the devil called, he wants his hoes back

grïmmjow's entire being is doused in what appears to be ichor, the deep maroon washes away from his thick fur as he slowly wades through the water. it taints the brilliance of the rippling tide, the bitterness of the water biting at his bones with its icy talons. he lets out a shaky breath as he inches deeper, only stopping when his whole body is submerged. peace, that's all he felt, for the first time in years grïmm felt nothing but serenity. it enveloped him, consumed him. he welcomed it without hesitation and for a while he drifted off into a blissful comatose of tranquility. his massive head looms back, eyes close and he succumbs to the peace and quiet around him.

"speech"