A Waste of Time [PM to Join]

[Fitzgerald (DELETED 10282)]

Fitz hadn’t been paying any attention to Samson. He’d been too preoccupied staring at the body, barely containing the urge to inch into the room and crouch on his hands and knees in front of it, to poke at it like some kind of scientific forensic. There would be science involved, of course. He couldn’t not think about things scientifically. But he probably wouldn’t be looking for any kind of evidence. He might stumble across it accidentally, but it was not every day a man had access to a fresh corpse to dissect, and Fitzgerald hadn’t yet fallen to the depths of that kind of depravity.

The attention that was so wrapped in the dead body was torn, and suddenly Fitzgerald was faced with the large, snarling features of his new friend. The sorcerer blinked. When was the last time he’d been spoken to in such a fashion? Like he was a child in need of scolding. The last thing that might have been expected was the slow smirk that curled the corners of Fitz’s lips. It was endearing, like he was a naughty boy who, if he got through this spectacle unharmed, would be taken home for punishment. He didn’t have the time to ask what said punishment might be before Samson was off and loping down the hall; he didn’t wait for instruction but took the lead himself. Nor did he wait for backup. Of course, Fitzgerald had to follow.

He was not sure whether he followed out of a sense of loyalty or protection, not wishing the other man to face the foe alone, or whether it was more out of a sense of curiosity, a desire for the excitement and the adrenaline that the threat of death could illicit. A bit of both. Perhaps more the latter than the former, though he’d never admit that to the hulking male.

Down the end of the hallway and around the corner a little they were confronted by a mass of shadows. The shadows weren’t sharp edged nor complicit to any rule of physics; they weren’t in complete contrast to the light, but instead an entity of their own. Fitzgerald’s mouth gaped, blue eyes wide with wonderment. He wanted nothing more than to slice of a piece of that thing and bottle it for experimentation, curdle it and boil it, set fire to it to figure out how it worked, and all its magical elements. He’d heard of these creatures, but had never confronted one. He realised, now, that he lived a sheltered existence. He needed to get out more.

An odd cry crawled from Fitz’s lips as a claw reached from the mass of shadow and tore through Samson’s flesh. Fitzgerald didn’t have any weapons on him. He wasn’t in the habit of carrying them around. And he was also tempted to sit back and watch. Despite injury, Samson had barrelled into the beast headfirst, armed with only a knife. With such bravery, how could Fitz not believe that Samson would come out of it alive and victorious? Still, the sorcerer didn’t often have a reason to break out the tricks he’d been so happy to have up his sleeve. But he couldn’t use them from here, he had to get behind the beast or risk harming Samson, too.

A few quiet words were spoken, power seeming to jolt through the sorcerer from the earth way below his feet, from the ground, rooting him and yet freeing him. His skin turned to rock, and when his eyes opened again they were bereft of their previous mischief. Now there was only determination. He judged the height of the monster and took a leaping jump, clinging to an overhead light shade as he swung his legs over the beast’s head and somersaulted, landing somewhere on the other side. His fingertips crackled with electricity, palms clapped together and, with a shout, he released a blast of energy at the creature’s back.

It wouldn’t kill it. But at least it might help.

[Samson Krahn]

There had been a moment, when Fitzgerald wore this expression. As if he knew something that Samson did not, and yet as if there was this note of challenge curling with the corners of a mouth. The Paladin didn’t know at all what to make of it, and that honestly frustrated him a little. Not because he disliked the way Fitz wore his smirk. On the contrary, it made something inside of Sam’s chest want to rise to whatever challenge the wild mountain man thought was being offered. Rather, he was disappointed in himself that he couldn’t crawl into that cavernous mind and filter through thoughts directly, like a man using his fingers to dig out fresh and ripe vegetables from the ground. His grip was strong. His eyes were these open things in a color of blue that looked more muddy than anything else. His intrigue was written on his features in the way he set his jaw before finally stalking off.

