Thread: The Songs Are No More (Chantho/Misanthropic)

Damien was actually helping clean up a little as the party dwindled. He also went over to the final surviving member of the choir he had set up and mercifully killed her as swiftly as he could with a stab to the heart. He liked to imagine he could see some amount of happiness in her eyes but deep down he knew he was deluding himself. She would have been happy if he had never touched her, if she had never been captured. While he might have given her a small mercy it was nothing compared to what he could have done if he had only freed her instead of allowing her to be a plaything of these people. He groaned and held his head as the thoughts of guilt raced in his mind. The zydrate was wearing off and his jovial attitude was fading. In another hour he'd be at home curled up into a ball as he shivered himself to sleep. He touched his shoulder and realized he didn't have his coat on. He thought back with some difficulty and remembered he gave it to Ezra because his friend had been so cold. He looked about the party floor and saw no Ezra so he figured checking out the 'waiting room' might be his best bet. He fetched his doctor's bag as he knew he had to return them to Gigaslut6niner or else he would end up in a world of crap. He wandered towards the waiting room as he avoided the puddles of blood, semen, and less palatable items that sometimes defied description and even reality. He poked his head into the room to see a confrontation between Ezra and some minor artist who was mostly used to scout locations for good people to pick up and abuse. Damien fought the fuzziness in his head as he strained to listen into the conversation. There was jealousy, yes, but he could not figure out over what. This artist was yelling at his friend for some reason, some jealous and as far as he could tell petty reason. Damien didn't much care for how the man was spouting off nonsense as if Ezra himself personally set up his position and kept other people from it. Then came the switchblade. Damien was already hidden enough that he couldn't be noticed but now he definitely didn't want to be seen so he ducked back outside fully. He opened his doctor's bag and searched carefully for what he needed. He pulled out a syringe and a scalpel and readied both of them like some kind of macabre warrior before he burst into the room. Of course bursting would be a very friendly descriptor. Damien fell in like some kind of drunken sailor and jammed the needle into the mans arm so hard that the needle splintered off before the full syringe was emptied into him. Of course that didn't matter as the numbing agent was exceptionally powerful and given to him in case any of the lovely patients of his matron decided to try and escape from their imprisonment. Damien fell onto the table and propped himself up with the arm holding the broken syringe and swiped the scalpel fiercely across HaroldHenry's face. The wicked arc sliced through skin and even bone as it finished its descent, leaving no sign for a second. Then a vivid red line appeared and the artist's eye oozed the viscous fluid inside as it started splitting apart. Damien watched as the artist started screaming. He gave a little sneer and slashed at the artist again, this time over extending himself in his stupor as his slash missed and he fell on the floor. The artist ran out of the waiting room, leaving Damien with the time to turn around and look up at Ezra, So...hey...I need my coat back. And are you okay? I didn't want him to hurt you. You're my only friend here.