[His smile is obvious. Not kind, not vicious, but menacing all the same. A tiger showing its teeth while it dared men to try.]
You think so, huh. [Greed wanders, numb, and his claws find the comfort of a shallow glass.] All right, Suits. Call me curious. [The tips of his nails circle, then; their points, running the rim like hooks, dragging loathsome on the floor.] How do you think you can hurt me? Ah, but be careful. You might not like what I have to say, after.
[A warning, though, it's a mild one. He's already claimed the man as one of his. And there still are rules, after all.]
[The former homunculus lifts his drink, taking in the faint smell of smokey scotch. He's pulling from the top shelf today. He deserves it.] Mn. Good thing I don't have much of a gag reflex then, huh. [He lifts the glass to his mouth and as he breathes against it, it's fire. Fire and brimstone, baking into the surface like boiled lead.]
As long as the hag wants, I suppose. Don't exactly have a timer for this sort of thing. [With little ceremony, he throws back the liquor; every lick of it, sucked to the bone. Greed tosses the glass somewhere and as it screams on quickly drying sweat, he tips over his hips; the lean of his body as hovering as a vulture, trying to peck itself in, in, in.]
How long do you intend to ask questions you might not like the answer to?
no subject
You think so, huh. [Greed wanders, numb, and his claws find the comfort of a shallow glass.] All right, Suits. Call me curious. [The tips of his nails circle, then; their points, running the rim like hooks, dragging loathsome on the floor.] How do you think you can hurt me? Ah, but be careful. You might not like what I have to say, after.
[A warning, though, it's a mild one. He's already claimed the man as one of his. And there still are rules, after all.]
[The former homunculus lifts his drink, taking in the faint smell of smokey scotch. He's pulling from the top shelf today. He deserves it.] Mn. Good thing I don't have much of a gag reflex then, huh. [He lifts the glass to his mouth and as he breathes against it, it's fire. Fire and brimstone, baking into the surface like boiled lead.]
As long as the hag wants, I suppose. Don't exactly have a timer for this sort of thing. [With little ceremony, he throws back the liquor; every lick of it, sucked to the bone. Greed tosses the glass somewhere and as it screams on quickly drying sweat, he tips over his hips; the lean of his body as hovering as a vulture, trying to peck itself in, in, in.]
How long do you intend to ask questions you might not like the answer to?