He can feel it there, scrabbling at his insides claws against his ribs against his Spine his bones knocking hollow like there's something in there with him (there always is, isn't there?) but what had turned quiet and sullen just a whisper in his blood is now suddenly frantically violently awake and it hurts almost, like it's trying to rip it's way out and just like that the air is knocked out of him and he's dropping to his knees.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Onetwo.
There's a shivershudder running all the way down to his tailbone and back up again to detonate in the back of his mind with a growl sharp and hot breath all choked up in his throat because there it is the Spine and everything that comes with it, everything everything--
He lets out a dry crackle of laughter before regaining his feet. He feels...perhaps better isn't the word for it, nor normal, but it all clicks back into place inside him like bolts driving home locks slamming shut and quite suddenly he can't wait to sink is teeth in and fight.
He'll avoid the rock monsters where possible, head straight for the main course.
If anyone should need cover he is your (somewhat unpredictable) man, any wounds he sustains healing in a matter of seconds beneath a veil of acrid smoke. And although he retains some small shred of elegance, a poise that can be just about discerned in the swift fluid movements and deadly precision with which he fights, there's something more animal than man about the way he launches into his attacks. He'll use his freshly-acquired sword, yes, but should it come to it, teeth and nails will do just as well.]
ii. AFTERWARDS
[He's not been here long, and there's no-one here that could claim to know him. It's a good thing, perhaps. After the battle is over and he's done dragging in fractured panted breaths, composure returning and the polished mask of indifference erasing the savagery that had come before it, there's something cold and hard at the centre of him, a small hollow of disquiet. His clothes are torn, face and hair and everything else bloodied to a greater or lesser degree, but he's silent. Strangely subdued.
He doesn't care a jot for the people here, nor for the dead gods of this world. But something twists like a knife between his ribs all the same, the unpleasant sensation that something isn't quite right. He's thinking of his own world. Of Mother. Barely senses the link between this scene and back there, trying to ignore it as best he can. He'll stand staring at the water for some time after Ryba's demise, expression blank and unreadable.
Later, he attends that somber memorial for Nalanni, though he keeps his distance, skirting the edges of the gathering like a spectre or a shade.]
Giovanni | OTA
[Nalanni dies, and it comes on quickly.
He can feel it there, scrabbling at his insides claws against his ribs against his Spine his bones knocking hollow like there's something in there with him (there always is, isn't there?) but what had turned quiet and sullen just a whisper in his blood is now suddenly frantically violently awake and it hurts almost, like it's trying to rip it's way out and just like that the air is knocked out of him and he's dropping to his knees.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Onetwo.
There's a shivershudder running all the way down to his tailbone and back up again to detonate in the back of his mind with a growl sharp and hot breath all choked up in his throat because there it is the Spine and everything that comes with it, everything everything--
He lets out a dry crackle of laughter before regaining his feet. He feels...perhaps better isn't the word for it, nor normal, but it all clicks back into place inside him like bolts driving home locks slamming shut and quite suddenly he can't wait to sink is teeth in and fight.
He'll avoid the rock monsters where possible, head straight for the main course.
If anyone should need cover he is your (somewhat unpredictable) man, any wounds he sustains healing in a matter of seconds beneath a veil of acrid smoke. And although he retains some small shred of elegance, a poise that can be just about discerned in the swift fluid movements and deadly precision with which he fights, there's something more animal than man about the way he launches into his attacks. He'll use his freshly-acquired sword, yes, but should it come to it, teeth and nails will do just as well.]
ii. AFTERWARDS
[He's not been here long, and there's no-one here that could claim to know him. It's a good thing, perhaps. After the battle is over and he's done dragging in fractured panted breaths, composure returning and the polished mask of indifference erasing the savagery that had come before it, there's something cold and hard at the centre of him, a small hollow of disquiet. His clothes are torn, face and hair and everything else bloodied to a greater or lesser degree, but he's silent. Strangely subdued.
He doesn't care a jot for the people here, nor for the dead gods of this world. But something twists like a knife between his ribs all the same, the unpleasant sensation that something isn't quite right. He's thinking of his own world. Of Mother. Barely senses the link between this scene and back there, trying to ignore it as best he can. He'll stand staring at the water for some time after Ryba's demise, expression blank and unreadable.
Later, he attends that somber memorial for Nalanni, though he keeps his distance, skirting the edges of the gathering like a spectre or a shade.]