[ Even if Blade was irritated by the mess this entailed, there is something about it that does amuse him in the slightest of ways. It feels contradictory to feel anything like that, yet to her comment he can only let out something like a huff of amusement.
That being said, when Rodya mentions something about a spa of all things, that more or less is suddenly grabbing his attention. He should gather up the energy within himself to protest, or something.
But, a shower feels inadequate and Blade surprisingly cares about his personal hygiene a lot. A snarky comment is about to leave his mouth, only for him to be pulled into Rodya's memory where she kills some bastard, and yet receives an unfair reprisal for her actions...?
That is what he grasps here, given the massacre that only seems to display those bodies of people who indeed were once enjoying themselves. So, she too also had a great loss?
Not that he anticipates she wanted for him to see this at all.
He turns towards her, about to speak, only for the void decide it's not quite done with them just yet.
'The location and whereabouts of this particular incident are an unknown; or perhaps they are already known to this man. One who searches for one particular goal that seems to pretty much elude him, in his search for — something. No, not just a singular aim, because at this time, there is nothing that can be certainly anything less than a desire to seek out these goals by whatever means possible.
For someone like Blade, connecting these pieces at times seems like nothing less than a miracle. On the edge of despair, purposefully dangling right off the cliff as he stares right up at an unfamiliar sky. He takes a breath, feeling it silent as ever, and sees them — two unknown faces.
He feels it, that urge, that itch, that disturbance, lying underneath...they are not him. They aren't the ones who are responsible for — that. The words Blade grasps for are falling further and further away. Perhaps it's his condition; he hasn't been attending very well to himself, but he doesn't care. He doesn't need to. All he needs to do is keep moving. Keep moving forward, until he has at least grasped what he has.
And they are...
In the way.
Blade's sword flies free from its scabbard and he steps towards them, uncaring of the fact that these two involve something in armor, and some unknown woman. They are unimportant. He imagines it won't take long —
And that is where his hubris begins, but it is also where it ends.
The memories and knowledge of what happened is — unclear. In one moment he is advancing, and in the next, there is nothing but intense pain. Perhaps there was a fight, perhaps there were words exchanged.
All of it ceases to matter.
Blood red stains his vision temporarily, and the taste of it stains his mouth in an unpleasant, yet sickeningly familiar way. His body refuses to move, and even after "that" moment, he awakens to find that being in armor holds him prisoner — pinned, perhaps? — in those metallic arms. Any struggles are futile, useless; meaningless.
Just like his life.
Words are spoken to him; first from that woman, her voice stilling his whole being; even that other part of him, "Listen, I can always kill you again, otherwise I can't bring you back."
She then says, "But I don't want to."
The undeniable, monstrous itch deep within him calms. The impatience dulls as he stares at her — beautiful long hair, and beautiful eyes. But that doesn't impress him as he sneers and growls, "What do you people want?"
Does she think that he is a man easily under her thrall? Even as he calms, there is a defiant piece of him that emerges in the face of this weariness. All the same, she still seems calm. Far more calmer than anyone else should be. She says, as if an aside, "Is there anything more satisfying than seeing how the undying die? That's what 'he' said."
Who? No...perhaps this was 'destiny's conclusion all along. Blade feels the grip that held him like he was imprisoned loosen all of a sudden, allowing him his freedom. If it can be called that, but in his heart, he feels it was so. This choice is his own.
Kafka, however, instead speaks the following words:
"Listen, Bladie, loosen up."
Blade does not feel any bit of resistance at those words, at the nickname granted to him. She seems to smile, satisfied. "Listen, don't think about anything at all."
He doesn't know when but he has already straightened himself to his feet. But as he watches the smile more closely, it wasn't satisfaction. Or perhaps it wasn't only just that. Sadness as well.
At that, he can only think:
"Maybe someone left her before they could listen to everything she had to say."
Curiosity springs like a flower in the early morning. He keeps walking, again and again, to whatever end that awaits him.
He learns their names:
Kafka. Silver Wolf. Sam.
And then, finally...
Elio. Destiny's Slave himself. The one who can grant his wish, once and for all.'
