Jaxon Silver had a lot to be thankful for, he firmly reminded himself as he trudged through the sewers with a look of determination. It had occurred to him, on about his third day in this town, that while there seemed to be a few odd things around not too many people were aware of them. Or they ignored it. Based on the community online-bulletin board, he was really beginning to think it was the latter. People had questions, suspicions, but for some reason - fear he thought - they refused to try and get the answers. Jaxon wasn't like that. He didn't settle, he didn't accept false platitudes and he definitely didn't turn a blind eye to anything. It was easier for him, though. He was, after all, a little more than your average run of the mill human. He was a sorcerer.
Even now that reminder - of what he was, what he had to be thankful for - made a smile pull at his lips. He'd always believed in magic, not just because he was a street magician during the days. He'd always just... known. That there was something more. Something just on the edge of his peripheral vision that he couldn't quite see. Jax finally came to the entrance he was looking for and breathed a sigh of relief, pushing out of the sewer and into the catacombs. The smell didn't improve - in fact the twitch of his nose said the smell had probably gotten worse. Not surprising. There were re-animated corpses here, the result of a witch doctor he'd surmised. After all, if he was a sorcerer than there had to be other magic-users in town. Voodoo priests and witch doctors and probably witches. He grimaced. Did that make him, naturally, the good sort of magic user? He liked that supposition. He was a purveyor of white magic. Which made it perfectly okay to test his strength and meager spells against the zombies. They were dead anyways, not like they could feel it. Plus, it was a mercy to put the creatures down. Maybe their souls were trapped in their decaying bodies.
He nodded to himself, took a breath to center his being, and flexed his fingers. They were bare, though he wore knuckle-gloves - punching as a last resort had resulted in cuts on his knuckles and the backs of his hands. For some reason the little wounds had drawn the attention of his gracious host. Not employer - Jax still earned his own cash, but he did do it inside Whit's store and that was a kindness. Especially in the dead of winter in Canada. It wasn't too long before one of the creatures shambled out and he turned, grabbed his gun and aimed at a head. It went down easy enough, but that was just the beginning. Now that he'd taken one out, and he wasn't jittery or shaking, he was ready. He took another breath - putrid, a little humid despite being under ground - and closed his eyes.
Calling on his powers was always an odd sensation. Like searching for a thread, or at least that was what he pictured. He grabbed the glowing thread and tugged. The particular power he was searching for in that moment was easier than the others. It was passive, sort of, once he'd called it. Like wrapping himself up in a warm, comfortable, familiar coat. He dragged the string around his spirit and immediately felt the effects. Chi Focus. His eyes opened again, and the irises now had a barely perceptible silver ring around them. He'd be faster, stronger now. With a grin, he tucked the ear buds of his iPod into his ear and palmed the super-sharp dagger he'd purchased a few days prior. The prey had suddenly become the predator, and he was nearly high with that sensation.
Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
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Jaxon
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Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
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Whit
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Re: Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
There was a restless tintinnabulation as a string of bells let out their high pitched cry in the peerless black of the catacombs. They were underground and thus not naturally lit. Whitaker himself had blown out the antique kerosene lantern he had been using to navigate the treacherous and blood soaked pathways. The experiment was a simple one, and for once not to test the nature of another creature’s design, but his own. It had been quite some time since he had ventured anywhere with the intention to do harm (though that did not necessarily stop it from happening), and he worried that some of his skills with gun and blade may have slipped when his attention had shifted to more profitable endeavours.
He wore a pair of black gloves which only served to accentuate both the length and slenderness of his digits. He could have been a surgeon in another life with the steadiness of his hands, but most often, those digits could be found typing away at a keyboard. His suit was naturally slimming, and gave him the appearance of being near stick thin. Underneath his clothing, he was unnaturally lithe, but tall and long limbed which would have given him a vaguely faeish appearance if not for the cold and blatantly dead aspect to his features. Maybe Ekimmu or something else that came across as immediately unnatural. In the darkness, it was nearly impossible to see him.
