he finds himself taking a small step backward -- not in fear; it isn't as though he had any sense of self-preservation or fear for his life. a man who cannot be killed and who's pitiful life is that of the worthless sinner doesn't bother with the fear of mortality. no... it's more accurate to say that this expression of shock on his face is because this transformation reeks of a power that's sick, pervasive... wrong, for its intent.
...coming from someone like her, it's all wrong. very... very wrong.
and like this... the innocent people that could be caught in the crossfire...
he has to take her somewhere less populated. the park--? it's unlikely with the goings-on that it'd be getting high traffic right about now. but getting there is another story. if he ran, would she-- ...it... give chase?
his grip on the scythe is tightening, and so is his jaw. red eyes fixate on their mirror. ...he can't fight her. he can't fight her, and now -- he doesn't know if there's any reaching her at all.]
...It isn't too late. It's not... too late. [is he convincing himself, or her?]
Do you hear me...? I won't let you hurt them. I won't let you hurt yourself like this!
[all he can do is get in her way and pray there's a sign of drawing her out from wherever she's retreated in this murderous bloodlust-- the oppressive stench of blood and... hate.]
no subject
is she always capable of this, or...
...
he finds himself taking a small step backward -- not in fear; it isn't as though he had any sense of self-preservation or fear for his life. a man who cannot be killed and who's pitiful life is that of the worthless sinner doesn't bother with the fear of mortality. no... it's more accurate to say that this expression of shock on his face is because this transformation reeks of a power that's sick, pervasive... wrong, for its intent.
...coming from someone like her, it's all wrong. very... very wrong.
and like this... the innocent people that could be caught in the crossfire...
he has to take her somewhere less populated. the park--? it's unlikely with the goings-on that it'd be getting high traffic right about now. but getting there is another story. if he ran, would she-- ...it... give chase?
his grip on the scythe is tightening, and so is his jaw. red eyes fixate on their mirror. ...he can't fight her. he can't fight her, and now -- he doesn't know if there's any reaching her at all.]
...It isn't too late. It's not... too late. [is he convincing himself, or her?]
Do you hear me...? I won't let you hurt them. I won't let you hurt yourself like this!
[all he can do is get in her way and pray there's a sign of drawing her out from wherever she's retreated in this murderous bloodlust-- the oppressive stench of blood and... hate.]