towerofanimus | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Characters:

dualscars and everyone else.
Setting: The second library, very late at night.
Format: Starting with action brackets, but I'll match.
Summary: Dualscar partakes in an activity that does not involve violence!
Warnings: None, yet.

[those transversing the second library later at night may find the orphaner perusing its shelves, though with little to no apparent criteria for his selections. he looks as he has for the last few weeks: not to his standards of vanity. and with the more recent shenanigans involving nightmarish worlds? a touch on the battered side.

more notable, however, is that with every book deemed unsatisfactory, its chucked unceremoniously to the floor. only, that it isn't: to be thrown into a growing pile of them. one that, in fact, looks like quite a few shelves had gone into its creation. by now, several individuals could sit uncomfortably upon its hard-cover summits.

but if this requires any sort of attention at all, it doesn't show. after all, both holding a book and turning the page with one hand requires more effort than he'd care to admit.]

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Nothin' bad about it, 'sides the fact that it's missin'.

[the last word comes out as a hiss. yep, that shallow amount of mirth shown beforehand is already long-gone. he shelves the book he'd been absentmindedly struggling to leaf through in favor of a new one.]

That, an' it really isn't any 'a your business.

[Eyeroll]

I noticed. That's pretty much what's wrong with it. Usually arms are attached, in my experience.

Where is it?

[he shrugs, now turning away from signless completely. his back to the enemy. it's almost something of a challenge from his end: attack me, i fucking dare you. but that's just him being hopeful that he may have a chance at retaliation.]

Threw it to the sharks.

[heading back towards his pile now so that he may incorporate the new building blocks.]

[Lucky for Dualscar, Signless is into peace and non-violence and all that fucking hoofbeast shit. So the red-blood just follows him quietly as he wanders about, watching him build his pile]

Are you shitting me?

No, I'm not.

[yeah, that's really infuriating too. once at the pile, he stops to toss the selected books into what is very nearly a mountain of them. a few tumble downward at being agitated, but he pays them no mind. what is paid mind is that he has a stupid feeling the inquiries about his arm have to do with its reattachment.]

Why, thinkin' 'a givin' it to the Condesce as a present?

No. What a shitty fucking present. I wouldn't give your stinking, rotting arm to my kismesis for a present. [Wait.] ...So obviously the Condesce wouldn't rate, since she's even worse! [Hang on. Did that make sense?]

Anyway.

I'm supposed to be a nurse at the infirmary. Have you had it properly treated or did you just wrap it up and let it fester like the grubfisted moron you are?

[no, it didn't. but whatever the second-half of that was even supposed to mean, it's lost entirely on him on account of the first. it's a fucking insult. not the words themselves, but their implications-- to him, to Her Highness.

it takes all his control not to swing a fist at him right then and there, to maybe draw his sword and skewer him through and be done with it all. that is, until next time. the subject of his arm is forgotten. and for the first time since, he turns round to look the lowblood head-on. it's not a pretty gaze to be met with.]

Your kismesis.

[and colder than ice, that tone is.]

[Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He meets that gaze without flinching or dropping his own eyes, though his own expression is more inscrutable instead of challenging]

I don't have a kismesis. You volunteering? No? Then butt out.

[ooooh, not a nice thing to say either. but no, he isn't volunteering-- not quite yet, anyway. maybe when he gets over the fact that he's disgusted with himself at even harboring those type of feelings for... someone he shouldn't. but at least he's over his denial by now, and has garnered yet another reason to brood for countless hours alone in his room.

his sword is slowly drawn. deliberately slow, so that the metal makes a rather prolonged grating noise against its sheathe. he doesn't quite point it at him yet, but it isn't quite lowered either.]

I suggest you keep your black yearnings to yourself, if you wish to keep your life.

[Unbelievable. They're going to fight now, because of a slip of the tongue? Signless tenses at the sight of that sword, but the look he gives Dualscar is flat and skeptical.

Mentally, he's ready to pull his sickles from his specibus, though.]

Jealous, fin-face? I wonder who of. I'm sensing a bit of black yearning here, right now.

Again with the self-aggrandizin'.

[he hisses, grip tightening on his sword to where it bleaches his knuckles. his teeth are grit together, almost painfully so, all multiple rows of them. but when he speaks, it hardly betrays just how angry he is. or maybe it does, with how flat his tone is; expression aside, he never could mask his emotions as well as he hoped.]

I'm jealous 'a nothin'. But the fact you'd think that you've a chance in hell 'a becomin' a lover of Her is absolutely heinous.

[Yeah, Signless is not fooled. It's pretty obvious that Dualscar is pissed off.]

Who says I think I have a chance in hell, even if I wanted her?

[a sneer.]

You said it yourself, mutant. Your kismesis.

It was a fucking slip of the tongue! Fuck, you're so goddamned sensitive I'm surprised you can stand to wear clothing! Does the rough weave chafe your shame globes, Orphaner? It might explain a few things.

[bristling, visibly even, shoulders raising just the tiniest. if he had fur? it'd be standing on end by now.]

Slips can be tellin'.

[... nonetheless, as much as he hates to admit it, he does have a point. the sword is sheathed just like that, though not without a bit of uneccessary force.]

My point stands.

Your point is so covered in load gaper waste that it's not even recognizable as a sharp object. And I still think you're jealous or something.

[He snorts] Of whom, I'm not even sure.

[He doesn't actually think Dualscar is jealous of Signless' interest - if he HAD any interest, which he didn't, no way - in the Condesce. But it's too amusing to needle him.]

All right, Signless. Then answer me this:

What would I be jealous of?

Fuck if I know. [Leaning against a bookshelf] Maybe you have a secret kinky yearning to slum it up with lowblood filth. Maybe you've got a fetish for mutants. Come to think of it, all the signs point to yes.

[he drums his fingers on the hilt of his sword idly as he listens, the contact of claws on steel rather obtrusive to the words. nonetheless, his attention is held-- and to his irritation.

his eyes flick to the summoner's shoes, and up slowly to finally hold his gaze. studious, perhaps. maybe, his eyes narrow as the other finishes.]

I've not the faintest idea as to what those 'signs' would be, let alone any that suggest a more.. pitch hatred for you.

[Since Signless doesn't actually care if Dualscar wants his body, it doesn't bother him much as the highblood checks him out. Not much. It's a bit obtrusive, and he struggles to keep his expression casual and his hands free to grab his sickles if need be.

As Dualscar finally speaks, he gives a shrug] If you say so. I'm not the one who threw a fucking book at my head. If that isn't wriggler-level black flirting, I don't know what is. And I've seen a lot of romance movies.

[the sneer returns, followed by a noise of distaste. he whips about, cape fluttering behind him rather impressively, and so turns away from the sufferer completely once more.]

Then we're done here.

[He laughs]

Next time you lose an arm, come to the infirmary and I'll sew it back on for you.

[NOT EVEN DIGNIFYING THAT WITH A RESPONSE. just. stalking off.

B| yes fuck you signless, in all definitions of the word.]

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