One arm extended, and in a hand was held a gun, a rapidfire gun with a barrel nearly as long as his arm. He found with some disdain when he had fired off a shot earlier that it had more of a kick to it than his previous firearm; though that one had not been hastily purchased in the midst of a team raid. His other arm hung seemingly limply at his side, an axe in his grasp with a weighty head that angled so that the sharp edge of it nearly touched the ground. He listened and waited.
You see, he had affixed a string of bells to a mooncalf earlier, a feat that had not been fun, but ultimately necessary to test his reflexes and possible strategies for taking down monsters when he was forced to face them. For the most part, he saw very little need to get directly involved with violent affairs. He had money, intellect, and the ability to speak reason when the need arose. For the most part, he could handle things with a Machiavellian sense of diplomacy. But he did not believe in being caught unaware, and that meant he had to hone his skills when the opportunity presented itself.
There was suddenly silence. Seconds passed and he thought that he must have miscalculated is last shot. The scent of gunpowder was still in the air. He placed his weapons against the nearby wall, propping them up, even as he reached for his lamp, which he had rested on a large outcropping of rock. The thing was lit with a match retrieved from his suit jacket pocket and that was when he realized that someone was near. He turned to bring the light source up, only to realize that it was none other than Jaxon, a magician he employed at Graphical Bibliophilia as an attraction. He was about to offer a greeting when he heard that bell again.
The Mooncalf was barreling (well not so much barreling as lumbering) towards the mortal. If Whitaker felt anything about it, those feeling did not register on his features. He did however cast out his own power, to strike the abomination with rigormortis, causing it to bloat and stiffen which did not outright stop its progress, but slow it considerably. Opportunity presented, he grabbed up his axe and threw it stem over blade so that it could thunk into the creature’s chest.
“Evening.” As he went to retrieve his weapon.
He wore a pair of black gloves which only served to accentuate both the length and slenderness of his digits. He could have been a surgeon in another life with the steadiness of his hands, but most often, those digits could be found typing away at a keyboard. His suit was naturally slimming, and gave him the appearance of being near stick thin. Underneath his clothing, he was unnaturally lithe, but tall and long limbed which would have given him a vaguely faeish appearance if not for the cold and blatantly dead aspect to his features. Maybe Ekimmu or something else that came across as immediately unnatural. In the darkness, it was nearly impossible to see him.
One arm extended, and in a hand was held a gun, a rapidfire gun with a barrel nearly as long as his arm. He found with some disdain when he had fired off a shot earlier that it had more of a kick to it than his previous firearm; though that one had not been hastily purchased in the midst of a team raid. His other arm hung seemingly limply at his side, an axe in his grasp with a weighty head that angled so that the sharp edge of it nearly touched the ground. He listened and waited.
You see, he had affixed a string of bells to a mooncalf earlier, a feat that had not been fun, but ultimately necessary to test his reflexes and possible strategies for taking down monsters when he was forced to face them. For the most part, he saw very little need to get directly involved with violent affairs. He had money, intellect, and the ability to speak reason when the need arose. For the most part, he could handle things with a Machiavellian sense of diplomacy. But he did not believe in being caught unaware, and that meant he had to hone his skills when the opportunity presented itself.
There was suddenly silence. Seconds passed and he thought that he must have miscalculated is last shot. The scent of gunpowder was still in the air. He placed his weapons against the nearby wall, propping them up, even as he reached for his lamp, which he had rested on a large outcropping of rock. The thing was lit with a match retrieved from his suit jacket pocket and that was when he realized that someone was near. He turned to bring the light source up, only to realize that it was none other than Jaxon, a magician he employed at Graphical Bibliophilia as an attraction. He was about to offer a greeting when he heard that bell again.
