Even though Rudy had given her a place to stay, Chauncy still found herself gravitating back to the decaying shell of the forgotten factory that she had, only until recently, been calling home. The thing was, she had grown used to the hard ground, the sounds of the city as they echoed off the walls and the solitude that it had provided her. The soft bed and quiet room that she was now privileged to call her own, seemed almost too foreign to her, now. The stark contrast was repressive. After having spent five years on the street, it was hard to readjust.
Had it really been that long? Five years, two months and twenty-eight days since her father was killed. That was only six months longer then when her mother had also been killed. Both were taken from her in a violent way and the killers of both would never be charged for it.
Chauncy lined up a row of an assortment of empty bottles. As she did so, she tried to think of what her parents looked like. It was getting to the point where it was becoming harder to remember the fine details of their faces; almost like a Monet painting. The memories were there, it is just that they seemed a bit muddled and less defined. Chauncy had already reached the point of where she could no longer remember the sound of their voices. She closed her eyes and tried, before turning from the bottles and walking a few yards away.
Turning back to towards her targets, she pulled the gun, that Rudy had given her, from its leather holster, aimed and fired. She hit seven out of ten. That was an improvement since she last practiced and she couldn't help but smile with pride.
After holstering her gun, she walked back to the remaining three and looked down at the shattered glass. The gun fire had been loud and had she not been a vampire, her ears would have been ringing.
This was another bonus to being in the factory, there was no one to worry about while she took her shots. Not many would venture to that part of the city, not unless it was to hide, score drugs or like she used to be - didn’t have anywhere else to go. So, she could shoot her gun without fear of hitting anything other than her bottles.
Once again, Chauncy started walking around the dank dilapidated grounds, searching for more bottles, when suddenly she heard a rat scattering about in a corner. She smiled when she noticed a cache of bottles near the rodent. Score. She walked over to the corner, lifted the rat and looked into its beady red eyes.
“Vell hello zerrre, Mrrr. Templeton. Zank you forrr shoving me zese and double zank you forrr snack. I vas getting hungrrry.” Without hesitation, she bit down into its neck and drained it of its blood. Finished, she tossed the rodent’s corpse to the side and started gathering up the bottles. One. Two. Three and four.
Спасибо, мистер Темплтон (Open)
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Harrison
- Registered User
- Posts: 48
- Joined: 19 Jun 2017, 08:39
Re: Спасибо, мистер Темплтон (Open)
It was always the quieter parts of the city that were crowded with the spirits of the restless dead. It was telling, and now that Harrison understood more about the city that he now called home, he knew why. He hoped that he would never be the cause of a restless spirit, though the force and power of the thirst that had wracked his body upon first being reborn was something to be reckoned with; it was something that had to be cajoled and controlled, sated, always, so that it would not break free of its cage.
Luck would have it that Harrison was turned into the brand of vampire that did not require the blood of others to survive; he had the power of magic on his side, a way to focus his energies inward, to fill his body with the blood it required by thought alone. It drained something inside of him, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
Necromancer, they called him. One who speaks with the dead – who brings the dead back to life. It sounded far more sinister than Harrison felt, though he was told that he looked somewhat sick. He had died, and his body reflected the fact; his pallor was weak, his lips blue, dark circles under his eyes. If he were not walking and talking, most might consider him already dead.
The Minister meandered the streets following the trails of the dead; the spirits followed him into dark corners where he could mumble and mutter to them, ask them questions about their life, council them about their death. He helped them, as much as he could, to move on to the next plane, to enter God’s arms – or whatever God they believed in. It mattered not to Harrison if they were not Protestant. So long as they no longer suffered, that was all that mattered.
His meandering footsteps eventually brought him to the dilapidated part of the city; abandoned factories and warehouses were numerous and spread out, and the spirits of the dead were equally as numerous, if not more so. A girl, perhaps twenty years of age, caught his attention; her ethereal body was broken, her hair knotted and her clothes in rags. They were covered in blood. Half of her neck was missing. This, unfortunately, was common.
Harrison approached, though his greeting was cut short by shot fired, echoing in the vastness of one of the abandoned buildings. Curiosity snagged at his feet so that his course changed, headed for the sounds of life. Warily, he entered the building; there was silence, now – except for a voice, a foreign accent, talking to itself somewhere in the recesses. The Minister followed the sound, finally happening upon a woman – an alive woman, or so he assumed – collecting bottles. They clinked as they gathered in her arms.
