(no subject)
Who: Commodore Smoker [ brandedjustice ] and Franziska Von Kamra [ prodigal_karma ]
What: Karma demands to know what's going on; Smoker's trying to patch himself up as his logia slowly repairs him. There will be blood.
Where: Smoker's office, docks.
When: Now.
He couldn't shake the smell of blood off of him. The salt, the copper - it all burned down into his throat as he sucked hard on the left-over bits and pieces of cigars he had scrounged up from the trash can. He inhaled hard, burying himself in the bitter ash as his chest throbbed. The Den-Den had been screaming at him all day since the accidental post on the network; people demanded answers, others mocked him, but once voice ran cold and clear and it took all of his will not to burst into tendrils of smoke. For, had he, his injuries would have split open since this world seemed content on giving him misery in all shapes and sizes.
The Commodore groaned; his head had fell back against the seat and his fingers stretched out across a blood-splattered desk, grasping the bullets left over from the fight. They were bitter in his gloved hands and he cracked an eye to watch them. Soaked in blood, burned by fire and ashed over my smoke. It was horribly poetic and Smoker closed his eyes.
He wanted to sleep all of a sudden, but he knew that would be a horrible idea.
Blood crawled up his throat, but he swallowed it, suffocating it with smoke and ash. He wanted it all to be buried, done with. He would survive this and be out to his usual business by sun-up. And Giovanni would be a dead man.
Though, he should have already been a dead man. So why had he let him go?
The Commodore groaned and touched his lips; the fingers he drew back were red with blood.
What: Karma demands to know what's going on; Smoker's trying to patch himself up as his logia slowly repairs him. There will be blood.
Where: Smoker's office, docks.
When: Now.
He couldn't shake the smell of blood off of him. The salt, the copper - it all burned down into his throat as he sucked hard on the left-over bits and pieces of cigars he had scrounged up from the trash can. He inhaled hard, burying himself in the bitter ash as his chest throbbed. The Den-Den had been screaming at him all day since the accidental post on the network; people demanded answers, others mocked him, but once voice ran cold and clear and it took all of his will not to burst into tendrils of smoke. For, had he, his injuries would have split open since this world seemed content on giving him misery in all shapes and sizes.
The Commodore groaned; his head had fell back against the seat and his fingers stretched out across a blood-splattered desk, grasping the bullets left over from the fight. They were bitter in his gloved hands and he cracked an eye to watch them. Soaked in blood, burned by fire and ashed over my smoke. It was horribly poetic and Smoker closed his eyes.
He wanted to sleep all of a sudden, but he knew that would be a horrible idea.
Blood crawled up his throat, but he swallowed it, suffocating it with smoke and ash. He wanted it all to be buried, done with. He would survive this and be out to his usual business by sun-up. And Giovanni would be a dead man.
Though, he should have already been a dead man. So why had he let him go?
The Commodore groaned and touched his lips; the fingers he drew back were red with blood.