The good thing about a fight was that it was very clean and clear. There were no confusing thoughts or confusing looks. It was just a man against an enemy. The good guy and the bad guy. The hunter and the hunted. The paladin and the monster. He heard the cry from behind him when he was attacked, but he didn’t have time to focus on any pain. Pain itself was just a distraction in those situations, and so it was shuffled to the very back of his mind as he essentially slammed into the best. He looked feral. His hair, which had been previously put up in an effort to keep it contained, had been loosed and his eyes were wide with the anticipation of testing his mettle against that of a beast. For a man who took such great care to be gentle with those around him, he relished battle.

His knife sank into a chest repeatedly, thunking into the fadebeast over and over. He had learned that from his fight with Ripper and Lecovio. When you had a short range weapon, you needed to be fast. Since you weren’t taking off entire limbs at once, and since the damaged area wasn’t huge, you needed to compound the space as much as possible by getting in close for a rapid-fire strike before disengaging. Of course. In that case, he had been on the receiving end of the knife wounds. But that was Samson for you. He was the sort of man who believed in learning from his mistakes. He knew he wasn’t naturally inclined towards intelligent pursuits, and that meant he had to make up for it by being constantly adaptable.

He pulled away from the fadebeast. The thing had gone mad with rage and was bellowing, tearing across the hall to try and chase after him, and that was when it was struck by a wave of pure heat in the form of a spell cast by the sorcerer. This not only essentially confirmed what Samson had been thinking about Fitz, but was strangely pleasing to the Paladin’s senses. The idea that the other man legitimately could take care of himself was part of it, as well as knowing that Fitz was good in a fight, dependable after a fashion. That he could bring his own forces to bear. Of course, the hunter did not have time to cast more than a fond look towards the spellcaster before he had to move back in. The fadebeast itself was staggering, slowed. It was losing blood which looked like shadows, and it was beginning to crumble internally, as if the darkness which held it together was beginning to come apart.

It was nearly time.

This time when Samson stepped inside of the fadebeast’s guard, he didn’t go for the chest, but instead stabbed it directly in the neck. He didn’t pull the blade out to make additional jabs, but instead slammed his fist into the flat edge to make it yank across what counted as a throat. A neck flapped open wide to expose raw hunks of bone. And then, with a final shriek, the thing just dissipated. This left Sam’s chest heaving from exertion. And the sound was likely to attract any incoming cops, which meant they needed to move. Sammy boy was too bloody to look innocent, after all.

“Nearest exit?” He asked, wiping his knife on his nice new suit jacket before sheathing it again.

[Fitzgerald (DELETED 10282)]

Watching Samson take on the Fadebeast was like watching David and Goliath. It was like Theseus and the Minotaur. As bulked as Samson was, the Fadebeast was undoubtedly larger and, to anyone unschooled, looking at the two of them side by side it could be easy to predict the Fadebeast would come out victorious. Fitz had no idea whether the blast had done enough damage, whether it had even helped. The beast had certainly reacted to the blast, screeching and squirming, but what with its shadowy blood and random limbs it was hard to tell what was damage and what was normal.

Samson took only the smallest break before he plunged back into the fray, every bit the axeman intent on bringing down the tallest tree in the forest. The neck was ripped open and the beast gave one last sigh of life before it crumpled and collapsed, its gooey mess all over the floor.

Fitz hadn’t done much, his formal clothes barely ruffled though his hair was out of place. His bright eyes gleamed with the excitement of action; he’d not engaged in this kind of battle before, his magic only ever used in practical ways, or by practice. He knew what he was doing, but had never used it against any kind of foe. He was glad to know that the practice had come in handy, and that he himself did not buckle under the pressure. Fear was an unknown element. Fitz was reckless like that. It wasn’t a hero complex, but more a lack of regard for his own life.

He stared at Samson across the mess they had created, head cocking to the side as Samson asked for the nearest exit. They were two men who had saved this event from more terror and despair, from more death. Clearly, the other man wasn’t keen on sticking around and claiming the credit. He was covered in gore, yes, but that, to Fitz, only spelled victory. Intrigued and not wanting their evening disrupted by questions and inquiries, Fitz nodded, turned, and headed down the hall to continue in the direction they had been travelling. He didn’t look over his shoulder; he knew that Samson would be following.

