#[killing is only half the fun lets parade the corpses everywhere 4 laughs]

[executare]

“ they are more useful in death ” // two op war mongering vampires walk into a bar...

don’t starve || @hellsingfang

               “You truly think as much, do you?” Lazy amusement quirks the Lord’s thin brow–a look that could be curious if it weren’t for the depth of knowing always shining out of those bottomless, wine-like eyes. There is only certainty to Ayin’s indulgent expression, a polished smile and song-like words to match; silvery, light, and eerily blithe for the matter at hand as he leans his dak crown upon one curled hand. His lashes flutter. A laugh joins his lilting cadence. “Death is all the value there is to certain vermin scurrying the streets. But mere killing by itself–while fitting well enough for things no better than scum underfoot…” A pause. For theatrics more than for purpose. He keeps his companion waiting for mere seconds longer (why not make the occasion last long enough to savour even in its quietest moments?) His gaze is sharp, cruel, and suddenly hungry.

               “It bores me, merely to kill. It bores me, merely to watch the life and colour from their crude and foolish and ugly designs. Pleasure though it is to return them to the filth from whence they came.” A sigh bleeds, no more than a breath between the lull of his words as his emptier hand dances its fingers at the stem of his wine glass. “It would suprise me to hear that you find no craving inside yourself for more. What feeling is there to be had in a kill but what we have felt time and time again? Little. I’d wager you’d agree there is so very little to be found, any longer.”

                The cruelty of his smile worsens more by the minute. The wine glass tentatively entertained by his wandering fingertips is taken languidly into grasp, swayed to watch the moonlight filter through before he ventures so much as a sip of good red. The words he speaks are more delicious to him than wine, either way–but they make the drink all the sweeter for their company as they purr into the dark. “But what is dead is only more of what’s mine to command. A single drop of me sees that the dead will march their rotting flesh to my every whim. And it is more joyous to me to parade the empty, putrid flesh of a friend before the stupidity of their masses. More joyous than killing itself. They will know no better dread of me being here than they do when the dead that I have bent and mangled walks among them. Speaks. Warns. They will not know when I will come for the rest of their sad little lives. Only that I shall. And only that they shall meet endings no less ugly than the messenger I sent to them.“