Hunting Party [Tarisyn]
Posted: 23 Jan 2016, 11:14
Months.
You are gone for months, without so much as a word to me or to anyone. You never check in. You never call. Not that I really care. I have not really felt the need to care about anything since you had left. I assumed that you would be back when you felt like you needed to come back. What really bothers me, though, what really struck me at first was the way you did it.
If you had problems, you could have just told me.
I might not care about much, but I care about you, idiot.
The muzzle of his rifle flashed, the powder charge erupting and thrusting the bullet down the long barrel, where it expanded through the ported mouth in a cross of flame. A quick flash, a flicker, and the blinding light was gone, leaving the world below in darkness. The blood splashed from the hunter’s head, reaching the enormous height of his seven foot frame to speckle his face with crimson droplets. He grimaced, and lifted a gloved hand, pushing the back of the polished leather across his mouth and smearing the blood across his features. The fight had not been a long one, and in the end, he had begged for his life.
The killer had to break his jaw to silence the simpering pleas. Then, they were just animalistic whines, whimpers of pain and fear. In the end, this man had died a coward, as useless as he felt. His face was an etching of frustration as he knelt beside the body, his hand hovering a scant inch from the corpse as he looked over the man’s person for anything that might come of use to him.
Nothing. ******* useless.
He sighed, and reached over the man to lift the rifle he had thrown down, attempting to surrender. At least that would make the man’s death worth something. As he stripped the rifle, removing the magazine and the round in the chamber, he thought over the same question he had pondered when the man had taken to his knees, throwing the weapon aside to beg for his life.
If I fell on my knees in front of you, and begged for my life instead, would you have let me live? Would you have let me go, or would you have gunned me down as I did you?
He shook his head, and slid the rifle into the loop on his pack. It never hurt to have a spare, and the craftsmanship was near identical to his own weaponry. If he could not find use for it, he could sell it, or save it maybe, for someone in greater need. Charity was not often one of his strong suits, but looking after the young of his kind had seemed to come natural to him.
His methods might not be orthodox, but they were effective, if cruel. He pushed his hand into his pocket, flipping his CAT B15Q cell phone into his palm and tapping at the screen. Deft fingertips clew across the tempered glass with astonishing speed, the text hammered out in the blink of an eye before he jammed the phone back into his pocket.
COMPOSED TEXT
TO: TARISYN
Get your *** to Cherrydale.
Sewer entrance.
The text was short, to the point. His texts usually were. His speech was usually similar, clipped and matter of fact. He did not feel the need for niceties and unnecessary pleasantries. Breath spent on courtesy was lost efficiency. Clearly, there were more important things in this life than playing nice. He had known that before he had ever even come to this country. He had known the truth about life for the better part of a lifetime. Life only favors the survivors. If you are weak, then you are crushed beneath the boots of those that are strong. The machine will grind on, with or without you. If you cannot keep up, then it will be your blood that greases the wheels next.
He slapped another magazine into his rifle, pulling the action slide to load a round into the chamber. Usually, his childe was in the mall, running her businesses from one office or another. Always working. Always bringing in money, making her own way, as best as she knew how. She was another kind of warrior, a different kind of survivor. While he waded through blood and filth, she waded through law and red tape. Where he traded in death, she traded in notes; banks, businesses, consumers, everyone was at her mercy in some way or another. She was fierce in the office, her businesses successful, but artfully under the radar. She could sweep another establishment under the weight of her wallet, and they would never see her coming.
She was crafty. Clever. He liked that in her. He had seen it in her eyes the night he took it upon himself to murder her. It had been, in his mind, the best decision he had made with his newfound life. Elizabeth would like to hear that, he was sure. She loved his little Southern Belle. He did too, to be sure. She was one of the things he cherished most in the living realm. He failed to show it adequately more often than not, but he knew that it was true. That was the most important; that he understood exactly how dangerous she was to him. She was a weapon as powerful as any gun, a knife more painful than any twisted barb. Nothing, nothing he could think of, would be more painful than losing her and knowing she was never going to come back.
Fortunately, he was spared that horror, for the most part. Tarisyn returned his feelings. Or, at least, she had before she had taken her time in the darkness. That place could twist you, turn you into someone else; something else. It was a horrific place to be. Madness could claim the strongest of them in there, could drag them down to an eternity in the dark. That she had been gone so long and had come back… it spoke volumes of her strength, her will. He only admired her more for that power of character.
