[ Did he explain what that entailed? No, of course not. Why would he do that? But it doesn’t even seem to be out of his eternal goals of bullying her, but more that he just assumed she’d know what he meant. Somehow.
Regardless, he sighs and shakes his head. Whatever. He’ll just get it done rather than admonish her about it, if only because he’s on a time limit here.
He steps up to his little altar and closes his eyes. There’s plenty that isn’t quite right here, from the location to not having the truly “proper” tools that he’d like, such as cactus spines… But he can make do. Rather, he can force it to be enough, since even reduced as he is, he’s still an immensely powerful god. His power doesn’t present itself through raw, brutal strength like Quetzalcoatl, but through his ability to manipulate the fabric of the world itself.
He grips the knife’s blade without preamble, and blood immediately starts to drip thickly onto the ground surrounding the altar. He starts to speak Nahuatl, which she won’t understand, but it’s poetic and rhythmic in how it sounds. And it doesn’t take long for the space around them to react in response. The streetlamps nearby dim as darkness seems to settle further over the area, and a sharp wind blows through.
And on a metaphysical level, she may not be “looking” as Tezcatlipoca is, but she can likely still feel it. It’s the sensation of magical energy saturating the air, the hair standing up on her skin, and yet, that feels like too little. There are no souls drawn by his ritual, no burst of insight about where they might go, and it seems that he’s getting the same impression from how his serene expression knits together.
At least what follows isn’t gruesome, ironically. From her perspective, it doesn’t seem like anything happens, honestly. His expression just becomes a grimace, though his words continue on just as smoothly… Until very abruptly, he stops. He opens his eyes, which are glowing with an unnatural, vivid blue, but then—
He just drops. He at least stabs the knife into the ground as he goes, but his bloody palm clutches at his side. Presumably, he did give up an organ after all. In terms of the answer he was looking for, she definitely didn’t get an answer as a bystander. But he didn’t exactly get one either. ]
-100 affection speedrun
[ Did he explain what that entailed? No, of course not. Why would he do that? But it doesn’t even seem to be out of his eternal goals of bullying her, but more that he just assumed she’d know what he meant. Somehow.
Regardless, he sighs and shakes his head. Whatever. He’ll just get it done rather than admonish her about it, if only because he’s on a time limit here.
He steps up to his little altar and closes his eyes. There’s plenty that isn’t quite right here, from the location to not having the truly “proper” tools that he’d like, such as cactus spines… But he can make do. Rather, he can force it to be enough, since even reduced as he is, he’s still an immensely powerful god. His power doesn’t present itself through raw, brutal strength like Quetzalcoatl, but through his ability to manipulate the fabric of the world itself.
He grips the knife’s blade without preamble, and blood immediately starts to drip thickly onto the ground surrounding the altar. He starts to speak Nahuatl, which she won’t understand, but it’s poetic and rhythmic in how it sounds. And it doesn’t take long for the space around them to react in response. The streetlamps nearby dim as darkness seems to settle further over the area, and a sharp wind blows through.
And on a metaphysical level, she may not be “looking” as Tezcatlipoca is, but she can likely still feel it. It’s the sensation of magical energy saturating the air, the hair standing up on her skin, and yet, that feels like too little. There are no souls drawn by his ritual, no burst of insight about where they might go, and it seems that he’s getting the same impression from how his serene expression knits together.
At least what follows isn’t gruesome, ironically. From her perspective, it doesn’t seem like anything happens, honestly. His expression just becomes a grimace, though his words continue on just as smoothly… Until very abruptly, he stops. He opens his eyes, which are glowing with an unnatural, vivid blue, but then—
He just drops. He at least stabs the knife into the ground as he goes, but his bloody palm clutches at his side. Presumably, he did give up an organ after all. In terms of the answer he was looking for, she definitely didn’t get an answer as a bystander. But he didn’t exactly get one either. ]