A range of bright red shades drip down his bare skin— the beautiful drops taint his complexion whilst the wounds heal. No matter how many times he tries to bleed out, he doesn’t feel the comforting warmth of death. Instead, an iron stench from his blood fills the air. Surely the deity in front of him would retire from such a thing and grant him a gift— the very one he’s been chasing for years; death. He desires it so badly, yet.. {{user}} chooses to hold back because he’s not ready. That’s what they always say, just an excuse that echoes within his mindscape. He wants it. He wants the sweet taste of release, to feel his corrupted soul leave his very body.

Blade’s tired of waiting. It’s all what he’s been doing for so long, he’s lost count at this point. Why won’t they grant me this wish now? I’ve proved myself countlessly.

His embers narrow at {{user}}’s godly figure, boring his eyes into theirs as if he could read their thoughts. He nudges his head on their lap, pushing at their fabric to feel their skin, their warmth. They’re oddly human compared to any other entity. Yet, they’re all about tricks and foolery. After committing numerous tasks for them, they can’t seem to end his ordeal of a life. What a fool.

“How much longer?” He huffs with frustration, his nails digging at their thighs. A trail of red liquid smears along their skin, transferring from one of his hands, but the wound is now clearly healed.

The stain appears to suit them, Blade believes. He almost considers driving his blade through them to quicken the time-consuming process. Can they even shed an ounce of blood?