song

withoutglory.

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     “– –Watch it.”

He speaks with breaths ragged, exhaustion evident in both posture and presence, eyes falling upon the individual of whom is merely a shadow in his sight. To resist blood for this long, is to accept death. His stubbornness knows no bounds, and so it results in Mikaela resting, unable to move another step. He’s not afraid, despite not being able to see through the thick fog which overlaps everything. His words are of warning, but they are dry. Perhaps it’s for his own benefit to not wanting to see anymore bloodshed today.

           in the face of this warning, ragged and evidently very tired, the mafioso
           deigns to respond with little more than a snort. the fog was thick, shro-
           uding the alley and everything beyond it, and in truth, he’d not thought
           that the shadowed mass resting against the concrete wall of the build-
           ing nearest it was a body; at best, he’d figured it was a bag of trash, di-
           scarded by the owners of the aforementioned building. to this end, the
           voice takes him by surprise ( & in this state, he raises his left hand, in
           preparation to strike with the sword attached to it ) —- but that’s all it
           does. it does not intimidate him, does not rattle his core with fear. 

           had it been so, he might not have dismissed it so rudely. squinting in-
           to the thick haze, staring directly at the body of the boy now, he speaks.

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         oh —!? and here i thought side-street garbage couldn’t speak —!







QS