The masonry was all a light brown brick, clearly centuries old. This was the old part of the university, the original part. The halls were cold, the stairs even moreso as they took them down a level. The building was half underground, and down here it was a maze-like structure. There were some offices and smaller classrooms for the tutorials rather than for the lectures. It was quiet at this time of night; there were no classes. If there was anyone down here they were ensconced in their offices, heads down, doing work. And at the pace he and Samson were travelling, they’d barely make a mark.

Through a door and up another staircase, Fitz then led Samson through another maze of offices and rooms before the whole structure opened up onto a wide, short staircase on the opposite side of some large, glass sliding doors (installed later on, in front of the huge, oak doors that originally served as the exit) that led down onto the lawn, and the paths that led through to coffee shops and carparks. The fresh air welcomed them in its embrace.

”That was brilliant,” Fitzgerald breathed. There was no one out here, either. There was no sign of the commotion inside, on the other side of the building. No one would come this way. ”Why would you not want to take credit for that…?” he finally asked, unable to keep hold of his curiosity.

[Samson Krahn]

Samson had this sweet ache in his muscles from their sudden and intense use. He was not unused to hard labor, and keeping a place like Harper Rock save was the absolute hardest. The mountain man had been raised in the wildest parts of West Virginia to the south. Growing up, they hadn’t had any electricity, no connection to the internet, and their water had all come from a well. Homestead living was not what anyone would have called easy, but it was simple. The work involved in keeping animals, growing herbs and some crops, making everything by hand, all of it had contributed to the man Sam had eventually become. He was diligent in all of his duties, but he had noticed a worrying trend when it came to his hunting and patrol activities.

He had never been a particularly violent person prior to getting the tattoos which seemed to imbue him with power. He found the more ash and blood he got on his hands, the more he seemed to crave it. At one point, he’d been the sort of man who went to catastrophe shattered and war torn parts of the world to help refugees and ensure they were fed, clothed, and had shelter. There were times when he wondered if perhaps he was becoming something entirely else. It was like perhaps when he snuffed the darkness out of the world, maybe some of that cruelty and aggression latched onto him. There had to be a reason for why, even after the fadebeast was slayed, his fingers still flexed into fists and then out, why every part of him felt tense and tight. It was like he was waiting for the next blow.

And there was this haze at the outer corners of his vision which was not caused by blood loss. Maybe blood lust. It was entirely possible he was just overthinking the entire situation. There was no denying that he was doing good work, after all.

He followed Fitz through a series of halls which felt winding and a little labyrinthine. Along the way, he made quick work of gripping the sleeve of his jacket and the button down shirt underneath so he could yank to rip the fabric, threads trailing through the air as he bunched it all into a ball so he could pocket the remnants. As he walked, being sure to keep an eye on the sorcerer leading the way, he also investigated the most severe of the wounds he had sustained. Another undeniable fact was that the magic which lent him so much strength and agility had also had an impact on his natural healing. The blood had already stopped flowing, though the injury was deep. He could see the movement of bone where he had been cleaved open. It would probably take days for it to close up on its own and a little longer to be totally firm, leaving behind little more than a scar. He had a number of those - scars. It was a process he’d experienced before and he had the strength of mind not to be bothered by the pain.

And then they were free of the university building. At some point the binding he’d used to keep his hair back had come undone and he had to run his long, powerful fingers through that length of animal softness to clear it away from his face. “Didn’t occur to me.” He said and then shrugged his one good shoulder. “Shadows like that clear up real fast, ash disperses. It would have just been me with a fucked up wound and a dead guy. Cops weren’t there to see what happened and might decide it’s too much trouble to do real police work rather than just toss my *** in jail. This is just less complicated.” He said. Even though vampires were out, and zombies were a thing, there was still so much darkness in the world that humans didn’t know about. “You were great back there. You not far from your home?” He asked, because it wouldn’t do for his new companion to end up attacked by some fanged asshole right after saving the day.