”I think they are empty. Or their contents will only make you sick…” he said. There were so many homeless in areas like this, who sought drink to drown their woes. If this was another, he hoped to help her – he was in the habit of helping the living as much as he liked to help the dead.
Luck would have it that Harrison was turned into the brand of vampire that did not require the blood of others to survive; he had the power of magic on his side, a way to focus his energies inward, to fill his body with the blood it required by thought alone. It drained something inside of him, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
Necromancer, they called him. One who speaks with the dead – who brings the dead back to life. It sounded far more sinister than Harrison felt, though he was told that he looked somewhat sick. He had died, and his body reflected the fact; his pallor was weak, his lips blue, dark circles under his eyes. If he were not walking and talking, most might consider him already dead.
The Minister meandered the streets following the trails of the dead; the spirits followed him into dark corners where he could mumble and mutter to them, ask them questions about their life, council them about their death. He helped them, as much as he could, to move on to the next plane, to enter God’s arms – or whatever God they believed in. It mattered not to Harrison if they were not Protestant. So long as they no longer suffered, that was all that mattered.
His meandering footsteps eventually brought him to the dilapidated part of the city; abandoned factories and warehouses were numerous and spread out, and the spirits of the dead were equally as numerous, if not more so. A girl, perhaps twenty years of age, caught his attention; her ethereal body was broken, her hair knotted and her clothes in rags. They were covered in blood. Half of her neck was missing. This, unfortunately, was common.
Harrison approached, though his greeting was cut short by shot fired, echoing in the vastness of one of the abandoned buildings. Curiosity snagged at his feet so that his course changed, headed for the sounds of life. Warily, he entered the building; there was silence, now – except for a voice, a foreign accent, talking to itself somewhere in the recesses. The Minister followed the sound, finally happening upon a woman – an alive woman, or so he assumed – collecting bottles. They clinked as they gathered in her arms.
”I think they are empty. Or their contents will only make you sick…” he said. There were so many homeless in areas like this, who sought drink to drown their woes. If this was another, he hoped to help her – he was in the habit of helping the living as much as he liked to help the dead.
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Chauncy (DELETED 9600)
- Posts: 17
- Joined: 20 Jun 2017, 19:52
Re: Спасибо, мистер Темплтон (Open)
Dark brown locks of hair fell into the Russian's eyes, as she lifted her head in the direction of a male’s voice. So much for the comfort of solitude. She blew at her bangs and shook her head, getting them out of her eyesight.
Not knowing what the guy wanted, all her senses stood on guard. If he was there for reasons other than simple conversation, she was prepared to either A. rip out his throat or B. put a few bullets into him, either way, he would be joining Mr. Templeton in the corner.
Until she knew what he was about, she kept her eyes firmly directed on the stranger. But still, Chauncy managed to lift the corners of her lips into a smile. There was no reason to put him on guard, just yet. "Da, zey arre empty. I admit zat prrobably I vas one to have emptied zem. But, my intentions arre not to drrink, tonight."
Looking him over, the man appeared to have recently arisen from the dead, and not in 'the Son of God' sense, but in the 'I want to eat your brains' sense. The man's skin was pale and his lips had a blue hue about them. Her concerns went from the wellbeing of herself, to that of the stranger.
"Arre you okay? Maybe you kould use drrink." Or a doctor. Waiting for him to reply, she shifted the bottles a little, so they were easier to hold.
Not knowing what the guy wanted, all her senses stood on guard. If he was there for reasons other than simple conversation, she was prepared to either A. rip out his throat or B. put a few bullets into him, either way, he would be joining Mr. Templeton in the corner.
Until she knew what he was about, she kept her eyes firmly directed on the stranger. But still, Chauncy managed to lift the corners of her lips into a smile. There was no reason to put him on guard, just yet. "Da, zey arre empty. I admit zat prrobably I vas one to have emptied zem. But, my intentions arre not to drrink, tonight."
Looking him over, the man appeared to have recently arisen from the dead, and not in 'the Son of God' sense, but in the 'I want to eat your brains' sense. The man's skin was pale and his lips had a blue hue about them. Her concerns went from the wellbeing of herself, to that of the stranger.
"Arre you okay? Maybe you kould use drrink." Or a doctor. Waiting for him to reply, she shifted the bottles a little, so they were easier to hold.
