[ Silco's so clumsy with communion, so unpracticed, that it's almost idle, unintentional the way he did it. Like a child, thinking a bad thought, and their hands smash something as they consider it, but Silco felt no shame as he levied that knife against the thing -- reminded it who had been here. It had been perfectly happy to send voices through the caverns, sent his daughter deeper into the roots, manic, explosive, and the destruction left in her wake was... perfect in every way, and Silco wanted it to stay. He wanted it to suffer and feel her effects, for if she wasn't here to rock this world to the core, he wanted the vestiges of her touch on this realm to remain, preserved in amber.
His thoughts, his concentration, the hatred he felt toward this world and existence, were practically one with the miasma, one with this sickness in the tree. Perhaps the toxin had him as well, but he does not see it as that. It barely burns in his already scarred and touched lungs, decades of living underground in the smog and gray left him not immune, but resistant to the effects. His mine, however, still lingers on what he has lost --
Until an arm pressed to his neck -- a choked gasp -- blood chorused in his hears and his fingers scrambled for the knife he kept in his holster. His mind immediately took a no less hateful, but more violent turn -- was it? -- before it fell back, and his jaw screamed with fire, than his chest. His knife whipped out, and his lips curled, almost dangerous, nasty. ]
Oh --
[ He said through a raspy cough, and though his eyes flicked to Voryn, he would offer no assistance as the man practically tore himself apart at his shard. ]
Bad idea, friend.
[ His knife -- the smaller of the two, with an engraving on the blade: “Che la mia ferita sia mortale”—”May the wound I bring be fatal.” ]
I've been brawling since I could walk.
[ Silco is not muscular, or strong. What he is, is fast, and mean, and driven. He lashed out with the knife, a quick jab, then a second, with his words, toward the man's middle, than arm. Ocelot, he has no way of knowing, is likely far more adept at fighting than someone who works in administrating a drug cartel bar. ]
no subject
His thoughts, his concentration, the hatred he felt toward this world and existence, were practically one with the miasma, one with this sickness in the tree. Perhaps the toxin had him as well, but he does not see it as that. It barely burns in his already scarred and touched lungs, decades of living underground in the smog and gray left him not immune, but resistant to the effects. His mine, however, still lingers on what he has lost --
Until an arm pressed to his neck -- a choked gasp -- blood chorused in his hears and his fingers scrambled for the knife he kept in his holster. His mind immediately took a no less hateful, but more violent turn -- was it? -- before it fell back, and his jaw screamed with fire, than his chest. His knife whipped out, and his lips curled, almost dangerous, nasty. ]
Oh --
[ He said through a raspy cough, and though his eyes flicked to Voryn, he would offer no assistance as the man practically tore himself apart at his shard. ]
Bad idea, friend.
[ His knife -- the smaller of the two, with an engraving on the blade: “Che la mia ferita sia mortale”—”May the wound I bring be fatal.” ]
I've been brawling since I could walk.
[ Silco is not muscular, or strong. What he is, is fast, and mean, and driven. He lashed out with the knife, a quick jab, then a second, with his words, toward the man's middle, than arm. Ocelot, he has no way of knowing, is likely far more adept at fighting than someone who works in administrating a
drug cartelbar. ]