Haz.
Mask? I wear no mask.
Justîse Deshaies| Status: Fatigued |
| Equipment: Surgical Kit, Val's Blood |
| Rituals: Sehen |
| Souls: 0.3 |
| Interacting: Val'sharra Nightshroud ( PixelSymphony ), Reiner Braun ( Centurion_ ) |
On cue, the tocsin sung like a banshee. The chaos bought Val a precious few seconds of leeway, distorted hums sending the zombies into a frenzy, but it wasn't enough. Even if she made a break for it, the dead would be upon her again, ready to flay her bare-teethed, and Val was still no closer to escape than she was to begin with. As it stood, there was nothing she could do, and Justîse was resigned to await the gruesome inevitable. Even with the insight of heartburn, the situation hardly felt unusual - the people they loved came and went fleeting, seldom mercied painless deaths. It wasn't a deep philosophical dilemma as far as they were concerned, just another fact of the world they were born too late to hate.
But sorrowfully acquiescing didn't suit them. After all, leaving others to die, calling it a dog-eat-dog world and moseying along without a care was more Jacob's style. "And here I was hoping I'd get to keep this tie a pretty black," Justîse slipped in low hiss, taking a scalpel in an underhand grip like a dinky karambit, fully prepared to take matters into their own hands. 'Manslaughter' was too un-Hippocratic; they preferred 'gross malpractice'.
Then came a great, metallic crunch, and all that murderous momentum fell to a whimper. Had their contacts gotten smudged? Did someone spike their flask? Or were sporadic hallucinatory fits just an undocumented side-effect of having a soul? How bizarre - their imagination must've been incredibly hyperactive, because for a moment it appeared as though Val had just bitten right into the gate.
But the sight never waned. Not a warp, a flicker or a waver. It was no mirage, not some tasteless trick of the mind. As they watched, Val'sharra's jaws nearly unhinged, bearing teeth as vicious as a beast's, and she plunged her serrated grin into the steel, chewing apart the shutters like cotton beneath her bite.
Of course, they thought, it's always the bloody hot people.
Justîse, half-struck in vivid horror and arousal, took a shanty swig of their flask. With a coquette's hum of "Par la mordieu~", they were too seduced by the sight - and dangerously curious about those guillotine lips - to pay the approaching Reiner a mention. Sixty years belated, they discovered a facet of themselves they never knew existed, and it called for a celebration.
| Equipment: Surgical Kit, Val's Blood |
| Rituals: Sehen |
| Souls: 0.3 |
| Interacting: Val'sharra Nightshroud ( PixelSymphony ), Reiner Braun ( Centurion_ ) |
On cue, the tocsin sung like a banshee. The chaos bought Val a precious few seconds of leeway, distorted hums sending the zombies into a frenzy, but it wasn't enough. Even if she made a break for it, the dead would be upon her again, ready to flay her bare-teethed, and Val was still no closer to escape than she was to begin with. As it stood, there was nothing she could do, and Justîse was resigned to await the gruesome inevitable. Even with the insight of heartburn, the situation hardly felt unusual - the people they loved came and went fleeting, seldom mercied painless deaths. It wasn't a deep philosophical dilemma as far as they were concerned, just another fact of the world they were born too late to hate.
But sorrowfully acquiescing didn't suit them. After all, leaving others to die, calling it a dog-eat-dog world and moseying along without a care was more Jacob's style. "And here I was hoping I'd get to keep this tie a pretty black," Justîse slipped in low hiss, taking a scalpel in an underhand grip like a dinky karambit, fully prepared to take matters into their own hands. 'Manslaughter' was too un-Hippocratic; they preferred 'gross malpractice'.
Then came a great, metallic crunch, and all that murderous momentum fell to a whimper. Had their contacts gotten smudged? Did someone spike their flask? Or were sporadic hallucinatory fits just an undocumented side-effect of having a soul? How bizarre - their imagination must've been incredibly hyperactive, because for a moment it appeared as though Val had just bitten right into the gate.
But the sight never waned. Not a warp, a flicker or a waver. It was no mirage, not some tasteless trick of the mind. As they watched, Val'sharra's jaws nearly unhinged, bearing teeth as vicious as a beast's, and she plunged her serrated grin into the steel, chewing apart the shutters like cotton beneath her bite.
Of course, they thought, it's always the bloody hot people.
Justîse, half-struck in vivid horror and arousal, took a shanty swig of their flask. With a coquette's hum of "Par la mordieu~", they were too seduced by the sight - and dangerously curious about those guillotine lips - to pay the approaching Reiner a mention. Sixty years belated, they discovered a facet of themselves they never knew existed, and it called for a celebration.
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