inside, the noise from the bar is muddled at best. A few conversations blur behind the walls and as a roar of laughter rattles out front, he casually slips away from the door - his pace, unhurried and lax.]
Oh? Did I now? Suppose I owe you for the trouble then, don't I. [Greed's eyes chase away from the case to slide up Michael's arm. He follows each and every part of him: the way his suit unassumingly snugs his shoulders, how his vest cuts into him, shaping out the raw muscle underneath. It'd be easy for someone to take the man for a simple target. But that would be a mistake. A deadly, costly mistake, and one that he knows all too well.]
[Nothing, no nothing, is ever what it seems.]
[Greed leans forward to thumb a stack of cash. He lets the bills fan over his nail - their peel more similar to a deck of shuffled-slow cards. He clicks his tongue behind the backs of his teeth with an appreciative snap.] Always have to make sure everything's in order. Ha - ! I'm not surprised. You never could leave anything to chance, even if there's no point.
As for our friends - [He drops the stack back onto the pile.] - you can let them know that our deal still stands. Long as they keep holding up their end of the bargain.
[He turns, then; the money all but forgotten. In the end, it's simply another payment. Another transaction, another equivalent exchange. No, what he has his sights set on is worth so much more. And as he settles one of his heels next to Michael's, Greed leans forward. He eats up the space between them with nothing more than a smile; the points of his teeth, daggered and slick. He hovers one of his fingers close to Michael's tie and his eyes drop to his throat.]
[He pulls away at the last second, letting the point of his knuckle smooth down the soft, silky fabric.] Now, since I kept you waiting and all, think it's only right I make it up to you. [Greed's eyes tick upward, meeting his reflection in the other man's shades.] So, what do you have in mind, Blues?
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➥ AU | The Sins Come to Party | IF THIS DOESN'T WORK NO WORRIES
[♬ - Fia by Corpo Mente]
Nothing quite sells power like a ball and no one does it quite like the Empire, especially when the occasion's all about catering to the most esteemed and noble of them all. No expense has been spared; no corner untouched. Fountains run crystal-clear water under lights of gold and towers of marble so high, the display itself seems both a challenge to creation and a dare for anyone, any thing, to test their might.
No one could deny the statement.
A pyramid of fine glass sermons at the center room surrounded by bottles in an ever-winding circle of tastes: rosé, champaign, chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, pinot noir. No, nothing has been spared and why not? Even the stage is decorated, the red-wine silks hanging about it like the flow of a thousand, waiting dresses.
It is a proclamation. A production. A show.
Escaping the Empire is a futile effort.
But them, oh them. They weren't from here, nor did they follow mortal rules. By all accounts, they were the other. Something wicked and cruel born from the absence of everything and left only to want more. And now that they're here?
All there is to do is take. At least, somewhat.
Greed watches Lust out of the corner of his eye, the deep panes of his sunglasses reflecting the wealth about him in all its splendor. An hour or so before, they had just finished a dance routine that would have made even the most devote blush. Reconnaissance may be the name of the game tonight (among other things), but having a little bit of fun on the side wasn't against the rules. The unintended effect just added a bit of a bonus.
And while Lust, or as she is currently known as, Lady Dominique Razzka of the esteemed Razzka Family made political talks and arms deals with men who craved conquest, Greed took to more feminine company. Empire women, especially military wives, were a good source of information. Rumors, tactics, battle arrangements - women really held them all and more. The true generals with painted smiles and cat-groomed claws.
"She's beautiful, your wife," a woman at the corner of his ear purrs, breaking the silence. "Though, she's just as lucky to have a man like you." The lady's ruby-red nails bite into the leather of his long, fur-collared coat, making it groan.
Greed's lip crests upwards. "I guess you could say that. Though, it's more of a family arrangement." Which isn't a lie, per say. More of a twist on words. The Sin tilts his neck, letting one of his longer earrings graze the woman's skin with a purposeful tease. "Enough about us though, lovely. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" The hand on his coat trembles while he whispers sweet viciousness into the crook of her neck. If nothing else, he was made for this; to mingle among mortals, to pull their deepest desires out and play them string for string like a fiddle. It was almost too easy. Little did they know what actually lurked behind, lurked deep, in his all-too-sure smile.
He, she, all of them: they were monsters. Demons. Hell-spawn sent only to destroy and swindle whatever they could.