[Fitzgerald (DELETED 10282)]

Now, Fitzgerald wish he had stayed behind. He wished He’d been witness to the ash dispersing and the shadow clearing. He wanted to see what the bones looked like underneath. Did they look human, or human enough to be mistaken for any old dead guy? He’d swung around to face Samson who looked, for all intents and purposes, like a Viking on the wrong side of time. Blood stained his jacket and shirt but his arm was clear. All he needed was for the other sleeve to be ripped free and he’d look right at home at a male strip club, over-excited middle-aged women screaming for more flesh. The wound glistened in the low light from the lamps scattered on the path, the warm glow emanating from two antique-looking globes at either side of the entrance they’d just blown out of.

The wounds were deep, like an oversized bear had taken its rage out on Samson’s shoulder. Deep, but not critical. This was something Fitzgerald could take care of, something he’d learned early on, though at the time he’d thought it was a boring kind of ability. Some might have taken an ability to heal and gleefully visited every hospital they could, doing good for the world. Fitzgerald lacked that peculiar sense of goodwill. He was far too curious for something so simple and mundane.

For example, he itched to approach Samson and poke at the skin to part the seams, to explore the man from the inside out. Instead, he felt a rare need to prove himself, somehow. He could take care of himself. Big bad monsters didn’t scare him. He stepped up to Samson and, not squeamish in the slightest, laid cool, long fingers over the wide, deep gashes. At first he held Samson’s eye as he began to mutter the requisite words, but soon his eyes rolled back into his skull, head rolling on his shoulders as he summoned the magic from within him, pulling it up from the earth beneath his feet, swilling it in his core then pushing it out through his fingertips.

The flare started at his fingertips and pulsed over his palm, which he then pressed against the wound. Magic came from the heart, or so it felt for Fitz. It required feeling, which he tapped into and yanked out of its box. The magic danced over the split flesh and worked to knit it back together again. It carried on with its work even as Fitz removed his hand, now smeared with bright blood.

”Self preservation. I can get behind that,” the Sorcerer said, hand balling into a fist, smearing the blood into his fingers, thumb and forefinger swirling together in a circle as the blood grew sticky against the night air. ”I’m close,” he added, cocking his head to the east. There were colleges, most reserved for the boisterous students but the oldest and most prestigious reserved for the visiting professors and professionals, and for the teachers. Fitz had one of the topmost rooms, and a key that had access to the wine cellar.

”I have cheese and wine,” he said. It was an invitation dressed in the clothes of a mere statement.

[Samson Krahn]

Samson found himself wishing again that he had the ability to dip into the mind of the other man the way he might have a watering hole back home. Fitzgerald’s eyes were not still in the sense that they were emotionless - on the contrary - they had life and intelligence to them which indicated to the Paladin a depth of feeling. But it was like the body language they spoke came from two wildly different regions and though they shared a common tongue, the dialect was enough to leave the mountain of a man lifting his shoulders in confusion. The academic was this alluring mystery which Samson desired to slowly unravel so he could understand what thoughts lay hidden behind that expression. He realized that in the sort of epiphany that made one feel as if they should have known all along. They had felled a monster together, and barely knew anything about each other. What did this tell the Paladin about the Sorcerer?

That he was brave, or at least unafraid.

And Samson liked that.

He wanted to say something to that effect. That he was more than thankful for the assistance. That he was intrigued and that perhaps his reasons for inquiring about where Fitz lived were not entirely selfless. That it wasn’t just protection of the magic-user on his mind. He was saved from the need to make any hasty declarations though when Fitzgerald moved closer. Hands touched him, and Samson managed not to wince though there was some pain. Blood coated those pale, soft looking digits. Sam found himself inspecting them - they seemed so slender, as if they had been destined to be on the hands of a surgeon or a pianist. To the roughness of the Paladin’s flesh, they felt tender and kind. Of course, with those craggy features, and a body as solid as stone, there was very little that Samson considered to be rough treatment. Well. That and he was the eldest of five brothers. Rough housing had just been part of life growing up.

The pain though, subsided quickly and soon it was as if there had been no damage done at all. Had he seen it only a couple of years before, Samson would have called it a miracle - some proof of God. He knew better now, but he also knew that it was a kindness, a use of resources on the part of the Sorcerer. “Thank you.” He said, his voice naturally gruff as he lifted his arm so that he could flex his fingers together as if to see if there had been any muscle or nerve damage which was still set in. It didn’t seem like there was.

