mandalus :: the city of fates.

[There's a pulse of static, a whip-lash of movement that's hard to make out. As if the feed itself is caught in some sort of whirlwind before landing with an audible clack. And a shiver cuts the recording, the fingers of a crack forming up the side as the device finally stills.]

[But the voices don't stop; some are muffled, gargled and spit back on the recording. But there's a catch of a ceiling light. Cased in steel, swinging on the threads of an old chain. Rocking back and forth to cast shadows in rolling directions. Like the rocking of a ship on bad waters.]

"This one's just a pain in the ass, boss."

[The voice that comes through is thick; heavy with the accent of the slum and punctuated by a rolling glob of spit. A wet sort of sound that comes paired with a set of boots. Heels caught in the feed, old military spec. From where or what time period is questionable at best.]

"Ain't like he's being cooperative."

[A tolling of chains on the line; a rattling like old bones before a resounding thud makes for eerie silence. And there's a man; fully dawned in the Serpent's banners with metal clinks binding him still. Head cast down, breathing hollowly with both legs cast out in either direction. When he speaks, it's as if the words are caught in his throat. Dragged through like heavy anchors.]

"I'm not telling you anything."

[And it's as if the statement is a calling card; a Siren's pull and there's the signature clacking of heels. A slow gait, toe over toe. The kind made for creatures like him. And as the feed buzzes out briefly, the catch of a curved-toe boot slides into the recording. Slices up to saunter against the side.]

Oh-? See, I didn't want to have to do that, friend. [Greed lowers himself to a crouch; thighs cast out ten and two to let a pair of hands sink between them. And for a second, there's a lick of black against his fingertips. A shivering of a pulse, though that could be a trick of the feed.]

I'm not interested in hurting you, but it wasn't like you gave me much choice. I don't let anyone take what's mine.

[A rolling of the shoulder, shades pitches of black. Empty sockets that stare back - that seem locked on target without a quiver of movement.]

[But all too soon, he's exposing a wrist. Fanning out his fingers, wristbands slipping down to the thick part of his arm.] After all, the name is Greed.

[There's a tapping of a foot; the military-issued boots shifting. One heel sliding up to grace an ankle.]

"I really don't think he's worth the time, Boss - "

( ... )

WARNINGS|
➥ TL;DR
➥ Implied violence