#&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

[brothersgrim]

OLD ASKS JAY IS FINALLY ANSWERING

@moonrevolutions asked: “how could you do this to me?” for taker. the battle of the soap continues... may their senseless idiot beef go on.

“Easily.” He says, folding his arms over his chest. “Want me to do it again? Fine.” With that, he turns on his heel and heads to the kitchen. There’s a faint rustling sound… And then he returns. There’s a red solo cup in his hand with a squirt of Dawn inside, to match the one he’d handed Vi a moment ago. 

“That’s how.”

[brothersgrim]

OLD ASKS JAY IS FINALLY ANSWERING

@perditos asked: “The ghosts aren’t gonna like, watch me shower or somethin’, right?” Adam to ‘Taker

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He says with a roll of his eyes. “The vast majority of them don’t care about the living.” He paused, took a swig of his beer. For a moment, he thinks, swishing the alcohol around his mouth before swallowing. “At least, not today. You’ll be fine.” And then, with a raised brow, 

“Unless you’re planning on showering in the yard. But I’d have to tell you that's a bad idea.”

[brothersgrim]

Xion got ‘Taker a sword. An entire claymore, left in its sheath at his spot on the kitchen table. Since he didn’t say what he wanted for his birthday, she thought this would do.

He stretches his arms over his head, his shoulders letting out a symphony of cracks in protest. He grunts. It's been a long morning. He's tired. He's sore. He's--

Surprised.

The Undertaker is a particular man. He likes his home kept a certain way. Everything has a 'right' place to be. Because of that, it's obvious to him whenever anything isn't in that place. But even if he was the most disorganized person alive, there would be no way for him to miss the giantass sword at his kitchen table. He blinks, glances over his shoulder. He hadn't noticed anything amiss, and he'd just came from the yard; a quick nudge to Kane, still deep beyond the gate, told him nothing strange was going on there, either.

Huh.

Alright.

He returns his gaze to the sword, brow furrowed and head tilted as he walks a slow circle around the table. It doesn't feel off. He tils his head again, then in the other direction. He grasps the hilt, hefts its weight. It's sturdy and well-balanced, the lack of any scuffs or scratches or tarnish belying how new it is.

He knows exactly who made this. He returns the blade to its sheath and turns it over once, twice, then nods his silent approval. She clearly put a lot of work into it.

Why she thought today was worth all that effort, he might never understand. But he can still thank her for the gift.

[brothersgrim]

Valentine’s Day Application

Name:  Bray Wyatt Age: 28 Do you like to cuddle? "We would be so close it's as if we shared ribs and a heart. I would teach you the meaning of true intimacy." Can we make-out? "Yeah, sure. A night in or dinner out? "A night in would be so much more intimate. I would rather have you to myself." Whip cream or chocolate syrup? "On you, both." Chocolates and roses? "Please, neither of us are so sentimental. We don't care for such simple pleasantries that are nothing more than cultural artifacts manufactured by corporate greed. No, for a gift I'd find you something far more suitable, more morbid, even." What makes you a good Valentine? "I love you more than anyone ever would or could. I understand you. I will never let you go." Would you cook for me? "Of course, how do you feel about jambalaya?" Would you let me cook for you? "I would love to have you cook for me." Where would you take me on a date? "The depths of the swamp to show you the beauty of the dark waters at night, when the moonlight shines in the refraction of the ripples."

Who’s paying? "For you, my time is always free." What did you get me for Valentine’s Day? "Eternity."

He doesn't know why he bothered leaving his room. ... Then he downs his shot. Right, right. That's why he was here.

To get absolutely fucking plastered.

To forget.

It's a dark bar, the opposite of reputable, and everything reeks of cigarettes and stale beer and something else. Probably vomit. It's acrid like vomit, at least. He pours himself another glass from the bottle and it makes his nose burn enough he doesn't smell the bar anymore. He drinks that, too. It tastes like paint thinner.

Good.

He's not sure how long he's been sitting here. A few hours, at least. Long enough that the bartender's started giving him glances, but it had taken only one snarling glare to convince the skinny punk there were better ways to spend his time.

He likes to think his bad mood is justified. He's been dealing with today alone, as he deals with most things. Alone is safe. Alone is smart. If he handles it alone, he doesn't have to worry about someone else screwing up. (Or someone else getting hurt.) The only problem is, he's not sure how to deal with Valentine's Day.

