The burst of displaced dirt and the wreckage of shattering metal prosthetic parts is a sight he wishes he could catch and preserve eternal. What a beautiful sight it is, this motherfucker ought be proud to have been part of such a miracle.
He smiles on down like a child waiting for their friend to rise up for all the more play. The spiked club, made all up of broken bones and horns, covered in rainbow, sits just so over his shoulder. He's pleased when the motherfucker deigns to answer, is capable too.
He's even more pleased by what the answer is. He laughs loud.
"HA, WHAT A GOOD ONE THAT IS TO BE! You're correct my main motherfucker. PRETTY IT UP AND WAS IN HIS LIKING." But of course titles aren't chosen, but given. "That ain't the proper why though, little brother," He purrs. Then his arms spread and he's speaking in that preacher's voice. The General's voice. "HERE WE STAND IN THE MOTHER FUCKING FRAY WHAT BE OF BATTLE! But he cannot sing. NOT A SONG COMES FROM HE, BROTHER! Much a miracle that would be, a song from him. THAT'S THE JOKE. So, where? WELL THAT, OH FAITHLESS, HE IS HERE TO TELL, ALL BESTOWING WISDOM IS HE!"
He leans in real close so the wicked word can be heard. He leans in nice and nearlike to best produce holy revelation. "The songs come from the sounds as what's made of enemy reaching the motherfucking finale of their shitshow of a life."
Just as Jet's pulled himself up out a grave, the Highblood rips him high into the air, back where he belongs, only to bring around his club in a sharp swing. And it's outta here!
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He smiles on down like a child waiting for their friend to rise up for all the more play. The spiked club, made all up of broken bones and horns, covered in rainbow, sits just so over his shoulder. He's pleased when the motherfucker deigns to answer, is capable too.
He's even more pleased by what the answer is. He laughs loud.
"HA, WHAT A GOOD ONE THAT IS TO BE! You're correct my main motherfucker. PRETTY IT UP AND WAS IN HIS LIKING." But of course titles aren't chosen, but given. "That ain't the proper why though, little brother," He purrs. Then his arms spread and he's speaking in that preacher's voice. The General's voice. "HERE WE STAND IN THE MOTHER FUCKING FRAY WHAT BE OF BATTLE! But he cannot sing. NOT A SONG COMES FROM HE, BROTHER! Much a miracle that would be, a song from him. THAT'S THE JOKE. So, where? WELL THAT, OH FAITHLESS, HE IS HERE TO TELL, ALL BESTOWING WISDOM IS HE!"
He leans in real close so the wicked word can be heard. He leans in nice and nearlike to best produce holy revelation. "The songs come from the sounds as what's made of enemy reaching the motherfucking finale of their shitshow of a life."
Just as Jet's pulled himself up out a grave, the Highblood rips him high into the air, back where he belongs, only to bring around his club in a sharp swing. And it's outta here!