CentipedeDREAMER: Where are you now?
Hyde: A cyber cafe downtown. I passed a place called Wonderland. Meet me there.
The screen flickered for a moment then went blank as he turned it off, slipping his headphones from the console. He sat there for a few minutes, going through the images he'd sent to his phone, scribbles, and nonsense mostly. Teenagers playing at Mage. There were a few that caught his attention when he'd accidently slipped them together, forging a bigger picture of sorts. The symbol was similar to the opening rituals his family always used to protect their circle before calling on power. Similar but warped. He instinctively knew that it was lacking the element that would make it stronger. That final step that few Sorcerers and Weilders were willing to take. Squeamish. Powerless. Castrated by fear.
He opened the back of his phone and removed the SD card, inserting a different one as he pocketed the photo-laden memory chip. Du Fynn had learned before he was even a toddler the necessity for secrecy. They burned folk like him. Hell, they burned folk they even -thought- were like him. His war scarred mind filed the thought away, compartmentalized it as he always did. He could wax tragic when he was dead. Looking up he caught the eye of the pretty waitress that had served him his tea, black and dreadful as only North Americans can manage. He would lay bet it had come from some paper pouch and hours ago at that. His lips curled into a smile, the easy kind that his people were well known for, the kind that made people instantly like you, want to be around you. She was no different as she came instantly to his small table.
"Darlin, do a poor lad a service and give a name?" he drawled, his North Ireland accent was normally smooth and well educated, but that wasn't what the locals wanted to hear. They wanted to kiss the stone and pretend the Isle of Green Mystery was right next door. So he rolled easily into the typical Belfast Boy, hardening his words, adding that street edge that tingles a woman with just enough danger, but not too close.
"Melody.. say, you're from Ireland right?" she jutted a well curved hip against his table as he fished out his wallet, twirling her blond hair around a finger, a tell that let him know she was interested.
"Aye lass, I'm a far wander from home. Melody is a lovely name, proper beautiful." He didn't need to see her beam at him as he pulled out the money to pay for his tea and sandwich. When he had a good amount and impressive tip he lay it down on the tab and then lifted his dark green eyes slowly up her body, appreciatively, letting her feel like a woman adored for just a moment. His eyes caught hers as he stood then, taller than her, but that wasn't so uncommon for him, though uncommon for his people in general. He locked gaze with her, a little whisper of his powers leaking out, adding to the base charm of the encounter, his fingernail digging into his palm to well up the blood needed for such. "Mel oh dee" he drawled again "Would you be a dear and tell me where a poor soul like myself, new to the city, could be findin' a proper flat or terrace?" He put on his best helpless look, his half grin was boyish and flirtatious in a self-deprecating way. "I'm fair tired of livin' in the hotel, might be settin down roots..."
He let that drift off, giving her hope he might be eligible to actually date as he stayed in the area. She immediately turned and did as he expected, wrote down the flats where she lived. "These are so adorable, you'll just love them. I live on the second to top floor and you have the best view of the park and skyline at night. And hardly any crime over that way either." Melody handed him the paper and he took it with a grateful look "You're a life saver you are mo chara"
He let his fingers linger against hers for just a second too long, sealing the attraction as a faint touch of blood touched her varnished fingernail. He squeezed gently, pressing the fluid in as he wiped off the trace, then looked sorry to have to let go. "I'll be round tomorrow then when the office lets. Thank you, Melody."
She had no idea he would soon be living there and she would be dead. Her giddy smile told him as much.
"See you around then!" He waved as he looked her over one last time, biting his lower lip before turning and dipping from the cafe. As the door closed behind him his face relaxed into an expressionless set and he debated calling a cab to take him to the bar. He turned up his collar, the one thing Canada had in common with his home, it got chilly and damp at night even in summer. His mind turned then to his contact Whit, the reason he was even in this dread place. He hadn't lied to Fynn, the place felt a rush of magic and no mistake. He could feel it thrumming against him like he was the world's drum. He could feel the pulses as passed certain places. He couldn't wait to get his *** out into the woods and take a proper stock of things. His father, rest his soul, had made sure Fynn and his older brother were well taught in their families art, long before they were even allowed to attend their circle, their 'coven'. Blood Mages, they took the Disney out of Fae.
He'd long been a killer, even without the magic. His family firm stood against the Ulster occupation and fought to free all of Ireland from the UK grasp. War had been his bride before he'd ever mounted a woman or even had thought to. War had killed his family. Burned them out like some lowly peasant ***** witch during the inquisition. Fynn turned his head and spat as he managed to get a hold of his riled temper. It wouldn't do to lose that rage, not here, not tonight... but later perhaps with Melody...
So he decided to keep walking to Whit, walking to the bar to keep that temper in check. He was one helluva Hyde when he let go.
Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
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Fynn (DELETED 8395)
- Posts: 11
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 20:22
- CrowNet Handle: Hyde Me
- Location: surviving death
Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
Man can't destroy the savage in him by denying his impulses.
The only way to rid temptation is to yield to it
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Raven Talius
- Registered User
- Posts: 253
- Joined: 30 Jan 2016, 05:41
- CrowNet Handle: The_Raven
Re: Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
Raven’s gaze was drawn upwards, towards the night sky as she silently listened to the surrounding city. Sirens of the occasional cop or ambulance could be heard in the far off distance as she lifted her hands only to cross them over chest. Her back had been leaning against a brick wall within a side alley next to some café. Tonight, she was mostly on the hunt, mostly. Her hunger wanted to be sated, as did her need for pain. Pain to subdue her emotional state. One that had her leaning away from the Dragomirs, at least until she could work out a way to control or smother out such feelings and wants. As it was, it was getting harder and harder to disguise them in their company. Was this a curse? Or was it something completely different? Was she learning to accept company and begin to crave it? A dangerous thing indeed. The woman was beginning to learn to trust all over again and was opening herself up to betrayal once more.
This could not be allowed to happen, she thought to herself as she closed her eyes to listen to the footsteps that walked passed the open side alley. The woman, however was masked in the shadows of the wall, safe from the street lights that dared to shine a light down the mouth of the side alley. A perfect position for a hunter and a serial killer to rest from prying and seeking eyes. To observe her prey as they passed and judge whether they would be missed or not. Half the time, one could simply tell from the way that the human held themselves and especially from the way they dressed. Those who would be noticed, were ones that dressed very much like Cupcake. Neat, and metaphorically dressed in money. Their clothes costed quite the pretty penny and often the clothes fit the human like a glove. Those with less, generally wore off the rack clothes and stood a little slouched over as if their troubles were bringing them down.