"Me, sir? Oh, I am but a housewife. The commander over there is my husband." She lowers her voice, reaching up underneath his coat to touch his chest while the room's preoccupied. "He's a terrible brute. Not one for romance at all. Makes a woman desperate." The scritch of her sharp fingers force the fabric of his layered suit to a skip.
"Does it now." Greed's smile is daggers and heathenism. "That's a shame, love. Maybe there's something I can do."
A change in music alerts them both and the woman quickly pulls away to compose herself. The tune in question calls for a slow waltz; a melody for two.
"The brute calls for me, Lord Razzka. Can I - ?"
Greed's eyebrows knot together, his teeth disappearing in single, sly line. "Of course. Can't keep the lug waiting, can you?" He tosses his fingers to wave her off. "After."
The woman curtsies and as she leaves, the Sin turns his attention back to his partner in crime. Lust has a man snagged in her clutches for the next dance; a bureaucratic hierarchy type from the looks of him.
Greed almost feels sorry for the poor bastard. But so be it. He has his own pleasure to deal with and when a server comes around, he beckons the man over with a curl of two fingers.
"Ah, Lord. No encore performance?"
"No, not yet. Maybe if I find the right partner." He sizes up the server, legs spread and arms wide like a shark on land looking for a snack. The man's face wrinkles and his spine goes suddenly sharp, as if something foul's washed over him. "I - uh. Right. Can I get you - ?"
"The forty age on the rocks. Make sure it's poured high, will you?" Greed hums. "Thanks."
The server doesn't even bother sticking around. He makes a beeline to the back. Greed follows him on his exit, all the while scanning for the next opportunity.
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Solus zos Galvus.
The man himself pauses on the threshold, surveying the room as an eagle might survey its domain: with a cold eye and tilted chin. Though his stature is slightly less than those gathered, no-one with any respect for their own life would dare point it out - for this is the man responsible for the Empire's success. Its influence. Its might. At a mere thirty-five years of age, Solus zos Galvus has not only cemented and consolidated the Empire's rule but also installed himself as its first ever emperor.
The imperial regalia he wears clinks quietly as he strides down the centre of the room. The crowd parts to murmurs of 'Your Radiance', salutes, and curtsies. As zos Galvus passes Greed and his kin, his gaze shifts briefly towards them and he holds their gaze for the briefest of moments. Something in that instant seems to pass between them. Some manner of recognition of other.
--But it's gone in the next second as he strides past and ascends to a balcony with an unrestricted view of the stage. Once he is seated, he waves a hand.
Let the revelry continue.
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A shrewd smile passes over his lips, faint and sharp.
The guest of the fucking hour had finally arrived.
Greed shrugs to himself and as he presses the flats of his hands across the front of his suit, he gingerly rises out of his seat. The recognition doesn't surprise him much. They're all out of this picture in some way or another, aren't they? Above it all, watching time and its patrons scurry to the next oblivion. It's always the same, even if the backdrop switches out every now and again. There's always a crowd, always a civilization, always men and women clambering to impress the top.
The Sin weaves through the crowd with a sense of purpose. He spins on his heel one way, tips the other, and while his movements remain fluid, his fingers keep busy. They snag small trinkets: a couple of coins to line his pockets and a note or two of personal scandal. No doubt nothing that would even mildly intrigue his intended guest, but things he would appreciate later.
It's only when a guard gets in his way, does the procession top.
"Sir, you aren't allowed here."
"No?" Greed hums. "Ah, I must have been mistaken, then. This isn't the way to the courtyard?"
"No, it isn't. I'm going to have to ask you to step aside, sir." The guard's hand shoots up; a clear signal that any step further will have drastic consequences.
The Sin's mouth cracks. A moon's crescent sliver in the shape of harmful daggers. "You'll have to excuse me then, friend. Meant no harm." He puts a slur to his words. Not entirely a lie, but not entirely a truth either. He had been drinking; it would be all too easy to assume he was just another overindulgent guess. And that? Well, there was some truth to that, wasn't there?
The guard's audible sigh says he's right on the money. "Sir, you've had a lot to drink tonight. Please, return to your seat."
"Of course," Greed leers forward and his knuckles spread out across the center of his chest. A mocking imitation of cordialness. "But before I do, could you do me one favor?" He comes in close, too near that some might take it for affection. And maybe, the guard does. After all, what sort of party doesn't come with a few who've had a bit too many? It's par for the course. Expected.
The Sin wraps his hand around the back of the guard's neck, coy and delicate. And as his index raises between the point of the man's bones, he cranes his head, allowing his nose to almost touch the other's in a single moment of intimacy.
"What is it you really want?"