The rifle cradled in his arm perfectly, the weapon fitting him like a glove. He had carried it since the night Elizabeth had buried him. He never parted with it, as it was a part of himself; an extension of his being. He was as skilled with the weapon as anyone. It was something he took pride in. Quietly, he stalked through the darkness, his thumb pushing the fire select switch to semi-automatic. He wanted to test a theory.
He came upon the corridor that lead to the long stretch to Cherrydale. Quietly, he pressed his back to the cool, wet stones of the wall and lifted the rifle. One dark orb peered into the scope, everything at the end of that long darkness suddenly clear. Three bodies milled about in the damp black of the culvert. The first was tall, a mountain of muscle. His skin was nearly black as the darkness around them, the runes tattooed into his naked flesh darker still. His muscles flexed with every movement, bulging figure rippling beneath the black velvet of his skin. The woman at his side stood even taller than him, almost of a height with Valon. The thought was amusing.
She was an amazon, her towering frame wrapped in a light bronze skin. The tattoos about her body covered her naked flesh in living ink. Both of the paladins sported long, inky black hair straight as straw and with a light sheen to its color. The third man, much shorter than the paladins, was fully decked in gear. His rifle was tucked behind his back, a longsword resting in his grip. The trio appeared to be standing over a pile of ash, some poor young vampire they had jumped in the darkness, most likely. He moved the crosshair of the scope over the large man’s chest, just above his heart. He had no need to hold his breath. His finger began to squeeze the trigger, feeling the pressure plate ready to release the firing mechanism, and he waited.
The three milled about idly, conversing over the ashes of the corpse as they turned from one to the other. The shortest man, standing farthest away, was between the two paladins. That was his next target. The amazon was last. The rifle barked, the report reaching their ears as the first man was already dead, his heart pierced by the monstrous bullet. A huge hole in his chest was all that remained of the beating muscle. The hunter’s blade flicked to the air, on the defensive as he prepared to fight the darkness. Another bark and his head exploded. Blood, bone, and brain splashed across the wall of the far end of the tunnel. The second paladin, and the final member of the band, was charging down the long traverse. Her legs were pumping madly, naked body swaying too and fro as she thought to dodge bullets as she ran. He waited patiently, timing his shot.
A final bark erupted in the cavernous tunnel, the paladin’s head snapping back, stopping her charge dead in her tracks. She crumpled to the floor in a heap, her body rolling wildly through the watery concrete walk. He lifted a booted foot and stomped down on her throat, stopping her rolling with a crunch of her neck beneath the powerful blow. Smirking, he kicked her aside and lifted the rifle’s barrel to his lips, a gentle puff of breath dissipating the smoke rising from its mouth.
“Better than when I was alive. Too bad for you lot.” He spat on the broken corpse, walking half of the distance she had just sprinted at a slow, leisurely pace to find the ladder to the surface. Above his head, that manhole cover opened into the streets of Cherrydale district, right by the transit station. She would be there soon. He would wait for her here, in the darkness, as he prepared for another hunt.
This time, however, she was going to accompany him. There was much for them to talk about, and he knew that, above anything else, killing was something they had always connected over. What better place to hunt than here, the home of their mortal enemies? He sank into the damp darkness, sitting in a dry place behind the ladder to the surface. There, he placed a pistol on the ground at his side, beginning to field strip his rifle in the silence. He would be sure that his weapon was ready for the hunt.
Be prepared.
Be ready.
You cannot fail.
The mantra he had repeated to himself a thousand times rolled through his mind again, his fingers working fast as he pulled the rifle apart, each piece laid out about him in the darkness. He had the entire weapon disassembled in seconds. The barrel was in his hand, a wire brush cleaning the powder residue from the inner surface with a professional touch, each particle of material stripped away to leave behind the barrel as smooth as the day it had been machined. An oil cloth ran through its length, then, and along the other machined parts as he lubed them, cleaning them and then set them back, one by one, reassembling the rifle in pristine condition.
Upon inspection, the gun was likely in better shape than the day it rolled off the factory floor. His firearm was his life. If his weapon failed, he died. It was simple as that, in his mind. The work ahead of them was dangerous. He needed everything in perfect working order. Particularly with her coming. Now it was more than just his own life on the line, laid out before the enemy for the taking. No, now it was the both of them. She had been stolen from him once, and he wasn’t letting that happen again. Not if he still had strength in his body to lift a knife. Even then, likely. He would bite them to death if he could.
His tongue ran along a long, sharp fang as he contemplated.
Yeah.
Yeah, I could bite them to death.
