chlorokyll | inbox (duocaeli)

[Knives. If he were unwise, he would delve a little further into this moniker that must be adhered to, unless a man has a wish to be skewered on the tip of a kitchen knife. He'd ask about it. But maybe this isn't the time. The man's kneejerk anger barely simmers before he's ushering him a command from the other side of the bookshelf. V huffs out a breath.]

Knives, then. How fitting for you.

[SINCE YOU JUST TRIED TO STAB HIM

The bookshelf deems the threat gone, apparently, because now it's sliding back over and slotting into its original spot. V watches it in his periphery but slides his attention back to Knives quickly enough. He doesn't seem tense, though his tone is edged with weary sarcasm.]

Perhaps it doesn't like violence between two people just having small talk.

Edited 2023-05-08 02:06 (UTC)

[ It is fitting, isn't it? There's a reason he picked the name, after all. It did not take long for his use of his Gate, even when he was quite young, to primarily manifest in the creation of blades. (Implements of violence. And protection.) ]

So it seems.

[ His face twitches with annoyance at the house's whims. The fact that it is somehow sentient is odd, to say the least. He's never encountered anything like it, and is rather interested to learn more. It's part of the reason he came to the library in the first place. ]

Who are you really, then? [ Because the sooner he can replace these implanted memories with real ones, the better. ] Surely not a... tattoo artist. [ He turns his back to V, clearly not registering him as any sort of threat, to set the knife back down on the table. After that, he tugs back the sleeve of the hooded sweatshirt he's wearing to examine the markings inked into his skin, starting at his wrist and traveling up his forearm.

It makes no sense. How can a marking exist on his body from a memory that never took place? It's unnerving, to say the least. ]

[And thus his sarcasm rolls right off the other man, like oil on water. Strange how he reminds him, already, of a certain someone... But V pushes that thought out of his head. He clicks a nail against the grip of his cane.]

Me?

[Surely not a tattoo artist, no. Though apparently "he" possessed some manner of skill, because his eyes trail down to the reveal of tattoos gliding Knives' arm. The memory dredges up from beneath a pile of them, clarifying again -- idle chatter as he worked on that incomplete sleeve, or even the moments before that, discussing the manner of design. His thoughts run parallel: how can it exist on this other man's skin, if these memories never truly happened?]

I'm just a man.

[~Mysterious~ but, moreover, unhelpful.]

Just a man.

[ Knives echoes the words even as he shoves his sleeve back down and over the tattoo. It's not as if V is going to have any of the answers to his questions, and if he is speaking the truth and is simply a human who for some reason was dragged into this situation, then it doesn't seem as if they have much more to discuss.

The memories should be ignored. It's not as if they mean anything.

But perhaps because of them, whether he likes it or not, he's not as immediately dismissive of V as he would be otherwise. ]

Well. I assume you came here to read, not to bother me.

[ He sinks back into the chair where his open book awaits him, but his exhaustion has hardly left him. He can feel his stomach stirring with hunger again as well. It feels as if he just ate, and now it's demanding more? Having to feed himself so often is extremely inconvenient. ]

No. I didn't.

[But that was before he recognized the man sitting there, trying his best to stay awake while struggling to read a book. Even as Knives settles back down into the chair, with a statement that clearly means he wants to be left alone, V's not sure he has the grace to let this slide just yet.

But he feels you, too, my guy, where food is concerned.]

Is that what you're doing? Reading? You look wrung-out and exhausted. Why not sleep and try again?

It's a waste of time.

[ That's the answer that falls out of Knives' mouth without him giving it much thought, because it's the truth. Having to dedicate an entire third of one's day to simply being unconscious is so inefficient, and he resents having to adhere to such rules now.

He heaves out a sigh and shuts the book. Perhaps he would be better off just finding himself something to eat. It should grant him the energy needed to stay awake for a few more hours, at least. ]

This place has weakened me. I never had these limitations before.

[ Hence why he's being stubborn, it seems... ]

Sleeping? A limitation?

[Well, perhaps it makes sense. Their powers are not what they should be; even V, who is literally half the man he's supposed to be, has had his abilities weakened. Taken away. Two of his familiars, utterly inaccessible.]

Perhaps I don't know the details of what you should be able to do, but some advice: if sleep calls to you, don't deny it.

[Like he's trying to do now.]

You'll find yourself even more useless without it.

[ It's not as if the advice is wrong. Knives understands on a theoretical level that beings like humans require sleep and that they will become weaker and weaker without it, much like with food, but he's chafing against the fact that he is now subject to these rules and requirements himself.

He stares at V for a solid five seconds as he lets the words sink in. Everything feels delayed right now, his mind sluggish as it struggles to keep up.

After a long pause, he heaves out a sigh and stands up yet again, the book abandoned — yet he grabs for the knife. Not to brandish it at V this time, thankfully. ]

I am going to find myself some food. That should grant me back some energy.

[ And with that he slinks past V, off toward the banquet hall. Not even bothering with a farewell, it seems. ]

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