or let it serve as a warning // roadhogs v coyote pack day 3
Mar 14, 2022 21:09:54 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Mar 14, 2022 21:09:54 GMT -5
The wound festers quickly.
Already blackening with necrotic rot, the poison is bullet-swift and he grits his teeth as he damns Hades Lachlan for it. "I’ll kill him," he growls. When he gets out, crowned and victorious, he swears he’ll dismantle that empire of death piece by piece.
I’ll kill them all.
For the humiliation he feels white-hot in his chest now, for the embarrassment of being weak. It’s strange, a twisted novelty, and he resents it. He’s known shame before, of course he has. But this, the feeling that consumes him and reddens his face - it’s stronger than any shame Rafael has known before.
There is an audience here with him, because this is not just any fight: this was supposed to be a testament to Rafael’s promised prominence; his debutante ball, if you will.
But here he is, getting bested by poison. It would be poetic if it isn’t so pathetic.
No, he stoppers his thoughts, cuts their flow. Rafael gives his head a rough, frantic shake. You’ll push through this, he tells himself, steeling his nerves. You’ll push through this and every other battle ahead of you.
Confidence. That is his strength. That and his streak of unwavering ruthlessness – ready to slit the world’s throat if it benefited him. He would never grieve, he would never sorry. And he would hurt, and he would fight back, and he would not surrender. Fingers glide over his control. In the sharp, metallic cacophony his second skin makes, he hear his mother’s words, vicious as a whip crack.
And she tells him to fight.
Fight like a saint, fight like a sinner, fight like a Salazar.
He is Jacinta’s rage and Violetta’s precision. He is Valentino’s schemes and Emersalda’s callousness.
The poison sizzles in his veins as he lunges.
Or rather, his second skin does—leaping as one of the wolves charge at him, evading their hungry teeth, then— “ve muere!!” he hisses in the coms, right as a blade sinks through their neck.
The sand laps up the blood, drinking insatiably.
He’ll offer it some more.
Scowl on his face, he does what Nowles told him a day ago, pushing a button on the switchboard that deactivates the gatlin gun and animates the cannon launcher instead.
Click-click. The ball rolls in place.
“Hungry, aren't they?” he observes with a mirthless chuckle, eyeing the rest of the pack. “But what are little dogs to gods? To titans?” He sounds half-delirious, half-amused. Perhaps he is losing his sanity, had it wrung dry by the badlands, or perhaps he is beginning to feel it, only to find out that it isn’t akin to the others’. A spare in the machinery, a kink in the wiring. Rafael’s lips curl into a furtive smirk.
“But I’ll let them feast,” he says as the cannon whirs, but holds its fire. The coyotes approach, a hungry tide, and—
He gnashes his teeth. One of the coyote’s teeth has sneaked through the joints, torn a gash down his thigh. The poison is an old wound reopening, green fire through his veins, but the taste of it feels less corrosive this time. Less potent. His blood pushes through it, interweaves with it, all as Rafael’s cannon takes advantage of the meager distance between him and the coyotes to—
“fire,” he orders.
Already blackening with necrotic rot, the poison is bullet-swift and he grits his teeth as he damns Hades Lachlan for it. "I’ll kill him," he growls. When he gets out, crowned and victorious, he swears he’ll dismantle that empire of death piece by piece.
I’ll kill them all.
For the humiliation he feels white-hot in his chest now, for the embarrassment of being weak. It’s strange, a twisted novelty, and he resents it. He’s known shame before, of course he has. But this, the feeling that consumes him and reddens his face - it’s stronger than any shame Rafael has known before.
There is an audience here with him, because this is not just any fight: this was supposed to be a testament to Rafael’s promised prominence; his debutante ball, if you will.
But here he is, getting bested by poison. It would be poetic if it isn’t so pathetic.
No, he stoppers his thoughts, cuts their flow. Rafael gives his head a rough, frantic shake. You’ll push through this, he tells himself, steeling his nerves. You’ll push through this and every other battle ahead of you.
Confidence. That is his strength. That and his streak of unwavering ruthlessness – ready to slit the world’s throat if it benefited him. He would never grieve, he would never sorry. And he would hurt, and he would fight back, and he would not surrender. Fingers glide over his control. In the sharp, metallic cacophony his second skin makes, he hear his mother’s words, vicious as a whip crack.
And she tells him to fight.
Fight like a saint, fight like a sinner, fight like a Salazar.
He is Jacinta’s rage and Violetta’s precision. He is Valentino’s schemes and Emersalda’s callousness.
The poison sizzles in his veins as he lunges.
Or rather, his second skin does—leaping as one of the wolves charge at him, evading their hungry teeth, then— “ve muere!!” he hisses in the coms, right as a blade sinks through their neck.
The sand laps up the blood, drinking insatiably.
He’ll offer it some more.
Scowl on his face, he does what Nowles told him a day ago, pushing a button on the switchboard that deactivates the gatlin gun and animates the cannon launcher instead.
Click-click. The ball rolls in place.
“Hungry, aren't they?” he observes with a mirthless chuckle, eyeing the rest of the pack. “But what are little dogs to gods? To titans?” He sounds half-delirious, half-amused. Perhaps he is losing his sanity, had it wrung dry by the badlands, or perhaps he is beginning to feel it, only to find out that it isn’t akin to the others’. A spare in the machinery, a kink in the wiring. Rafael’s lips curl into a furtive smirk.
“But I’ll let them feast,” he says as the cannon whirs, but holds its fire. The coyotes approach, a hungry tide, and—
He gnashes his teeth. One of the coyote’s teeth has sneaked through the joints, torn a gash down his thigh. The poison is an old wound reopening, green fire through his veins, but the taste of it feels less corrosive this time. Less potent. His blood pushes through it, interweaves with it, all as Rafael’s cannon takes advantage of the meager distance between him and the coyotes to—
“fire,” he orders.
[ Rafael blasts Coyote Pack | Cannon 1/6 ]
clH_EhIBZkthrowing axe
10067 -- Axe in Forearm -- 8 damage (Thrown Axe) + 1.0 damage (Target Practice)
clH_EhIBZkthrowing axe
10067 -- Axe in Forearm -- 8 damage (Thrown Axe) + 1.0 damage (Target Practice)
throwing axe