"What - ?"
Greed's lips shrink, puckering, and his shades slowly slide down. "I asked you - " The color of his eyes shift, like the tail of a red fish fleeing to the deep. "-what do you really want?" The Sin's nail trembles to a point and pricks into the man's skin. A needle, unknowing and faint.
"What I ..." The guard's words drop off. "-I want to go home. I hate this job. I just want to the tavern and spend the night with Veronica."
"Then why don't you? Don't worry, it'll be our secret, hmn? I'll make sure you don't get into too much trouble. Besides, you only have this one life, don't you? Why not have it all." Greed lifts his hand away and the point of his nail trembles to nothing, leaving behind normal flesh and blood. "Go ahead and take it. I've got things from here." Like a snake releasing a dearly departed meal, the Sin unravels and the guard stumbles away. His motion, his whole self, as dazed as a man wandering through a dream.
A tug as his jacket and the Sin straightens himself. He takes the stairs deliberately. Counting each step, feeling the press of wood against his heels as they click and clap his ascension. It's almost too easy. Too simple.
And by his sheer expression, he absolutely cannot wait to see what the rest of the night will bring.
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crawls back here after a million years
text / i feel like being stupid and you have to deal with it
found this
thing
can we keep it
( and what did he find, pray tell?
just this harmless-looking thing right here! )
➥ text | 1/2 oh fuck yeah
????
did u even have to ask ? whodo u think ur talkin to?
bring g it over
➥ text | 2/2
doors unlocked
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT NOT MIND 1 / idfk
i was trying that thing called respect
wont do that shit again
2 / WE JUST DON'T KNOW
it either likes dark places or has good taste cuz its not movin around too much
3 / 4
its tryin to crawl up my back
jesus fuck THE FUCKIN CLAWS ON THIS THING
4 / 4 done i swear
1 / ???
2 / 4
not v good at keeping still
3 / 4
4 / 4
1 / ??? HERE WE GO AGAIN
2 / ??
3 / 4
4 / 4
1 / 3
2 / 3
3 / 3
1 / maybe 3
2 / 3
3 / 3
1 / ???
2 / 4
3 / 4
4 / 4
1 / fuck me i guess
2 / ??
3 / 4
4 / 4
1 / 3
2 / 3
3 / 3
➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | devil trap remix
"Laid low, evading capture. A lifetime on the run.
Don't know the day when I last saw the sun."
The change of the next millennium had brought with it a renaissance of sorts; where technology reigned supreme and superstition had turned the corner towards more mainstream entertainment. No longer did the masses fear what lurked behind every corner. Science had given them the answers to their questions and explanations for whatever went bump in the night. It was an admirable and impressive half truth. A way to calm the herd and keep progress on the ever-chugging train track towards advanced civilization.
But not everyone was on board. And those that still held on, those that still knew, still believed, were the very reason he'd ended up here in the first place.
Greed watches one of the copper pipes hanging above him. He'd noticed the slight crack in it months before. How it rattled whenever the sink a few floors up switched from cold to hot; the way it groaned and whined whenever the weather took a turn for the worse. Today, it's a few healthy inches of rain giving it trouble and as the sliver of a window in the basement's upper corner films up, he catches the small crack bleeding out again. The steady trickle of water, a thunderclap in all his silence.
A tired smile teases on his face. He should have known better, really. Avarice - for him, it meant honesty. Everything he was, everything he is: it's clearly defined. What he wanted and craved, forever worn on his sleeve. Mortals, however, came with the complexities of their small moments on earth. And when one is faced with the idea of being lost for eternity? He can't blame them for being desperate. For deciding to fight, claw, beat, and escape from a cage of their own making, no matter what could be the cost.
The deal had turned a corner as soon as he was summoned. Usually, he knew when someone was going to give him a call. There'd be a hint, a visit, anything. This, however, came with more than a touch of desperation. The man had been frantic when he first arrived: sweaty skin, ringing hands, eyes bulged out like saucer plates on the bad end of a cocaine line. It was if, finally, he knew his end was coming and it was time to clean the ledger and get all that red, Lord all that red, out, out, out.
When the priest showed up, Greed had laughed. Really laughed. After all, what could an average holy man really do?
He hadn't anticipated the angel masquerading as a demon hunter and that.
