[ He’s amassing a small, horrible collection of things that he has scraped from Alucard’s skin. Sypha’s blood, carefully wiped from him with cotton and saltwater the way he is doing now, now suspended in a beaker of pure water, diluted but still effective. A layer of skin, peeled away from his chest with one of his mother’s scalpels, saturated in the remains of that shadow magic. A dark ichor from the construct, wiped from his sword after he finally finished slicing the thing limb from limb. ]
There’s blood on the skin. [ The skin. As if it is just a thing that exists and not something that he cut away from Alucard while his claws peirced clean though the wood of the table, not in pain but in terror. ] A clean sample will help me to determine what is you and what is his magic.
no subject
There’s blood on the skin. [ The skin. As if it is just a thing that exists and not something that he cut away from Alucard while his claws peirced clean though the wood of the table, not in pain but in terror. ] A clean sample will help me to determine what is you and what is his magic.