<whisperingNightterror> Oh, how they wanted to /throttle/ the pathetic little human--to toss him about like the lie-filled ragdoll he was. To break him over and over and over.
<whisperingNightterror> Oh, how anger churned in their gut, and yet it's intense heat did not reach far from their core. A freezing cool had taken over their limbs; one which only existed from a faint hope. A faint hope for their dear Nova and Cherry. One that kept their rage at bay.
<whisperingNightterror> They snarled. "Do not /liiie/ to me, rrrunt." Their voice hissed out, low and soft. "If therrre was a way to deterrr it, /I/ would know about it" The hypocritical horror lied, knowing that ancient texts from old dreams had been scribbled over and blotted out, limiting their knowledge.
<whisperingNightterror> Strangely though, the darkness seemed to back up somewhat. "... I ammm willing to seee how much of a taaale you can spinnn, though." Their tone turned more towards a single voice, as the tendril around Cael's neck slipped away. Elders did they want him to actually be capable of this--
<whisperingNightterror> It would probably be a bit of a surprise, when the terror listened to the strained, too smooth plea of the demon. They could feel the potential static and dangerous heat curling through his fear and anger and voice. They didn't want to fight; not today.
<whisperingNightterror> The tendrils about his arm which held the demonic blade slipped away, at least. They wouldn't allow him total control; not after past incidents when it came to blades. "Trrry anything foolishhh, and I will not thinnnk twice to let you two sufferrr eterrrnity in my gut."
<whisperingNightterror>  They'd never tried soul before. At least not permanently.

-*- cunningConnery That should've been the end of it, right then, right there.
-*- cunningConnery His companion's latest outburst of hisses, clicks, and subtle but foreboding threats would've finally set the terror off, spurring it to wring its tentacles around his too fragile neck and...
-*- cunningConnery And...
-*- cunningConnery Well, the universe would finally know what would happen when the living died in the afterlife.
-*- cunningConnery He flinched, dully wondering if dying with a giant squid around your neck and the sounds of Jurassic Park croaking in your ear was a bad way to go, incredibly terrified and incredibly detatched all at once.
-*- cunningConnery ...And yet, much to his surprise, the end seemingly never came.
-*- cunningConnery At least, it didn't feel like the end came. Wasn't death supposed to hurt? Surely he would've felt something before turning into a member of Casper's posse, wouldn't he?
-*- cunningConnery He opened one eye cautiously, testing the waters of his newfound abundance of luck, and almost very nearly didn't catch a word of what the terror had said as he marveled over his still beating heart.
-*- abstersiveTournure (Can't you hear it?)
-*- abstersiveTournure (It's /loud/ --)
-*- cunningConnery He hadn't kicked the bucket. More than that, the terror was willing to hear what he had to say. He'd even let go of his lethal-- nauseous, vomit inducing, as if he'd ever forget it's little demonstration from only a moment ago-- grip, just for him.
-*- cunningConnery The floor was his.
-*- cunningConnery Miraculous.
-*- chthonianGunslinger (And, if he were being honest, more than a little exhilirating. The rush of adrenaline that always came with his realization that he had yet again wriggled out of another life or death situation couldn't be bought, borrowed, or sold.)
-*- chthonianGunslinger (There was nothing else in this wretched little world quite like it.)
-*- chthonianGunslinger (Nothing.)
-*- cunningConnery (...Sigh.)
-*- cunningConnery ...But they weren't out of the woods yet. They were safe for now, but how long would that last? Words were meaningless and promises could be broken at the drop of a hat. Even if it said it would leave them alone, that could just as easily be tossed aside in the wind during a rainy day. What did the flimsy promises of a too fragile and too amusing human matter in the face of boredom?
-*- cunningConnery Nothing, that's what. Not unless he took the right precautions.
-*- cunningConnery Fortunately, he had just the thing for occasions like this, when words were you all you had and all you could hope to use.
-*- cunningConnery ...Okay, breathe. He could do this. Just-- keep it steady, keep it cool, make it look like you don't know what you're doing. Like you're too naive for words.
-*- cunningConnery God help him if his luck ran out now.
