ask-hound

[ask-hound]

Hound’s eyes narrow slightly. They can tell Casino’s practically quaking in his boots— understandable, considering he’s in a secluded room with two people who could both kill him in three seconds flat and don’t seem particularly inclined not to. They lean in a bit closer towards him, just to watch him squirm as they get just a little closer to him.

“This is… tempting, really, but I’d love to be enlightened on exactly what we’ll be receiving as compensation for helping you. The intel is tempting, but considering how desperate you seem for immunity, I have a feeling we should be asking for more than that.”

Honestly, Hound thinks the intel would be worth it— they know this guy is sitting on a veritable gold mine of information— but Casino seems terrified enough that they think they might be able to get something more for their trouble. Maybe it’s not the most moral thing to do (a little part of them says “you used to care so much about that, what happened?”) but life isn’t cheap, and neither is their field of work, and they have a feeling they can sweeten the deal for themself if they lay it on a bit thick.

They shoot a glance at Saint; he’s been silent for a while, and Hound makes an attempt to subtly indicate that if he has any of his own demands, he should probably make them now.

Saint stood quietly in the corner of the casino, perfectly moulded into the backdrop despite his scarred features. His hands were tucked into his pockets, fingers curled carefully against his palms.

He was watching Hound and Casino interact. There was something uncanny in his yellow-grey gaze and the way he had his head slightly tilted, like an animal carefully observing its prey.

@ask-hound

@malcomhawks-askblog

[ask-hound]

Hound stalks in— arguably louder than usual, but still quiet enough that it’s vaguely unsettling. They’re generally displeased with this whole affair, but their mood brightens the tiniest bit when they make eye contact with Saint— it seems they’ve got at least one ally here. They give him the slightest nod of greeting before continuing on their way, avoiding making Saint’s position too obvious to any of the other “guests.”

Unlike Case and Saint, Hound isn’t in the mood for subtlety tonight. They stride right over to Malcolm’s couch, and, without asking, sit right down. They lean on the armrest as casually as they can muster, trying to push their little power play just that little bit further. “A casino for the venue. Ironic,” Hound observes conversationally, before deciding that mincing words just isn’t worth it. “Well. What are we here for, hacker?”

Malcom leans back into the plush couch of the private room of the casino. It had been awhile since he had gotten any news about anyone, watching from the sidelines was entertaining, but getting involved is..exhilitarting.

"just wait and see...." malcom murmurs to himself adjusting his hood further down his head hiding his face behind shadow.

he would wait, and wait to see who would show their faces tonight.

[ask-hound]

…sounds good. what cuisines do you enjoy? i’m partial to middle eastern and mediterranean food— tastes like home— but i know it can be a bit too spicy for european sensibilities.

really, it’s your choice; i’m up to anything as long as it’s fairly local and not unreasonably expensive.

hey, saint. it’s hound.

i… well, i just wanted to talk with you. it’s been a while since we last spent any time together, has it not? my apologies that i haven’t contacted you since; i’ve been busy. bell and i started a new job, so we had to move apartments, and it turns out having a real job is more time-consuming than i expected.

…i’ll stop with the rambling. it’s been a while since i’ve spent any time with my friends besides bell. i have a day off soon, and i’m in your region, so i was wondering if you would be interested in spending some time together? i know that there are some good restaurants in this area, if you would be interested in talking over lunch, maybe, or dinner.

— @ask-hound.

I- sure, I suppose.

Don't have much else to do.

[ask-hound]

OOC: Addressing the elefant in the room

We're all here to have fun and forget the hardships of our reality, have fun with each other and write out the characters we came to love. Fleeing into fiction for a few hours to lift our spirits. We are only people behind the blogs, people that are nothing like these characters. See, the reason for this post is a very important one. There has been an incident recently that showed me (and the people my blog is connected with) that some of the users of Tumblr seem to forget that we are not the characters we play. I get that some of you really want to go out of your way to get a conversation with these fictional characters and we're all here for that. I'm not even going to address the people that are really crossing a lot of boundaries here (you guys are a different breed, you know who I'm talking about) but I really want to remind the others of something.

This is fiction, not the reality. Any regarding topics that may be triggering some past-traumas or other mentally hurting things can easily be skipped by avoiding certain messages or blogs. We are not the fictional figures we are writing. Learn to tell fiction and reality apart.

