Fantasy ••• ℬяιтαηηιcα ℒσsт ••• | [O/A]

[legalrehab]

S E I K O 島崎清子

alias: Kirin

health bar

WHERE: Residential District Streets
WITH: Nascha, Jonah
DOING: Combat
CREDIT: Inesanemona
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

Pleas for mercy and the sound bones crunching beneath his hooves surged through his ears. Blood-curdling screams only further ignited his Savage nature. Stomping, again and again as his cloven limbs tore through the roof of the vehicle. Glass of the truck's windshield splintered into glistening broken icicles, tinting itself a brilliant red in the gore of the vehicle's contents. The engine ran hot, still trying to combust despite the smashed artillery. How long had it been since he had last seen such bloodshed? How many men did he have to kill to become so numb to delivering death? Even looking directly into the eyes of the Templar passengers brought no mercy as he relentless caved in their skeletons.

Numb, that was the word. Fitting for a creature of the ice to fail to feel anything at all after the passage of time refused to take him.

Mercilessly he pummeled the passengers to a pulp. When another truck of templars didn't heed his warning, he brought them the same fate. Roaring in an eerie high-pitched call, the beast beckoned to any onlookers to challenge him. Know my pain, he cooed. It was feral and savage, yes, with no intentions of stopping now. His eyesight became an insatiable red and he heaved in sadistic satisfaction. Take your last breath, he commanded with a final thud to the truck's contents. The screams and pleas came to a halt. He looked up to his surroundings, having made quite the show. Countless bayonets were pointed for his head, with no time to count the amount of men ignorant to their own fate. He'd kill them as well, in a world where he struggled to feel anything at all it was riveting to finally feel something, even if it came at the cost of another life, he'd pay the toll a thousand times over. Antlers bucked forward, heaving a heavy breath and giving one last roar of warning. Surrender now with honor, he cried as the screech of the Kirin froze their blood to an icy halt.

They didn't yield, they never did. Even seeing their comrades blasted to an unrecognizable pile of viscera was not enough to deter them. If they wanted a fight he would make sure it was the last one they ever had. Templar faith was unshakeable, their piety kept them strong enough to look death in the eyes without fear. It was almost admirable, and in another time he may have even found them courageous... yet there was nothing admirable about handing over your life to an opponent you know you could not defeat. Fools; courageous, stupid and pitiable fools. Seiko flared up, ready to take their lives they were so eager to hand over.

As they called to open fire on the beast he was interrupted not by their gunfire but the howling of another beast, the thrashing and gnarling roar of a feline. Eyes belonging to the man who ordered the open fire were now rolling back into his skull as the mountain lion leapt upon him. The fibers of the man's neck were ripped from their core in one fell tug of the lion's teeth, splattering gore upon his comrade's feet.

They would have no chance to deliver a coup de grace, as he weaved an attack in-between her appearance to seize the opportunity. Antlers charged like spears with aggression to those surrounding the lion, clearing space immediately. He was quick on his feet, drifting his hooves along the slick pavement and charging once more. His gigantic form knocked the bodies of his assailants like ragdolls across the street. Those not caught in his wake were stomped upon, making sure he crippled them at the legs. If they lived then they would be sent back to the templar's as nothing but scrap metal.

He used the small opportunity to try his best to communicate to the fellow beast. There was little time to talk, but he had to get to her somehow. You - do I know you? he communicated, pushing his thoughts into her mind. They seemed to go right through her, and he tried once more, standing in front of her directly. Can you hear me? Can you hear my thoughts?

No response as the lion snapped back at him, yowling in defense and uncharacteristically charged towards him. He reared in a short-lived confusion, as when he repelled away from her he felt the air of a penetrating bullet fly mere hairs away from his face. The sound of the gunshot came from his east, and he forwent his confusion. This beast, whomever she was - she could not hear him, but was here to lend aid. Her lunge toward him had prevented the killshot from ending him here and now.

Almost instinctively, he started to thank her before remembering that wouldn't work. He cooed in semblance, unable to speak as elder beasts could yet they were still both beasts. Time to think less like humans and more as the moon-called creatures of the night they were. She waived her tail toward the docks, towards Jack's location - taking it as a defensive signal. Given the enemy's rapid adjustments, the fellow beast ally was welcome. If they had switched to penetrative ammo it meant they were already adapting and he was not willing to underestimate them so soon.

Respectively, he made a short grunt to let her know he had the bulk of the area covered but motioned toward a cowardly foot soldier retreating from his comrades and towards Jack's location. Stragglers were too much of a distraction for him to chase down in this form, and would delegate this to the quicker beast. Anyone running in fear was not like to put up much of a fight anyhow. Hooves clacked upon the wet ground as he readied himself to continue the fight, acknowledging his order was given as the tan-colored lion leapt away from his side and to her prey.

Focusing his sight under constant fire on the specific gunmen was impossible. Gunshots and batteries made the streets a calcophony of exploding sounds already, further disrupting him from finding the target. The small bullets he could ignore but he needed to find the source of these deadly fires immediately. Thankfully this being the same route he walked every night on his way home gave him enough of a home field advantage to hear through the deafening rain. If he could not stay in one place he continued to leap across the street, making himself a moving target and keeping his head guarded by his antlers in the direction of the shot.

BOOM! Another shot came for his head, again narrowly missing him. It may have missed his head but the gunfire still shattered hid concentration. If he could only see where the shot was coming from it would make it that much easier. If he hesitated, he lost. Coming all this way, just to be sniped down by a faceless enemy, he could not imagine a worse fate.

He could dodge the bullets so far and assumed he could dodge them again. Speaking too soon as the next shot missed his face but sunk deep into his shoulder. Yelping in pain, it burned like hell. He roared in agony only to be attacked once more, this time not by the mystery gunman but by the allied Lion. Hurling herself into his frame, she caused the next bullet to miss Seiko but it nicked her back leg. This mountain lion could see better than he could, and he took her advice as he looked in the direction she snarled.

Rain and smoke cleared as his eyes fixated on the source of the gunfire. It was him, Father to all Templars : Jonah Lancaster.

There was something eerie about meeting someone you only read about, as if your mind struggled to put into cognition that the name you saw on paper actually belonged to someone living and breathing the same air as you. He turned to face him, unable to believe his presence. Standing confidently with the same gusto that Seiko had to take on his enemies alone. A small part of him regretted not meeting him in human form, to match him - but only a little bit. One of the most influential members of the Templar Order, was challenging him? There was no time to hesitate, as while he knew who Jonah was - there was no reason that Jonah would hesitate to knowing who Seiko was.

Each shot was fired in excellent accuracy, the closer he got to the man the more assured it was that death would follow. He needed to get close... but how? The sizeable difference between them and the sheer size of his beastial form were now working against his favor. Simply charging toward him was a death wish, practically asking for a bullet between the eyes.

Taking cover, he concentrated on his wounds. He let out a low hum as he visualized each area he had taken damage. There were... so many wounds, he could not begin to count the amount of small bullets he had taken. While they were naught but small pricks at the time he received them they added up after the hundreth one or so. Kirin were a beast of legend, one who defended their liege to the bitter end and the legend would not end here.

As he hummed the blood in his veins turned black, coagulating with each nerve he shut off. This was one of the Kirin's blessings, using his affinity for the cold he froze each nerve that had been attacked in icy ichor. His limbs became dark as he sealed up the wounds, and his eyes became obsidian orbs akin to the night sky, dilated from the chilled nerves. It was a vulgar and seductive transformation to watch, but also beautiful. His wounds were no less fatal, in fact he still bled blackened blood from his injuries. Yet in this moment he was numb to any previous pain.

Looking to his right he saw the mountain lion also taking cover. They suffered the same dilemma, unable to close the distance between them and their mutual enemy. He nodded to the lion, if they couldn't attack him then they would expend his ammunition until they could get close. It was odd, he had never met this lion nor worked beside one in his life. Though fighting together like this, it seemed almost nostalgic. Perhaps they met in a previous life, or they were destined to meet in this one.

Whomever the woman was beneath the lion-skin was, he owed her his life and would be sure to thank her properly when this was all over.

 

[leviathan.]

theo fairchild.

canary

health bar

WHERE: Dockside
WITH: A phantom >>> Chaos
DOING: Something stupid
CREDIT: c-home on ArtStation
PLAYLIST:

“So what do you say to a dance with chance?"

What does he say? Well, Theo’s certainly had some choice words at the ready, but he bit them back, intrigued despite himself. Though, really—’Dance with chance'? Jesus H. Christ.

Especially by the glint of the coin the vampire was holding—from his keen eye, both the metal and the engravings looked authentic—the engravings even moreso, careworn and pockmarked.

Pirates, in general, Theo had found, weren’t prone to value much, but they did value reputation, and he knew a few fences along the coast that’d grab at the chance to get their hands on the coin, whether the fanger was lying or not—stories often hold more weight than the truth, especially out in the open sea.

Lowering the barrel of his flintlock with narrowed eyes, Theo's shoulders uncoiled a bit, not with the relief of tension but merely to facilitate a change of strategy—his forearm morphed back in one slick moment, the makeshift gun disassembling and seamlessly slotting back into the appendage it previously was. Instead, his canines extend (inspired by a quick conversation with a snake charmer off the coast of Ceylon) a little further, barely noticeable, both a de-escalation and a subtle threat.

Bite me, and I’ll bite back.

“I’ve never been a gambling man,” Theo lied, daring the other man to call him out on it, tilting his chin up. “But what the hell. It’s your coin on the line, fanger.”

“For starters, I gotta preface that I've no deep love for either side. I mean, one is looking to send my ass to hell on a silver platter, cut up ‘nd pretty with a bow on top, and the other side…”

He steepled his fingers, amused.

“The other side are consistently cheapskates, working me twice as hard for half the price. And badmouthing me to prospective clients, to boot. Seems like no one likes a traitor, even if he’s from the other side, eh?” He laughed ruefully, thinking of the earlier incident at The Admiral.

“Wrath or greed—which one’s the graver sin?”

He huffed, changing the subject.

“But, Mr. Golden Eyes, I suppose your wager isn’t about which side I like. It’s about who’s going to win. Which is, with all due respect, a stupid question.”

Theo met the vampire’s eyes with all the world-weariness he could muster.

“Who says anyone’s going to win?” He said, spreading his hands out.

For a moment, Theo is sixteen years old again and a first-year at St. Bart’s, more metal than flesh and strange in his skin, fists clenched and head down, face stinging from the sharp backhand he’d just received from Father Ambrose.

His eyes prickled with tears, but sixteen-year-old Theo was a prideful son of a bitch, so he’d managed to keep them at bay.

A strong hand, vascular with articulate joints, gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at his schoolmaster’s inscrutable, impossibly young yet jaded with the weight of the man’s natural severity.

Then came the voice of his teacher, lilting accent in sharp contrast to Theo’s Chalmette drawl that they couldn’t beat out of him no matter how they tried.

“Do you care to repeat what you just said, Theodore?”

This was a trap. Theo did it anyway.

“I said that it wasn’t an eventuality that the church would win--can win. Said it was an unknown quantity. As long as the sun stays down, we’ve already lost. We’re fighting a. Losing. Battle. The burden of victory is on us. It ain’t. Equal. Ground.” He wheezed through the grip, stubbornly drawing each word out, tortured and spiteful.

The pressure against his jaw was crushing.

Another backhand. Theo barely stifled a grunt.

“For all your professed genius, Mr. Fairchild, I’ve yet to see you use your brain.” Father Ambrose said, gentle, quietly violent.

“Are you so stupid to think that there are binary outcomes in war? How quaint, and dangerously naive.”

Theo breathed like a hunted deer caught by the throat, jagged, quick, and shallow, afraid the Father's nails would dig straight into his neck.

“If one side loses it does not mean that the other side wins. A logical fallacy a child could see through, Theodore. Occasionally, there are no losers. More often, there are no winners. A shame you haven’t read the writings of Plutarch--do you know what a Pyrrhic victory is, Theodore?”

Theo had stayed silent, sullen. Back then, he would've died rather than admit he didn’t know something.

Father Ambrose let go of his jaw, and Theo stumbled back, feeling the raw marks left on his face with a boiling resentment. Ignoring his pain, Theo’s mentor turned to the window filtering the light of the waning moon into the study, hands clasped behind his back, tone musing.

“The aim of the Templar Order, Theodore, has always been to cleanse the world of the abominations that roam it. Winning the war, while desirable, is ultimately irrelevant.”

“Dragging their carcasses back to hell where they belong, even at the cost of going to Paradise early, is what matters.

It is all that matters.”

Theo saw the back of his teacher’s head drop down, saw him making the sign of the cross as he muttered a verse from the Good Book under his breath like there wasn't anyone listening.

”Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more.”

And then the moment passed as quickly as it came, and Theo is Theo again, grown and weary and damn cold from the rain, in an empty market stall conversing with a mysterious vampire, a world away from the battle being fought on the docks nearby.

“You know, someone once told me that there are no winners in war.”

Theo gestured towards the sickening sounds of impacting bones and guttural snarls on the boardwalk, surveying the chaotic scene with an almost clinical attachment.

“And there’s definitely not going to be one here. Or maybe ever.”

Theo grinned bitterly.

“Have you ever heard of a little somethin’ called a Pyrrhic victory, Mr. Golden Eyes?"

Ne ego si iterum eodem modo uicero, sine ullo milite Epirum reuertar.

"Because it’s the only victory that either side’ll ever hope to get.”

He stopped talking then because something catches his eye as he's watching the melee, a flicker of clothes way below eye level, boots too small for any healthy adult--

There.

Kids, children, running underfoot amid combat, blood on their faces, and armed with daggers.

Christ on a stick.

His world stops working, and before he knew it, he’s taken a step towards the docks, though his brain kicks in to stop it before it’s too late.

By all rights, Theo should weather the fight out with the vamp—come home to his workshop safe and maybe newly rich and keep living in hiding, peaceful—but he couldn’t stop staring.

He had no illusions about what the Templars were capable of doing. What he was capable of doing, and was doing, up until his defection.

But this time, it was different. It was real.

It was kids. Younger than he was when—

Crowded barracks. A nose broken bloody and set again in the span of minutes. A seventeen-year-old Theo’s newly bruised fingers fumbling through loading and reloading a rifle while a sergeant looks on with contempt, seeing the glassy, dead eyes of his comrades (just a kid, they all were) when he was on the front, the half-flayed corpses left behind as they fell back—

And then Theo was moving again, this time with finality, with purpose, with weary resignation.

Because he couldn't live with himself if he didn't.

He threw a look over to the vampire over his shoulder and hooked his mouth up a little, a smile only in name, bronze canine glinting in the lowlight.

“Sorry, have to take my leave, Mr. Golden Eyes. Don’t forget about our bet next time I see ya.”

Really, there was no way to tell that the two men would ever cross paths again, but considering Theo's shit luck, it seemed more than likely.

With that, the former Templar sprinted into the fight, blades out and guns blazing, rain sluicing down his back as he weaved smoothly into the chaos.

 

[ashwynne]

Nascha

Black Sun

health | bar

WHERE: Residential District Streets
WITH: a Giant ➟ a Stag & a Silver Devil
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: @peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

The giant raised a hand that might have been intended to placate her, speaking in somber tones as though they were the unreasonable ones. "I - we - don't want to hurt anyone here. There's no need to shed blood, nor do we need anyone here to lose their life for the sake of a fight that could be prevented."
It made Nascha’s lip curl, indignant anger shooting up her spine in tandem with a desire to bite his digits off. How dare he act as though the Templars were not the aggressors here! How could he epouse a desire to avoid bloodshed, say that the fight was unnecessary, when the culmination of Templar inhumanity and violence stood just behind her with a gun in his trembling hand!
"Please, stand down and we can settle this before matters grow worse than they need to. I'd rather none of us have to see what may happen, for your sake just as much as ours."
They both knew that ‘standing down’ in this case would mean handing Jack over to them, and she would sooner die with bits of Templar between her teeth than relent.
“You stand down… or I’d hate to see what would happen,” she hissed, largely under her breath, muscles bunching and heat bubbling through her veins as she prepared to shift to her beast form… but her attack--futile though it may have been--was rendered unnecessary as the burly man from the other night at Maeve’s paced menacingly towards the giant instead.

In short order, it seemed the behemoth forgot all about her; turning to address this new adversary, mangling the planks of the dock to arm himself with makeshift weapons. So, he was dealt with. A mixed flood of relief and regret spiked through her, but Nascha was afforded no real time to consider this. Instead, she turned towards the smaller one with the sun in his chest… the second threat to her patient.
She was in time to see a willowy, feminine, form seemingly materialize out of thin air; a parcel flying from her hands to strike directly in the Templar’s face and explode in a puff of powder.

For a moment, Nascha forgot the battle entirely.

Her lips parted, eyes widening in delight, spectating the after-effects of this potent attack with a child-like wonder and keen curiosity as the Templar cursed and choked. The rain and wind--contemptible in this particular instance--prevented the scent from reaching her, so she could not glean any information on what it was… but images of poisons danced joyfully in her head. Assuming they all survived this night, Nascha made a quiet resolution to track down the woman and inquire about it. But for now they had more pressing matters to attend to.

While both the giant and the smaller Templar were presently occupied, the trio still remained hemmed in on the docks, and how long would their reprieve from enemies last? Not long, Nascha suspected… particularly as alarmed shouts and a heavy THUD sounded from further into the city. Reinforcements were coming to aid their enemies and they needed reinforcements of their own. Not up in the city but here, here where Jack was.
She worried her bottom lip, turning with anxious eyes to look at the brunet she had sworn to herself she would protect. The words she wanted to say would not quite come, but they were surely written on her face, for the look in Jack’s eyes told her everything she needed to know. He was strong, he would be alright, and she needed to go ensure that their allies were supported and able to come and provide aid to him. Besides… Maeve was still here as well, it would be alright.

Offering him a slow blink and a slight tip of her head, Nascha untied the trenchcoat from around her waist, pulling it off her shoulders and carefully folding it, tucking it partially beneath a nearby crate to retrieve later. Wholly naked--save for the healers pouch tied about her waist--she let the fire loose fully in her body; feeling molten heat snake into her veins once more, welcoming its spread with every pump of her heart as she turned towards where the sound of the collision had come from.
With a snarl, she rocked back on her heels and then forward onto the balls of her feet; muscles of her legs bunching as she used her forward momentum to propel herself into a jump, arcing through the air with her hands stretched out in front of her.
Midway through this aerial spring the shift came. Her body elongated, fur sprouting from every patch of exposed skin; a mountain lion landing on large, yet silent, paws against the slicked boards. She wasted no time, nails digging in for purchase; bits of planks splintering under this assault against them as she moved with fluid grace down towards the shore--angling for where the sound of the collision had come from.

Avoiding the current combatants was manageable enough, though as she raced onwards through the pelting rain her feet nearly stumbled at the sound of Templar forces converging behind her, closer to Jack. Part of her hesitated; should she turn back and rush to his aid if she could? But… no, one werebeast inexperienced in combat--like herself--was not what they needed. They needed whatever, whoever, had halted the Templar convoy in its tracks. And so her resolve firmed and she raced all the faster towards where the sound had come from.

The scene that came into view when she finally reached the place of battle was like something from a mythical fairytale; a massive white stag demolishing Templar vehicles with an ethereally beautiful violence.
Awestruck, she found herself frozen in place for a moment, watching the flash of black hooves as they were driven down mercilessly into the attackers soft bodies, the bone-white antlers that tore and shredded anyone who found themselves within the reach of his proud head.
Pristine white was now splattered with crimson, the tines ornamented in viscera. It was terribly beautiful. She might have lost herself in watching if not for the bellowing roar of rage and warning that he issued to those who still opposed him. This sound, in the way it shivered through even her bones, was enough to make Nascha blink back into awareness; gaze sweeping over the Templars who remained and landing on one that called for the rest to shoot.

The rage-filled shriek of a mountain lion was an uneasy sound in general, let alone when made by one who stood six feet at the shoulder; and the cry she unleashed now was enough to make them tremble and hesitate for the fraction of a second it took to leap onto the one who had given the order.
Her claws sank into flesh, keeping her anchored, while wicked sharp canines bit deep into the meat of the man’s throat, tearing it from him entirely. He fell, choking on his own blood, and Nascha sprang off of him, turning with gore dripping from her maw to survey the rest of those who remained. Fearsome amber eyes made golden in the flashes of lightning that occasionally lit the night.

Making use of her attack and the distraction, the white stag bowled over the others with his antlers before she could make her next move; tines piercing through them as a knife through butter. He skillfully maneuvered his body as well, throwing those fortunate enough to have missed his initial attack bodily across the street.
It bought them a little space, a little room, and the stag’s hooves clopped against the pavement as he turned to stand before her, mighty head facing hers, eyes meeting eyes. Nascha had no skill or ability with telepathy, having only managed to hear Jack’s quiet request in her mind--she suspected--because she knew and liked him. With this strange beast there was no chance, so she lashed her tail uncertainly as she debated how to communicate to him without speaking… and that was when she saw another Templar taking deadly aim towards him.
Alarmed, she yowled in warning and then sprang threateningly towards the stag--seeing no other way to shift him from a position of lethal injury: it worked. The stag reared and the bullet whizzed harmlessly past his head.
Her action was understood and rewarded by the soft coo he levelled towards her, Nascha offering a quiet purr of her own in acknowledgement. It seemed he understood that she could not speak with him telepathically, for he quickly slipped into a series of gestures and sounds which made it clear to her that she was to pick off the fleeing cowards. Fine with her. The sooner they tore these monsters to shreds, the sooner she could send the stag to help Jack.

Lean muscle bunched beneath her tawny hide as she dug her claws as deeply as she could into the pavement and sprang powerfully after the fleeing shape of the Templar the stag had indicated. There was no chance she was going to let any of them escape.
Her claws flashed, white and deadly, tearing deep into the coward’s belly as he screamed. She could have put him out of his misery, but the shape of another fleeing fool caught her attention instead and so she left him to die slowly while she sprang after this new victim.
From one to the other she went; hardly feeling the pass of blades against her skin or the blows they levelled with whatever they might have had in hand. Her claws and teeth tore and maimed indiscriminately with relentless fury. None of it was elegant, none of it was precise, and had she faced a more formidable foe she might well have ended her life prematurely: her blood mixing with the rain and those of the Templars she slew. But fortune, decisiveness, or perhaps the black spirits that slept within her blood staved off this fate.
Instead, her attacks met with success and she suffered only small wounds that mostly began to knit themselves up without needing any further intervention. How the stag fared, she did not know. But the sound of his hooves striking against the ground and the clatter of rifles and bones against his antlers provided proof enough that he lived, and so she kept only one ear swiveled in his direction… at least until she no longer had any immediate stragglers to contend with and turned to see a veritable arsenal being aimed towards him.

The pupils of her amber eyes constricted to slits for a moment in the sudden quiver of fear and anger that shot through her to bear witness to the innumerable bleeding points on his skin where bullets of various size and shape had met flesh. But that wasn’t the real threat right now, no, the true danger to him was in the form of penetrating bullets that had not yet hit him anywhere of critical importance. And if that fact were to--
Nascha froze, and then began to run at top speed towards the stag.
A gunman that the stag had clearly not yet seen was taking careful aim at him… and she did not think she would be fast enough to push the stag off of the course the bullet would take. BOOM. She could hardly breathe. But no! He did not fall, blood pooling from his shoulder instead. He bellowed in pain but she took this as a blessing. If he could cry for the agony he felt, then he still lived… and yet she knew she might still fail to make it before the second shot came with corrected aim.
One final deep, desperate, push and she vaulted through the air with all the force she could muster; slamming into his side and begging whatever forces might protect them to shield them both from death...
Both pleas came true… nearly.
BOOM.
Another resounding gunshot. The sound crackled through her skull and made her ears ring; but the bullet missed the white stag… and nearly missed her. White hot pain shot up from her back leg and Nascha snarled, knowing without needing to look that the bullet had nicked her. And even so, even with this amount of pain, the feline knew she was incredibly lucky.
Immediately upon having her four paws on the ground, she turned to snarl and hiss at the silver-haired man who stood in the rain with an aura of menace and death surrounding him. The stag followed her gaze, and in the stillness that followed, as he took in the imposing figure of this Templar, she had the uncomfortable feeling in her gut that this was no common footsoldier who would fall easily beneath hoof or claw.

Cursing inwardly, she sprang behind the nearest crushed transport for cover, struggling with deciding how best to proceed. She was no strategist, no battle-hardened warrior. She could hunt whitetail with deadly skill, poison those who irritated her, but this? This was nothing she had ever experienced before. Amber eyes hunted through the gloom for the stag, hoping for some sense of direction from him as the Templars continued to expend bullets on the space surrounding them.
If there was one thing in their benefit, it was the storm that raged around them--obscuring the vision of their enemies and throwing off their aim. In a hail of bullets it would only help so much, but it could well be the difference between life and death.
Abruptly, she found him… and immediately the fur along the back of her spine began to prickle. No longer was he painted in crimson blood, no, now he oozed something black and menacing… darkened into some fell creature of the night. If she had admired the white stag before, now she was drawn in wonder to this new iteration of her fellow beast. Comrade in this battle for survival. Perhaps they would die and fall here but curiously, in this moment, Nascha understood the kinship of battle and did not see it as such a terrible thing. If they made it out of this alive, she would have to see about actually speaking to him. If not? Well, it would have been a good fight alongside a beast worth admiring.
He caught her gaze and nodded his head… and she offered a small nod of her own in turn. Nothing else was indicated between them, but strangely it did not need to be.

The stag offered something approximating a growl, and somehow… Nascha knew exactly what he wanted. Her stomach churned with a brief quiver of anxiety, but nonetheless she turned her senses back to the ominous presence of the silver-haired Devil.
The din of shots was dying down. The number of bullets possessed by the Templars was finite--teeth, claws, hooves and antlers were not. Surely, the imposing man who seemed to be of a higher order than the others was nearly out of ammo as well. At least… now was their best chance; before there was a time for them to re-arm themselves or more reinforcements to arrive. All they had to do was avoid the few shots he had left and they could bridge the distance and tear him to shreds.
Puffing chuffing breaths to steady herself, Nascha gathered all the gumption and energy she possessed in her lithe frame and burst out from behind the safety of the mangled vehicle.
She made no snarl, no sound, keeping her body as low as possible: claws digging deep as she could into the ground to allow her to weave on almost every step. Her eyes were wild, her fur somewhat fluffed, but all of her focus was pinned on the silver haired man who aimed at them with impunity and a lack of true fear that was more frightening than anything else; the cougar taking pains to eviscerate any other footsoldiers who crossed her path as she worked to close the gap and draw their fire.

Shots rang around her… though whether they came from the silver Devil or not, she did not know. Some found their mark on her body, these ones penetrative bullets that she knew would leave scars. Most were a pain she could brush off, but one bit deep at the junction just above her hip and she could not quite restrain herself from crying out. The pain set off stars in her vision, but Nascha knew she could not stop. If she stopped, she died. So, adjusting to three legs she did her best to continue dodging and weaving, the thunder, lightning, and rain playing a mad accompaniment to their desperate struggle.
Another hit. Another cry of pain as this time it sank deep into her flank. But the booming sound of weapons and the acrid scent of gunsmoke was growing thinner. Lesser.
Now? She would wonder. Now? Not daring to lose focus by looking at the stag but wondering always, desperately, whether the hail of bullets would end and they could--
And then there it was; a moment of silence that felt more deafening than the hail of bullets before.

