And there it is, his permission. While it's not written in stone or summoned up from the desperation of desire, it is an allowance of sorts. An open dinner bell of a different kind, coughed up and spat at his feet with the same threat and distaste as someone (something) so much higher on the food chain that they couldn't be bothered.
Greed's body flashes once more and his alarming grin burns itself into the limelight; like that of a lightning strike outlining its crash. "You drive a hard bargain, chief. But fine, suit yourself. Hold that thought though -" Much like his voice, his presence drifts. Twirls of ash crawl down the steps with a purpose. They bounce and spiral low to the ground; their edging fingers tiptoeing closer, closer, closer -
The man never sees it coming. His preoccupation with the goings on (the many guests to tend to, his never-ending list of demands, his personal life) make him an easy target. He's halfway to his next destination, unknowing and carefree, when he suddenly stops. From the tips of his toes to the grip of his hand, every part of him appears to seize up. It's almost as if he's hit an invisible wall - one solid, foreboding, and thrown up endlessly to block his path. The server's eyes wander wildly in his sockets and as the drinks on his tray begin to sweat, his chest slowly expands; his breath all but catching in his throat.
"What do you want - ?" The Sin's voice whispers in. Like a squall trapped in a jar, his body thunders in and out of the physical; his existence now a fleeting, flickering thing. Greed guides one of his four arms to gently cup the man's face. "What do you really want - "
The nameless server studders. He doesn't speak (or he simply can't). Nevertheless, he watches what is about to swallow him with both fear and intense precision. Greed lowers his head. "You have to tell me. Whatever you want - " The devil turns his neck and as he puppets the man's skull to lean into his ear, an alarmingly kind smile touches on what's left of his lips. "Hmnn? You're going to have to speak up a little bit there, handsome."
A silent exchange passes between them. Instead of words, their conversation sparks in colors. Purple sizzles and murky blacks write out the silent contract: what is willingly given, what is willingly received. Greed's claws rake down the man's throat and the remnants of his half-smoking forehead press against the man's head. "-see, that wasn't so hard, huh? I just hope you have the stomach for it."
Seconds later, he's gone, and the waiter shakes his head like a man out of a dream. He looks to the left of him, the right, behind him, then begins to head back out to his work. However, his freedom doesn't last. He makes it to the banister of the stairs when the tray in his hand goes topside; its various flutes of rich-gold champaign clattering to the floor. The man eases down to his knees. Whatever grace and poise he may have had quietly goes out the window as his body fights itself. His fingers twitch, the veins in his forehead gorge and bloat beneath his skin. Yet, he makes not a sound. Not a whisper, not a scream, nor a sigh. He just clutches his head and as the bow of his spine contorts under his long-tailed jacket, his nails bitterly claw at his hair, freeing it from a loose tie string.
His fingernails dig, peeling themselves free and cracking. No, the promise, the deal he's been given - it comes with a price, doesn't it? And all debts need to be paid at some point.
The last of his nails rips open and the waiter's head hits the carpet with a dulled thud. When he inhales again, his voice isn't his own anymore. "Ahh -," Greed tongues at his new cheek, feeling it out. "I did ask if you had the stomach for it, kid. Guess not - "
The Sin grips his legs, righting himself to a stand. "You should probably sleep this one off. You'll get yours once I'm done." Similar to an insect in a cocoon, he tests his borrowed body - swaying his skull one way and the next, rolling his shoulders back to click and pop all the bones into place.
Greed brings his hand up to his face and turns to look back up at Solus. "Now, where were we? Oh - " He wiggles his fingers. The stubs of his lost nails are angry, raw, and thin bits of skin stingingly cling to the cuticles. The Sin examines them with a strange sort of fascination before his core kicks in and his red current licks them clean, leaving a fresh, manicured set. "-don't worry about it. I did tell you, didn't I? It takes a little more than that to hurt me. It's the same now for our friend here."
He lazily steps over a broken piece of glass. "I'm not here to get in your way, chief." Crunch goes the handle of a flute. "You've got me all wrong. But then again, I can't really blame you." He takes another step, his hands making quick work to adjust his collar and remove the thin tie at the dip of his throat. "Most do deny me at first, that's true."
He drops the fabric on the banister: another thing of his host, discarded. "See, I look at it this way: want is no different than hope. And you're hoping for something. Something most don't really understand. Did I get that right?" It's a wild guess of course. An idea vaguely spun together. Greed waves his arm and the long jacket whips at his feet. "You could say I want something similar. But nothing's impossible."
He pauses at the top of the stairs and when he opens his eyes, they're no longer a muted green, but a wicked sort of red. A reflection of his parasitic hold pushing outward. Greed slouches his shoulders. "It's stupid to be stubborn. What, do you think all of this is enough to satisfy me? I don't care what you've built, Solus."
The Sin tests his host's teeth. "Ehh, either way, now you know mine. If you want me gone, this one'll be back here tomorrow just the same as always. I've given him that time. But if not - " His arms wander as eccentric as an actor eating up the applause. "-well, I'm sure you can figure out how to find me, can't you?"
Solus watches with thinly veiled disgust. He is, perhaps, the only one who watches. The only one who cares - all the rest have already turned back to their entertainment. Does Greed think he's the only parasite to try burrowing his way into the heart of this empire? Of its emperor? Solus has lived far too long and suffered far too much heartbreak to crack from such crude tactics.
"Pitiful creature. You want what you cannot have, yet even when you have it you will never be satisfied." Solus disregards the fact that he could very well be talking about himself. "It will never be enough. Man is filled with unrelenting want and you - you are the purest form of it. Begone."