We always welcome new people that want to join our RP and we really love every OC that you guys create. But please remember that this is not what we actually stand for. For example: I do love to write for Adler but I do not, in any way, condone his actions. We are still people behind these blogs, some of them even minors. Be mindful and respectful.

[ask-hound]

Hound slumps over, chest heaving, trying to breathe through the pain. They hear their captor come back, dropping something on the floor behind them— they try to turn their head to see what it is, but can’t crane their neck quite far enough for it to be in view. The figure walks around to Hound’s front again, and now that they’re more conscious and coherent, they take the opportunity to try and reason with him.

“I still don’t really understand what you want from me, but I’m willing to talk. I can’t tell you whatever it is you want to hear if I don’t know what it is.” Hound pauses for a second as a particularly strong shudder racks their body. “And, even though I’m not sure it matters to you, I don’t just… take things because I want to. I have a reason, I swear.”

They squint at the envelope, trying to read the name, but their vision is blurring so much that they’re forced to stop trying. “…I know you said that I’m not supposed to ask questions, but what do you mean, ‘getting picked up?’ I’ll…” they think for a second, trying to figure out how to spin this conversation in their favor. “I’ll cooperate more if you tell me, and that should make things easier for both of us.”

*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Hound’s face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*

Do you know why you’re here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?

*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Hound’s scars*

Hound… well. Hound is out of it.

They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. It’s dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Hound’s been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.

They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.

“Who… ‘re you?” they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Hound’s head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.

[ask-hound]

Hound just blinks at him, not quite over the cognitive dissonance between what they were bracing for and how Woods actually reacted. They expected yelling, maybe horror, probably an angry— or at the very least, stern— command to leave the Rook and never come back.

“I’m sorry,” Hound says. They’re not quite sure for what— maybe that they stopped cleaning, maybe that Woods had to learn their secret without wanting to, maybe just the idea that their general existence is a threat to Bell’s mental health. Really, they’re sorry that Woods and the others have to exist anywhere near them, but they think that’s a bit too mopey to say out loud.

Instead, they decide to change the subject, getting back to the task at hand. “…Did it really work? The C4, I mean. Not that I’m getting any ideas, that’s just… well, I suppose it’s par for the course considering what you all were getting up to in Vietnam, but it sounds like an absolutely insane thing to try.”

Slipping from his chair, and landing on the cold wooden floor of one of the Rook’s rooms, Woods let out a small grunt.

As he began scrubbing the bloodstained floors, small pieces of shattered glass embedding itself into his legs (something he’d manage later, he told himself), he found that he still didn’t regret not breaking up the fight.

“Some people, just too damn bold,”

Frank muttered to himself.

[ask-hound]

are you… okay?

i’m going to go out on a limb and assume the answer is no. do you want some help fixing your door?

Why's that on my door? I only noticed today.

Let me go!

It wasn't there before the Easter Party.

LET ME GO!

First the knife and now this?

[ask-hound]

The second the pain starts, Hound is a lot more aware. They make a startled, choked-off noise at the first cut— their pain tolerance is unsettlingly high, it’s only the unexpectedness of the injury that gets to them.

Hound gasps, and then screams in earnest, when their captor starts digging the knife into the second joint of their finger. The pain and horror is flushing the last of the lethargy out of their system, and they struggle against their bonds, trying to pull their wrists free from the ropes binding them to the arms of the chair.

When the mutilation is finally over, Hound tries to keep their eyes averted from their hand as their chest heaves. Through the radio static consuming their brain— shock, probably— the realization dawns on them with some kind of sick humor that their hands are even now. Half of their right pinky has been missing for as long as they can remember (although that’s only really a few years) and they’re dimly aware that now they’re missing the same amount of their left ring finger. Something about it is so funny that they almost laugh, but the sound morphs into a sob halfway out of their mouth.

Hound shivers uncontrollably, a mix of adrenaline and pain and shock overwhelming their system. They hear the sound of metal on metal as the knife is placed on something obscured in the blind side of their vision.

They still don’t know what their captor wants to hear. They still don’t know what to say to make him stop.

*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Hound’s face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*

Do you know why you’re here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?

*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Hound’s scars*

Hound… well. Hound is out of it.

They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. It’s dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Hound’s been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.

They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.

“Who… ‘re you?” they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Hound’s head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.

[ask-hound]

i see your "traumatized character finally getting a good night's sleep in their loved one's arms" and i raise you "traumatized character freaking the fuck out when they wake up in their loved one's arms because why are they restrained why is someone else in their bed where are they and now their loved one has to comfort them"

[ask-hound]

Hound looks up at the figure pleadingly. They still aren’t quite sure what’s happening, but they’re pretty sure there’s something they’re supposed to be doing and they’re not doing it.

