You think I'm just letting her get away with it? Clean the goddamn wool out of your stupid ears and listen for once! When I tell you that I was powerless to stop her I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass — and I'm de-powered here, too!
[Rosso doesn't like his werewolf form. He can jump as high as he did back home which is a bonus, and he can travel pretty quickly, but none of that is new to him. Other than Ventus, he was the fastest back home, and the only reason the latter beat him was because Ventus could freely travel on literal wind.
Here, Rosso is as powerless as they come. Feels that way, anyway. He bristles and snarls at the implication that he's letting Mary get away with anything, but that's all he can do. Back home, the curtains would've caught fire in his rage. Back home, he would've summoned his scythe and slashed the coffee table in half. Hell, back on Felfri, he could've done the same. But what good did it do?
By now, he's no longer sitting on the couch. He's more crouched on it, like he might leap into action at any moment, claws digging into the arm of it in an effort to keep himself grounded.]
If I couldn't do shit while having every ability I had back home, what the fuck makes you think I can do shit now? [And, more importantly:] Why are you so hellbent on...
[On revenge, on sticking up for Rosso, on being there— none of that falls from his lips, though. Instead, his voice dies in his throat, grip tightening against the fabric.]
no subject
[Rosso doesn't like his werewolf form. He can jump as high as he did back home which is a bonus, and he can travel pretty quickly, but none of that is new to him. Other than Ventus, he was the fastest back home, and the only reason the latter beat him was because Ventus could freely travel on literal wind.
Here, Rosso is as powerless as they come. Feels that way, anyway. He bristles and snarls at the implication that he's letting Mary get away with anything, but that's all he can do. Back home, the curtains would've caught fire in his rage. Back home, he would've summoned his scythe and slashed the coffee table in half. Hell, back on Felfri, he could've done the same. But what good did it do?
By now, he's no longer sitting on the couch. He's more crouched on it, like he might leap into action at any moment, claws digging into the arm of it in an effort to keep himself grounded.]
If I couldn't do shit while having every ability I had back home, what the fuck makes you think I can do shit now? [And, more importantly:] Why are you so hellbent on...
[On revenge, on sticking up for Rosso, on being there— none of that falls from his lips, though. Instead, his voice dies in his throat, grip tightening against the fabric.]