[Oh, but of course he can hear Vergilius click his tongue in opposition to him. Of course he can. No matter how loud or cacophonous the onslaught, he only has ears for his love, and that much remains true even as the roof groans and cedes to the sheer oppressive force of everything that is Vergilius.
The sight of him rising like an angel, like a savior dripping blood from a thorned crown, enlivens Lobelia. Thrills him in a way he couldn't possibly put into words. His guiding light rises up, lurid red dripping from his eyes, and he doesn't need to be told to follow.
Not once had he needed to be told to chase after Vergilius, linoleum and metal crumpling beneath his feet as he propels himself up through that gaping hole in the ceiling in hot pursuit of his ange de la mort.
Still, Lobelia's assault doesn't let up. Guide him as you will, Vergilius, but you'll be contending with the rain of blows Lobelia calls down with every step. His arms, his legs, his torso. Whatever he can hit, whatever he can chip away at, is his target.]
[The form Vergilius manifests, with the roiling, raging flow of blood, is almost like that of a warrior. Perhaps he is indeed an angel. He will take Lobelia into his open arms, embrace him, and use his divine sword to banish him to hell as the sinner he is. His own dull heart, so kept under lock and key, isn't even free of the excitement that fills the air.]
[How odd, how very odd. He doesn't have ears like Lobelia does, but he almost swears that he can feel their hearts beating in tandem as the other jumps after him to clash with him in the air.]
[The blood of his new mantle billows like flame - the man attempts to hit, but it reacts in turn like limbs of their own, parrying instinctively. His gladius still is held high, no weaker even by being held by his other hand, as he slashes and strikes where he can. His mouth is open in a snarl, his eyes blazing. There's no restraint. If he can tear into the other man, he will. The wolf no longer has its muzzle.]
[What comes up must come down, though, and gravity starts to shift him down, even as he's turning to launch a heavy, horrid kick at the other's abdomen to try to bring him to the ground first.]
[Brilliant, dazzling, divine. He was right to consider this man his angel of death, his blade burning hotter than the flames of hell, those bloody tendrils effortlessly parrying his every attack. This is Vergilius' true form, isn't it? How lovely he is, done up in so much blood, and Lobelia wants to imagine it's from each and every life he's taken, siphoned from their bodies and forged into something lovely to behold.
Lobelia is forced to take a more defensive position, snaps and whistles catching that blade before it can cleave into his shoulder, the weight of soundwaves slowing its advance to a crawl. The blade still manages to tear into his flesh, but it's nothing that will slow him down— a mere inconvenience, and Lobelia is certain he'll suffer his fair share of those.
He's spoke too soon, clearly, when audiomancy alone is not enough to stop the trajectory of that kick. It's enough to lessen his impact, kicked to the sandy stretch below and cushioning his fall with waves of pressurized noise, the first gaping crater of many to dot the beach.
Propelling himself back upward — and forwards — Lobelia snaps, aims to blow up as many of those bloody tendrils as he can while kiting the shoreline. There has to be a limit to such a power, Lobelia thinks, and that's just as well. This old man can manage to last long enough to satisfy him, can't he?]
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The sight of him rising like an angel, like a savior dripping blood from a thorned crown, enlivens Lobelia. Thrills him in a way he couldn't possibly put into words. His guiding light rises up, lurid red dripping from his eyes, and he doesn't need to be told to follow.
Not once had he needed to be told to chase after Vergilius, linoleum and metal crumpling beneath his feet as he propels himself up through that gaping hole in the ceiling in hot pursuit of his ange de la mort.
Still, Lobelia's assault doesn't let up. Guide him as you will, Vergilius, but you'll be contending with the rain of blows Lobelia calls down with every step. His arms, his legs, his torso. Whatever he can hit, whatever he can chip away at, is his target.]
no subject
[How odd, how very odd. He doesn't have ears like Lobelia does, but he almost swears that he can feel their hearts beating in tandem as the other jumps after him to clash with him in the air.]
[The blood of his new mantle billows like flame - the man attempts to hit, but it reacts in turn like limbs of their own, parrying instinctively. His gladius still is held high, no weaker even by being held by his other hand, as he slashes and strikes where he can. His mouth is open in a snarl, his eyes blazing. There's no restraint. If he can tear into the other man, he will. The wolf no longer has its muzzle.]
[What comes up must come down, though, and gravity starts to shift him down, even as he's turning to launch a heavy, horrid kick at the other's abdomen to try to bring him to the ground first.]
no subject
Lobelia is forced to take a more defensive position, snaps and whistles catching that blade before it can cleave into his shoulder, the weight of soundwaves slowing its advance to a crawl. The blade still manages to tear into his flesh, but it's nothing that will slow him down— a mere inconvenience, and Lobelia is certain he'll suffer his fair share of those.
He's spoke too soon, clearly, when audiomancy alone is not enough to stop the trajectory of that kick. It's enough to lessen his impact, kicked to the sandy stretch below and cushioning his fall with waves of pressurized noise, the first gaping crater of many to dot the beach.
Propelling himself back upward — and forwards — Lobelia snaps, aims to blow up as many of those bloody tendrils as he can while kiting the shoreline. There has to be a limit to such a power, Lobelia thinks, and that's just as well. This old man can manage to last long enough to satisfy him, can't he?]