...And just like that, those memories seem to come to an end. For certain, this time. Being the quieter of the two, and more easily disturbed, he tries to shake out the fog that seems to settle in his head after a back to back spring of memories. ]
no subject
That being said, when Rodya mentions something about a spa of all things, that more or less is suddenly grabbing his attention. He should gather up the energy within himself to protest, or something.
But, a shower feels inadequate and Blade surprisingly cares about his personal hygiene a lot. A snarky comment is about to leave his mouth, only for him to be pulled into Rodya's memory where she kills some bastard, and yet receives an unfair reprisal for her actions...?
That is what he grasps here, given the massacre that only seems to display those bodies of people who indeed were once enjoying themselves. So, she too also had a great loss?
Not that he anticipates she wanted for him to see this at all.
He turns towards her, about to speak, only for the void decide it's not quite done with them just yet.
'The location and whereabouts of this particular incident are an unknown; or perhaps they are already known to this man. One who searches for one particular goal that seems to pretty much elude him, in his search for — something. No, not just a singular aim, because at this time, there is nothing that can be certainly anything less than a desire to seek out these goals by whatever means possible.
For someone like Blade, connecting these pieces at times seems like nothing less than a miracle. On the edge of despair, purposefully dangling right off the cliff as he stares right up at an unfamiliar sky. He takes a breath, feeling it silent as ever, and sees them — two unknown faces.
He feels it, that urge, that itch, that disturbance, lying underneath...they are not him. They aren't the ones who are responsible for — that. The words Blade grasps for are falling further and further away. Perhaps it's his condition; he hasn't been attending very well to himself, but he doesn't care. He doesn't need to. All he needs to do is keep moving. Keep moving forward, until he has at least grasped what he has.
And they are...
In the way.
Blade's sword flies free from its scabbard and he steps towards them, uncaring of the fact that these two involve something in armor, and some unknown woman. They are unimportant. He imagines it won't take long —
And that is where his hubris begins, but it is also where it ends.
The memories and knowledge of what happened is — unclear. In one moment he is advancing, and in the next, there is nothing but intense pain. Perhaps there was a fight, perhaps there were words exchanged.
All of it ceases to matter.
Blood red stains his vision temporarily, and the taste of it stains his mouth in an unpleasant, yet sickeningly familiar way. His body refuses to move, and even after "that" moment, he awakens to find that being in armor holds him prisoner — pinned, perhaps? — in those metallic arms. Any struggles are futile, useless; meaningless.
Just like his life.
Words are spoken to him; first from that woman, her voice stilling his whole being; even that other part of him, "Listen, I can always kill you again, otherwise I can't bring you back."
She then says, "But I don't want to."
The undeniable, monstrous itch deep within him calms. The impatience dulls as he stares at her — beautiful long hair, and beautiful eyes. But that doesn't impress him as he sneers and growls, "What do you people want?"
Does she think that he is a man easily under her thrall? Even as he calms, there is a defiant piece of him that emerges in the face of this weariness. All the same, she still seems calm. Far more calmer than anyone else should be. She says, as if an aside, "Is there anything more satisfying than seeing how the undying die? That's what 'he' said."
Who? No...perhaps this was 'destiny's conclusion all along. Blade feels the grip that held him like he was imprisoned loosen all of a sudden, allowing him his freedom. If it can be called that, but in his heart, he feels it was so. This choice is his own.
Kafka, however, instead speaks the following words:
"Listen, Bladie, loosen up."
Blade does not feel any bit of resistance at those words, at the nickname granted to him. She seems to smile, satisfied. "Listen, don't think about anything at all."
He doesn't know when but he has already straightened himself to his feet. But as he watches the smile more closely, it wasn't satisfaction. Or perhaps it wasn't only just that. Sadness as well.
At that, he can only think:
"Maybe someone left her before they could listen to everything she had to say."
Curiosity springs like a flower in the early morning. He keeps walking, again and again, to whatever end that awaits him.
He learns their names:
Kafka. Silver Wolf. Sam.
And then, finally...
Elio. Destiny's Slave himself. The one who can grant his wish, once and for all.'
...And just like that, those memories seem to come to an end. For certain, this time. Being the quieter of the two, and more easily disturbed, he tries to shake out the fog that seems to settle in his head after a back to back spring of memories. ]