Adrenaline’s still flooding his veins as he stands there, shaken and still, watching through a daze as his hand finally curls into a fist and drops to his side. Like a slap to the face, it’s the question that brings him back. He lifts his head, catching Zevran’s gaze from the corner of his eye and cutting him a flat stare. Moment by moment, the elf is able to becomes someone recognizable and unrecognizable to him, and Isaac has little sense of to who - or to which side of him - he is speaking. He has gone from being an enemy to being Isaac. Though not Rosso. Something's missing -- maybe lost forever.
“Penance?” He says into the darkness, throwing the word away like a meaningless joke, and a laugh joins it. Just as low and cynical and empty. He's being mocked. He must be.
A few humans had always managed to survive the raids, he remembers. Escaping the carnage by squeezing themselves into the darkest, smallest corners of their homes and praying fiercely for salvation, only for the demon troops to come first and drag them, screaming, to the castle looming against the night sky. They became the spoils of war, four or five enough to appease Dracula for a fortnight. Isaac had been pleased to do the honours. And while patiently wiping the flat of his dagger clean, swipe by swipe, and positioning jugs beneath the humans dangling from the dungeon ceiling, he had felt their eyes lock onto him, desperate and pleading as they’d follow every minute movement. He learned to let them search his face for as long as they felt they needed to and talk if they wanted to talk. And he’d stop and listen patiently and gently incline his head, sometimes brushing their cheek so tenderly with the backs of his fingers as they’d tremble. Letting them believe that maybe, just maybe, were they to say the right words, were they to hold his gaze long enough, or beg in the way he had asked, he’d set them free.
“Such great faith you place in words to absolve you,” He remarks bluntly, sliding back into calm. His lips turn up slightly. “How I wish it could.”
Things rustle and clink and clatter as Abel turns its attention to Zevran’s belongings. Clothes and armour are searched and shifted through, all weapons set aside to form a small heap – except for a single dagger the devil takes into its hand. Isaac slinks to his servant’s side, silent and still as he draws energy from deep within himself and charges his hands with it, pale light pulsing around them. And as he thrusts his palms forward, he directs the blast of energy to the blades. The light envelopes them, promptly expanding to form a shield around them. A perfect sphere, hovering and transparent, its outline faintly visible. The same technique that had kept others from tampering with the sculptures he had left Hector.
From Abel’s open hand he slips the dagger free. Hefting it. Studying it. Pacing with it and gauging its ability to inflict pain as he does. It’s an unhurried process ending with a sharp twist of his heel and whip-like snap of his arm that sends it flying towards Zevran.
Only that the tip buries itself into the bare, earthen wall, several feet from his head. It’s the only one of his weapons he will return.
“In one minute’s time, you shall be freed from your chains and that dagger alone you will leave with. But heed me well—“
His voice dips into a lower register, every step bringing him closer. It's the Crow he's addressing now, the part of Zevran who has looked him in the eye and seen him for a soulless animal. This is the Zevran that is most dangerous. The Zevran he imagines will twist around and bite the instant he has the chance.
“Should you but think to turn your body or blade against me, I promise you, I will come for you, and there is no corner of this miserable cage where I will not hunt you down, no poison you can concoct nor trap you can set nor man behind which you might think to hide that will save you. There are creatures more fearsome than your Crows and magisters and there is nothing they stand to lose should your allies happen upon your mangled body and hope to exact bloody vengeance. The Devil is with me, Crow - and he would have me hang you by your entrails for a slip of your tongue. Remember this well, if nothing more - and count your blessings that he and I are not of one mind... even as he lives in mine.”
TW for.... the usual. The same as the other warnings in this thread.
“Penance?” He says into the darkness, throwing the word away like a meaningless joke, and a laugh joins it. Just as low and cynical and empty. He's being mocked. He must be.
A few humans had always managed to survive the raids, he remembers. Escaping the carnage by squeezing themselves into the darkest, smallest corners of their homes and praying fiercely for salvation, only for the demon troops to come first and drag them, screaming, to the castle looming against the night sky. They became the spoils of war, four or five enough to appease Dracula for a fortnight. Isaac had been pleased to do the honours. And while patiently wiping the flat of his dagger clean, swipe by swipe, and positioning jugs beneath the humans dangling from the dungeon ceiling, he had felt their eyes lock onto him, desperate and pleading as they’d follow every minute movement. He learned to let them search his face for as long as they felt they needed to and talk if they wanted to talk. And he’d stop and listen patiently and gently incline his head, sometimes brushing their cheek so tenderly with the backs of his fingers as they’d tremble. Letting them believe that maybe, just maybe, were they to say the right words, were they to hold his gaze long enough, or beg in the way he had asked, he’d set them free.
“Such great faith you place in words to absolve you,” He remarks bluntly, sliding back into calm. His lips turn up slightly. “How I wish it could.”
Things rustle and clink and clatter as Abel turns its attention to Zevran’s belongings. Clothes and armour are searched and shifted through, all weapons set aside to form a small heap – except for a single dagger the devil takes into its hand. Isaac slinks to his servant’s side, silent and still as he draws energy from deep within himself and charges his hands with it, pale light pulsing around them. And as he thrusts his palms forward, he directs the blast of energy to the blades. The light envelopes them, promptly expanding to form a shield around them. A perfect sphere, hovering and transparent, its outline faintly visible. The same technique that had kept others from tampering with the sculptures he had left Hector.
From Abel’s open hand he slips the dagger free. Hefting it. Studying it. Pacing with it and gauging its ability to inflict pain as he does. It’s an unhurried process ending with a sharp twist of his heel and whip-like snap of his arm that sends it flying towards Zevran.
Only that the tip buries itself into the bare, earthen wall, several feet from his head. It’s the only one of his weapons he will return.
“In one minute’s time, you shall be freed from your chains and that dagger alone you will leave with. But heed me well—“
His voice dips into a lower register, every step bringing him closer. It's the Crow he's addressing now, the part of Zevran who has looked him in the eye and seen him for a soulless animal. This is the Zevran that is most dangerous. The Zevran he imagines will twist around and bite the instant he has the chance.
“Should you but think to turn your body or blade against me, I promise you, I will come for you, and there is no corner of this miserable cage where I will not hunt you down, no poison you can concoct nor trap you can set nor man behind which you might think to hide that will save you. There are creatures more fearsome than your Crows and magisters and there is nothing they stand to lose should your allies happen upon your mangled body and hope to exact bloody vengeance. The Devil is with me, Crow - and he would have me hang you by your entrails for a slip of your tongue. Remember this well, if nothing more - and count your blessings that he and I are not of one mind... even as he lives in mine.”