He shouldn't care. It shouldn't matter what day this is. This is not a day of sacrifice. He doesn't have a fight tonight (he wishes he did). He has to plan his order schedule for when he gets back, he'll have to check on the Yard soon - it's been a while. A week, give or take, and that's too long. He'd rather be there. Give him souls to govern, skulls to break, laws to lay down, a three-count on the mat. Anything but being alone with his thoughts.

Kane is out with Cody, and Taker is happy for his brother, he is. Cody's a good man. Kane is happy. At the end of everything, that's all Taker wants. His brother is happy. He won't get in the way of that. He'd never dream of it. But still...

"Fuck Chris Jericho." He mutters around the rim of his glass. ('And why should you matter? You're nothing special. You've never been anything - you're just a man.') He swallows back another mouthful of fiery swill. "And fuck Steve Austin." ('What, son, did it bother you when I made those calls? Did it eat you up hearing the truth, remembering what you did? Or maybe, maybe it's the way your baby brother squealed when I snapped his arm again and again and again--')

"And fuck that driver--" ('ADAM-!') He tries to pour another drink. The bottle comes up short. He pulls up from his slouch and raises the empty bottle to the barkeep. "'M gonna need another one of these." And, as the stool beside him creaks, he grimaces. "Make it a double." He keeps his eyes stubbornly forward as Bray talks. He's waxing poetic, spouting off about this bullshit and that bullshit. He's really laying it on thick. If it were any other day, he'd tell Bray he was barking up the wrong tree. In a different situation, he'd take the bottle the barkeep had handed him (accepted with a grunt of gratitude) and smash it on Bray's head. As warped as Taker's perception is, he knows this is weird. There's an ominous river weaving its way through Bray's words that should send up every warning flag in the book.

But you know what?

He's drunk.

He's immortal.

He's miserable.

He's alone.

So he downs one more mouthful from the bottle, swallows, and takes the entire thing with him as he pushes away.

"Fine, fuck it." He mumbles, rising to his feet and glancing at Bray.

"What'd you say 'bout jambalaya?"

[brothersgrim]

asteriixa​:

Shadows slinked and pulled, stretched into elongations of slithering, cold darkness. The corrupted demon conglomerating into the monstrous body, claws, teeth, an extra arm and too many legs. The demonic was twisted limbs and bruised skin, situated like a nightmare at the foot of the gate. A memory of something human, contorted, tortured, abandoned, shards of glass for scales, and searing gold eyes. Broken bones, erupted twisted horns, darkness burning its stretched skin. Horrifying, in pain, a miserable, half-existence, helpless and hopeless; enough mind left to suffer. Tugged the strings of her heart in pangs of near sympathy. 

The demon lifted its head, yellow gaze locking with hers. Xion reached down, dislodged the knife from the sheath in her boot. She twisted the blade betwixt her fingers. She watched its eyes trace the flash of light. The cursed steel that sunk into her body, pierced her skin, weighed in her palm, the instrument she’d gladly use to put the poor bastard out of its misery. Gravel and grass crunched beneath the weighted tread of ‘Taker’s boots. The wind pulled at their hair and played in her coat tails. Despite the lingering tension his presence soothed her nerves. She lacked magic and strength, fighting that curse had drained her. The odds were a little better with him then without. 

He couldn’t be trusted, but he was reliable. 

“Stay put,” Xion answered him. She glanced at him, hand falling on her hip. “Did you really expect me to listen?”

The question was dry but incredulous. There was no question in Xion’s mind what she’d do. Only she could kill the heartless. ‘Taker did not and never would hold near the authority to stop her. No one did, no one ever would again. It was a near moral obligation. There was a short throw between her and the monster at the gate. She was favored for her apparent youth, her superficial humanness but Xion was no less broken, no less a weapon. Neither of them deserved to exist. Even if ‘Taker was deluded enough to treat her like a child, she wasn’t one. Xion couldn’t be something she’s not. 

Xion stepped away from the ‘Taker, circling the demon. The knife turned over and over in her hand. On trembling, broken steps it followed her. A shift in its form, a little more stable, a confident stride in her direction. It was stabilizing, getting used to the corruption and the power, settling into the true dark. Tensed muscles, tendons taut, coiling like a viper. ‘Taker terrified it and yet it longed for the keyblade. Driven, drawn between two dual natures. It prepared to devour her and destroy him. 

