DEVILS AT THE DOOR | AMBRIELLA Aug 8, 2021 12:05:34 GMT
Post by Henry 'Joseph' PEVERELL on Aug 8, 2021 12:05:34 GMT
[attr="class","main"]A person could only do so much to avoid another - intentionally turn the corner at first sight of a target, intentionally ask to be seated as far from a person as possible. Remain quiet and refuse to draw attention to oneself. Though it seemed Ambriella had made her mark upon the man with shared likeness - the darkness of his features either symbols of the Grindelwald blood in his veins or the Barkanova which tore through each muscle with its own type of sinister silence. In his youth he'd questioned his appearance when backs were turned and eyes averted to the skies onto God and Angels, knowing too well the boy who looked back did not belong despite the Witch Hunter's best attempts to match once dark brown to similar shades in familiar strangers. He was never brazen like his brother - someone whom he had yet to learn the fate or origin of now the war was done. Not that it mattered. None of it mattered. Just endless eventualities with little consequence to him - a boy thrown into a den of pious demons ready to sink their fangs into sinful children. Those around him now although feirce and ready to ruthlessly slaughter felt more like kin than his adoptive family ever did. Those who attempted to hide their crimes and call it virtuous Joseph could not stomach. You could not torture your way into Gods' favour. Or perhaps you could. What difference was there between the actions of a Cleric and that of a God who gifted agony onto innocence in an attempt to teach them 'lessons'?
Demyan's hunt for blood had always been a pious one - or so he was taught. The targets on his ledger enemies of God though he never believed a word. He could not. Some sense in the back of his mind toyed with the logic, with echos of familiar sense that denied the existence of God himself. The same cold echo across from him now uttering words of sense only met with direct, if not curt, responses in montone. In the eyes of his father and grandmother he could see the reflections of himself although, unlike his father, Ambriella sought to kill for sport. Even if he did believe himself somehow more divine than Muggles he would not claim it to be sport at all - what was sport without a challenge? What could muggles possibly do against him? Not out of arrogance was his claim but rather evidence; a trail of bodies disposed of with utmost precious and nearly always silence. This wasn't a game at all. It was mindless entertainment for shallow egos. He etched his combat knife against another, creating a shrill song between both bodies of metal. A blunt blade could do the most damage but it wasn't swift. A clean cut was all that was needed. All he needed to survive. "How many are we hunting?" He asked plainly, his eyes transfixed on the reflective metal in his hands.
LAIKA OF GS!