Off balance, Nascha staggered on her three legs to a wary stop. They were dead or out of ammo. A few pale Templar faces still stared at them aghast. Now. She thought to herself, at last flicking a glance towards the stag, wondering how he intended-- but he was already charging towards the silver Devil.
Alarmed, the feline followed after him, speeding up as fast as she was able. They were so close. And once this one was dealt with, surely the stag would come to Jack’s aid too!
Hope bloomed anew in her chest… and then the Templar raised his blunderbuss.

Alarm made her stumble. Her injured back leg buckled as she tried to catch her weight with it. Slamming hard into the pavement, Nascha lifted her head with ears pinned tight to her skull--horror visible even on her feline face.
Into the incoming shot, the stag flew without hesitation or anything resembling fear. Maybe she yowled to him in desperate--useless--warning. Maybe she remained a silent witness. Nascha would never be able to recall. But she did see it: the flash as the gun was shot point blank into the stag’s chest. The blistering impact of a recoil that tore the weapon asunder. The way the stag flew backwards; limned for a moment in lightning--magnificent and piercingly horrible to see--his form diminishing to that of a man as he slammed into the street.

Numb, expecting to find him dead, Nascha made herself rise on her three good legs and hobble as quick as she could towards the corpse she expected to find. But, as she neared, there was movement coming from him, signs of life, and with a lash of her tail and a snarl, she found the energy to spring forward and step protectively over his prone form instead. Ears flattened to her skull, lips pulled back in a terrifying expression of violence, she turned towards where the silver Devil had been standing. His weapon was now useless, she knew that with certainty, and for a moment Nascha considered finishing what the stag had started. But only for a moment.
That Templar was a different breed and she herself was injured. Her death would serve no one, and right now… her life might be able to help that of the stag who had fought with her.
Besides… it seemed their enemies had perhaps decided to leave them.

Beneath her, she felt the stag working to rise and she quickly stepped off of him, turning her assessing golden eyes over his frame. His wounds were many… the one point blank shot quite nearly deadly, but still he somehow found the strength to begin to rise and her admiration for him only grew. Something about ‘retreat’ was muttered and her gaze narrowed. As if she would do any such thing.

Taking in a breath, calling on the black voices inside herself to protect them both one more time, Nascha began to shift to her human form again. Fur retreated, limbs shortened, and within a few moments the rain was pelting over bare skin rather than through a layer of fur. Her hip burned as though it were coated in liquid fire, as did her flank, but more pressing to her was the man before her.
“Hold still,” she said--an order, not a request--gingerly lowering herself to her knees while trying not to jostle her wounds overmuch. Her healers pack was still hanging at her waist, and it was this that she now pulled over her head with only a slight wince and soft hiss between clenched teeth.
It had long been a habit of the feline to carry poultice mixtures with her… and today was one of those times when she was grateful to herself for that practice.
Not waiting for permission, she opened one such small tin and scooped out as much as she could manage onto her fingers, slathering it over the worst of his wounds with a slight sympathetic grimace. “It won’t help much, but it will help a little.”
For a moment she hesitated, amber eyes reluctantly lifting to find his green ones. “Jack Fletcher...” something of a plea lingered in her gaze, “He’s my patient, I left him on the docks to find more help, he needs someone to get him away from these monsters. With your strength--if you still have it--I think you’re his best chance right now. Please… I don’t know your name but… can you help him?”

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

health 🙢 70/100

WHERE: The docks
WITH: A spicy boy 🌶
DOING: (ง'̀-'́)ง
CREDIT: Charlie Bowater

Her aim was true.

Upon taking the warmly-fragranced parcel in hand and bringing out into the open, time was of the essence. During her approach she had decided in a heartbeat's span when she was to use it, and on whom, elsewise the elements might have dampened its efficacy as a weapon. The contents had been meant for humble, innocent, but no less respectable ventures the likes of morning teas and dusted designs atop desserts, but the true fate of these thirty-two and a half ounces of powdered cinnamon imported from Mexico was to flavor the taste of valor.

The fellow had turned at her bidding. Esther would have been contented by the moon, but instead she struck the stars. Taking the parcel squarely to the face, a yelp escaped him, and his tall frame was engulfed in plumes of sienna-brown. His hands flew reflexively up, and he roared something unintelligible—a tongue of eastern Europe?

Were the circumstances different, she might have felt more than a stirring of sympathy while he stood fighting for air and tears streamed through the cinnamon that coated both cheeks. It clung fast to him, and his desperate attempts to rub the stuff from his face only succeeded in rendering the powder into a spiteful slurry. In all honesty, she hadn't the faintest idea the spice could wreak this kind of havoc on one’s person, but that humble parcel of cinnamon had served its purpose and then some.

As he strove to recover himself, Esther stole a glance at the three at the boardwalk’s edges, the broom casually propped against her shoulder. She found Jack’s gaze and glimpsed the recognition in his face, her name forming on his lips. “I have this well in hand, sweetcheeks.” In the spur of the moment it seemed an altogether American thing to say. Her attention was drawn by a voice brimming with an authoritative confidence that carried over the slats, heralding the arrival of a pale-haired woman she recognized.

Was there a middle path to be found here? It was almost laughable that these folk should make a half-hearted attempt at treading one when they'd brought their best to bear, grasping weapons in one hand while making false-ringing plays at diplomacy with the other. Robes of pacifism were a poor fit when Cheapside's charnel smoke still clung to Gabriel. This lot could keep to their true natures; in that there was some integrity to be had, leastwise.

“His own man, not yours. The master of his own fate.” She saw nothing that belonged in their keeping, only a free and independent being. The words were spoken with clear certainty into the close, damp air, addressing any who held the base belief Jack Fletcher was theirs for the taking, but they were truly meant for his ears.

The firearm he leveled was trembling in his grasp, and as she beheld him, it seemed to her that the man standing there was not entirely Jack Fletcher any longer. Or perhaps he never was, in truth, but right then it became distinctly uncertain. The strength of the emotion welling within him was so great and all-consuming that something… something latent was drawn out with it, bleeding a dark stain into the air around his form. Bearing witness to it grieved her, and that pain crept into her gaze as she looked upon him; Esther knew well that this rage sprung from a place of anguish and unimaginable torment.

There was a shift in the atmosphere. She paid heed to it; the last seconds of calm were passing them by and she was conscious of their going.

The parcel had assured the shorn-headed soldier's attention more thoroughly than a thrown down gauntlet might have done. All semblance of restraint fled her opponent. His readiness was as palpable as the charge on the night air; blue eyes that stood out starkly in his features had been fixed upon her with murderous intent. Given leave to engage, he did not tarry. Unlike his comrades in arms this one wasted no amount of breath on negotiation.

“I’ve reckoned with a mess or three in my time,” she said, taking her makeshift weapon in hand. Her regalia might have been better suited to the tidying of a dusty attic, yet this was stated with a field general’s straight-backed surety. “Prepare to be swept.”

This broom would have to do in a bind. She longed for the balanced weight of her staff, but there had been no time to retrieve her equipment; it was far away, lying beneath a loose floorboard in her residence. In street clothes she had little more than knives, ingenuity, and a flighty sense of self-preservation to arm herself with.

Her eyes fell fleetingly to the weapon in his hands. What held the appearance of a sword at the base split into two tines, and between them coiled and crackled the power of a storm. The public once crowded to observe electrical feats with wonderment: macabre demonstrations where the limbs of expired creatures would stir as though roused again by a force that was here distilled for use in battle.

Esther's brow lifted by a hair's breadth. She looked just long enough to note the qualities of his weapon but no longer than that, brief as a beat. Her focus dropped farther, down to his feet, before sweeping upward and over the armor fitted to his form like another skin, a search tinged with fascination. If she had ever seen its like before, she had never done this close. All armor had weak points, where were his?

The vicious and otherworldly flicker of his weapon, mingling with the glow of the lamp in his breast that was almost painful for her eyes to behold, had deepened the shadows that pooled in every contour of his sharp features to an oil black. A predatory kind of bloodlust roiled from his being, wild as the restless waters below their feet and demanding satisfaction. His was the look of a man who was out for retribution. He came forward with his lip curled in a sneer over his teeth and not so much as a glimmer of trepidation, treading over the paper-and-twine remnants of the parcel.

Rain besieged the docks, sluicing down her temples, and she blinked moisture from her lashes. The heavier and broad-headed business end of the broom was tilted upward and poised to fend off an attack. On instinct her gloved hands tightened about the handle, and then consciously loosened again. She willed herself to remain limber. To allow herself seize up now could be her undoing.

One heel lifted with deliberation from the slat beneath and then angled, gliding backward. The other followed in turn. In answer to his advance she merely broadened the distance, slipping away with sinuous ease. She had moved purposefully just beyond the reach of his arm.

Ravenous malice was countered with unwavering defiance when Esther met his gaze. Even as she retreated, a silent challenge was issued in a stare that carried the piercing steadiness of a lance thrown, daring him to press onward, drawing him in and away—away from his quarry. Conscious of her disadvantage, Esther was on the defensive and scouring for weakness.

Her opponent was youthful, but knowingly possessed of skills buoying the confidence that put a spring in his stride. Her own in comparison had lost their edge from disuse. That was not to say she was a babe in the woods; her muscles were spun with memory, and she gave herself to the pull of that rote-tempered intuition. This shared shades with a skirmish of yesteryear where she was pressed to be resourceful, when her horns were still green and she was set upon by footpads on a well-traveled thoroughfare, though the differences were as clear to her as the similarities. This was a battle-hardened soldier she was up against.

Yet she had not bounded headlong into the fray with any hope or thought of gaining the upper hand; she had not even done so with a half-formed plan in mind. Foolhardy, without question; she would be the first to say so. But humble pie would be served this evening, and if past experience was anything to go by, she doubted this Order would be sitting down for a generous slice. It was fear—not for herself—that had hastened her onward into danger. If she could be of assistance, no matter how slight the degree, she cared little for all else.

And for the time being, there was one less threat to ruffle the midnight feathers of Maeve Donovan. Esther was bent on being a confoundingly annoying distraction for as long as she was able, and if luck smiled kindly, her efforts would lend to facilitating their escape. The weight of her focus pressed upon her opponent, yet the three presences at the boardwalk fringes were never far from her thoughts.

She hoped that any aspirations her opponent had carried here with him, be they of glory or captured quarry, had become second to a newfound need to settle a score. Esther had cast herself out as bait, and he was well on his way to taking a bite. When he advanced again, her response was not immediate. Unblinking and unbreathing, for the span of a wink she held herself with a disciplined stillness so true as to be called unnatural. As she laid in wait, time’s passage seemed to ebb.

Litanies of questions had been flitting in her mind throughout the encounter’s duration. She had wondered just how quick this fellow was, if he was unencumbered enough to turn on a dime, if this uncanny armor employed the use of steam to quicken his movements. She would not assume anything; that was a tricky path to tread. These were circumstances fraught with unknown variables. But she was well-versed in her own self, in the fleetness of her feet and in the feel of her knives in her grasp. That she did know, that she could trust.

His weapon cut upward. As it curved, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake that glimmered in the balmy rain-threaded air, she began to sidle backward a second time, feinting a retreat. Then abruptly she halted, standing her ground with knees bent. Leaning a touch forward, she moved to parry his downward strike and her body angled with the motion. Her hands had drifted down the handle of the makeshift weapon she had turned to an extension of her being, and inwardly she made ready to release it at a moment’s notice.

Esther could not say if wood long dead could carry the power of a storm the way a wire might, or if it neutralized it, or if rain rendered all things conductors; there was one way to find out, and suddenly she found herself gratified to be a person who was in the habit of donning gloves. Her opponent’s weapon came down. With the definition of lean muscle showing against soaked-through sleeves that clung fast to her arms, the end of the broom—featuring a stout length of wood flush with coarse bristles—went to meet it with a sudden display of force. It hadn't been done in kindness, but his mocking test of a first strike had helped Esther remember her old strength.

Her ears caught the sound, faint but telltale, when the broom made protest under the strain. The scarcest flicker of a glance availed her to what she had guessed. Thin fissures ventured down the handle’s length from the place where wood met steel, and while its sturdiness was commendable, it hadn’t been made for this in mind. The peddler in her knew it was not likely to hold against another blow of this caliber.

Little shone through her composure; her urgency had been cast down into a well within herself, yet she felt it still, bracing as a winter’s draft. She held her opponent’s gaze as he leered. As the deluge assailed them both, she saw him wince. The rain that ran free in runnels down his brow was adulterated. The spice harried him still, and its warm perfume was potent when one stood near to him. At this discovery, her head inclined by the slightest fraction. Shadowplay or tricks of the light could have been working their mischief when her eyes appeared to dance with emotion when she regarded him. The parry had been a risk, and risk had been rewarded. She had gleaned a thing or two.

When he advanced, Esther again relented her position. His weapon was descending in a strike that mirrored the first, but in answer, she did not respond in kind. Smooth and swift she slid away from the blow, circling around his form. The crackles and hisses of his weapon had come near enough that the hair at her nape seemed to stand on end, prickling with a whisper of a charge. The broom had flipped in her grasp in time with her evasion, hand over hand. The narrow end shot forward in a sharp jab directed at his temple, intended to incapacitate. Her opponent was blinking rapidly, straining to discern her with hampered vision.

Going suddenly limp, he relinquished all control of his limbs and fell like a marionette severed from its strings, dodging the blow. No sooner did he hit the dock beneath him that he swept out a leg, and her eyes lighted upon the movement, but not quickly enough to evade. Taken by surprise, she was making to dance a step out of range when the heel of his boot clipped her shin. The catch of Esther’s breath in her throat was audible through the downpour. In the periphery of her vision the rain-slick slats rushed up to meet her, and she turned the bristled end of the broom downward to break her fall.

 

[Luxura]

Bjorn Thorburn

Úlfhéðnar

health bar - 75%

WHERE: French Quarter - Docks
WITH: Goliath
DOING: Brawling
CREDIT: Aenaluck
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

​

His approach did not falter, even as the white-haired banshee Bjorn knew to be their leader spouted her useless, pathetic rhetoric. Instead, his hazel eyes never left his towering opponent; it was difficult not to when a prize this rare came before him not just in passing… but in a challenge.

He’d been waiting centuries for an opportunity like this. Hundreds of years of wars and conquests with his clan fed the bloodthirst in his beast-blood. But there was something deeper; a hunger that had never been sated. Becoming Alpha only made it stronger, and for far too long Bjorn had searched for it, thrown himself into pits of hell, fighting rings aplenty for the chance of it-- A true, real challenge. Known as one of the largest and strongest beasts in several lands, the brute had a difficult time finding it. The only one to have ever come close was the rare Egyptian scorpion-beast, Ozymandias-- a creature cursed in half-shift, and the most ancient among them… but his chance with the man had been lost to the Templars only a few years ago. Bjorn never knew what became of him, but he feared the worst.

Approaching as the behemoth Templar swung his makeshift weapon, the Alpha’s swift reflexes reacted in kind; a might hand catching the beam in his grip and snatching it away in one fluid motion. The sea-soaked wood easily malleable, squished and splintered in his mighty grip as he tossed it aside with a narrow-eyed scoff,

“Try again.”

The reaction he received was perfection. Wide-eyed, stunned. That was the expression Bjorn had been pitching for. And following it came the setting of the jaw, the furrowed brows, amber eyes narrowed in focus. Resigned to fight, testing his own mettle it seemed, the giant gave the Alpha his approval. A vow between fighters-- of a sort-- that this would be a true test of might. Perhaps, even, to the death, worthy of whatever God they wished to display their strengths and valour to.

Bjorn had just the time enough to grin rakishly before the expression was violently ripped from his countenance. Makeshift shield hurled towards his head, the Beast ducked low, an arm coming up to knock the slats away with the back of his forearm. But the maneuver blinded him from the followthrough of his opponent’s attack. He had left part of his center open, vulnerable to take the impact of the other’s boot.
Thrust back with a deep grunt, Bjorn allowed his weight to fall to the boards beneath his feet, using the kick’s momentum to roll himself back upright into a ready crouch,

“Better.”

Moving shapes in his peripherals, the shifting of auras against his own awareness. He could feel Kenna moving, pulling his attention needlessly, but in that same breath, he felt Jack moving too, towards her changing position. Good; the weak could protect the weaker.
All of this was the Mephisto’s curse. Were it his choice, he would have rather not had the girl involved with the walking corpse. He brought the enemy right to them, and now they were in the thick of it… Cheapside, all over again. He’d sooner give the rotter up to the white-haired Angel and send them on their way, were it not for Maeve’s tight connections to him… and Bjorn was not about to cut ties to the woman, though every valued sense of reason told him that he should. That with Jack she was a weaker leader. Nevertheless, the pull in his gut was often correct, and after eight hundred years on this blood-stained Earth, it would do well to follow what is tried and true.

He left no opportunity for recovery, the fight had begun around them. Bursting forward, Bjorn pushed off the balls of his feet and hurled his shoulder into the other’s solar plexus. The impact of bone into metal was a discomfort, to say the very least; but to feel the buckling of steel under the weight of his bone and muscle gave Bjorn the added push to his confidence that he needed. Growling proudly, he shoved his momentum deeper in.
Thick arms wrapped around his chest and hoisted him with surprising strength into the air. It was clear to the Alpha, now, that he wasn’t dealing with any plain giant… this man was augmented-- changed. He weighed in heavier than any other beast he’d met in some centuries and this… ‘Man’ had picked him up with no less effort than picking up an anvil. It wasn’t mortally possible, not without aid…
Snarling, he waited until the soles of his feet no longer touched the ground before wrapping his powerful legs around the mammoth waist of the Goliath that held him, and slammed his hands flat upon either side of the Templar’s head, pushing, squeezing… and with a valiant roar, he reared his head back and slammed his forehead down with force upon his.

There it was-- the beast awakening.

At an age such as his own, and having lived a feral life for thousands of seasons-- often in years of solitude-- the rumours of his decline into madness were not necessarily untrue. Bjorn was a man more attuned with his inner Beast than many of his own kind could contend with; such was the way of his people. But since returning to a civilized society, the last decade had brought his mortal mind back from the brink of madness… fending off the insanity for a little while longer. But the thrill of a fight, the scent of blood upon the air, a tenacious buzzing of adrenaline shared between two bodies who wished to brawl… The wolf in him was easily awakened-- And he was starving.

Stars flashed and burst behind his eyes, the dull crack of flesh breaking open and the crisp metallic spritz upon the air wetting his palette was all he needed to feel alive. In fact, he almost cackled in the elation of it-- if nothing else, he would parish feeling accomplished.

Hands, surprisingly larger than his own, gripped around his forearms and pried his vice-like grip apart enough for his opponent to return the favour with a wrecking headbutt of his own.
The impact pulled a deep grunt of discomfort from the Alpha, and he took that pain and swallowed it, fed it to the chomping maw beneath his skin, the snorting, howling monster in his ichor.
As his lips curled back in retaliation, heated hazel eyes opened up to meet his sneer. The hand that gripped around his throat, then, cinched tightly as the larger man plowed them forward. Bjorn knew not where, far too focused on finding a solution to the bind he found himself in. Were he to release he would be at a disadvantage, and potentially open for another blow… Were he to continue this hold upon the Giant, however, he’d run out of air.
The decision was made easy for him as the behemoth rammed his back against the thick metal exterior of a shipping container. Between the lack of airflow and the swirling disorientation, the Beast’s hold began to lose its powerhouse strength; legs loosening around his torso, hands moving then to try and pry open the Templar’s grip with a strangled roar, even as he was hauled and slammed back against an adjacent container once again. This time, his legs did release, and the mighty Alpha felt a pulse awaken in his heart; quicker, stronger, seething.

Blackening eyes flicked up to meet the mortal’s gaze, canines lengthening. His sinewed body twitching, an unnatural writhing just beneath the skin-- threatening to tear.

It was almost a purr; that which came as a threat from Bjorn’s mouth,

“Now you’ve done it.”

 

[Kittenbells407]

Elijah Kaylock.

alias: The Tinkerer

health bar

WHERE: The dock
WITH: No one
DOING: Looking for Esther and Cecile
CREDIT:
PLAYLIST:

Intrigued by the “battle” going on in their midst, the other boys began to congregate around the vampire and the beast child as they continued to pummel each other without remorse or hesitation. Their chatter and ooooos and ahs would have proven to be quite an effective distraction for most of the other kids, but not these two. They were so focused on their exchange that all other sounds around them faded away to nothingness. All that mattered was taking the other down.


The beast boy’s fist met the vampire boy’s face in grand spectacular fashion and blood ran down the youngster’s face as a result. The pain barely registered in the vampire’s mind as his own fist crashed into his opponent’s face with just as much force. Blood pooled down the other boy’s face as well, but neither of them were ready to throw in the towel even as alarms signifying an oncoming attack blared in the background. One hit after another after another rained down upon him from his opponent and he continued to bring on the pain in kind as the trainers around them called for a cease fire. Their words fell on deaf ears as the beast boy aimed a kick at the vampire’s ribs. Eli was prepared for the perfect counter and was ready to grab his opponent’s foot in preparation for a reversal move when he was quite suddenly and rudely pried away from his opponent when his own trainer attempted to restrain him from behind. “ENOUGH!” The poor fool bellowed. Yet...it wasn’t enough and it was never going to be enough until he bested Mathis once and for all!

Unfortunately, fate had very different ideas and as Eli glanced towards his opponent, he saw that the beast boy was being restrained as well. For a brief moment, their gazes met and the vampire glared back at his opponent and scowled. He too hated unfinished business and neither of them were anywhere close to giving up. “Go get cleaned up. There is work to be done elsewhere.” His trainer directed, finally releasing his hold on the vampire child. Big mistake. The second he was free, the vampire lunged forward hoping to catch Mathis off guard. The second he did so however, the trainer was on him like white on rice and yanked him backwards nearly sending them both tumbling backwards in the process. A hand to the back of his head was the next thing the youngster felt as he whipped around to glare at the trainer who dared to have the balls to do such a thing. “What did I say, dammit?! Go get cleaned up.” With that, he grabbed the boy roughly by his shoulder and escorted him to a separate bathroom from Mathis where he proceeded to close the door behind him after shoving him inside.

Annoyed, Eli gave the door a swift kick and sulked for several minutes while sitting cross legged on the floor. Blood dripped from his nose and ran down his cheeks onto the floor while he glared at the wall. Who did they think they were interrupting his fight like that? As a matter of fact, he didn’t want to fight to begin with now that he thought about it. They made him fight in the first place and then had the audacity to call it off? They certainly had nerve. Speaking of nerve, the door to the bathroom opened once more and his teddy bear was swiftly thrown inside where it hit the wall and plopped to the floor before the door was closed once more. Feeling sorry for the poor thing, he finally dragged himself up from the floor to retrieve it, scooping it up into his arms and eventually placing it on the counter. Reluctantly, he cleaned himself up and stalked off to his room, teddy bear in hand.

Once in his sorry excuse for a room, he retrieved a change of armored clothing and his toys/weapons all neatly gathered into a knapsack and changed his clothes. When everything was packed to his liking, he left the room and joined the other children in line as he was directed by the trainers that stood nearby to make sure that everyone was prepared and sent off to battle. Time to prove himself on the field of battle for the heathens he had allowed to kidnap him all those months ago….what a joke. Like he needed to prove himself. Rolling his eyes, he followed the kids outside where he once again caught sight of Mathis who sneered in response. The vampire returned the gesture with an eye roll and an inappropriate hand gesture before climbing into the bed of the truck with the other kids. Once the truck was full and everyone was prepared, the driver pulled out and headed for what he assumed would be a battlefield of some sort.

Once upon a time, young Elijah had been prone to bouts of motion sickness whenever his family had ushered him into a carriage. The way the horses galloped across the dirt roads of the city and how bumpy the ride was as a result was enough to cause his stomach to flip-flop about in protest. The truck ride was very similar to the horse-drawn carriages that he remembered...albeit far, far worse. Now, he had the additional discomfort of being packed into the bed of the truck with so many others all around him. The warmth from their bodies was vile and made it feel as though he was stifling somehow, but at least the days of having motion sickness were long behind him. Ever since becoming immortal, such things as motion sickness failed to bother him and it was a blessing especially in his current situation. The last thing he needed to be doing was hurling the contents of his stomach onto himself and the other children.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the trucks were stopped in their tracks by an out of control elk-like monstrosity. It came charging at them like an angered bull who had just seen the color red and they were all forced to abandon the trucks and engage the beast in combat….which was contrary to the mission they had been given: find the one known as the key….whatever that meant. He had gathered that it was referring to a person, but who? That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? Curious, the vampire was determined to figure out exactly who they meant so he could make note of it and present his findings to Cecile and Esther, his fellow vampires that he had not heard from or spoken to since his “abduction”. If he had had it his way, he would have sent them letters to assure them that he was all right. However, he feared for their safety should his messages get discovered and read through by their foes, so he refrained from writing anything...save for the small diary that he kept on his person at all times. Inside its pages, he had detailed his findings and experiences, all of which he intended to share with the girls as soon as he made it home to them.

Regardless, he had managed to go down a mental rabbithole, shook it off and attempted to focus on the battle ahead. The sooner they took down the pitiful creature, the sooner they would be able to move onto the bigger quarry….and it was then that he happened to catch a glimpse of Mathis as he retreated from the fight. ‘Where the hell does he think he is going?’ He asked himself as he too subtly slipped away from the group to give chase to his former foe. Was it foolish? Perhaps, but he simply could not help himself.

Curiosity killed the cat as the saying went. Through twisting and winding streets, Eli trailed the beast child. He took a page out of his foe’s book and also stuck to the shadows all the while so as to remain unseen. Down one street and then another and another they ran….and then suddenly, the other boy was gone, seemingly disappearing into thin air as far as the vampire was concerned. Glancing about, he gathered that they were on the docks. Immortals from every faction were fighting each other and the place was absolute mayhem to say the least. Concerned for the others, he began to search for Esther and Cecile. With any luck, they were not involved with the culsterfuck that was unfoliding all around him. Unfortunately though...the sinking feeling his gut told young Elijah otherwise and he groaned under his breath at the implications. Suppose they were killed somehow? Then he would truly be all alone. It was imperative that he find them and fast, so he set out onto the dock while doing his best to stick to the shadows.

Unfortunately for him, a rather large deer-like monstrosity had set its sights on him and charged, large axe poised for the kill. He was ready for it and chucked an exploding rubber ducky right in the creature’s face. It exploded on contact and the beast howled in pain, dropping the weapon so as to cradle his now bleeding face. It was exactly the opening Eli needed and with the grace of an adult assassin, bolted forward, leapt onto the creature’s back and slit its throat in one fluid motion with one of the daggers he kept on his person for just such an occasion. As the creature fell to the ground, he leapt off of its back and bolted so as to resume his search.

