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Upyri [Peter Parkman]
Posted: 21 May 2014, 02:38
by Ivan (DELETED 5433)
He was lost.
Naturally, he was lost. He had taken the wrong train to get back to Toronto, too inebriated really to travel, but needing to get back to his dormitory. His studies were what got him out of Russia and they were what needed attending to. Even if he was in no shape to do so.
He had no idea where he even was, really, except that it was still Canada (nobody had asked him for a passport and they all had that vague Ontario accent). The town was small, decently sized really but everything was small when you went from Saint Petersburg to Toronto with no in-between.
And so he was wandering the small-but-not town in Ontario a little too drunk to be out by himself in a strange place. But he was Russian. He could handle it. That was a rumor that he could perpetuate. He pushed his hands down into his jacket and whistled cheerfully, tilting his head back into the stiff, cold breeze.
His eyes even closed, the alcohol burning at his instincts and reservations about being anywhere outside his own space. If his “friends” back home could see him now. Ivan Volkov, lost in a town full of Canadians, drunk and completely off guard.
“Do svidaniya, Ivan.” He sing-songed to himself, swaying from side to side. He smelled like a brewery and a cigarette factory all in one, an easy target for anyone who thought to pass him by. A plain v-neck t-shirt and overly tight jeans, wallet trying to wedge itself out of his back pocket.
Re: Upyri [Peter Parkman]
Posted: 21 May 2014, 13:27
by Peter Parkman
Although Peter didn’t work at the University anymore, he was still granted alumni access. The library, to its full extent, was there for his perusal. Although he preferred the library at Honeymead, he found that the University library was just that tiny bit vaster; it catered more to the academic in him, with physical and electronic access to every journal that you could ever name. There were printers for which, due to his special alumni privileges, he did not have to pay. All the doors were open to him, and the library was open 24-7. It couldn’t not be open those hours; students never stuck to ordinary sleeping schedules, especially if exams were on the horizon.
If there were a few abilities that Peter was looking forward to, it was the kind that might help him travel vast distances in the blink of an eye. Teleportation, maybe. Or maybe one of those nifty tomes that everyone else seemed to have – he knew he’d have to ask Keara about that. He still did not have one. For the time being, however, he was forced to walk. He didn’t have a vehicle – never had, nor did he think he would ever invest in one. For all his wish for better abilities, he had to admit that he did like walking. It helped to clear his head. His poor, over-cluttered head.
He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it had just taken this long for the medication to eke out of his system. Maybe it was due to the different surprises he was dealt on a daily basis. Maybe he was feeling stress that he himself wasn’t completely aware of. But he found that his OCD was getting worse. So much so that he was paying no attention to where he was going. Why? Because he was counting. He was counting his steps, without realising, and it was using his focus.
The bag of books were slung over his right shoulder. His shoes were leather, unscuffed, clean. The suit that he wore was a dark pinstripe; the shirt a light blue, the tie thin and black. Over the top, a long, dark-tan trench-coat, collar pulled up against his neck. He was not human, but he had to at least look the part.
He didn’t notice the sing-songing Russian until he’d bumped into him; just a light nudge on the shoulder. At the same time as Peter gasped and glanced up in surprise, he caught sight of a barely-there blur. Another vampire. Winking. Winking at Peter, as it, too, brushed past the human and then disappeared. Peter had no idea what that was, or what had happened.
”I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled, voice deep and sonorous. He was fully intending to keep on walking, the number five-hundred-and-sixty-six stuck on loop in his head until he would take the next step. Five-hundred-and-sixty-seven….
Re: Upyri [Peter Parkman]
Posted: 24 May 2014, 23:07
by Ivan (DELETED 5433)
To him, the nudge felt like a punch to the shoulder. Maybe it was his state of inebriation, his panic disorder (undiagnosed except by numerous wikipedia articles or symptoms, usually without his behest), or that he was lost. Maybe it was all three. All of the sudden he had been blasted out of his dreamlike state by a blow to his body and a mumbled voice.
His pockets felt lighter.
Ivan turned like a flash and grabbed the man by his collar, forcing him towards the wall of the nearest building despite his smaller stature. His free hand took his pistol out of his pocket and he waved it around before pressing the barrel against the man's temple.
"Vor!" He spat, shaking the man a little by the grip he had on his shirt. He released him, then, and stepped back, but leveled the Glock at his chest. He was a decent shot sober, and at this distance, he could at least wound. "Vernite mne moi den'gi ili ya tebya ub'yu."
It didn't occur to him, of course, that he was in Canada and not Russia and so the man before him could have no idea what he was shouting. In his drunken world, everyone knew Russian and drawing a pistol on a man in the middle of the street was completely normal.
Re: Upyri [Peter Parkman]
Posted: 25 May 2014, 13:08
by Peter Parkman
And then the numbers disappeared completely, banished from Peter’s mind as, completely unexpectedly, caught completely off guard, he was shoved up against a wall. The kid spat at him in a language that Peter could not understand, but which sounded very much like Russian. And there was a gun pointed at him, point blank. Peter shouted, the sound of surprise inadvertently falling from his lips, clambering out of his throat like a creature trying to escape its fate.
