Post by ∂яινє му ωσℓƒ ωιℓ∂ ♥ on Apr 26, 2014 16:01:37 GMT -5
{ B R A V E only, please. }
--
The winds were frigid, the land a desolate location of skyscrapers and night clubs. Bundled in a tight jacket to protect his susceptible body from the chill of a Manhattan winter's night, he scoured the deserted streets in search of his mouse. You see, there is a window of opportunity in the late moon and early sun of New York's ticking hours that displays the streets clean of mortal interference. An opportunity that is best served hot when it comes to a hunt.
A shifting of inhuman legs against asphalt brought the cat from his reverie of his surroundings and back to the task at hand. The scent of sulfur and brimstone filled the air, a trail very much familiar, and the cat stooped to a stalking position, creeping toward the public waste dump. It was a common strategy of a mouse, to seek camouflage when in the eager sights of a predator. However, this mouse wouldn't be so fortunate in its attempts to flee the stalker.
The cat licked its lips, preparing himself for another victory, before leaping out of his hiding area, claws at the ready.
The sniveling, vastly ugly creature hunched before him, oozing an acidic mucus from its jowls, growled in indignation at having been found out by a meager child, and swiped a bloodied, clawed paw at its foe, only to be evaded by supreme reflexes. It howled at a blow to the jugular, where the same vile green fluid spurted from the wound, and gave another defensive swipe, this time wart-strewn burned flesh coming in contact with soft cotton and a firm stomach.
A loud grunt emanated from its enemy, dust falling upon them both, thwarted villain and battle champion, but before it could relish in its quick victory, a burning sensation erupted into its blurred, semi-intelligent mind, starting at one side of its throat and nearing the other.
That was the last thought it had before it fell toward the trash covered concrete of the alleyway, the creases between slabs filling with the putrid essence of demonic life blood. The true hero of the situation wiped off his Sais on the monster's scaled back before stepping away from the scene, the sound of exploding ash in it's messed wake. The mission was complete.
The long haired victor took a casual stroll back to headquarters, all the while focused on a disturbing piece of news that had been passed around for the past three days. A downworlder was seeking refuge in common bases all around Europe and the Americas, and had been denied access, thank the Angel. It was pondered over, though: why would a downworlder knowingly attempt to bend the accord they had been following for centuries in order to stay the night? What was its purpose? Was it running from something, or someone, or on the chase after something, or someone?
And the question that sent Xander Whitelaw's mind burning with irritation: would it attempt to come here, even after being refused so many times?
He certainly prayed for not.
This was the pattern he was lost in when he stepped through the monastery doors into the Institute. Taking off his jacket, it was revealed by torchlight his bare arms, a black wife beater thrown over his chest and stomach, and bloodied flesh riddled with debris from his connection with the brick on this last quest. He was hardly even aware of the infirmary specialist, one of many, leading him down the hall until he felt the invasive sensation of medical tweezers working their way through his wound in search of shrapnel.
"Ashton!" He barked in pained agitation, receiving an alarmed yipe and a jerking burn that caused his tear ducts to swell just a bit with retained water.
"What?"
"What are you doing?"
"Cleaning your wound."
"Why?"
"Because it's dirty."
He grunted. At least if it was clean it wouldn't get infected during healing. "...just be more careful."
"Yes, Xander."
The rest of the procedure was silent, until the rune was administered with his stele; a rune that would speed up the healing process in order to get him back out on the battle field as soon as possible, when the time was right.
"Ashton?"
"Yes, Xander?"
"Has there been news of the traveling downworlder?"
"Last I heard he was in L.A."
He could be anywhere nearby then, he thought to himself grudgingly. I'll have to speak with Temperance about this...
"Is Tem-"
"No, she's not."
He frowned. He would have thought, surely, she would have returned by now. She had been gone for quite some time. Well, it would be left in their hands now, whether they liked it or not. At least it would make rejection easier, if the downworlder ever did come to their doorstep.
Standing, he sighed and sauntered down the hall, jacket thrown over an arm.
"Xander, where are you going?"
"To shower. You can take care of yourself, right? Or do you need a babysitter?"
The silence of the infirmary specialist, and his childhood best friend, was blissful and rare, that caused a smile to grow on his face, lighting his soft, feminine features.
Entering his bedroom, the scene decorated the same as any other room in the residential wing of the Institute, he stripped of his second skin of leather and cotton-polyester combination and started the stream of hot water, steam quickly filling the small confines of the bathroom and fogging the large mirror he had been staring into for the better part of a minute.
Turning back the crimson curtain, he stepped into the warmth, and sighed as he felt each and every tense muscle relax under the pounding beads of liquid. This was the one thing he could look forward to- the serenity and relaxation of a cleansing, where nothing and no one could disturb him.