 

[CosmicDusk]

Jonah Lancaster

The Overseer

health | bar

WHERE: French Quarters
WITH: Templars, Immortals
DOING: Shooting, Improvising
CREDIT: Ástor Alexander
PLAYLIST: ♱

A sharp intake of breath, mixed with disappointment and anger. For a split second, the Overseer underestimated the beast's sense of its surrounding. How quick it was to dodge a headshot as he watched the bullet pierce its shoulder, bright claret dancing in the rain as it painted the streets. Judging by its continued movements, the stag did not see him, and instead continued its raid onto the Templars below him.

Without hesitation, Jonah raised his weapon again. The stag was rampant, hooves diving into foot soldiers and vehicles, knocking them over like dominoes. It was determined to rid of anything that stood in its path, enraged movement in sync with its great form. Normally he would bask in such ancient beasts, but how they defy nature was another story. Steady as he was, gloved appendages loosened their grip just a tad as he drew in a breath. One. He lowered the aim until he saw the end of his sight at his foreground. Two. The stag came down after another attack, its stance steady as it analyzed its surroundings. Three.

BOOM!

The revolver wasn't lowered immediately. Instead, Jonah remained as he was as he saw the mountain lion barge itself into the stag, tossing the both of them over. By the cries of the lion, it was evident his shot hit it instead of the stag. Honourable, he thought; however, it exposed his position to not just the lion, but to the stag. It took a moment for the smoke to clear, but the rain drew heavy on the streets as it clouded him in the dark. He wasn't entirely certain if the rain was distorting his sight; the stag appeared to be frozen in place, staring at Jonah as if he was some great beast and not the other way around. Did the beast know of Jonah? The Templars' hunt for the supernatural was not unknown, but to think they were wary of his name.

The thought made him chuckle.

Good.

He watched intently, anticipating their next movements. Now that his presence was known, he would not be surprised if their next attacks were towards him than the Templars that littered the grounds, on foot and on wheels. Steady breaths, Jonah loosened his grip, readjusting as he took a careful step forward. Bellows and cries around him drowned into the background, the low growls of the beasts and the sound of his own breathing were all he focused on.

BOOM!

Intermediate shots times through movement. The Overseer remained stationary, not disturbed by the chaos that surrounded him. He tracked the beasts' movement easily, teeth clenching in anticipation for their next movement, utilizing that opportunity to shoot another bullet. However, they scraped by each one, further irritating him.

The lion was more agile, adapting to the situation where his shots did not hit any vital points, despite it being his aim. Perhaps the lion was more than just another beast. It was clear it was saving the stag, even though it was much larger and thus slower to avoid Jonah's precise shots. He underestimated their initial intent. He grimaced, his free hand clutching onto the cane. Still, as long as his shots were getting to them, it was only a matter of time before they wore themselves out or bled out enough to grant Jonah the final shot.

If they would just remain stationary.

It was to be expected. Once they were aware of him, he could not escape the fact that both parties were aware that they were his targets, and they voluntarily faced him straightforwardly instead of hiding behind obstacles. He would commend such bravery, if they were his own men.

How disappointing.

He fired a few more times, each shot drawing them closer. Even though he knew they were trying to close the distance that was in Jonah's favour, he didn’t stop nor retreated. He was well aware that once they were within range of him, he would be done for. There was no stopping what a beast could do once they laid hands on their adversaries, evident in the damage they had done thus far. One more shot. Two more. They weaved around the obstacles and barriers that stood between him and them. Brothers and Sisters wailed and charged about, but their attacks did little to deter them. They wanted Jonah.

Let us see what you can do.

He paused his finger over the trigger. His aim was still forward, but instead of shooting, he utilized this moment to test himself. Years of non-stop training and lectures. Years of torture, of hatred, of lonesome. No one stood by his side until he made a name for himself, when the Archbishop revealed his true identity. He gained respect, but that didn't solve the little social circle he obtained. He would always be on his own to achieve the mission he was created for. Even with the team he was with now, it was no doubt they, too, would leave him.

Watching the beasts work together was like a stab to his back. Watching them run head-on towards him, was a test of his own faith.

How much did he believe he would accomplish what he was born, no, what he was created for.

And how quickly the world would crumble him.

The stag drew closer, the lion just behind with as much speed with an injured leg. His lip twitched at the sight. They reminded him… of him. However, they were of a different nature and they must be rid of. Clinging to the sole belief of all horrendous that was the supernatural, it concreted his position. He heard the cries of fellow Templars, urging him to move; but he wouldn't. He couldn't. This was a test.

It was God's Will.

The stag was mere inches, all too soon, and Jonah fired prematurely. The blast violently separated the two of them. It flung Jonah backwards as he counted his breaths, embracing the contacts behind him as he collided with one of the tanks. It racked against the ground, tumbling in rolls as it bounced as if it was black toy falling down the stairs. His limbs tightened against his will, the sounds of cries from Templars that were in close range of the explosion. When the silence reigned again, he shot his eyes open, rain drops in his line of vision as they poured over him.

It was God's Will, he repeated to himself as he tossed the metal door off of him. Pieces of the tank laid at his floor. He kicked and tossed them away from his being as if they were paper. He counted his breath.

One.

"How brave to charge at your opponent."

Gold light shimmered from underneath his coat as it was discarded with a plop. The metal limbs around his left arm was revealed, stopping to his elbow as another light glowed on his chest. Red illuminated the white tunic he wore, snug enough and now drenched enough to mold around the hard edges of metal that covered his chest like armor.

Two.

"But it was foolish of you to believe I was done."

He dropped his cane and threw off his gloves. Appendages were covered in iron and silver, cuffed at his wrists with gold lining as if they were gloves of their own. He flexed his fingers, closing and opening them into a fist as they began to extend.

Three.

"Now…" he took careful steps forward, finding the two beasts-now-human in front of him. He smiled. "You will face God's Will."

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

Maeve Donovan

Phoenix

health bar

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Mostly everyone
DOING: Playing "Holy War"
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: ♔

The soldier hadn’t the chance to respond. He was lost in a brown haze of dust and rain as someone came sliding past him moving between them. The scent of the spice hit her as quickly as he began coughing. She didn’t bother to hide the amused grin from her face, slipping between the tightness in her chest and subtle shudder in her grip on the karambit she lazily picked her nails with. A wry chuckle bubbled in her throat while he fought to catch his breath and Esther made herself known.

From the corner of her eye, her head turned to see the oncoming approach of a familiar face amongst the army surrounding them: the silver-haired General of the Templars, a grave woman whose presence was as formidable as any Beast she’d known. Given the chance, Maeve had no doubt a battle between Wilshire and Mercia Addison would have been one for the history books to recount in legendary proportions. They regarded one another briefly before the Gabriel spoke to all present immortals, though her words were addressed to the Mephisto behind her. Maeve’s jaw set and her hands fell to her hips as the war between the Holy Order and Immortal races were addressed.

“From where I’m standing, you brought the war with you.”

From behind her, the brunet in question moved around her, enraged and passionate. Her hair bristled on the back of her neck at the multiple tones in his voice. They were instantly recognizable. The shock brought her back to oceanside beaches and smokey tents, whiskey bottles and palm readings. Side-stepping him to move back in front, she stood her ground between the war general and victim of horrors none there could begin to fathom.

A nod was all it took. A silent understanding was shared and orders were made. Maeve pulled her second karambit from its holster as Cecile leaped into the starting fray, taking Wilshire for herself. Irked, the blonde rolled her eyes. Instead, her attentions were stolen from the mace of the Gabriel to the woman that materialized at her side. She made a silent demand with her crossbow, and the Ravenwoman scoffed, insulted. “Oh, I think not, dearie. I don’t know if you heard me, but I’m not one to go quietly.”

As her form tightened for battle, a whistle caught her ear, followed by a deep thunk into the wood behind her. Shifting her whole body, the blonde looked to see Jack’s sights set elsewhere, but the arrow shot at him had just missed its mark. Following the trajectory, her eyes met with what the Mephisto’s had settled on: Kenna and Beau. Surprise shot through her as Jack surged towards them in the pelting rain. The Queen took off behind him, following not far behind. However, her focus was stolen again by the silent Sister at their heels.

“I do believe this is a family matter, you’d best stay out of it!” Maeve hissed at her, the blades in her hand making an arc as she dug her heel into the slicked wooden boards to steady herself.

The crossbow was going to be a problem, she realized that immediately after her folly of attempting an attack. Loosed arrows immediately shot through the air towards the blonde’s hands, knocking one blade from her left, though the right managed to block the attack. Cussing, she couldn’t see it through the madness. Around them, battles had engaged in the steady downpour. Nothing short of a norm in the Ravenwoman’s life, to be sure.

The problem she had as she checked the ground from her peripheral was becoming clear as others fought on. Small bodies moving in tandem with larger forms, seeking to gain glory when it should have been the furthest thing from their underdeveloped minds. Maeve gawked at the inclusion of children in Templar uniform. Breath caught in her throat for a second as she realized many were hardly in adolescence. Her pupils contracted violently as she turned and glared the other woman down, hard. “Your lot will answer for the war crimes you’ve committed.”

Without any hesitation she moved in close to the sister, ducking to the side with such speed, she spun away. The sound of arrows loosed followed close behind her, creating a symphony of drum beats into the wood as they failed to hit their mark. Her arm lifted, and she brought her blade down and across the crossbow, her aim true for the cables by which it functioned, rendering the weapon useless. The cables she’d cut released vapor, masquerading them both. The young Sister wasn’t without her tricks. Space spread between them and a sword streaked through the air, separating the Werebeast Queen from the distraction from her intended target.

Stepping away, the ravenwoman moved back, following the scent of the Mephisto through the crowd, all but ignoring the Templar at her back. She hesitated, her head twitching to the side as a shrill note shrieked through her mind, causing the blonde to wince. Stopping short, her eyes followed the brunet holding the fallen teenager, then back again to her enemy’s shining blade. Her fingers stretched and tightened around the hilt of her dagger. Again, she cursed under her breath.

“These uppity religious types, I swear,” she muttered through a strained sigh. “Just think you’re the masters of the world in all your theological self-righteousness. Truly, it’s insulting to those of us who actually paid attention in Sunday school.” Maeve’s eyes narrowed as she looked to the Blood Sister, shifting slowly back in her direction, creating a barrier between her and Jack. “Matthew, chapter 7, verses one through three and verse twelve. I think you’ve all forgotten about those.”

Silence was her answer, yet behind an intense gaze, words were formulating a response. An advance was all she’d receive as means of retort. Of course... It would be her luck to get the silent treatment. Fair enough when for most of her life she’d been a big talker with an even bigger ego.

Phoenix shrugged. “Fuck it, so will I.”

Her approach was cautious, this young woman with steel in hand. The Irishwoman’s gaze never faltered in lingering on the blade and its unusual color. Its appearance had been heralded by the odd sound that had caused an uncomfortable ringing in her ears, and the blonde wondered if the two were connected. There was only one way to find out.

“Come, little one,” she cooed mockingly, a smile darkening her features while she flicked her wrist to shift the blade in her right hand. “Let us play ‘Holy War’.”

Maeve surged forward, and raising the knife in her hand over her head moved in a swift arc to parry the blade that swung at her. The ringing came again, and her suspicions were confirmed. Just as quickly as she’d moved her leg came up in a high kick to the Sister’s arms. The blow was mild, only an effort to knock the other off her balance and to make a necessary assessment. Her eyes shifted over the enemy before her, and emerald orbs shined with understanding.

“Automaton.”

There was no telling how much of the woman before her was still human. If a younger Maeve hated the ticking of the mechanical hearts of vampires (and, admittedly, still found them irksome), the older beast was insulted for the insinuation the Templar Order had leveled at her race as being “unnatural”. The hypocrisy was too much to bear! Here stood only the evidence of what horrors these mortals were capable of, yet she and her kin were more often than not purely flesh. Born and bred by others of their kindred, yet they were unnatural?

A scoff escaped between rubied stained lips, and a twisted grin pulled her features in thrilled delight as the Sister made her approach in a leap. Whatever the woman was made of, she was heavy, it slowed her movements. The Queen backed off, dodging effortlessly, but not without misjudging the angle at which the attack would come. Her face turned as the blade came for her, she seethed as the tip sliced across her left cheek.

Jumping back, Maeve lifted fingers to the cut and stared at the crimson on her fingertips as she withdrew them to judge the damage. As she stood to assess the situation, her skin began to close around the shallow gap in her skin, stitching slowly. In a moment, all that was left was the blood as evidence of the wound. “Oh, my dear,” she said with a playful glimmer in her eye as they raised to meet the stare beyond the visor, “You’ll have to do much better than that.”

 

[nighteyes]

Sister Aglaé

JEANNE D'ARC

health bar

WHERE: The docks
WITH: Maeve Donovan, Templar soldiers, and too many immortals
DOING: ᕙ(`▽´)ᕗ
CREDIT: Arthur Rackham

Rain ran warm as blood down her form, a figure swathed in silver armor and draped in an unadorned blue tabard. Her pace across the wet slats was unhurried, but undaunted. Behind the lowered visor of her helm Ségolène’s shadowed, luminous stare bore down upon the figures huddled at the boardwalk’s edges, the Order’s quarry and the women who flanked him. Her gaze picked over the three—was the smaller woman unclothed beneath her coat?—and she noted the weapons that two had at the ready.

But when she drew in nearer, the crossbow in her hands dipped down, pointing earthward, and then lifted again in a silent appeal for all arms to be laid down and cast aside. A skirmish was inevitable this night and it was unfurling all round; she had been given leave to engage yet she did not fling herself into the heat of combat, kindling hope yet for a favorable outcome. The gesture was brief, yet it was one final appeal had nevertheless been cast out, to do with it as they would. Her advance had not ebbed, and from then on the crossbow in her hands remained level and unwavering, a finger lightly rested upon the trigger.

The distinct lilt to her opponent's voice snatched up Ségolène’s attention, and her inkling was cemented by the command of the dark-haired woman who had arrived on the scene to engage Gabriel—Maeve. She knew that name. Maeve Donovan? The very same? Ancient but sound of mind, the woman had brushed shoulders with the likes of the late sovereign of beastkind; she had seen the old sun and endured the twilight too—and she couldn’t have survived on luck alone. How much history had passed before these eyes?

And had she ever heard mention that she was this tall? By her best guess she must rival the likes of Gabriel and Raphael. (She hadn't factored in the colossal wonder of the 84th, who was surely in a category all his own.) Her life experience had always been from a lower vantage point, and that had its benefits, but at the moment she was hard pressed to remember them. She felt particularly small with an agitated Irishwoman who could reach all the shelves bearing down upon her.

Engaging a legend was above her pay grade, but there was no recourse; her commander was tangled in combat with... oh, her dark-haired opponent surely had to be the sovereign of vampirekind, so she was well and truly occupied. She kept up the pursuit, steeling herself for the fight to come. Her focus was briefly scattered when a shape whistled by the fleeing group, an arrow loosed from a rooftop perch that embedded itself into the slats at their feet, missing its intended mark. That wasn’t one of mine, she thought, and resolved to stay attentive, giving herself a mental pinch.

Maeve Donovan had whirled to engage, a breathing obstacle armed with pointy objects that stood between herself and the Order’s quarry. He was fleeing, but barreling through her like a battering ram wasn’t an option. Here the blonde was making her stand; her weapons cleaved the air and Ségolène recoiled, backpedaling several steps. One hand had ventured to the shorter blade sheathed at her side, but the crossbow still rested in the other, level and steady. Her forefinger applied light pressure to the trigger and loosed two slender arrows. They seared pale as moonbeams through the falling rain, one after another and separated by half a blink, directed with purpose at the blades that were carving an arc.

The first arrow struck one of the blades from the woman's hand, and she swore aloud. With a flash of steel in her other hand the arrow's twin was parried, glinting as it was sent spiraling to the slats. Ségolène glimpsed an opening in that, slowly backing away as she tipped her crossbow lower, aiming it at the beast's thigh. If she could down this one bird, if only for a time, she would be free to take up the pursuit again and would not have to worry so greatly about pursuers at her heels—

Her thoughts were as lost as the arrow when her attention was drawn to the small figures that had entered the fray. Children from the transport, they were, and if she weren't bearing witness to it with her own eyes, she might not have believed that they had truly been sent to take part in this skirmish.

How hard had she worked to prove herself capable for battle? The blood, the sweat, the tears; she remembered every ounce shed to earn her place and now, here, there were young ones tasked with risking life and limb for the Order.

Her eyes swept over them, filled with bewilderment. She had not realized how much the sight distracted her until she heard Maeve Donovan's voice again; she was startled back into focus, and when she met the other woman's gaze, she was pinned by her stare. Then the other woman sprung and Ségolène loosed an arrow, too slow; it struck the wood where she once was standing. She had veered to the right, too swift to be tracked despite her best attempts, and a line of arrows followed in her wake.

In the next instant the woman's blade was flashing again, coming down upon the crossbow's body to disrupt its mechanisms. Ségolène's intake of breath was soft but discernible; she was being overwhelmed. The crossbow dropped from her hands, releasing plumes of steam in the descent. As she leapt back, the short sword flew from its sheath. The weapon arced through the vapor between them, an instinctual attempt to dissuade the woman from advancing again and give herself time; then this too was dropped from her grasp, and both hands went to the longsword at her side. It sang in with an uncanny note when unsheathed; the blue and undulating blade, poised between them, gleamed under the flash of lightning.

Ségolène strained her eyes to follow the outline of her opponent. She kept up the pursuit, cautiously maintaining a distance of several paces behind in the event that she lashed out without warning. In the distance she glimpsed the Order’s quarry, but between them, Maeve Donovan still remained as a formidable barrier. She watched as her fingers flexed and tightened about the hilt of her dagger, and Ségolène took a breath, readying herself.

But the attack hurled her way, to her surprise, was verbal in nature. Blinking, she became aware again of the rain upon her helm and the beginnings of sweat pricking at her temples, and the end of her sword dipped down slightly in her grasp, as if deflating.

By chance she was paired up with a silver-tongued talker. What would Bay have said of it? This woman was possibly as good an orator as Gabriel. She formed each word with such casual ease, with hardly a thought given. Ségolène marveled at that, but if she'd her druthers, she would have rather crossed blades with the quiet type. She shied from engaging in theological discourse over interpretations of scripture; she was known for this among her own comrades in arms, and it was especially true here and now on the field of battle across from an almost-stranger. She was, in actuality, very familiar with the Évangile selon Matthieu; not simply by virtue of the veiled path she tread, but because a handful of its verses had commandeered her thoughts with such frequency throughout her life they were as near to hand as her own name... or what her name had been before she was born anew.

This was the interim between passes when sassy-talk was batted back and forth, but in this circumstance, even while her mind paced, she found herself at a loss for what to do. Shrug? Make vaguely threatening gestures? The moment was not opportune for declaring a timeout so that she might reach for her pocket journal. This was an assault she had not been prepared to parry.

So, perfectly flummoxed, she resolved to stand unmoving while the other woman spoke. She assumed she must have looked a menace standing there in her armor with blade drawn, giving off an impression of aloofness and being entirely above engaging in banter, even while she knew the reality under the metal was different. She had waited purposefully until it was clear the other woman had finished speaking to advance, venturing warily forward with the blade angled between them, her eyes flitting up from her opponent’s weapon to her face.

Ségolène was forced into another retreat by the blow delivered across her arms. Backpedaling several paces, she quickly recovered, yet she struggled to center herself. She readjusted the hilt of the sword in her gauntlet-clad hands, drew in another deep breath, and then exhaled slow. The woman’s fixation on the blade, her tactfully aimed strikes; she was feeling to understand the shape of the threat Ségolène posed. True to form the animal in her opponent was poking, prodding, rooting out weakness; her nature showing easily through the cloak of skin’s scant concealment.

Prod back, she told herself; her heart was fluttering wildly beneath her breastplate. The words trembled with notes of familiar voices, echoes of those near and dear whose encouragement was easiest to recall now, married together and resonant. Show your teeth; stand your ground, girl, or you’re done. All she need do was hold her own until reinforcements arrived, it was all she need do, but that was a thing easier said than done.

The raven had a taste of the truth, but not the truth in full. Beneath the outer armor, a precise blending of alloys and steel that permitted swift movement, there were parts of her that were flesh no longer, but the raven did not know how much, nor that the plates that guarded what flesh remained were heavier than all the rest.

Ségolène leapt forward, and as she drew in nearer the gleam of her eyes was scarcely visible behind her lowered visor, luminous as a predator’s gaze. When her feet met the slats they made protest under the weight of her, and she whorled with an eddy's fluidity. Her blade swung in at a sharp angle, and her body’s momentum further powered the strike.

​

 

[legalrehab]

S E I K O 島崎清子

alias: Kirin

health bar

WHERE: Residential District Streets -> French Quarter Alleyways
WITH: Nascha, Jonah -> Jack, Elias
DOING: Combat
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

BOOM!

A hail of bullets slammed into him like a tidal wave of laceration. He attempted to ride the swell diving in shoulder first to shield the lion behind him. It felt as if a hundred rifles all fired off at once with each bullet tearing open his flesh in a never-ending torrent of pain. Seiko cried out in agony wondering if death truly could be so painful. As he did the guttural screams of the beast pitched from thunderous roars to the blood-curdling screams of man. He hit the cobblestone no longer a beast and now once again in human flesh, battered and torn.

"R...retr..." he tried to mumble through dazed motions. He wanted to finish the fight so desperately. With regret he knew there would be no victory in such a weakened form, and dispatching Jonah would have to wait. He hoped the lion - wherever she was - could hear him as he could hardly hear his own thoughts at all.

The world went black as he fell back from the blast. Seiko's line of vision narrowed and his limbs seared with mortal pain once more. His heart thumped into his ears, raging like a stampede until shortly hearing nothing at all.

✿✿✿

Tired eyes opened to vivid amber skies and clouds brushed with fuchsia. Waves gently pushed below and the creaking of wood danced within his ears. Taking a deep breath of warm summer air he turned over to see the visage of another man facing away from him and stirring oars through unfamiliar water below. Beams of light kissed Seiko's features as brought himself to his knees to survey his surroundings.

This was... a boat? A small boat, it seemed familiar just like one he and his emperor Hikaru would take on fishing trips. Seiko was an awful fisherman, truthfully - thankfully his companion was much worse so it made him feel a little better when he left with a disappointing net. Is that who he was with now? Confused with a hazy mind, he looked to the man facing away with little to give his identity.

Sunset painted the palette of the ocean in brilliant pink hues with flecks of gold shimmers. The light welcomed him to endlessly wade in it's brilliance. Though, the perfection of it all gave way to the idealization of everything. He had never seen Hikaru under the sunlight - the dream wasn't real and yet ... Seiko couldn't deny how his heart yearned for the fantasy to be true.

Desperately he searched for any excuse or lie he could find to make it a reality. He took all of it in silence, blissfully ignorant for as long as he could take it.

"Hey... Hikaru," Seiko muttered through heavy lids, looking straight at his form. It wasn't Hikaru, and the longer he looked into his visage the more he realized the reason he couldn't bring himself to look at his face was because he couldn't remember it. Even the name 'Hikaru' didn't sound right, had he forgotten his name as well?

"I wanted to keep you close to me. Even if it meant keeping you to myself."

It was hard to admit these words, even to an apparition. As he continued, the light of the golden sun dimmed at an unnaturally quick. It darkened not just the horizon, it darkened his vision entirely.

...

"I was afraid of myself...so I always kept a little distance between us..."

"...I still can't make friends easily..."

"I'm still... scared."

...

He wept silently to the void,

✿✿✿


The darkness gave way to new light and he was greeted by a familiar woman. She was bare to the elements, naked- and he couldn't know if this was reality or not but had no room to question it. She spoke in a tongue unfamiliar not to him or even to herself. As Seiko attempted to recline forward he was met by her hand forcibly pushing him back down and speaking in English,
"Hold still," she ordered while tearing away his shirt, easily done with what remained of his clothing in such tatters. There was a sound of something tin being opened, and what felt like fingers forcing themselves around his wounds. Seiko's body told him that this was pain, still in comparison to the terminus of agony he faced that day he could hardly bring himself to even react to it's sting. She spoke furthermore as she put away the poultice, "It won't help much, but it will help a little." He turned his head toward the wounds and beneath the thick mixture he saw his shoulder reflected the damage taken while under the protection of the Kirin-form, however not all of it. He was thankful as a beast he could take such heavy abrasions, though it was disturbing to see his own body in such disarray. The world was becoming real as before and with a deep breath he froze the bulk of his left arm from the fingertips up to the beginning of his shoulder.

"As long as I can stand, I will continue the fight." he grimaced while leveraging himself on nearby debris to bring himself to his feet. "We need to leave, are you-" he managed to mutter before she interrupted him with more pressing matters.

"Jack Fletcher... He's my patient, I left him on the docks to find more help, he needs someone to get him away from these monsters. With your strength -- if you still have it --- I think you're his best chance right now. Please... I don't know your name but... can you help him?" She pleaded through reluctant gaze.

He understood her plight, putting the safety of someone else in anothers hands isn't easy. The struggle with Jonah may have been over, nevertheless the battle still raged on and fate allowed him to continue the fight.

"Jack? I'm his..." he stopped himself before admitting he was his retainer for feeling ashamed of being so far away from him in a moment of need. He continued, "...I care about him very much as well. I'll see that he is safe, I promise." Looking to her solemn amber gaze for approval, Seiko meant to keep that pledge. Though any time for pleasantries was immediately interrupted by the sound of shrapnel shifting and the bulk of a tank's door projecting in their direction. Immediately evading in opposite directions, Seiko rolled onto his feet in the process. This Jonah, he was a mad man. The Patriarch continued the fight, rightfully so - having taken hardly a scratch during their altercation. Seiko couldn't deny how small he felt in his presence being battered, unequipped, and without the Kirin to protect him.

"How brave to charge at your opponent," Jonah's voice boomed through rain and wreckage as if descending from the heavens itself. The man looked unreal, showing the full decadence of Templar might. It was infuriating, to know given fair opportunity he could have tried to best him here and now. Jonah threw away his gloves and revealed the holy technology that outfitted his body,
"...But it was foolish of you to believe I was done." Jonah was right, Seiko was a fool, an ignorant and overconfident fool to think he could end the war right here and now so frankly. He peered precisely into Seiko's soul as he delivered, "Now you will face God's Will."

Seiko scoffed at that, Jonah Lancaster was a dead man. Though for now, he was a lucky man. This fight would be finished on another moon, of that he promised himself.

"I... deny you!" Seiko blared with resolve. Jonah wasn't going to be killed here, but he wasn't going to roll over and die himself either. The samurai looked over to indicate to the Lionness to retreat as well but she was already out of sight. Quickly he threw his blackened arm into the weight of Jonah's attack to reject his coup de grace. He took no pain from the attack and it was enough to buy him a foot out the door from the encounter - on the other hand he knew he was going to regret that later when he allowed blood to revert to that arm once more.
Once on his feet Seiko made a mad dash for the docks, weaving through debris and wreckage nimbly as he could. He was not the fastest, although as long as he was faster than Jonah Lancaster then that was all he needed to gain an edge.