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Harrison
- Registered User
- Posts: 48
- Joined: 19 Jun 2017, 08:39
Re: Спасибо, мистер Темплтон (Open)
Harrison smiled as he shook his head. The woman was foreign – but who could he judge? His own accent was strong, the Scottish brogue thick. Though he couldn’t say he’d ever met anyone Russian – at least, that’s what he guessed the accent to be. With his hands still shoved into his pockets, he looked around, though he didn’t focus on anything in particular. Once his attention had returned to the woman with the bottles, he gave a shrug.
”I’m fine,” he said. ”Perfectly healthy. Alcohol doesn’t do much for me anymore,” he said. Not because he was a vampire, no – but ever since he’d been released he’d not touched a single drop. He hadn’t needed it anymore. He’d found his calling, and he didn’t want his senses to be inhibited any more than they already were. He wanted to be open to the spirits.
And there was one now, wandering the space between himself and the Russian. A man, watching her with wariness. The spirit didn’t know that Harrison could see it. Not yet. And Harrison wasn’t going to address the spirit in front of someone else.
”I heard gunshots. I was just making sure everyone was alright in here…” he said. He said it with such conviction. Why else would anyone walk toward the sound of gunshots? It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but Harrison was reckless like that.
”I’m fine,” he said. ”Perfectly healthy. Alcohol doesn’t do much for me anymore,” he said. Not because he was a vampire, no – but ever since he’d been released he’d not touched a single drop. He hadn’t needed it anymore. He’d found his calling, and he didn’t want his senses to be inhibited any more than they already were. He wanted to be open to the spirits.
And there was one now, wandering the space between himself and the Russian. A man, watching her with wariness. The spirit didn’t know that Harrison could see it. Not yet. And Harrison wasn’t going to address the spirit in front of someone else.
”I heard gunshots. I was just making sure everyone was alright in here…” he said. He said it with such conviction. Why else would anyone walk toward the sound of gunshots? It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but Harrison was reckless like that.
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Chauncy (DELETED 9600)
- Posts: 17
- Joined: 20 Jun 2017, 19:52
Re: Спасибо, мистер Темплтон (Open)
"Ah. Zat makes sense. I vas shooting zese bottles. Tarrget prractice." Completely oblivious to what Harrison was aware of, She nodded at him and walked right through the spot where he was seeing a spirit.
Chauncy accepted his explanation of what had brought the man to the empty factory, but she was still curious about the way that he looked. He had said he was fine, even though, ‘fine’ was anything other than how he looked. In that moment, another thought occurred to her, maybe he was like her; a vampire.
She really hadn't met another vampire, besides Rudy. There was this one time in the woods, that she thought maybe she had come across the path of two others like her. Only, she wasn’t able to verify it, per say. Their unnatural abilities were the affirmations.
The realization that he could be like her made her slightly nervous, in an awkward kind of way. What was one to do when they met another vampire? Compare fangs? If he were a vampire, could he tell that she was too? Well she decided to stay in the coffin and see if he figured it out, if he hadn’t already.
Chauncy began setting the bottles down in a row, like before. There were three bottles of vodka and one bottle of whiskey. All four of them had been previously emptied by her. Sadly, she found out that one of the prices to her newly given gift was that she would no longer be able to enjoy these finer things in life. Sobriety for unlife. She sighed at the thought and looked over at the guy.
"I am Chauncy. And you arre?" With that, she cleared the distance between them with her hand extended in an offering of a handshake.
Chauncy accepted his explanation of what had brought the man to the empty factory, but she was still curious about the way that he looked. He had said he was fine, even though, ‘fine’ was anything other than how he looked. In that moment, another thought occurred to her, maybe he was like her; a vampire.
She really hadn't met another vampire, besides Rudy. There was this one time in the woods, that she thought maybe she had come across the path of two others like her. Only, she wasn’t able to verify it, per say. Their unnatural abilities were the affirmations.
The realization that he could be like her made her slightly nervous, in an awkward kind of way. What was one to do when they met another vampire? Compare fangs? If he were a vampire, could he tell that she was too? Well she decided to stay in the coffin and see if he figured it out, if he hadn’t already.
Chauncy began setting the bottles down in a row, like before. There were three bottles of vodka and one bottle of whiskey. All four of them had been previously emptied by her. Sadly, she found out that one of the prices to her newly given gift was that she would no longer be able to enjoy these finer things in life. Sobriety for unlife. She sighed at the thought and looked over at the guy.
"I am Chauncy. And you arre?" With that, she cleared the distance between them with her hand extended in an offering of a handshake.