[ Some were smart enough to run, others had to die, and in the middle of the chaos of a fallen house, no one so much as thought of releasing the demon, because there would not have been anything left. Years of starvation meant that all the energy keeping Petre alive kept chipping away, eroded like stone, and the less he had left the more monstrous he became. Any creature, by intelligence or instinct, knew better than to come close to the cage of the thing that would immediately eat them alive.
A long time has passed since their escape. The house is almost empty and Petre remains the ghost that haunts the basement, kept in check by the careless, provocative hybrid. As they draw nearer, the incessant, mumbling chatter of a dissociated mind scratches like sandpaper against wood.
When Tavor clicks his claws, it comes to a sudden stop. Like a ticking clock interrupted with one last beat of inertia, he keeps his back turned to the visitors, crouched down on the farthest end. ]
Petre, you have a visitor.
[ his voice is awfully dry. He repeats the words like he's consciously training himself to remember how to speak, one claw scratching lightly at the metal. The clothes he wears are decades old, colors faded, dark with dirt, dull with age, ridiculous on him now. His hair looks like its been chopped off at the ends. He's far from the smug and vain devil that waltzed into these woods and was brought in by the hunters chanting religious songs to make him vomit and bleed. There's no need for that anymore. He barely even knows where to look when he turns his head and eyes that used to be light blue have turned all black. ]
no subject
A long time has passed since their escape. The house is almost empty and Petre remains the ghost that haunts the basement, kept in check by the careless, provocative hybrid. As they draw nearer, the incessant, mumbling chatter of a dissociated mind scratches like sandpaper against wood.
When Tavor clicks his claws, it comes to a sudden stop. Like a ticking clock interrupted with one last beat of inertia, he keeps his back turned to the visitors, crouched down on the farthest end. ]
Petre, you have a visitor.
[ his voice is awfully dry. He repeats the words like he's consciously training himself to remember how to speak, one claw scratching lightly at the metal. The clothes he wears are decades old, colors faded, dark with dirt, dull with age, ridiculous on him now. His hair looks like its been chopped off at the ends. He's far from the smug and vain devil that waltzed into these woods and was brought in by the hunters chanting religious songs to make him vomit and bleed. There's no need for that anymore. He barely even knows where to look when he turns his head and eyes that used to be light blue have turned all black. ]
Petre. You have a visitor.