Flailing Ribbons [ Job / Nero ]

Job:

Blood. You smell blood. Fresh, dark blood. You glance down at your hands where a cool sensation grows. Red glares back at you. It drips to the knife in your hand. The handle has streaks of blood while the blade is consumed in scarlet. Your sight falters. You force your head up toward the nearby body. It's a horrid sight that makes you almost barf. You sway, disgust climbing your throat. You want to throw up. Vaguely you suspect something is off - you're fairly certain you're usually rather insensitive to such sights. But you are too distracted by the overwhelming horror coursing through your mind to wonder about it for long. You shut your eyes tightly, not wanting to look at the twisted and deformed body any longer.

The next time he opened his eyes, his back groaned - the stone road's hard surface trampling any chance for sleeping comfortably outside. He grimaced, and - pulling himself up - smashed his fist into the wall. With a flick of his hand he drew his weapon near. His eyes fluttered open and close many times out of sleepiness. Drowsily he staggered forward, his face troubled. He placed his hand on his forehead as if nursing a painful headache. Red bangs fell chaotically into his vision as he staggered out into the street. With messy red hair swaying across his eyes, his hand to his forehead, and an unorderly gait, others clearly took it all as a sign of his (supposed) drunken state. Though not drunk in the least bit, he appeared to be.

Perhaps in one sense he truly was drunk. Drunk off the effects of a staggeringly vivid dream he dreaded to think about. It confused him, and he found it overall disturbing for reasons he could not explain. Something akin to dread pooled in his stomach as he mentally reviewed the details of the dream. The details troubled him, and they followed him all across the town. His reaction in the dream unsettled him, for gore never phased him. So why then he dreamed of such an incident. One other thing also bothered him about the dream. He squeezed his eyes in an attempt to visualize the scene. Blood. Red. Hands. Knife- wait, hands! A child's hands held the knife. So… he experienced the emotions of a child, not him? But why did he dream of a child?

He sighed, exhausted of remembering yet unable to forget his dream. He needed beer, he decided. He dragged his feet to a nearby tavern, tiredly walked up to the bartender, and ordered a beer. With a beer in hand he plopped down on a stool to dowse down the beer. He quickly finished the first one, and, finding his mind still wandering, ordered another beer. By the time he staggered out the bar, he had doused his system in many bottles of beer. As a result, he barely managed to dodge the two darts which suddenly flew at him. He turned to face the trio and grinned. Though laden with drunkenness he spun quickly.

"How kind of you to offer yourselves up. Hehe, I've been quite bored y'know."

He staggered forward, using his spear to keep himself from falling.

He blinked as a hazy cloud covered his eyes. Normally bright teal eyes swirled like a touch of cream infecting a dark and rich cup of coffee. One could stare into his eyes and find themselves completely trapped in his seemingly never-ending yet never-beginning eyes. Like an invisible trap, his seemingly harmless and dull eyes snared those who investigated those round, teal, cylinders for eyes. It snatched and held onto the attention sacrificed to the dull eyes, gradually growing more demon-like eyes every moment spoken and deliberated upon them. Fitting for a monster's eyes to resemble a demon's. Yet this monster moved deliriously, alcohol hanging down upon his legs and arms, restricting him. He growled in frustration. Shaking his head he resembled a wild bull trying to knock off a persistent pest. He dragged his feet forward, though a sudden throb of his head caused him to halt suddenly. He stumbled forward, barely avoiding a disgraceful trip. Though never one to bother about honor and pride, he probably would regard the fall as merely an accident. In his almost naive and simple-minded manner of thought, he never attributed adjectives pertaining to the social situation to actions. Brazen beyond a doubt - his faults both freeing and staggeringly poor in development.

Suddenly, his eyes gained a determined spark, and he rushed forward - only to fall on his face. When he lifted his head up, the sting from the air revealed he scraped his face. He touched it delicately to confirm, and indeed, he felt small patches of skin scraped away. Not enough scratches and scrapes to mar his child-like face, he supposed. What a pity. He rubbed his fingers on his forehead, muttering a remark of pain. Fitting of his inclination toward such common discomfort, he expressed it almost passively, treating it more of an observation than a proclamation. It almost seemed out of character for such a dramatic character as he, Rain Eveque, until one remembered the persona he treated others hid a dull and lifeless doll - the person, monster behind the flashy mask which he exuded.

But just as suddenly as he fell, the strangely enlightening moment dissipated. His passive expression turned downward. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips turned into a pout. He turned toward the red-haired man, his eyes brimming with fury. "What the hell are ya doin', ya' fuckin'..." He paused his loud tirade, and he turned his head in a manner similar to a confused puppy. Fuckin... fuckin… He turned his gaze inquisitorial, observing the newcomer to form a nickname for the man. Tall...Red hair...Fanalis - The tall fanalis part reminded him of that flamingo-like fanalis. Amatus. He almost smiled at the thought of the beautiful, angelic man. He sounded obsessed calling him an angel, but Rain could hardly care. Not when the man's mere presence brought a wave of frustratingly familiar emotions, yet foreign emotions all the same. Gods, he wished he could pester that damningly gorgeous man right now if only to bask in Amatus's alluring appearance. Something about the sight of Amatus caused the wild fanalis to experience a sudden wash of emotions. Though not yet as strong as most experienced emotions, for the first time in - well - forever, he felt something more than a barely present hum.

