[But it's not Teacher - or John as people seem to be calling him - that strikes. Oscar might catch the barest glimpse of eyes as black as the empty darkness of the void, as hateful as a demon and an angel combined. But only for a split second. Because in mere moments, they disappear.
And in mere moments, they're right behind him, and their fingers reach out to grab his hair and pull. Hard enough to hurt, certainly. Hard enough to leave a mark, certainly. Their blood isn't for show.
His attack is interrupted by the Real Knife cutting his rifle clean in half, with a red gleam and a vicious swipe, it's like tissue paper, and all the blood magic in the world won't protect him or his weapon from the wrath of the demon that comes.
Their voice is soft, amused, playing at friendliness.]
You don't have much of a survival instinct, do you, Oscar?
[They tug him forward, and in moments they're bringing him out into the open for slaughter. When they next speak, there's nothing soft about them, and black empty eyes stare down at him like a sacrificial animal on the altar of a wicked god.
Except there are no real gods here, are there? Only a collection of corrupt abominations clinging on to a past that wasn't truly theirs to begin with. Ghosts of an idea, more than anything.
Well. An example needs to be set for interference, regardless. And Oscar presented himself happily.]
You really shouldn't have come here and meddled. [They kick his feet out from under him and have the knife readied to stab him through the heart. He has a few moments, really.]
no subject
And in mere moments, they're right behind him, and their fingers reach out to grab his hair and pull. Hard enough to hurt, certainly. Hard enough to leave a mark, certainly. Their blood isn't for show.
His attack is interrupted by the Real Knife cutting his rifle clean in half, with a red gleam and a vicious swipe, it's like tissue paper, and all the blood magic in the world won't protect him or his weapon from the wrath of the demon that comes.
Their voice is soft, amused, playing at friendliness.]
You don't have much of a survival instinct, do you, Oscar?
[They tug him forward, and in moments they're bringing him out into the open for slaughter. When they next speak, there's nothing soft about them, and black empty eyes stare down at him like a sacrificial animal on the altar of a wicked god.
Except there are no real gods here, are there? Only a collection of corrupt abominations clinging on to a past that wasn't truly theirs to begin with. Ghosts of an idea, more than anything.
Well. An example needs to be set for interference, regardless. And Oscar presented himself happily.]
You really shouldn't have come here and meddled. [They kick his feet out from under him and have the knife readied to stab him through the heart. He has a few moments, really.]