08-11-2019, 05:06 PM
[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]"Quiet, Selby." The order rumbles low in his throat as he passes the medic - it isn't much in terms of solace, but he aims to give the feline a gruff pat on the back all the same. He wasn't thinking about Selby's guilt, his sickness, even the horror the medic had displayed as Arrow passed in his arms. It was this one, this bastard screaming bloody murder that pushed him over the edge - Delilah was never there to see Arrow fall, never felt the pain of seeing a life slip from innocent eyes. It was only convenient that she appeared as soon as Tanglewood was beginning to recover.
"Now... Who the fuck do you think you are." It's not much of a question so much as an accusation. The low, settling anger that Red had come to know so well was roiling deep in the pit of his chest; it curled its talons around him and wrenched out something he was so accustomed to suppressing. Yeah, he got angry sometimes. But this wasn't just anger that bubbled up in him, it was far more cruel, a dangerous hate that slithered up from the depths with him when he crawled out from Hell itself. That rage, that feral hatred, it was something else entirely.
His face feels hot - it's a concentrated burning that settles just around his temples. Blood roars in his ears and he can feel his pulse beating through the quick of his horns, begging him to let go and crush this insect underfoot like he so easily could. Red breathes (slow and steady, his father once hummed,) and his breath clouds into a thin fog that dissipates as soon as it hits the warm summer air. "Where were you when she died? You never showed your face until it was easy for you to throw complaints instead of helping. Arrow couldn't be cured - what would you rather do, watch her fall apart, knowing you could never do anything to save her? Or let her live a happy life until the last day?" He snarls, fists clenched. He jabs a finger at Delilah and roars, "I watched her die! You weren't there to give a shit! You just want to make a victim of yourself!"
"Now... Who the fuck do you think you are." It's not much of a question so much as an accusation. The low, settling anger that Red had come to know so well was roiling deep in the pit of his chest; it curled its talons around him and wrenched out something he was so accustomed to suppressing. Yeah, he got angry sometimes. But this wasn't just anger that bubbled up in him, it was far more cruel, a dangerous hate that slithered up from the depths with him when he crawled out from Hell itself. That rage, that feral hatred, it was something else entirely.
His face feels hot - it's a concentrated burning that settles just around his temples. Blood roars in his ears and he can feel his pulse beating through the quick of his horns, begging him to let go and crush this insect underfoot like he so easily could. Red breathes (slow and steady, his father once hummed,) and his breath clouds into a thin fog that dissipates as soon as it hits the warm summer air. "Where were you when she died? You never showed your face until it was easy for you to throw complaints instead of helping. Arrow couldn't be cured - what would you rather do, watch her fall apart, knowing you could never do anything to save her? Or let her live a happy life until the last day?" He snarls, fists clenched. He jabs a finger at Delilah and roars, "I watched her die! You weren't there to give a shit! You just want to make a victim of yourself!"
[div style="text-align:center;font-size:10pt;line-height:9pt;color:black;font-weight:bold;font-family:verdana;"]IF YOUR FORTRESS IS UNDER SIEGE,
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME