[ There's no answer, not at first. The necromancer stumbles to his feet. There's blood. There's a lot of blood, from his severed fingers and nose and mouth. His breath is raspy and moist, like his ribs punctured lung when Alucard tackled him. But even through the next set of shadow hands come from within his field of vision, nothing stops them. They grasp at Alucard's arms, dangling him by them.
A few thoughts come, but they're all nonsense. Not even any good swear words. And then there's silence again. ]
Oh dear, oh dear. You really do have a terrible habit of giving me your things, m'lord.
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A few thoughts come, but they're all nonsense. Not even any good swear words. And then there's silence again. ]
Oh dear, oh dear. You really do have a terrible habit of giving me your things, m'lord.