“I don’t care how this goes,” Xion told ‘Taker, her voice low, barely a murmur. Don’t startle it, not just yet–“I have to finish it or we’ll be doing this again.”

The demon lunged for her. It claws tore into the dirt and grass, ripping-up clods of clay. In a couple bounds it had cleared the distance between them. Xion pivoted off her back foot and stepped clear of the attack. She flipped the blade in her hand and ran the steal down its flank. The curse on the blade sparked, snapped-up the darkness that seeped from the wound, burning with a deeper power. The demon turned on her but Xion buried the knife into its chest. She dove clear of a wide swing and rolled to her feet. The curse ripped and shredded it skin, it bled a black ooze that stained the ground at its feet. 

“I think I just pissed it off,” She grinned. 

To his right is the yard. His yard. An ancient, sprawling gateway to the Underworld. The solution, he thought, to this problem To his left, the home, and the valley beyond. Everything worth protecting. His livelihood. His parents’ legacy. The innocents in town. At his side stands a child. Maybe she thinks she can fight. Maybe she can fight. But she is a child still, and she is at his side. Before him, before them, towers a hulking, tenebrous shape. A mass of furious sins wrought into flesh. It raged. It hungered. It hated. It festered. It roared. He snarled in return. Pivoted sharply. The wind clawed out his hair as a massive forearm missed its mark. This is exactly what he’d wanted to avoid. It was mad, it was free, and she was here. This was bad. She was a child. It showed in her reaction to the whole thing. She grinned. She joked. She wasn’t supposed to be here. 

(Too innocent.)

It wasn’t the place for children. 

“This isn’t a game!” He snaps. He’d say more, but didn’t have time. Another dodge. It was mad. He was madder. Sparks danced and electricity flew. A limb - he was calling it an arm - shot forward. An easy catch. His fingers dug in to dark-- Flesh was the wrong word. Whatever it was, it was conductive. Electricity popped and crackled and the beast roared. He threw up his arm to keep debris from his eyes when it retaliated. 

This would be so much easier without her here. With her there, there was a risk. She could get hurt. He had to be careful. Son of a bitch. He glared at nothing in particular, but kept his gaze on the creature. Taking his eyes off it for longer than a moment was suicide. He didn’t care, but, she wouldn’t come back. And, besides, damn thing was already out. He had to get it back in the yard as soon as possible, drag it down and beat it down further. Surrender it to the abyss for consumption. The crisp afternoon air was warmer, here. Rank. The stench of sulfur and brimstone. It reeked of hell, and... Something sweet. Sickly sweet. He wrinkled his nose. He hated it. 

“You need to go.” He snapped. At her, at the demon? No, it was at her. Note the lack of cussing. The lack of an attempt to snap bones to punctuate. This isn’t the place for a child. Whether she could fight or thought she could fight. this wasn’t the place for her. Thunder boomed overhead as lightning sparked between his fingers again. 

“Get out of here!” 

[brothersgrim]

send a 😈 if your character has a crush on mine! || ACCEPTING

 alternatively, send a “ 😈+” if it’s more than a crush!

@perditos asked: 😈+ “so obsessed he would literally eat you” Bray Wyatt w/ ‘Taker

He shudders. Full-body shudders.

"I coulda gone an awful long time without hearing that." He says, then cracks his knuckles.

"But if he shows his face? I will gladly crush Bray Wyatt."

[brothersgrim]

RANDOM ASKS || ALWAYS ACCEPTING!

@perditos asked: Neraine sat at the kitchen table, hands folded over her forehead, staring at a bowl of placid, unmoving water. Water that had remained stubbornly liquid for the past ten minutes. “This is ridiculous,” she growled. “I have been accidentally freezing everything I touch for the past six months and now that I want to do it, I can’t. This makes no sense.”

The reaper says nothing; only hums a single note and nods. He is thinking, digesting. It’s an interesting situation. … In a lot of ways. He’s trying not to think about all of it at once. He can deal with it later. He had to help Neraine right now. 

