He looks over the body–gods dammit, a fucking body!–and nods grimly. He take a half-step back, analyzing the man’s face (no one of import, probably a wastrel to be ignored…but still). He runs a hand down his face, keeping a cold exterior that directly contradicts the inner debate tearing his mind apart. As his mind races, a hand continues pressing down hard on the stab wound located at his hip. Thankfully, his would-be assassin missed his target.
It’s not an outlandish request, nor is it one that Twisted Fate hadn’t heard before. In fact, he’d already contemplated the action before Darius said it, but hey -- it was his body, his orders on how to dispose of it.
“Got any matches?” He asks. He doesn’t even try to wonder what happened or who went where, but he did make a mental note of the wound in Darius’ side. Surely the Noxian general could hold it together for just a while. At least until the body had begun to caramelize.
“Should be some sort of trash ‘round here for tinder...” And with that, Twisted Fate walks towards the small, dim alleyways of abandoned buildings, peering down for any loose bits of paper or wood.