Well -
Greed lifts his hand, bringing with it a thick chunk of industrial-grade chain. With a snap of his fingers, he calls what he can from the world. A single cigarette crackles between his knuckles - its tip smoldering and smoking from whence it came. He brings it to his mouth. What little he can savor, he does, and while a familiar sensation burns at the back of his throat, his eyes retrace the long pipe again. No, he hadn't been prepared for that little surprise. It wasn't one of the ones he knew, far from it. A new white-collar hot shot looking to climb the ranks. But he, she, they had everything they needed to get the job done. And in the end, he was bound, chained, and dragged down into the bowels of some God (the irony) forsaken basement of a church miles away from his previous destination.
That was in what humans called July; when the humidity really set in and the roaches of the world multiplied in the hot, persistent damp.
Greed winces as his wrist turns just enough to let him exhale through his teeth. The shackles against his skin have been treated to an almost militant schedule. Fresh holy water first, blessed wine second, and a touch of real divinity to seal the deal. Honestly, under any other circumstance, he would be impressed by the whole thing. Each detail of his imprisonment is perfect; the execution of it, air tight. And isn't there a story the mortals used to tell once upon a time? The man of Greece who once tricked death -
His teeth bite into the filter of his smoke, squishing the padding and warping it into a tangled, lumpy mess.
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And for their nature, the most necessary.
Capturing the very essence of the Sin himself, in the flesh and whole on the mortal plane was absolutely a victory worthy of the highest accolades. One should be proud to have trapped him so thoroughly and it was only appropriate that he be exalted above his given status, that ladder free to climb for one so ambitious. And foolish. Of course, the angel in question had been careful. The prison as it was had been hidden in plain sight, making finding it the proverbial needle in a haystack. Or hay in a haystack, as it were. The city was rife with leaking run down basements, old abandoned tunnels, and all manner of other secret places within which one little demon might be spirited away. With the proper wards put in place it would be all but impossible to find.
But Murmur was never one to give up, no matter how daunting a task. He had a familiarity with the shifting underbelly of dark and twisted places that most of his brethren would balk at in horror. His status, order of Angels and order of Thrones equally allowed him to slip largely unnoticed. Angels of the lowest rank and lowest sphere, nothing to be concerned about, and Thrones of the highest and most alien order and yet believed mindless machines, their inner workings no more complex than that of gears. If there was one truth about his duplicitous brethren it was this: to exist only within the light was to render oneself blind.
Almost as soon as he'd heard the news Murmur had gone to work trying to locate the captured Sin, but the other angel had been unusually thorough. With wards and bindings galore they had ensured that for as tiny and uninspired as Greed's cell was, it was hidden even from the piercing eyes of the Angel of Sight. However, he hadn't gotten as far as he had relying on singular methods alone. Eventually the angel slipped, just enough, and Murmur found his way.
The irony of utilizing an old church basement hadn't been lost on him, but Murmur couldn't risk going through the front door, no, not for this escapade. It was one of those basements with a narrow window just above the ground, against which mud and water pooled in the torrential rain. Hardly the most dignified approach, but one subtle enough all the same. As quiet as he could manage, though the old hinges creaked and screamed their protest that was fortunately drowned out by the thunder and rain, Murmur managed to pry the window open enough to poke his head in.
"You've got yourself in something of a predicament, I see."
It was impossible to tell if the waft of cold was from him, or just from the air outside given the ferocity of the storm.
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A flare of orange ignites as he takes another drag off his cigarette. "You could say that," he hums behind the soft part of his hand. Thin wisps of smoke peel between the cracks of his fingers only to die on his skin and morph into heavy, numbing clouds. They have no where to go and just like him, the smoke wanders aimlessly for an exit; their metaphor not lost on him in the slightest.
Scabby blood splinters on his forehead as he arches his eyebrow. Greed lowers his hand from his face and his wrist cracks the side of the metal slab he's been chained to with a ghostly rattle. "You sound like shit yourself." The Sin's lips quirk to reveal his unnaturally sharp teeth. By the looks of it, he's been down here a while. The small splits in his lip are dry despite the basement's dank disposition, his skin's pale, and the chains biting into his flesh have left their tell-tale marks. Around his throat, a reddish-purple bruise angrily festers. Of course, it won't last - they never do. But with a thorough binding, even devils have their limits.
For the time being, he's at their mercy.
Greed flicks his fingers to send a wad of ash wafting to the floor below. "Had a little run in with one of yours," his voice hisses through his teeth and another rush of smoke drives itself out of his nose. It cruises across his chest; the look of it like a dead-man's army rushing to the battlefield. "-they interrupted one of my deals. Kind of rude, if you ask me." A touch of humor plays in his tone and on his face. Just because he's pinned like some sort of museum prize, that doesn't mean he's defeated. Far from it. After all, what is it they say?
