DITO (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gutsgalore) wrote2020-04-21 09:52 pm
gutsgalore) wrote2020-04-21 09:52 pm
(no subject)
The moon is blessed unto Dito and he feels it constantly, a calm water within him. When provoked, it swirls, a whirlpool winding and unwinding itself, spreading itself throughout Dito’s body. When he exhales it’s made of stardust now, and his eyes glisten in the light of the cosmos. From what he has learned, the natives of this place are not like him, lacking a Moonblessing. What a shame to be them; what a shame to not feel the moon itself shine within you, radiant and glorious as if holy; what a shame it would be if Dito could not experience this brilliance within him, as he looks at this person.
They are everything Dito hates: Humans bloated with their greed and gluttony, fat with riches and forever hungering. (Yet these humans, are they not like Dito, who hungers, always? For blood and gore; for the loneliness always eating away at him. But that is a thought for another day.) He would love to see them turned inside out, their guts and bones on display, maybe even still alive while Dito empties them of their gluttony in the most wretched way --
“What do you say, dear?” they ask. “Want to come with me? I’ll give you anything your heart desires.” With the words, Dito is torn from his gruesome thoughts. They are holding their hand out to Dito, and he’s taken a very loose grasp of it. He smiles, small and mischievous.
“Yeah, take me.”
They slip into the restaurant, swimming fluidly between the shadows of nighttime darkness and vibrant city lights. Dito will learn of ramen today, and he finds it divine. A nice, hot soup, with plenty of noodles and even quail eggs -- he desired little more than this. Chopsticks are given, and though in Midgard their use was rarely found and, as such, Dito had never used them before, he does learn quickly and well. He captures the boiled egg in between his chopsticks, lifting it up, watching the other person. They have been quiet for some time, but with hints of a sly smile.
“What is your name?” Dito asks.
They exhale heavily, and the smile is in full bloom. It’s a dangerous thing, he can tell. “You may call me Yves.”
He frees the egg back into the hot water of the soup, then rests a cheek on his hand. “Okay, Yves.” He draws nothings into the table with his forefinger. “Why am I here, again?”
“I will show you.”
Without eating their soup (which Dito will dismay over ‘til the end of his days), they slip into the camouflage of shadow and make their way into an alley behind the shop. City lights glow down unto them from above, neon angels; they blind Dito, for he is unused to nighttime providing much lighting, except for either moonlight or candle glow. As always, Dito must adjust, fluidly adapting to the will of others, of fate itself, but there are growing pains. As always.
He senses it near immediately. Sees the glint of a pair of glasses, hears the shuffle of feet as someone adjusts their weight. Internally, Dito is remembering where he put his knife and finding himself in wishes for his spear. He’d known himself to be walking into what was likely a trap, so the display of this scene does not surprise or frighten him. Dito is lithe, agile, and smart enough to predict a lot of movements. He will hear the story first.
“This,” Yves begins, “is us. We are the Umbris.”
Dito is quick to dismiss. “I don’t really have any interest in joining some gang or cult, so…”
“We are no cult.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Yves then rushes forward, and in the same instant Dito is taking out his knife. It’s a mere army knife, not much of a weapon compared to the Sins of the Fallen. Yves’ weapon looks to be an icepick of sorts; the pressure they’re putting into it against Dito’s is strong and heavy, and it pains his arm to exert force back toward them, but he is surviving. This is not a fight he will lose, he knows. The only outcome is success, survival, none else. His feet start to slide underneath the pressure. He must think fast. So he does, swiftly aiming a heavy punch toward Yves’ ribcage. Yves spits and recoils, slight but granting Dito just enough time to predict the next attack -- Yves slicing the icepick downward -- and ducking for a dodge.
Dito moves to the left quickly, his mind racing. This knife is not meant for throwing, but considering the range they’re fighting within… Yves is skillful, he can tell, but they are not fast enough. They must do more talking than they do fighting. Surging forward, Dito’s grip on the handle of the knife is firm and ready. It will land with a wet squelch as it is fixed viciously into Yves’ eye. They wobble backward; they’re not dumb enough to drop their icepick, unfortunately enough, but it’s a small loss in the face of a great and new advantage for him. Dito runs forward further, toward Yves, and slams them into the brick wall. He may be only as tall as 5’0”, but he is unexpectedly strong, even without his spear.
“What kind of lame ass trap is this?” Dito asks, in a bored sigh. With one pull, he removes the knife from Yves’ eye, proceeding to gesture around the alleyway with it. “None of your guys are even attacking.” It’s followed by a lot of shuffling of feet, even some of the faintest whispers.
“Stay back,” Yves hisses.
“Yeah, yeah, stay back,” he chimes, and swiftly moves to strike again, this time aiming for their neck. Yves is able to wiggle out in time, however, and they’re moving with heavy breaths to try and stab Dito in the side with their icepick. He’s not quite able to move out in time before getting hit by the icepick, blood steadily oozing from the new wound and staining his clothes. It’s not the deepest wound, thankfully. Clicking his tongue, he moves back; when Yves moves in again, Dito will clumsily trip them (and nearly himself in the process). He makes it his opportunity to escape. The gang members quickly scramble to follow Dito up and over the fence he climbs, but he’s lithe, fast, too sneaky to catch and they’re giving up before long.
