"You're lucky," Hawke intones in a voice that's low and still carries like a deep winter's chill, felt through the bones more than heard. He strides the gap between himself and the dead man, coming to rest standing over him with the pitiful curled up form between his boots. "You're lucky because you get to die when this is over. I would have preferred you lived the rest of your craven little life with the knowledge of what you'd done."
He flicks his right hand from his side casually and the man that had been Tarent lets out another muffled cry behind his gag as his arms jerk themselves stretched outwards. "I'll take solace, though, in knowing you can't impose your miserable self on anyone else. I'm doing you a favor, really, if the only way you can get off is by forcing your tiny cock into submissive's face by surprise."
The air grows heavy and the guard gags, struggling to breathe both as he can't expand his lungs past a certain point and as the fabric in his mouth is forced further down from the shift in gravity. Hawke remains impassivly standing above. "Know that you died at the hands of yet another submissive who knows what his place should be. Know that you died for daring to touch your betters."
Hawke leans down, pressing one knee to Tarent's chest as he brings his face close. The guard is struggling, straining with bulging eyes and veins clearly defined along his head and neck. One eye has gone completely red for the blood vessels behind it that could not take the strain. "Know that you killed yourself the second you even thought of laying a hand on Chris Sonom."
He pats the side of his face gently and retreats to kneeling at his side instead. Even the pressure lifts and Tarent gets one difficult breath into his lungs before, like Calus, his shirt tears of its own accord to expose the hollow of his chest. "I'm just doing you a favor by informing you."
Words carve themselves in bloody scrawl here too, longer and with painstaking clarity. Hawke's hands rise like a conductor, fingers moving to direct the wounds as they appear, and once they're drawn - and only then - he lowers his hands to his sides again, leaving Tarent still and passed out with dripping letters etched into him. Blood drips in turn from Hawke's face and front. He runs a hand through his beard, staining the snowy white in red streaks, surveying his handiwork.
YOU'RE WELCOME
A simple push of force magic and the corpse tumbles to meet the other, cracking against rock after rock the whole.
cw: torture, humiliation continued
He flicks his right hand from his side casually and the man that had been Tarent lets out another muffled cry behind his gag as his arms jerk themselves stretched outwards. "I'll take solace, though, in knowing you can't impose your miserable self on anyone else. I'm doing you a favor, really, if the only way you can get off is by forcing your tiny cock into submissive's face by surprise."
The air grows heavy and the guard gags, struggling to breathe both as he can't expand his lungs past a certain point and as the fabric in his mouth is forced further down from the shift in gravity. Hawke remains impassivly standing above. "Know that you died at the hands of yet another submissive who knows what his place should be. Know that you died for daring to touch your betters."
Hawke leans down, pressing one knee to Tarent's chest as he brings his face close. The guard is struggling, straining with bulging eyes and veins clearly defined along his head and neck. One eye has gone completely red for the blood vessels behind it that could not take the strain. "Know that you killed yourself the second you even thought of laying a hand on Chris Sonom."
He pats the side of his face gently and retreats to kneeling at his side instead. Even the pressure lifts and Tarent gets one difficult breath into his lungs before, like Calus, his shirt tears of its own accord to expose the hollow of his chest. "I'm just doing you a favor by informing you."
Words carve themselves in bloody scrawl here too, longer and with painstaking clarity. Hawke's hands rise like a conductor, fingers moving to direct the wounds as they appear, and once they're drawn - and only then - he lowers his hands to his sides again, leaving Tarent still and passed out with dripping letters etched into him. Blood drips in turn from Hawke's face and front. He runs a hand through his beard, staining the snowy white in red streaks, surveying his handiwork.
YOU'RE WELCOME
A simple push of force magic and the corpse tumbles to meet the other, cracking against rock after rock the whole.
Way.
Down.