“ ‘M sorry,” they mumble. “I don’t— wha’s happening?” The gears in their brain are starting to turn slightly faster, and they manage to register the words “LSD” and “confession” and manage to piece together what they’re pretty sure their captor wants to hear.

“…Hurts without it,” Hound slurs, shamefully turning their face as far away as they can, given the hooded figure’s grasp on their chin. “ ‘s all too much. To live with. W’out the drugs.” They sluggishly glance back over at their captor, who doesn’t look particularly satisfied with the answer, but they try their luck anyways. “…I was— was good. Do I get to go now? ‘M tired…”

*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Hound’s face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*

Do you know why you’re here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?

*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Hound’s scars*

Hound… well. Hound is out of it.

They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. It’s dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Hound’s been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.

They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.

“Who… ‘re you?” they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Hound’s head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.

[ask-hound]

*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Hound’s face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*

Do you know why you’re here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?

*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Hound’s scars*

Hound… well. Hound is out of it.

They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. It’s dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Hound’s been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.

They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.

“Who… ‘re you?” they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Hound’s head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.

[ask-hound]

Specific whump idea!!

Whumper has whumpee tied up, and they force caretaker to watch. At least, that's what caretaker thinks is going to happen.

Until whumper puts the tools in front of them, and tells them that if they don't hurt whumpee, then whumper will do something much, MUCH worse instead.

rolling this prompt like the worlds largest blunt and smoking it GAHHH dude your brain is a beautiful place

gonna...gonna go ahead and do a little thing with this:

cw: kidnapped, forced to hurt, implied torture, restraints, psychological whump, mentioned suicideal ideation, death threats, scars, knives, emeto

"What the fuck," Caretaker whispered, knees buckling in the entrance of the basement.

Whumper, who had led them downstairs, flashed them a grin, then turned to Whumpee.

Whumpee, chained to the wall by their purple-bruised wrists. Hanging limp, eyes empty, unrecognizable.

Clothes ripped away to reveal the kinds of intricate cuts that took hours to create. The sort of story detailed into their skin, into flesh, that meant they were forever marked. Forever fucked up.

Caretaker's gaze flickered back to the floor. They couldn't look at Whumpee. Not like this. It felt like a violation of intimacy-- a violation of trust-- of privacy. At least, those are the reasons Whumpee would have looked away if the roles had been reversed. But Caretaker? they looked away because it scared the shit out of them.

Whumper, quietly, almost gently, reached out and ran a hand through Whumpee's hair. He worked his fingers through their curls, untangling the blood-battered mass of scabs and fibers.

Whumpee whimpered into their thick-cloth gag, and the sound made Caretaker freeze, jaw clenched, just to stop from violently puking.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck--

In their attempt to focus on anything else, Caretaker noticed the table in front of them: a tray of tools. Scalpel. Pliers. Something that buzzed when you press the switch.

Their stomach turned, a hand flying to cover their mouth as the afterburn of yesterday's breakfast resurfaced.

“Don’t--" Their voice cracked. “Please.” They couldn't watch. Not this. Not Whumpee.

Whumper tilted his head, attention redirected back to Caretaker. Birdlike eyes glinted, almost laughing. "You think I’m going to hurt them in front of you?"

A dread-laced question sank through the air. What else would you do?

Whumper let go of Whumpee's hair and circled back to their panic-eyed savior. “No, sweetheart. That’d be predictable.”

He was close now, close enough for them to see the stains on his collar, the gap in his teeth. “You are."

The metal tray glinted up at Caretaker, beckoning. The sheer gloss of the tools laughed at them.

Caretaker swallowed and looked away. Back to the floor, “I won’t.”

Whumper smiled. Not cruel, not cold. Sweetly.

“You will” he corrected, "Or I'll do something that’ll stay with them permanently. When they wake up, they'll remember. When they fall asleep next to you, years from now, they'll remember. It won't matter if they've been rescued, it won't matter how quiet the room is, no matter how much they learn to trust again, they'll always remember what I did."

He leaned in, almost nose to nose now.

“And a part of them will always wish they had died instead."

Caretaker wiped at their eyes. They shuddered. "I- I-" I can't--. They couldn't finish the sentence.

They might have to.