However, as she listened, one set of steps caught her attention and her eyes opened to roll her gaze towards the mouth of the alley. They had exited the café, but had paused for that brief moment as if laden down with thoughts other than just money problems. Those with money on the mind had a tendency to keep moving no matter how rich they were. Time was money, as she had once heard from some business man that had walked by with a phone glued to his ear. So her gaze watched the entrance for the owner to pass by and she caught sight of black hair, but due to the light and the angle, she couldn’t very well get a good view of his face. Slowly, she shifted so then she stood from the wall and her heeled steps began to make their way into the light as she started to follow her meal for the night.
Her hands had fallen to her sides when she had started forth from her position by the brick wall, however, they then lifted to slide into the pockets of her jacket as she walked. If the man had even bothered to look behind him, her brown hues were focused solely on his back as she walked and listened. The vampire listened to his heartbeat that thudded deep within his chest. It was a heartbeat that was protect by a cage of bones. A heartbeat that called to the killer as it thudded, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. The sound was hypnotic and it called to the killer. Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, she couldn’t wait to sink her fangs into that vein that ensured that her prey would always die.
Her tongue slid along her bottom lip as she refrained from growling with hunger. It was the hunt that distracted her from troubling thoughts, even if for a while as she enjoyed the tasted of crimson blood that would coat her tongue. The woman almost moaned at the thought of the thick liquid that would be consumed in greedy gulps. Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer. The street that they were traversing down seemed somewhat deserted and her steps quickened to begin to close the gap between the hunter and what she assumed would be her delicious prey. Prey whose light would be snuffed out like the many other mortals that she had left in her wake. Fangs slipped down into her mouth and they were finally freed from their prison within her gums. They were fangs that was used to snuffing out such light from mortals and a hand reached out to grasp at the man’s shoulder…
This could not be allowed to happen, she thought to herself as she closed her eyes to listen to the footsteps that walked passed the open side alley. The woman, however was masked in the shadows of the wall, safe from the street lights that dared to shine a light down the mouth of the side alley. A perfect position for a hunter and a serial killer to rest from prying and seeking eyes. To observe her prey as they passed and judge whether they would be missed or not. Half the time, one could simply tell from the way that the human held themselves and especially from the way they dressed. Those who would be noticed, were ones that dressed very much like Cupcake. Neat, and metaphorically dressed in money. Their clothes costed quite the pretty penny and often the clothes fit the human like a glove. Those with less, generally wore off the rack clothes and stood a little slouched over as if their troubles were bringing them down.
However, as she listened, one set of steps caught her attention and her eyes opened to roll her gaze towards the mouth of the alley. They had exited the café, but had paused for that brief moment as if laden down with thoughts other than just money problems. Those with money on the mind had a tendency to keep moving no matter how rich they were. Time was money, as she had once heard from some business man that had walked by with a phone glued to his ear. So her gaze watched the entrance for the owner to pass by and she caught sight of black hair, but due to the light and the angle, she couldn’t very well get a good view of his face. Slowly, she shifted so then she stood from the wall and her heeled steps began to make their way into the light as she started to follow her meal for the night.
Her hands had fallen to her sides when she had started forth from her position by the brick wall, however, they then lifted to slide into the pockets of her jacket as she walked. If the man had even bothered to look behind him, her brown hues were focused solely on his back as she walked and listened. The vampire listened to his heartbeat that thudded deep within his chest. It was a heartbeat that was protect by a cage of bones. A heartbeat that called to the killer as it thudded, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. The sound was hypnotic and it called to the killer. Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, she couldn’t wait to sink her fangs into that vein that ensured that her prey would always die.
Her tongue slid along her bottom lip as she refrained from growling with hunger. It was the hunt that distracted her from troubling thoughts, even if for a while as she enjoyed the tasted of crimson blood that would coat her tongue. The woman almost moaned at the thought of the thick liquid that would be consumed in greedy gulps. Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer. The street that they were traversing down seemed somewhat deserted and her steps quickened to begin to close the gap between the hunter and what she assumed would be her delicious prey. Prey whose light would be snuffed out like the many other mortals that she had left in her wake. Fangs slipped down into her mouth and they were finally freed from their prison within her gums. They were fangs that was used to snuffing out such light from mortals and a hand reached out to grasp at the man’s shoulder…
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Whit
- Registered User
- Posts: 204
- Joined: 16 May 2014, 12:45
- CrowNet Handle: centipedeDREAMER
Re: Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
One wall of his office was a display of screens of different sizes and shapes, all of them feeding different types of information across their surface. On one might be the latest news from around the world, on the other, a tracking of the stock market, on still another, there were letters slowly floating upwards. Green text. In the lower corner was a text box with a glowing cursor. From his desk, Whitaker could watch the entire world moving around him; this was deliberate. Prominently displayed to make it clear to anyone who entered that Whitaker Alexander Concord had very little time for games or idle chatter. He leaned back slightly as dead eyes roved over the male sitting across from him. He was silent. Shadows obscured his features. Perpetually a creature of darkness, to hide the sunken eyes, and the purple tint to his lips. Dead. He looked dead. Flesh clung to the bones of one hand as he reached in front of him to pull open a desk drawer.
His chair was wingbacked, burgundy leather, with brass tacks to hold the upholstery in place. Polished until it shone enough that one could see their reflection in it. The thing had wheels. A modern update on a classic, elegant design. "Mr. Deckard, why are you here?" He asked, his tone that of the dead. Scratchy. Hoarse. Like two pieces of sandpaper being scraped together. He moved to stand, the chair slipping backwards as he withdrew something from the desk's drawer, sliding it and his hands behind his back before the instrument could be seen. He was imposingly tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow form that looked to be emaciated at best. His suit was as black as the night sky, hand tailored to fit him perfectly. It looked neither expensive, nor cheap. Functional. High class. Not memorable in the slightest, but maybe that was the point. If one looked very closely, close enough to have their nose shoved up against the fabric, they might have seen the damask design.
"You're the one who called me here." Came the response. There was the faintest hint of trembling to that voice. Not yet broken, but still telling all the same.
"Indeed." Came the answer. As if he did not intend to supply Constantin Deckard with further details. Instead, he rounded the desk, moving slowly enough that Deckard could have run if he'd really desired. But wouldn't that have been a dead giveaway? A hand like ice gripped the back of a chair and yanked, dragging the feet across the floor with a wooden screech. Whit hunched lower. They were face to face. Eye to eye. His own gaze was startling and blue. Almost as if someone were illuminating tinted crystals from behind. Glacial. Deep as the cruelest waters. His gaze was unflinching and seemed to suck the heat right out of the room. He wore no smile, back bent in such a way that Deckard nearly expected to see vertabra poking out of the back of a jacket.
"Look, if you don't have anything on me, just let me g--" He paused for a breath when he saw what Whit had pulled from the desk. A hammer. Well a plain metal mallet that fit well into the hand. It was held in a single palm, fingers wrapped around the handle.
