(Random stippit that came to me during an attack. I wish my parents would stop fighting so much. I own nothing. Good day and God bless.)
-bruise was beginning to form but Kashuu did not acknowledge it which was odd enough, considering the fact that it was himself who made it.
Yasusada just watched from the floor, wondering what had happened, why his vain friend, his weak friend had suddenly grown immune to the pain of disfiguring his own face and in the presence of their old master of all things.
This place, the inn where his old master died, always did things to him, this wretched place, but why was it different this time?
How come when he looked into his eyes, he did not see anything at all?
But then the still form of his friend began to move.
In one cold hand without flesh, he reached up and took a firm hold upon his long black stands, almost as though he were trying to keep himself from running away like a coward.
He would not run. He was no coward. In the center of. His glazed crimson eyes spoke of that backed up by a soul that no longer existed.
In the second hand, warm and swollen by the black wires cutting off his blood circulation, he picked up the dagger all to gentle like it were to the bow to a violin, the fragile balance between his fingertips and solid silicone and easily broken balance, and began to stab them into the soft cheesy meat of his soft cheeks. The skin stretched like rubbers as the milky white fat mixed with rivers of blood gushed heavily and hotly to his jawline, down his throat, and pooling at his gaunt collarbone.
Then, he removed it gently, like he were being careful not to do further damage.
He removed it all too carefully and, with a sickened stomach, Yasusada could only hope it was over.
He hoped. He payed.
Kashuu then gripped the knife tight and stabbed it into his right eye as far as it would go-