He kicked himself for forgetting to thank the Lionness. The medicine woman seemed so familiar, he could recall her face though not from where. Seiko hoped she made it out of Jonah's wrath safely, and to properly thank her upon their next meeting. The pain of the blunderbuss still did it's best creep and crawl through his veins. As he continued to run he could feel the occasional rip of pain needling within his nerves. What sort of cruel fate was in store for him, he wondered? Why did he have that dream just now, in the middle of combat of all places? It wasn't making sense to reminisce on such an old ally - in fact he wasn't even sure his former emperor still lived. Perhaps it was the subconscious ignorance he foolishly played in not wanting to admit he was dead but being well-aware it was likely the case.

He shook his head and tied up his hair as he ran to allow focus. Now was not the damned time for dreaming. He became so enthralled on getting to Jack as fast as possible he almost didn't recognize him upon seeing him. Jack looked like hell, and he hadn't realized seeing him in such a state would cause such worry. Guilt immediately flooded his mind, if he had only been there sooner perhaps he could've protected him.

Seiko raised a blackened hand to clasp on Jack's shoulder to see he was with... a child? A young girl even, he couldn't place her exact age but she certainly was nowhere near adulthood. A battlefield wasn't for children, had Jack not dismissed her to leave he would have been compelled to bring her to shelter as well. Was this... normal? Seiko began training at only six years of age, and truthfully couldn't recall a single memory of conventional adolescence. It hurt him to see another young soul faced with the same familiar burden of having those years stolen away.

Through discontent breath he sighed and motioned for Jack to follow him, "We're going to get you somewhere safe. As long as I'm alive then you will be too, just do what I say," he commanded before immediately ransacking the nearby convoy for supplies. He surveyed an oblong teak crate that most certainly housed what he was looking for. Prying open the lid brought an immediate bitter pill. "Not what I asked for... but I'll ask forgiveness later." He warranted as part of him foresaw the outcome. There were quite a few blades here of standard military issue though not a single one among them katana. Aware of his own tall order, he hastily took what he could to arm himself with a simple long-sword, two black silk vests for stray bullets, and a tarp-like leather cloak for stealthy escape. The garments were clearly not his, however Seiko considered it recompense for not fulfilling his request accurately. With little time, he hastily removed his bloodied and tattered tunic to don a vest and secured one on Jack as well. As he did so he looked to Jack's unable to place a single emotion upon his features.

"We're going to get you somewhere safe, my liege." It was odd how naturally he called him a 'liege' in place of his own name. Perhaps it was seeing him in a war environment that triggered such a response to make him think he had been protecting him for decades. Seiko offered a hand as he noticed his confidant's fatigue. Jack put on such a brave face despite a deep resentment behind that stoic gaze. Seiko didn't want to make him move, however it was essential if they wanted to live. Carefully he looped Jack's left arm around his shoulder and shared the warmth and discretion of the leather cloak together. This kept Jack hidden as they made for a northern alleyway away from stray eyes. He grabbed Jack by the backside of his belt with his right hand to keep him upright as they slowly marched on. It felt terrible. He couldn't stop apologizing to Jack for almost anything he made him do, but it was all he could bring himself to say.

Thoughts flew about him, he knew he should say something to Jack - something to at least comfort him and let him know they were going to make it out alive. He knew it to be true, but not how to put it into words. What do you even say to someone during a time like the present? Did Jack even care to live? Seiko wished he knew and was thankful he had ended up as a soldier in this life as his dull bedside manner would make him a truly dreadful medic. He tried to ask about Jack's wounds or what his enemies looked like though it felt so forced and akin to monotonous small-talk. He dropped the pleasantries and continued their march through what seemed like an endless series of alleyways and courtyards, he recalled Maeve letting him know how easy it was to get lost in here with just a wrong turn. It became especially worse as you lingered farther from the French Quarter, though as long as they were getting away from the Templars then they were going to right way.

"I think we are safe now, can you walk?," Seiko asked to be polite but had already started letting go before Jack responded. They were getting nowhere fast with clumsy steps huddled under the cloak. Seiko shrugged the heavy material off of the two of them before loosely clasping it around his own shoulders. He assumed their worst had past and there would be plenty of time to recover once they got to safety. He let Jack know about Jonah Lancaster, telling him about how he had thought victory was within his grasp when he charged antler-first toward him. Though... he stopped there once he realized if he kept talking he'd have to admit his own retreat. To Seiko, it was a loss he just couldn't accept.

BOOM!

Gunfire?! Seiko panicked. The gunfire cleared his mind of the mundane in a flash. He assumed the Templars were long behind them now. Where could it be coming from?

BOOM!

BOOM! BOOM!

The blasting sound streamed through the narrow alleyway in the pitch of night. It continued like a deafening avalanche. Trying to discern where the gunshots originated from was hopeless. "We're surrounded!" he hearkened from behind a tense brow as bombardment exploded in every direction possible. It didn't make sense, were they just firing in the dark hoping to get lucky? The two men were naught but sitting ducks in such a narrow alleyway, surely a shot would have landed by now? He tried to assimilate the situation as he brandished the sword from it's sheath although his thoughts were still consistently interrupted by the barrage of gunfire.

"Stay calm, Jack. If they could see us then we would be dead right now. Hold steady and let us keep..." Seiko trailed off. The gunfire continued to occur, however there was no light. Specifically there was no light in the alleyways of pitch-black darkness. Even in rainfall as heavy as present there would be the faintest of sparks from flint sparking off another bullet. "This isn't right..." he pondered. Something foul was at play here yet he remained resilient and called out to Jack to continue their advance. "Watch our back, keep your hand on the trigger and keep moving." As long as they continued north through the French Quarter then they would eventually find their way to the Brass Canine. Aware of his own injuries, Seiko knew a few more haphazard bullet wounds wouldn't hurt, though it would take only one well-placed shot to end him here and now. He couldn't deny his own mortality, in fact it was being aware of his impermanence that kept him breathing throughout all these centuries.

Someone or something was out there, he could feel a set of eyes watching him in silence.

"Jack!" He cried out in a cold sweat as he heard his liege cry out in sudden pain. Seiko cursed himself for letting him fall in harm's way and immediately he pivoted blade first to cut down whatever or whoever it was. Straightaway he found it difficult to describe who he saw. The unknown assailant was a somewhat tall man, full of ghostly skin and moved like the shadows, springing from the darkness of the alleyway. Seiko knew not where he came from but charged forward at a flash of gunfire to see Jack successfully fending off the monstrosity.

BOOM!

He had heard gunfire so frequently that it almost no longer surprised him. It took a moment for him to realize the lethal potential of such a sound after being become numb to the danger. His eyes locked on to the target in that moment, not fearing any other dangers around them. There was no bullet though or cry of pain. It was Jack who fired the shot but Seiko questioned if he misfired. Regardless, it was no time to look to Jack for protection and Seiko made quick work of running to his defense.
"Behind me!" He shouted as he rushed between Jack and his aggressor. This coward had hid in the shadows waiting to strike all along, how despicable. He would have called him a fool for thinking it was going to be easy, attacking Jack and ending the conflict here right now. Yet he knew he had the same mindset only a bit ago when seeing Jonah. With silent precision he brought his own sword from the ground and across the air in a diagonal arc. It caused the shadow to leap back defensively, but he was surprised to hear the clang of steel against steel in retort. It wasn't often he came across someone still using a sword in the modern age. The speed and ferocity spoiled that the shadow was likely vampire, however just who was the mysterious attacker and what kind of skill did he house if any at all?

"Retreat now or I'll assume you want to die," he cautioned as he swung in a diagonal strike once more, and recurrently until sufficient space was made between him and Jack. "You've been warned" After every attack Seiko made it was followed by the monster trying to get past him without hardly making an effort to fight back. Despite looking into the eye's of death it was as if he cared not at all what he lost in the process of getting to Jack. Seiko could hardly bring himself to consider him a threat until the rat had managed to cut him, but only a little bit. His eyes widened as the vampire swordsman opened up a fresh slice upon his jaw, causing a meager trickle of red blood to fall down his chin. Seiko fumed in repulsion that he allowed such filth to defile his skin, he taunted in Japanese and unleashed a barrage of strikes.

"Come at me, rat," He heaved,
私を攻撃, 鼠

"I'll repel you with every ounce of my body."
全身で返事します


Disposing of the aforementioned shadow was proving difficult. He was quicker than Seiko, and danced around him like water. Seiko could not out maneuver the shadow, although his own experience allowed him to predict moves with ease. However, doing so while maintaining a stoic sword arm was taking a toll on his fortitude. Dodging his attacks, protecting Jack, and also protecting himself was too much while also trying to fight back. Whomever this unstable enemy was had such little regard for life (especially his own). Seiko veered his sword hand to a defensive stance knowing attacking right now was unwise. The punk would tire himself out soon enough, he just had to wait it out - but Jack didn't have to wait at all. Seiko bunted his sword into the ground, filling the narrow alley with the clang of metal against metal as a strike meant for Seiko's leg was met by steel. "Jack!" Seiko called out, "Don't hesitate - shoot him now!"

His call to action was given an abrupt end as the vampire brought his sword up from the ground and took a frenzied cleave towards Seiko's skull. He scoffed at the poor swordsmanship and tried to assess the unpredictable enemy once more. "You have a death wish or something?" Seiko tormented, he almost wanted to spare the monster as to not give him what he wanted.
It was all too much, Seiko had been ran ragged by Jonah's attack, and he couldn't just freeze up his entire body. "You want him that badly do you? Kill me first then-" Seiko taunted the enemy, as he did so he threw back the leather cloak, exposing his full upper body. His left arm was still blackened entirely to dull the pain of the blunderbuss shot earlier and the fresh wounds would be immediately obvious had it not been for the mural-like decorations of ancestral tattoos upon his body. "I'll even make it easy for you," he rallied through a determined gaze. If this pest was going to try to get to Jack, he would have to try a lot harder.

In a macabre dance, Seiko baited the enemy with an easy way out again and again. First by exposing his chest to watch the vampire dive at his heart, only for Seiko to move and counter. The vampire wanted him gone as quick as possible and they both knew it. He repeated the same maneuver, and the vampire missed further- though not entirely. "Tch-!" Seiko scowled in pain as fresh blood spilled from his shoulder - the same shoulder Jonah had attacked, painting the portrait of his torso in a splash of crimson. He was overwrought at himself for allowing a wound from a creature so far beneath him. "You animal... there's no saving you," he scoffed as he blackened the arm entirely. His left arm was now useless, meaning he'd have to continue the fight one-handed. Fortune was dealing a cruel hand, but that wasn't going to stop him.

"Jack- What are you waiting for?!" he commanded.

Without time to hear a response Seiko stilled beckoned to the foe with the back of his shoulders to feint an easy target. Like naive prey he fell for the bait and as he tried to seize the opening Seiko spat blood and pivoted to land his elbow into the jaw of the opponent. The shadow retaliated immediately in anger... just as predicted. Seiko lunged his own head to present the vital opening of his neck and repeatedly the enemy took the bait as he reeled back to bring a blade down to behead him. The beheading would be cut short as Seiko danced around him in a reversal and quickly jabbed the pommel of his sword into the other man's rib cage using the momentum against him. Unaware of how to process the pain, it sent the vampire into a shocked state as if the wind had been metaphorically knocked out of him.

BOOM!

A cackling shriek of convulsion filled the alleyway, even still he struggled to call it a human sound. It was a sign that Jack had sunk a bullet deep into the vampire's shoulder. Seiko turned around from his previous reversal to clamor in fury as he thrust the blade of his own sword towards the assailant's stomach. It was for naught, as the vampire avoided the lunge with hardly a nick to his hipbones. This man was insane and so far in his own desperation that he could focus on nothing but Jack. He did not allow the dodge to deter him, and with his free hand he jabbed his elbow into the other man's neck.

"You're open!" He taunted, further debilitating the frenzied man.

The encounter became an annoyance. Seiko had somewhere to be and wanted the charade to end now by splitting open the vampire's stomach. It would be so easy, like a hot knife through butter. Though killing this heathen was not the lesson to be learned today. Seiko could annihilate him, but what would Jack learn of it? Would he continue the careless apathy he associated with staying alive? His liege's hesitation to pull the trigger was proof in itself. He recalled the first night he met Jack; the man was so full of anger yet willing to throw his life away to the first person willing to take it. He recalled how he could hardly raise a fist to those ruffians that night. If Jack wouldn't learn to fight for himself now, then he would never would. There was no doubt about it, the fanged creep was going to die. Though it wouldn't be Seiko who dealt the finishing blow. It was Jack's turn to be a hero.

The vampire heaved such cumbersome breaths, and what stood before him was hardly human. Glowing eyes painted ocher in greed, the opponent could not be toyed with much longer. Seiko grit his teeth in regret questioning how had Jack not shot once more, what else did he need? He cried out anew and deflected the vampire's attack. With each parry of his blade, he could recognize that the shadow was being puttered by desire and pushing his own body beyond mortal limit. There was no time for games.

Seiko slipped behind the vampire holding a blade to his neck to present an easy target.

"Shoot him - now."

 

[Luxura]

Jack Fletcher

LAZARUS

health bar - 10%

WHERE: French Quarter
WITH: Seiko & Assailant
DOING: Attempting Escape
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:

​

Sunken, the wavering ticking of his clockwork heart floundered in the bottom of his belly as misty eyes stared at the mess he had made. Cursed, he thought, Everyone I touch…
The young boy lay still and broken within his elder sister’s arms, and it was all Jack could do not to break down then and there. How could he have lost himself like that? He’d had no control, no recollection of how-- spurred by rage and intent to kill. Beyond everything, the Mephisto was glad he hadn’t actually murdered the child… but the damages done to Beau, and Kenna, were not going to be repaired so easily.

The hand upon his shoulder squeezed and pulled once again, finally enough to drag the brunet’s eyes away for a single moment. There, Jack met the familiar and warm gaze of his Retainer, though he looked worse off than himself-- a blackened arm, blood upon his features, his clothes tattered. Dark brows knit together, and his crimson-painted lips parted to speak, but Seiko cut to the quick,

"We're going to get you somewhere safe,”

Hesitantly, Jack nodded in silent understanding, but quickly returned his attention to Kenna. Were he in a better position, Jack would have carried him; then Kenna wouldn’t have had to feel obligated to stay. With Seiko… perhaps he could, but… Jack sighed; the risks were too great. They would be safer in the dark, out of the line of sight.

Tight as his throat was, and thick was his tongue, Jack choked back a soft sob as he grimaced, “I’m sorry,” he uttered to his ward quietly, turning away as tears slipped freely from black lashes.

The pain he felt was measured throughout his body. In his jaw, it ached and stung; the wound malleable as his teeth scraped against the interior cut, his tongue wanting to prod it. The rest of his body trembled under the pain of the deeper incision in his stomach, abdominals quaking under the waves of intensity. Desperately, Jack continued to press a hand firmly over the wound to stop the flow of blood, and not encourage any organs to try to worm their way out (though if his heart managed to drop that far and onto the boardwalk, the brunet wouldn’t mind).
It was almost amusing that his body could react so thoroughly to physical pain, yet he could stare so numbly into nothingness; the only notable expression etched into his countenance being that of discomfort. Lost in the deep, dark depths of his own hollow depression, he barely noticed as Seiko slipped a silk vest over his head and shoulders, shrugging his way into it with a slow blink of his vacant eyes,

"We're going to get you somewhere safe, my liege."

Jack’s brow twitched, his eyes slowly flicking up to focus on the other man’s lips. What a curious choice of words. The battle waring around them had begun to slip its way back into his sense of hearing and had this not been a situation where time was of the essence, and escape dominating, Jack would have inquired, or perhaps scolded, his friend for it. However, now was not the appropriate time.

Taking the hand offered to him, he winced deeply with a scowl and yelp as Seiko helped to wrap his arm over the Retainer’s shoulder, steadying Jack flush against him as they made their move. Quiet apologies spilled from his friend’s lips, and to every one Jack assured him softly it was fine.

The first steps were cautious; stumbles more than secure footing as Jack tried to level the vertigo. Cold, the rain chilled him deep into his muscles and lingered into his bones, teeth chattering as his breath came ragged.
Conversation between them proved forced and difficult as they huddled together under the thick cloak, limping away quick and discrete from the battle. Seiko tried to ask him about his wounds, to which Jack could only growl through his teeth, “They are healing, but slow… I’m-ah! I’m weak… The boy… did this. I tried to protect her…” He couldn’t find the strength to mention that he had been the one to leave Beau in the unconscious state.

The blocks dragged on as they stumbled deeper into the Quarter and further from the battle. Yet, despite the ground they covered, the cries and clarion orchestra of steel were as deafening to the Mephisto as if he were in the thick of it.

"I think we are safe now, can you walk?"
As Seiko recoiled his assistance Jack nodded, though sighed in apology, “I’ll be slow,”

That didn’t seem to phase his companion as they continued. With the flat of his tongue, he tested the wound to find the gums healed over, but the skin still fragile and thin. Bitter copper was still thick on his palate. Looking down, Jack pulled his hand away from the other wound, his hand soaked and dripping in vermillion; the very sight making him feeling ill… or was that just the bloodloss?

Before he could question it further, the echo of gunfire rained around them in the darkness of the alleyways, explosive and all-encompassing. Eyes wide, his idle hand reached for the pistol at his hip, twitching fingers readying his weapon as his breath quickened. The patterns were sporadic, some from behind, and as their feet took them forward, there were more erupting as well.
Immortal eyes could see well in the darkness, but even this veil of storm and pitch were too unclear for Jack to clearly make out their foes. All the same, he could feel someone, a presence… Dark, almost scented upon his nose but masked by the rain. Moreso, it was that feeling of being watched that knotted tightly in his chest; those same leering and malignant eyes from before…

Jack kept moving, adrenaline masking the pain he felt as he raised his pistol wearily. Turning another corner, down another alley, the shots continued to ricochet off the buildings and thunder down the narrow laneways. Wincing more from the sound, Jack shivered, “Seiko?”

In the split-second of speech, Jack had allowed himself to become unfocused, and that would nearly cost him everything. The flash of dark movement was nearly outside of his peripheral vision, but instincts were swift to catch the change of air around him. With a yelp, Jack flung himself backward, stumbling just out of reach of the hands that made to snatch and ensnare. Frightened, he pulled back on the trigger, the violent shaking of his hand rendered a misfire,

“Seiko!?” Jack cried, fear making his voice tight.
“Behind me!” Came his Retainer’s reply, and no sooner did Seiko rush himself before Jack, creating space for the Writer to retreat.

Using the nearest of the two brick walls as a guide, Jack’s blood-slicked palm steadied him against its fortifications. Each step backwards came with quick, rattled breaths. Too close… That was too close. Closing his eyes for a beat, the world came rushing, crushing in around him. He couldn’t risk getting taken… Lord knows what they would do to him! God, he couldn’t go back to that place!

When his eyes reopened, they settled upon the form of the one who came to claim him. Even in the darkness and under the pattering of rain, Jack could hear a manufactured heartbeat that did not belong to him. Built of broad shoulders, tall and considerably more muscular than most vampires Jack had ever seen. The shadows seemed to retreat from the lightness of his hair, and there was none dark enough to cast a shroud over the piercing green of his venomous eyes… The eyes, Jack knew then, that had stalked him; haunted him.

It was Seiko’s cry to him that shook Jack from his leering, "Jack! Don't hesitate - shoot him now!"

Shaking his head, Jack grimaced. This was folly… To try and take a shot at the vampire now would be suicide for Seiko! He put that kind of faith in Jack’s ability to hit a moving target, let alone one with preternatural speed? Jack wasn’t a marksman by any stretch of the term, and the revolver barely functioned as it was!
For all the reasoning Jack could do as he continued to create small distances, a single point stood out among the rest: Seiko was willing to trust Jack enough to make the kill, regardless of the threat upon his life. Stricken by this, Jack’s grip around his weapon tightened, as did his jaw with no small amount of caution. To not try would be a disservice to his Retainer… and their friendship.

Watching the fight keenly in the darkness, listening to the breathing and sharp steel, Jack assessed Seiko’s patterns. There was a curious ability his companion had, moving faster than even his own eyes could truly make out… as if time were blurred... That would be his chance.
Waiting for the exact opportunity when Seiko would dodge and the blond would take the bait, Jack tilted his pistol to the side, lined up the shot…

"Jack- What are you waiting for?!"

Close…

Seiko lunged and presented the vampire with a means to an end. As the swordsman took the opportunity, Seiko elegantly danced around him, jamming the hilt of his blade into the man’s ribs.
Jack inhaled sharply and pulled back on the trigger, and this time, a shot fired true. The burst of blood scented upon the air like roses in the summer breeze signalled to him a target had been hit, and only as he saw the blond snarling did Jack breathe a sigh of relief.

Breath ragged, the steady ticking of his clockwork heart felt like an anomaly compared to the frantic rhythm of his lungs. Where palpitations could have been present, the continuous beat of monotonous cogs continued to push the blood through his veins, increasing the flow as his body demanded it of him. Blood that seeped from his wounds that were refusing to stitch back together in a timely manner; blood that was very precious to keeping him alive, as it contained the dilution of rare serum that would prolong him through decay. Blood he was losing too much of, and only just then becoming truly aware of it.
Everything in his field of view began to blur softly, a gentle haze darkened around his vision. Lightheadedness pulled his brows tightly together as he winced, pressing his hand firmer against the wound in his stomach. If he were to make it out alive, Jack would have to shake this off. Now.
Raising his pistol again, dark umber blinked rapidly until his sights became clearer, his thumb moving to pull back the hammer as he tried to line the shot. Cautious steps taken, he continued to move backward, furthering the distance between himself and the blond who pursued. Weak, his arm shaking too much to make a clean shot, Jack had to trust Seiko knew what he was asking him to do… Fingering the trigger, Jack waited for the opening to come, and with it, he pulled the trigger back, bracing for the deafening fire to echo off the walls as it had before…. But nothing came,

“N-no…”

He breathed desperately, pin-point stare looking down the sights of the revolver directly into the ravenous eyes of the wolf, ready to devour.

He was coming; he was coming for him and he’d never stop. Stricken in place, feet paralyzed in fear Jack had only ever experienced once before, he watched near helpless as the vampire struck aside his retainer with a new--all too terrifying-- focus. Hurried, tapered and agile fingers trembled as he made to reset the chamber before his assailant could claim him… But Jack knew it was futile even as everything clicked into place. Before he could raise his arm fully to take the shot, the blond pounced upon him.
A cry for Seiko died in the delivery, strangled in his throat as Jack made to try and retreat against the blond’s hold. The scent of this monster was headier than his own blood, thick of carnal desire; suffocating… and divine--a cocktail of deep woodlands belonging to a place foreign to him.
Swallowing heavily, Jack’s shallow breath quaked in rapid pants, his eyes never leaving the mossy leer of the vampire who visibly starved for him. Powerful arms pulled them flush and refused to move, anchoring them both in place. A deep shudder followed the hand that crawled serpentine up his spine, fingers that dragged with the softest desire to caress--tender. As they met the flesh of his neck a shudder burst at the base of his skull, sending an explosion of sparks that fizzled into the follicles of his scalp. He’d never felt fingers in his hair like this… not since--
Those same digits curled deeply and yanked his head back and to the side, eliciting a sound akin to a whimper as Jack winced. His captor wanted him… but more… he wanted to taste him. Jack could see the way he eyed the wound upon his cheek, the irises devoured by the black. And just as he knew it to be true, the devil leaned in and parted his lips.
It shouldn’t have made Jack’s chest swarm with the wings of a thousand moths, but it did. The sound that he made blinded the brunet for a moment, stole his breath for a second too long, only to come back harder, more frightened. He swallowed again, breathing faster nearly against the blond’s ear. The world was spinning faster now, the lightness in his mind turned to dizzying carousels. The vampire’s body was warm; the hold--while forceful-- was almost a comfort to his weakening body. The darkness around them was thick… Jack could give up here… He could sleep, finally.
He hadn’t realized the movement of his own arm-- an unconscious effort to regain control. As the vampire had wrapped him in his hold, Jack had been making to take his aim, and the arm still remained half-cocked. Blinking hard, his eyes focused on the killer as he subtly lifted it higher, cleverly leaning into his embrace,

“Fiend,” he hissed hot against his ear.

Careful not to draw the attentive eyes of his predator, Jack made every intention to keep his blood as the prize-- to seduce the snake from his intent to bite. But the very answer his assailant gave, the breathlessness into a shudder deep enough that even Jack felt against his breast… For the swiftest of seconds, the Mephisto could have fallen for it. He could have allowed him that taste, to let silver-capped fangs slide into the arteries of his neck and let him have his fill until the last drop. To have that velvet, heated tongue lap languid against his cheek once more. This was the gift of vampirism, was it not? The divine, unnatural art of seduction, to allure and hypnotize? Jack had been a vampire; he knew this game well… yet even with all his knowledge--his experience--, this body wanted to be taken.

Bernardo’s body…

Jaw tightened and molars grinding, Jack ingested the seed of feral jealousy that blossomed acidic upon his tongue with a cancerous rage. Gumption gained, the brunet pushed a firm breath through his nose and lifted the revolver up, pressing the end of the barrel against the side of Elias’ neck, and pulled back firmly on the trigger without a second thought.
The shot wouldn’t be clean--Jack didn’t care. It’d be a miracle if he’d landed a blow to his spinal cord. Regardless, the wound would be enough to stop him long enough for the Mephisto to put distance between them.

Blood splattered up his chest and into his face, the ringing in his ears loud enough to numb him of any other sound. Released, Jack staggered back, falling against the wall behind him. His knees threatened to give out but the adrenaline and fury in his veins refused him of such a luxury. Pushing down the instinct to wretch, he winced as he breathed, pushing himself to move. Umber looked for his retainer in the shadows, hesitant to leave him, but weary feet were already treading away, stumbling as quickly as they could carry him.

For the first time in nearly two years… Jack wanted to survive.

 

[ashwynne]

Elias Laertes Brandt

J u d a s

h e a l t h | b a r

WHERE: Docks ➢ Alleyways
WITH: Jack Fletcher & A Blusterer
DOING: Engaging
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:

“Jack Fletcher,”
The name, called commandingly by a voice he knew to be Gabriel’s, cut through the storm riddled air to settle on the vampire’s tongue. Elias rolled it there, testing it, stitching it methodically to the form of the man who filled his vision.
More was spoken by the lovely leader of the Blood Sisters, but Elias did not hear it. He knew the gist of what would be said--the redundant orders and requests which any fool could see would be denied--and so instead he kept the intensity of his focus pinned on his prey… all the more so for the shift that began to manifest within his form.
Intrigued, Elias took the smallest half step forward, eyes widening in fascination as Fletcher moved from behind his shield of womenfolk, raising a revolver with a trembling hand. But he did not shake in fear, no, it was rage.