--
The winds were frigid, the land a desolate location of skyscrapers and night clubs. Bundled in a tight jacket to protect his susceptible body from the chill of a Manhattan winter's night, he scoured the deserted streets in search of his mouse. You see, there is a window of opportunity in the late moon and early sun of New York's ticking hours that displays the streets clean of mortal interference. An opportunity that is best served hot when it comes to a hunt.
A shifting of inhuman legs against asphalt brought the cat from his reverie of his surroundings and back to the task at hand. The scent of sulfur and brimstone filled the air, a trail very much familiar, and the cat stooped to a stalking position, creeping toward the public waste dump. It was a common strategy of a mouse, to seek camouflage when in the eager sights of a predator. However, this mouse wouldn't be so fortunate in its attempts to flee the stalker.
The cat licked its lips, preparing himself for another victory, before leaping out of his hiding area, claws at the ready.
The sniveling, vastly ugly creature hunched before him, oozing an acidic mucus from its jowls, growled in indignation at having been found out by a meager child, and swiped a bloodied, clawed paw at its foe, only to be evaded by supreme reflexes. It howled at a blow to the jugular, where the same vile green fluid spurted from the wound, and gave another defensive swipe, this time wart-strewn burned flesh coming in contact with soft cotton and a firm stomach.
A loud grunt emanated from its enemy, dust falling upon them both, thwarted villain and battle champion, but before it could relish in its quick victory, a burning sensation erupted into its blurred, semi-intelligent mind, starting at one side of its throat and nearing the other.
That was the last thought it had before it fell toward the trash covered concrete of the alleyway, the creases between slabs filling with the putrid essence of demonic life blood. The true hero of the situation wiped off his Sais on the monster's scaled back before stepping away from the scene, the sound of exploding ash in it's messed wake. The mission was complete.
The long haired victor took a casual stroll back to headquarters, all the while focused on a disturbing piece of news that had been passed around for the past three days. A downworlder was seeking refuge in common bases all around Europe and the Americas, and had been denied access, thank the Angel. It was pondered over, though: why would a downworlder knowingly attempt to bend the accord they had been following for centuries in order to stay the night? What was its purpose? Was it running from something, or someone, or on the chase after something, or someone?
And the question that sent Xander Whitelaw's mind burning with irritation: would it attempt to come here, even after being refused so many times?
He certainly prayed for not.
This was the pattern he was lost in when he stepped through the monastery doors into the Institute. Taking off his jacket, it was revealed by torchlight his bare arms, a black wife beater thrown over his chest and stomach, and bloodied flesh riddled with debris from his connection with the brick on this last quest. He was hardly even aware of the infirmary specialist, one of many, leading him down the hall until he felt the invasive sensation of medical tweezers working their way through his wound in search of shrapnel.
"Ashton!" He barked in pained agitation, receiving an alarmed yipe and a jerking burn that caused his tear ducts to swell just a bit with retained water.
"What?"
"What are you doing?"
"Cleaning your wound."
"Why?"
"Because it's dirty."
He grunted. At least if it was clean it wouldn't get infected during healing. "...just be more careful."
"Yes, Xander."
The rest of the procedure was silent, until the rune was administered with his stele; a rune that would speed up the healing process in order to get him back out on the battle field as soon as possible, when the time was right.
"Ashton?"
"Yes, Xander?"
"Has there been news of the traveling downworlder?"
"Last I heard he was in L.A."
He could be anywhere nearby then, he thought to himself grudgingly. I'll have to speak with Temperance about this...
"Is Tem-"
"No, she's not."
He frowned. He would have thought, surely, she would have returned by now. She had been gone for quite some time. Well, it would be left in their hands now, whether they liked it or not. At least it would make rejection easier, if the downworlder ever did come to their doorstep.
Standing, he sighed and sauntered down the hall, jacket thrown over an arm.
"Xander, where are you going?"
"To shower. You can take care of yourself, right? Or do you need a babysitter?"
The silence of the infirmary specialist, and his childhood best friend, was blissful and rare, that caused a smile to grow on his face, lighting his soft, feminine features.
Entering his bedroom, the scene decorated the same as any other room in the residential wing of the Institute, he stripped of his second skin of leather and cotton-polyester combination and started the stream of hot water, steam quickly filling the small confines of the bathroom and fogging the large mirror he had been staring into for the better part of a minute.
Turning back the crimson curtain, he stepped into the warmth, and sighed as he felt each and every tense muscle relax under the pounding beads of liquid. This was the one thing he could look forward to- the serenity and relaxation of a cleansing, where nothing and no one could disturb him.
