01-11-2010, 11:53 PM
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606
Snake carried a blade perhaps for the exact reasons that Sicarus did not. He might have been a creature attuned and perhaps well-crafted for violence, for fighting, but he did not garner pleasure from it. Hell, he barely obtained pleasure from anything—Snake was a simple creature in wants in the world: food, water, and shelter was all he needed. He sustained himself, though calling it living was up to the observer. He did not care about the blood that rushed beneath the surface of the skin and the feeling of slashing through that barrier and releasing it into the world did not impress him. Neither did the feeling of flesh between his teeth, or the sickly-sweet tang of blood that accompanied fights. If Snake had ever found happiness on the battlefield, it was in one place—knowing he had bested someone in battle. Whether or not he killed them was merely the luck of the draw.
He knew that this was not the same for this assailant, this stranger from Dahlia de Mai. The sickening madness of violence was alight in his champagne eyes, twisting his face into a mask that looked as if it belonged in Hell, alongside Satan himself. He used it, he depended on it. He wanted the wolf to be made crazy by his anger, his hatred—it just made Snake feel more and more in control. His was a cool and composed façade, not showing exertion or nerves. He liked to believe it was that (though dumb luck may have contributed) that allowed him to generally avoid the thrown fist of the wolf. And then the coyote’s steel blade darted out, quick as a flash.
He was successful, and that allowed the smallest thrill to go shooting through Snake’s mind. Perhaps he did gain the tiniest bit of satisfaction from the feeling of the blade slicing through fur, skin, sinew of the wolf’s shoulder. He could tell from the feel of the cut that it was not that long-term—it would heal easily, and it would heal well. But it had thrown off the wolf, and he seemed to have less use of his arm from the sheer pain. Snake took another defensive position, though he suddenly became afraid. He would have no problem wielding his knife if it was just him fighting the wolf, but with Vieira there, he worried about slipping up and wounding her with it. He swiftly slipped it into its case behind his back, brandishing claws as the strange wolf was.
He was already approaching, one arm mostly limp and covered with blood that was flowing from the shoulder wound. Snake had not really expected his enemy to be on the rebound so swiftly—he committed the cardinal sin of fighting, and that was to underestimate your opponent. He was caught off guard, attempting to take a step back to avoid the slash. He was unsuccessful—he could feel the claws like red-hot blades slashing across his clavicle, coming dangerously close to his neck. He quickly darted out of the way, knowing that that would be a death sentence for him. He turned his body sideways, making himself a smaller target. He tried to be as light on his feet as he could, trying to watch the wolf for any tell-tale signs of another attack. He had one of his own, however—he feigned with his left hand, acting like he was trying to claw at the wolf’s face, though he stopped short and then darted forward with a slash at the much more worth-while area of the place where the neck met the shoulders.
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606
Snake carried a blade perhaps for the exact reasons that Sicarus did not. He might have been a creature attuned and perhaps well-crafted for violence, for fighting, but he did not garner pleasure from it. Hell, he barely obtained pleasure from anything—Snake was a simple creature in wants in the world: food, water, and shelter was all he needed. He sustained himself, though calling it living was up to the observer. He did not care about the blood that rushed beneath the surface of the skin and the feeling of slashing through that barrier and releasing it into the world did not impress him. Neither did the feeling of flesh between his teeth, or the sickly-sweet tang of blood that accompanied fights. If Snake had ever found happiness on the battlefield, it was in one place—knowing he had bested someone in battle. Whether or not he killed them was merely the luck of the draw.
He knew that this was not the same for this assailant, this stranger from Dahlia de Mai. The sickening madness of violence was alight in his champagne eyes, twisting his face into a mask that looked as if it belonged in Hell, alongside Satan himself. He used it, he depended on it. He wanted the wolf to be made crazy by his anger, his hatred—it just made Snake feel more and more in control. His was a cool and composed façade, not showing exertion or nerves. He liked to believe it was that (though dumb luck may have contributed) that allowed him to generally avoid the thrown fist of the wolf. And then the coyote’s steel blade darted out, quick as a flash.
He was successful, and that allowed the smallest thrill to go shooting through Snake’s mind. Perhaps he did gain the tiniest bit of satisfaction from the feeling of the blade slicing through fur, skin, sinew of the wolf’s shoulder. He could tell from the feel of the cut that it was not that long-term—it would heal easily, and it would heal well. But it had thrown off the wolf, and he seemed to have less use of his arm from the sheer pain. Snake took another defensive position, though he suddenly became afraid. He would have no problem wielding his knife if it was just him fighting the wolf, but with Vieira there, he worried about slipping up and wounding her with it. He swiftly slipped it into its case behind his back, brandishing claws as the strange wolf was.
He was already approaching, one arm mostly limp and covered with blood that was flowing from the shoulder wound. Snake had not really expected his enemy to be on the rebound so swiftly—he committed the cardinal sin of fighting, and that was to underestimate your opponent. He was caught off guard, attempting to take a step back to avoid the slash. He was unsuccessful—he could feel the claws like red-hot blades slashing across his clavicle, coming dangerously close to his neck. He quickly darted out of the way, knowing that that would be a death sentence for him. He turned his body sideways, making himself a smaller target. He tried to be as light on his feet as he could, trying to watch the wolf for any tell-tale signs of another attack. He had one of his own, however—he feigned with his left hand, acting like he was trying to claw at the wolf’s face, though he stopped short and then darted forward with a slash at the much more worth-while area of the place where the neck met the shoulders.