Even as he watched, wrath draped itself over the Mephisto like a well-tailored coat, molding itself to his form. A secondary tempest rumbling to life in the air around him--diminishing the lashing rain and lightning strikes to mild spring showers by comparison. Swirling eddies of electric energy crackled and popped into a pitch-dark outline about his person… and Elias almost fancied he could hear the furious scream of Maverick’s dispossessed soul roaring up from the void. And perhaps that was more than just idle imagining.
“Y-you did this; you did this to me? What do you people want?!”
The fine hairs along the back of the blond’s neck prickled upwards, a delicate shiver gripping his spine. Two voices, not just one, roared out from the brunet as he aimed the words at Holly. It was… fascinating. Would I taste both of you in the blood? he wondered silently, eyes drifting down the tense line of Fletcher’s jaw to rest against his neck where he could practically hear the furious pounding of blood through veins.
Unaware that he was even doing it, the German shifted in the shadows, drawn almost against his will towards the magnificent outline that Fletcher cut. Self-control was slipping. His eyes latched onto the pale flesh of the brunet’s neck. Practically salivating at the mere imagining of--
“The Key is to be taken alive!”
This command, of all of them, registered and the vampire froze, twitching. Reluctantly, he cast a sidelong glance away from Fletcher and towards Holly, cursing softly under his breath at the sight of her advancing. A mishap with an underling like Cain or Goliath could perhaps go uninvestigated when the prize was won, but he couldn’t very well tear out the throat of Gabriel herself--particularly with so many witnesses filtering onto the docks. Which meant… hungry prasiolite flitted back to the Mephisto. He needed to make his move. Now. Claim him before anyone else had the chance. Claim his payment for services rendered. Claim the position of the Key’s guard, that he might sample him in the deep dark when all the rest of Paradise was asleep.
Blowing out a hiss between his teeth, sizing up both the revolver held in the brunet’s hands and the two women who flanked him, Elias' muscles coiled tightly beneath his skin and he was just about to spring forward when a shape materialized on the docks before Gabriel. He’d done enough careful research to recognize her as the new vampiric Queen and grimaced. Centuries spent avoiding entanglement with the intrigues of immortal courts and now here he was, surrounded by all of them. He would make damn sure it was worth it.

Settling himself back into shadow for the moment, he was once more contemplating the two women guarding Fletcher when three things happened in rapid succession: the petite woman disrobed--much to his amusement--before transforming on an athletic leap into a large cat and sprinting away from the fight, the buxom blonde beside the Mephisto became distracted by a new Templar opponent and an arrow whizzed through the air to lodge at the brunet’s feet.
Elias snarled, head whipping to follow the trajectory of the projectile back to its source… and there, he faltered. For a brief moment, Fletcher was forgotten.
There was no mistaking it: a child was the marksman. More than that, the blond recognized him as the little werebeast scrapper who had been pitted against the vampire child back at Headquarters. Training was one thing, but for the Order to be actively utilizing them in battle?
Brows furrowing, Elias swept his gaze over the rest of the battles that had been forming between immortals and Templars, one thing becoming painfully clear: this was not the only child on the battlefield.
“Unconscionable…” he growled softly under his breath, eyes darkening angrily. To abuse children in this way, to turn them to active soldiers, what were they thinking? He had never bought into the feeble veneer of a ‘Holy Order’ in the first place, but now it was all the clearer to him what hypocrites they were.
“Kenna!”
The voice of his target, no longer twinned but full of desperate concern, drew Elias back to him, though it was the faint rush of wind carrying his scent as Fletcher moved past him that muted the righteous fury that distracted him from his mission. Once more his eyes grew predatory, focused, though there remained an ember of anger burrowed deep within him.

This would have been the opportune moment to snatch him away. The vampire was cognizant of that. Two children were no real threat to him. But…
Elias watched--jaw tensed for entirely different reasons--as the brunet flung himself forward in time to catch the older girl who had been facing the archer on the roof. Was it a sigh of relief he breathed? Perhaps, though the blond would not acknowledge it as such.
Keeping his eyes carefully on the scene unfolding between the Key and the children, Elias began to slowly pick his way nearer… but he did not make it far before the telltale twang of bowstring and the brunet’s cry arrested his movement yet again.
Blood.
His proximity to them was a sudden curse.
The scent hit his nose before he had time to prepare himself. His pupils dilated. Mouth dried. Then salivated. It was one thing to experience the muted whiffs of what ran beneath the surface of Fletcher’s skin, but for the fount to be released like this! A soft whimper trailed from his lips, eyes rolling back into his skull. Fuck. And this at merely the scent!
Lost. Lightheaded. His senses offered nothing but crackling static beyond a narrow laser focus on the wounded brunet.
The second attack, the knife glinting as it cut through the Mephisto’s mouth, drew from Elias a confused din in the rational corners of his feral mind. The third plunge into the brunet’s belly had him lurching forward.
Take him alive, you fool. He’s mine. I need-- but the fragmented thoughts, little more than confused ramblings hinging on his horror at the thought of the prize being taken from him, sputtered and died as once again Fletcher’s aura turned to occult storms of tarry black. As Elias’ sluggish mind attempted to slow the dizzy rush--each sharp, helpless, inhale only serving to boil his blood further--he watched, almost trance-like, as the boy’s arms were yanked back and his head cracked hard against the brick wall.
Limp and lifeless, he was released, the dark aura popping out of existence to be replaced by obvious momentary confusion. Now. Take him now! His mind screamed, and he began to move nearer on silent feet when a tall, dark-haired, man who had obviously come fresh from his own battles arrived at his side.
Cursing silently, the blond halted, peering with narrowed eyes as the newcomer outfitted the pair of them in vests, cloak, and armed himself with… a long sword. So, another swordsman. This, more than anything else, pierced through the haze of his blood-addled mind and Elias shifted himself more cautiously to the shadows. Most likely this was another incompetent buffoon, as most who dared to wield swords were, but even so… better to dispatch him as he fled with the Mephisto. Away from prying eyes.

The dizziness did not pass. The bloodlust did not pass. Elias followed them into the network of alleys like a drunk man, feet feeling leaden, tongue thick in his mouth. That he did not stumble could be attributed only to instinct and habit, fueled ever onwards by desperate need. He had no plan. His mind was not clear enough for any such thing. There was only a roaring need that drove him. Animal instinct. Beastly and unrefined.
Quieter and quieter became the sounds of battle behind them, until at last--when the pair stopped and the taller man removed the cloak from around them both to wrap around himself--Elias could not wait any longer.
The cloak had dampened some of the scent, enough to stay his hand, but with it removed he was once again regaled with the cloying perfume of what he desired. Two things drove him: a need to remove the Mephisto’s guard from play... and hunger.

His mimicry was specialized for voices, but his aptitude did not end there.
BOOM.
It reverberated against the walls surrounding them, the sound of high caliber gunfire.
BOOM!
BOOM! BOOM!
The manic gunman his voice created reflected the inner mania of the predator howling within. The shots did not end, each one exploding from his chest in a rolling thunder of sound, lips twitched into a viciously twisted grin. He revelled in the confusion of Jack’s bumbling guard, in his inability to parse the situation. In the shouted orders he gave to the brunet. Had Elias been in his right mind, he would have scoffed at such a thing.
Nearer and nearer he crept, utilizing the explosive distraction of the gunshots to cover his advance, eyes locked on the outline of the Mephisto.
He was too close now. Another false gunshot would give his position away… and there was enough of a gap between his target and his protector to give him an opening.
With a soft snarl, Elias sprang forward at speed from shadow to shadow, the gap closing between himself and the brunet as his lips drew back over his teeth, ravenous desire consuming him. With a wildness uncharacteristic of his normal poised control, the vampire’s hands reached forward to grab Fletcher, but--sensing him just in time--the man jerked back and the blond’s hands closed on empty air. Almost next to his ear he heard the telltale click of a finger pulling the trigger, but the explosion of a shot did not come. Misfire.
Cursing, he dug his feet into the cobblestones, pivoting with preternatural grace… but too late. The guard (Seiko, if Jack’s whimpers of the name were anything to go by) rushed in front of him to create a space for the brunet to retreat into.
Spitting to the side in fury, Elias met the diagonal swing of a sword through the darkness with an upwards cut of his own, body fluidly following the motion of the sword as he was forced to step back. His opponent knew what he was doing. A rarity. It would almost have been impressive if not for the fact that he was an annoyance.
Killing him was less important than getting to the source of his madness. To the pulsing blood that continued to trickle from the torn flesh of Fletcher’s body. Nothing else mattered.
Inane babble began to spill from his opponents lips, the sounds like an irritating hum in his ears as he parried blows and continued to furiously look for some way around this new obstacle. Elias hated talkers. If they were worth anything, their blades would speak for them.

Minimal effort was put to the fight. Minimal caution. It was nothing like the usual elegant parry and riposte he would employ. His stances and swordsman positions were largely abandoned in favour of quick, instinctive, responses to Seiko’s attacks. Their blades clashing like metallic cymbals. Only once did Elias briefly turn his attention to the fight itself, his blade arcing wicked through the air, past the guard of his enemy, to press a cut into his cheek. More taunts followed this, though the words were not nearly as effective in their goal as was the existence of this man’s body between him and what he desired.
Like waves crashing and breaking against the rocks, Elias threw himself desperately into his blows, teeth gritting, sweat beading on his forehead. With every parry, he would attempt to lunge past. And with every attempt at a lunge, Seiko would manage to repel him. It was a dangerous game the German played, reckless with his life, every movement jagged and wild.
His enemy shifted to the defensive and Elias made a swipe for his legs, cursing as his blade was halted by the steel opposing him. An upward cut to his skull--also parried.
Anger now began to bleed in, the forests of his eyes crackling with hints of wildfire. His attention shifted more fully to Seiko, drawn less by the taunts and more by his petty existence. The throwing back of his cloak shouldn’t have changed anything. Shouldn’t have made Elias more reckless. But time was ticking. His head still spun. And the scent of Seiko’s blood was an offensive impurity to the medley Jack provided. The demon of Judas held sway now, unfettered with bared teeth… and Judas was no true swordsman.
Successfully goaded, he lunged for each opening that Seiko made for him, helpless to refrain and analyze the situation more carefully. It was only deeply rooted instinct, diligent training, and centuries of actively utilizing his skills that prevented him from taking deathblows himself, landing a single cut to Seiko’s chest that made him growl in vexation at its ineffective shallow depth.
The beast made a show of turning his back, and though he knew better, Elias leapt forward. There was a crack as an elbow met his jaw and his head snapped back, eyes narrowing to furious pinpricks before bringing his sword upwards in a brutal arc towards the sudden exposure of the brute’s neck. The pest swept out from under the swing, and before Elias could correct or change his path, the pommel was struck heavy against his ribs. He both heard and felt them crack, wheezing for a moment in shocked indignation, fighting to catch furious breaths.
BOOM.
Pain exploded in his shoulder, sending the vampire stumbling backwards with a cry as the scent of his own blood mingled poignantly with the other two in the storm-riddled air. Still, despite the pain, he managed to dance away from the cut that came from Seiko to disembowel him, hissing softly as it drew a line over his hip instead.

It was difficult to breathe. Every inhale held the maddening scent of fresh blood. His ears persistently rang, and while the wound in his shoulder had cut through the fog of his mind like a dagger, even that pain could not fully clear his head. Elias knew he needed to regain control. The infuriating creature between him and his prey was no simple footsoldier. He knew what he was doing, had dodged blows that the vampire had not experienced others dodge in centuries. Under different circumstances he would have respected it. But right now he simply wanted him dead. And yet, success in that venture would require calculation and careful-- Another deep inhale, another lungful of intoxicating scent. He faltered in his dance, feet growing sluggish and clumsy, slowing.
One moment the taller dark-haired man was between him and the pistol aimed at him, the next there was nothing but open air between them. The other swordsman had sprung behind him, holding a knife to his throat, offering him like a sacrifice to the Mephisto.
Elias’ pupils bled into his irises, leaving only a ring of mossy green which he lifted in that half breath of time to stare down the barrel and into the dark earthen gaze of his target.
Jack Fletcher. Once more, Elias rolled the name on his tongue. Waited for his own incompetent madness to be the end of his unasked for eternity. And even so, he could not draw his gaze away from that of the bleeding man. Even now, the only thought that consumed him was: 'I need but a taste... forgive me Marie.'
Click.
Elias was moving before he even fully grasped the reality of the second misfire.
His head slammed back into the blustering fool behind him, shocking him enough to free him from the blade at his neck. Everything slowed to a dreamlike pace, the vampire cognizant of little around him. He saw only the opportunity. The clear path to Fletcher. And he took it. Grinning almost madly, he sprang forward towards the lanky brunet--unobstructed.
The scent was overpowering up close, his lids fluttering in near manic ecstasy from this alone. The hand holding his blade deftly turned it so only the flat of the steel sat against Fletcher's hip while he pulled him flush against him, anchoring him in place. The other trailed fingers up his spine like a lover, dancing up the exposed flesh of his neck as his fingers spread and curled into chestnut curls. And then they tightened, jerking Jack's head to the side so that his cheek was closer to the blond's mouth.
Without conscious thought, without much of anything, he leaned in until the tip of his nose brushed the brunet's skin and then dragged his tongue over the gently seeping wound in his cheek with a soft sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

He had tried it once, standing in sunlight. Had waited for the first fingers of weakest light to creep across the horizon, finding even that pittance of exposure to be brutal to eyes that had only ever known night. But he had looked anyways. Elias had wanted to see it. To see the commander of what was now called 'day.' And oh, how he had burned. Yet even as he had cried out in agony, even as flames reminiscent of another time of burning had seared him, he had tried to look. Desperately. Failing, desperately. He would never need to try and look again.
The blood that coated his tongue, that made love to his taste buds, was surely the closest thing to sunlight that could exist. It was rich and aromatic--touched with but a hint of something bitter--a complex medley that set the orchestra of his soul into a mad flurry of song. Warm, golden... god, it was truly ichor. Not ambrosia, no, far more powerful than that.
For a moment, Elias forgot himself. Where he was. The monster that he was. There was nothing save this; a melody of blood so perfect that centuries of stalking immortals seemed trivial. What were they but water to him now? Incomparable to the vintage which coated his tongue. And he wanted more. He wanted all of him.

The darkened forest of his eyes swam slowly back to focus, sound rushing in around him as though a dam had broken, awareness returning. And, with it, he noted three things: the worrying coolness of the man who was leaning into his hold, the tantalizing crimson that still coated his cheeks, and the hissed word that brushed against his ear with a venom and heat that made him shudder:
“Fiend.”
"Yes," he breathed back, not denying the claim, even as his own eyes fell half-lidded and he tightened his hold ever so carefully to keep the brunet cradled against him. Once more he began to lean towards Jack's cheek, his swordsman opponent forgotten, mission forgotten, everything gone save the need to sample one more time to know if his senses had lied with the first taste.
A niggling warning in the back of his mind whispered caution, but it was drowned out by the screaming need and desire that pulsed through him--carried by the Mephisto blood that now threaded through his veins. He would concern himself with absconding with the brunet in a moment. Just a moment. That was all he needed, only one more taste…

His sluggish, blood-addled, mind had nowhere near enough time to process the cold press of metal to his neck until it was far too late. And this time, there was no misfire.
BOOM.
The sound hit Elias in the same moment that the pain did. His eardrums burst--the first torment--and even as they began to knit themselves back together there was a greater agony in his neck. Blood, his blood, taken from an immeasurable number of sources, burst forth in a crimson spray from the gaping wound. His head lolled; muscle and cartilage so badly damaged that the ability to support the weight of his skull was lost.
There was a boneless, floating, uncertainty to his movements as he released Jack and stumbled backwards. He felt no anger, no fear, only a troubled confusion and piercing siren's wail that echoed through him hollowly as the Mephisto staggered away from him in turn. Elias wanted to pursue him, needed to, and yet... and yet the void yawned so very near. Whispered his name. And, born of that whisper, a thread of sorrow beaded through him, for he did not hear Marie's voice in the medley that called to him. In that moment Elias knew that he had not yet earned the right to rest.

His body fought to repair the wound; his loosely bobbing head gradually regaining its foundations back and firming in position. The damnable guardian would be coming for him, that he knew, and with distance growing between himself and the addictive lure of Jack's blood, his mind was clearing a little of its fog. So, the vampire held perfectly still, allowing his immortal body to heal as much as it was able--though he knew a scar would remind him forever of his failure here--tuning every sense that grudgingly returned to him towards the remaining man. All he had to do was land one good strike, just one, and he could chase after the Mephisto. Fletcher was injured. Weak. Surely not too far to be caught. All it would take was a single strike…
The hand still instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword firmed, lifting it back into the first swordsman position of ochs… and that was when he knew it was over.
It was not the pain of this movement that made this abundantly clear, no, rather it was the clumsy slowness of it. While he might have possessed the will, the manic fire, to carry this fight through… the strain of moving the weapon had caused his head to loll, well beyond what he could easily correct, and a numbness spreading throughout his limbs made it clear to Elias that he had no chance of surviving a prolonged fight with this aggravating cretin.
Cursing, he stepped back from the black-armed swordsman, eyes narrowed dangerously. Fletcher’s blood still painted his lips, rivulets of his own continuing to course down his body with regular pumps of his clockwork organ, every swipe of his tongue offering a lingering spark of electricity as the taste teased him. But he was clearer minded now, wary and wily, no longer an easy target.
“You talk too much while you fight,” he hissed as he slowly backed around and away from him, permitting him the room to chase after his charge, “Best hurry after Fletcher, lest there be any more unpleasant surprises. Keep him safe for me until next time, Seiko.”

 

[Luxura]

Dominick Durham

Goliath

health bar

WHERE: The Docks
DOING: Combat
WITH: A Big Boy
CREDIT: WIP

There wasn’t much that could phase him; significant heights, large spiders, the grating sound of chalk on abrasive surfaces... and seeing someone crush a wooden beam as wide as his forearm with their bare hands. For a moment he could do nothing more than stare at his suddenly empty hand, then at the destroyed and discarded beam as its halves scattered across the dock, then at the man who’d caused it so swiftly. Then, and only then, did he realize exactly what he was dealing with.

This was a man who didn’t seem able to restrain himself and yet also seemed inclined to intimidate with shows of strength. Dom could tag along, perhaps try to posture in his own way, but prolonging the fight was the last thing he wished to do. To talk down the man was certainly out of the question. No… it appeared as though the only way was to fight fire with more flame. The Goliath stared down at his burly opponent, brows knitting together and jaw set with concentrated resignation.

“As you wish.”

The shield came first as he loosened his grip and allowed it to sail right at the Alpha’s face. Second came his heel as he drew his knee as close to his chest as possible, reeled back, then shoved the bottom of his boot against the other’s midriff and kicked with enough force to topple over a small tree.
The splintered wooden slab provided the distraction he’d hoped for, and the kick sent the man backwards, forced to roll in order to keep upright. It became his turn to grin. While Dom held no particular pride in fighting, his evident ability to stand his own had bolstered his confidence.

However, he’d not suspected the abruptness of the Beast’s lunge, so his too was quickly swept away. A moment later the man’s shoulder was digging into his abdomen and Dom’s only reactive response was to lean forward, reach down, and wrap both arms firmly around his opponent’s broad chest. The pain was immediate and certainly bothersome, but he stifled it beneath a growl of determination.

His greatest strength in a fight was his ability to continue on after taking heavy hits, and this man could hit far harder than anyone he’d ever before fought, but Dom was certainly not a Templar without brawn… nor had he forgotten the use of momentum. With the straining of coiled muscles and a heavy heave, the Priest pivoted in place and attempted to toss Bjorn away, into the embrace of empty air.

Dom had been confident that he’d be able to toss him away, gather some modicum of space to just breathe, or even take a glimpse at the rest of the field. Maybe he could have had his foe not been as quick as he was strong. As soon as the man had wrapped his legs around his waist, he found his head being constricted between two powerful hands, and the beast bellowed a war cry that would make his ancestors proud. Their foreheads met with a dull thump and the distinct sound of breaking flesh.

It’d been some time since his vision had last flashed white with stupor and even longer since he’d felt the tingle of blood upon his flesh. He could smell it, a familiar metallic pungence that awakened him to the then and there. All at once he became aware of the fighting erupting beyond the two of them; while he hadn’t the means to see any of it, Dom knew that a bulk of the Templars had arrived to do their part, and he was struck by the thought of not being able to do his.
He raised his hands to grasp the forearms that worked in an attempt to crush him, struggling to pry them away. There was no doubt that his opponent was stronger, that there was no way he’d remove the man’s hands entirely, but Dom stared the menace down and strained with all his might until the pressure wasn’t skull crushing… then jerked his head forward to bash their heads together again. He was quick to follow through, this time by reaching forward to wrap a large hand around around the man’s thick neck. Then, with a guttural growl to rival the other’s, he rushed forward, straight towards a corridor of tall metal shipping crates.
The boards of the dock threatened to give out under the concentrated weight of them both, groaning particularly loud when he pivoted in place, using the momentum of his charge to turn and slam the back of the beast against one of the crates so hard that it skid a few inches in place.

“Get off of me!”

Dominick’s face was set into a scowl, teeth bared and eyes burning with tenacity. Come Hell or high water, he’d prove to this beast that he was not without might, prove to himself that his years spent tarrying away as a priest had not stifled him, and he made his intentions known by turning and attempting to make another lunge at the opposing crate.

 

[Luxura]

Bjorn Thorburn

Úlfhéðnar

health bar - 45%

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Giant -> Kenna
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: Aenaluck
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

​

It had been far too long since the beast ran wild and free from its cage of mortality. The berserker laying in waiting with an empty maw that yearned for the metallic tang of blood.
Eager to slide into his bestial nature, Bjorn offered the Templar giant a sneering grin at the impending demise he would soon face. The twitching of his muscles increased with the temptation to change form, the blood in his veins searing with heat. He would have, then and there, if not for the dozens of small, swift movements that caught his eye just beyond upon the boardwalk.

Children. Younger than Kenna… no more than ten years in age, by rough estimation. Their feet pounding as quick and light as their hearts in his ears as his eyes widened in disbelief. Strapped in silver and steel too heavy and barely fitting to their chubby, plush limbs. Their battle cries enough to stir in the ancient Beast a memory of his own childhood nearly long forgotten--Of a young lad who refused to wear anything upon his flesh if it weren’t his own pelt, who would run into the forests with dreams of blood and conquests in his heart. There’s was a different sort of society, bred to be warriors… Not these poor things.

In that moment, Bjorn realized he could not shift. The Alpha wolf was barely controllable, with eyes that saw only to devour those who threatened him, regardless of who or what it may be. He was the biggest threat on this board and would do more harm than good, despite his circumstances. How did they get children to willingly fight their war for them? They didn’t, the thought coming to him as quickly as the question had.

Snarling, left with no choice but to persevere, Bjorn returned his attention to the Templar before him, tearing upon the jaws that threatened his air supply. Curling up with his abdominal muscles, he brought his knees to his chest and slammed his feet hard, flat, against the other’s chest, prying him off. As Goliath’s hand released around Bjorn’s throat, the pair of them fell to the boards.
It was Bjorn who staggered to his feet first, quickly jumping atop the larger man, pinning him face down. With his knees planted upon his biceps, both of the Alpha’s hands came to rest on either side of the Legionnaire’s head and pulled back,

“Say hello to your God for me,” he snarled.

Before he could twist to snap the man’s neck, an explosion rocked the battlefield. From the exterior of the adjacent warehouse, chunks of brick and steel cascaded down, raining upon the water-logged boards, threatening to break and shatter them into wayward shards. Without time to flee to a safe distance, the pair watched as a larger chunk of the warehouse wall crashed down upon the steel shipping container, tipping it--and the one beneath it--over, on top of them; bracing themselves for the inevitable impact.
The weight of steel and stone pressed down upon Bjorn’s hands and shoulders as he attempted to hold it, his muscles pushing back against them even as more fell. Weakened from the fight, it quickly became clear that he could no longer hold the pieces back any longer. Succumbing to gravity, Bjorn roared out one last push, enough to secure the larger stones from crushing them both entirely as it fell just shy of them… But in doing so, he secured the rest of the smaller pieces to slip around the container and pile atop them until the world went black.
He did not know if it had been minutes or hours, but when the Alpha’s eyes opened, his body screamed and ached. If he had thought the Templar’s head was hard, he deserved the knockout from the debris.
With a series of grunt-like groans, Bjorn lifted and crawled his body out of the pile, pushing stones and metal beams out of his path until the fresh, crisp rain pattered upon his face. Somewhere in the thick of all the mess lay the Templar soldier… Alive. Yes, he could hear the strong heartbeat still, when he tried. If he was conscious or no Bjorn did not know. He let his hazel eyes cast themselves over the battle as it came to a close--seemingly he hadn’t been out for very long.

Bjorn’s senses were far too aroused. The beast within his blood demanded blood and bone, but his mortality fought to retain composure and control. He did not often let the beast take over as much as he used to in centuries of old, and the resentment of the wolf was thick upon his tongue.
Staggering to his feet, he wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, snarling at the pain wracking his limbs. It was fuel for the Alpha if he’d let it, but there was no use continuing this battle-- he would rather let the giant live another day. There was no telling when he would have another chance to fight an opponent such as this… if he were to take his life now, Bjorn may have felt complete… but for how long?

Curious, he surveyed the carnage of the battleground. He didn’t see Fletcher… Not that he cared, but for the sake of all things, that wasn’t a good sign...

A small cry whipped him around, breath leaving the Beast cold. Kenna.
Urgently, Bjorn’s feet carried him at a swift clip in the direction of her whimpers, limping around the large steel crates to find her and another small boy pressed into the shadows between the unscathed warehouses. As he approached, his keen sights took in the dagger sunken deep into her shoulder… This was her brother--this much he could tell from scent alone--but this was not the reunion she had anticipated.

Movement out of the corner of his eye lifted the brute’s chin, squaring his broad shoulders defensively as he took another step towards the young girl, and placed a large, heavy hand upon her other shoulder. Gabriel approached.

If he had been a little faster, he could have gotten the boy out of there without much attention… Unfortunately, this was going to be a wound that struck the girl deeper than the blade in her shoulder.
His grip tensing harder upon Kenna’s other shoulder, he held her in place, feeling the drive and fire beneath his fingers--her muscles coiled and tensed, ready to strike. His breath remained even, knowing full well that Kenna was going do everything in her power to get at her brother. There would be no safe way to extract him now. Gabriel was perhaps the best soldier on this battlefield, and she hadn’t sustained as much damage as Bjorn. If the fight were to tip in her favour, the mortal woman may have actually had a chance at bringing down the Alpha. It would be wise to let them walk… But that didn’t mean he was going to enjoy any measure of it.
As Kenna snarled, his hold tightened a little more, feeling her inching closer as she helped the boy to his feet… and offered her to join them,

“You would be giving her a better life if you allowed her to come.”

Staring hard into the cold oceans of the Templar woman, he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, “Odious banshee,”

Growling, as the woman turned he felt the girl before him snap. Swiftly, the hand on her shoulder slid around her chest to pull her form against him tightly, his other immediately grasping around the hilt of the dagger buried into her flesh--grimacing, knowing it would cause her pain. Lowering his head a little, he snarled into her ear,
“Patience. Let him go,”
It was difficult to settle the burden of Kenna’s screams, but he needed to in order to be the support she needed. Holding firm against her struggling, Bjorn kept his hand wrapped around the hilt of the small blade, careful to move with her and not against her to cause more harm. Again, he lowered his head down to her level, speaking firmer,
“Look at her… Remember this moment, remember her face, the way she smells. They call her Gabriel.” His own eyes turned back to the Templar under furrowed brows; to the small feet that walked beside her, “Now, we know where to find him, and we shall bring the war to their doorstep… together.”