And then Fitz was talking about having cheese and wine. It was clear there was an invitation there, and if the sorcerer was close, Sam didn’t really have to worry about explaining why he looked like he’d just stepped out of some horror film. “I have an appetite.” He offered in return before he nodded for the other man to lead the way. It seemed once again, he was destined to fall in line behind the magic man - not that he much minded. It was, after all, a very pleasant view. Though along the way, there was a thought which had nagged at his mind. He hadn’t brought it up because there had been more pressing matters, but if they were going to become more familiar, more comfortable with each other - he felt it best to know. “Fitzgerald - is that your given name?” he asked. Not that he was judging. His own name was considered somewhat ‘odd’ after all. It was biblical, and not even one of the commonly used biblical names like James, Luke, Michael, etc.

He was just curious. Names had the power to bring to mind certain images. Samson was aptly named, for example. The name ‘Fitzgerald’ though made the giant of a man think about another era, about old books, flapper skirts, and swinging jazz. And to shorten it to ‘Fitz’ just seemed so abrupt. It was perhaps the surfacemost layer of the enigma he had tangled himself in. It was as good a place as any to start.

[Fitzgerald (DELETED 10282)]

If there were stains on Fitzgerald’s suit he either didn’t see them, didn’t look for them, or really didn’t care. In fact, the way the sorcerer held himself, the way he moved, it seemed he was buoyed by such strong apathy that the whole university could crumble to the ground behind them and he’d just shrug his shoulder and keep walking. It wasn’t bravery that forced him into anything, but instead an intense boredom and perhaps a large pinch of stupidity. At his heart, he was a deeply apathetic man yearning for feeling. Normally, that feeling came in the guise of a healthy kick of adrenaline.

Or in his research, of course. People bored Fitzgerald but insects—moths in particular—held him in thrall.

Fitz cut across the grass headed for the paved path that would lead them into and through the labyrinth of the university buildings, with its arches and scholarly architecture. They’d pass through shadows and would take the long way around, so that they might avoid any kind of hubbub out the front of the hall where the charity ball had been hosted. Would they have shut the whole thing down in lieu of the Dean’s death, or would they keep it all under wraps? The monster was dead. No one else would be terrorised. The thought drifted out of Fitzgerald’s head—he didn’t care about the attendees, and didn’t want to deal with the twist in his gut at the thought of the dead Dean. Distracted and detached, Fitzgerald contended himself by instead focusing on his company—the large man whom he decided would have no issue keeping up with Fitz’s own long stride. Vaguely, he wondered if he had enough cheese to meet the appetite of such a behemoth.

”Fitzgerald. Irish. Meaning ‘son of Gerald’. The use of Fitzgerald as a Christian name spiked around nineteen-sixty-four, nearly fourteen years after the death of the author F. Scott Fitzgerald. But, no,” Fitz said, peering over his shoulder. ”Rather, my parents try to tell the world that we are related to said author. You could call me D. Montgomery Fitzgerald. D for Dale. I don’t like it. I teach. They call me ‘Mr Fitzgerald’ and I told them to drop the ‘Mr’. Then, cunning youngsters as they are, fond of shortening anything they can, they started to call me Fitz. I grew fond of it,” he said with a shrug.

They were walking downhill, now, past some of the science buildings. Out of one of the doors drifted the scent of bleach and formaldehyde—medical students hovered around something that, at first, looked like a corpse but on second viewing was just a life-sized silicone model. But, that scent of death still clung to the buildings. This was where those donated cadavers came to, to further the education of the young and optimistic.

Once past the science buildings the area opened up again; there were trees swaying mildly in the night breeze, and beyond the trees the campus lodgings. There were numerous different lodging houses spotted around the outskirts of the university, but this one was Fitz’s sanctuary.

”Are you partial to red wine or white wine?” he asked Samson, tugging the keys from his pockets. Another glance and he wondered whether the other man would be interested in wine at all. He seemed more the type to request a pint of beer.