10-29-2016, 01:51 AM
Kuzuru stood by, watching them all through the darkened tint of his shades. There was a stupid grin plastered across his face as everyone said their piece. Once again that itch scratched at the lining of his skull. His veins pulsed with the urge to do violence, but he stayed his blade. After all blood was like a fine wine, it only got better with age. A younger Kuzuru wouldn’t have even opened his mouth, but he had found some time ago that some banter before the fight made the eventual victory that much sweeter. To listen to a man’s ideals, his declarations, before his inevitable death was something of a preamble to the coming bloodshed. And so it was with the grin of a man about to eat a five-star meal that Kuzuru watched his prey.
He was more than content to stay silent, to bask in the oncoming violence, but that girl had to open her mouth. She claimed that he, of all people, was human, and she claimed it with such fucking arrogance that Kuzuru felt a twinge of anger. Sensing a lull in the conversation Kuzuru stepped forward. He removed his sunglasses and hung them on the neck of his jacket. With a red-stained hand he slicked back his hair.
“Okay girlie,” Kuzuru said, trying to fill his voice with as much vitriol and condescension as possible, “I don’t give a damn about your life story, but let’s get one thing straight -- I’m about as far from human as you can get pipsqueak.” The demon turned towards Ballad and pointed a bony finger at the man. “You ask what kind of man I am?” Kuzuru said, “I’m just like you Ballad, I’m a killer, only real difference is that I don’t make excuses for what I do. I own every drop of blood my blades have spilt and every ounce of flesh I’ve taken has my name carved into it.” He stepped closer to Ballad, slowly removing his jacket and casting it aside. Underneath he wore a black wife beater shirt, revealing ruddy muscular arms. “What kind of man am I Ballad?” Kuzuru repeated, “I’m the kind that isn’t afraid to embrace what he is, I suppose the real question is.” The demon stopped walking. Two blades, one on either arm peeked out from underneath his skin and with a schink they extended to their full length. Kuzuru smirked and asked, “are you?”
He was more than content to stay silent, to bask in the oncoming violence, but that girl had to open her mouth. She claimed that he, of all people, was human, and she claimed it with such fucking arrogance that Kuzuru felt a twinge of anger. Sensing a lull in the conversation Kuzuru stepped forward. He removed his sunglasses and hung them on the neck of his jacket. With a red-stained hand he slicked back his hair.
“Okay girlie,” Kuzuru said, trying to fill his voice with as much vitriol and condescension as possible, “I don’t give a damn about your life story, but let’s get one thing straight -- I’m about as far from human as you can get pipsqueak.” The demon turned towards Ballad and pointed a bony finger at the man. “You ask what kind of man I am?” Kuzuru said, “I’m just like you Ballad, I’m a killer, only real difference is that I don’t make excuses for what I do. I own every drop of blood my blades have spilt and every ounce of flesh I’ve taken has my name carved into it.” He stepped closer to Ballad, slowly removing his jacket and casting it aside. Underneath he wore a black wife beater shirt, revealing ruddy muscular arms. “What kind of man am I Ballad?” Kuzuru repeated, “I’m the kind that isn’t afraid to embrace what he is, I suppose the real question is.” The demon stopped walking. Two blades, one on either arm peeked out from underneath his skin and with a schink they extended to their full length. Kuzuru smirked and asked, “are you?”