The Mooncalf was barreling (well not so much barreling as lumbering) towards the mortal. If Whitaker felt anything about it, those feeling did not register on his features. He did however cast out his own power, to strike the abomination with rigormortis, causing it to bloat and stiffen which did not outright stop its progress, but slow it considerably. Opportunity presented, he grabbed up his axe and threw it stem over blade so that it could thunk into the creature’s chest.
“Evening.” As he went to retrieve his weapon.
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Jaxon
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Re: Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
Jaxon was really starting to hate these catacombs, and not just because they stank worse than the dumpster he might've gone trolling through when his ex had tossed his favorite one of a kind wizards hat away in a fit of anger. The man had had a lot of anger, but luckily for Jax he was crap at dodging a punch. A well earned punch, Jax reminded himself with a familiar proud grin as he raised up an arm when another zombie lurched toward him. He blocked the swiping arm, blanching as skin sloughed off of the creature. He shook his arm to toss the slick papery substance to the ground, and then raised his gun right under the beasts chin and pulled the trigger. The head exploded like the pumpkin he'd put left over fireworks in one year, and he immediately regretted the close-contact kill as spattered bits of rot rained down on him.
Jax heaved a sigh, wiping the worst of it off his face with a swipe of his arm, then stomped and wiggled his frame side to side to shake the rest off. He stilled suddenly, lifting his head to peer into the darkness a little hopelessly. He was pretty sure he'd just heard the jingle of a bell, but that would be highly unusual. He glanced down at the remains of the zombie with a wry smile. Unusual was the name of the game in this town, after all. The sorcerer hesitantly picked another hallway and followed it, couldn't possibly get more lost than he already was. There was light up ahead - that was a new development. He'd long given up the flashlight (and headlamp he'd bought on a whim) - the things in this place seemed to shy away from light.
When he came to the opening he lifted his arm up to shield his eyes from the too-bright lights, and squinted toward it all at the same time. Surprise was written across his face to see the man who'd offered him help. He lowered his arm with an easy grin and pulled the earbuds from his ears and approached the man. His eyes grew wide when Whit picked up a - was that an axe?! - and threw it. Instinctively Jax ducked, and heard the sickening thud of the sharp edge into flesh. He turned and sucked in a shocked breath, face coloring.
"What the hell is that?" He breathed out finally, inching back away from it carefully in case it was still... alive? "Don't get too close!" He called out when Whit went towards the felled beast. That wasn't a zombie. It was something else entirely, and Jax was struggling to come up with a name or an explanation. Clearly Whit wasn't frightened though, and that raised all sorts of other questions.
"What are you doing down here?" He asked, frowning as he tucked his gun away. He didn't feel threatened by the man, though maybe he should.
Jax heaved a sigh, wiping the worst of it off his face with a swipe of his arm, then stomped and wiggled his frame side to side to shake the rest off. He stilled suddenly, lifting his head to peer into the darkness a little hopelessly. He was pretty sure he'd just heard the jingle of a bell, but that would be highly unusual. He glanced down at the remains of the zombie with a wry smile. Unusual was the name of the game in this town, after all. The sorcerer hesitantly picked another hallway and followed it, couldn't possibly get more lost than he already was. There was light up ahead - that was a new development. He'd long given up the flashlight (and headlamp he'd bought on a whim) - the things in this place seemed to shy away from light.
When he came to the opening he lifted his arm up to shield his eyes from the too-bright lights, and squinted toward it all at the same time. Surprise was written across his face to see the man who'd offered him help. He lowered his arm with an easy grin and pulled the earbuds from his ears and approached the man. His eyes grew wide when Whit picked up a - was that an axe?! - and threw it. Instinctively Jax ducked, and heard the sickening thud of the sharp edge into flesh. He turned and sucked in a shocked breath, face coloring.
"What the hell is that?" He breathed out finally, inching back away from it carefully in case it was still... alive? "Don't get too close!" He called out when Whit went towards the felled beast. That wasn't a zombie. It was something else entirely, and Jax was struggling to come up with a name or an explanation. Clearly Whit wasn't frightened though, and that raised all sorts of other questions.