Idle hands and the devil?
One of his ankles fidgets and the chord of heavy metal laced underneath the table strangles to a tight, hard line. "Don't suppose I can still count on you to be a little more reasonable, can I?" Greed tries to turn his neck to peer at the window, but his prison quickly puts an end to that. A few links of chain grip deep into his throat. They reopen a couple of the half-crusted wounds, making them crack, bleed, and split into fresh reminders. "Shame, I don't even get to have a good look at you. What a pain in the ass."
Again, he tries and again, he fails; the sudden, choking grunt in his throat a clear indication.
The Sin lets his head fall back with a solid thd against the table, and he lets out a short laugh. "You haven't changed at all. Not that I expected to you, but - " His tongue touches his lip and drags it back into his mouth. He can taste his blood again: how foreign it almost feels and how familiar it is now. Greed's finger traces out what's left of his cigarette. No, nothing does change. Angels don't change, they're bound by their decrees. Devils don't change, they're pulled by their nature. And mortals, ah mortals. They aren't even close to an exception. Even as the world turned towards something different, those inclinations, those wants, those needs, those fears - they would still be there, wouldn't they?
Yet maybe, just maybe -
Another pillow of ash falls from his smoke, forgotten and lost to the unforgiving concrete. Greed edges his eyes open. "I wasn't going to kill him, y'know. His life had already done that for me. I never actually kill the ones who take my deal. That's their choice." He swallows and the collar clamped to his neck shifts ever so slightly. "You'd think they would know that by now, but it always comes down to this. They beg for their life back, but I never even took it in the first place. Ha - !" The Sin barks, coughs, then quickly returns the cigarette back to his mouth.
"I give them every opportunity. And don't get me wrong, some do. They turn their lives around, take what I've given them, and go out for more. Hope," slurred are his words; his voice merely strings and whispers of smoke. "-there's nothing wrong with having too much hope. Yet, yours would say that's somehow a bad thing and that they deserve whatever's coming for them."
The cigarette shrinks under that need of his and its orange glow dampens. "Kind of a rotten deal, don't you think?"
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SORRY FOR THE DELAY bkgbsj
No worries!
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sdgkjbs SORRY FOR THE DELAY MAN ...
It's all good!
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➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | here's your fucking money
By the time night rolls around, most of the patrons have either shuffled away on their own or have been coerced into doing so (namely through Roa's heavy hand), leaving the establishment quiet into the lull of the morning. Shrunk candles and lazy smoke sag sleepily in the dim; their wind down, a perfect match for the welcome silence. Yet, isn't it true?
There's always a calm before the storm.
Despite all of their attempts, it was only a matter of time before someone (or something) came knocking. It starts with a simple hush: the candles go out with a sudden breeze, the electricity hums and vibrates.
And that is when everything goes south, south, south.
The door to the front blows wide, sending bottles and glasses alike smearing like wet paint across a wall. Because what's on the other side aren't their usual guests, oh no. There's a group of them. A group of them with scowling looks and enough distaste and disregard that it's all too obvious that they aren't here for anything good. While most of the group appears to be in somewhat of an order (the way they similarly scan the building with a cool sense of superiority), the smallest stands out like a sore thumb. They're slim, slimy; a tiny thing with long, spiked-black hair and a ghastly expression that's sourly bitter.
Because out of all the Sins, isn't it just Envy to be so, so rotten.
When the fight breaks out, it's messy. Feathers and tar, fire and smoke: they fill up the space in a blackening cloud, swallowing up everything and smudging the insides as angels and devils alike claw in a clash. Some people try to make an escape when one of the angels cuts them off with a gouging slice, leaving the head of the party split from the stomach upward. Bido (who had been near the front) starts to scramble away. Butt first and terror in his eyes, he shuffles blindly through the blood and gore. Bits of what had been a person stain his hands, and as the angel makes for him, the small creature swallows deafly at his own, coming demise.
He doesn't expect it when the angel falls face first onto the floor.
"Just who the fuck do you think you're messing with?"
Greed's voice rolls out, ushering in a thick tornado of soot. With one foot on the angel's back, his body leers out of the dark. Giant horns peel from his skull to grind at the hallway entrance, causing the wood to splinter like bite marks. The angel makes a noise into the floor, but as they try to stand, the Sin presses harder into its back; his raptor(ed) toes digging, just digging, to find a bit of flesh.
