[ It's too late. No matter how you plead, the cold moon has no intention of listening -- wordless and far beyond your reach, despite how ominously and too-closely He seems to loom overhead. ]
This -- isn't -- help -- Yoru --
[ Asa screams, voice rough. Scars lacerate her entire body, ripping her open from unseen seams. Feathers and wings burst out, wet with blood, cracking out of her shell, but so does something else -- speartips of red-stained ivory, guts twisted into protruding claws, every knob of her vertebrae bursting through the back of her shirt into a series of blades ready to tear. A walking vessel of destruction, valkyrie ready to herald the coming of blood. Her eyes line with bright rings, barely visible as her very flesh ignites, the Devil of War as she should have been. Chainsaw Man can't save her now. The Asura rips out the protruding bone from what was once her stump of an arm, procuring a makeshift dagger and begins to march. ]
C-come on, Gramps... I didn't forget what we are, promise...
I just... I wanted just a little bit more time, is... I...
[ Lavi's ribcage cracks and snaps as he keels over, breath heavy and wheezing as he tries to hold on. He gives you one last regretful look as he loses himself. Eyes split open all across his body, but none look towards you -- instead, they're all too occupied with the pens of bone glued to each hand that bursts out of his body, forcing the curve of every rib closed over his beating and exposed heart. Around it, on pale flesh like parchment, they begin to write chronicles, records of the proceedings in the rotten city. They carve directly into his own flesh as if his body were nothing but a stone tablet. Only when the fervish writing runs dry do the eyes finally look towards you, Camille -- the Scribe spots a fresh inkpot of red. ]
I don't want to go back.
[ That's all Astarion manages out before his body changes too. Every joint breaks in a moment, twisting him cruelly as he grunts underwhelmingly despite agonising pain, deep cuts in ritual patterns across every inch of visible skin and more under cloth. His entire body becomes stained red, but the crimson concentrates itself in certain places. His wrists. His ankles. His neck. Cuffs and chains of blood as his body exsanguinates itself, turns himself into a dry corpse unfit for the light of day. The chains yank at him as they do an unwilling animal, forcing his dessicated body to bare bloodied fangs. The Thrall is ready to lash out, nothing but fear and ferality left in it.
The door doesn't budge. Only one champion, snickers a voice, and a helpful wave of bloodlust, panic, the onslaught of survival instinct to give you that helpful push. You have a gun, a knife, a small thing's amulet that blesses your reaction time and speed.
You didn't want to kill them... well, they're not themselves anymore, are they? Death would be a mercy, is the thought that floods your head. Surely you wouldn't leave them to suffer like this? It's two birds with one stone. ]
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Yoru --
[ Asa screams, voice rough. Scars lacerate her entire body, ripping her open from unseen seams. Feathers and wings burst out, wet with blood, cracking out of her shell, but so does something else -- speartips of red-stained ivory, guts twisted into protruding claws, every knob of her vertebrae bursting through the back of her shirt into a series of blades ready to tear. A walking vessel of destruction, valkyrie ready to herald the coming of blood. Her eyes line with bright rings, barely visible as her very flesh ignites, the Devil of War as she should have been. Chainsaw Man can't save her now. The Asura rips out the protruding bone from what was once her stump of an arm, procuring a makeshift dagger and begins to march. ]
I just... I wanted just a little bit more time, is... I...
[ Lavi's ribcage cracks and snaps as he keels over, breath heavy and wheezing as he tries to hold on. He gives you one last regretful look as he loses himself. Eyes split open all across his body, but none look towards you -- instead, they're all too occupied with the pens of bone glued to each hand that bursts out of his body, forcing the curve of every rib closed over his beating and exposed heart. Around it, on pale flesh like parchment, they begin to write chronicles, records of the proceedings in the rotten city. They carve directly into his own flesh as if his body were nothing but a stone tablet. Only when the fervish writing runs dry do the eyes finally look towards you, Camille -- the Scribe spots a fresh inkpot of red. ]
[ That's all Astarion manages out before his body changes too. Every joint breaks in a moment, twisting him cruelly as he grunts underwhelmingly despite agonising pain, deep cuts in ritual patterns across every inch of visible skin and more under cloth. His entire body becomes stained red, but the crimson concentrates itself in certain places. His wrists. His ankles. His neck. Cuffs and chains of blood as his body exsanguinates itself, turns himself into a dry corpse unfit for the light of day. The chains yank at him as they do an unwilling animal, forcing his dessicated body to bare bloodied fangs. The Thrall is ready to lash out, nothing but fear and ferality left in it.
The door doesn't budge. Only one champion, snickers a voice, and a helpful wave of bloodlust, panic, the onslaught of survival instinct to give you that helpful push. You have a gun, a knife, a small thing's amulet that blesses your reaction time and speed.
You didn't want to kill them... well, they're not themselves anymore, are they? Death would be a mercy, is the thought that floods your head. Surely you wouldn't leave them to suffer like this? It's two birds with one stone. ]