Letting her digest that image and thought for a moment, Bjorn lowered her back to the ground slowly, adjusting his hold around her to move the arm she clawed desperately into up to her mouth, pulling her even tighter against his body,
“You will do as I tell you, or this will hurt worse,” he commanded gruffly, preparing himself mentally for the grievous inflictions to come, “I am going to pull the blade out. You will bite as hard as you need to. When you taste blood, you will drink it until I pull away. Understand?”
He could feel it--her heart-- beating rapidly in her chest, the pulse of her veins quickening the further her brother walked away from her. Leaving by force was one thing… leaving by choice was another…The only way to change her focus was to force a new scenario upon her.

With one deep breath, the Alpha pulled hard on the hilt. As the blade slid out of her without restriction, the girl latched onto Bjorn’s arm with vigour, and he winced with a grunt to the stabs of pain. Sharp canines and blunted molars burrowed deep into the flesh, piercing into the thick layers of tissue and muscle, blood bubbling up around her teeth. He felt the draw, the suctioned pull of his ancient ichor as she drank as he instructed. Kenna’s screams and whimpers knotted and churned his stomach raw, more agonizing than her bite, or any other wound he suffered this night. His blood would heal her in minutes, entangled with her own. The pain would ache, certainly--at least until she awoke from a long slumber. But, more pressingly, the wound would close and his blood would do the rest.
Dropping the dagger to the boards at their feet, he slapped his hand firm against the incision, keeping very firm pressure against it to stop as much blood from flowing out as possible. Only when he felt the skin beneath his palm begin to creep and move, working into a clot that would rebuild the missing flesh, did he remove it. In a tenderness rarely displayed by the brute, his fingers slid around and under her jaw, pressing it open so he may release his arm from her hold,
“That’s plenty. Any more and you’ll lose yourself,” he uttered quietly.

Tired and weary, a hefty sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping as he turned the girl to face him, brushing stray strands from her face. The blood that settled upon her lips brought a smirk to his lips,
“It’s a good look on you…” Casting his eyes towards the wreckage and carnage left behind of their warfare, he caught the glance of Maeve before returning to Kenna’s, “How about a drink?”

 

[ashwynne]

Nascha

Black Sun

health | bar

WHERE: Residential District Streets ➟ The Brass Canine
WITH: a Stag & a Silver Devil
DOING: Disengaging
CREDIT: @peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

Troubled amber eyes passed over her fellow beast as Nascha waited for his response to her query. His injuries were substantial and the longer she looked at him, the less confident she felt in the ethics of what she had asked. To expect him to leap back into the fray to defend Jack… Was she simply sending him to his death? And yet the question had been asked and she could not take it back. Nor did she want to, not really. The Stag was strong, and she suspected the man who belonged to him was strong as well, even injured. And her Mephisto patient remained in danger.
"Jack? I'm his… I care about him very much as well. I'll see that he is safe, I promise."
The healer’s head canted slightly to the side, scrying his expression carefully. That small hesitation, little more than a heartbeat in time, had not escaped her notice, the words he chose only piquing her curiosity further. ‘Caring for someone very much’ lent itself to certain assumptions about the relationship. Were they lovers? Bosom friends? Something else entirely? She had not smelled the Stag on Jack before, but that did not preclude it from being a possibility. It was interesting, and she very nearly had the gall to ask him then and there for clarity before the reality of the situation called to her in a twang of pain from her flank. With difficulty and deliberate intention, Nascha pushed the sudden flurry of questions about the nature of their relationship into the back of her mind. The promise that he made was of more importance and held greater weight in this moment.
Gratitude flashed across her expression, tacitly accepting what he vowed. Her earlier hesitation on the matter of ethics was resolutely resolved now. If he cared for Jack, if the Mephisto was his ‘something,’ then protecting him would surely be second nature. Nascha knew enough of interpersonal relationships from the books she read to know that much. So, she would hold him to his promise. Her lips parted to thank him and accept.
And then, abruptly, there was a shiver in the air and the metal door of the tank crashed into the pavement, releasing an awful screech of complaint as it skidded across the slicked surface before thudding to its side. Both beasts sprang away from it well in time, but they were now too far apart to speak. Had Nascha remained in beast form, her ears would have been tightly pinned to her skull.

The Silver Devil was not yet done? Her stomach churned and clenched, eyes fixed on the Templar. His appearance likened him to a demonic apparition pulled directly from some vile fifth world beyond the known four, his chest glowing with a sickly combination of red and golden light. The shedding of his coat revealed the abysmal monstrosity of unnatural augmentations to his body, and her lips curled in inherent disgust. Still, curiosity had ever been Nascha’s downfall and so her amber eyes roved with a macabre sense of horror over the lines and creases of the metal made visible by the soaked nature of his shirt as it clung to every curve of his body. It was… monstrous. And then he finished his parting line about the will of God.
Such hypocrisy.
Her eyes narrowed, feeling a fury bubbling up within her chest. Beasts were far more natural than these ungodly machine-men and their sanctimonious viewpoints. How much longer had beasts--and even vampires, odious though they were--walked this earth in coexistence with humanity? Yet this man, and those like him, would deny them their very life if they could manage it. All while acting as though they were their God’s creation, when it was plain as day that they were bastardized abominations at best. Warped versions of a ‘creation.’ If they served a God, she concluded, it was one named Delusion.

A growl slipped from between clenched teeth as she sank back with a limp into the shadows. Much as she itched to rip out his throat, Nascha knew well enough that if she tried it would only lead to her own death… and after this fight she suspected a healer might very well be important.

She heard the Stag deny him and felt a surge of fierce pride and agreement bloom within her, baring her teeth in a ferocious snarl of solidarity that none of them could see… though perhaps they would feel it on the air, perhaps the rain beating against their skin would sting just a little sharper.
The dark-haired beast, ever admirable, met the Silver Devil’s attack with a bravery and resolve that made her feel a fierce bolt of pride in her species… and then, repelling the Templar, he abandoned the fight, bolting in the direction of the docks.

She, too, needed to escape from this place. A creature of shadows and darkness, it was a small matter to disappear from the Templar’s notice. With the Stag having engaged him, the Silver Devil had been forced to take his focus off of her, and in that moment of distraction, she made herself a part of the gloomy dark provided by the storm… all but invisible so long as she did not linger long enough for him to apply himself to searching for her.
Sucking in a harsh breath, the feline sent a final thought of well wishes and strength in the direction of her comrade in this battle, and then turned with gritted teeth in the direction of the Brass Canine. She suspected that they would have supplies she could abscond with… if nothing else, vodka would work as a disinfectant and Nascha knew there would be plenty of wounds to tend to tonight.
Finding her patients would be another matter entirely, but before that could be addressed… she needed to stock up on the necessary supplies.

When she had managed to put an acceptable amount of distance between herself and the battle, she turned attention to her own wounds with a grimace, pressing her back against the refreshing, damp, cool of a quiet warehouse.
The nick to her leg was already well on its way to healing, no real intervention needed, but the bullet lodged just above her hip was going to be a bitch to remove and the one in her flank was problematic too. Gritting her teeth, she surveyed her medicine pouch carefully and let out a slow hiss. She could chew willowbark for the pain, but others might need it more, and she was limited to what she carried with her. No matter. Pain wouldn’t kill her.
Carefully, she pulled the satchel off from around her and placed the strap between her teeth instead. One deep, steadying, breath, and then with merciless determination she dug her fingers into the entry wound, ripping open flesh already knitting itself together as she reached inside herself to find the foreign metal object.
Tears beaded in her eyes, a tea-kettle pitched whine of pain issuing forth as her fingers wrapped around the crushed shape of the offending object. The bullet was still hot, burning her fingerpads as she pulled it out.
Hot chuffs of agonized breath clouded the air in front of her as she threw it to the ground with as much strength and contempt as she could manage.
A quick exploration of the other gunshot wound on her flank made it clear that this one was a bullet she would not be able to remove without help, and so with a quiet whimper--the only self-pity that the healer permitted herself--Nascha turned back to the direction of the Brass Canine and continued her limping journey.

With her body pulsing in pain, the dark-haired native woman would never recall much of the journey. One moment her head was spinning, gasping for breath, a feeling like claws were shredding over her nerves rushing through her in waves with every step. The next, the Brass Canine loomed before her.
By this point, the pain had died down somewhat, her body quietly healing itself, and she took this opportunity to take a bit of the same salve she had applied to the Stag and smear it over her wounds.
It never occurred to Nascha that she was naked, smeared in poultice, soaked, and covered in blood--both hers and that of those she had killed--a horrifying sight by all accounts. All that mattered to her was that she had reached her destination. Now, her work would likely begin… though she hoped, desperately, unlikely though it was, that her services would only be minimally needed.

 

[Luxura]

Holly Wilshire

alias: GABRIEL

health bar - 60%

WHERE: Docks, French Quarter
WITH: Mathis
DOING: Returning to Paradise
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

​

Her breath laboured, the platinum blond blinked away droplets of rainwater that slipped down from her furrowed brows. Mixed with sweat from the humidity of this southern metropolis, Holly’s deep blue eyes narrowed against the slight sting the droplets left behind. Eyes flicking around the docks, all her companions were thick into the battle. More vampires and beasts had come to join the core leaders, 84th and Sisters engaged to the death, hoping victory would be blessed upon them before falling on foreign shores. The one person she found difficult to see what The Key, and Judas. It was her hope that the fiendish soldier was after their mark-- He had been sent to them strictly for this purpose, after all.

When her eyes returned to settle upon the Vampire Queen before her, the woman hissed her own agreeance to their meeting,

"As have I, and you owe me some answers."

Holly’s brows pinched more in confusion, molars grounding together as she tried to think back. What answers could possibly be owed? Cecile Bellerose had nearly stolen everything from her!
As the vampiress came forward for another straight shot, Holly hoisted her shield before her and dodged aside, opening then to swing and thrust her mace, aiming to take a bite at the woman’s shoulder. It was met by the short sword, the pair locked in a battle of strength as they pushed against one another.
Around them, small figures rushed into the fray, the trucks of youth arrived. Headstrong, rabid children itching to prove their worth to their superiors, throwing themselves over swords to be remembered as heroes for the cause. Cerulean eyes whirled around the pair of women, watching as the came in with attempts to shake down immortal demons with blunted weapons and tin for armour. This was no place for a child… This wasn’t right! She couldn’t have a child’s death upon her conscience, staining her hands. The Persophone Project wasn’t meant to be anything like this… It was meant to educate and inspire. To teach and ensure the will and hearts of their future society… Not create an army of youth.
Anxiety pulsed through her, suffocating and thick in her lungs. The innate desire to protect began to overpower the shrill call of bloodshed. But the vampiress pushing against her held the Sister at bay.

Shaking her head firmly, Holly pulled back, quick to duck behind her shield to avoid an opportune slash. She aimed to put distance between them but no matter the steps back, the Queen kept upon her, forward in her advance, keeping Holly upon the defensive. The Angel’s eyes were too frantic in watching her surroundings. Barely able to dodge around the attacks, taking swings where she could. She needed help. This had to stop. The battle had become too uncontrolled.
Looking around her for aid, Sister Aglaé had made contact with the Werebeast Queen, and Cain had his hand’s full. Judas gone and Jonah nowhere to be found, her eyes looked for her warrior-priest for assistance, yet had difficulties pinning the man down. He was nearly double her height, it shouldn’t have been so difficult to find the man, but it wasn’t the rain distorting her eyes… Dominick wasn’t where he should be.
When Holly finally did spot him--as she ducked deep under a blow for the head--she found him upon the ground, the Alpha Beast upon his back, his position compromised… Everything within the pale woman violently crashed to halt, the familiar breathless fear that racked her upon the battlefield of Cheapside flooding into her blood until it turned to ice. She wouldn’t lose another life… Not like…

A snarl rolled from the depths of her core, building more feral in power and grit as it reached her tongue before leaving her mouth as a scream-- Angel’s Cry. Every face, immortal and Templar alike, turned towards her, either etched in fear or beaming in pride. Pin-head pupils dilated quickly as her lips curled back, the vigour in the woman’s blood, the Holy Wrath that fueled the passion in her heart, giving the Blood Sister incredible strength.
Facing Cecile head-on, Holly bluntly slammed herself forward, bashing her shield against the woman to knock her back. Flicking the switch upon the hilt of her mace, the spiked head crackled to life, arcs of electricity bright as the licked and sizzled against the pouring rain. With all her might, she turned and flung it across the boardwalk towards the warehouses, the impact into the brick causing the head to erupt in a sizeable radial explosion that shook the ground beneath their feet. Those closest to the blast made for cover, while others hit the deck, diving for balance and structure should the boardwalk crack into the raging river below.
Keen, and with trepidation, she watched as the building crumbled, the corner collapsing in on itself, chunks of brick and steel raining down into plumes of dust and debris. Toppling down onto the stacked shipping containers nearest Dominick and the Alpha, she held her breath as the warehouse wall careened down sliding the crate down overtop of the men.

Grimacing, Holly shook her head, quickly turning away,

”ENOUGH!” she roared.

As every person within earshot cautiously looked to her, the Angel leered over each and every one in return. Slowly, Sisters recalled their weapons, Brothers snarling as they stood down from their opponents. Children, confused, followed suit and looked between everyone for direction. Furious, her burning gaze moved with precision over everyone… The Key was gone. In the distance of the destruction, local authorities began to storm the scene. This was more than a mess… And on foreign grounds. This was going to be a headache to clear up with her superiors; empty-handed.
With a huff, she roughly dug into the utility pouch at her hip and held up above her head a glass vial, long and slender; brass at both ends. Within, a bright, chartreuse liquid sloshed lazily. Narrowing her sights upon the Vampire Queen, she then flicked them towards the Harpy. Slowly, a false smirk pulled up the corner of her lip,

“You have proven yourselves worthy this night. Mark me, this is far from finished,” Her hand lowering, she waved the vial of serum before them both with a sneer, “Your precious Key is running out of time. If he cares to live… we will be waiting.”

Breath even and measured, Holly set her jaw tightly. The misfortune of The Key slipping from the battle would mar her record, but at the very least she had saved a significant amount of little lives this night… and that fact alone would clear her conscience. While many of them would likely return to the Headquarters… there was not enough room on Paradise to house them all.
She slipped the vial back into the pouch and cast a dangerous, warning leer at both Queens before turning away. Mounting up her shield, Holly turned to head towards the trucks. Purposefully hanging behind, she ushered her Brothers and Sisters before her, encouraging straggling youth to hurry on ahead. Her attention was elsewhere, upon the pile of rubble. Worriedly, Gabriel watched as several of her comrades worked together to lift and haul Dominick’s unconscious form towards safety; ire for the Alpha simmering hot beneath her composure. As a scowl began to form at the very thought, her cerulean orbs flicked around the field heatedly until they landed upon his massive stature, feet carrying her towards him with ill intentions--but as she approached, her sights brought into view two youth huddled up against the warehouse.

Before the children, she leered towards the Beast, and lowered her gaze towards the young boy… He was one of the two she witnessed sparing earlier… so much fire in his eyes, even now. But who was the girl?
Slowly, Holly leaned down and offered Beau her hand,

“What is your name, child?” she asked softly. Her gaze flicked towards Kenna, and she smiled, despite the massive hand that came to rest upon her shoulder.

Ah… I see.

“Mathis,”

Smiling with empathy, Holly nodded, “Mathis,” she repeated, sliding a hand to the small of his back to support him as he stood. Flicking between Bjorn with a twitch of her lips and the girl, Holly offered her a hand as well, “You may come with us too if you like?”
Standing straighter, she expected the backlash from the girl, but the slap of her hand was certainly… bold.
Sighing, the Angel recoiled and let both of them rest upon the boy’s shoulders, her eyes cooling as she stared down the Alpha,

“You would be giving her a better life if you allowed her to come,” she uttered quietly, but his response was as anticipated. With a mild shrug, she brushed back Beau’s hair, careful to avoid the injury,

“Mathis, I think we ought to take you to get this looked at, wouldn’t you agree?” Gently, she hinted a press upon the child’s shoulders, turning him to look up at her as Gabriel began their retreat.
Pleased with Mathis’ answer, Holly wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as she led them towards the Market and vehicles that would take them back to Paradise. Gingerly, she cast a small glance back at the girl over her shoulder before looking down to the child at her side,

“Did she do this to you?” Gold-tipped digits fingering feather-light through his dark, blood-matted hair, “You did very well today, Mathis.”

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Beau Desmarais

Mathis

health bar

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Kenna, Bjorn -----> Holly
DOING: Leaving
CREDIT: Searching
PLAYLIST:

Darkness consumed him. It was a feeling he was all too familiar. The brain could only handle so much, and as the darkness and shadows lingered through his unconscious mind, Mathis could do nothing as his mind drifted to the reset. It was the point that had become so poignant, scaring more than just his body, but his mind as well. Even in an unconscious state, he could not shake it.

Pain seared the darkness, unseen and unfocused there was nothing he could do to stop it. Unable to scream in agony, the boy, so young, so small, could do nothing but suffer through in the dark. It was the only way he could learn. It had meant to happen, and it would happen again if he were wrong, if he strayed from the right path, away from his true purpose. It had been a justified pain in making him who he was. But it hurt. The memory of the stabbing pain pulsed around his body, ghosting through him as a reminder of where he needed to be. His body lay still on the ground, but his mind rung out a signal, reminding him that he did not want to feel this again.

Kenna was wrong; she had always been wrong. Everything he had known had been a lie fed to them by generations before them. They deserved a better life, a more noble purpose. They needed to help cleanse the world of their kind and then die themselves. The pain coursing through him was a reminder that they did not belong here. A shudder travelled down his spine as a final jolt of pain shot through the young boy.

Consciousness started to swirl, his mind pulling back from the ghosted pains recking havoc in his mind. His eyes took quick blurry glances around, his head trying to make sense of where he was and what had happened. The voice, so familiar and tainted comfort of the arms around made him cringe. Hand carefully clasped around the hilt of the dagger that had fallen to the ground not to far from where he lay. The stupid girl should have known better. Instinct took over as his arm shot up, aiming for any part of her flesh that he could, slamming it right into her shoulder.

He had wanted to take it out and stab her again, but he with the lack of energy he could not hold on to it. Mathis' hand fell from the knife limply before he messily rolled off her lap, scrambling to put distance between them, panting as he sat upright, using the wall for support. His head was pounding, his vision still slightly blurry as his body swayed trying to stay steady. Mathis grasped at the wound on his head, surveying the damaging and trying to keep his head from spinning.

The girl got up, pushing through the pain of the injury. Why the hell was she still trying? Could she not see that he had no desire to go with her? He wanted nothing to do with her or their kind. He had already been saved. "Fuck you, Kenna," he spat back at her.

The panicked look that fell upon Kenna's face told him that they were no longer alone. Thank goodness. He knew he'd not have been able to put up enough of a fight if Kenna or the massive beast beside her had forcibly tried to take him, but someone else came to his aid to protect him from them.

Mathis looked up at the woman who approached him. He knew who she was immediately, even past the blurriness of his vision. They had been taught about the people that they would need to know about, who the higher-ups were, the things they had done for the cause. Gabriel was a legend. Reaching up, he took the woman's hand willingly, "Mathis," he answered as he used the support of her hand to rise to his feet.

He did not want to look weak, not in front of a superior, especially one so elite as Gabriel. Mathis' eyes took a glance at Kenna as she was offered the chance to join them. A slight feeling of conflict settled into his bones. Did he want her to come, to fight alongside them? His eye gave a slight twitch. No, definitely not. They had no need for her. Kenna could disappear for all he cared. Looking up at Gabriel, Mathis' eyes softened. "Yes, thank you," he said with a nod before wincing slightly from the movement. The throbbing in his head was becoming too hard to ignore, but he would not pass out again. He did not want his weakness to be shown. With no hesitation in his steps, he allowed Gabriel to lead him away from the others.

Mathis was thankful to be done with the interaction. Walking away, he did not even turn around at the screams from the girl he had once considered a sister. They were never related. He owed her nothing.

They were heading back to the vehicles, and the young boy was looking forward to getting back and resting his head. Gabriel asked if Kenna had been the one to injure him. "No, she didn't," he replied. Kenna could never, and that was her weakness to bare. Even after everything he had done, she still would not do it. Pathetic. The angel praised him, but he did not think he deserved it. He had failed tonight, and it was not lost on him. "It was that damn Key that everyone is crazy about," he said with a sneer that was too dark to be on a child his age. "Almost had him," he muttered to himself. He was annoyed with himself that he had let the man get the upper hand. He would not underestimate him next time. He needed to get back and do more training.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Kenna Mac Amery

Incendiu

health bar

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Beau, Gabriel, Bjorn
DOING: Struggling
CREDIT: Olivier Ponsonnet
PLAYLIST:

"Can you carry me?" a small voice called out from several feet behind her. Kenna turned, walking backwards as she watched her brother walking dramatically, not too far from her. Light shone through the streets of the sweltering day they were having. She didn't think it had been possible for the world to be this hot, but since the sun had risen, some days continued to prove her wrong. She wasn't sure if she enjoyed the heat or hated it.

The young teen shook her head. "No," she said blatantly to the kid, "you have legs; you can walk." It was too damn hot, and he was too heavy for her to be carrying around.

Beau tipped his head back, "Keeeennna," he drew out in complaint. His steps slowed even more than he had already been going, lagging further as she continued to walk backwards watching him.

"My legs are too little," he said with the fakest pout he could muster, "I can't keep up." Kenna gave a small shake of her head as she gave a short scoffed laugh. "That excuse wore off a few years ago, try again." At the invitation to step up his game, the boy did just that. "Gaaaaaah," he practically gurgled out as he dramatically collapsed to his knees before laying flat on the burning hot ground. "You're a little shit you know that," Kenna said, stopping her steps and folding her arms across her chest. He said nothing, just continued to lay still on the ground as other people walked past staring at the pair. "You are only making yourself look like an idiot; you know that right." He still did not attempt to move. "For fucks sake, fine, come on then," she said almost exasperated as she shook her head and rolled her eyes behind the sunglasses she was wearing and made her way over to her brother.

Bending down, Beau was able to easily climb up on her back with a triumphant evil laugh. Kenna considered dropping him, but she gave in. Besides, she knew Beau well enough to know that he was actually tired. They had been walking around for a lot of the day.

Made their way further down the street, Beau sitting comfortably on her back. The crowd slowly dissipated, escaping a lot of the heat. People still weren't used to the heat of the day and tended to avoid the worst of it. Kenna had hoped they would have been back to their little hideout by now, but they had spent longer at the market than she had wanted. Beau snacked on some of the food they had stocked up. They had managed to lift quite a bit today, and they hadn't had a decent haul of food in a while. He needed it more than she did right now, and she was more than happy to have him eat as much of it as he wanted. She refused a bite of bread that he offered her a few times before the young boy shoved the torn-off piece of bread in her mouth from over her shoulder. "You need to eat too," he said with a slight frown, knowing what she was doing.

"Thanks," she said, chewing on the bread.

Kenna's eyes glanced further up the street, taking note of where they currently were. They had been at their little hideout for a few weeks now and had taken the same pathway a few times. It would take them over an hour to get back, and the sun was getting almost unbearable. She knew she could look for a few places closer, but the hole in the wall they had, had been useful, and they also had a few items there that the girl did not want to leave behind.

Glancing up an alleyway beside them, Kenna judged where it would lead. She didn't usually like to go down side streets; it was quieter and fewer people around. It didn't mean it was safer. She wasn't completely stupid; she had heard the rumours, but - if they took a few side roads, it could cut their trip in half. It would also provide just a little bit more shade.

Giving a little hop to readjust the boy on her back, she moved forward down the alley. It would be fine, she could make short work of it, and they would be home in no time.

They darted through the streets, one and then another. Kenna was getting tired, but they were almost in the clear. The next street over was a main road and a straight shot to their little hideout. But they didn't get more than a couple of steps further.

It happened so fast that her mind could hardly comprehend what had happened. There had been no one near them, not one else in the alleyway with them. An unseen force hit Kenna in the side of the head, knocking her to the ground, leaving a deafening ringing in her ears. As she had tumbled, she held tight to the boy on her back, but the grasp on him and the awkward angle she had fallen to was not enough as someone ripped Beau from her.

Disoriented, Kenna clambered to her feet for a fight that she was in no way prepared. There were a few of them, faces covered with her brother in their tight grasps. He was restrained and struggling against them. Kenna went to scream out for her brother, but a hand around her throat quickly cut her off. There was no sound. Not from her, not from them. She thrashed against the person that grasped at her neck, her eyes locked on Beau as he was dragged away, his eyes wide with panic as he tried to reach out for her. Kenna fought against the hand around her neck, clawing at it, kicking her feet to gain any advantage that she could. A chocked out squeak from Beau snapped her head back in their direction, but she lost sight of them before they had reached the end of the alleyway. A hand on the back of her head thrust her face into the side of the building. Her glasses broke on impact, cutting just under her brows before falling off her face. Her face was slammed into the brick a few times before she was dropped to the ground, blood pouring from her violently cracked nose and the grazes across her forehead. She coughed, trying to get up but barely managing to get on all fours before collapsing back to the ground. The draw of a blade pierced through the ringing in her ears but then there was nothing. Not another sound. Not the stab of the blade that she had been expecting. The peaceful serenity of the afternoon day returned, and he was gone.