-*- cunningConnery With a cough that was partly for aesthetics and partly to clear the giant masses of phlegm that had starting clogging up his throat, no thanks to the Kraken over there, he unconsciously lifted a hand to his throat and soothed his throbbing muscles.
-*- cunningConnery And.
-*- cunningConnery (Maybe in hopes that it would somehow, someway, protect him from the endless barrage of tentacles.)
-*- cunningConnery (Stupid, but it couldn't be helped. Human nature was delusional and paranoid like that.)
-*- cunningConnery "Oonderhstahndahble," he smoothly (and still so very jitterly) replied, giving his cohort an incredulous glance. He wouldn't try anything funny, not for his life, but he couldn't say the same for Triassic Bark over there. He was scared, irritated, and held down with more wraps and binds that you could find in an S&M.
-*- cunningConnery In other words, not so different from him.
-*- cunningConnery 'Please, please, please just stay still for a little longer,' he internally pleaded, wondering if demons were as good mind readers as they were sniffers.
-*- cunningConnery (It wouldn't matter, though.)
-*- cunningConnery (Vergil didn't trust him anyway.)
-*- cunningConnery (Cael could only hope he had the self-control to sit down and stay down, for himself if no one else.)
-*- cunningConnery "We'll be good, Oi prhomise..." But for now, a lie would have to do. He couldn't speak for anyone but himself, no, but at least he could hope they would get the message somewhere deep down in there.
-*- cunningConnery And that wasn't even the riskiest gamble.
-*- cunningConnery "...It'd be naice, tho', if y'could show th'same common courhtesy t'us."
-*- cunningConnery There it was.
-*- abstersiveTournure (Not terribly common, here.)
-*- cunningConnery "Not t'be prhesumptuous o'carse. Y'allowed t'mahke whahtevar decision y'wahnt, n' Oi wouldn't dahre dhream otharwaise... But Oi said we'd help eachothar oot, daidn't Oi?"
-*- cunningConnery "Y'leave me n' my frhiend--" Nod, nod, yes he's talking about the living RAID killer over there. Buzz buzz. "--t'frholick aboot howevar we please, withain rhreason o'carse, n' Oi phromise ye Oi'll tell ye exahctlai what y'need t'kno' t'keep th'Shahmrhock Boogeymahn awai."
-*- cunningConnery He offered his hand, hoping on hope that this would work. Please, please, he knows he hasn't been the good little Christian boy he used to be all those years ago, but... please, just this once. He'll even throw away the Lucky Strikes for it.
-*- cunningConnery "Do we hahve ah deal?"

-*- abstersiveTournure The restraint was gone. He snatched his newly-freed arm back, as close to his chest as he could manage, and bit down the vicious, defensive snarl building in his throat. He drew a shaky breath -- it...it was okay. He was okay. He -- he could move, could hold the Yamato close and suddenly feel its cool, sterile power all too acutely.
-*- abstersiveTournure And fight with it if he needed. Which he did, he should, why are you waiting -- it was there and he was still too trapped to be safe and he needed to get out --
-*- abstersiveTournure -- no, no, brainless twat, it'll be in control no matter what you do. You'll only make it worse --
-*- abstersiveTournure The biting fury ground counterpoint to desperate logic, like carving stone with a butter knife. Better yet, like carving open his own skull with a butter knife. It spoke something cautionary and his enraged hiss built behind his teeth, a writhing pressure in his head.
-*- abstersiveTournure He'd tear it apart from the inside --
-*- abstersiveTournure ...God. He couldn't. He couldn't, the stuttering heartbeat (sonorous and close and real) reminded him. Because it would not hesitate to make good on that, and while he deserved it --
-*- abstersiveTournure And he did deserve it. He'd hurt his brother and the few friends he had too many times over, and stood by and let them all die one by one, and he -- he was worthless and pitiful and despicable. He deserved to rot for eternity more than anything.