It was stupid, really, the way that Peter panicked. He should have remembered that video had shown him; the vampire who got shot, and then killed his prey. Peter could have done that; he could withstand a bullet to the heart. Even a bullet to the head. The gun should have had him laughing, rather than throwing his hands up in the air in complete defence. He was not a violent man. Never had been. He preferred peace. But there was something about this scenario that caused something inside of him to snap.
He’d lost the numbers. That’s what it was. He’d been content, calmed by the counting. The numbers soothed the constant anxiety, and now they were gone. The measurement from point A to here had been lost, and now it was if he’d been thrown into a void, without gravity, without anchor. It terrified him. And what do people do when terrified, and when threatened? They act by instinct. Only, Peter’s instinct wasn’t human. Fight or flight meant a whole different thing to a vampire – especially one who was completely unaware of what he was capable of.
Without warning, without conscious thought, Peter’s shadow swarmed. It unstuck itself from the ground. It defied reality. It sprung toward the light rather than away from it; it gathered together particles, or something magical. It didn’t matter which. And without a moment’s hesitation, it formed a sharp shard, like a sword. Without warning, it thrust forward, aimed directly at the human’s heart.
Another shout clambered out of Peter’s throat but this one wasn’t one of fright. His raised hands reached forward, as if he could stop what was occurring right in front of his face, but he couldn’t stop it, much like no man could stop an avalanche from collapsing. The world seemed to stop, to move in slow motion. And yet, Peter moved as if through molasses.
Re: Upyri [Peter Parkman]
Posted: 26 May 2014, 06:45
by Ivan (DELETED 5433)
Ivan's nose wrinkled at the panicked shouting and he shook the gun at him as in in a pantomime of 'please, for the love of god, stop yelling'. It hurt his ears, his head. It made him remember other shouting. An eye squeezed shut and he huffed out a breath. Stop stop stop, he wanted to demand, stop and give me back my money.
This was ridiculous. Insanity, pure insanity. He just wanted his wallet back. It had his money, the only Canadian dollars he had without going back to the bank to argue with them again about the money he was only ever sent in rubles to be converted, how he thought they were charging too much to simply give him theirs in exchange. It had his identification, a squinting picture of him after too much airport coffee, not enough sleep, and far too long in a cramped plane. His Russian identification was crammed inside as well.
He needed the battered leather and he needed it now. If the man would just stop cringing and making noise.
"Seychas." Just as the word left his lips, he saw a conjuration before his eyes. Too much Canadian whisky, obviously, not nearly as palatable as his classmates claimed. It was dark and flickering and, well, it was headed right for his chest. He tried to move, to shield himself, but he was too slow.
In an instant, the pistol clattered from his grip to the pavement and he dropped to his knees, clutching at the bloom of red rapidly soaking into the fabric of his shirt. He hadn't even seen the blade, and it must have been a blade. He knew that kind of cut.
His eyes lifted to the man, beseeching.
"Help...me..." He gasped, pitching forward, one bloodied hand scrabbling at the sidewalk to keep himself mostly upright. Ivan didn't have time, not much of it. The damage to his heart would make it stop and then he'd die. But if he could just get this man, this thief, to help him...
Re: Upyri [Peter Parkman]
Posted: 26 May 2014, 14:05
by Peter Parkman
The bumbling jumble of words that issued from Peter’s lips were entirely incomprehensible, even to himself. The shadow, after doing its damage, returned to its ordinary position. There was a childish voice telling him to try to run. Run from his own goddamned shadow. The voice of reason overwhelmed the voice of his panic, however; the voice of his reason remembered that this was a thing that Keara had told him about. A power. An ability, that he could and would learn to control. His own shadow could become a weapon, to be summoned at will. The reasonable voice told him that his shadow would do its owner no harm. And, even as the thoughts riot around in his brain, Peter is crouching, falling alongside this young man that he has inadvertently, subconsciously stabbed.
The blood is what nearly does Peter in. There’s so much of it, pouring from the human’s body, pooling on the cement beneath his collapsed body. The scent of it, the sight of it, sends Peter reeling back up against the brick wall, turning his face away from the scene and holding his breath. A wave of dizziness threatens to overwhelm him, to render all his faculties moot. Blackness dances at the edge of his vision. If he doesn’t act quickly, he’ll likely faint.
It was the gasp for help that anchored Peter to reality. He had done this. This was his fault. This was a thing that he needed to fix. Almost immediately, he called upon another ability that he had; one that he knew he had, and knew how to control. The shadows sprung to life again around the, curling around the two of them, blocking the whole incident from sight. Still, Peter was aware that they were in the middle of the goddamned street and quickly. He needed to act very, very quickly. There wasn’t time to second-guess himself. He brought his own wrist to his mouth and tore into the skin so that the blood bubbled to the surface—except that it wasn’t really blood, per se, but shadow. An inky substance that dispersed as soon as it hit the air. But it had worked with Whit. It would work now. Wouldn’t it?
He leaned over the dying Russian and held the wound to the boy’s lips. ”Drink it, it’ll help. Just… quickly,” Peter said, baritone voice demanding even in all his panic.
”OhGod,” he groaned as he held his wrist steady. Again, the blackness at the edge of his vision; another wave of dizziness. He pressed his eyes tight shut together and continued to hold his breath, humming frantically to himself under his breath in the hope to severely distract himself from just how much blood there was.