#zhrets

So we ask of you to read the entire callout before pointing finger at us for 'slandering' Dennis. He has brought this upon himself for his actions, and it mustn't be overlooked, as he is a dangerous person who needs to be held accountable for his actions.

In response to the callout blog that was made for @zhrets/dennis last night, I've made a rebuttal. This is not an attempt by me to spread more drama but to state facts and context behind the screenshots which were shown in the original callout. Here is the callout blog and here is the callout.

"On their deathbed men will speak true, they say."

       TO CONSTANTLY EVADE  death makes one in danger of forgetting its severity. A lesson she dares not forget, lest she becomes a fool. Last words are indications of innermost feelings and urgent priorities, yet men do not have enough time to impart much, if not all, to enemies, beloveds and complete strangers.

       In the church, Touko sees familiar icons from her youth and travels; the rise and fall of the holy, immortalized in death and hailed as the souls of greatness and mercy. There are reasons why graveyards exist. She has not lived as long as most others, but the frightening, horrifying amounts of experience within her blood and bones could drive a man to wishing that this would be enough, enough, enough of this life, ne’er to be born again!

       But that could simply translate to her being sick of living, or that death was philosophical enough to the point of being tediously boring to speak of.

       A quirk of a smile towards the priest, and she lights a candle. Of what she prays for is unknown. “Countless last words, some famous, most unknown,” she speaks, her voice echoing little amidst the space around them as she places the candle at the holders before the statue of the Virgin, “but what they say applies to men. I have long given up being Man myself.”

       For she is more beast than man.

he is used to people simply blowing him off, disregarding him. it is somewhat common, given the way he looks. unassuming, hair tied up and eyes a dark brown that always seem to stare ahead. yet some called him “creepy”, with a glare that pierced. he never did understand that. despite his rather unremarkable person, people could not help but stare over and over again, turn their heads to see the boy with the prosthetic limbs pass by. but it was a necessity to wear them, given his condition. he had been uprooted once again and placed head first into a new city, that city with the japanese and european sides, so jarring and filled to the brim with strange happenings...

as soon as he stepped foot on fuyuki’s streets outside his new home, he sensed something was quite wrong. but not because he had any third sense - but rather because on the very first night, he caught sight of a red aura - scarlet red, in fact, as he took to wandering the streets. it made his head hurt violently, his heart pound. something was more than just wrong, and if it was one of them - the ones that stole one of his missing limbs - he would slay it until it was no longer of this earth. this one was undeniably powerful, and though his vision was terribly overstimulated (imbalanced colors, fragmented buildings, and street lamps that were simply too bright), he could still fixate on it. clear as day, despite it being night.

now, back to the present. he rushes towards it, one-track minded. he makes his way past houses, closed storefronts, chasing after the red presence. it was headed towards a temple at such a rapid speed - hyakkimaru silently thanks his nimble body for the ability to keep up, even if it was unfortunately by several feet. regardless, before he knew it, he was standing in front of those stone steps, not even breaking a sweat. without missing a beat, he ascends, unsheathing one of his blades and holding his prosthetic arm in his teeth as he got to the top step. a brilliant light could be seen from within the temple, so much so that it brought tears to his eyes. he could not regard it. it was far too intense. 

instead, he keeps focus on the aura. but, to his shock, the vivid scarlet that had once been melded into a soft yellow. gold, perhaps, and soon melted into nothingness. even if he was able to see into the candle-lit halls of the temple beyond, that blinding light had made it impossible to see what it was he chased. puzzled, though his face did not betray it, he returned his arm to his blade, and snapped it shut. 

but a sound alerts him. footsteps on stone. someone is approaching, and it is far too late to escape. in the past, he would have, but consequences had followed. he’d gotten injured then, maimed and beaten. from experience, it was unwise to run away from unpleasant conversations. but whether this one would be unpleasant or not was to be seen. he despised speaking, but there were times when it was worth dealing with the grating softness, that croak of his voice, to absorb information.

in truth, he cannot make out the man all too well. with strangers, it is difficult. with those closer to him, it is far easier. but, if he squints, he can make out the embrace of the man’s hair upon his broad neck and shoulders, and his dark, piercing eyes. and that cross around his neck... why did it send a chill down his spine? but, more importantly, why did it seem so familiar?