"I don't care, I told myself." The man's bare chest expands, pulsating back and forth in labor. Staring at the mirror, the hunter wipes a brow drenched in sweat, a stone cold violet gaze reflects back onto him. He runs a hand through his beard, unshaved for months and prickly, gathering and clustering more as every day passes on.Â
No shoes, no shirt, no service. His foot scratches the other's ankle, a hand instinctively gropes a pectoral in a desperate attempt to relax himself, huffs as strong as hurricanes escape in rhythm of Oscare's breathing, a downpour of sweat rolling on down. He droops his head, shaking it -- all being reflected right back at him in the mirror.
"I don't care... I don't... care... No, I don't, not at all." An eerie chuckle escapes him, nearly choking on his sweat and grasps for air. "They don't matter to me at all. Let them die in Thanalan, let those stupid Faces of Mercy strangle them with their own intestines... Swallow their tongues, leave them with holes in between their eyes. Spew their own blood out, hex them to have blood leak from every hole of their bodies..." The hunter finally looks back up at the mirror, seeing his own eyes crack with rusty red veins and pupils smaller than ants. The sweat slowly wears away his face paint, the burn marks they hide come to light. "Let them know their screams! The screams that fuel my very being...!" A bang. The hunter -- or better yet -- sociopath slams his fist down, shaking everything in the table. The mirror collapses on his head, shattering in pure terror from the dark-toned's man thundering strike. Sweat mixes in with blood now, and the breathing isn't as rapid anymore.Â
Oscare scoots back from the broken mirror, slowly walking to the center of his room. His hands travel to the buckle of his belt, deft motions undoing the buckle and slips the belt off his waist. He coils the waist-piece in his hands, looking at the closest wall. Strolling on over, a sly smile takes shape, hands gripping ever so tightly on the plain brown leather belt. He lashes against it, incomprehensible mutters seethe out.Â
"Don't care! Don't. Fucking. Care!"Â
No shoes, no shirt, no service. His foot scratches the other's ankle, a hand instinctively gropes a pectoral in a desperate attempt to relax himself, huffs as strong as hurricanes escape in rhythm of Oscare's breathing, a downpour of sweat rolling on down. He droops his head, shaking it -- all being reflected right back at him in the mirror.
"I don't care... I don't... care... No, I don't, not at all." An eerie chuckle escapes him, nearly choking on his sweat and grasps for air. "They don't matter to me at all. Let them die in Thanalan, let those stupid Faces of Mercy strangle them with their own intestines... Swallow their tongues, leave them with holes in between their eyes. Spew their own blood out, hex them to have blood leak from every hole of their bodies..." The hunter finally looks back up at the mirror, seeing his own eyes crack with rusty red veins and pupils smaller than ants. The sweat slowly wears away his face paint, the burn marks they hide come to light. "Let them know their screams! The screams that fuel my very being...!" A bang. The hunter -- or better yet -- sociopath slams his fist down, shaking everything in the table. The mirror collapses on his head, shattering in pure terror from the dark-toned's man thundering strike. Sweat mixes in with blood now, and the breathing isn't as rapid anymore.Â
Oscare scoots back from the broken mirror, slowly walking to the center of his room. His hands travel to the buckle of his belt, deft motions undoing the buckle and slips the belt off his waist. He coils the waist-piece in his hands, looking at the closest wall. Strolling on over, a sly smile takes shape, hands gripping ever so tightly on the plain brown leather belt. He lashes against it, incomprehensible mutters seethe out.Â
"Don't care! Don't. Fucking. Care!"Â
"Critical fails; for when the GM sobs at night and the players get free checks."