"What are you doing down here?" He asked, frowning as he tucked his gun away. He didn't feel threatened by the man, though maybe he should.
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Whit
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Re: Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
‘The hell’ was an accurate description of the beast. Necromancy had been used to magically bind together different bodies, fragments of legs and torsos, arms that may have once belonged to individual and distinct human beings. There was a crassness to the creature because it was an ugly amalgamation of dead things. Peter might have commented that they had all once been alive, that those people had, at one point, all had families and friends. Each component had been a sibling or a parent, or at the very least a child. Possibly the mate to someone else they would never see again. The darkness of Necromancy was that it was a gift of flesh and spirit, and the inability to ever truly make them mesh in a meaningful way. Little false gods who had come up in the shadows. The one that had created the creature was like him.
“It is called a Mooncalf.” Whitaker was not sure exactly why they were called that, but from what he understood, that was part of the history that had been brought over from the old world by the ancients. Of course, he couldn’t really go into that kind of detail with Jaxon without revealing some of what he was. Giving even hints as to the nature of vampirism could be punishable by death, and he did not particularly have the inclination to deal with however long that might take, or the time in the fade (which, as he understood it, was almost as bleak as his personality), or the recovery afterwards. No. It all seemed like quite a lot of hassle to him and he had a business to run. So he simply chose not to elaborate further than the posed question demanded answer for.
He did however stalk carefully towards the mooncalf. The magical bindings that normally might have come undone when the creature was slain did, in fact, not. He reached for his axe right as he saw the thing lifting an arm, or many arms to try and grasp him. They were lumbering, monstrous creatures. Slow as frozen water dripping, but they were strong and particularly vicious. He only just pulled the blade out of what could have been vaguely described as a torso when an appendage came crashing into him. He barely had time to lift his axe defensively, grasping not only the hilt but the back of the head, where it connected to the length of wooden shaft. Rather than take a hit to the arm, he instead was thrown back a step, having caught the brunt of the attack on the very center of his axe, which effectively allowed him to negate some of the energy that had gone into the slashing attack.
His kerosene lamp had been dropped somewhere along the way, and the ground soaked up the liquid as fire spread over it, only to sputter and die out when the fuel was all used up. Whitaker’s eyes flashed with rare emotion. Not rage or hatred, but something else. A cold kind of resolution. “Why are you down here?” He asked by way of retort a moment later – his voice calm and even, slight emphasis put on a single word. He retreated towards his gun and then let the catacomb go silent so that he could hear even the barest of movements. “Be still.” He said a second later, not wanting to shoot the wrong thing.
“It is called a Mooncalf.” Whitaker was not sure exactly why they were called that, but from what he understood, that was part of the history that had been brought over from the old world by the ancients. Of course, he couldn’t really go into that kind of detail with Jaxon without revealing some of what he was. Giving even hints as to the nature of vampirism could be punishable by death, and he did not particularly have the inclination to deal with however long that might take, or the time in the fade (which, as he understood it, was almost as bleak as his personality), or the recovery afterwards. No. It all seemed like quite a lot of hassle to him and he had a business to run. So he simply chose not to elaborate further than the posed question demanded answer for.
He did however stalk carefully towards the mooncalf. The magical bindings that normally might have come undone when the creature was slain did, in fact, not. He reached for his axe right as he saw the thing lifting an arm, or many arms to try and grasp him. They were lumbering, monstrous creatures. Slow as frozen water dripping, but they were strong and particularly vicious. He only just pulled the blade out of what could have been vaguely described as a torso when an appendage came crashing into him. He barely had time to lift his axe defensively, grasping not only the hilt but the back of the head, where it connected to the length of wooden shaft. Rather than take a hit to the arm, he instead was thrown back a step, having caught the brunt of the attack on the very center of his axe, which effectively allowed him to negate some of the energy that had gone into the slashing attack.
