It was as if an invisible wall sat between the tip of the obsidian dagger and the flesh of the Marquis; he simply could not be reached.
"Oh? Did I hit a button, perhaps? Look at that expression, Ren; even as wounded as you are, you're still so intent on killing me. You're a depraved one, there's no mistaking it."
"...I'll kill you," he repeated, unable to look the man in the eye.
Decartes only seemed to take delight in the constant threats as he loomed over the wounded young man, gripping him by his white tufts to keep him standing.
The pale, white fingers that touched his hair were covered in scabs; so skeletal and disfigured as if they had been broken and battered endlessly. His nails were no different in their abhorrence as they sat at an abyssal, black shade.
