[P] the patron saint of liars and fakes;

[Acton]

Acton these violent delights have violent ends There was nothing but the blood roaring in his ears, vicious and victorious, as he watched red bloom across the gold and white of her skin. The cut across her face opened like a gift and his grin is an echoing slash. Hardly aware of his actions, he flipped the knife with a flick of his mind, drew it back. And then the roar in his head became a roar outside it. Pebbles and dust grayed his skin, though his adrenaline was working overtime and he felt nothing but the sensation of pinging of his back, his shoulders. He only turned when Raum cried his name, and stared, barely processing, as the Ghost rushed forward and between them. Finally his mind caught up, reminded him of all the explosions he’d witnessed and caused and all of their aftermath; the grin had vanished by now, replaced by nothing. Acton wanted to stay. Wanted to finish the job he’d shocked himself by beginning. But he also wanted to live, and it looked like the cave – her beloved Solis-blessed canyons - would finish it for him. With a last glance – a worthless one; she was hidden behind a rising cloud of dust and debris then, tarnished gold with only a bare hint of red like the sun behind a sandstorm – he fled on the heels of his brother, half terrified, half euphoric. @Raum @Bexley wooooo we did it