‘“You’re overthinking it.” He says, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe. The floorboards creak quietly under his weight. He regards her carefully, brow furrowed. Notes the tension in her frame that seems almost alien in a dancer. “Tryin’ to force it when you’re not actually ready. And it knows you ain't there.” He shrugs off the door and walks a careful arc around the table. For another moment, he studies her. She still looks so rough after the past few days she had. Thin, dark circles under her eyes, barely holding on. He could relate. She’s frustrated, too, but that’s no deduction. It’s obvious. And underneath that frustration is desperation, panic, and fear. 

Again, he could relate. It was different for him and Kane, he knew - whether or not they remembered a time before they were entirely what they were, they had been born to the left of humanity. They could always do things others couldn’t. From what she’d told him, her own abilities were a newer development. For Kane and himself, while they didn’t remember their childhood, he at least remembered enough to know that for their family, this was normal; Neraine had no such roots to try tracing back. This was a mystery to her. He stands to the side, keeps his eyes on the bowl. After a forced exhale, he reaches out and puts his own fingers into the water. Frost seeps out from his touch, but that’s not the main point. He tugs the bowl away from her, carefully. And then a burst of sparks. The water shoots up then falls back in the bowl - or, mostly. There’s the usual splatter on the table. He turns and reaches to grab a dish towel off the knife before he continues. 

“The more you try to force it, the harder it’s gonna fight back, until you figure out how it works. It’s a damn good way to get yourself hurt.” He pauses again, surveying the table to make sure that he’s gotten every last drop cleaned up. … He makes a note to himself to polish the table tonight, then hangs the towel back up. He pulls out the chair opposite her, takes a seat, and folds his arms on the table. 

“You gotta start from the beginning. I want you to think about all those times you accidentally froze something. What was happening? What were you feeling?”

[brothersgrim]

OLD MEMES JAY IS FINALLY ANSWERING

@teardownheaven asked: "i can't leave you alone for one minute, can i?" Aeleus sounds exasperated but he's still gazing at 'Taker with nothing but love and adoration on his face.

He huffs a laugh, even as he scrubs some blood from his lip. It’ll be sore in the morning. 

“Guess not.” He says, letting the door close behind him. He rolls his neck from side to side, grunting at the release of stiffness. That's also going to hurt tomorrow. Oh well. He’s had worse. He’ll live. He’s got some scrapes and scuffs, some bruises, but he’s fine. He won. (Not like he’s surprised. It was the goddamn Spirit Squad. Sure, it was five on one; if they’d brought a few more friends it would’ve been fair.)

He reaches forward to hook his fingers through the belt loops of Ael’s jeans to tug him closer for a quick kiss. It’s safe here - the door to his dressing room remains closed, the lock obediently clicking into place as he bunts his forehead against his husband’s. 

“You knew I was a headache when you proposed, can’t be all that surprised.”

[brothersgrim]

sylencias​:

Ripley sat at the man’s feet. His tail, long and bedraggled, swept across the pavement. A keen awareness flashed in his red eyes. Celia turned and hooked her leg on the edge of the curb. Her gaze lifted-up, and up, and up. Ripley was a good three feet at the shoulders and the man more than doubled that. On the average, small town street of a boring desert hamlet he stood-out like a sore thumb. Like the entire block was caving beneath his weight. There was something odd going on but Celia’s blunted sixth sense couldn’t pinpoint it. Ripley yawned and returned to her side. His head rested at her shoulder and she scratched him beneath his chin. 

What do you notice? Ripley queried. 

Don’t be coy, Celia snapped. She grinned, rueful, for the benefit of the man. Do you know this guy?

Something like him, a long time ago. 

“Well, I’m not sure belong is the right word,” Celia chuckled. 

She pushed to her feet. With a sweep of her hand she brushed dust and sand off her pants. The grit was intrusive. She could taste the quartz and feldspar on her tongue. Sweat beaded on the small of her back. She was all squints as she looked-up at him. A poor attempt by her eyes to arrest details from the glare of the sun. Older, world trodden, dark hair, green eyes, he fit in with the town.  By now it was notable when a man was taller than her though and he was really taller than her. She glanced back down at Ripley. The wolfhound leaned against her hip, unconcerned that he was breaking her balance. 

“Attached is more like it,” she observed. “I travel a lot. It’s nice to have company.”

 You can trust him, Ripley told her. This man’s favor will go a long way. 

“Truth is, I arrived in town just this morning,” her hands fell on her hips, “and I’m trying to figure out where to head next. If you don’t mind, do you need any work done? I’ll do just about any labor you ask– be it for cash or a bed, depending on what you’re willing to spare.”