"Hey!" Deckard said, his eyes widening. "Heyyyy. If this is about those lost supplies, that's just business man. I know I was light on the last drop, but someone else was paying more for a smaller amount. I'll make Iit up to you, I swear. I. Swear." Came the ramble. "You know I'm good for it! We've been doing business for what? A year now?" He asked. Because Constantin was used to talking his way out of all of his troubles. He had a silver tongue, because he was little more than a petty criminal, a rogue who was always finding trouble. Men like him were a dime a dozen.
Whit did not move. He did not blink. He continued to stare right into Constantin's eyes with those cold, indifferent features. The only evidence he'd even heard? The slow lifting of a brow towards his hairline.
"Yeah! Yeah, and I'll give you a discount on the next batch too, no problem." By that point, Deckard was breathing a little more heavily. His heart was racing. Whitaker, was counting those beats, his gaze drifting towards one of the monitors so he could check the time. The average heartbeat per minute in adults ranged from about 60 to about 100. In Whit's very proactive experience, that registered between 75 and 80. When scared, a person's heartbeat generally spiked to well over 100 beats per minute, averaging at least 110. And so he counted for exactly one minute before straightening up, his shoulders rolling back, that menacing mallet weighing one of his hands down.
"Who did you give my supplies to?" He asked briskly.
"This chick! She was in those sewers. You know in Thornside. The closed off ones. She had us meet there. I think she might live there an-" He was silenced by a hand that lifted, a finger pressed against his lips. Whitaker was thinking. The abandoned sewers. Disciples of the Crow if he was remembering his territories correctly. It was difficult, at times, to keep up with who was pissing on what set of bricks to call them theirs. But what would the disciples need with preserved, specially ordered rare animal parts? It didn't really matter. One of them had taken from him.
"You will be helping me retrieve my items." He said. And an expression of relief immediately flooded onto Deckard's features. His shoulders slumped. He didn't even notice it at first. How Whitaker's hand lashed out. How that mallet suddenly hit his windpipe dead in the center. His eyes widened. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. The airway was crushed, making breathing impossible. He reached for his neck, trying to claw it open. He dug nails in and raked away skin so that blood could pool to the surface. Whitaker watched as the life faded from the figure in front of him. Only then did he place the mallet back where it had come from, closing the drawer. There was a ping sound, and his gaze shifted to one of the monitors. He was going to meet a man he had been speaking to for a few days, at a cyber café. He wanted to tell Hyde that he would be a little late, because he had a bit of business to se too first. In the sewers. But before he could respond, the man had already logged off. Oh well. He would be there as soon as he could.
His gaze dropped to the corpse seated in his chair and pulled a pair of leashes and a collar from a hook on the wall. He bound Deckard's hands with one of those leashes. He fixed the collar into place, one hand holding the other leash. His free hand he lifted to his mouth so he could sink his fangs into the fleshy part of his palm. Blood welled immediately and began to flow. He curled his digits into a fist and his hand looked like it was marked dark and red. He pressed his fingers and palm against a forehead. He gripped down tightly. "Rise." A single word spoken. A hand stayed latched to a head. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Fingers tightened as Whit called back that spirit from the Shadow Realm it had slipped into. He ripped it from the void and shoved it back into its body. Eyes popped open. Glossy. The thing lunged at him, and Whit stepped back. The wound on his hand healed. Blood soaked into flesh.
He yanked the leash to send the creature toppling to the floor. "We have places to be." He said. The zombie struggled against his bonds, and then began to writhe up onto his knees and then legs. Whit finally smiled as he began through the door leading out into the hall. His little interlude in the sewers wouldn't take that long surely.
His chair was wingbacked, burgundy leather, with brass tacks to hold the upholstery in place. Polished until it shone enough that one could see their reflection in it. The thing had wheels. A modern update on a classic, elegant design. "Mr. Deckard, why are you here?" He asked, his tone that of the dead. Scratchy. Hoarse. Like two pieces of sandpaper being scraped together. He moved to stand, the chair slipping backwards as he withdrew something from the desk's drawer, sliding it and his hands behind his back before the instrument could be seen. He was imposingly tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow form that looked to be emaciated at best. His suit was as black as the night sky, hand tailored to fit him perfectly. It looked neither expensive, nor cheap. Functional. High class. Not memorable in the slightest, but maybe that was the point. If one looked very closely, close enough to have their nose shoved up against the fabric, they might have seen the damask design.
"You're the one who called me here." Came the response. There was the faintest hint of trembling to that voice. Not yet broken, but still telling all the same.
"Indeed." Came the answer. As if he did not intend to supply Constantin Deckard with further details. Instead, he rounded the desk, moving slowly enough that Deckard could have run if he'd really desired. But wouldn't that have been a dead giveaway? A hand like ice gripped the back of a chair and yanked, dragging the feet across the floor with a wooden screech. Whit hunched lower. They were face to face. Eye to eye. His own gaze was startling and blue. Almost as if someone were illuminating tinted crystals from behind. Glacial. Deep as the cruelest waters. His gaze was unflinching and seemed to suck the heat right out of the room. He wore no smile, back bent in such a way that Deckard nearly expected to see vertabra poking out of the back of a jacket.
"Look, if you don't have anything on me, just let me g--" He paused for a breath when he saw what Whit had pulled from the desk. A hammer. Well a plain metal mallet that fit well into the hand. It was held in a single palm, fingers wrapped around the handle.
"Hey!" Deckard said, his eyes widening. "Heyyyy. If this is about those lost supplies, that's just business man. I know I was light on the last drop, but someone else was paying more for a smaller amount. I'll make Iit up to you, I swear. I. Swear." Came the ramble. "You know I'm good for it! We've been doing business for what? A year now?" He asked. Because Constantin was used to talking his way out of all of his troubles. He had a silver tongue, because he was little more than a petty criminal, a rogue who was always finding trouble. Men like him were a dime a dozen.
Whit did not move. He did not blink. He continued to stare right into Constantin's eyes with those cold, indifferent features. The only evidence he'd even heard? The slow lifting of a brow towards his hairline.
"Yeah! Yeah, and I'll give you a discount on the next batch too, no problem." By that point, Deckard was breathing a little more heavily. His heart was racing. Whitaker, was counting those beats, his gaze drifting towards one of the monitors so he could check the time. The average heartbeat per minute in adults ranged from about 60 to about 100. In Whit's very proactive experience, that registered between 75 and 80. When scared, a person's heartbeat generally spiked to well over 100 beats per minute, averaging at least 110. And so he counted for exactly one minute before straightening up, his shoulders rolling back, that menacing mallet weighing one of his hands down.
"Who did you give my supplies to?" He asked briskly.
"This chick! She was in those sewers. You know in Thornside. The closed off ones. She had us meet there. I think she might live there an-" He was silenced by a hand that lifted, a finger pressed against his lips. Whitaker was thinking. The abandoned sewers. Disciples of the Crow if he was remembering his territories correctly. It was difficult, at times, to keep up with who was pissing on what set of bricks to call them theirs. But what would the disciples need with preserved, specially ordered rare animal parts? It didn't really matter. One of them had taken from him.
