More so now than he ever was before. All the booze and sex in the world couldn’t fill that gaping hole he felt within and the one thing that gave him purpose, left him cold and dry, tangled in a web of lies. Qrow is empty and all he has left to blame is himself.
All who deserved the blame is himself.
Qrow has done nothing more than wallow in his misery. Allowed himself to be picked up as an easy target instead of learning from his mistakes and now here he resides. In Atlas surrounded by all the things he detests. No drink to bring to his lips in an effort to save himself. Banned from missions until he could pass a psyche eval. His hand forced in the matter by James.
He walked the halls of the Academy, bitter and slow. A lit cigarette in hand as kept himself from fixating. Take the edge off by feeding the craving a milder substitute. No two vice the same. It does not quench what alcohol could sate. It only offers temporary relief. Leaves him conscious with recollection he does not want.
His senses off as he brimmed with want. Serpent voice grazing his ear, a tickling sensation that crawled down his spine. He jumps and Qrow moves like he has a weapon strapped to his back. Devoid of all the things that made him him and left to fend for himself with nothing, but his bare hands. Safe within the walls, my ass, he thinks.
What he comes face to face with leaves him puzzled. No drink in days, his mind must truly hate him, he thinks. To conjure up images he can’t make sense of even sober. Is this retaliation for depriving it of the substance it survived on for years?
Is Ozma truly so foolish as to SHARE the gift my brother allowed him to keep? Your kind was not made to handle magic, and yet here you are; stained by it. I see humanities second chance is being tarnished by easily swayed hearts.
Confusion. Puzzled. Far too tired and not in the mood to deal with the troubles tied to the past of a man he does not wish to think of anymore. A man who Qrow only wants to cut ties from. Would carve the magic crawling through his veins out his goddamn body if he could, but conscious, he latches onto what he can understand.
A step back. Reestablish distance. In the wake of sobriety, Qrow is still positive he could take this person down through sheer force.
Ozma, he says. Second chance. Humanity. Magic.
“Fuck off,” he breathed out, less than elegant. Voice faint and breathy as he looked away to the side, gaze down. Doesn’t need crazy at his heel as well.
A curl of the fist he cannot play to the temptation of. Not yet, at least. Head hot and mind foggy. Ash falling from the lit cig at hand, nestled between middle and index.
Another step back. Distance.
Oh how he laughs--not only to reaction of Qrow, but the words hissed upon his tongue; such foul exclamations that one forgets the Humans are so keen on spewing. Despite the amusement gained Darkness does stop just as the other; palm upturned in vague motion to one startled, and that wiry grin returns upon dark lips in some expression of peace. No intentions to harm--unless he was forced to, of course.
“Is that any way to speak to me? I know you are not deaf nor blind; you must know who it is I speak of. You would not be embedded with OUR magic otherwise.”
Lift of chin and a prop of brow, and all at once any amusement seems to melt, forcing draconic to step forward; further lifting his hand with a jutted index finger. Tar-like gaze scours upon the Huntsman’s form and quickly does a frown begin to form, a scoff following suit with a heave of chest in bewilderment.
“I am disappointed, only to assume the decision was not chosen lightly, and yet you are the one bestowed with such a gift? What is it you mortals do with the power? Wallow with it? Waste the potential?”
To speak of disappointment was an understatement; disgusted, even angered that their power was being squandered by the few who were graced with its hand. To witness a man marked by grace so...tattered and crude, unwilling to even regard Darkness with proper praise. He expected more, and yet, no hopes were lost in the state of Remnant without their presence. All he finds himself doing is sighing, stance shifted with the crackling of bone, and hand withdrawn to rest upon a clothed chest.
“Perhaps it truly best to leave you under the jaw of my creations if you show such little respect.”
