Echowrites
Pen nibbler
Willow Ashmaker
Several mistakes were made today. Coming here was certainly one of them.
The dusty wind tasted Willow hungrily as she clicked her tongue and lifted her arm the fifth time this hour to check the leather-strapped timepiece. The last slivers of dying light beat their retreat back beyond the horizon that she'd fixed her eyes on, anxious for any sort of figure to break into view. But all that lingered in the air were the cries of braggard magpies, croaking in their little communities about their day's haul. Twenty past the agreed time, now. That seller's lucky that the custom plant pots they put up were cute, or she would have been gone in ten. The neighbourhood itself too, was quite the miserable dump; very much so in the literal sense. What sort of Craigslist seller would ask to meet near a junkyard? Maybe she got the address mixed up. No, incredibly unlikely, considering that she's triple checked the given location and looked it up a day prior. Ten more minutes and no flowerpot made of gold would tarry her any longer.
The sun was almost entirely swallowed by the oblivion of night now, Monet-brushed sunset giving way to a prussian sky that heavy-handedly suffocated all opposition to its rule. The sounds of magpies were all but gone, in their place a distant, cacophonic medley of steel-on-steel, with the musicians no doubt the metal giants that toiled on long after the workers had left for the night. Another check of the wristwatch- five minutes to seven-thirty. Perhaps it was paranoia, but everything about this contributed to a growing unease that gnawed away at the pit of her stomach.
Then, a subtle, yet unmistakable flickering of wings.
Willow's stomach clenched. The machines continued to groan, all trace of what she heard now no longer detectable by the ear. But the air--
The air carried the scent of danger.
She could feel famished eyes focused on her as she calmly ran through her options in her head. Her car was parked a little too far away. Likely the fastest route towards it would be to cut through the junkyard, rather than circle it. It would also provide enough cover and spaces to phase through to throw most pursuers off her trail long enough for her to navigate to the junkyard's other exit. The downside though, to this plan, would be the general lack of greenery typically present within a a place made to hold car and furniture scraps. The area was surveyed briefly, her pretending still to be looking out for a Craigslist seller that she was now aware likely never existed. Nothing to drain energy from down the other routes either-- making her present plan the most reasonable one.
Prey become easy pickings when they show weakness, you know. They act in panic and bolt for it without a second thought. The faster one runs, the more eager the pursuit of the predator that feeds off the thrill of the chase, savouring the despair that begs and strangles the prey to give to give in to. They've let their hunter know that there is nothing to be feared from them and that's what kills them: by throwing their shot away in the face of fear. But none of that will be happening here, of course; Willow slid her hands into her pockets, and, at a leisurely pace, turned and strode into the junkyard. The pair of eyes glowering at her appears yet to realise that she was aware of their existence, and the element of surprise is a valuable card to have on hand.
It was almost tranquil, the way heaps of scraps and junk, some sorted into stacks and others haphazardly shrewn about, towered over her with the moon as a harsh backlight, captive audience watching the events of the night unfold. Gathering she likely only had a minute or so of wandering at best-- rogue blood-sucking bastards rarely having the patience or etiquette their more refined, civilised fellows had-- her eyes wandered quickly in search of favourable terrain. Whatever that's got her in their sight appears to have let down their guard, now, and she could hear poorly concealed scraping of feet on sand from a rather rough, but close, landing behind several stacks of old cars that'd definitely seen better days. Well, hopefully she'd make it back in time to start work on priming her canvas for next week's in-studio live painting session. It was go time.
Quickly making contact with the rusted over handle of a car from the closest stack to the humanoid creature, the other half of the car turned to silvery liquid; the stack hovered uncertainly for a split second before deciding on a collapse amidst a screech of confused rage. That would stall the vampire for only fifteen seconds at best, but it ought to be enough. Cool metal on skin for a second or two, and Willow was through the opposite stack and making a break for it as fast as these darned Doc Martens would carry her. Already she felt as though she had been punched in the gut; metal generally took more out of her to manipulate, let alone phase through completely. While she was generally also quite the appreciator of Pollock's works of art, but the further into the heart of the junkyard she stumbled, the fact that it was an abstract splatter of a labyrinth won her situation absolutely no points.
B-minus for that escape attempt. If this was an exam her dean's list spot was absolutely at risk.
Her pursuer remained persistent, trailing like a hungry canine, and yet keeping a healthy distance. Funny. Do they think they're playing with their food? Cold metal contacting her skin again, and she goes right through, gulping in deep breaths, her lungs screaming for air, limbs aching from the force of phasing through metal again. And then it clicked -- they were waiting to tire her out, either through stamina or frequent use of abilities.
You sly, blasted mosquito. Sure enough, a dismissive cackle came from behind her as she cursed inwardly. The vampire had not counted on her being a hallow, but through sheer coincidence the grounds of the battle were terribly unfavourable for her own life-draining abilities; all around the rundown remains of urban society, devoid of plant or animal life, jeered at her unceremonious return to what was very much an ordinary young woman. There was only one moving thing from which draining life from would be an option, except it also wasn't. Vampires were, quite literally, undead after all. Willow had miscalculated how complex the layout of the junkyard would be, and it was going to cost her.
She should've just taken up the offer to use the studio's pottery kiln instead.
Arming herself with a crusty, tarnished bit of pipe that she gingerly picked out of scrap by her feet, she steeled herself for the fallout, only to hear another dragging of feet across sand in her immediate, out-of-sight vicinity. Accomplices? How long had the person been there, watching her? But they could have struck me while I was looking for something to fight with if they'd been lying in wait, she reasoned. Which means-
Nose inhale. Nose exhale. The tension within her was gone, in its place a slight grin of amusement at the absurdity of the situation.
"Well, stalker, are you going to help me or not?"
coded by: @s e v e n
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