"You will be helping me retrieve my items." He said. And an expression of relief immediately flooded onto Deckard's features. His shoulders slumped. He didn't even notice it at first. How Whitaker's hand lashed out. How that mallet suddenly hit his windpipe dead in the center. His eyes widened. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. The airway was crushed, making breathing impossible. He reached for his neck, trying to claw it open. He dug nails in and raked away skin so that blood could pool to the surface. Whitaker watched as the life faded from the figure in front of him. Only then did he place the mallet back where it had come from, closing the drawer. There was a ping sound, and his gaze shifted to one of the monitors. He was going to meet a man he had been speaking to for a few days, at a cyber café. He wanted to tell Hyde that he would be a little late, because he had a bit of business to se too first. In the sewers. But before he could respond, the man had already logged off. Oh well. He would be there as soon as he could.
His gaze dropped to the corpse seated in his chair and pulled a pair of leashes and a collar from a hook on the wall. He bound Deckard's hands with one of those leashes. He fixed the collar into place, one hand holding the other leash. His free hand he lifted to his mouth so he could sink his fangs into the fleshy part of his palm. Blood welled immediately and began to flow. He curled his digits into a fist and his hand looked like it was marked dark and red. He pressed his fingers and palm against a forehead. He gripped down tightly. "Rise." A single word spoken. A hand stayed latched to a head. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Fingers tightened as Whit called back that spirit from the Shadow Realm it had slipped into. He ripped it from the void and shoved it back into its body. Eyes popped open. Glossy. The thing lunged at him, and Whit stepped back. The wound on his hand healed. Blood soaked into flesh.
He yanked the leash to send the creature toppling to the floor. "We have places to be." He said. The zombie struggled against his bonds, and then began to writhe up onto his knees and then legs. Whit finally smiled as he began through the door leading out into the hall. His little interlude in the sewers wouldn't take that long surely.
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Fynn (DELETED 8395)
- Posts: 11
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 20:22
- CrowNet Handle: Hyde Me
- Location: surviving death
Re: Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
Fine hairs began to raise on the back of his neck, it was a feeling he had long grown used to. His gaze narrowed as he continued to walk though his attention focused on the sounds coming from behind him. The Mage quietly shifted his shoulders as he felt a presence move into his chi and he used that insult to steel himself against the coming onslaught. Hands in his pockets he ran his fingers over the razor blade kept open inside, loosing a flow of his blood in sacrifice for the casting he was already focusing on.
"minorum patrifacanum"
In that half second it took for his heart to beat one more spurt of blood, his skin began to shift, almost crystalize into something hard, dense, rock like. It hardened his features enough that he kept his head ducked into his collar and rolled his shoulders to the left side where the building he was passing turned into an alley. The Irishman slipped back against the shadows, sure he was about to hand some thief or thug their comeuppance, that razor blade making its way out of his pocket and his chi ready to cause a major heat shift in his attacker... a good burning seemed in order, and his father taught his boys to love a bonfire.
He never got the chance to feel that shift in air as it heated up against his fingertips, hungry to be pushed into something or someone lest it crawl up his arms and eat him instead. She was on him faster than the 'What the ****?' thought could even form as he tried to decipher what he was seeing.
She was beautiful. Scarlet haired and pale as a dove's wing. The fury of her movements made him forget he had hardened his skin, and his arm came up to block his face with the razor. Now Du Fynn knew about the supernatural, knew how it worked and why it worked. But this was no Mage he was seeing. Fanged like a great she wolf, but he'd never seen a wolf coat coloured in London Street Red before. This was no Fae either, those lonely bitter things that crawled about in the woods and air and water, getting all shifty and bent because humans didn't worship their shiny asses anymore.
He didn't know what he was seeing, but she wanted a piece of him. Shoving his arm forward so that his elbow would stave her off, he tried to back further into the alley away from prying eyes because if he couldn't outpace her, he sure as **** could light her up. The Irishman cursing soundly in his mind, his rage mounting as Hyde began to smack at his brain and call him pussy, "LET ME OUT" his monster screamed, clawing for control.
Teeth gritted, his voice harsh and deep with the tones of his land he spat out "What the **** ARE'ye?"
It was then that his reflexes once more took control, not because of the murdering ***** before him, but the sound of soft laughter to his side and the sweep of cloth over rotting garbage as a cloaked figure seemed to step from nothing but shadow.
"She's a cursed thing. A vampire. Undead filth."
That sound was soon followed by the unsheathing of a sword... a ******* sword... and the gleam of a large cross that dangled metallic and pure against the black wool of the cowled robes of the vested man from no where. The accent was rich and melodic, pure Roman Vatican like his former good faidder Lucisio back when he was made to kneel before a God that held no meaning to his family.
"And you, you are mage filth. I should let her eat you before I kill her."
Palidens. ****.
"minorum patrifacanum"
In that half second it took for his heart to beat one more spurt of blood, his skin began to shift, almost crystalize into something hard, dense, rock like. It hardened his features enough that he kept his head ducked into his collar and rolled his shoulders to the left side where the building he was passing turned into an alley. The Irishman slipped back against the shadows, sure he was about to hand some thief or thug their comeuppance, that razor blade making its way out of his pocket and his chi ready to cause a major heat shift in his attacker... a good burning seemed in order, and his father taught his boys to love a bonfire.
He never got the chance to feel that shift in air as it heated up against his fingertips, hungry to be pushed into something or someone lest it crawl up his arms and eat him instead. She was on him faster than the 'What the ****?' thought could even form as he tried to decipher what he was seeing.
She was beautiful. Scarlet haired and pale as a dove's wing. The fury of her movements made him forget he had hardened his skin, and his arm came up to block his face with the razor. Now Du Fynn knew about the supernatural, knew how it worked and why it worked. But this was no Mage he was seeing. Fanged like a great she wolf, but he'd never seen a wolf coat coloured in London Street Red before. This was no Fae either, those lonely bitter things that crawled about in the woods and air and water, getting all shifty and bent because humans didn't worship their shiny asses anymore.
He didn't know what he was seeing, but she wanted a piece of him. Shoving his arm forward so that his elbow would stave her off, he tried to back further into the alley away from prying eyes because if he couldn't outpace her, he sure as **** could light her up. The Irishman cursing soundly in his mind, his rage mounting as Hyde began to smack at his brain and call him pussy, "LET ME OUT" his monster screamed, clawing for control.
Teeth gritted, his voice harsh and deep with the tones of his land he spat out "What the **** ARE'ye?"
It was then that his reflexes once more took control, not because of the murdering ***** before him, but the sound of soft laughter to his side and the sweep of cloth over rotting garbage as a cloaked figure seemed to step from nothing but shadow.
