Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-26571677-20191002030532

Jett’s fist bumped lightly against Dust’s shoulder, and it took everything within him not to scream in hoarse agony as the impact left his already mangled bones jarring against each other.

He could only smile weakly; teeth grit to not betray any sense of pain. The girl had enough lines on her face for the day; it would do her no good to earn any more guilt.

Upon the shattered and splintered deck, amidst the spent casings and blood dribbling overboard, he spotted his sword, and with no small degree of effort, pulled himself to his feet and dragged it back towards Jett, slumping down with a grown and placing it at her side. It was a bit lighter than her previous armament, but he could only figure that she’d be better off with something that could actually cut a bastard rather than her now useless hunk of malformed metal.

No rest for the wicked then, eh?

The shouting from the cabin managed to pull him out of his pained stupor, and his one good hand felt at the grips under his coat; their groove well worn and familiar. For a moment, he considered tossing one of the pair through the window; as far as he knew, Hazel’s only weapon were her fists and a heavy caliber pistol…but the weapons he carried would have been enough to take apart heavy armor, let alone a ragged boat that was already on its last breath.

Besides, it was Hazel, her aura was full, and he’d heard of her reputation in the underworld. If there was one thing he knew for certain; it was that she’d be able to take care of herself.

And so, upon seeing Diaboli slumping down against the stairs, he chuckled, and opted for a seat next to The Devil himself; taking the bottle of whiskey that the man had been eyeing up and squinting at it with an appreciative grin.

“Good stuff this. Plenty of carrying on to be done about the underworld but I must say. They have good taste.”

He peered at the man; seeing clearly the signs of an old man in a body barely halfway into its twenties, and recognized him as one of his own. He nodded, and tipped the opening towards him.

“There’s a special rung of hell for people that waste good scotch…”

He took the moment to survey the shambles around him.

“…and seeing as we’re lookin to be rapping on that door shortly…I must say this is some damn good stuff. You made the sacrifice play. Only fair you get to escape the big man first.”

The air in the cabin was as tense as ever; with Maris staring Hazel down, the two women waited for a movement.

The only sound was the labored breaths of the girl with weapon in hand, and the ever present static of rain that had changed from the fat, heavy droplets of yore into the small, stinging onslaught; driven forward by heaving wind.

The remnants of some part of the controls undoubtedly crucial to the boat’s movement lay sparking and buzzing at Maris’ side; now no more than a glorified bucket. Emotional instability mixed with sensitive technology was doomed to fail. Like it or not, and Hazel definitely did not like the situation; she was going nowhere, and Maris could not be allowed to have free reign over the control room.

“I am afraid I cannot do that. If you do not want to end up like your partner, who I am very sorry you have to see this way…then you will take him and leave this room. There will be plenty of time to fight me later, if you wish, but for now, our priority is to survive.”

“It was not our fault that he lays dead, and I cannot allow you to doom the rest of us with a tantrum.”