-*- abstersiveTournure ...Except for the fact that it would destroy Dante. It would break his stupid noble little brother, tear him apart at the tattered seams and then flay what was left. His stupid noble little brother who was too stubborn and fiercely loving and always so deeply attached. Too deeply attached. And after so much --
-*- abstersiveTournure After the game and Alpha and everything --
-*- abstersiveTournure He would blame himself, somehow, irrationally. He would suffer eternally himself believing that he could've, should have, done something. Because he was too damn stupid and Vergil loved him and hated him for it.
-*- abstersiveTournure It had been the bane of his existence and his lifeline and now it continued to do so. Because he, of course, could never let go of his little brother. It would be little different from dying.
-*- abstersiveTournure (Or watching ten other people die slowly, agonizingly, and knowing it was his fault -- just as good as if he'd slit their throats himself --)
-*- abstersiveTournure "Oonderhstahndahble."
-*- abstersiveTournure ...And then there was Cael. Living, breathing, and helpless because he had been too cocky, had thought they could come anywhere close to handling these halls, to suggest roaming recklessly with a living, breathing body. Of course something would notice. Hadn't he been able to, so shortly after they'd first met? And if he could...
-*- abstersiveTournure He wondered, remarkably absent and detached despite the teeming anxiousness surrounding the thought, if he would apologize or if cowardice and pride would get the better of him again. He loathed himself silently. Not existing at all would be so much easier. Cael didn't deserve this.
-*- abstersiveTournure Even if he was a fool and a conman and so, so very annoying at times. Too cheeky and passive-aggressively amicable, like every conversation was a game of who could keep their cool or who could grate on the other's nerves more. Who could be more clever.
-*- abstersiveTournure And, irritating as it could be -- and as much as he'd never admit it -- it wasn't so bad. Cael was smart and smart-mouthed and entertaining. Dare he say it, amusing.
-*- abstersiveTournure (And it felt welcoming. Like an old friend greeting him with a friendly jab and a slap on the back, the same way Dante liked to greet him. It felt good.)
-*- abstersiveTournure (He wondered when his wary subterfuge had morphed into fondness. He'd hardly even noticed -- and certainly wouldn't have dared admit it except that now, his -- he was in danger and Vergil was to blame.)
-*- abstersiveTournure (As always.)
-*- abstersiveTournure -- friend?
-*- abstersiveTournure Oh, excuse him.
-*- abstersiveTournure -- "frhiend"?
-*- abstersiveTournure The word shouldn't have been so startling. The deal itself was no surprise (please, as if he hadn't seen that coming a mile away), but the choice of words, with no hesitation or emphasis or -- or anything? There were a million other ways to phrase it, all equally nervous and amicable and grovelling, and none with that particular word. And he --
-*- abstersiveTournure It was a stupid thing to react to, in this situation. A stupid thing to fixate on.
-*- abstersiveTournure (He didn't remember the last time anyone had called him that. Or. He did, but it --)
-*- abstersiveTournure (He --)
-*- abstersiveTournure ...It didn't really matter. It was just a word that happened to come to mind. Didn't mean anything.
-*- abstersiveTournure He felt calmer now. The pressure had faded, leaving a hollow ache in its wake -- like reacting took too much energy, now, and if he didn't stay still he would burst into the tumultuous terror and rancor that had drained and settled under the surface. Like it would drain away what was left of him if he didn't hold the emotions behind the wall that his thoughts and the Yamato's soothing stability (pressed like the flat of a too-sharp blade against his pulse, familiar and comforting more than it was dangerous) had built up.
-*- abstersiveTournure and the Yamato's soothing stability (pressed like the flat of a too-sharp blade against his pulse, familiar and comforting more than it was dangerous) had built up.
-*- abstersiveTournure He'd have to keep silent for now. What could he say, except to make the situation that much worse? He had nothing to offer but dead weight and more frustration than he was worth. But --
-*- abstersiveTournure If that cur got himself trapped to be tortured for the fathomless expanse of time, he'd personally eviscerate him and his stupid little scarves.
-*- abstersiveTournure (The thought was comforting, satisfying, somehow. Even if it was worthless.)
-*- abstersiveTournure (If this went wrong, after all, he didn't know what he'd do.)
-*- abstersiveTournure (...No, that was a lie.)
-*- abstersiveTournure (He wouldn't be able to do anything, and that was terrifying.)