"She's a cursed thing. A vampire. Undead filth."
That sound was soon followed by the unsheathing of a sword... a ******* sword... and the gleam of a large cross that dangled metallic and pure against the black wool of the cowled robes of the vested man from no where. The accent was rich and melodic, pure Roman Vatican like his former good faidder Lucisio back when he was made to kneel before a God that held no meaning to his family.
"And you, you are mage filth. I should let her eat you before I kill her."
Palidens. ****.
Man can't destroy the savage in him by denying his impulses.
The only way to rid temptation is to yield to it
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Raven Talius
- Registered User
- Posts: 253
- Joined: 30 Jan 2016, 05:41
- CrowNet Handle: The_Raven
Re: Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
Raven smirked as she watched his movements turn to an alleyway and she couldn’t believe just as to how naive her prey was. He was dinner and nothing more, so as she turned down, she was almost surprised that he had turned around as if to fight her off. A slow smile curved her lips as brown hues watched him with amusement. Her hand that had lifted, dropped to her side as he rose an arm up with a hand that held what could only be conceived as a razor blade. What was he going to do? Give her a thousand cuts? While that would probably work on a human, it was probably less effective against vampires due to their natural ability to heal. Shadows were known to heal at a slower rate than other vampires, but it didn’t really deter her. She had already lost an arm, been blinded, shot, stabbed and even been cursed with some kind of plague by Doc.
While it had all been amusing at the time of injury, the effects never lasted. As he asked his question she chuckled and her lips parted to answer but someone else beat her to it. Her gaze shifted to the paladin and a smirk rose to her lips as her hands slid into the pockets of her coat. Although, she was partially interested when the paladin called her ‘dinner’ a mage. She gave him a sideways thoughtful gaze as she pressed her tongue to the top of her mouth. Could the man help her with her little problem? Would he be able to take away her emotions? Give rid of them permanently? Perhaps he would no longer be dinner, instead be her ticket to salvation. Although, she could always just simply kill him afterwards. A thought to ponder upon depending on how useful he would be to her. ”Well now, I wouldn’t necessarily call being a vampire a curse. I mean, who wouldn’t enjoy the special little perks that you get. Me? I quite like playing with shadows.”
Her gaze slide over the cloaked figure and noted the sword. Well hell, she thought to herself, today was a horrible day to leave my weapons at home. ”I also don’t think that I’m undead filth, see, I always tell people that I’m just nothing more than a street rat. Why stray from the truth?” The Shadow said with a shrug of her shoulders as she lifted a hand to poke a thumb into the direction of the paladin. ”Don’t take anything these guys say serious. They are hunting me. Why you ask? Because I’ve been racking up the body count,” She gave a half grin at the paladin, ”And some of them, were probably his fellow paladin buddies.” Her gaze slowly slid over the paladin's sword once more, chances were, she was going to have to throw herself onto his sword, disable his blade arm and take his sword for her own.
”See, now that you have told me that he is a mage, I don’t feel like eating him. I’ve got a problem that can probably only be solved by what is running through his veins. You on the other hand, I don’t have a use for paladins now do I?” Raven cantered her head to the right as she stepped towards the paladin while her arms dropped to her side. ”You people only cause problems for me and if I let you live, you’ll probably tell your paladin buddies where you last saw me. I can’t have that.” Finally she stopped a foot away from the paladin and smirked. Oh she was confident in her skills. The woman was quick on her feet and she had been fighting for most of her life, so she was sure that she could take on a paladin, even one that was clothed in some weird *** cloak and had a cross wrapped around their neck.
Slowly, she drew her tongue down along one of her fangs before she smirked once more, ”You paladins always think that you’re better than anyone else, but truth be told, you’re not. You’re just like the rest of us, “cursed” in one form or another.” She said as she made air quotations around the word ‘cursed.’ Truly, she didn’t think that she was one hundred percent cursed, just cursed with emotions that she wished would die so then she could bury them six feet under. ”Now, if you’re finished running your mouth that dribbles nothing but ****, then by all means, lets gets down to business, because I think that I’ll have paladin for dinner now. Fighter’s blood tastes so good; it's the adrenaline you see.” She snickered as she angled her body to the side to give him a smaller target and lifted her right hand, palm up and she bent her fingers towards her palm then several times in a, ‘Bring it,’ gesture.
While it had all been amusing at the time of injury, the effects never lasted. As he asked his question she chuckled and her lips parted to answer but someone else beat her to it. Her gaze shifted to the paladin and a smirk rose to her lips as her hands slid into the pockets of her coat. Although, she was partially interested when the paladin called her ‘dinner’ a mage. She gave him a sideways thoughtful gaze as she pressed her tongue to the top of her mouth. Could the man help her with her little problem? Would he be able to take away her emotions? Give rid of them permanently? Perhaps he would no longer be dinner, instead be her ticket to salvation. Although, she could always just simply kill him afterwards. A thought to ponder upon depending on how useful he would be to her. ”Well now, I wouldn’t necessarily call being a vampire a curse. I mean, who wouldn’t enjoy the special little perks that you get. Me? I quite like playing with shadows.”
Her gaze slide over the cloaked figure and noted the sword. Well hell, she thought to herself, today was a horrible day to leave my weapons at home. ”I also don’t think that I’m undead filth, see, I always tell people that I’m just nothing more than a street rat. Why stray from the truth?” The Shadow said with a shrug of her shoulders as she lifted a hand to poke a thumb into the direction of the paladin. ”Don’t take anything these guys say serious. They are hunting me. Why you ask? Because I’ve been racking up the body count,” She gave a half grin at the paladin, ”And some of them, were probably his fellow paladin buddies.” Her gaze slowly slid over the paladin's sword once more, chances were, she was going to have to throw herself onto his sword, disable his blade arm and take his sword for her own.
”See, now that you have told me that he is a mage, I don’t feel like eating him. I’ve got a problem that can probably only be solved by what is running through his veins. You on the other hand, I don’t have a use for paladins now do I?” Raven cantered her head to the right as she stepped towards the paladin while her arms dropped to her side. ”You people only cause problems for me and if I let you live, you’ll probably tell your paladin buddies where you last saw me. I can’t have that.” Finally she stopped a foot away from the paladin and smirked. Oh she was confident in her skills. The woman was quick on her feet and she had been fighting for most of her life, so she was sure that she could take on a paladin, even one that was clothed in some weird *** cloak and had a cross wrapped around their neck.
Slowly, she drew her tongue down along one of her fangs before she smirked once more, ”You paladins always think that you’re better than anyone else, but truth be told, you’re not. You’re just like the rest of us, “cursed” in one form or another.” She said as she made air quotations around the word ‘cursed.’ Truly, she didn’t think that she was one hundred percent cursed, just cursed with emotions that she wished would die so then she could bury them six feet under. ”Now, if you’re finished running your mouth that dribbles nothing but ****, then by all means, lets gets down to business, because I think that I’ll have paladin for dinner now. Fighter’s blood tastes so good; it's the adrenaline you see.” She snickered as she angled her body to the side to give him a smaller target and lifted her right hand, palm up and she bent her fingers towards her palm then several times in a, ‘Bring it,’ gesture.
