WRATH - C!TECHNOBLADE

𝗫𝗩𝗜 - snowflakes

(if the soundtrack is in use, please start this chapter with the fifth last song.)

        The snowflakes which held intricate design within its figure swirled harshly in thousands. A mass chorus battling their way through the darkening sky. Either the act of a roar of anger or jubilant at the looting of the long lingering warm weather, one could not tell. The wind bit sharply at exposed skin as if a threat was present.

       When the wooden door was swung open and the man bearing a self-proclaimed crown strode in, the snow revelled in opportunity to ravage additionally, purely to either be stumped by the reticent door or to discover withering demise in the warming atmosphere.

       He knew he had to apologise. It rolled around his head like a marble as he ran, fought, killed. He'll say his apologies when he arrives, he decides on. Yeah. He'll apologise. The fight was a fight, not as grand as many he's fought—but a brave fight.

      Technoblade's heavy feet shuffle against the welcome carpet, bristles freeing his soles of unwanted substances.

      Technoblade held a feeling in his stomach as he dragged himself home. Through his poor emotion skills he's pinned down excited, which was new baring the sole fact that his excitement wasn't placed in red liquid. As he detonated deadly weapons his thoughts recited over the rules of the ridiculous card game. One he'd finally grasped. He found himself smiling as he reached the door—since when did he smile?

       Phil was a silhouette. His sitting body blocking the raging fire, making the Angel of death himself look like he awaited at the gateway to hell.

       Phil was silent, he sat on the chair, one hand covering another, chin resting upon it. Not that technoblade would detect that.

       Maybe if he made his way around he would've traced his eye bags that almost looked like an allergic reaction. Maybe he would've noticed how his eyes had lost its usual knowing glint, like they were glazed over with mist. How his normal warm smile had been upturned.

       "Where's Eun?" Technoblade questioned, oblivious to the tiring man that sat only a stride or two afar.

       A silence embarked.

       "She left." Phil replied.

       That signifies a million possibilities. She left to restock, in how she was constantly prepared for the worst or the best, adapting to Technoblade or scolding him to be careful, that you never know what someone's capable of. Or how she was enthralled by the various constellations assorted over the meek sky, transfixed on checking off ones her eyes had never experienced. But, no, his answer was as vague as a white crayon on white paper, spread over a immense area of possibilities

       He made a humming sound, stepping forward into the warming room, settling his pick-axe and baggage he'd brought along, eyes briefly peeking into the rooms with doors ajar.

       "Where did she go?" he asked.

       "They didn't tell me."

       "When is she back?" He prodded.

       "They said not to expect them."

Something felt wrong, he couldn't explain, he felt his heart spiral into a frenzy of increased beats.

"What do you mean not to expect her?"

"They said they were leaving and not to expect them back." It was all Phil's candid mouth could utter. Although he sounded helplessly hollow.