His kerosene lamp had been dropped somewhere along the way, and the ground soaked up the liquid as fire spread over it, only to sputter and die out when the fuel was all used up. Whitaker’s eyes flashed with rare emotion. Not rage or hatred, but something else. A cold kind of resolution. “Why are you down here?” He asked by way of retort a moment later – his voice calm and even, slight emphasis put on a single word. He retreated towards his gun and then let the catacomb go silent so that he could hear even the barest of movements. “Be still.” He said a second later, not wanting to shoot the wrong thing.
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Jaxon
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Re: Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
Jaxon had a few opions about the man that was half-employing him. Whit was a little too pale, he clearly didn't see much sunlight - and his work-schedule proved that. Whit was awkward and abrupt and a little off-putting. Whit was a nerd - something Jax could get behind full-heartedly. Whit was not, however, any sort of killer. He wasn't a masked hero, like the sort Jax sometimes fashioned himself when he came to this place to rid the world of one more zombie. And yet here Whit stood, casual and calm like nothing out of the ordinary at all was happening. Jaxon's jaw was almost hanging open, but he was far too cool to allow that to happen. He snapped his mouth shut.
"Hell." He bit out when the precious light sputtered out. He hadn't needed it before - when he'd been combing this area all by his lonesome with only the occassional use of his cellphone to dig around in his messenger bag for new rounds for his gun or a knife to slice off pieces of the dead. There was an odd little shop that purchased them, ostensibly for use in spells Jaxon just didn't know yet. He hadn't found any "Sorcery for Dummies" books yet, but he expected one to turn up eventually. Maybe the shop owner was just making sure Jax was on the up-and-up about it all, afterall nobody really talked about the oddness of this town. Or they went really out of their way Not to talk about it.
"I'm down here killing zombies." He replied with a shrug. Jaxon was nothing if not honest, even if it made him sound crazy. So when asked a direct question he was going to answer directly. Usually. Unless it might get him into trouble. He was pretty sure Whit wasn't going to throw him in a loony bin - especially as the man had just killed a, what had he called it, a mooncalf? Wasn't that an aborted cow fetus? He shook his head, chocking it up to serious weirdness of this town. When the man - his sole acquaintance in Harper Rock - suddenly told him to be still he found himself naturally shuffling closer to the man to try and see what he was seeing. "What's happening?" He stage-whispered, and it sounded oddly loud in the sudden silence of the cavern.
"Hell." He bit out when the precious light sputtered out. He hadn't needed it before - when he'd been combing this area all by his lonesome with only the occassional use of his cellphone to dig around in his messenger bag for new rounds for his gun or a knife to slice off pieces of the dead. There was an odd little shop that purchased them, ostensibly for use in spells Jaxon just didn't know yet. He hadn't found any "Sorcery for Dummies" books yet, but he expected one to turn up eventually. Maybe the shop owner was just making sure Jax was on the up-and-up about it all, afterall nobody really talked about the oddness of this town. Or they went really out of their way Not to talk about it.
"I'm down here killing zombies." He replied with a shrug. Jaxon was nothing if not honest, even if it made him sound crazy. So when asked a direct question he was going to answer directly. Usually. Unless it might get him into trouble. He was pretty sure Whit wasn't going to throw him in a loony bin - especially as the man had just killed a, what had he called it, a mooncalf? Wasn't that an aborted cow fetus? He shook his head, chocking it up to serious weirdness of this town. When the man - his sole acquaintance in Harper Rock - suddenly told him to be still he found himself naturally shuffling closer to the man to try and see what he was seeing. "What's happening?" He stage-whispered, and it sounded oddly loud in the sudden silence of the cavern.