People filtered into the alleyway rushing to her, asking what had happened to her. They fussed and mumbled, but she pushed them away, scrambling to her feet in a confused and manic state as the situation caught up with her, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She ran in the direction she had thought they had gone. Her running merely connected her back with the busy streets. There was no trace they had even been there apart from the blood dripping down her face. "No," she muttered, as she scanned the streets, "No, no, no. BEAU!" Hysterically she called out for him, but all it did was draw concerned and confused looks from the people walking down the streets. They watched but avoided her as they continued on their way. Tears and blood mingled as they dripped down her face as she fell to her knees.

~~~~~​

The fighting continued in the distance; the sounds of the battle raged on around her. Explosions were ringing in the air as Kenna kept a protective barrier over her brother. She wanted to run with him, to pick him up and carry him away from the battle, but she did not risk agitating the wound on his head. Beau. It had been so long since she had seen him, and in his unconscious form, he looked so much more like himself—an air of innocence, a lost childhood that was all her fault.

Holding Beau's limp form in her arms, Kenna cradled him in her lap with the jacket she had shrugged off pressed against his head to stop the bleeding. Beast could heal faster than most, but that did not mean they were immune to injury. He would still bleed.

Jack had left, and she could not find it in herself to care. A pang of pain shot through her heart, knowing Jack had been the one to do it to him. She knew that he was just protecting himself, but Beau was only a child.

Silver eyes flickered as he started rousing from unconsciousness. "Hey, Beau, it's okay. I've got you," Kenna cooed, holding him closer, not wanting to let him go again. So caught up in making sure he was okay, she was oblivious, Kenna was in no way expecting the knife as he slammed it against her, embedding it in her shoulder. The impact firmly lodged it down to the hilt. A chocked gasp escaped her before a slight scream followed. Pain radiated from her shoulder, shooting down her arm as she shuddered, her brain trying to catch up with what had happened.

The young boy's hand fell from the knife limply before messily rolling off her lap, scrambling to put distance between them, panting as he sat upright, using the wall for support.

Kenna's hand hovered over the knife; she was about to pull it out, but as she hesitated, she thought better of it. Her fist balled up before slamming it to the ground, trying to steady her breath. Her breathing was staggered, breathing through the pain pulsing through her shoulder.

"I'm just trying to help you," Kenna said through gritted teeth, her eyes focusing back on her brother as she steadied herself to get back to her feet.

His face scowled at her. "Fuck you, Kenna," he spat back.

As she regained some semblance of balance on her feet, Kenna realised they were no longer alone. Stepping towards her brother, she knew she had to get him out of here regardless of if he wanted to or not. It had been too long, and there was no way Kenna was going to leave here without him. Her arm hung limply at her side, not wanting to jostle it more than she needed to she knew she had to get to him. They were no longer alone, and she needed to protect him from the approaching woman.

This was the woman that had spearheaded this whole malicious event. Kenna went to leap forward, but a hand firmly came upon her shoulder, keeping her where she was. She did not need to turn around to know who was behind her.

The colour drained from Kenna's face as the woman approached Beau, her hand extending out to him. Attempting to step forward again, Bjorn's hand held her back, keeping her in place. Kenna could not understand why he was stopping her. Refusing to take her eyes off her brother or the woman coercing him to join her, she could not turn around and question him. The worry that they would disappear if she did, seeped into her heart.

He answered her, but not in the way she had been expecting. This kid that she had grown up with had changed so much in such a short amount of time. What the hell had they done to him?

Not even with an ounce of hesitation, Kenna slapped the woman's hand away, "Fuck off," she said, "I'm not going anywhere with you." Fury bubbled under the surface, straining against Bjorn's hand. "And neither is he."

But it seemed like she did not have a say in the matter. Beau stayed by the woman's side, turning to leave. "No!" Not again. "No, no, no." She could not go through this. Not again. As her brother turned, so willingly, heading in the opposite direction, she made an attempt to leap forward, hand reaching out to pull him back. Bjorn's arm was around her faster, holding her tight to his chest, his other hand grasping at the blade still sticking out of her shoulder. A scream of pain and anguish erupted from her as she strained against Bjorn, the pain radiating down her arm. Her legs skidded against the ground, giving out, being held up only by Bjorn's arms.

"Beau!" Kenna's eyes burned with tears as she watched with blurred eyes her brother as he walked away with them. "Let me go!" she screamed at Bjorn through clenched teeth, nails digging into his arm, trying to claw her way out from his arm but also using his arm as a way to ground herself through the pain. "Please, let me go. I can't, not again. Please," she whimpered, desperate to be out of his hold.

Breathing heavily through her nose, Kenna's eyes stared daggers in the backs of the pair that left. She did not need to be told. The woman's face burned into her mind, the fire inside her ignited in a new direction. She had someone to blame, a face to put to the pain and the suffering. Gabriel. That woman was going to burn.

It did nothing to quell that ache in her heart of watching her brother leave. So willingly walking away. But Bjorn was right, finding him would be easier now, but what exactly did that mean of the world he had slipped into, that he was so willing to go back to it. He was not safe with them. She just wanted to bring him home. They would do it together. Bjorn would help her, so he says. How long would that last?

Her hand still clung to his arm, her frustration to get away from him turned into a clinginess to hold him tighter as he lowered her to the ground. Shifting his arm, Bjorn moved it towards her mouth, pulling her closer to his body, his secure hold oddly comforting as he instructed her about what was coming next. Her body trembled as her heart thrummed in her chest. It was too much. The pain in her chest, the pain down her arm, head aching as the adrenaline coursed through her body. As hard as it was to focus, she gave a small nod, her teeth grasping around his arm.

As the blade was pulled the teens' teeth clenched hard to the alphas arm, a scream echoing out around it as her eyes squeezed shut tightly, the pain becoming the only focus as it tore through her shoulder. The cry tapered off to a whimper. It had not taken much for her to break the skin of the alpha, and doing what she was told, Kenna drunk the crimson liquid down.

The girl winced slightly at the taste as it hit her tongue before an instinct that she never knew she had, took over. Taking long draws of the blood, she let it course through her, his other hand on the wound of her shoulder barely registered. It wasn't until he gently pulled her off his arm did she blink her eyes, coming back to her senses.

Kenna bit her lip, licking the last bit of blood on her lips before rolling her eyes and shaking her head at his comment, not finding the energy to bite back a retort. Closing her eyes as she tried to clear her head. It was all too much. Kenna's head clouded over with fog as the events of the evening replayed over and over. The offer of a drink was the only thing that cut through the mist in her brain. The teen gave a soft nod. She needed to get drunk.

 

[leviathan.]

theo fairchild.

canary

health bar

WHERE: Dockside > French Quarter
WITH: Eli
DOING: Getting the hell out of Dodge
CREDIT: c-home on ArtStation
PLAYLIST:

Theo was running out of patience.

Maybe, he thought, clenching his jaw as he received yet another errant blow to his side, jumping into a shitstorm of a brawl with no plan nor any preparations wasn’t exactly a stellar idea.

He narrowly avoided being bowled over as several shapes blurred past him, retreating, the force of their momentum almost toppling him back. He stumbled back before righting himself just in time for his sorry ass to catch a stray elbow in his face with an audible crunch.

Warm liquid started trickling down from his nose almost immediately, and Theo could taste the tang of iron seeping into his mouth, astringent and distinct. Spitting a battery of curses as he clutched his face with one hand, he ducked and shoved through the crowd trying in vain to catch the kids that weaved and bobbed through the mess of combat, wielding sharp slips of blade and blank, determined gazes, gaining several gouges and dents in his augs for his (unsuccessful) efforts.

Scratch that. This was definitely not one of Theo’s best ideas.

Letting out a growl of frustration, Theo briefly contemplated giving up being the white knight and booking it as planned before dismissing the thought out of hand when he reevaluated his situation — he’s made his choice, stupid as it was, and backing out now would just be wasteful after all the trouble he took to get here. Theo smoothly stepped over a slumped-over corpse as he waded further into the fray.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Dodging when he could, bracing when he couldn’t, Theo managed to catch one of the little buggers running rampant underfoot, metal arms coming up like iron bands around the struggling child. It was akin to holding a bad-tempered cat — Theo is abruptly reminded of his days in Chalmette when the strays in the alleys were in a particularly rancid mood — the kid (can’t be more than around 12, Theo mused, haggard but unusually built for his age) spitting and scratching and trying his damndest to get out of the hold.

“Stay still, ya brat. I’m trying to get you out of here,” Theo grit through his teeth in exasperation, struggling to keep his grip on the feral mite. Kids these days. Never know what’s good for ‘em, the damn ingrates.

In response, though, the little monster started fighting his hold even harder, damn it, kicking back with his surprisingly strong legs. One blow catches Theo perilously close on the inner thigh, just shy of making him a goddamn eunuch, and the idiot takes the opening and slips out of Theo’s arms and takes a running leap to stab at an errant beastie, apparently none the worse for wear.

God damn it.

His circumstances were rapidly changing for the worse — the wave of Templar forces overwhelmed him, and the beast faction was retreating with a vengeance; the Templars didn’t bother engaging him, seeing the glint of Seraphim tech on his body and cataloging as one of their own, while the immortal faction was...slightly less forgiving.

Better cut his losses at leave, Theo thought as he snatched two more kids from out under the chaos, though both struggled free at the last second.

“Well, this is what you get for trying to do something good.” Theo muttered to himself, preparing to turn tail and book it, augments heating up as he started to run from whence he came. He just wasn’t built for heroics — life time and time again had shown him that.

But something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention — a boy in bloodied clothes amid the combat, dodging claws and weapons as if on a search for something.

When Theo makes up his mind, there is little anybody can do to change it. But there was something about the kid that made his intuition twinge, something that made him want to make one last-ditch effort to save something, to have it not all go to waste.

A stinging slap on his face as he tumbled to the ground, helpless, the floor cold against his aching cheek.
Thelmetta’s voice ringing above him, furious.
“Can’t you be good for something, you idiot child? Just for once in your life,

Can’t you be something other than a waste of my damn time?”

Something snapped inside of him, a string under tension that broke with a deep twang, heating up his stomach and making his throat tight with the release of pressure that came with it.

Lunging towards the kid (up close, Theo sees him, covered in blood but somehow unwounded, and something in the back of his mind sits up with a surprised kind of pride), he snakes an arm around the boy’s collarbone, iron grip made stronger by his conviction.

“I see you’re doing well for yourself, kid,” He yells above the song of battle. “But this isn’t a place for brats. What say we get you the hell out of dodge, yeah?”

This one, he was sure, was different from the others. The others, Theo had noticed, even in the chaos, that most of the kids he picked up had a glazed look over their eyes, a mindless desire to carry out their objective, nothing like what a healthy brat was supposed to look like.

Something — or someone — had broken those kids beyond repair — beyond his, anyway.

But the kid he grabbed now — he had a shrewd sort of intelligence about him, something beyond his years — something that made his instinct sing, raising his hackles — this one can be reasoned with, but be careful be careful.

The smart ones are the ones you have to watch out for.

The kid froze under his grip, but quickly relaxed, seeming intrigued.

“Sounds good to me.” the boy replied, tossing...something at a reptilian werebeast that lunged at the both of them. “Where are we going, hm?”

Theo blinked, mildly stunned at the boy’s positive answer, though a little amused by his response — Isn’t anyplace better than this one? But he chalked it up as a victory, especially since he was profoundly lacking in wins as of late. Pleasantly surprised into silence, he followed the arc of the thing the boy had thrown at a nearby beastie — a little toy soldier it seemed, about the size of a finger — and watched, delighted, as it exploded on impact, eliciting shrieks as the space around them lit up at the discharge.

A bomb? The other kids Theo had seen had been armed with the traditional fare: sturdy-looking daggers, mediocrely-wrought swords, and the like. This was completely unique and reminded him of the inventions of his youth, only twice as lethal.

He knew this one was different.

Theo met the kid’s gaze appreciatively for a split second, letting out a low whistle as the twitching aftermath of the detonation gasped its last, quickly overwhelmed by the crowd of fighters around it.

“Damn. Looks like you got some tricks up your sleeve, brat.”

The kid gave a chuckle and smirked. “Damn straight I do, and if you think that was good, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, amused. Cocky one, wasn’t he?

As they drew closer to the brick-and-mortar street and farther from the center of the battle, the combatants thinned out considerably, though they were still obstructed by dozens of moving bodies nonetheless. Quickly, Theo made a decision, pulling the kid into his embrace, then heaving him onto his shoulders, all while barely breaking his stride, even managing a burst of speed — they were at the end of the tunnel, and like hell if Theo was gonna slow down now.

He glanced up at the boy on his shoulders, eyebrows raised in playful challenge.

“How about you clear the way forward? Got some more exploding soldiers on ya?”

“I have way more than that on me. One clean up, coming right up.” The kid replied, reaching into his bag and pulling forth what appeared to be an eye with appendages, along with various other contraptions he unhesitatingly threw at the enemies around them. In moments, the way was cleared, allowing Theo’s movements to become more and more unrestrained.

Above him came a childish laugh. “How’s that for a cleanup?”

Theo was reluctantly impressed.

“Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.”
“Thanks. You’re not too shabby yourself, you know.”

With a final burst of speed, his augments singing as he pushed his all-too-human legs to escape the entrenched throes of battle, and just in time —
by now, both sides were retreating, with the main players already long gone as far as he could tell, and the docks were rapidly thinning out, providing less coverage than before. And considering his unique status, Theo shudders to think about what could happen if he were spotted.

Gripping tight onto the kid’s legs, the pair made it to the French Quarter, which was near deserted due to the storm that had raged on as well as the fight on the docks. Tucking them both into a dim side-alley, Theo finally set the boy down and sank down to his knees, breathing in hard, short breaths as he recovered his strength. He had overestimated himself — it’d been a while, not a long while but a while nonetheless since Theo had seen major combat, and unfortunately, it showed. The night air was cool on his sweat-slick skin, and above them, the sky was a deep pitch, stars barely piercing through the blanket of smoke that permeated the city. After a few beats, the Templar’s breaths became regular, and the man’s gaze sharpened in clarity, turning to examine the boy with a dim curiosity.

He stood with a grunt and leaned down to the boy’s height, sticking a hand out with the utmost seriousness, though a crooked grin was threatening to break on his face.

“Seem to have forgotten my manners. The name’s Theo.”

Then he was struck with a realization and abruptly straightened up, a curse threatening to slip from his lips.

In the heat of battle, all he was thinking about was saving the kids. But now that he did manage to pull one out, what was he gonna do with them? Theo didn’t have any relatives or friends to hand the brat off to, orphanages were out of the question, and his workshop was definitely not safe for children.

He briefly flashed back to the exploding soldiers that the child had thrown in battle, presumably invented by the bugger himself.

Yep. It would be a disaster for any kid to enter his lab, but this one could do some catastrophic damage.

He scratched his nose in embarrassment, looking at the kid helplessly. Theo was truly at a loss.

He coughed.

“So, uh. D’you have a place to stay ‘round here?”

In the end, Theo wasn’t responsible for the kid. He got him out of a tough situation, and that was that. They could go their separate ways after this, even if the kid had no other place to go. His workshop was a sacred space, and no nosy kid was gonna enter and put their grubby little hands all over his work.

He resolutely did not meet the child’s gaze. Yep, this wasn’t his fault. No guilt, Fairchild. No guilt. Just two ships passing by in the night.

 

[Kittenbells407]

1. Elijah Kaylock.

   alias: The Tinkerer

   health bar

   WHERE: Alleyway in the French Quarter
   WITH: Theo
   DOING: Talking
   CREDIT:
   PLAYLIST:

   
   [*]
   [*]Ugh….this was why the young vampire hated and despised fighting. Everywhere he looked, some beast was trying to remove his head from his shoulders. Apparently, his latest stunt in taking down a centaur-like monster hadn’t gone over well with its comrades. This was ridiculous. Screw the fight, screw these monsters and screw the key for that matter! All that mattered to him was finding the girls and getting out of dodge. Perhaps what intel he did manage to obtain would lead them to figure out the mystery behind the key among other things.
   
   It had been months since he sent word to them at all for fear of being discovered. He was in enemy territory, after all and he was supposed to be as mindless and focused on the “mission” as the other children. Catching him attempting to send out a tell all later to his allies was out of the question, unless he was willing sit through countless hours of “torture” to renew the brainwashing. It was boring enough the first time and he couldn’t imagine sitting through it again. Plus, they may have come down harder on him the second time if he wasn’t careful….not a risk he was willing to take. However, because of his lack of contact, it was highly likely that the others would have assumed he had been killed and stopped searching for him all together. It was up to him to find them instead...which, judging by how things looked at present, would be like trying to locate a needle in a haystack.
   
   With an internal groan, he dodged through the crowd of monsters occasionally striking down anyone foolish enough to attempt to lash out at him. The knife he had used in his battle against the beast child back at HQ was still on his person and was a great way to bring certain foes to their knees given his height...or lack thereof and the back of one’s knee or their achilles tendon was the perfect target.
   
   He was about to duck under some hulking behemoth of a creature when something, or rather someone grabbed him from behind and bolted. So surprised was he that he remained motionless in the other’s grasp.
   
   “I see you’re doing well for yourself, kid,” His kidnapper...or perhaps saviour began, his voice resounding against the sound of battle as he spoke, “But this isn’t a place for brats. What say we get you the hell out of dodge, yeah?”
   
   Who was this person? He had no clue. The voice that spoke to him didn’t sound the least bit familiar, which led him to the next question on his mind: why? Why him of all people and how was this happening? One minute, he had been minding his own business and the next, he was quite literally swept off his feet and away from all the fighting….which was what he wanted in the first place technically...but where in the hell were they going and what was going to happen when they got there? Again, he had no idea. For all he knew he was going from the frying pan into the fire and this could have been a trap of some sort….yet, he didn’t feel that way about.
   
   Something about his “savior” intrigued him and now he was curious. What had the stranger been thinking to lead him to his current course of action? So many questions and no answers. Somehow and in a way he couldn’t quite explain, the stranger reminded him of Kes as well. Perhaps this was a good thing...and on the off chance it wasn’t, he still had his teddy and a few explosive toy soldiers among other colorful devices in his pack.
   
   “Sounds good to me.” He replied, tossing one of his exploding soldiers at a lizard-like monstrosity that attempted to give chase. “Where are we going, hm?”
   
   Something about Eli’s answer seemed to surprise his “saviour” and he couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps he had encountered one too many of the vegetable children and had gotten too used to their pathetic reactions to stimuli.
   
   “Damn. Looks like you got some tricks up your sleeve, brat.” Again he was reminded of Kes and he could help but smile and chuckle deviously.
   
   “Damn straight I do and if you think that was good, you haven’t seen anything yet.” It was the truth that he spoke. His bag was full of all sorts of goodies that he had been itching to try. He had nothing better to do at nighttime than to play around with his toys….and alter them in various fun ways. It wasn't necessarily like him to show off, but in this instance, he simply couldn't help himself.
   
   Eventually their frantic chase led them farther and farther away from the field of battle. Yet, there were still many obstacles in their way. Whoever this mystery saviour was, he certainly was very fast and very skilled….and very much a templar from the looks of things. Never in his wildest dreams did Eli think he would ever be accepting help and working alongside a templar of his own volition, especially not after one of them had attacked him in his home. Yet...this one was different from the others. He could sense it. His attitude was more crass--more brazen than a lot of the templars he had met in the past and there was something about him that screamed Kes to the young vampire.
   
   Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted mid-run when he found himself being hoisted onto the templar’s shoulders. At first, he panicked, but only briefly. No one had ever employed such a tactic before and he feared that he may lose his balance. It was a fleeting moment though as the other male glanced his way then, a playful expression on his face.
   
   “How about you clear the way forward? Got some more exploding soldiers on ya?” Was that a challenge? Seemed like it and he returned the gesture with a smirk of his own.
   
   “I have way more than that on me. One clean up, coming right up.” The gorgons and bats would do just fine. With that, he reached into his bag and pulled forth what appeared to be an eye with wings and feet. On its back was a key that he turned several times before releasing the toy into the air where it flew at the crowd and exploded as soon as it came into contact with some poor unfortunate lug’s face. It wasn’t the only one to do so and several others followed shortly after that after being wound into action by the young vampire. Bats and soldiers were next until the path was cleared.
   
   “How’s that for a clean up?” He asked, chuckling. Somehow, he was enjoying himself at that point in spite of his usual tendencies. Even though he had been alive for more than 200 years by that point, sometimes the child in him would show itself from time to time and perhaps this whole riding on someone else’s shoulders wasn’t such a bad thing. He hadn’t done so in so long that he had forgotten that he enjoyed it once upon a time when it was his father whose shoulders he was riding upon. Who would have thought shoulder riding could be fun and a useful battle tactic as well?
   
   “Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.” He couldn’t help but grin at the remark. It wasn’t everyday that he received praise, after all, especially not while he had been hiding out with the child soldiers. No, nothing was ever good enough for them and they were constantly pushing him and the others to be stronger and better. Some of the kids cracked under the pressure, but no, not Elijah. He was stronger than that, but in spite of that fact, he played along with their whims and their commands just like a good boy.
   
   “Thanks! You’re not too shabby yourself, you know.”
   
   With one final burst of speed, they were finally free of the battlefield, but the templar continued his run and did not stop until they reached the French Quarter. Once in the safety of the quarter and safely tucked into an alleyway, he was assisted off of the other male’s shoulders. Now free of his precious cargo, the Templar sank to his knees, breathing raggedly and covered in sweat. It was his way of taking a break and Eli wasn’t about to interrupt. Instead, he stood close by, keeping watch in case someone nefarious happened to pass by in that moment. A soldier was tucked away in his pocket for just such an occasion. Thankfully, it was needed and his new companion was quick to recover.
   
   With the moonlight beaming overhead, the two visually examined each other before his new companion finally knelt down to his level, presented him with a hand and introduced himself, “Seem to have forgot my manners. The name’s Theo.”
   
   “That’s ok. Not like there was time for manners anyway.” He replied with a chuckle as he shook the other male’s hand. Theo’s hand was massive in comparison to his own, but it didn’t stop him from trying anyway. “Nice to meet you. My name is Elijah, but you can call me Eli.”
   
   Instead of saying more, the older male’s demeanor suddenly changed. Instead of jovial like he had been earlier, he seemed….concerned all of a sudden. The sudden shift did not go unnoticed by the young vampire and he eyed his new companion through narrowed eyes. What was going on in his head, he wondered. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem good. The man was clearly at a loss and Eli didn’t quite understand why .
   
   “So, uh. D’you have a place to stay ‘round here?”
   
   He glanced about the alleyway as if searching for something and shrugged. “Can’t say that I do. Nope.” He replied, noting how the other male was suddenly refusing to look him in the eye. “Before you get any ideas about me, I’m not your average little kid, pal.” He smiled again, revealing his fangs. It wasn’t something he just revealed to any person, but now that he was in the other male’s company, he was reluctant to part company so soon. There were still many questions he had in mind that remained unanswered and if they parted ways now, he would never get the answers that he sought. Plus, he had to do something to pay his saviour back for all his hard work, right? However, he could practically see the wheels turning in the other man’s head and clearly it would take some convincing to prove that he wasn’t just some snot-nosed brat. “I am over 200 years old and I’ve been around the block quite a few times. My parents are dead. My sister is dead and my mentor is dead. I’m all alone now, so don’t get any bright ideas about dumping me in some orphanage somewhere because I've been there and done that a hundred times.” He explained, cuddling his teddy bear briefly like any normal small child would. “You swiped me off that battlefield, now you’re stuck with me, but don’t worry. I can handle myself well enough and I won’t be a burden to you in a way, you have my word.”
   
   
   [*]
   
   
   [*]

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

health 🙢 51/100

WHERE: The docks ⮚ The city streets
WITH: A spicy boy 🌶 ⮚ No one
DOING: (ง'̀-'́)ง ⮚ Looking for survivors
CREDIT: August Splitgerber

Before she could make to spring back to her feet, there came a sudden movement at her side. Esther looked, and her eyes widened at the sight of her opponent's lunging form. Then his weight was upon her, and her back was against the slats. Rain pattered her brow and a perfumed droplet slid from his face, falling upon her cheek. She could not lift the arm that still grasped the broom, for it was under his hand. In his vice grip she laid helpless as a caught butterfly, her mind aflutter.

Too near, too near. If she engaged him hand-to-hand, she couldn't overpower his arm; she needed to extract herself. If she could make him recoil but a little... only a little, but how? If she managed it, she could make use of the space to draw up her legs from under him and cast him off with her lower body’s strength. He was bound by a newfound urgency to finish her here; what had changed? What variable had come into play?

A blade drawn from his boot was rising above his head, poised to fall down into her heart. Her eyes flicked to the weapon in his grasp, and in this movement, she glimpsed an opening. The blade was beginning its descent when Esther's free hand flew to the sheath at her opposite hip. A familiar handle of dark bog-wood laid in wait, and to feel its gently sloped curvature resting against her palm again instilled within her an uncanny kind of comfort.

The long knife sang from its sheath to dart between them, pattern-welded steel shearing through the downpour and across the bright surface of the lamp in his breast. The pommel was driven hard into the flat of the blade in his hand and sent it skittering across the slick boardwalk. The weapon curved back round toward his face to drive him back; its clip point tip held a leaden, minatory gleam, like that of a crescent moon peering through a gloaming shroud.

Her opponent made to dodge the strike, though it was too slowly done. The blade caught him, biting into the flesh of his cheek. With a hissing breath drawn through his teeth, his knife-bereaved hand closed around her wrist. The soldier tightened his grip, meaning to loosen her grasp on the hilt and Esther, in turn, held fast and resolute.

They grappled on the slats in a close-quartered, desperation tinged struggle for the upper hand. As she pushed against him, arms straining, her knife began to tip and she was gripped with the awareness that she would soon be overcome. Her step was the fastest of the two, but when it came to raw power she could not match him. Her only chance was in breaking away.

Thoughts of allies flitted through her mind and she clung to them in that moment, reaching. She cast out her will to call for aid, but it was flung with all the uncertainty of a shot in the dark, and she could not say if it reached them. Mustering her strength, she was making to heave against him in a bid to free her lower half when a set of hands closed about her jaw, and she froze.

Her head was drawn forcefully back. She watched as the soldier's startled blue eyes snapped up to look upon the newcomer, and then past him to sweep their surroundings. The battle around them was invigorated by the arrival of new players on the scene, and she knew, without seeing, the nature of what had given her opponent pause. The cries of these reinforcements were highly-pitched, their pattering footfalls soft—they ought to have been sounding during play, not battle, she thought—and the new hands that assisted in binding her were far too small. These were captive youth, a thing suspected but unconfirmed until this very night, and they’d been sent to the slaughter.

The soldier leveled his stare with hers again, and she held it. The laceration he wore was weeping, dripping with the rain, the color of it stark against his pale skin. Her gaze brimmed with understanding at the horror transpiring on the field, and pain mingled with it as though she was the one wounded, not he. The knife had slipped from her hand, and the column of her throat lay bare and exposed, but he did not move to take up her fallen weapon. It was only at the urging of the boy-soldier that he was roused to action.

A high keening rose over the deluge, sounding clear as a bell to draw every eye in the vicinity, before a nearby warehouse was engulfed in an explosion great enough to be felt in the boardwalk beneath them. It trembled in the wake of the building's collapse, threatening to give way to the river below, and the weight of her opponent suddenly left her. Ears ringing faintly from the blast, Esther's last glimpse was of his suit-clad form rushing to enclose protectively about his young comrade. Seizing her knife, she rolled away and onto her stomach. When the slats held and it became evident the danger was passing them by, she leapt lightly back to her feet.

Hostilities were ceasing all round, yet the tension in her shoulders remained. Her focus rested upon the glass vial in Gabriel's gold and silver fingers, brow furrowed, until it was tucked away from sight. The archangel's show of bravado hardly registered. Esther was occupied with carefully committing the characteristics of the liquid within the glass to memory all the while, to be relayed later to the appropriate parties. The vial was gone almost as soon as it appeared; its carrier was departing and the Mephisto lifeblood went with her, just beyond reach.

