drink until you're dead | Suicide Squad vs LN@WB vs. mutt
Nov 4, 2021 13:08:35 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Nov 4, 2021 13:08:35 GMT -5
The bone-shattering boom of Tsar's gun is what prompts him forward as he unclips his sword from his belt and closes the distance between them. The wound at her chest catches his interest. A weak spot, an opening, and he pushes his machete into it and—
—it connects. Blood, a pulse against his blade, and he pushes it in deeper with a squelch. God of war incarnate, the cannon that makes the dunes tremble after the next second is a hymn sang unto his deeds.
After that it is quiet, a silence no breath dares to break.
And then a soft squirm, the sound of a blade exiting flesh after it has done its due. The body thuds to his feet and lays broken and dead and dead and dead.
Her blood?
On him. All over him. His knuckles feel the thick warmth of it in a hot and sticky glove upon them, a crimson lacework of the once Tsara Fer. His boots are stained too, its rims darkened now by the blood spreading through the grooves and divots in the volcanic soil as if it were magma with its fierce red. Tsara is a girl returning to the fire, to the burning heart of whatever this place is, and the way Bastian looks over her is almost vigil-like for a second, a moment solely dedicated to her. He remembers a silver of her in the bloodbath: teeth bared against the careers, both naïve and brave to the way she faced them. He chooses to keep her memory that way.
The world becomes cemetery-quiet after that again. Volcanic ash, in his hair, in his eyes, in his ears, sing an almost peaceful lullaby in the wind.
Bastian returns to himself slowly, smearing the blood on his lips all the way across his cheek as he faces the others, eyes wild and uncaged. His eyes move between Nylon and the others, and then they stray towards Tsara’s bag that he takes. And as Nixie and Sinead crowds in by the dying girl, he takes his first few steps towards the jeep.
He nods to the boy in the group along his way. “You want to get chased?” A wry laugh rides along his words, whispered only for him. “I’ll give you a head start. We’re going to take a rest here,” the tip of his boot digs into the sand so he can mark territory, “and we’ll chase you, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is. All across these dunes. On our car. With pistols.”
He spots the glint of Tsara’s pistol upon the blackened earth and dips his chin again at it. “There. Now you got one, too. That fair?” Bastian pats his shoulder, staining it with a bloody handprint. “Good talk, man. Have a smiley day.”
He needs a rest, some food, perhaps another fight, anything to make him forget what he had done and would do again.
But memory, he’s found, is more keen on remembering the bad and the bloody.
[ Bastian attacks Tsar | Sword ]
039n_iATGpsword
100 damage.
039n_iATGpsword
100 damage.
—it connects. Blood, a pulse against his blade, and he pushes it in deeper with a squelch. God of war incarnate, the cannon that makes the dunes tremble after the next second is a hymn sang unto his deeds.
After that it is quiet, a silence no breath dares to break.
And then a soft squirm, the sound of a blade exiting flesh after it has done its due. The body thuds to his feet and lays broken and dead and dead and dead.
Her blood?
On him. All over him. His knuckles feel the thick warmth of it in a hot and sticky glove upon them, a crimson lacework of the once Tsara Fer. His boots are stained too, its rims darkened now by the blood spreading through the grooves and divots in the volcanic soil as if it were magma with its fierce red. Tsara is a girl returning to the fire, to the burning heart of whatever this place is, and the way Bastian looks over her is almost vigil-like for a second, a moment solely dedicated to her. He remembers a silver of her in the bloodbath: teeth bared against the careers, both naïve and brave to the way she faced them. He chooses to keep her memory that way.
The world becomes cemetery-quiet after that again. Volcanic ash, in his hair, in his eyes, in his ears, sing an almost peaceful lullaby in the wind.
Bastian returns to himself slowly, smearing the blood on his lips all the way across his cheek as he faces the others, eyes wild and uncaged. His eyes move between Nylon and the others, and then they stray towards Tsara’s bag that he takes. And as Nixie and Sinead crowds in by the dying girl, he takes his first few steps towards the jeep.
He nods to the boy in the group along his way. “You want to get chased?” A wry laugh rides along his words, whispered only for him. “I’ll give you a head start. We’re going to take a rest here,” the tip of his boot digs into the sand so he can mark territory, “and we’ll chase you, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is. All across these dunes. On our car. With pistols.”
He spots the glint of Tsara’s pistol upon the blackened earth and dips his chin again at it. “There. Now you got one, too. That fair?” Bastian pats his shoulder, staining it with a bloody handprint. “Good talk, man. Have a smiley day.”
He needs a rest, some food, perhaps another fight, anything to make him forget what he had done and would do again.
But memory, he’s found, is more keen on remembering the bad and the bloody.
