02-13-2017, 04:42 PM
He came to a stop. Wordlessly, the Judas Priest stared at the goings-on before him. The clear admission from the vampire. The attempts to impede him. The attempts at playing nobility and fostering sympathy. The further attempts to sway him, and another stepping in between him and his prey.
He took several deep breaths, his expression twisted into an ugly scowl. A harsh glare of blue light glimmered on his glasses, masking the crazed stare in his eyes. Where his gaze was directed was uncertain, but given his previous statements one would not be hard-pressed to guess.
His breathing stilled, going quiet. He lowered his head, arms slowly falling down to rest at his sides. His deathgrip on his bayonets loosened, their points angling down toward the blank ground. The messages stitched over the back of his gloves relaxed as the fists unclenched, the undoubtedly white knuckles relaxing and letting blood flow resume. A long exhale of breath, hissed out through clenched teeth, sounded. A cloud of steam wafted out from the corner of his mouth, the grim scowl relaxing into merely a displeased frown.
As much as he hated to admit it, everything that had been said was correct. There was far too much he did not know about this new world. He was still unsteady from his rough arrival, on top of that, and felt strangely weak. With a flourish of both wrists, the bayonets in either hand vanished, with only a flicker of silver. He straightened his posture, standing straight-backed and staring resolutely forward, over the youth interposed between himself and the suited vampire, revolver still leveled squarely at the towering priest. The harsh glare on his spectacles had softened, to merely a dim blue haze, letting the pale green of his eyes show through. A tired, dour look had settled on his face, creasing his expression with the deep frown, and still-clenched teeth. His acceptance of the new situation was almost palpably reluctant.
"Keep yer wits abou' yerself..." he muttered, his stare lingering on Harlan. "Whether you accept it or not, justice will come tae you. By my hand, or that of another." Without shifting his gaze, he took the copied blade as it was offered to him by the pale arrancar. He held it up, the blade slowly rising until it was pointed toward Harlan, mirroring the stance of the gun holding steady toward him. For a few, tense seconds, he held his ground. Then he broke off, and with a deft movement, hurled the blade aside, where it stuck, embedded deeply into the non-ground of the Nexus.
With a last grimace, the assassin of God turned away, pacing away with slow, measured strides.
He took several deep breaths, his expression twisted into an ugly scowl. A harsh glare of blue light glimmered on his glasses, masking the crazed stare in his eyes. Where his gaze was directed was uncertain, but given his previous statements one would not be hard-pressed to guess.
His breathing stilled, going quiet. He lowered his head, arms slowly falling down to rest at his sides. His deathgrip on his bayonets loosened, their points angling down toward the blank ground. The messages stitched over the back of his gloves relaxed as the fists unclenched, the undoubtedly white knuckles relaxing and letting blood flow resume. A long exhale of breath, hissed out through clenched teeth, sounded. A cloud of steam wafted out from the corner of his mouth, the grim scowl relaxing into merely a displeased frown.
As much as he hated to admit it, everything that had been said was correct. There was far too much he did not know about this new world. He was still unsteady from his rough arrival, on top of that, and felt strangely weak. With a flourish of both wrists, the bayonets in either hand vanished, with only a flicker of silver. He straightened his posture, standing straight-backed and staring resolutely forward, over the youth interposed between himself and the suited vampire, revolver still leveled squarely at the towering priest. The harsh glare on his spectacles had softened, to merely a dim blue haze, letting the pale green of his eyes show through. A tired, dour look had settled on his face, creasing his expression with the deep frown, and still-clenched teeth. His acceptance of the new situation was almost palpably reluctant.
"Keep yer wits abou' yerself..." he muttered, his stare lingering on Harlan. "Whether you accept it or not, justice will come tae you. By my hand, or that of another." Without shifting his gaze, he took the copied blade as it was offered to him by the pale arrancar. He held it up, the blade slowly rising until it was pointed toward Harlan, mirroring the stance of the gun holding steady toward him. For a few, tense seconds, he held his ground. Then he broke off, and with a deft movement, hurled the blade aside, where it stuck, embedded deeply into the non-ground of the Nexus.
With a last grimace, the assassin of God turned away, pacing away with slow, measured strides.