Her apology falls upon deaf ears. To be honest, if he were to ever see his father again he would thank him, for it was what created him. So instead of acknowledging her 'sorry' he continues with his brooding, a simple grumble given in return.

But things escalate, well, rather quickly.

Her voice invades the madness that is his mind and and his flesh crawls with the foreign feel of it. His brows furrow, lip twitching in distaste before his attention flicks to the rising tables. Bottles and objects fly at the hunters, the screams from those inside echoing in his mind and swarming to mix with the thoughts of his own inner demons. A trigger snaps, body freezing for a moment like a calm before the storm. The she-wolf scrams, abandoning him in this fight that she has now started and practically asking for him to unleash his own dementia. How long he is still, as shadows blend and curl to absorb his already darkened state.

And then.
He is still no more.

Massive hand slides his silver-tipped axe, fingers daring to run along the edge with a satisfying burn. He rises, like a tower of death and demise he practically forms from the shadows themselves. Crystal eyes gleam on that now deranged looking face as he bounces the axe in his hand. Others have already begun to run out, the hunters shouting orders and rubbing their eyes as if the shadows sting them. The viking smiles, lips curling back with malicious attempt. The one closest to him seems to realize he is there, all thoughts of the girl vanishing fading from the hunter's mind as eyes widen at the sight of the axed wielding man. Vaerg snarls, raising the axe and in one smooth arc he watches as it sings in the fear filled air. Flesh meets silver and blood splatters on the blue eyed demon's face.

Delightful.

He practically jumps with excitement, a short chuckle falling from him as he rips the axe of of the man's flesh. Blood drips from his weapon eyes sliding along the silver tainted with crimson as he brings to to eye level. There is beauty in it to him, and so he licks his lips. Though his moment is short lived, a gun goes off and a searing pain explodes in his left shoulder and right upper thigh. The beast snarls, eyes snapping from his weapon to meet the eyes of the two hunters who shot him. The voices inside him scream, face twitching as his flesh burns with the silver bullets. "silver...bullets..." his deep voice drips with poison, and such erotic pain. Head tilting as his eyes dart from one to the other. "how original."

They pause in their shooting, dazed by the mere sight of him no doubt. But it won't last long. And the beast won't give them time to regather their awareness. He roars, his mouth parting as if his lion form had taken over, arms opening in a display of his massive size. The predator charges, boots pounding into the bar floor as he launches himself, hand laces out, wrapping around the throat of the hunter on the left as he barrels forward. Raising the male in the air and slamming him on the ground, axe coming along behind him to fall heavily. More splattered blood, sticking to him like a lover. A bullet flies into his back shoulder blade, another following to meet the tender flesh below it. He snarls, head flying back as body convulses from the pain. Skin sizzles, burning flesh meeting his senses like a smack in the face.

Idiot.
You're only pissing him off.

Slowly he rises, axe tip dragging along the floor as he faces the final hunter. He is hunched slightly, this many bullets taking their toll though years and years of torturing himself with silver blades has taught him to mentally hold his ground until his body is unable to continue. A rage has filled him and he steps forward, bloodied face tight with emotion. The hunter mirrors him, each step the viking king takes, the hunter draws back until the door is between the two of them. The hunter drops his gun, hands lifting in surrender eliciting a snort from the lion man. There is no such thing as mercy, no such thing as a savior or forgiveness. They should have ran out when raven did.

His axe sings and his canvas is rewarded with that rich paint. The bar is empty now, the others scrambling away to tell horror stories of what has occurred this night. The viking stands in the middle of his mess, axe tip touching the floor as he breathes. The voices inside whisper to him, coo to him, a job well done. They are satisfied and for now, he is reward with the delightful sound of the blood falling from him to the floor.

drip...drip...drip..."

Iórkæll dværg