“Pick up the knife,” said Whumper, and his smile was vicious. "Throw up if you have to, but pick up the fucking knife."

Caretaker grabbed the edge of the table, white-knuckled. They heaved, throwing up violently, until their shoulders shook from tension.

Then, with that same white-knuckled grip, they reached for the knife.

I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry--

[ask-hound]

“…yes,” they say. It feels like an oversimplification, but they don’t really want to explain everything that went down with Rook and everything that’s happened since, so instead of splitting hairs about it they kneel next to Woods, grab another threadbare rag out of the bucket of soapy water, and get to scrubbing. They’re more used to cleaning up bloodstains than they would like.

While they’re scrubbing at a spot that’s dried down especially stubbornly, Hound accidentally dips the sleeve of their ragged flannel in the film of water and soap now covering the floor. With a mildly frustrated huff they roll their sleeves up, mindlessly scratching at the ever-itchy track marks peppering the inside of their arm. The thought casually crosses their mind that they could use another hit sometime soon after the fiasco that ended the Easter get-together.

Oh, shit. It only takes Hound a few seconds to realize that Woods probably doesn’t know what they and Bell have been getting up to since Hound moved in with Bell, and it would probably be better if he never found out. They’re 99% sure they rolled their sleeves back down far too late to keep it a secret from him much longer.

Slipping from his chair, and landing on the cold wooden floor of one of the Rook’s rooms, Woods let out a small grunt.

As he began scrubbing the bloodstained floors, small pieces of shattered glass embedding itself into his legs (something he’d manage later, he told himself), he found that he still didn’t regret not breaking up the fight.

“Some people, just too damn bold,”

Frank muttered to himself.

[ask-hound]

Hound walks up behind Woods, trying to step loudly so they won’t scare the shit out of the older man by sneaking up on him. They’ve been hanging around since the Easter party, and Woods hasn’t thrown them out yet— they might as well give him a hand with whatever he’s up to.

“Do you want some help with that?” They ask quietly, noticing the visible discomfort on Woods’s face as he scrubs at the hardwood with a singleminded determination.

Slipping from his chair, and landing on the cold wooden floor of one of the Rook’s rooms, Woods let out a small grunt.

As he began scrubbing the bloodstained floors, small pieces of shattered glass embedding itself into his legs (something he’d manage later, he told himself), he found that he still didn’t regret not breaking up the fight.

“Some people, just too damn bold,”

Frank muttered to himself.

[ask-hound]

Hound pulls their gaze away from the wall and looks toward Saint. He looks… disquieted. Hound thinks he must be uncomfortable, but they can’t quite tell why— does he want to say more, or does he wish they’d said less? Hound isn’t sure, but it’s a fifty-fifty chance that they hit the nail on the head, so they decide to try their luck.

“Who is it that you’re seeing?” they ask, trying not to sound pushy or insistent. “Someone from the lab, I assume. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, just… I know sometimes these things are easier if you can talk to someone about them. And, like I said before, I’ll keep whatever you tell me confidential. Nobody else has to know if you don’t want them to.”

Hound isn’t sure how similar Saint’s story is to theirs— there’s no way for them to know if his lack of a reaction was because of his lack of empathy or something else, and he hasn’t divulged many details about who hurt him or how. If it’s the empathy thing, they understand; Hound can’t say they’re capable of caring about people besides a select few close connections (well, really just gBell. Saint as well, perhaps). They think they’re similar to their gray-haired companion in that way; neither of them was supposed to care about what they did, they were just supposed to do it. And no empathy was supposed to mean no questions asked.

Hound released a sigh of relief as they left the rook’s main room and the noise finally dropped to a manageable level. Saint had responded favorably to the idea of finding somewhere quiet to stay for a while, and he walked behind Hound (in their blind spot, which they weren’t the biggest fan of, but it couldn’t be helped) as they ducked into a seemingly unused storage room at the other end of the hall.

Taking a seat on a large crate covered by a moth-eaten tarp, Hound hazarded a glance at the odd bracelet their equally quiet companion was fiddling with. They realized with no small amount of curiosity that it wasn’t just an ordinary wire, like they had previously thought, but rather a wickedly sharp garrote.

“that’s an… interesting fashion choice,” Hound noted, trying to force their voice into sounding more casual than it usually did.