I might just try that instead.
It would be a challenge, at least.
You are gone for months, without so much as a word to me or to anyone. You never check in. You never call. Not that I really care. I have not really felt the need to care about anything since you had left. I assumed that you would be back when you felt like you needed to come back. What really bothers me, though, what really struck me at first was the way you did it.
If you had problems, you could have just told me.
I might not care about much, but I care about you, idiot.
The muzzle of his rifle flashed, the powder charge erupting and thrusting the bullet down the long barrel, where it expanded through the ported mouth in a cross of flame. A quick flash, a flicker, and the blinding light was gone, leaving the world below in darkness. The blood splashed from the hunter’s head, reaching the enormous height of his seven foot frame to speckle his face with crimson droplets. He grimaced, and lifted a gloved hand, pushing the back of the polished leather across his mouth and smearing the blood across his features. The fight had not been a long one, and in the end, he had begged for his life.
The killer had to break his jaw to silence the simpering pleas. Then, they were just animalistic whines, whimpers of pain and fear. In the end, this man had died a coward, as useless as he felt. His face was an etching of frustration as he knelt beside the body, his hand hovering a scant inch from the corpse as he looked over the man’s person for anything that might come of use to him.
Nothing. ******* useless.
He sighed, and reached over the man to lift the rifle he had thrown down, attempting to surrender. At least that would make the man’s death worth something. As he stripped the rifle, removing the magazine and the round in the chamber, he thought over the same question he had pondered when the man had taken to his knees, throwing the weapon aside to beg for his life.
If I fell on my knees in front of you, and begged for my life instead, would you have let me live? Would you have let me go, or would you have gunned me down as I did you?
He shook his head, and slid the rifle into the loop on his pack. It never hurt to have a spare, and the craftsmanship was near identical to his own weaponry. If he could not find use for it, he could sell it, or save it maybe, for someone in greater need. Charity was not often one of his strong suits, but looking after the young of his kind had seemed to come natural to him.
His methods might not be orthodox, but they were effective, if cruel. He pushed his hand into his pocket, flipping his CAT B15Q cell phone into his palm and tapping at the screen. Deft fingertips clew across the tempered glass with astonishing speed, the text hammered out in the blink of an eye before he jammed the phone back into his pocket.
COMPOSED TEXT
TO: TARISYN
Get your *** to Cherrydale.
Sewer entrance.
The text was short, to the point. His texts usually were. His speech was usually similar, clipped and matter of fact. He did not feel the need for niceties and unnecessary pleasantries. Breath spent on courtesy was lost efficiency. Clearly, there were more important things in this life than playing nice. He had known that before he had ever even come to this country. He had known the truth about life for the better part of a lifetime. Life only favors the survivors. If you are weak, then you are crushed beneath the boots of those that are strong. The machine will grind on, with or without you. If you cannot keep up, then it will be your blood that greases the wheels next.
He slapped another magazine into his rifle, pulling the action slide to load a round into the chamber. Usually, his childe was in the mall, running her businesses from one office or another. Always working. Always bringing in money, making her own way, as best as she knew how. She was another kind of warrior, a different kind of survivor. While he waded through blood and filth, she waded through law and red tape. Where he traded in death, she traded in notes; banks, businesses, consumers, everyone was at her mercy in some way or another. She was fierce in the office, her businesses successful, but artfully under the radar. She could sweep another establishment under the weight of her wallet, and they would never see her coming.
She was crafty. Clever. He liked that in her. He had seen it in her eyes the night he took it upon himself to murder her. It had been, in his mind, the best decision he had made with his newfound life. Elizabeth would like to hear that, he was sure. She loved his little Southern Belle. He did too, to be sure. She was one of the things he cherished most in the living realm. He failed to show it adequately more often than not, but he knew that it was true. That was the most important; that he understood exactly how dangerous she was to him. She was a weapon as powerful as any gun, a knife more painful than any twisted barb. Nothing, nothing he could think of, would be more painful than losing her and knowing she was never going to come back.
Fortunately, he was spared that horror, for the most part. Tarisyn returned his feelings. Or, at least, she had before she had taken her time in the darkness. That place could twist you, turn you into someone else; something else. It was a horrific place to be. Madness could claim the strongest of them in there, could drag them down to an eternity in the dark. That she had been gone so long and had come back… it spoke volumes of her strength, her will. He only admired her more for that power of character.
