godless — gunner & killian. [ blitz ]

godless — gunner & killian. [ blitz ] Jul 21, 2019 3:10:27 GMT -5

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 21, 2019 3:10:27 GMT -5

gunner azarova

The moon, colored bone-bright, was his crown and everything under its light belonged to him.

In the cold, somber night, he ruled. The seething darkness – and the hymns it sang – were all for him, Gunner Azarova, prince of darkness, born from rot and decay. There was more rot within Gunner than muscles, more dead things beneath his skin than alive ones. On some days, he wondered if he was nothing but a taxidermized creature at most, mounted on a mannequin made from black stone. He was a cadaver clothed under warm skin, a ghost kept corporeal by strong bones, a prince, a king.

And, Killian Walsh was nothing but a common street gladiator. The streetlights flickered on the moment the boy came into view, their timing a sort of rehearsed cue for the violence to commence, like a pistol fired at a race-track. His hands rested on the holsters near his thighs as he stepped away from the stem of the streetlight, making his back erect idly, gaze taking over the male. “Oh, don’t call me a rat,” Gunner said with a smirk, “I’d hate to be related to you.”

The other didn’t laugh.

Instead, Killian fished out his gun, the design unimpressive, and aimed the barrel at Gunner. His posture and stance were inelegant, but Gunner also didn’t laugh. There was no mirth in these sort of battles, only gunpowder. The black and hollowness of the weapon’s mouth was familiar, and so was the rising tension in the air and the coldness in his bones. The battlefield grew quiet for a moment before the gunshot exploded, right at him — a deafening sound, a heartbeat amplified tenfold.

“Fuck,” he hissed first, and then felt the pain across his finger second, the place where the bullet had grazed. He knew how a gunshot wound would hurt, how the blood edged around it would reek of metal and sulfur, how the blood would ooze out, but even this knowledge couldn’t stop the pain or the fire that grew in the abrasion.

“I’ve seen you fight before, Walsh.” Gunner slid his pistols out from their homes; twin revolves enclosed in gold accents. “Average at best, I’d say. But, if you are here to blow a hole in me, I suggest you make use of your hands, unless this is a death-wish.” He doesn’t aim much — the target had been already marked in his head for long. “I wouldn’t mind putting down a mutt such as yourself though.”

And fire splintered from the barrels, like blood.