"Don't worry about the sacrifice....", the apostle cackled darkly, "Griffith's taking good care of that bitch. And if she feels lonely, 'm jus' gonna fuck 'er in your name!"
☓ – · Something within the Black Swordsman had shattered. Reason was gone, fully ensnared to the chains of vengeance snapping around his heart so unbearably tight. Mere nights ago, when Guts had dragged his feet once again on quiet soil – an elven paradise, the emotions he felt, the familiar faces of new companions he’d long abandoned like the first, Schierke’s words quickly greeting his unwelcome return – ‘She was taken . . .
by the Falcon of Light.’ As if Guts had any right to save her.
Shadows formed a grin, and there was ecstasy, a euphoria that stirred Guts’ every nerve as he ripped his way through the ones that dare call themselves Band of the Falcon. In his burning race through one man’s white kingdom, the scene couldn’t help but urge his twisted smile to grow to inhuman lengths the thicker the taste of blood became. It didn’t matter that the massive claws and bulky fingers of one that got lucky continued to strangle his throat of air, his armoured chest heaving and time about to run out, for it was then that his imprisoner had made a fatal mistake, and it gave Guts the second wind he so desperately needed.
The ‘sacrifice.’ That ‘bitch.’
“She has a name, asshole,” But just like the snivelling maw of this vile creature, Guts didn’t deserve to speak it. Not that he could with how savagely his own sharpened teeth gnashed against each other. The struggler no longer had any say in dictating the fate of the Branded girl he’d let suffer alone for the last time, but if they’d laid even one, filthy rotten claw on her skin– “What if I shove this sword up your ass instead?” Guts hoped this fucker enjoyed the sensation of cold steel slicing up hard right between those two disgusting legs.
“If I let your demon buddies watch as you’re the one squealin’ like a skewered pig?” The vice grip crushing Guts’ airway stood no chance against the full force of his ignited rage.He dragged it out, made sure that it felt every inch of its own meat tearing until the Dragon Slayer spilt its bowels onto the ground in a steaming heap. The grotesque sounds it made were just like that of the very livestock he claimed, and when Guts felt pleasure from its pain, that was where he coalesced with the mind of an old friend. The decadent, malice-infused executioner he once was – her deserter. In spite of the freak’s humiliation as it scrambled to gather its own leaking guts up, nothing compared to the fate he lusted to deliver its master.
When that pressure began to peak again, the struggler kicked off the ground with sneering teeth, one mighty swing cleaving in half the body of the proud bastard whom he hoped regretted ever spitting such slander into his face. Its bloody pieces had barely even hit the floor before he threw his deadly combo of body and blade back into the path of war for the man watching from up high within that ivory tower. So blinded by this terrifying black desire both old and new . . . if Guts was still in this for her or himself, not even he knew anymore.