Watching the woman's retreating figure, Esther quarreled with herself. Her grip tightened reflexively about the hilt of her knife. Then she drew in a long breath, held for several beats, and released it slowly into the warm evening air. Her blade was returned to its sheath at her hip with brisk decisiveness, and she turned her attention back to the shorn-headed fellow. Her opponent no longer—not for today, leastwise. Standing at a distance, eyes softened by concern flickered over the small form shielded beneath his body, scouring for signs of injury.

The younger of the pair shoved off the elder, proving himself still able of body, and her fears subsided. There was no fondness or camaraderie between them when they parted, trading words heated by contempt before making their separate ways toward the transport trucks that awaited them. She lingered for several moments more, surveying the strange scene in silence. She had never seen its like, the sight of so many small figures outfitted for battle in the company of these soldiers. It was enough to turn one's stomach.

Then she looked down at her makeshift weapon in disbelief. With the both of them having come out the other end of this looking only slightly worse for wear this broom seemed more than wood and bristle now; there was a feeling of good luck about it, too. Pensively passing a thumb over the hair-thin fracture running up the handle, she decided then and there to bring it along home with her. The repairs could easily be done by her own two hands. Its scrapping days were done, and now it would dwell in her house, where no more harm would come to it.

Her eyes lifted to regard the clouds of policemen filtering in and herding passerby away from the destruction on the boardwalk. Then she slipped quietly away, seeking refuge in the shadow of tarp-swathed hillocks of cargo, and picked her way back to the city streets.

 

[Luxura]

Alexei Pavlovsky

alias: CAIN

health bar - 50%

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Masked Assailant
DOING: Disengaging
CREDIT: maria_lahaine
PLAYLIST:

​

Nearly taken by surprise that he’d managed to land the flimsy blow to the assailant’s shin, Cain was slower to react than he should have been. The woman thrust the broom down with a white-knuckled grip to balance herself before she hit the boards, and this was where he should have moved to take her down. Instead, the Russian scrambled to right himself. The slick boards beneath pulled him down, and the suit was beginning to quickly lose its momentum. Heaving breaths, deep blue pierced the dark to read the dimly lit gauge and dial reader on his arm-- Not good. Furrowed brows and sneering lips, the Legionnaire only had another thirty minutes at most before the battery would be dead, and then he’d be stuck in the water against the others. He needed to finish her off, now! Every second wasted fighting this scullery maid was a moment lost to catching the Key!

As the lithe woman made to recover, Cain pushed his weight onto the balls of his feet and pushed, lunging forward and knocking her off the safety of her broom to pounce on top of her. Pinning the arm which held her weapon under his hand, nimble fingers reached back and pulled a blade from his boot, lifting it over his head to plunge down into her heart. In one swift motion, Cain slammed the knife downward, but it was the woman’s preternatural speed that saved her from harm. Like a lightning strike, her hand came up and across, slashing the blade from his own to skitter across the rain-soaked boards too far out of reach. How it happened he dared to question, but the answer came pointedly towards him as he looked after his weapon. The glint of light across the tip of the blade blinded his sight enough to catch its slim profile through the rain. The Legionnaire managed to turn his face away in time to avoid the impact, but not enough to save him from a slash across the pale of his cheek.
Grimacing with a forceful hiss between his teeth, the Russian latched around her wrist tightly, squeezing with all his mortal might in the hope her hand would lose the strength to hold the hilt and release. The pair of them locked against one another in a battle of push and shove.

“Here!”

At first, it wasn’t the clarion voice of youthful lilt that roused his attention off the woman, but the small gloved hands that wrapped themselves around her jaw to pull her head back, exposing her neck to him openly. Cain’s startled eyes flicked up, following the woman’s to meet those of a boy. No older than a decade in age, so it seemed; hair tousled and slick with rainwater--black as pitch. The blue eyes of a child looked back at him, not that of any Templar or immortal… these were the eyes of innocence lost. Eager but misguided…

Time seemed to still. Within himself, Alexei winced; a sudden ache forming in his breast. A cracking of his facade-- he swore he heard his own scream drowning in his ears.

Mortified, but holding still to his convictions, the Russian scanned past him upon the boardwalk battlefield, gazing over the soldiers that fought upon either side. Among them, all were other boys… just like him… Ready to face their end in the name of a Holy War.

Brows knit tightly together, though his expression anything but horrified, he looked down to the woman beneath him and met her stare; a choked breath passing from his lips. How had they got here? How had the world turned into such disarray that recruits were barely strong enough to hold a weapon, that to lay down their life before their voice’s cracked was an honour and privilege to some vacant God?

“Come on!”

Jolted, he knew not how long he had drowned in her eyes, but the shrill urgency of the boy was enough to snap his attention back to the waking nightmare around them.
Cain snarled, near spitting in the boy’s face as he snapped,

“Otvali!* I don’t need your fucking help!”

The roaring battle call of his Sister superior rang pure into the stormy air only seconds before an explosion rocked the pier, all eyes upon the warehouse as it began to crumble. Feeling the shockwave, and subsequent rumblings through the wood slats of the boardwalk, there was no hesitation as the Legionnaire leapt off his assailant and wrapped his arms around the boy, pushing him protectively down as he watched, heart racing, until the debris stopped falling. It wasn’t the building in the distance he worried for, but the collapse of the swollen boards into the swell of rushing waters below.
The collapse trembled the vicinity for several heart-clenching moments, but to the Legionnaire’s surprise, the boards refused to break. The boy beneath him remained still, both their breaths shivering against the rain and humid air, wide-eyed in waiting.
Ocean eyes turned upward, flicking across the bodies towards Gabriel as she hailed like a beacon in the dark, calling them home. This was not the conclusion he had hoped for… And it seemed they didn’t even capture their target either! He had been so close…

Catching Cain off-guard, the kid under him forcefully shoved the Russian off, surprisingly strong for someone so young. Both of them glowered towards one another, the youngster shaking his head with a petulant spit,

“Coward,”

Unbelievable! Ungrateful! And where the fuck were kids falling into this war, anyhow?

Cain growled, tempted to grab the kid by the throat and throw him into the water himself, but as he reviewed him again from head to toe, a tightness in his chest pinned him in place--a memory of a boy he used to know flooding behind blue eyes…

He would have said the same…

“Chtob u tebya hui vo lbu vyros!*” he snarled under his breath.

With the boy stormed away, the Legionnaire groaned as he clambered to his feet. Catching the dial indicator, the suit was nearly depleted of stored battery, and with no more fight in him, Cain flicked the switch beneath his core to power the suit down into stasis, letting the full weight of it sit squarely upon his shoulders with a grimace.
Near to him, the woman still lingered, her mysterious eyes still dark and narrowed, assessing him. Rainwater collected traces of cinnamon, wove down into the blood of his cheek so a new burning could take hold. With a disgruntled sigh, he thought of complimenting her ability to hold up against him with only a broom and a knife… but thought better of how it may look poorly upon his own strength not to have beaten her so easily. Decidedly, instead, he collected his dagger a few feet away and continued towards the trucks without a second glance. He’d see her again--that was a certainty.



*"Fuck off."
*“May a dick grow on your forehead.”

 

[nighteyes]

Sister Aglaé

JEANNE D'ARC

health 60/100

WHERE: The docks
WITH: Holly Wilshire, Beau Desmarais and co
DOING: ᕙ(`▽´)ᕗ ⮚ Returning to headquarters
CREDIT: Arthur Rackham

A queen’s blood ran down the length of the undulating blade. In the gloom, it looked dark as pitch against the sword’s pale blue hue, and she felt a flicker of surprise at seeing it. The sentiment, she found, was mutual, when her opponent touched her cheek and her fingers came away red. Her cheek quickly set to undoing the damage done; the wound sealed itself, and she could only look on with a kind of morbid wonderment as the woman’s flesh stitched itself back together. In mere moments, she had achieved a thing that would have spanned weeks for mortals. By some fluke or strange stroke of luck she’d managed to draw first blood, but all evidence of it would soon be swept away.

Ségolène eyed her with growing trepidation, this woman with a new playfulness glimmering in her gaze who spoke as if this were a game or a sparring match between comrades, not a matter of life and death. Her attention never faltered as she stepped slowly away, considering her next course of action. She then stooped down, deliberate, and took up the discarded short sword where it lay near her feet, returning the weapon to its sheath.

The woman beast paced back and forth across the slats. The sound of her heels upon the wood was a dull, steady menace masked by the cacophony of rainfall, her stare keen and considering. Looking down the length of the blade, the sword in her hand followed Maeve Donovan's every measured step. Another streak of lightning overhead flashed nearly bright enough to dazzle, and as the storm illuminated the boardwalk in its strange light, she rapidly blinked the faint spots at the fringes of her vision. The thunderclap that followed seemed to reverberate in her very bones.

She checked again on her breathing, and found it too quick; she willed the ebb and flow of the air in her lungs to remain even. Ségolène could not recall when she last struggled so with finding that place of calm within herself. It was avoiding her reach, slipping like water through her fingers; but true combat was a far cry from a sparring session, she knew this. Untold hours spent preparing her for the fleeting moments, the ones that mattered most in the end; they would determine if she would walk back to the ship or be carried there.

Even while she readied herself for another advance, she was tugged by the sobering knowledge that her best would not be good enough, nor did she know if it would even keep her alive. Her opponent's blows had chided her as one might with willful youth, and maybe that wasn't too far from the mark. For all the time Ségolène had sacrificed - toiling on her footwork until walking itself seemed foreign to her feet, nursing bruises and pulled muscles, waking up flat on her back after shirking rest too much - what was that to centuries? For the Order there was strength in numbers, but here she stood alone - or so she had believed.

The battle raged about them still, and the mingled, motley noise of it had almost seemed separate, untouchable, until a small figure came at her opponent with weapon bared. Eyes wide, she started forward in alarm. One hand had left the hilt of her sword, instinctively outstretched; to do what, she did not know. In horror she watched the other woman strike him hard across the face with a crack she almost felt, and her intake of breath was sharp as he fell. She moved to go to the boy's aid, but she was held at bay when Maeve Donovan raised a single finger, a silent entreaty.

She held herself at a distance, hackles still raised, as her opponent knelt down beside his motionless form. Her eyes went to the hand that had been laid across his small chest to check his welfare, and when she saw it rise and fall, relief swept her like a draft. In that moment, she was struck with the realization that she could have gone forward and made to bring her weapon down across her neck as she bent over the boy - but at risk of injuring him.

She stayed rooted in place. As the woman rose to her feet, Ségolène met the other woman's gaze again. At her prompting, she nodded once. It was a simple gesture, a dip and lift of the chin, but the movement - and her choice to wait until her opponent was ready again - were both marked by respect. She thought of Bay, then; of how they'd gotten into the greatest row of their lives when she told him of her transfer from the French Chapter, and even then, he'd still gone with her to recover the sword that rested now in her hands. If there was no hope of her gaining the upper hand, then she would fight to ensure he wouldn't lose her to this war as they’d lost father.

The beast had slid to retrieve her fallen weapon, and when she pushed back up off the slats, Ségolène did not stumble or shy away. With a swell of adrenaline like a headwind beneath her feet she picked up speed, rain trailing behind her from her armor, and lunged. Her blade came down, cutting quick through the air with as much force as her limbs could muster.

She bore down upon her opponent with newfound vigor. Though purely on the offense, she did not chance upon the same luck. The other woman yet remained a step ahead, skirting every advance with ease, and showed little sign of being run down. From this dance Ségolène gathered that she had caught on to the true purpose behind the blade's craftsmanship, and wisely avoided parrying it with her twin weapons. She understood that doing so would have wakened the blade and made it sing in a pitch meant for unnaturally keen ears alone.

Emboldened by every dodge, Ségolène pressed on, remaining a determined hindrance at her heels. In the face of disadvantage she had found a semblance of her stride. She was adapting, versing herself in the new language of this woman's tactics, so she was not entirely caught off guard when she sidestepped the blade and lashed out.

A leg arched, smooth and swift, to come down bodily upon the elbow of her right arm - her sword-arm. Its aim was precise and calculated, meant to remove her from the fight altogether. Maeve Donovan was not troubling herself with swordplay; she was striking at the heart of matters.

A little panicked, Ségolène dipped in a desperate bid to avoid taking the full and and unbridled blunt of the blow, but the force of it reverberated throughout the flesh and metal of her being, and she discerned the outer guard whimpering beneath the strain. Even after reinforcement her joints were places of vulnerability, and she, with a glimmer of frustration, knew her response had only highlighted that weakness. The strike would have left a noticeable dent, and had she not acted accordingly, the automaton beneath would have sustained damage, certain as the sunrise. She willed her fingers to flex, and they responded in kind; the arm beneath was functional yet, obeying her commands.

Her left hand fled the longsword's hilt to seize the other woman. Gauntlet-clad fingers wrapped around her ankle. Then her grip began to tighten, clamping down fast in a vicious shackle's hold with rapidly increasing force.

Helm turning, she sought out the Queen's gaze. Within her own, under a flicker of lightning and brows drawn together, there blazed a cool ferocity in her glower to rival that of her bestial foe. Silver limbs embossed with whorls polished bright by the deluge moved concurrently. The left gave a sharp twist of the hand in an earnest attempt to sprain muscle, if not snap bone outright. Her hips angled with the movement of the right as her sword-arm was pulled back beneath her opponent's captive leg, meaning to draw the waved blue blade deep through the flesh of her calf.

In one instant there was a woman in her grasp, and in the next, there was something in between. Quicker than a beat of pitch wings against the air, the beast beneath showed itself at last, bursting from beneath the woman’s skin before she could so much as think to react. A powerful beak ripped the sword from her grasp, casting it aside, and then whipped back around, open wide and reaching for her helm.

She almost shit herself at the sight. When the ravenwoman made a snapping pass at her helm, she instinctively recoiled. Maeve’s leg slipped from Ségolène’s grasp, though not unscathed. She favored it as she stumbled back, and a faint keening rose from the depths of her throat. Waves of shock washed over Ségolène as she looked upon this partial transformation, open-mouthed behind her lowered visor. It was impossible - or, rather, a thing she hadn’t known to be possible until now. Her eyes flicked to her long sword, lying too far away.

All thoughts concerning her next course of action fell to the wayside at the blast that shook the boardwalk to its very foundations. She wavered on her feet while the slats trembled in their holdings, and she sank, kneeling. Ségolène could only look on in stunned apprehension when the warehouse collapsed, threatening to take the docks-and everyone upon them-with it into the river. When all was still again, the archangel Gabriel’s voice sounded through the deluge.

It was over. At one word, the gleam of drawn weapons was snuffed and combatants on either side stood down. Ségolène’s shadowed gaze swept over the scene,and then she raised her gauntlets, and carefully maneuvered her helm from her head. Rain soaked quickly through the linen of her head coverings and swept beads of sweat from her temples. Her elfin and rosy face held a stone’s warmth; the beginnings of a frown drew at her mouth as she regarded the fair-haired beast, and a wary kind of understanding shone dimly in her expression.

Finding her way back to her feet, she went to reclaim her sword where it lay wet with rain. She bent, picking it up with great care, and the hilt slipped from her grasp. Blinking, she made to take it up a second time, but then as before, the weapon fell from her hand with a clatter. Swallowing a growing sense of alarm, she attempted to close the hand of her sword arm into a fist, but it did not respond. The fingers merely trembled, half-curling, before straightening again, and then ceased moving altogether. Fighting to remain calm, she used her left arm to return the blade to its sheath. The right hung at her side in rest.

As she jogged toward the collapsed heap of the warehouse, her one good arm laden with her helm and damaged crossbow, she cast a single glance over her shoulder at the Queen. For all that she’d done during the battle, Ségolène could not shake the strong suspicion that the woman had been restraining herself.

On account of her injury she was shooed away more than once by comrades in arms when she attempted to assist in the retrieval of their priest from the debris. She could only observe from the sidelines, biting her lip while she stood by fretting and feeling profoundly useless. While they bore him away to a transport she walked near to hand, mouth moving in soundless prayer. Then she turned away, eyes downcast. She began to make her way back to the vehicle that had brought her there, and found herself several paces behind her commander. With a clouded brow, Ségolène eyed the boy tucked into her side.

​

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

Maeve Donovan

Phoenix

health bar

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Ségolène
DOING: Having
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: ♔

Her thumb absently ran over the velvet, viscous liquid on her fingertips as it mingled with the downpour as her other hand lowered to sheathe the karambit into its holster. Teeth were bared in what would be in any other situation a pleasant, delighted smile. On the Irishwoman’s face, while the rain washed away the blood, it was sarcastic and demeaning. A taunt and a threat for her opponent to approach. Through her nostrils, she filled her lungs deeply with the scent of the mixture of viscera and rain in the air, the taste of it fresh on her tongue. Her eyes closed as she took in the sounds of the battle around her, oddly meditative within her natural habitat. When they opened again, they set on the woman who’d taken the moment to retrieve her shortsword and return it to its home within her hand. Maeve’s hips led her movement as she swung her body to her right, taking a few steps only to turn about and pace as she considered the Templar before her. Behind the Sister, a familiar curved blade glinted in shifting lights of the Templars around them and their various electric and steam-powered armaments.

The blonde was tempted to make a mad dash for it, but she was reminded of the children on the battlefield. One ran towards her, hardly out into his adolescence, as sought to lodge his blade deep in her side. However, he was too slow. Her arm swung back and it came down hard across his face, knocking him to the ground with a loud crack. Her left hand went up to the woman across from her, a finger held to pardon herself for the moment to check over the child. The knife had fallen from his hand. She took a moment to kneel down and check his chest, her hand resting over the cavity. It lifted steadily in perfect rhythm to sleep. Relief exited in a short huff. He’d be bruised from the hit, and it was far from one of her prouder moments.

Pressing against her knees, she lifted herself before taking a step forward and over the comatose child. “Truly, this is embarrassing for us all,” she sneered, kicking the knife far from his reach. Her hands lifted to push the sopping locks of platinum back, smooth against her scalp, then wiped the rain from her eyes. “Shall we?”

Moving in swiftly, she feinted a step to the right before adjusting to the left before dropping into a slide, her body carried by the slick surface of the boardwalk to the lost karambit. On her knees, she grabbed at it and pushed up and off again, hoping to yet again knock the woman off her balance, and onto her silent, mechanical ass. However, she was steady on her feet. The Sister was a warrior yet. Maeve had to appreciate the resolve of her opponent, the steadiness of her bearings. She wouldn’t be able to knock her down as she had hoped, and instead had narrowly dodged another swing of her sword, going down to her knees to slide away from the arcing blade. Amidst the downpour, she could feel the air as it cut the empty space far too close to her shoulder.

From behind her, there was a commotion. Jack. She looked over her shoulder, but it was too late, he was gone. Spinning around, she saw him dashing away with Seiko. Confusion masked by frustration. Danger could be following them closely, but she trusted the Stag’s instincts and abilities unlike any other. But now a valuable piece was off the board and, in his absence, she could truly invest in the battle before her.

On her feet again, the sword continued to follow her, but she moved her body smoothly to avoid being slashed. A grunt escaped through her mouth, frustrated beyond words as the movements came faster, and her transitions from one motion to another seemed nearly effortless. The young woman was skilled, and that made it difficult. Remaining on the defensive would only get her so far, and the Queen would have to attack at some time. She pulled the twin karambit from its holster and tightened her grip around each of them, but she wasn’t foolish. Maeve was horribly outmatched in terms of weaponry. They’d do nothing against that sword, but if she could get close enough…

The blade came at her wide, slashing through the air like the dark crescent of a waning moon. The ravenwoman weaved away from it, sidestepping and thrusting her leg at the dominant arm which carried the weight of the sword. Her leg arced through the air, colliding against the joint of the Sister’s elbow. A shout erupted from the back of her throat as her leg followed through with the force behind the kick. Her leg landed, hard and painfully against the strength of the metal. It hadn’t the full effect she’d hoped for, but damage to the augmentation had been sustained all the same. She just needed to keep going, keep fighting this out until it was over. They’d finally found a home, a *home* and it was being stripped from them every second they fought on. She couldn’t let this haven in the world be lost to them, her kin and the leeches taking a stand beside them. Another kick is all it would take, another shot to the weakened limb and she could move on.

The Sister was distracted, taking inventory of the damage, swiftly now!

In the middle of the air, as her leg struck out, her ankle was caught in a tight metallic grip. Surprise shot through her in waves, and for a flickering second fear. Beneath the helmet, she could see the glare leveled at her. In turn, the Irishwoman felt awash with rage, and hell hath no fury as the Harpy scorned. The rain and battle about them became a muffled buzzing, annoying as mosquitos. There wasn’t much she could do, but she’d be able to do enough given her circumstances.

Her ankle was turned in her enemy’s hand and she turned her body to match the angle to compensate, hoping to avoid a break. She grunted through the pain, her face contorted, but a glint caught her attention. The blade was coming, and there was nothing she could do as she was.

Bone seemingly erupted beneath the skin of her mouth, shredding it from the bridge of her nose to the corner of her ear, down to the base of the blonde’s jaw. It pushed away her skin in a gruesome display as her blackened beak formed and elongated, opening to catch the blue longsword between the powerful mandibles. With a sudden twist of her own, she ripped the weapon from her opponent’s hand and jerked her head to toss it away. The sword abandoned, the blonde swung her head back and snapped at the helmet. Her leg was released, she stumbled back a dull screech at the back of her throat from the pain as she put weight on it. She’d have to stomach through this. Irritable, the Queen resisted the urge to peck at the Sister’s helmet and rip her armor apart until it was rendered utterly useless

An explosion snapped her back to the moment, and she turned as a building collapsed under the weight of destruction it had amassed. It was quickly followed by a bellowing boom through the downpour and thunder, but it rang clear from Gabriel as it would from the Archangel’s own trumpet. Her beak receded, and skin fell back into place as muscles reorganized it was slow and painful. Maeve rolled her jaw as she realized so easily the battle that the Templars had started had ceased, but she started forward when she saw what was drawn out of the bitch’s pouch with her scathing remarks. Her eyes darkened as they followed the Templar General.

“You are certainly correct about one thing,” she sneered darkly, her eyes following where the vial rested. “‘This is far from finished.’”

Looking around, she surveyed what was left of the boardwalk and its contents. Virtually nothing made it away unscathed, not her people, not the Vampires, and not the Templars nor the children that had joined them in the fray. The blonde swallowed as she observed the destruction and death. She didn’t even care about the city officials coming towards the scene, or the unrest that would follow. Two months without running. Two months without fighting. Two months of peace. Was it all for nothing? This would turn this city inside out and they’d be expelled. Again.

“Beasts,” she commanded firmly, “to the Canine.”

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

health 🙢 45/100

WHERE: The city streets ⮚ The Brass Canine
WITH: No one ⮚ Nascha
DOING: Making a new acquaintance
CREDIT: August Splitgerber

Through rain and under cover of shadow, battle-weary and with thoughts astir, Esther picked her way back to the streets. Wood slat gave way to stone beneath the measured step of her boot. Before the waterfront was out of sight she did cast one last glance behind, a lingering look, to take stock what was left in the wake of the evening's skirmish.

The river was well behind when she removed her shawl and freed her face, reaching up to sweep clinging locks of wet hair from her crinkled brow. She'd had half a mind to carry herself home straightaway, but did not, and kept on. Walking down the streets of a city benighted, a city where confusion and uncertainty was now as a whisper on the air, she went amongst those who were out braving the rain. Some, she gathered, were unburdened still, oblivious yet to what had transpired while others spoke of it in hushed tones. Soon the whole city would know.

With her heart quieted and the threat gone, she was beginning to truly feel the fight. Her shoulders dipped of their own accord and there was the faint beginnings of soreness in her limbs, no doubt brought on by throwing herself headlong into combat after neglecting practice. She would be well again soon, and not have any bruises to show for it when morning came.

The thought of morning stoked a new flicker of trepidation. All was changed and there was work to be done, but she reasoned it could wait until tomorrow. For the meantime, the threat had been beaten back. What remained of the day was for the catching of breath and the regaining of bearings, and so she was resolved to rest and not dwell too long on the future.

While she was occupied at the waterfront, Jack had managed to slip away from the scene to places unknown. She had not seen hide nor hair of him since, but the Order had departed with empty hands and there were many bent on keeping them that way. Esther trusted in that as much she could, though she knew her concerns would not be fully laid to rest until she set eyes on her friend again.

They would need to reconvene. Her inkling as to where it would be had been confirmed by the raven queen at the boardwalk while she was taking her leave, the words made faint by distance but unmistakable. So the Canine, the gathering place that took all kinds, was where Esther believed she would to find the players from the fight safe and well. To her knowledge none on their side had fallen in the field, and the surprise of it still prickled. She had set foot there fearing all was lost and then some; she had believed the worst, and the worst had not come to pass. She'd been wrong, and she was glad of it. A new feeling akin to the rustling of wings was nestled behind the cage of her ribs, near to unfurling; a shape like hope. Could she dare kindle it?

“Can I take you someplace, missy?“ called a carriage driver from the street. The vehicle was parked at the pavement's edge; the man stood tending his horse, and both were outfitted for the weather, taking shelter under a generous eave. In many places the world over where industry reigned, carriages powered by beasts of burden could still thrive on novelty.

She glanced down at herself, dripping with rain and unkempt, and supposed she had the look of someone who might need assistance. “The rain doesn't bother him?” Esther inquired, looking inquisitively to the horse.

“Him?“ said the driver, patting his companion, who gave a flick of the tail. ”Quite likes it, as a matter of fact. Part fish, I reckon. Even so, that being the case, with the weather not lettin' up I was about to call it quits for the night.“

Esther began to reach for her coin purse, and then remembered herself. “I am lacking funds, I'm sorry to say,“ she answered, conscious of the broom's weight in her hands.

He waved away the matter of money as though it were a moth flitting uninvited about his face. “I'll give you a lift all the same.“

“Truly?“

“My good deed for the day, and last ride for the evening,“ the driver said, smiling beatifically. “I take around lots of folks, but I wouldn't say I get a foreigner in my carriage every day. Seems to happen more often now, though. Maybe in recompense you can tell me where you're from, and where you're bound.“

She nearly relented. “Would that I could, sir,“ Esther replied, gratified as she returned his smile. “But I would sooner walk; I ought to, I think, to keep in step with my thoughts, or they may run away from me. Another time, let's say.“ She then bid him a good evening and wished him safe passage, and with a polite inclination of the head, took her leave. What was a little more rain when she was already soaked to her very soul? This was not the bitter type found in the British Isles, either.

Soon she was within a stone's throw of the Canine, where she stood outside wringing water from her dress and shawl. She'd had no choice but to bin the last parcel of spices on the way there, as it had been soiled by the weather, and she was still lamenting the loss. Letting the hem of her skirt fall about her boots, she smoothed it with her hands and twisted this way and that to give it a once over when she saw it was now sporting a long, gruesome tear.

A pained noise sounded in her throat. “Oh, confound it.“ Upon closer inspection, she found another tragedy. The seam running up the side of her bodice had also given way. This dress had stood the test of time, but the poor thing simply hadn't been meant to endure the rigors of combat. She loosed a sigh and gave a shake of her head, frowning while she pinched the fabric between her fingers.

She could hardly think it was better for the garment to wear the wound rather than her own flesh, not when she knew that any laceration to her own person would close now without mark; she could not say the same for a dress. This was beyond mending. This had been her best, the one that showed the least amount of wear, and now... well, now she would have to retire it, what else could she do?

Esther was grousing under her breath and may have been murmuring a few untoward words wishing ill on the clothing of bristle-headed men in metal suits when she looked up and for the first time took note of the other woman in her company. She started, blinking and wide-eyed, and realized that under a veneer of blood and a mysterious smeared something she was in nature's own, bare as the day she was born.

“O-Oh,“ was the best she could manage, taken off guard. All else aside, Esther knew her; she had been present in the parlor and on the docks, too, but here she looked worse for wear. “How do you do,“ she said, “We've met before, haven't we? May I help you?“ She stepped forward, drawing nearer with the shawl of floral-printed challis in hand. It was a poor substitute for a coat, but it was a sizeable swath of fabric and retained warmth even when damp, and so she extended it to her in offering.