[it's the absolute last thing knives wants, separating when the acrid taste of fear and panic still clung to his senses with a ferocity that made his blood run cold. he didn't want to leave vash behind to chase after vee, and that--
that was an entirely separate concern. knives' sharpened memory pulling up the memory with precision clarity, an amalgamation of everything else that had happened in such a relatively small amount of time and creating what was, essentially, a nightmare. knives was familiar with terror. he had made it his bedfellow for over a century and a half, dipped his hands into its infinite depths and fashioned weaponry and armor from the vile substance. he'd never known a life without it there to slice into his flesh, over and over and over. knives knew fear and this had been something above even that.
the difficult decision to leave vash to tend to vee and travel alongside wolfwood was just that; difficult. but he understands the reasoning and understands the necessity. vee ran from him, not the terror that left them shivering in the backrooms of a dingy church.
wolfwood held his gun and bat and knives carried his sickle, the edge of it lightly spotted with rust from when he'd found it abandoned by the farm some time ago. hearing wolfwood's command doesn't elicit much of a response from knives, only a quiet exhale through his nose and a stony expression. betraying his composure, he slowly twists the handle of his sickle around in his hand, back and forth and back and forth.]
no subject
that was an entirely separate concern. knives' sharpened memory pulling up the memory with precision clarity, an amalgamation of everything else that had happened in such a relatively small amount of time and creating what was, essentially, a nightmare. knives was familiar with terror. he had made it his bedfellow for over a century and a half, dipped his hands into its infinite depths and fashioned weaponry and armor from the vile substance. he'd never known a life without it there to slice into his flesh, over and over and over. knives knew fear and this had been something above even that.
the difficult decision to leave vash to tend to vee and travel alongside wolfwood was just that; difficult. but he understands the reasoning and understands the necessity. vee ran from him, not the terror that left them shivering in the backrooms of a dingy church.
wolfwood held his gun and bat and knives carried his sickle, the edge of it lightly spotted with rust from when he'd found it abandoned by the farm some time ago. hearing wolfwood's command doesn't elicit much of a response from knives, only a quiet exhale through his nose and a stony expression. betraying his composure, he slowly twists the handle of his sickle around in his hand, back and forth and back and forth.]