“I know that won’t be the last I see of them,” and thus begins, once more, Dito’s habit of self-talk out loud. “Give me a break. I didn’t want to get into trouble so soon, but then this happens…” He throws his hands up in the air as he speaks. “But… but… I got the chance to stab that bitch’s eye in. Ah, the burst of it, and the way they screamed… Ah… Ahahaha…. Ahahahahaha!”
Dito laughs himself home.
They are everything Dito hates: Humans bloated with their greed and gluttony, fat with riches and forever hungering. (Yet these humans, are they not like Dito, who hungers, always? For blood and gore; for the loneliness always eating away at him. But that is a thought for another day.) He would love to see them turned inside out, their guts and bones on display, maybe even still alive while Dito empties them of their gluttony in the most wretched way --
“What do you say, dear?” they ask. “Want to come with me? I’ll give you anything your heart desires.” With the words, Dito is torn from his gruesome thoughts. They are holding their hand out to Dito, and he’s taken a very loose grasp of it. He smiles, small and mischievous.
“Yeah, take me.”
They slip into the restaurant, swimming fluidly between the shadows of nighttime darkness and vibrant city lights. Dito will learn of ramen today, and he finds it divine. A nice, hot soup, with plenty of noodles and even quail eggs -- he desired little more than this. Chopsticks are given, and though in Midgard their use was rarely found and, as such, Dito had never used them before, he does learn quickly and well. He captures the boiled egg in between his chopsticks, lifting it up, watching the other person. They have been quiet for some time, but with hints of a sly smile.
“What is your name?” Dito asks.
They exhale heavily, and the smile is in full bloom. It’s a dangerous thing, he can tell. “You may call me Yves.”
He frees the egg back into the hot water of the soup, then rests a cheek on his hand. “Okay, Yves.” He draws nothings into the table with his forefinger. “Why am I here, again?”
“I will show you.”
Without eating their soup (which Dito will dismay over ‘til the end of his days), they slip into the camouflage of shadow and make their way into an alley behind the shop. City lights glow down unto them from above, neon angels; they blind Dito, for he is unused to nighttime providing much lighting, except for either moonlight or candle glow. As always, Dito must adjust, fluidly adapting to the will of others, of fate itself, but there are growing pains. As always.
He senses it near immediately. Sees the glint of a pair of glasses, hears the shuffle of feet as someone adjusts their weight. Internally, Dito is remembering where he put his knife and finding himself in wishes for his spear. He’d known himself to be walking into what was likely a trap, so the display of this scene does not surprise or frighten him. Dito is lithe, agile, and smart enough to predict a lot of movements. He will hear the story first.
“This,” Yves begins, “is us. We are the Umbris.”
Dito is quick to dismiss. “I don’t really have any interest in joining some gang or cult, so…”
“We are no cult.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Yves then rushes forward, and in the same instant Dito is taking out his knife. It’s a mere army knife, not much of a weapon compared to the Sins of the Fallen. Yves’ weapon looks to be an icepick of sorts; the pressure they’re putting into it against Dito’s is strong and heavy, and it pains his arm to exert force back toward them, but he is surviving. This is not a fight he will lose, he knows. The only outcome is success, survival, none else. His feet start to slide underneath the pressure. He must think fast. So he does, swiftly aiming a heavy punch toward Yves’ ribcage. Yves spits and recoils, slight but granting Dito just enough time to predict the next attack -- Yves slicing the icepick downward -- and ducking for a dodge.
Dito moves to the left quickly, his mind racing. This knife is not meant for throwing, but considering the range they’re fighting within… Yves is skillful, he can tell, but they are not fast enough. They must do more talking than they do fighting. Surging forward, Dito’s grip on the handle of the knife is firm and ready. It will land with a wet squelch as it is fixed viciously into Yves’ eye. They wobble backward; they’re not dumb enough to drop their icepick, unfortunately enough, but it’s a small loss in the face of a great and new advantage for him. Dito runs forward further, toward Yves, and slams them into the brick wall. He may be only as tall as 5’0”, but he is unexpectedly strong, even without his spear.
“What kind of lame ass trap is this?” Dito asks, in a bored sigh. With one pull, he removes the knife from Yves’ eye, proceeding to gesture around the alleyway with it. “None of your guys are even attacking.” It’s followed by a lot of shuffling of feet, even some of the faintest whispers.
“Stay back,” Yves hisses.
“Yeah, yeah, stay back,” he chimes, and swiftly moves to strike again, this time aiming for their neck. Yves is able to wiggle out in time, however, and they’re moving with heavy breaths to try and stab Dito in the side with their icepick. He’s not quite able to move out in time before getting hit by the icepick, blood steadily oozing from the new wound and staining his clothes. It’s not the deepest wound, thankfully. Clicking his tongue, he moves back; when Yves moves in again, Dito will clumsily trip them (and nearly himself in the process). He makes it his opportunity to escape. The gang members quickly scramble to follow Dito up and over the fence he climbs, but he’s lithe, fast, too sneaky to catch and they’re giving up before long.
“I know that won’t be the last I see of them,” and thus begins, once more, Dito’s habit of self-talk out loud. “Give me a break. I didn’t want to get into trouble so soon, but then this happens…” He throws his hands up in the air as he speaks. “But… but… I got the chance to stab that bitch’s eye in. Ah, the burst of it, and the way they screamed… Ah… Ahahaha…. Ahahahahaha!”
Dito laughs himself home.