The rifle cradled in his arm perfectly, the weapon fitting him like a glove. He had carried it since the night Elizabeth had buried him. He never parted with it, as it was a part of himself; an extension of his being. He was as skilled with the weapon as anyone. It was something he took pride in. Quietly, he stalked through the darkness, his thumb pushing the fire select switch to semi-automatic. He wanted to test a theory.
He came upon the corridor that lead to the long stretch to Cherrydale. Quietly, he pressed his back to the cool, wet stones of the wall and lifted the rifle. One dark orb peered into the scope, everything at the end of that long darkness suddenly clear. Three bodies milled about in the damp black of the culvert. The first was tall, a mountain of muscle. His skin was nearly black as the darkness around them, the runes tattooed into his naked flesh darker still. His muscles flexed with every movement, bulging figure rippling beneath the black velvet of his skin. The woman at his side stood even taller than him, almost of a height with Valon. The thought was amusing.
She was an amazon, her towering frame wrapped in a light bronze skin. The tattoos about her body covered her naked flesh in living ink. Both of the paladins sported long, inky black hair straight as straw and with a light sheen to its color. The third man, much shorter than the paladins, was fully decked in gear. His rifle was tucked behind his back, a longsword resting in his grip. The trio appeared to be standing over a pile of ash, some poor young vampire they had jumped in the darkness, most likely. He moved the crosshair of the scope over the large man’s chest, just above his heart. He had no need to hold his breath. His finger began to squeeze the trigger, feeling the pressure plate ready to release the firing mechanism, and he waited.
The three milled about idly, conversing over the ashes of the corpse as they turned from one to the other. The shortest man, standing farthest away, was between the two paladins. That was his next target. The amazon was last. The rifle barked, the report reaching their ears as the first man was already dead, his heart pierced by the monstrous bullet. A huge hole in his chest was all that remained of the beating muscle. The hunter’s blade flicked to the air, on the defensive as he prepared to fight the darkness. Another bark and his head exploded. Blood, bone, and brain splashed across the wall of the far end of the tunnel. The second paladin, and the final member of the band, was charging down the long traverse. Her legs were pumping madly, naked body swaying too and fro as she thought to dodge bullets as she ran. He waited patiently, timing his shot.
A final bark erupted in the cavernous tunnel, the paladin’s head snapping back, stopping her charge dead in her tracks. She crumpled to the floor in a heap, her body rolling wildly through the watery concrete walk. He lifted a booted foot and stomped down on her throat, stopping her rolling with a crunch of her neck beneath the powerful blow. Smirking, he kicked her aside and lifted the rifle’s barrel to his lips, a gentle puff of breath dissipating the smoke rising from its mouth.
“Better than when I was alive. Too bad for you lot.” He spat on the broken corpse, walking half of the distance she had just sprinted at a slow, leisurely pace to find the ladder to the surface. Above his head, that manhole cover opened into the streets of Cherrydale district, right by the transit station. She would be there soon. He would wait for her here, in the darkness, as he prepared for another hunt.
This time, however, she was going to accompany him. There was much for them to talk about, and he knew that, above anything else, killing was something they had always connected over. What better place to hunt than here, the home of their mortal enemies? He sank into the damp darkness, sitting in a dry place behind the ladder to the surface. There, he placed a pistol on the ground at his side, beginning to field strip his rifle in the silence. He would be sure that his weapon was ready for the hunt.
Be prepared.
Be ready.
You cannot fail.
The mantra he had repeated to himself a thousand times rolled through his mind again, his fingers working fast as he pulled the rifle apart, each piece laid out about him in the darkness. He had the entire weapon disassembled in seconds. The barrel was in his hand, a wire brush cleaning the powder residue from the inner surface with a professional touch, each particle of material stripped away to leave behind the barrel as smooth as the day it had been machined. An oil cloth ran through its length, then, and along the other machined parts as he lubed them, cleaning them and then set them back, one by one, reassembling the rifle in pristine condition.
Upon inspection, the gun was likely in better shape than the day it rolled off the factory floor. His firearm was his life. If his weapon failed, he died. It was simple as that, in his mind. The work ahead of them was dangerous. He needed everything in perfect working order. Particularly with her coming. Now it was more than just his own life on the line, laid out before the enemy for the taking. No, now it was the both of them. She had been stolen from him once, and he wasn’t letting that happen again. Not if he still had strength in his body to lift a knife. Even then, likely. He would bite them to death if he could.
His tongue ran along a long, sharp fang as he contemplated.
Yeah.
Yeah, I could bite them to death.
I might just try that instead.
It would be a challenge, at least.