(no subject)
The other throws himself forwards, swinging a fist that shatters the table thrown at him. He advances, crushing splintered wood beneath his feet, and swings another blow forwards, but only succeeds in hitting empty air. Shards of wood stick out of his fingers and knuckles, blood is dripping down his thin fingers. He would have been beautiful, once, and the Blood had been most favourable upon him, but his rage was apparent and ugly.
Another hefts something, large, heavy- metal (this is his house) and brings it down upon the raging other with a comparitively unstoppable preternatural speed. In an effort to now defend himself, the other brings his arms upwards hoping to intercept the weapon. He doesn't.
He cries out, crumpling to the floor as his torso breaks upon impact. Blood starts to seep through his clothes, ribs shattered. The object comes down again, pulvarising the other's already damaged sturnum.
With a single kick, the other is sent sprawling across the room and onto his back. Before he can come to a stop, the elder is upon him, kneeling against him and holding him down, fingers curling under his chin as he gives his head a feirce twist. The younger screams, bones releasing a series of wet poping as the head twists entirely in the wrong direction. Skin rips, and blood spills. With a rough tug, the head comes free, bodily limbs flailing in a desperate plea to regain itself. The eyes roll insanely, all the muscles twitch and spasm, and blood floods from the wounds.
Santino dropped the head, and shattered the lanturn upon the twisting body. The blood ignites quickly, like oil lit, fire quickly spreading across the soiled floor to the body. It gives out a gurgling cry and falls limp as the fire quickly consumes it, shrinking now into bones and then ash. The fire spreads, the floor is burning in ernest and with a swift sense of melancholy, Santino opens the window and leaves.
Why this young thing had hated him, brought him here and turned against him, Santino couldn't quite be sure. Perhaps insane, as comes so easily to their kind, seeing all like him as enemies rather than fellows. Perhaps he was the sire of something older, who knew the dark-eyed Santino once.
Dead minds cannot be read; the cause of this young one's hatred and subsequently, death, were beyond Santino's reach. He runs blood-smeared hands through his hair, partially dismayed and partly joyed at the violence his body had yielded.
He had improved over the ages, improved greatly.
Memories are a dangerous thing.
Another hefts something, large, heavy- metal (this is his house) and brings it down upon the raging other with a comparitively unstoppable preternatural speed. In an effort to now defend himself, the other brings his arms upwards hoping to intercept the weapon. He doesn't.
He cries out, crumpling to the floor as his torso breaks upon impact. Blood starts to seep through his clothes, ribs shattered. The object comes down again, pulvarising the other's already damaged sturnum.
With a single kick, the other is sent sprawling across the room and onto his back. Before he can come to a stop, the elder is upon him, kneeling against him and holding him down, fingers curling under his chin as he gives his head a feirce twist. The younger screams, bones releasing a series of wet poping as the head twists entirely in the wrong direction. Skin rips, and blood spills. With a rough tug, the head comes free, bodily limbs flailing in a desperate plea to regain itself. The eyes roll insanely, all the muscles twitch and spasm, and blood floods from the wounds.
Santino dropped the head, and shattered the lanturn upon the twisting body. The blood ignites quickly, like oil lit, fire quickly spreading across the soiled floor to the body. It gives out a gurgling cry and falls limp as the fire quickly consumes it, shrinking now into bones and then ash. The fire spreads, the floor is burning in ernest and with a swift sense of melancholy, Santino opens the window and leaves.
Why this young thing had hated him, brought him here and turned against him, Santino couldn't quite be sure. Perhaps insane, as comes so easily to their kind, seeing all like him as enemies rather than fellows. Perhaps he was the sire of something older, who knew the dark-eyed Santino once.
Dead minds cannot be read; the cause of this young one's hatred and subsequently, death, were beyond Santino's reach. He runs blood-smeared hands through his hair, partially dismayed and partly joyed at the violence his body had yielded.
He had improved over the ages, improved greatly.
Memories are a dangerous thing.