@project-saint-707 here it is :P

[ask-hound]

incapacitation

content warning

drugs that make a character woozy and disoriented. slurring words and falling slack, everything too heavy and confusing and muffled

blown pupils, wandering eyes, breathing too much or too little. sweating, shaking, puking, so limp and pale it’s almost like they’re dead

fevers so high a character's mind just turns to mush. glossy eyes tracking the ceiling, listless and unaware until eventually there's sweat sticking all over the sheets and they start mumbling some vague responses to caretaker's questions

tranquilizer dart that brings a character down all at once. one sudden jerk or look of confusion, not enough time to glance at it much less pull it out before eyes are rolling back and they collapse into the dirt

tranquilizer dart that comes on slowly. pulling it out and running and running until each step becomes too uncoordinated, stumbling or getting dragged along by a teammate until even their begging to stay awake, let's go, becomes hazy and distant

struck so hard that everything rings in one ugly roar. staggering or falling, told to sit down, just stay down. so confused and lost, repeating the same questions and forgetting the answer over and over and over again

character so messed up they struggle to follow any part of the conversation. everything too heavy and confusing and muffled, just useless and incoherent and completely oblivious to the situation

nervous prodding or pleading by caretaker, begging them to just stay awake or focus

jostled around by captor, told to get the fuck up and follow orders, easily manhandled and restrained

mumbling nonsense and spilling secrets. stoic characters without any masks, so confused and broken and vulnerable, slipping and powerless in every sort of way

"you're okay, i promise you're okay"

“ah, shit. you’re a mess—”

“I guess you won’t remember this anyways…”

gaze drifting and blank, too faraway to track anything caretaker/captor is saying. nudged and prodded and pleaded at to no avail, just incoherent and out of it

too weak to move. beaten absolutely senseless or bleeding all over the place, a character just hurting and spent beyond means sprawled flat against the ground

getting dragged along or stepped on, pinned down as if they're in any state to go anywhere

hypnotized and stunned into mindlessness. repeated mantras and rewired thoughts, a character made pliable and blank and used like a puppet

paralyzed but fully aware, left slack and useless and desperate with limp muscles and depressed breathing. assumed dead and abandoned, grieved over or dumped aside like a corpse, forced to watch and unable to do anything

poisoned and just getting worse and worse. teammates desperately looking for a cure while character deteriorates, puking and passing out and getting high fevers, hallucinating and begging for relief

characters taken out of commission when they're otherwise the strongest one. exposed to a weakness, given magical restraints or cuffs with neural suppressors to keep them docile, targeted and taken out

vertigo taking a character side to side, brought down and useless

[ask-hound]

Hound lets Saint talk, listening to his audibly choked-up voice get quieter and quieter until he almost whispers the word “weapons.” They can tell that it’s difficult, practically painful, for him to discuss it, and they don’t want to prolong that discomfort by needlessly pressing him for more details.

“I suppose I owe you some secrets in return,” Hound muses. They pause for a second, before starting: “My labs, my scientists— it feels odd calling them that, because nothing there belonged to me, up to and including my own body and mind— I think they had a similar idea. That- that concept that if you can strip a person down to their barest components, with all the horror and trauma that process involves, you’ll make a perfect soldier. Maybe it’ll be at the expense of the subject’s humanity, but that’s a small price to pay.”

Hound stops speaking for a second, trying to shove down the emotion in their voice, to deliver the information like a mission report. “They— well, they did a good job of that, with me. I was a person before it all, a real person, with memories and preferences and relationships, and they took that all away, left me with my basic skills and some brain damage and dependencies on their drugs and my handlers.” They have to stop talking, feeling themself choking up as the last few words leave their mouth.

“There used to be an actual person living in this body, and I replaced them, and now they can’t ever come back. Even without everything else I’ve done, I think that makes me a murderer.”

Hound released a sigh of relief as they left the rook’s main room and the noise finally dropped to a manageable level. Saint had responded favorably to the idea of finding somewhere quiet to stay for a while, and he walked behind Hound (in their blind spot, which they weren’t the biggest fan of, but it couldn’t be helped) as they ducked into a seemingly unused storage room at the other end of the hall.

Taking a seat on a large crate covered by a moth-eaten tarp, Hound hazarded a glance at the odd bracelet their equally quiet companion was fiddling with. They realized with no small amount of curiosity that it wasn’t just an ordinary wire, like they had previously thought, but rather a wickedly sharp garrote.

“that’s an… interesting fashion choice,” Hound noted, trying to force their voice into sounding more casual than it usually did.

@project-saint-707 here it is :P