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Whit
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Re: Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
Jaxon's answer was direct in its honesty, which Whitaker immediately appreciated. There was nothing that vexed him more than someone who attempted to either deflect a line of questioning or wear the pretense of a trickster's mask by firing off what were intended to be witty comebacks. Generally, he just found those people obnoxious for their inability to get to a relevant point, but then he never had much time for anyone with cryptic sensibilities. The question offered him something of a window with which to peer inside of the other man, though it was clouded at best and caused more queries to rise at the same time from somewhere at the back of his mind. They were certainly going to need to have a conversation when the danger had fled from the scene. Until then, he kept his lips shut.
Seconds later he heard footsteps angling towards him, but they were not the same shuffling heavy stomps of the Mooncalf and he bit back the immediate urge to offer up a chiding tone. He paused to see if there would be any further movement, and when there was not, he whispered back. "I am trying to locate th-" He was cut off when he felt something slam into his chest. It knocked the air right out of him and left him with a pain that radiated towards his gut and made him feel nearly nauseous. A hiss of irritation escaped him and he attempted to reclaim his bearings. He had been knocked back by several feet, nearly into a wall by the offensive blow and was not entirely sure what direction he'd been tossed from.
Thankfully the thing had not swiped at him with claws, otherwise he probably would have been missing the selfsame guts that seemed to want to empty themselves.
There was a raucous bellow and it told Whitaker everything he needed to know. His gun leveled in front of him and he immediately fired. There was a flash of light at the end of his gun that very briefly illuminated the area in front of him, telling him that he thanfully had not fired a shot at Jaxon. Instead, a round slammed into the Mooncalf's shoulder, driving it back a step. He took another towards it in immediate response as if he could drive the beast back purely by his force of will. Fangs elongated to the struggle it posed, and he didn't even think to disguise them because he was predictably distracted by the fight at hand.
Several more shots were fired and the thing finally crumbled to the ground. Dead. Truly dead. It was only then that he realized his fangs were showing. Thankfully it was dark, and he hoped the brief flashes of light provided by the gunfire did not give away what he was. At best, Jaxon might have gotten a lone glimpse of them.
He stood over the fallen Mooncalf and kicked it a couple of times to make sure that it did not get up and resume its attack before he holstered his gun and breathed a sigh, slumping back against a nearby wall with obvious relief. That could have gone very badly. What might he have done if Jaxon had died on his watch. He feigned breathing heavily as if to account for the struggle that'd just occurred. "Okay. So how did you find this place?"
Seconds later he heard footsteps angling towards him, but they were not the same shuffling heavy stomps of the Mooncalf and he bit back the immediate urge to offer up a chiding tone. He paused to see if there would be any further movement, and when there was not, he whispered back. "I am trying to locate th-" He was cut off when he felt something slam into his chest. It knocked the air right out of him and left him with a pain that radiated towards his gut and made him feel nearly nauseous. A hiss of irritation escaped him and he attempted to reclaim his bearings. He had been knocked back by several feet, nearly into a wall by the offensive blow and was not entirely sure what direction he'd been tossed from.
Thankfully the thing had not swiped at him with claws, otherwise he probably would have been missing the selfsame guts that seemed to want to empty themselves.
There was a raucous bellow and it told Whitaker everything he needed to know. His gun leveled in front of him and he immediately fired. There was a flash of light at the end of his gun that very briefly illuminated the area in front of him, telling him that he thanfully had not fired a shot at Jaxon. Instead, a round slammed into the Mooncalf's shoulder, driving it back a step. He took another towards it in immediate response as if he could drive the beast back purely by his force of will. Fangs elongated to the struggle it posed, and he didn't even think to disguise them because he was predictably distracted by the fight at hand.
Several more shots were fired and the thing finally crumbled to the ground. Dead. Truly dead. It was only then that he realized his fangs were showing. Thankfully it was dark, and he hoped the brief flashes of light provided by the gunfire did not give away what he was. At best, Jaxon might have gotten a lone glimpse of them.
