[ Voryn's cries reach his ears as a symptom of a problem, not as cause for concern in and of themselves. It seems there could be some evidence to suspect that he was correct, that Silco was affecting his communion in a way that is now harming him even further, but there's been no increase in the miasma choking the air.
So the man writhing on the ground, swiping at air, clutching at his face? He's now of lesser concern. If he fulfilled his purpose then that's what matters most. If he dies, it's secondary. A worthy sacrifice so that Ocelot himself might continue living, might continue being subjected to the anger of the second man now choosing to actually grapple with him. If he had the air available in his lungs he might laugh. What does translate is the bitterness in his gaze, a true indignation over Silco's unwillingness to realize the situation they're both in. It's an emotion he'd never show in normal circumstances but there's nothing normal about this, and right now his chest feels like it's on fire. ]
"Brawling"? [ The word is practically growled out on the back of an exhale, his own voice rattling with a mixture of adrenaline and exertion. The first jab is dodged in a fluid step back while the second is far more boldly absorbed, his hand striking sidelong at Silco's to cause the blade to slice into the outside of his arm instead of embedding within it. Fingers then tighten dangerously around his wrist, grinding sinew and tendons together as he leans in to speak into that hateful, scarred face. ]
Oh, I'm not your friend. And we don't call it "brawling" in war.
[ The crack of bone is audible when Silco's wrist is forced into an abnormal sudden bend, elbow thrust hard back against his left collarbone to shove him brutally, bruisingly against the bark of that tree he despises so greatly. ]
no subject
So the man writhing on the ground, swiping at air, clutching at his face? He's now of lesser concern. If he fulfilled his purpose then that's what matters most. If he dies, it's secondary. A worthy sacrifice so that Ocelot himself might continue living, might continue being subjected to the anger of the second man now choosing to actually grapple with him. If he had the air available in his lungs he might laugh. What does translate is the bitterness in his gaze, a true indignation over Silco's unwillingness to realize the situation they're both in. It's an emotion he'd never show in normal circumstances but there's nothing normal about this, and right now his chest feels like it's on fire. ]
"Brawling"? [ The word is practically growled out on the back of an exhale, his own voice rattling with a mixture of adrenaline and exertion. The first jab is dodged in a fluid step back while the second is far more boldly absorbed, his hand striking sidelong at Silco's to cause the blade to slice into the outside of his arm instead of embedding within it. Fingers then tighten dangerously around his wrist, grinding sinew and tendons together as he leans in to speak into that hateful, scarred face. ]
Oh, I'm not your friend. And we don't call it "brawling" in war.
[ The crack of bone is audible when Silco's wrist is forced into an abnormal sudden bend, elbow thrust hard back against his left collarbone to shove him brutally, bruisingly against the bark of that tree he despises so greatly. ]