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Whit
- Registered User
- Posts: 204
- Joined: 16 May 2014, 12:45
- CrowNet Handle: centipedeDREAMER
Re: Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
The abandoned sewers were a dark pit which Whitaker and Constantin stood over, the former glancing down into the abyss, the latter struggling against the bonds which held his hands in place. In the space of a second, Constantin Deckard had been replaced with something else. At first just meat that hadn't even begun to rot, a blank slate. The physical manifestation of a man who had lived a long and rough life. The tar in his lungs said that he smoked. The numerous scars he wore said that he got into more fights than he would have liked. The smell of bourbon on his breath said that he got through his days with a little bit of help. These things were all observations one could make about the living or the dead, but they were little more than impressions in sand. They said someone had walked a certain path. And then those same footsteps were abandoned, washed away by tide or wind or any number of animals padding through the same area with little regard for the human life which had been there.
Indeed, the evidence of who Deckard had been was still there, but the spirit locked in the cage of a body was not and probably never had been. A square peg in a circular hole. An ill fitting glove. Even then, there was only enough anima there, only enough spirit to spark life. Constantin had been a shallow creature, given to seek out his creature comforts and always looking out for himself. This thing was even less. Gestalt. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts. This thing, which was technically the same physical and spiritual components that Deckard had been – was nothing. Was a shallow puddle against the deep ocean that were even the most humble of humans. Or vampires. A pale imitation.
The zombie suddenly dropped into the pit as Whitaker leaned back, released the leash, and suddenly lashed out with a kick that sent the thing tumbling head over heels inside. It was easier that way. Rather than trying to coordinate a descent. There was a crunch, not that Whit much noticed. Constantin was past the point of truly feeling pain. Whitaker had experimented on the beings he could raise from death. They were extremely durable, and really the only way to stop them was to completely incapacitate them, or remove a head with a deft blow. But if you were playing to try and hurt them, they just shrugged it off like it was nothing.
When Whit arrived, ladder rungs used to slide down into the darkness, he reached into his suit jacket. Bloody Mary, his gun, was pulled free. A handgun, it was compact but powerful, and he had used some tape to strap a flashlight to the top. Think ahead. He flicked the button which cast a beam of illumination from the very end. He could see Constantin crumpled on the ground, still bound, unable to figure out how to stand up. He had a bone jutting out of the pants which normally covered his legs. The revealed bone was sharp, and punctured right through, revealing torn flesh. Whitaker knew from experience it was not truly incapacitating, and so he slipped the safety on his firearm off before moving to grab that leash, yanking the creature up at least onto its hands and knees. He began to walk. If Deckard managed to stand, that was entirely his concern. Whit was moving, and the zombie would follow one way or the other.
The sewer walls were cement and stone, the area of light created by a flashlight revealing minor details, like blood splatter. Perhaps animal. Maybe human. He had no interest in stopping to find out. He occasionally passed huddled men and women. They chattered together, only to fall silent when he neared. He inspected the area around them, looking for evidence of his goods, always an exercise in futility. And so he would continue, unbothered by these disciples. Whit only knew a little about them, what he had picked up from contacts such as Deckard, who liked to dip their toes into every market they could manage. They claimed to speak for the Crow. To have visions in some cases. They wanted to bring she. He. It back. Not that Whit had any context to understand what it was. Histories spoken by older vampires. Some things found on CrowNet. The mysterious tyrant deposed and replaced. It didn't matter much to him one way or the other, because it had nothing to do with him. No bearing on his reality.
And so his search continued.
Until it didn't.
He came to a stop when he neared a circle of women, five or six all seated around another who was speaking in a hushed tone. She held up a jar with what appeared to be a heart suspended in clearish fluid. One of the pieces he had ordered. The heart of an endangered species of large cat. One of the last in the world. Another rarity to add to his collection. Or use perhaps one day, if he could figure out how to mold corpse pieces together the way they were in the Catacombs.
The woman glanced up, eyes like a cat's. When the light hit them, they reflected in another color and slitted pupils slowly got wider until they were fat ovals. "Welcome, brother." She said. Her voice was naturally soothing. Soft. It had this quality of being less like silk and more like the flowing of warm water. He could see why the others gravitated towards her. She had that. A certain old world charm that made her instantly motherly without appearing old. Effortless in the way she stood, and stepped towards him. She paused right in front of Whit, Constantin trying to tug the other direction, leaving the Necromancer unmoving. He glanced down into her eyes, his own blank of emotion, while hers danced with them.
"You have several objects which were previously agreed to be sold to me. I paid the requisite price and never received them, so I have come to collect." He said by way of greeting. One of the woman's brows lifted. He could immediately feel the tension knotting around them. The women who had been gathered as a circle began to slide up to stand. He could make them out through the flickering of the dim service lights. They moved into his periphery, and he was certainly no fool. However, he made no move, corps still as he stood there, over-thin form with a leashed monster in his hand.
"I assure you, Mr. Deckard and I arrived at an agreement fairly and I paid as well." She said with that melodic tone to her voice. There was just a hint of an accent there, though Whitaker suspected it was fabricated. He couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was something the woman had developed to appear more exotic. Whatever the case, she was doing her best to reason with him. "I also assure you that we need it. If you would like, we can repay you for your losses, but I hope you don't blame us for Deckard's...strange business practices."
"Why do you need them?"
"What?"
"You said you need those pieces?"
There was a moment of hesitation and then she continued. "We have been researching, down here, possible ways to possibly bring back..."
"Oh." He interrupted. It was about the Crow. Predictable. He should have assumed on the outset really. "I do not personally care about your ghost, or demon, or whatever. Return my items."
"I'm sure you understand we can't just give them up. I really am very happy to repay you. Perhaps we can supply you with some of our enchanted weapons." She continued. Whit caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye, but no danger. Not yet.
"No thanks." He said before he nudged Deckard, or what had been Deckard forward. His hand dropped quickly. A bullet tore through the bonds at its hands. The sound of gunfire followed, loud and echoing in the dark. Suddenly the zombie was scrambling towards the nearest woman. Whit then lifted the gun and immediately pulled the trigger. A bullet ripped through the chest of the woman who had only moments beffore been holding his heart. That seemed appropriate to him. Heart for a heart? She backed away with a snarl, revealing fangs. She was seemingly unarmed, but as he watched, her fingers twisted into claws, sharp and black as talons. She danced closer a step with that same fluid motion as before. She swiped at him, her nails ripping through his suit like butter. Whit stumbled back, realizing he needed to put distance between himself and the prophet. Because she had already swiped against his side and gut. He could smell his own blood. Her second blow knocked out his flashlight.
