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It is a spell that is easily broken, it seems, by the strength in his voice. Grey-tipped ears curve forward curiously, poised in alarm, as red eyes turn to see him, and he sees murder coiled there, ready to strike.
It passes--and Öde seems to collapse. Reginald comes forward; his shoulder is there, offered, a rough-cut and brilliantly layered, a cliff-face, a wall of sinew to lean against. For weakness is a detestable thing to witness between two stallions of worth, studs of greatness and sour vinegar--but, these are different things altogether. “Brother,” he responds, an assurance-- and grey-tones vibrate the rocks and stone, deep and rich with something older and fallen in his throat and body.
*”What’s happened?”*
Reginald’s mouth twists, his eyes drifting to the wall of the tunnel, blank and pensive--for other things swim before his vision. Darkness and death, and a violet hide that strikes a gorgeous, deformed pose. “It was a goddess who caused those killings,” he says, and darkness rumbles on his tongue, rumbling in disappointment and a craving that leaves him ensnared with the image of what lies beneath a graceful tail, “a mere woman, who lived within the skies. She has been banished to this mortal realm--but not before taking my own mother, and others who bear no importance…” He does not know that it was a half-god child who sacrificed himself in the violet bitch’s stead. He would not have cared, otherwise.
Grey eyes flick back to red. “You were killed,” he says, quietly. He remembers the wrath he had felt as his spider bitch had scurried to his shoulder, telling him the news; fucking up one more thing. He contemplates the bones of Öde’s face, the striking lines they cut there. “...but here you are.” His voice has come quieter; it trails from his lips. “I...do not know what happened to your mother. She was laying here by the time I found you.”
The corpse grabs his attention, and he is oddly fascinated by the contorted image on the ground; freshly dead, it seemed, for he does not smell the loudness of decay from her. “‘DemonKing’, you said,” he whispers, almost to himself--the name tastes on his tongue, and he’s unsure of what yet. “Who...who is this demonking?
"This is how I talk"
Oh, you're just a target in the sky
With all this fever in my mind
I could aim for your kerosene eyes
It is a spell that is easily broken, it seems, by the strength in his voice. Grey-tipped ears curve forward curiously, poised in alarm, as red eyes turn to see him, and he sees murder coiled there, ready to strike.
It passes--and Öde seems to collapse. Reginald comes forward; his shoulder is there, offered, a rough-cut and brilliantly layered, a cliff-face, a wall of sinew to lean against. For weakness is a detestable thing to witness between two stallions of worth, studs of greatness and sour vinegar--but, these are different things altogether. “Brother,” he responds, an assurance-- and grey-tones vibrate the rocks and stone, deep and rich with something older and fallen in his throat and body.
*”What’s happened?”*
Reginald’s mouth twists, his eyes drifting to the wall of the tunnel, blank and pensive--for other things swim before his vision. Darkness and death, and a violet hide that strikes a gorgeous, deformed pose. “It was a goddess who caused those killings,” he says, and darkness rumbles on his tongue, rumbling in disappointment and a craving that leaves him ensnared with the image of what lies beneath a graceful tail, “a mere woman, who lived within the skies. She has been banished to this mortal realm--but not before taking my own mother, and others who bear no importance…” He does not know that it was a half-god child who sacrificed himself in the violet bitch’s stead. He would not have cared, otherwise.
Grey eyes flick back to red. “You were killed,” he says, quietly. He remembers the wrath he had felt as his spider bitch had scurried to his shoulder, telling him the news; fucking up one more thing. He contemplates the bones of Öde’s face, the striking lines they cut there. “...but here you are.” His voice has come quieter; it trails from his lips. “I...do not know what happened to your mother. She was laying here by the time I found you.”
The corpse grabs his attention, and he is oddly fascinated by the contorted image on the ground; freshly dead, it seemed, for he does not smell the loudness of decay from her. “‘DemonKing’, you said,” he whispers, almost to himself--the name tastes on his tongue, and he’s unsure of what yet. “Who...who is this demonking?
"This is how I talk"
Oh, you're just a target in the sky
--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!
--All force is allowed to be used against this character!
