[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
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( A re-enact of Hades...
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WARNING: Be advised this chapter will contain mature content
It took approximately five to fifteen seconds for someone to lose consciousness from strangulation. Four up to six minutes to enter the case of brain dead. While it only took Regulus forty-five seconds to start a wild commotion in the rural Irish inn—no, his hands were clean, setting a cup of jasmine tea on the table. Silver eyes surveyed the drunk men fight with an eyebrow arched. A pie-eyed Irish man was grabbed by the throat, slammed against the wall, the icky picture frames vibrated at the force.
"Cad e sin?" barked the buffier man, gigantic palm pressed the opponent's head harder against the wall.
The man in question winced, ichor and sweat stirred into one passing his forehead as he gulped, blurting out. "Go hifreann leat!"
"Beidh brú ort ansin i gceann cúpla lá!"
Another loud bang boomed. Amused, smirk pulled from Regulus's lips as he slid back his vial of veritaserum back to his collection of vials on his traveling coat. It required thirty seconds for his truth potion to work—fifteen seconds for him to spike an Irish coffee. Tearing his gaze away, Black watched the murky snow melted from the sunless heat, while two plates of unfinished brunch settled on his coffee table.
The air smelled of seashells debris and salt as waves were faintly heard from the said inn. Black peered at his left forearm, a small sigh emitted from his lips when he examined his mark was concealed perfectly. He had to remind himself to reapply his vanishing elixir every twelve-hour. Footsteps was thumping from the side, he watched a brunette was climbing down the stairs from their room. Pale finger dusting against her ivory tunic, clinging on her shoulder was a green sweater she borrowed from him. Her previous a-line skirt was changed into belted trousers and a pair of combat boots.
She maneuvered to the table, pulling at the wooden chair rather awkwardly as she narrowed her eyes at the commotion on their ten o'clock. "Not so revealing now am I?" she inquired, darting her gaze down to her plate. The witch sat across Regulus, mustering her discomfort. Less than five minutes ago, a group of drunk retired-men ( now, fighting men ) were commenting inappropriate, nasty things about the witch's attire—forcing her to change her clothes. "Lucky that I speak Gaeilge."
"I told you," the Black's heir voice was cool, maintaining his gaze at his plate. "You don't need to change what you wear for the likes of them. You can dress whatever you want, I can hex them—" he was cut off by a warning look from her, he sighed. "My point, they are just some randy arse, uneducated muggles." he spat bitterly, continued to stir on his scrambled egg. Black added one more reason to the list why he despised muggles.