Which was secretly a good thing because it gave him a chance to retreat in the direction of the scuffle between Deckard and one of the acolytes. He blurred, suddenly moving at a speed barely registered by the naked eye, and he was there, near his 'companion.' Already the zombie was missing an arm, it having been ripped off at some point, so Whit decided to help, firing off several rounds which caught the priestess (or whatever she was) in the face. The first shot wasn't enough to do a ton of damage, but by the time he was done, she looked like someone was trying to hollow out her skull with a spoon. Whit shoved the zombie in the direction of another one of the women who was approaching at top speed. He twisted, having put enough distance between himself and the prophetess. The woman was twisting. Becoming grotesque. Her arms bulged with thick muscles. Her claws grew until they were like swords. Her fangs were not so much teeth as tusks. Daggers. Like someone had turned her into some mutation that mixed in sabretooth genetics.
And she was barreling towards Whit with an outraged hiss. All he could do is lift his gun and begin squeezing off rounds. The shots pumped into the air one after the other. One hit her under the cheek. The next hit her right on the nose, caving it in. The next hit her in the chest. They didn't even slow her down. She just kept getting closer and closer. So Whit dove for cover, pulling out of the line of her charge. There wasn't much to hide behind in the sewers. He actually ran right into an acolyte and an arm looped around her neck as he yanked himself behind her, gun lifting to her temple. But the prophetess didn't take the implied threat. There was a movement like a flash of light as one of those sword-like claws moved through the air. The acolyte's threat opened up and blood poured. She dropped to the ground and Whit grunted.
****. He needed to get on the offensive. So a hand shot forward. He reached out with his power. Calling to the death inside of the woman. Calling to the small part of her which he controlled. Because he was a Necromancer. Lord of the dead. Master of those things which crept in the night. She seized up in front of him, suddenly slowing. Which was exactly the advantage he needed. He began to fire once more. Right into her face. Into her skull. He emptied the rest of his clip. She screamed, a wet gurgling sound before she slumped to the ground, dissolving into ash.
He stumbled a step towards her as he dropped his clip and replaced it. She'd destroyed his shirt and his jacket. She'd bloodied him. So he kicked the dust that had once been her, and then made his way towards his jar. He scooped the thing up along with a few other small pieces in a bag before he began back towards the entrance. By now, he was late for his meeting with his latest acquaintance, and he hated to be late. So he wouldn't have time to change. Or to stash the animal parts. Oh well. He was rich, he could play the part of the eccentric millionaire.
Indeed, the evidence of who Deckard had been was still there, but the spirit locked in the cage of a body was not and probably never had been. A square peg in a circular hole. An ill fitting glove. Even then, there was only enough anima there, only enough spirit to spark life. Constantin had been a shallow creature, given to seek out his creature comforts and always looking out for himself. This thing was even less. Gestalt. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts. This thing, which was technically the same physical and spiritual components that Deckard had been – was nothing. Was a shallow puddle against the deep ocean that were even the most humble of humans. Or vampires. A pale imitation.
The zombie suddenly dropped into the pit as Whitaker leaned back, released the leash, and suddenly lashed out with a kick that sent the thing tumbling head over heels inside. It was easier that way. Rather than trying to coordinate a descent. There was a crunch, not that Whit much noticed. Constantin was past the point of truly feeling pain. Whitaker had experimented on the beings he could raise from death. They were extremely durable, and really the only way to stop them was to completely incapacitate them, or remove a head with a deft blow. But if you were playing to try and hurt them, they just shrugged it off like it was nothing.
When Whit arrived, ladder rungs used to slide down into the darkness, he reached into his suit jacket. Bloody Mary, his gun, was pulled free. A handgun, it was compact but powerful, and he had used some tape to strap a flashlight to the top. Think ahead. He flicked the button which cast a beam of illumination from the very end. He could see Constantin crumpled on the ground, still bound, unable to figure out how to stand up. He had a bone jutting out of the pants which normally covered his legs. The revealed bone was sharp, and punctured right through, revealing torn flesh. Whitaker knew from experience it was not truly incapacitating, and so he slipped the safety on his firearm off before moving to grab that leash, yanking the creature up at least onto its hands and knees. He began to walk. If Deckard managed to stand, that was entirely his concern. Whit was moving, and the zombie would follow one way or the other.
The sewer walls were cement and stone, the area of light created by a flashlight revealing minor details, like blood splatter. Perhaps animal. Maybe human. He had no interest in stopping to find out. He occasionally passed huddled men and women. They chattered together, only to fall silent when he neared. He inspected the area around them, looking for evidence of his goods, always an exercise in futility. And so he would continue, unbothered by these disciples. Whit only knew a little about them, what he had picked up from contacts such as Deckard, who liked to dip their toes into every market they could manage. They claimed to speak for the Crow. To have visions in some cases. They wanted to bring she. He. It back. Not that Whit had any context to understand what it was. Histories spoken by older vampires. Some things found on CrowNet. The mysterious tyrant deposed and replaced. It didn't matter much to him one way or the other, because it had nothing to do with him. No bearing on his reality.
And so his search continued.
Until it didn't.
He came to a stop when he neared a circle of women, five or six all seated around another who was speaking in a hushed tone. She held up a jar with what appeared to be a heart suspended in clearish fluid. One of the pieces he had ordered. The heart of an endangered species of large cat. One of the last in the world. Another rarity to add to his collection. Or use perhaps one day, if he could figure out how to mold corpse pieces together the way they were in the Catacombs.
The woman glanced up, eyes like a cat's. When the light hit them, they reflected in another color and slitted pupils slowly got wider until they were fat ovals. "Welcome, brother." She said. Her voice was naturally soothing. Soft. It had this quality of being less like silk and more like the flowing of warm water. He could see why the others gravitated towards her. She had that. A certain old world charm that made her instantly motherly without appearing old. Effortless in the way she stood, and stepped towards him. She paused right in front of Whit, Constantin trying to tug the other direction, leaving the Necromancer unmoving. He glanced down into her eyes, his own blank of emotion, while hers danced with them.
"You have several objects which were previously agreed to be sold to me. I paid the requisite price and never received them, so I have come to collect." He said by way of greeting. One of the woman's brows lifted. He could immediately feel the tension knotting around them. The women who had been gathered as a circle began to slide up to stand. He could make them out through the flickering of the dim service lights. They moved into his periphery, and he was certainly no fool. However, he made no move, corps still as he stood there, over-thin form with a leashed monster in his hand.
