Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-25389303-20190208000958

Diaboli's smile faded slightly at Wynston's joking comment, uncertain whether or it was simple humour or a hint at something greater. He opened his mouth to reply, but was quickly cut off by another masked stranger standing just behind.

He turned slowly, noting how the voice's owner and Wynston's 'interesting guest' were one and the same, before glancing around at the others around him. His gaze swept from figure to figure dismissively, until it finally landed on a pair of young women standing not so far away, to which he froze.

For the briefest of moments, the crime boss thought he saw an all-too familiar figure amongst them. The black hair and distinctive red eyes was enough to flood Diaboli's mind with memories. First were the painful ones: watching the screen of a throwaway Scroll as his stronghold in Vale - one that he had thought unassailable - was torn to pieces by the overwhelming force of countless soldiers and mercenaries. The hasty retreat that soon followed, as his counterattack was met by unexpectedly formidable opposition. And finally, the sight of the ground rushing towards him as the greatest betrayal came from the person he had trusted the most...

Then, the pleasant memories followed. A comical encounter under the most mundane of circumstances, when for the first time in years he had met someone he could consider an equal. The brief, though potentially disasterous, little adventure that followed had been particularly entertaining, he remembered. And later, the slightly awkward exchange of numbers.

The thought of it brought a faint smile to Diaboli's face...but it was quickly erased when he saw the person standing next to her. Decadere Diaboli was not one to trouble himself with learning the identities of every mobster and evildoer in Mistral, but he would have been an idiot not to recognise Brunhilde Engelnacht when he saw her.

His reports on her painted a damning picture, coloured with shades of sadism and playfulness in inconsistent patterns. She was, by all accounts, not someone he wanted to deal with at the moment - especially when surrounded by so many guards. But something about seeing the two of them together - arms entwined such as they were - awoke something in Diaboli. A demon he had been struggling with for nearly a year now.

A demon of vengeance.

He had felt it stir as soon as the first whispers reached his ears, all those months ago. Whispers of foreign activity in the Mistralian underground. The faintest traces of Dragon presence had been unearthed soon after. Not enough to cause alarm at the time, but enough to make him suspicious. No sooner had he dismissed the notion of betrayal did the first rumours start - that one of the Nine Dragons had been cast down, and another had taken its place.

It wasn't long before Diaboli pieced together the rest of the puzzle.

Diaboli had evolved to expect treachery in all things. He'd predicted it in the Nine Dragons of Vale, and he would be surprised if the Bluthardt dynasty didn't choke on the stuff. But even he struggled to fathom the sheer disrespect he felt at the thought of the Dragons digging their talons into his territory. The ceasefire had been called. The lines had been drawn. And yet, not even a year later, they welcomed the Bluthardts - the antithesis of everything Diaboli stood for - into their ranks.

And all without a single. Goddamn. Phone call.

...

Before Diaboli even realised what he was doing, he was moving - a silver blur moving almost faster than the eye could see. Before anybody could stop him he reached forward and yanked the traitorous Dragon backwards by her windbreaker, turning her to face him fully as he began to muster some venomous insult.

But, like even the fiercest of storms, the man's fury died out almost as soon as it was born, for he had realised his mistake a moment too late. The likeness had seemed uncanny to Diaboli, until he realised it was due to the recent absence of his left eye. Now that he saw her properly, the difference between the two was obvious. This one's hair was too short, her eyes too red, and her face a little too youthful.

That, and the gruesome scar that stretched across the right side of her face.

"Oh...shit..."

Diaboli released her jacket as soon as he finished comprehending his error, stepping back again to a less threatening distance as he glanced at the guards suddenly looming over him.

"I think I fucked up..." he muttered, before looking back at Wynston a slightly nervous smile. "I fucked up, didn't I?"