He watched the dog for a moment. It moves like a dog. It almost looks like a dog. But it’s not a dog. Interesting. He’d keep an eye on it. He exhaled, then looked back to her. Kept the dog in his peripherals. Just to be safe, of course, just to be cautious. Had to be mindful of this sort of thing. 

“Right.” He said simply. A curious arch of his brow. He supposed that makes sense. Something like that wasn’t made to be owned. 

(He could relate.)

He crosses his arms, watching. He’s seen his fair share of strange. Seen enough to know there’s some conversation going on he’s not privy to. Hell, he wasn’t one to judge. He and Kane did it all the time. ... Did make him think, though. What was she doing here? What was she? It’s not like they get a lot of strange wanderers-- No, wait, yes they did. It had just been a while, and she wasn’t one of the usual strange wanderers. She didn’t seem malicious, though. Didn’t seem... Too strange. Not dead. Not of Hell. As long as she didn’t cause any problems, and ideally didn’t stick around too long, she wasn’t his jurisdiction. The dog was toeing the line, but he knew a grim when he saw one. He tended to think he had a shaky agreement with their kind. (And it wasn’t from his yard; so, again. Not his jurisdiction, as long as it didn’t cause trouble.) 

The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his eyes as he tilted his head. Obscured his face. The frown was still evident, though. Just a part of his essence, a near-permanent expression. But there’s no malice in it, now; he’s only curious, only watchful. Making an assessment. The faint breeze stirs his hair, plays with the ends of his coat. His weight shifts onto his back foot and he crosses his arms, tilts his head to one side, furrows his brow just so. He wasn’t sure about letting a stranger who ran with a grim close to the yard, but he’d hear her out, at least; he wasn’t a monster.

Mostly.

“What kinda work?”

[brothersgrim]

OLD MEMES JAY IS FINALLY ANSWERING

@drkroots asked: tali: “ and, despite it all, i survived. “ - taker 

He nods. She did. They all did. Somehow, impossible as it may have been, they’d survived. It was spite on his end; he imagined it was the same for her. For all of them. For whatever reason, they had decided not to die. And for whatever reason, they had ended up here. Here, in the Valley, at the funeral home.  

“Sometimes, that’s all you can do.” He says, crossing his arms and looking out at the horizon. It’s a still day, a quiet day. Almost too quiet - he’ll have to be sure to do some extra rounds today. “Question is, now that you have survived…” He turns his attention back to her. 

“What comes next?”

[brothersgrim]

Send 🗣 to hear what my muse thinks of yours || ACCEPTING

@perditos asked: 🗣 Celia and ‘Taker

“She’s got a long way to go.” He says with a sniff, crossing his arms before scratching at his jaw. “I don’t mean in her craft. I’m not gonna pretend I know enough about that to comment. I mean for herself.”  He sighs through his nose and shakes his head. 

“Her soul is marked by guilt, and those kinds of stains don’t wash away easily.” 

“For her sake, she better hope she can come to terms with her sins before they devour her whole.”

[brothersgrim]

RANDOM ASKS || ALWAYS ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: Which one of you really deserved to put an end to Paul? 

“Either of us.” Taker says with his arms folded. Kane nods. In spite of his agreement, he’s looking down. He shuffles a bit, but Taker reaches over and gives his brother’s shoulder a nudge with the back of his knuckles. That seems to help a bit. 

“We needed him gone.” Kane crosses his arms tighter over his chest as he speaks. It’s hard for him to admit, even now, but… He’s figuring it out. It’s not a linear process, but he’s figuring it out. His words are stilted, almost rehearsed. Something he’s saying whether or not he believes it. A part of him knows, he knows, that Paul wasn’t a ‘dad’. He was barely even a father. … But for so many years, Paul was all he had. Paul was the one who brought him food (when he remembered). Paul was the one who kept him safe (Paul was the one who locked him away). Paul was the only one who spoke to him (Paul screamed at him for every little mistake). 

It was complicated. 

That’s why his next words are almost a struggle. 

“He was only making things worse.” He has to look down when he says this. It’s true, isn’t it? In the end, Paul had only been out to hurt them. He hadn’t cared about them. … So why did it hurt so much to admit? Why did it hurt at all? His grip on his own arms tightens. And then there’s a cool pressure on the back of his neck when his brother reaches over. 

