Tolerance was indeed a flimsy garment, signified boldly by the lurking petulance permeating eyes of vermilion tint
( not unlike smoke smothering testimonies of war, charcoal skies w a i l i n g —— ).
Ashen eyes darkened while a peculiar glint hooded Vanya’s hollow gaze toward the Canadian’s droning words – taunts, taunts… each small and meager, yet each gnawing away at resistance like the jaws of termites feasting upon rotting wood.
An onslaught of aggravation threatened to abscond feverish lips, the onerous interplay of vowels and consonants starving to be heard in scathing remarks. Vitality ablaze, alight — but it instead entices grinding teeth, lips snapping shut to bar a guttural hiss as the beast’s advance, and deafening roar sends a flinch rippling through his features.
A reflexive step back was taken in defense, attempting to at least place a healthy cushion of space between him and the deadly bulk of muscle and tusk. Fluid motions then sprang into the Russian’s limbs, stimulating a reach for the interior of his coat; and from there, the metallic sheen of a TT-30 Tokarev was brandished.
Contrary to previous reactions, the Russian stood his ground. Now roped into a staring match with this… thing, thoughts splintering richly, lavishly —— a multitude of directions, and none quite in his company’s favor. Low on p a t i e n c e, evidently.
“If you want to keep your filthy pet alive, I would suggest you calling it off." A dangerous edge marred his voice, words seething with barely contained snarl. Tolerating these cryptic individuals sated his appetite for games. A metallic cling signified a bullet being cocked into place, and the nozzle remained aimed directly for the beast’s right eye.
“You have three seconds.”
( not unlike smoke smothering testimonies of war, charcoal skies w a i l i n g —— ).
Ashen eyes darkened while a peculiar glint hooded Vanya’s hollow gaze toward the Canadian’s droning words – taunts, taunts… each small and meager, yet each gnawing away at resistance like the jaws of termites feasting upon rotting wood.
An onslaught of aggravation threatened to abscond feverish lips, the onerous interplay of vowels and consonants starving to be heard in scathing remarks. Vitality ablaze, alight — but it instead entices grinding teeth, lips snapping shut to bar a guttural hiss as the beast’s advance, and deafening roar sends a flinch rippling through his features.
A reflexive step back was taken in defense, attempting to at least place a healthy cushion of space between him and the deadly bulk of muscle and tusk. Fluid motions then sprang into the Russian’s limbs, stimulating a reach for the interior of his coat; and from there, the metallic sheen of a TT-30 Tokarev was brandished.
Contrary to previous reactions, the Russian stood his ground. Now roped into a staring match with this… thing, thoughts splintering richly, lavishly —— a multitude of directions, and none quite in his company’s favor. Low on p a t i e n c e, evidently.
“If you want to keep your filthy pet alive, I would suggest you calling it off." A dangerous edge marred his voice, words seething with barely contained snarl. Tolerating these cryptic individuals sated his appetite for games. A metallic cling signified a bullet being cocked into place, and the nozzle remained aimed directly for the beast’s right eye.
“You have three seconds.”