"Sorry, I don't think I caught that - " Greed's mouth hardly opens when he talks. Instead, his teeth grind together, causing wafts of ash to foam over his gums. "What, did you think I wouldn't notice? You do know who I am, right?" Mountains of gold pillow under his foot only to grow, wither, and melt like flowers in a sped-up drought. They meet the constant stream of spit running from his mouth and forehead in a flurry of pops and hisses. For that crown of his is a molten one. A thing of desire spiling out, stretching further, to burn everything it touches.
Avarice is all consuming, hungry, and corrosive. It shouldn't be surprising that it's true namesake is the same.
Another pile of coins erupts on the angel's back, withers, and seers into its flesh. Greed leans in closer.
"Where's Envy?"
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Tonight, however, something had kept him away when the fight first broke out.
Bar fights weren't uncommon, so much so that by now the angel had grown accustomed to ignoring the cacophony whenever it sprung up. The demons would deal with it handily and things would go back to their usual murmur of noise. At first he'd thought it was just that, right up until the scent of brimstone and charred feathers caught his nostrils.
A blast of frigid air cutting through the heady gloom announced his presence before he appeared, eyes black as they took in the carnage. He moved too calmly, too certain through the chaos to be picked out easily until it was too late for one of the attacking angels who only had enough time to let out a gutteral scream before hitting the floor sans heart. Another, responding to his brother's call found himself slammed across the room first by a massive wing used in lieu of a fist, then pinned under an unforgiving spike of ice. Murmur would always argue he was no warrior, and yet in a moment like this he was as cold and certain as an executioner's axe.
"What is the meaning of this?" He boomed, a voice resonant like thunder, that shook the very foundations of the building. If nothing else he hoped to spook the others away from their onslaught. Make it easier to chase down the responsible party.
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Still, Greed's eyes don't leave the angel he has pinned beneath his claws despite the storm calling him back. No, instead his smile stretches itself fast over his face, yanking what little give he has left. "Looks like my little shit heel of a sibling decided rubbing elbows with some of yours was worth the trouble," he hisses and a wad of spit bubbles from his gums. It squeezes through his teeth, low and slow; the look of it similar to a volcano drooling its lead. When the head of it finally finds the angel's back, it instantly causes the flesh to angrily blister. Red boils, white scorches, and the skin rises in milky, filmy pustules only to inflate, strain, and burst with all their weight in gold.
And oh, how ugly Sin could be when scored.
Greed breathes and a funnel of ash shoos from his throat. "Ha - ! Guess we can be friends after all, handsome. If your lot is willing to fuck around with mine just to get me." His claws sink in deeper to find what he's been desperately searching for. "Hold that thought."
He's not going to ask for permission this time; his core won't let him. Not when he has so much to pay back, not when the angel below him (bleeding, silent, yet still too egotistical to let it show) is just where he wants him. Greed's toes flex and as the bones in his talons wriggle and bury themselves into muscle, a realization sparks in his prisoner's face.
Clipped birds don't sing. And angels? Ah, well -
"Wait - ! Wait - !"
The Sin's eyes twitch, something internally crunches. And when the ash clears, the angel is no more. Greed slides his toes out from a whimpering husk - his feet, his ankles, all but baptized in his cruel foot bath. He smears the floorboards with the leftovers. "Mine, Mur - get them out of here. If you can do that, I'll let you decide what happens to the rest."
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PHEW SORRY FOR THE DELAY ..
<3
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SORRY FOR THE DELAY
No worries! Likewise tbh I'm in crochet hell
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➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | the devils, they do the despicable
On the outside, the building's in a sad state of dilapidation. The heat's cooked the old brick to a chalky kind of white. Like the bones of a beast long-since dead, they loom baked and forgotten; the stamp of a former business, a faded memory. Even the windows don't give much away. Nailed-in boards cover what had probably once been full panes of glass back in its prime and the shutter-door tin around front's pocketed in rust holes that gap and gasp as if trying desperately, so desperately, to take a breath. The town's a ghost. A tomb. One empty, quiet, and made of dust.
It goes against everything he is, being back here. The garage had once been his haunting ground; a place he lurked, did business, and turned a would-be profit. Those times had been different. He still had a mild connection with them back then. Not friendly, not in line, no, but a cordial kind of relationship where one of them could drop something in his lap and instead of trying to kill him, all they asked was, "How much?"
Funny, how life comes full circle.
