[The knife goes up, and through the shadow's lower jaw. It wrenches back, a sick crack of bone echoing through the alleyway as motion and gravity do the rest of the work for the weapon. Now the face melts again, the murky ichor lolling off the remains of a human face, dripping off in dribs and drabs, eyes still marred with deep, black oil scars.
The shadow's free hand positions under the wax melt, attempting to catch the falling damage, scoop it back on to the wrecked frame. There's a gurgle, wet and half-tongued, and the blade turns, presses harder, pushing for deeper.
You feel as though if the shade did have capability of expression, it would be angry.]
STILL CW GORE
The shadow's free hand positions under the wax melt, attempting to catch the falling damage, scoop it back on to the wrecked frame. There's a gurgle, wet and half-tongued, and the blade turns, presses harder, pushing for deeper.
You feel as though if the shade did have capability of expression, it would be angry.]