Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-26571677-20190915131838

He’d decided.

He wanted calamari for dinner.

Dust wasn’t a seafood man; his idea of a perfect meal was steak and chips.

But an exception would be made. Just this once. Just to piss off whatever ancestors this thrice-damned cunt of a sea creature had.

He didn’t know how much time it had been since the hunter girl and the tentacle guy had jumped into the water. The dispassionate and dark void generated by moonless night was illuminated only barely by a single, struggling white lamp atop the yacht. Even that little amount of luminescence was drowned out and smothered amidst the pounding of fat, stinging rain. The ship was like another dimension; some watery hell where everything was cold, and everything hurt, and everything was loud yet quiet all at once.

He felt his mind waning as it struggled to cope with a crippled arm and the sheer confusion of the ongoing battle; the assault of information and senses making itself clear to his fatigued mind, body and soul that it was running itself ragged.

All that kept them clear was burning rage, and red eyes. Red eyes that saw everything with a marksman’s peerless clarity; his semblance showing itself in the most subtle of changes.

They were the only way he could see Jett’s hobbled form leaping onto one of the veiny, onyx coloured tentacles.

They were the only reason he could breath in a mixed breath of relief and worry as he saw her smashed onto the deck. In one case, at least he could still see her. On the other, there would be no difference if she was dead.

And when he felt her pulse, and heard her mutter some unintelligible words, he could only sigh in relief; thankful as the assault on them was shifted away onto the Swan in the sky. She had spread her wings, and he could see that their colour was black as death, for death was the only judgement provided by the cut of her blade and the maelstrom of metal and blood surrounding her.

But Jett’s blood was far more important, and as he did what he could to staunch the flow with one crippled arm, he offered a cursory nod towards the other passenger of the boat that had patched the girl up.

Seeing that Jett was still conscious, he propped her up again against a wall, and watched blithely as the other woman ran off; calling for her oddly quiet partner.

“So…Jett. You reckon the SAINTs get good dental plans?”

She realized how bad it looked.

The boat was moving away from the monster that was encircling it, after she was explicitly told not to do so.

It probably looked worse underneath them as well. She could only imagine the outrage they’d feel, seeing their lifeboat paddling away after their ‘valiant’ sacrifices.

She had no such intention of abandoning them, of course. It would be far better for them to actually try and kill the Grimm than leave it to finish off the ship in spite. Her belief was merely that trying to move the ship away would not only provide it with a more balanced position upon the swaying water, but also force the Grimm to shift its attention to the larger target as opposed to the two, very small ones below.

They probably wouldn’t see it like that.

Regrettable, yes, but hopefully, they’d use their ears listen just as much as they used their eyes to see. The man, though more spiteful than any here, seemed at least cold and logical; reasonable to a fault. The girl, she could leave to Dust. He seemed to have a way with people, and dealing with teenagers was not exactly something she had experience in.

And as the grip on the ship loosened, the boat finally gaining traction again, she allowed her eyes to close for a few seconds longer than necessary, taking a deep breath of relief.

Still, amidst the drumming of rain and skyward rumbling of dark laughter, she heard shouting once more.

The floor was slick with blood; but not sticky, for the water had diluted it to the point where it was now little more than a sluice of red iron and the remnants of a life formerly lived. The brain matter scattered around the only indication of a man formerly known as Sorrel that lived,

And she realized what the girl behind her was yelling; she wasn’t angry about her maneuvering of the ship, no.

She thought her partner lay dead by her hands.

Difficult, difficult.

Hazel’s hand clasped around a small cylinder by her waist, and she slowly turned around, raising both hands enclosed in fists.

“Listen, and listen calmly. I did not kill your partner. That act belonged to the Grimm. Just rationalize it, do you really think I have the firepower to blow both this roof and his head into chunks? I have a pistol, not a rocket launcher.”

The water had pooled on the deck; and the rain held the foreground in the paradoxically quiet stare that followed.