Greed pushes a chair back, making it tilt unevenly on its legs. The man he has strapped to it looks like he's seen better days. His skin is sickly and blue; the sweat sticking to him is filmy like soap scum. His eyes, though: those are the most telling. Even under the cop-bright swing lamp, they glow a smokey kind of green. A neon toxic, poisoning with otherworldly radiation.
The Sin leers forward and as his claws grip and hold the edge of the lamp, his jaws curl upwards. The cigarette in his mouth all but illuminates his smile in a fluorescent, wet-slick sneer. "Hey, hey," he snap his fingers in front of the man's face. "No, you don't get to quit on me just yet, friend. We've still got some things to talk about."
In response, the man spits a glowing wad of wet onto the floor, painting the concrete in a blacklight smear. Greed merely looks at it, and with a petulant look and an exasperated grunt, he swipes the tip of his boot over the spittle. "Ehh - see, that wasn't very nice," he slurs his words through curtains of smoke. They part over his face as soft as a graying blush, kissing and dusting his expression.
The devil sighs, removing his cigarette. "I get it. I really do. But that sibling of mine did something pretty stupid, even for them. And because they couldn't help themselves, and because you don't seem too different, we've now found ourselves here." He inhales sharply, causing a flutter of leftover smoke to wind on the corner of his mouth. "So, I'll ask you again. Where is Envy now?"
"I told you to fuck off - " The man hisses. Where his voice should be hoarse and dry, the tone of it is thick. Gurgled. It splits in two in his throat: one, that sickness. The other, a desperate, raspy sound like a drafty window or a gas leak. The man is sick, and not in the normal way humans get. That bright, throbbing green in his spit, the way his veins squirm like worms, the corpse(y) shade of his skin. It's a cancer. An envious leech, consuming everything he is, everything he was, until there's nothing left. The deep bruises under his eyes sink into his sockets and a foam slowly froths and shrinks on his lips, slicking the cracks to a gross, Vaseline sheen.
Greed's frown dips. He shakes his head and ashes his cigarette on the man's thigh. "Yeah, already too gone, aren't you? That's a shame - " With a vacant look, the Sin leisurely begins to crush his cigarette into the other's forehead. Twist by twist, grind for grind, he drills the ember into the man's skin; the hiss of flesh and burnt hair crawling in whiffs of green disease.
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The familiar voice came from above, emotionless as ever. Little more than a dark silhouette punctuated with two copper-sulfate fire eyes perched on a beam as comfortable as though he'd been there the whole time. Perhaps he had been, Murmur did have a terrible habit of being where he wasn't wanted for far longer than anyone might desire. Even Greed.
He didn't budge from that perch, merely watched Greed with that peculiar intensity of his. Just what, exactly, was he offering here?
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Greed pulls his hand away, shaking the cigarette out before tossing it to the concrete. "Y'know, it would be a lot easier if you just cut to the chase, Feathers," he starts in through a cracking smile. Because he couldn't stay mad at Murmur, no. Not after all he's done, not after everything they've been through. Truly, he should be used to it by now. Where devils are clear cut with their intentions, angels? They're vague, abstract creatures with tongues laced in enough convoluted and ambiguous directions that'd it be easy, all too easy, to get lost in a simple conversation.
So instead of guessing, the devil merely throws his hands over his head in slack surrender. "If you've got a better way, I'm all ears," he hums and turns his wrists, exposing his palms to the ceiling. "Otherwise, I'm gunna do him the favor." Greed grips his hip on one side and uses his other hand to lift the man's head back, showing the knotted veins writhing in his throat.
"Envy's been using this one for a while, so either way, he isn't coming back from it once we're done."
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➥ Mafia AU | The World Is Your Damn Oyster (CW: Blood, Gore, 18+, There's Probably More Here)
Mob well, my friends. 🥂
what i had it partially written already
Which is why, complete with the threads to make him look the part, he saunters through the crowd with a briefcase in tow. Unlike what one might see in a movie there are no supersized bodyguards flanking him or an ornate golden chain connecting the case to his wrist. Why? Because they know better than to test him.
The last time someone got Greedy he broke their hand, apologized, and even had the wherewithal to take them to get their hand treated after. Michael abhors violence, choosing only to use it when absolutely necessary and even then, he tends to take it easy on those weaker than him. Is that an award winning combination for someone affiliated with the mob?
Not unless your nickname happens to be The Angel — not just for his kindness. He can also just as easily send a man to an early grave if they choose not to relent when he gives them a choice. A few take his grace and even thank him for it but there have been several who chose to fight. Whether they still roam these streets or not, he really wouldn’t know.