He stood over the fallen Mooncalf and kicked it a couple of times to make sure that it did not get up and resume its attack before he holstered his gun and breathed a sigh, slumping back against a nearby wall with obvious relief. That could have gone very badly. What might he have done if Jaxon had died on his watch. He feigned breathing heavily as if to account for the struggle that'd just occurred. "Okay. So how did you find this place?"
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Jaxon
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Re: Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
Jax watched the fight in flashes of gun-fire, and wasn't that giving him the headache from hell. If it wasn't the flashing, it was the bang of noise that ricocheted around the little cavern they were in, or the smell of gunpowder burning his nose. He even sneezed between shots, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. He wasn't really sure what he was seeing - couldn't take his eyes off the creepy thing attacking Whit. It was like a zombie had tried to recreate Frankenstein's Monster and gotten the instructions wrong. Horribly, terribly, grotesquely wrong. He wasn't entirely sure how the thing was even moving, or able to stand and walk around.
When the shots ended, with the predictable thud of a body to the ground, he rubbed two fists into his eyes and then opened and shut his jaw to pop his ears. It worked, though they were still ringing. He heard Whit's voice again, and turned in the direction it had come from. With the loss of light it definitely felt darker in here. And a little bit claustrophobic. He really disliked enclosed spaces - though not enough to have a panic attack. At least not yet. Was he breathing faster? He was probably breathing faster.
"What?" He murmured, then shook his head to jerk himself out of it, stomping one foot on the ground firmly with an inner-monologue proclaiming himself far too powerful a Sorcerer to be shell shocked. "I... got here the same way you did. Probably." He hedged. Truth was, Whit was the first person he'd run into down here. Other than the zombies. He'd thought he'd seen a woman, also. But she'd looked dead herself, though she wasn't shuffling around like the zombies or that mooncalf thing. She'd been moving quickly and he was pretty sure she'd been carrying a gun. But he hadn't dwelled on it. Nobody could look that dead and still be alive. Period. And then, because he didn't think it was fair not to really answer his sole acquaintances question, he gestured off toward one of the passages. "The sewers?" He offered with a flush. Not many people stomped around in sewers, but it was safer to practice his new abilities there, and then he'd stumbled on this place and struck gold.
When the shots ended, with the predictable thud of a body to the ground, he rubbed two fists into his eyes and then opened and shut his jaw to pop his ears. It worked, though they were still ringing. He heard Whit's voice again, and turned in the direction it had come from. With the loss of light it definitely felt darker in here. And a little bit claustrophobic. He really disliked enclosed spaces - though not enough to have a panic attack. At least not yet. Was he breathing faster? He was probably breathing faster.
"What?" He murmured, then shook his head to jerk himself out of it, stomping one foot on the ground firmly with an inner-monologue proclaiming himself far too powerful a Sorcerer to be shell shocked. "I... got here the same way you did. Probably." He hedged. Truth was, Whit was the first person he'd run into down here. Other than the zombies. He'd thought he'd seen a woman, also. But she'd looked dead herself, though she wasn't shuffling around like the zombies or that mooncalf thing. She'd been moving quickly and he was pretty sure she'd been carrying a gun. But he hadn't dwelled on it. Nobody could look that dead and still be alive. Period. And then, because he didn't think it was fair not to really answer his sole acquaintances question, he gestured off toward one of the passages. "The sewers?" He offered with a flush. Not many people stomped around in sewers, but it was safer to practice his new abilities there, and then he'd stumbled on this place and struck gold.
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Whit
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- CrowNet Handle: centipedeDREAMER
Re: Auguries of Innocence [Whit]
The other man's heart rate had picked up substantially, which Whitaker noticed in the otherwise peerless silence of the catacombs. He had learned long before that his heightened senses gave him that much in the way of advantage. When he was alone with a human, he could tell what they were. Prey, for the most part, if one were to ask him specifically how he felt about them on a technical level. Of course, he was no base animal, constrained simply to his instincts and need to feed. Being a creature of higher thinking capacity, he had the ability and maturity to both understand and sympathize with multiple points of view. Up to, and including not wanting to become dinner. Not an issue given the number of different options available for sustenance when one's diet was entirely sanguivoran. Which. As it turned out, was essentially just the same as predatory carnivorous, though easier to maintain.