"I assure you, Mr. Deckard and I arrived at an agreement fairly and I paid as well." She said with that melodic tone to her voice. There was just a hint of an accent there, though Whitaker suspected it was fabricated. He couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was something the woman had developed to appear more exotic. Whatever the case, she was doing her best to reason with him. "I also assure you that we need it. If you would like, we can repay you for your losses, but I hope you don't blame us for Deckard's...strange business practices."
"Why do you need them?"
"What?"
"You said you need those pieces?"
There was a moment of hesitation and then she continued. "We have been researching, down here, possible ways to possibly bring back..."
"Oh." He interrupted. It was about the Crow. Predictable. He should have assumed on the outset really. "I do not personally care about your ghost, or demon, or whatever. Return my items."
"I'm sure you understand we can't just give them up. I really am very happy to repay you. Perhaps we can supply you with some of our enchanted weapons." She continued. Whit caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye, but no danger. Not yet.
"No thanks." He said before he nudged Deckard, or what had been Deckard forward. His hand dropped quickly. A bullet tore through the bonds at its hands. The sound of gunfire followed, loud and echoing in the dark. Suddenly the zombie was scrambling towards the nearest woman. Whit then lifted the gun and immediately pulled the trigger. A bullet ripped through the chest of the woman who had only moments beffore been holding his heart. That seemed appropriate to him. Heart for a heart? She backed away with a snarl, revealing fangs. She was seemingly unarmed, but as he watched, her fingers twisted into claws, sharp and black as talons. She danced closer a step with that same fluid motion as before. She swiped at him, her nails ripping through his suit like butter. Whit stumbled back, realizing he needed to put distance between himself and the prophet. Because she had already swiped against his side and gut. He could smell his own blood. Her second blow knocked out his flashlight.
Which was secretly a good thing because it gave him a chance to retreat in the direction of the scuffle between Deckard and one of the acolytes. He blurred, suddenly moving at a speed barely registered by the naked eye, and he was there, near his 'companion.' Already the zombie was missing an arm, it having been ripped off at some point, so Whit decided to help, firing off several rounds which caught the priestess (or whatever she was) in the face. The first shot wasn't enough to do a ton of damage, but by the time he was done, she looked like someone was trying to hollow out her skull with a spoon. Whit shoved the zombie in the direction of another one of the women who was approaching at top speed. He twisted, having put enough distance between himself and the prophetess. The woman was twisting. Becoming grotesque. Her arms bulged with thick muscles. Her claws grew until they were like swords. Her fangs were not so much teeth as tusks. Daggers. Like someone had turned her into some mutation that mixed in sabretooth genetics.
And she was barreling towards Whit with an outraged hiss. All he could do is lift his gun and begin squeezing off rounds. The shots pumped into the air one after the other. One hit her under the cheek. The next hit her right on the nose, caving it in. The next hit her in the chest. They didn't even slow her down. She just kept getting closer and closer. So Whit dove for cover, pulling out of the line of her charge. There wasn't much to hide behind in the sewers. He actually ran right into an acolyte and an arm looped around her neck as he yanked himself behind her, gun lifting to her temple. But the prophetess didn't take the implied threat. There was a movement like a flash of light as one of those sword-like claws moved through the air. The acolyte's threat opened up and blood poured. She dropped to the ground and Whit grunted.
****. He needed to get on the offensive. So a hand shot forward. He reached out with his power. Calling to the death inside of the woman. Calling to the small part of her which he controlled. Because he was a Necromancer. Lord of the dead. Master of those things which crept in the night. She seized up in front of him, suddenly slowing. Which was exactly the advantage he needed. He began to fire once more. Right into her face. Into her skull. He emptied the rest of his clip. She screamed, a wet gurgling sound before she slumped to the ground, dissolving into ash.
He stumbled a step towards her as he dropped his clip and replaced it. She'd destroyed his shirt and his jacket. She'd bloodied him. So he kicked the dust that had once been her, and then made his way towards his jar. He scooped the thing up along with a few other small pieces in a bag before he began back towards the entrance. By now, he was late for his meeting with his latest acquaintance, and he hated to be late. So he wouldn't have time to change. Or to stash the animal parts. Oh well. He was rich, he could play the part of the eccentric millionaire.
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Whit
- Registered User
- Posts: 204
- Joined: 16 May 2014, 12:45
- CrowNet Handle: centipedeDREAMER
Re: Charmed, I'm sure... (Whit, Raven)
N P C + P O S T
Militis Brother James
The sword was lifted into the air, held by one hand, light enough that it could briefly be held as such, but heavy enough that it was truly meant to be wielded with both hands wrapped around the hilt. The blade was dulled near the center intentionally, in case brother James needed to grasp it to rebuff an attack. The sword itself crossed in front of him, tipped towards the vampire and mage. Two pieces of filth who needed to be wiped off of the street. Obliterated. Turned to ash or blood or much. Washed away into the sewers with the piss and **** of the human population. Where they belonged. Because they were beyond hope. Beyond redemption. His blade shimmered a little bit for just a second as holy invocations were spoken under his breath. Part of his training was in being able to quickly, efficiently call upon the power of God and weave its light into his effort.
He growled. The woman spoke too much with her unnatural hair color, and pallid flesh. He could almost smell the decay on her. Or perhaps that was just the unease he always felt when he was near one of her kind. The twisting in his gut. The need to lash out and land a sword deep into a chest. He craved it. Feeling his blade hit home. Feeling her dissolve around the power of his lord. And then later he would rake metal across his back, slapping himself with a flail until he bled. Speaking words softly to god. Atoning for the darkness in his heart which relished the kill.
Even if it didn't seem evil to him.
He was a servant of the divine after all.
"Verbose with those last words of yours."
His aura burned bright. It strengthened him. It weakened the dead. His hand slid out in front of him, fingers curled. Tattoos covering his palm seemed to glow in the night, though whether that was true or an optical illusion had yet to be seen. His power reached for her. Seeking to dominate. To control. To dry the very blood in her veins.
He growled. The woman spoke too much with her unnatural hair color, and pallid flesh. He could almost smell the decay on her. Or perhaps that was just the unease he always felt when he was near one of her kind. The twisting in his gut. The need to lash out and land a sword deep into a chest. He craved it. Feeling his blade hit home. Feeling her dissolve around the power of his lord. And then later he would rake metal across his back, slapping himself with a flail until he bled. Speaking words softly to god. Atoning for the darkness in his heart which relished the kill.
Even if it didn't seem evil to him.
He was a servant of the divine after all.
"Verbose with those last words of yours."
His aura burned bright. It strengthened him. It weakened the dead. His hand slid out in front of him, fingers curled. Tattoos covering his palm seemed to glow in the night, though whether that was true or an optical illusion had yet to be seen. His power reached for her. Seeking to dominate. To control. To dry the very blood in her veins.
Cast turn undead. Feel free to dice roll to see if it hit [Reactionary/awareness, very difficult, in-game NPC, etc]. If it hits, the attack drops a vampire's blood by 2 pints.