That's right, he must turn his eyes away from the temptation. He must stand strong, for the burden of a thousand, thousand people rests upon his shoulders. Like the sole remaining pillar of a ruin crumbling towards the sea.
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Greed's body flashes once more and his alarming grin burns itself into the limelight; like that of a lightning strike outlining its crash. "You drive a hard bargain, chief. But fine, suit yourself. Hold that thought though -" Much like his voice, his presence drifts. Twirls of ash crawl down the steps with a purpose. They bounce and spiral low to the ground; their edging fingers tiptoeing closer, closer, closer -
The man never sees it coming. His preoccupation with the goings on (the many guests to tend to, his never-ending list of demands, his personal life) make him an easy target. He's halfway to his next destination, unknowing and carefree, when he suddenly stops. From the tips of his toes to the grip of his hand, every part of him appears to seize up. It's almost as if he's hit an invisible wall - one solid, foreboding, and thrown up endlessly to block his path. The server's eyes wander wildly in his sockets and as the drinks on his tray begin to sweat, his chest slowly expands; his breath all but catching in his throat.
"What do you want - ?" The Sin's voice whispers in. Like a squall trapped in a jar, his body thunders in and out of the physical; his existence now a fleeting, flickering thing. Greed guides one of his four arms to gently cup the man's face. "What do you really want - "
The nameless server studders. He doesn't speak (or he simply can't). Nevertheless, he watches what is about to swallow him with both fear and intense precision. Greed lowers his head. "You have to tell me. Whatever you want - " The devil turns his neck and as he puppets the man's skull to lean into his ear, an alarmingly kind smile touches on what's left of his lips. "Hmnn? You're going to have to speak up a little bit there, handsome."
A silent exchange passes between them. Instead of words, their conversation sparks in colors. Purple sizzles and murky blacks write out the silent contract: what is willingly given, what is willingly received. Greed's claws rake down the man's throat and the remnants of his half-smoking forehead press against the man's head. "-see, that wasn't so hard, huh? I just hope you have the stomach for it."
Seconds later, he's gone, and the waiter shakes his head like a man out of a dream. He looks to the left of him, the right, behind him, then begins to head back out to his work. However, his freedom doesn't last. He makes it to the banister of the stairs when the tray in his hand goes topside; its various flutes of rich-gold champaign clattering to the floor. The man eases down to his knees. Whatever grace and poise he may have had quietly goes out the window as his body fights itself. His fingers twitch, the veins in his forehead gorge and bloat beneath his skin. Yet, he makes not a sound. Not a whisper, not a scream, nor a sigh. He just clutches his head and as the bow of his spine contorts under his long-tailed jacket, his nails bitterly claw at his hair, freeing it from a loose tie string.
His fingernails dig, peeling themselves free and cracking. No, the promise, the deal he's been given - it comes with a price, doesn't it? And all debts need to be paid at some point.
The last of his nails rips open and the waiter's head hits the carpet with a dulled thud. When he inhales again, his voice isn't his own anymore. "Ahh -," Greed tongues at his new cheek, feeling it out. "I did ask if you had the stomach for it, kid. Guess not - "
The Sin grips his legs, righting himself to a stand. "You should probably sleep this one off. You'll get yours once I'm done." Similar to an insect in a cocoon, he tests his borrowed body - swaying his skull one way and the next, rolling his shoulders back to click and pop all the bones into place.
Greed brings his hand up to his face and turns to look back up at Solus. "Now, where were we? Oh - " He wiggles his fingers. The stubs of his lost nails are angry, raw, and thin bits of skin stingingly cling to the cuticles. The Sin examines them with a strange sort of fascination before his core kicks in and his red current licks them clean, leaving a fresh, manicured set. "-don't worry about it. I did tell you, didn't I? It takes a little more than that to hurt me. It's the same now for our friend here."
He lazily steps over a broken piece of glass. "I'm not here to get in your way, chief." Crunch goes the handle of a flute. "You've got me all wrong. But then again, I can't really blame you." He takes another step, his hands making quick work to adjust his collar and remove the thin tie at the dip of his throat. "Most do deny me at first, that's true."
He drops the fabric on the banister: another thing of his host, discarded. "See, I look at it this way: want is no different than hope. And you're hoping for something. Something most don't really understand. Did I get that right?" It's a wild guess of course. An idea vaguely spun together. Greed waves his arm and the long jacket whips at his feet. "You could say I want something similar. But nothing's impossible."
He pauses at the top of the stairs and when he opens his eyes, they're no longer a muted green, but a wicked sort of red. A reflection of his parasitic hold pushing outward. Greed slouches his shoulders. "It's stupid to be stubborn. What, do you think all of this is enough to satisfy me? I don't care what you've built, Solus."
The Sin tests his host's teeth. "Ehh, either way, now you know mine. If you want me gone, this one'll be back here tomorrow just the same as always. I've given him that time. But if not - " His arms wander as eccentric as an actor eating up the applause. "-well, I'm sure you can figure out how to find me, can't you?"
crawls back here after a million years
"Pitiful creature. You want what you cannot have, yet even when you have it you will never be satisfied." Solus disregards the fact that he could very well be talking about himself. "It will never be enough. Man is filled with unrelenting want and you - you are the purest form of it. Begone."
That's right, he must turn his eyes away from the temptation. He must stand strong, for the burden of a thousand, thousand people rests upon his shoulders. Like the sole remaining pillar of a ruin crumbling towards the sea.
But even stone is worn down by wind and time.