Jaxon was also breathing more heavily, which could have been indicative of any number of things including fear or exhaustion. Or really any number of things between those two, though he wagered it was likely a combination of the ones that immediately came to mind. The remedy for those particular afflictions seemed rather obvious, so he reached into his vest pocket to draw out a silver pocket watch, which appeared to have an image of Mjolnir (Thor's hammer) on it. By and far, it was likely one of the least expensive pieces of his personal watch collection, but he liked to wear it to work to show his customers that he was an avid supporter of nerd culture. It also had the benefit of producing ambient light which, whilst dim, was more than enough to see in the dark. For a second, just briefly, after he popped the cap and the illumination streaked over his flesh, there were hints of something skeletal there. Not skin and bone, but true polished white bone. They faded as quickly as they appeared, little more than perhaps a trick of the mind might allow for.
"We can continue this discourse elsewhere." He began, rather than choosing to immediately and directly answer his friend. He made sure that his weapons were secured as he led the way towards the exit, just north of where they currently stood. One hand held the light source up and over his head - the tiny chain that normally rested across the polished dark buttons of his vest now dangling so that it swayed to his movements. His other hand lay against his holstered gun. Should they run into further trouble, he intended to dispatch it quickly. It seemed imperative, for some reason, for the pair of them to reach the surface so that his human companion might get some fresh, crisp air. It was only as they were nearing the entrance of the catacombs that led out into the sewers (Really it was little more than a broken wall between the two) that he continued.
"Most people don't seem to know about this entrance, is why I asked." Though he did not contest the accuracy of the statement, especially considering his own was an admission if his guiding light had not been. "I was personally down here conducting an experiment, though there are some who go down there to collect old weapon parts. Numerous ritual knives I have seen down there suggest it may have been the site of some sort of occult action. I believe that may be the reason for those...things. The skeletal zombies and the Mooncalfs."
Jaxon was also breathing more heavily, which could have been indicative of any number of things including fear or exhaustion. Or really any number of things between those two, though he wagered it was likely a combination of the ones that immediately came to mind. The remedy for those particular afflictions seemed rather obvious, so he reached into his vest pocket to draw out a silver pocket watch, which appeared to have an image of Mjolnir (Thor's hammer) on it. By and far, it was likely one of the least expensive pieces of his personal watch collection, but he liked to wear it to work to show his customers that he was an avid supporter of nerd culture. It also had the benefit of producing ambient light which, whilst dim, was more than enough to see in the dark. For a second, just briefly, after he popped the cap and the illumination streaked over his flesh, there were hints of something skeletal there. Not skin and bone, but true polished white bone. They faded as quickly as they appeared, little more than perhaps a trick of the mind might allow for.
"We can continue this discourse elsewhere." He began, rather than choosing to immediately and directly answer his friend. He made sure that his weapons were secured as he led the way towards the exit, just north of where they currently stood. One hand held the light source up and over his head - the tiny chain that normally rested across the polished dark buttons of his vest now dangling so that it swayed to his movements. His other hand lay against his holstered gun. Should they run into further trouble, he intended to dispatch it quickly. It seemed imperative, for some reason, for the pair of them to reach the surface so that his human companion might get some fresh, crisp air. It was only as they were nearing the entrance of the catacombs that led out into the sewers (Really it was little more than a broken wall between the two) that he continued.
"Most people don't seem to know about this entrance, is why I asked." Though he did not contest the accuracy of the statement, especially considering his own was an admission if his guiding light had not been. "I was personally down here conducting an experiment, though there are some who go down there to collect old weapon parts. Numerous ritual knives I have seen down there suggest it may have been the site of some sort of occult action. I believe that may be the reason for those...things. The skeletal zombies and the Mooncalfs."