“You did what you had to, little brother.” He says. And then, “Kane is right. What matters is he’s gone. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”

[brothersgrim]

     𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃   "  𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇   𝐎𝐑   𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒  “   𝐅𝐎𝐑   𝐌𝐘   𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄   𝐓𝐎   𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑   𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘   𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓   𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒.   𝐍𝐎   𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: Smash or pass, Bray Wyatt

"Pass."

"Pass. I'm not interested in anyone who drools over my brother like that."

"I'm not interested in anyone who gargles with gator piss."

[brothersgrim]

OLD ASKS JAY IS FINALLY GETTING TO

@cltchmps asked: “ you should know me better than that by now . “     ( for undertaker <3 ) 

“I should, shouldn’t I?” He snorts. She had never hidden who she was, not from him, not from anyone. It’s something he’d always respected about her. … But he still had to admit this was stupid. Real stupid. The lengths this kid would go to… She was gonna get herself killed. Probably sooner, rather than later. He hoped he was wrong about that. 

“All things the same, you might wanna be ready. When she sees you’re still standing, she’s gonna come for you.” With a sniff, he scrubs at his jaw and looks her up and down. 

“Put her in the ground, girl.”

[brothersgrim]

OLD MEMES JAY IS FINALLY GETTING TO

@telekinela asked: “I don’t see you as a monster.” (taker) 

That… Catches him off guard. He blinks at her. 

“What brought that on?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. He’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t understand kids. Maybe there’s a reason for that. He doesn’t think too hard about it. Instead, he just goes back to his work. In this case, washing his hands. The water still runs red, soap bubbles foaming pink as he scrubs. He’s used to it, though he idly wishes he had some of the soap from the morgue back home. It would do the job so much faster. But, he wasn’t at home. He was here. So he would have to make do. He finally gets enough grime off that he’s satisfied, cuts the water off, and shakes his hands once, twice, before reaching for some paper towel. 

“You alright?”

[brothersgrim]

wildpawed‌:

He was all too familiar with the look his uncle was giving him. So much so that his smile widened, but then being referred to as ‘boy’ cut his arrogance in half. He hated that. In the way all teenagers did. A slight snarl, barring of the teeth before he leant on the table and actually accessed the situation he was in. Eyes looked at the lock, then to the books Adam had prepared for the test. Still being something of an arrogant little pup, he decided he’d try without them first.

Knuckles were cracked and fingers wriggled. Then, he began to motion intricate shapes while saying his incantations, the Latin rolling off his tongue perfectly. While it looked like things were going the way he wanted, the lock and magic that bound it resisted. Resister so much that Isaiah’s impatience got the better of him for a brief second and it was enough of a distraction to make him fumble.

In response to that, with the pressure of a small explosion beneath it, the lock was sent into the air, just missed hitting the ceiling and came down with an almighty crack against the wooden table.

“Okay, Uncle….” He didn’t even bother to look the elder in the eye. He just sat his butt down and picked up the first book on the pile. Expression was determined, but shattered once eyes met the first page in. “And you’re expecting me to also translate Sumerian?”

There were ways to deal with bullheaded teenagers. Some required a gentle hand. Some needed a patient guide. Isaiah was not one of those. He needed something a little more... Authoritative. But he also needed proof. Just being told that he couldn’t do something would never be enough. He had to know how much of a challenge it was first-hand. Otherwise, he’d never believe there was something he couldn’t do. 

The Undertaker was fairly sure that level of arrogance didn’t come from his side of the family. 

Would’ve gotten them all killed. 

So, he sits back and watches. Watches and waits. What his patience is rewarded with is exactly what he’d expected. He doesn’t flinch at the explosion. He doesn’t even bat an eye. Just tracks it with his gaze as it goes up and clunks back down. His expression remains neutral when his nephew speaks. He picks up the lock, glances at the wood of the table - thankfully undamaged - and dusts it off with his palm before he sets it back down again, folding his arms on the table. He regards his nephew again and nods once.  

“I am.” He says, sitting back straight in his chair. He knows that look. And he’d almost feel sorry, if it weren’t the desired effect. Arrogance and magic were not a good mix. 

“You know what I always tell you. Either you do it right, or there are consequences.” He lifts one hand off of the table to wave at the book. “This is your chance to prove to me you can do things right.”