Other than reminding him of his dearest Amatus, he found himself slightly disgruntled at the 'tall' part. For some odd reason, these fanalises towered over him. He swore he managed to pull the short end of the stick. For whatever reason the gods (or perhaps but a singular god? - such details rarely crossed his mind) had, they created him as a short, child-like fanalis. Although, at the same time his tiny physique bore him the title of 'cute boy' or 'cute girl' by many. Sometimes, young, married women pass by him, pat his head, and called him a cute little boy. Sometimes younger women - more like teenagers - passed by and whispered to their friends, pointing at the adorably cute boy (him, obviously). More often than not, the men spoke of the 'cutie' passing by while leering at him without any subtlety. Their attention did serve to satiate his boredom on occasion - although only when he truly found himself of no other options. Otherwise, he tuned it out, his indifference toward the catcalling strange for any other but rather fitting for Rain.

His eyes flickered over the man one more time. They moved across the ridges and lines of the man's figure before finally stopping at his hair. He blinked at the daunting and spiky hair. Oh! He snapped his finger at Nero, grinning brightly. "Red Porcupine! Tha's what yer' are," he said. He crossed his arms smugly as if he intended to not accept any further arguments delivered about the matter of nicknames at hand.

An angry shout brought Rain's attention to the man who acted as the boss of the other two. He wielded a large spiky ball - kind of like Red Porcupine's spiky hair~ Just by eyeballing it, he suspected the spiked ball could rip through his skin, but not fatally so. He hoped his assessment landed neatly on target. It would be rather unfortunate if he found himself at the end of those spikes dead. No, he suspected it would put quite a damper on his fun. He could easily imagine his reaction to his death. While amusing in thought, he found himself inclined to not die, especially now, when he finally found an interesting plaything. His… pretty little plaything, Amatus. He wondered if the Flamingo-like fanalis would miss him if he died. How excruciatingly sentimental of him to say but the allure of being missed after death tempted him. Not that he wanted to be missed by many people, but one or two missing him sounded nice.

His attention shifted to the fight at hand as a spiked ball nearly crashes into his head. But right at the last minute, he leaps out of the way. "If ya' wanna fight ye' better get faster~," he says with a bright smile. Flicking his pretty, pink hair, he cheekily winks at the spiked-ball-wielding man. The man scowled at the wink, downright pissed at the drunk boy's antics. He swung his spike ball furiously around once, promptly knocking Rain back and leaving blood marks on his delicate looking skin. For a moment, as the pain urged the real Rain out of hiding, his mask of cheer faltered. But only for a moment and fast enough to confuse most anyone into believing they simply imagined the waver.

"Encore, encore! Do it again!" he chirped.

The man gave the fanalis an incredulous once over before coming to the conclusion Rain was insane. How did Rain know of this? Simple: This man made it painfully easy for Rain to read his thoughts based on his expression. Furthermore, after many years of receiving similar shocked looks, recognizing and interpreting them had become almost like a second nature.

"Get dunked on, ya' crazy kid!" The man brought the spiked-ball upon Rain's head once more, but the boy immediately dropped to his feet and causing the sharp weapon to simply pass over his head. He leaped forward with his spear outstretched and prepared to knock the enemy down before - the spiked-ball came flying in Rain's direction and sweeping his body away. He landed on the ground with a painful thud - but oh, how he relished in the painful thud. His body shivered as he soaked in all the pain the spiked-ball man had dished out. He found his blood temperature shivering in excitement. Tee hee~. Someone fun - finally! Having held tightly to his spear when he fell, the spear still laid in his grip. He plunged it into the ground and used it to hoist him to his feet.

"More! More!" he urged with a wide, maniacal grin.

He rammed his body into the other before his attacker could retaliate with another powerful swing and blow to the boy's body. With his spear still in hand, he moved it to the man's backside and plunged it into his neck at a downward angle. The man's screams caused Rain to smile in delight.

"What's the matter? Don't tell me this is all you can do!" taunted Rain. Again, he plunged his spear into the base of the man's neck. Poor idiot finally toppled over from the pain Rain cruelly and sloppily administered. But the moment his opponent fell, and the moment the adrenaline wore off, he found his body ached all over and touching his side, he felt something wet seeping into his clothes - blood. He staggered with a wobbly gait toward the last enemy, took a good look at him, before yawning and turning the other direction.

"Meh… no fun there…" he muttered to himself.