#grislyintentions

Pressed into his tiny palms was ...an odd device to say the least. But not an overly complicated one. Just from the looks alone it seemed fairly easy to guess what it was.

A gun.

But what did it take as ammunition? Now that was something the young segment would have to figure out. His eyes had grown large with excitement, like when he found a fascinating creature to dissect. Bright red eyes sparkled with the joy of discovery most of the other segments have lost thanks to time.

"Thank you, Tsaritsa." He at least knew his please and thank yous.

...occasionally.

@grislyintentions | KAFKA

space had always intrigued dark in multiple ways. it's the ultimate frontier, the big leagues in terms of exploration and travel, and a giant mystery he'd love to unravel.

he isn't entirely sure WHERE he is, this isn't a universe he's entirely familiar with. nor is he even directly in space to begin with, but it's close enough that the stars are practically within arm's length. he can't stop himself from staring upward in awe, inspiration finally seizing him instead of the usual lust for destruction.

not that it lasts long. dark can feel another presence entering the space behind him, and he's whirling around, whipping his blade out with a grimace. he should have expected to land in someone's actual home this time, though he never actually does. where he tends to land is always a gamble. the woman looks unremarkable at first, giving him the impression he could probably take her down if she proved to be a threat to him.

he moves, hoping she's not as quick on the uptake. with his blade out, he's swiping at the wall, only to be shocked when it does not immediately disintegrate like most objects would. somewhere in the back of his mind, dark faintly wonders if there are protections in this atmosphere against unique weapon types. it's disappointing, and more of a nuisance than he'd like it to be.

"that's disappointing," he sneers, letting his sword disappear as he turns his stare from the wall to the woman. he has no right to be caught off guard, really. that's not going to stop him from letting flames encircle his fist to act as his intended threat. "pardon the home intrusion, but you've gone and interrupted my meditation."

JOY WOE BLESSINGS BE UPON YE

Aha grants Farrow's nose emanatorhood. Only their nose.

SMELL YA LATER

“??????—what????,how does that even-“ the intellatron pauses ,takes in a deep breath then rubs their temples

【Lan looks favourably upon you and thusly, you have within your disposal the strength to pursue your quarry but-】

They loom ever closer.

【Do you have the endurance? The certainty that one chance is all you need to go against the Preservation's follower?】

Boothill  doesn't  move. Not  at  first.

The  Aeon's  divine  radiance  spills  across  THEM  like  a  halo,  illuminating  the  darkness  of  the  cosmos,  and  countless  hands  fold  in  impossible  grace,  countless  eyes  opening  one  after  another  until  it  feels  less  like  being  watched  and  more  like  being  dissected.  Any  other  ordinary  person  would've  fallen  to  their  knees.  Maybe  prayed.  Maybe  fled. 

The  cowboy  merely  hooks  both  metal  thumbs  beneath  his  belt  and  tips  his  head  back  to  meet  every  last  one  of  those  blooming  eyes.  He's  not  afraid  for  his  first  divine  encounter,  only  confused.  Why  would  the  enemy  of  The  Reignbow  Arbiter  spare  even  a  passing  glance  towards  one  insignificant  Galaxy  Ranger?

Boothill  imagines  he'd  be  the  last  thing  The  Abundance  would  ever  care  to  behold.  There  is  little  left  of  him  worth  cultivating.  He  is  made  of  metal  and  screws,  carbon  fibers  and  iron,  his  own  heartbeat  traded  away  for  pistons  and  circuitry.  Boothill  is  artificial  and  dead.  Everything  far  from  Yaoshi's  path.  Yet,  The  Plagues  Author  turn  THEIR  head  to  him  and  speak  about  …  gunpowder  and  loss.

The  words  settle  heavier  than  lead.

"Well..."  Boothill's  voice  rasps  like  leather  dragged  over  stone.   

"Guess  y'got  a  sharp  nose  there  er,  Sanctus  Medicus." 

Boothill's  mechanical  fingers  twitch  once  against  where  his  revolver  hangs  by  his  hip.  A  faint  tension  settles  across  his  shoulders  at  the  mention  of  The  Reignbow  Arbiter,  like  hearing  the  name  of  a  commander. 

Lan  looks  favorably  upon  you  … 

Boothill  gives  a  small  shake  of  his  head.  That  is  far  from  the  truth  when  The  Xianzhou  Generals  are  far  more  blessed  and  skilled  for  The  Hunt. 

Enough  is  enough  and  Boothill  takes  one  step  forward. 

"Now  that's  one  helluva  exaggeration.  Yer  gonna  hafta  forgive  me  cause  I  ain't  got  the  time  to  jaw  with  ya.  You  ain't  my  fight,  but  I  will  tell  you  this,  it  ain't  'bout  endurance  or  whether  I  can  finish  what  I  started."

The  cowboy  falls  quiet  for  a  heartbeat  and  Boothill  gaze  hardens,  not  with  anger,  but  with  the  cold  certainty  of  a  marksman  settling  into  the  final  breath  before  squeezing  the  trigger.

"They  took  my  home.  They  took  my  family.  They  took  the  one  thing  I  loved  most  in  this  whole  mud-forsaken  universe."

A  flicker  passes  behind  his  eyes.  Not  weakness.  A  memory.  A  baby  girl  wrapped  in  a  red  blanket. 

“It's  a'ready  certain.  I'm  gonna  stand  over  Oswaldo  Schneider  an'  shoot  the  motherfucker  between  the  eyes.  I  don't  give  a  fuck  if  fate,  or  you,  or  any  other  motherfuckin'  Aeon  says  otherwise.  I  just  need  one  clean  shot  an'  I  ain't  gonna  miss.  I  will  destroy  the  IPC  or  die  in  the  attempt.  That's  the  real  fuckin'  certainty." 

Such ambition in those eyes, her words, where grief and sorrow and rage had once resided. But they have not left. She simply wields them now as a weapon — sharp, precise, deadly. And weapons cannot weep.

Perhaps, then, the Saintess shall carry the heart Anastasya can no longer be burdened by. It is after all the desires of her heart that has led them this far, that will bring them to the end when Celestia inevitably falls.

With her trust and unshakable resolve, they step forth with renewed confidence. Bare palm presses into her gloved hand, their perpetual warmth undisturbed by the Tsaritsa's unending chill. Their grip closes around her hand in spite of it, gentle in its gesture but firm and resolute as their devotion. Her rise will be monumental.