Hard soles buckled with every step, fissured cracks in the worn rat gray of combat boots, once shadow black leathers splitting and starting to brittle at years of apathetic deterioration that buckled with every uneven step. Savage winds shot through the narrow grey spaces between buildings left behind by the expansion of Kumo and he witnessed it, day by day, when they typical sounds of occupation and life grey more still. Fingers smoothly fidgeted back and forth, sharp steel by far the most properly maintained element of all that he wore grinding with a shudder as keen, flesh-hungry blades smoothly screeched and bound off long abandoned byways of the yawning face of a still, motionless world.
Hungry, always hungry, haunted by the misgivings of his long dead forebears and alone in his disuetude, who'd only prevented himself from entombing himself deep in this dead world by predating on other scavengers like him, who dared to prey on those that asked not for the cruel predilections of said scavengers. Sometimes playing hero was just an excused to keep his mind sharp, from slipping into the shape of a beast in the form of a man.As he walked, sometimes when he was revenous, feeling the footing beneath his sanity slipping further and further, in these moments he could see within the buried layers of lost memories which shot raw, seething adreneline through the mind to awaken his conciousness to the very idea of becoming what he'd promised he would never do.
Approaching an intersection he would crouch down and cling to the blasted and obliterated pavement below, steel claws terminating at the end of each finger firmly embedding the softened stone-like material and held him up as glassy eyes peered from beneath a windtattered cowl, observing, listening to the howling cacophony of the dying dreams that still swept through, desperately trying to make themselves reality even whilst utterly deprived of any means to do so. Sometimes he saw dreams of his own, which haunted him every night, depriving him of what others might call precious sleep. Body and mind only clung on through the curious and miraculous power that his blood contained, such a thing which he never asked for but often considered a gift.
And then, there came a SCREAM.
Part of him felt a sense of urgency, only wracked by a sense of despair as one day he did hope that someday his luck would run out. Like aflitting shadowhe sprung towards the rotting structures that still clung to a past long gone. Digging his claws, pushing his body adeptly as he contorted and flung himself through walls, slithered through the shadows and crawled like something distinctly inhumane. He knew it was too late, the vile screwflies and predatory insects called men were always more famished than him, deprived of all sense and reason. Sliding in through an opening, his shadow cast down towards a corner opposite to a trio of men huddled over a makeshift kitchen. On the floor, a famished woman and a distinctly dark substance which the little light from above couldn't penetrate to the floor. There were others, shapeless lumps laying motionless in the darker reaches of the room below.
and the parasites, they were consuming what little food remained therein, amusement spread rife in their face.
"Their Blood. Their Blood will be my blood." whispered inwardly to himself as he dragged his claws down each wall that terminated to that far corner of the room. Hairs stood up on one of the men, Sukejuro was rather careless as he neither sympathized for their fates, he did not care of the cruelty of this spider-like dance that pervaded his senses. "Poor little ticks, all fat on ill gotten-blood, yes? Your depravity has come to an end, I am sure of it, don't finish your feast too soon, since you're dead whether or not you try to run or feast. Such is the fate of parasites, yes?" projected a sort of amusement that defied the wickedness of his own actions. Long ago he had determined deceit, acting and spreading fear were the most appropriate response to most issues that he typically had to deal with.
Hungry, always hungry, haunted by the misgivings of his long dead forebears and alone in his disuetude, who'd only prevented himself from entombing himself deep in this dead world by predating on other scavengers like him, who dared to prey on those that asked not for the cruel predilections of said scavengers. Sometimes playing hero was just an excused to keep his mind sharp, from slipping into the shape of a beast in the form of a man.As he walked, sometimes when he was revenous, feeling the footing beneath his sanity slipping further and further, in these moments he could see within the buried layers of lost memories which shot raw, seething adreneline through the mind to awaken his conciousness to the very idea of becoming what he'd promised he would never do.
Approaching an intersection he would crouch down and cling to the blasted and obliterated pavement below, steel claws terminating at the end of each finger firmly embedding the softened stone-like material and held him up as glassy eyes peered from beneath a windtattered cowl, observing, listening to the howling cacophony of the dying dreams that still swept through, desperately trying to make themselves reality even whilst utterly deprived of any means to do so. Sometimes he saw dreams of his own, which haunted him every night, depriving him of what others might call precious sleep. Body and mind only clung on through the curious and miraculous power that his blood contained, such a thing which he never asked for but often considered a gift.
And then, there came a SCREAM.
Part of him felt a sense of urgency, only wracked by a sense of despair as one day he did hope that someday his luck would run out. Like aflitting shadowhe sprung towards the rotting structures that still clung to a past long gone. Digging his claws, pushing his body adeptly as he contorted and flung himself through walls, slithered through the shadows and crawled like something distinctly inhumane. He knew it was too late, the vile screwflies and predatory insects called men were always more famished than him, deprived of all sense and reason. Sliding in through an opening, his shadow cast down towards a corner opposite to a trio of men huddled over a makeshift kitchen. On the floor, a famished woman and a distinctly dark substance which the little light from above couldn't penetrate to the floor. There were others, shapeless lumps laying motionless in the darker reaches of the room below.
and the parasites, they were consuming what little food remained therein, amusement spread rife in their face.
"Their Blood. Their Blood will be my blood." whispered inwardly to himself as he dragged his claws down each wall that terminated to that far corner of the room. Hairs stood up on one of the men, Sukejuro was rather careless as he neither sympathized for their fates, he did not care of the cruelty of this spider-like dance that pervaded his senses. "Poor little ticks, all fat on ill gotten-blood, yes? Your depravity has come to an end, I am sure of it, don't finish your feast too soon, since you're dead whether or not you try to run or feast. Such is the fate of parasites, yes?" projected a sort of amusement that defied the wickedness of his own actions. Long ago he had determined deceit, acting and spreading fear were the most appropriate response to most issues that he typically had to deal with.