Greed's pupils dilate violently, the heat in them still struggling to simmer to a cool. Murmur's question hits hard. The ones that made it out are a sorry bunch now, spending their time licking their wounds or tending to those who are far more worse for wear. Others, however. The Sin's mouth forms like a flash chill to gold; his frown soft, but firm.
"Don't worry about it," he says, lowly. "For now, need you to take care of yourself, hmn?" Greed tongues the filter of his smoke to drag in a fresh breath of ash. Ash. That's where some of them went. Burned to dust and scattered only to be lost to neither Heaven nor Hell, but to the void in between. A nothing, an emptiness.
The Sin stretches his legs and as the tendons snap and crunch, he casts a look over the pews. Dolcetto and Roa, over at the old-wood confessional, cleaning their cuts and slices with fresh brandy. Martel tending to Bido in the most comforting way she can. Bido and his visible tremors making his hood quiver in the gloom. Greed's jaw sets and threatens the filter of his cigarette, making the paper and tobacco floss brisk between his teeth.
He pops something against the inside of his cheek and a peel of lemon sleepily unfurls around his knuckles; the look of it like a snake, hatching from a shell. "Just in case you need it," he slurs before gingerly pinching the curl at the rim of Murmur's cup.
SORRY FOR THE DELAY
"Don't worry about it," he says, lowly. "For now, need you to take care of yourself, hmn?" Greed tongues the filter of his smoke to drag in a fresh breath of ash. Ash. That's where some of them went. Burned to dust and scattered only to be lost to neither Heaven nor Hell, but to the void in between. A nothing, an emptiness.
The Sin stretches his legs and as the tendons snap and crunch, he casts a look over the pews. Dolcetto and Roa, over at the old-wood confessional, cleaning their cuts and slices with fresh brandy. Martel tending to Bido in the most comforting way she can. Bido and his visible tremors making his hood quiver in the gloom. Greed's jaw sets and threatens the filter of his cigarette, making the paper and tobacco floss brisk between his teeth.
He pops something against the inside of his cheek and a peel of lemon sleepily unfurls around his knuckles; the look of it like a snake, hatching from a shell. "Just in case you need it," he slurs before gingerly pinching the curl at the rim of Murmur's cup.