Before him, the scene exploded. Bleeding sunset hues followed the slave as he signed his own downfall. The domino effect started, and the Protégé remained, emotionless in his seat. His Leader spoke up with cruel words, yet the blonde Lykoi stayed, for there were other, more eager members to take care of the slave who wrongly wished to be a free man. Itachi’s involvement was not needed, and instead he remained a spectator; heavy lidded eyes never straying from the slave as he slapped Eris’ daughter and was overpowered by the monstrous Larkspur. His pulse never climbed as he watched the scene develop before him. This was a messy way of making certain justice would be paid, but it worked well enough.
Eyes blinked instinctively as droplets from the spray of blood splattered across his blonde face, only to open again to ponder at the amount of blood the now tongueless male could spew. There was a delicious perfume weighting down the air now; so much favourable than roasted, gilded dinner set before them. His eyes cared little to wander among the rest of the Family, for what use did he have of feasting in different impressions of this scene? Itachi already knew that he was sick, and so very far beyond redemption.
His red gaze slowly moved to the table, and its red dotted surface. Pale fingers rose to brush against hard wood and freshly spilled blood. He then brought the red stained fingers to his lips, and his tongue quickly leaped out between sharp teeth to savour this beautiful, scarlet liquid. Eyes returned to the defeated slave; shrank to thin slits with pupils drowning in maroon seas. So lovely...
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