March shows no interest in backing down, nary a sign of intimidation crossing his features. Let the bony old tiger investigate. He is a happy porcupine indeed, smiling as he rolls his cluster of berries and nuts about, trying to decide which to consume first. Porcupine dun curr 'bout no stinkin' tiger.
Until he goes and says that. James Patrick March's lips thin out, his nostrils flare. His eyes hold a dangerous glint. Every bit the look of a man who is aware he is being riled up, damn it all, and he will make certain William knows he knows, but he isn't above a little riling.
Quick as you please, he simply steps right through William. No warning. No preamble. Just puts his feet ahead of each other and ends up on the other side of the man. What he feels is anyone's guess. Cold from death passing straight through him? Cold from the mere idea? Electrified? Hell if March knows. But he doesn't give him much time to focus on it, because he steps back through him again, his face flickering dark and light when he turns to look at his company.
Alas, that isn't all. Can't be all. March never does a show without a bit of blood. And so he opens his mouth, popping his cigarette directly onto his tongue, where the bud flashes and hisses, and it burns, and March shows not a single amount of pain, face still changing off and on. He swallows. Or tries to; the moment he swallows, his throat rips open like invisible hands pulled it apart, open for the world. Open and raw. Bleeding, even. And as that blood spreads, so does the tear, suit pulled back to reveal chest, and rib cage, and organs, and then presumably William has forgotten about the cigarette eating. Because he's face to face with a man rapidly turning into nothing more than a skeleton.
Until "nothing" is all there is. The skeleton turns to a pile of ash in a pool of blood and then both just poof like flash paper. Never before has the decomposition process happened so quickly!
When, or if, William gets it together, he'll notice that March is fully put together just as he had been when he first saw him, only now he's standing out of sight and quietly pouring another glass of whiskey with that cigarette stuck between his lips.
(He isn't pouring it for himself, either. He's just that good a host.)
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Until he goes and says that. James Patrick March's lips thin out, his nostrils flare. His eyes hold a dangerous glint. Every bit the look of a man who is aware he is being riled up, damn it all, and he will make certain William knows he knows, but he isn't above a little riling.
Quick as you please, he simply steps right through William. No warning. No preamble. Just puts his feet ahead of each other and ends up on the other side of the man. What he feels is anyone's guess. Cold from death passing straight through him? Cold from the mere idea? Electrified? Hell if March knows. But he doesn't give him much time to focus on it, because he steps back through him again, his face flickering dark and light when he turns to look at his company.
Alas, that isn't all. Can't be all. March never does a show without a bit of blood. And so he opens his mouth, popping his cigarette directly onto his tongue, where the bud flashes and hisses, and it burns, and March shows not a single amount of pain, face still changing off and on. He swallows. Or tries to; the moment he swallows, his throat rips open like invisible hands pulled it apart, open for the world. Open and raw. Bleeding, even. And as that blood spreads, so does the tear, suit pulled back to reveal chest, and rib cage, and organs, and then presumably William has forgotten about the cigarette eating. Because he's face to face with a man rapidly turning into nothing more than a skeleton.
Until "nothing" is all there is. The skeleton turns to a pile of ash in a pool of blood and then both just poof like flash paper. Never before has the decomposition process happened so quickly!
When, or if, William gets it together, he'll notice that March is fully put together just as he had been when he first saw him, only now he's standing out of sight and quietly pouring another glass of whiskey with that cigarette stuck between his lips.
(He isn't pouring it for himself, either. He's just that good a host.)