[The man struggles. How many souls had been in his hands like this? Too many to count. Grunts and middlemen and assassins. All had been killed, all had been sent to feed his blood-red sea of sin.]
[Truly, he doesn't intend to kill him. Even with all of this man's ugliness laid to bear, and his willingness to sink his teeth in (both literally, metaphorically), Vergilius wouldn't kill him for that. Maybe that's too soft for a vicious Color of the City. He could care less at this point. There's something about Silco that's different. Not desperate, really, but...]
[It's just an example of that horrific anger, the type to burn the world down. He's a wound Vergilius can't help but open again, and again, and again. He wants to laugh at it. He wants to squeeze his throat further. He has half a mind to bring him up in an embrace - no, he shouldn't hurt like that, he shouldn't -]
[The man's hand twitches downward. He lets it. He feels the knife sinking into his leg. He lets it. He deserves it, doesn't he? Just one small instance of the large debt he has to pay. Karma asks for worse.]
[He lets go of his quarry. The knife stings, and he's pulling it out with nary a wince. A brief look at it, and he's drawing it over his lips to lick off the blood, before tossing it, clattering, to the side.]
[His rough hand moves to stroke through the other's hair. Everything hurts, but the pain feels so, so far away.]
no subject
[Truly, he doesn't intend to kill him. Even with all of this man's ugliness laid to bear, and his willingness to sink his teeth in (both literally, metaphorically), Vergilius wouldn't kill him for that. Maybe that's too soft for a vicious Color of the City. He could care less at this point. There's something about Silco that's different. Not desperate, really, but...]
[It's just an example of that horrific anger, the type to burn the world down. He's a wound Vergilius can't help but open again, and again, and again. He wants to laugh at it. He wants to squeeze his throat further. He has half a mind to bring him up in an embrace - no, he shouldn't hurt like that, he shouldn't -]
[The man's hand twitches downward. He lets it. He feels the knife sinking into his leg. He lets it. He deserves it, doesn't he? Just one small instance of the large debt he has to pay. Karma asks for worse.]
[He lets go of his quarry. The knife stings, and he's pulling it out with nary a wince. A brief look at it, and he's drawing it over his lips to lick off the blood, before tossing it, clattering, to the side.]
[His rough hand moves to stroke through the other's hair. Everything hurts, but the pain feels so, so far away.]
[He also can't help it. Smirk, that is.]
[Monster to monster.]
Ah, Silco. What are we ever going to do with you?