Eventually, amidst getting lost in his thoughts, he finds himself at his destination: The Devil’s Nest. He can smell it before he even sets foot inside, the remnants of tobacco, alcohol and the familiar scent of bodies likely tangled in intimate embraces. But he isn’t here to watch the show, he is here to deliver the case to the owner of this decadent little house of sin — a tithe, from the smaller fish that share the pond.
And he spots him, it would be difficult not to. The timber of his voice, the way everyone seems to gravitate to him by the bar as if waiting for the show to begin. In this world, information is key and no one has more of it than Greed. Michael doesn’t have to call him, he simply waits for the man to feel his eyes on him and turns to walk into the back room with the case in tow.
This may be Greed’s place but he isn’t about to trust a roomful of strangers to abide by the rules of the house. Once there, he sets the briefcase on the table, opens it, and leans back against the table to peer through his sunglasses at the door, waiting.
Truthfully, the case isn’t the only reason he is here. When he hears footsteps, he murmurs the next words out. Jealousy has no place here, not with them, he looks more amused than anything else. ]
You kept me waiting, though I see you were busy. As usual. It’s all here, I counted it twice. They were appreciative and hope to continue doing business with you in the future.
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[Ah well, have they always counted on it.]
[If he were a different man, he might have thanked them. But he isn't, and he never will be. He left them for a reason, after all. Maybe that's why he chose this spot in the first place. What had once been a thriving industrial district, the city's Southside has now become a cesspool of sorts. Boarded-up buildings stand empty on the street and the few businesses that have stuck around have either closed down for the night or are just starting to open up again; their rolled-tin shutters, whining and skipping to the tune of thick, rust-caked chains.]
[No one goes to the Southside unless they have a reason to go to the Southside. And usually? It's a single destination they have in mind.]
[A sliver of light cuts across the bar, and Greed slowly lifts his head. Two women flank either side of him. They tangle themselves over his shoulders and torso, loose and unbothered; their wandering hands only pausing once they realize just who has come walking through the doors. Michael may not be a regular, but he has a reputation. And considering what he's brought with him? It wouldn't take too much stretching of the imagination to guess why he's here.]
[Greed slides a wedge of lime across the lip of a drink before anchoring it on the edge of the glass. No, they all know exactly where Michael is going and as he disappears into the back room, the man named Sin mouths something against the jaw of the woman to his right; his smile, teased in threads of smoke.]
[By the time he makes his way out back, what's left of his previous company are trinkets. A thin touch of lipstick stains the side of his neck peeking from the fur collar of his jacket, and a hint of perfume halos all around him. The smell, a mix of him, them, and the constant, heavy afterburn of cheap tobacco. Greed nudges the door closed with the back of his heel, letting it shut silently behind him. This deep inside, the noise from the bar is muddled at best. A few conversations blur behind the walls and as a roar of laughter rattles out front, he casually slips away from the door - his pace, unhurried and lax.]
Oh? Did I now? Suppose I owe you for the trouble then, don't I. [Greed's eyes chase away from the case to slide up Michael's arm. He follows each and every part of him: the way his suit unassumingly snugs his shoulders, how his vest cuts into him, shaping out the raw muscle underneath. It'd be easy for someone to take the man for a simple target. But that would be a mistake. A deadly, costly mistake, and one that he knows all too well.]
[Nothing, no nothing, is ever what it seems.]
[Greed leans forward to thumb a stack of cash. He lets the bills fan over his nail - their peel more similar to a deck of shuffled-slow cards. He clicks his tongue behind the backs of his teeth with an appreciative snap.] Always have to make sure everything's in order. Ha - ! I'm not surprised. You never could leave anything to chance, even if there's no point.
As for our friends - [He drops the stack back onto the pile.] - you can let them know that our deal still stands. Long as they keep holding up their end of the bargain.
[He turns, then; the money all but forgotten. In the end, it's simply another payment. Another transaction, another equivalent exchange. No, what he has his sights set on is worth so much more. And as he settles one of his heels next to Michael's, Greed leans forward. He eats up the space between them with nothing more than a smile; the points of his teeth, daggered and slick. He hovers one of his fingers close to Michael's tie and his eyes drop to his throat.]
[He pulls away at the last second, letting the point of his knuckle smooth down the soft, silky fabric.] Now, since I kept you waiting and all, think it's only right I make it up to you. [Greed's eyes tick upward, meeting his reflection in the other man's shades.] So, what do you have in mind, Blues?
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