She would not do the same to him. Godfrey sees this for what it really is. She attempts to cast aspersion over his faith. In so doing, she does the opposite; were his words truly so useless, she would not be expending energy to crush his throat just to protect her ears from them.
And here Godfrey proves another boon of mortality. Gale had no living lungs to starve; his own had long since stopped, likely atrophied black in his chest. A Cainite did not contend with lungs which hungered for air. When boots were put to neck, more often than not, they were their wearers, not beneath their treads. Such vulnerability as a true mortal human experiences is what has built the civilizations that the Cainite parasitizes, grows fat upon. They have been dead too long to remember what wonders a flash of mortal peril does for one's ability to innovate.
Godfrey's lungs begin to scream in a matter of seconds. He feels them seizing in his chest as his throat closes. His face grows hot as they bicker uselessly. Godfrey's head pitches, golden strands falling before his brilliant eyes as he watches the woman before him, pale and swanlike throat flashing in fluorescents as she turns to emasculate her husband.
He waits. He bides his time. He holds that golden light in his chest as his head pounds.
Pushes it to his extremities. Feels his fingertips aflame with it, beneath his skin.
She turns back to him and speaks, Godfrey snarling soundlessly at her.
Then, he endeavors to make her regret standing so close.
One of his hands snaps to catch her face, bursting with morning light across her lips, fingers pinching the hollows of her dead cheeks.
no subject
She would not do the same to him. Godfrey sees this for what it really is. She attempts to cast aspersion over his faith. In so doing, she does the opposite; were his words truly so useless, she would not be expending energy to crush his throat just to protect her ears from them.
And here Godfrey proves another boon of mortality. Gale had no living lungs to starve; his own had long since stopped, likely atrophied black in his chest. A Cainite did not contend with lungs which hungered for air. When boots were put to neck, more often than not, they were their wearers, not beneath their treads. Such vulnerability as a true mortal human experiences is what has built the civilizations that the Cainite parasitizes, grows fat upon. They have been dead too long to remember what wonders a flash of mortal peril does for one's ability to innovate.
Godfrey's lungs begin to scream in a matter of seconds. He feels them seizing in his chest as his throat closes. His face grows hot as they bicker uselessly. Godfrey's head pitches, golden strands falling before his brilliant eyes as he watches the woman before him, pale and swanlike throat flashing in fluorescents as she turns to emasculate her husband.
He waits. He bides his time. He holds that golden light in his chest as his head pounds.
Pushes it to his extremities. Feels his fingertips aflame with it, beneath his skin.
She turns back to him and speaks, Godfrey snarling soundlessly at her.
Then, he endeavors to make her regret standing so close.
One of his hands snaps to catch her face, bursting with morning light across her lips, fingers pinching the hollows of her dead cheeks.
And it squeezes. ]