The blade, so true, cuts so easily it hardly seems as if it cuts at all. Paul's hand simply opens of its own accord, and blood is spilling across the deck of a ship as the smell of iron fills the sea air. Midoriya opens his mouth to say something about cutting too deep and immediately regrets it as he tastes it, and he can only see the dark red inside of his eyelids as he hears the gagged protests of the sacrificial victims--
His eyes have been open, and he is kneeling on grass as his head snaps in alarm towards a crack of displaced air. He recognizes the hem of the giant robes. A giant sword hovers as if to harvest the tops of the nearby trees. The Reckoning is a Pthumerian of action, so it is fitting she is prompt.
At this moment, he should make a proper greeting, perhaps bow and clap his palms. All he can do in the feral buzz of his panic is activate the Full Cowl of One For All. Its warmth spreads to fingers gone cold with fear that the one next to him will be taken away again. He grabs Paul's arm despite his claws and opens his mouth in a strangled shout up, up at the helmet lurching against the sky:
"HE'S MINE!" he protests (commands, snarls, pleads) through the red staining his fangs, and he's a coil caught in a surge of rage and pain.
no subject
The blade, so true, cuts so easily it hardly seems as if it cuts at all. Paul's hand simply opens of its own accord, and blood is spilling across the deck of a ship as the smell of iron fills the sea air. Midoriya opens his mouth to say something about cutting too deep and immediately regrets it as he tastes it, and he can only see the dark red inside of his eyelids as he hears the gagged protests of the sacrificial victims--
His eyes have been open, and he is kneeling on grass as his head snaps in alarm towards a crack of displaced air. He recognizes the hem of the giant robes. A giant sword hovers as if to harvest the tops of the nearby trees. The Reckoning is a Pthumerian of action, so it is fitting she is prompt.
At this moment, he should make a proper greeting, perhaps bow and clap his palms. All he can do in the feral buzz of his panic is activate the Full Cowl of One For All. Its warmth spreads to fingers gone cold with fear that the one next to him will be taken away again. He grabs Paul's arm despite his claws and opens his mouth in a strangled shout up, up at the helmet lurching against the sky:
"HE'S MINE!" he protests (commands, snarls, pleads) through the red staining his fangs, and he's a coil caught in a surge of rage and pain.