COMPLETE | bloodlust of the purest sort
Who: Scathach [ spadassin ] & Namae [ feverhound ]
What: Violence is awesome, so are crazy people. (Or vampires.)
Where: Around the streets.
When: After the redzone lockdown, a bit before the city goes BOOM.
The beauty of violence, you see, lies in the emotions, in the little details like the brilliant red of blood, the tiny and obscene noises, the display of viscera and bone -- the smallest intricacies. But the thing is, one needs a clear mind to fully appreciate it. And a clear mind was not something that Namae had at the moment. (Not that he ever did, but there was always a difference between permanent insanity and this sudden lapse of clear thought.)
It hurt, it hurt, it felt like his head was going to split open, felt like he'd buckle over and vomit his guts over the pavement -- felt like he'd explode, unless he got to something else, first. A series of half-staggering, half-lunging steps, almost drunken -- before he broke out into a low run, lips curved in a snarl as dark eyes scanned the streets, searching for something, anything to destroy. (Something alive, something that would bleed. He needed to feel that sense of control, that sense of living -- needed to prove that he wasn't dead yet. The only reason he had survived this far.)
A lurching halt, and the sound of concrete shattering, glass splintering, iron bars bending -- he'd smashed the end of the lead pipe in his hand against the window of the nearest building -- the tiniest relief, before the tearing in his skull started up once more. And the shortest pause -- leaning against the wall, eyes narrowed and breathing detiorating into harsh pants -- greedy for air. (And for the smell of blood. Oh, it was there, in the air -- no doubt there were others in the city having fun with this opportunity -- but where were they, he wanted it, needed it -- craved it.)
"Fuck." Muttered darkly under his breath, before he started down the street once more, the end of the lead pipe dragging against the ground, heralding the harsh grind of metal against concrete. Desperate, almost, for something -- anything. Like an addict, starving for the sight of murky red. (Perhaps even his own.)
What: Violence is awesome, so are crazy people. (Or vampires.)
Where: Around the streets.
When: After the redzone lockdown, a bit before the city goes BOOM.
The beauty of violence, you see, lies in the emotions, in the little details like the brilliant red of blood, the tiny and obscene noises, the display of viscera and bone -- the smallest intricacies. But the thing is, one needs a clear mind to fully appreciate it. And a clear mind was not something that Namae had at the moment. (Not that he ever did, but there was always a difference between permanent insanity and this sudden lapse of clear thought.)
It hurt, it hurt, it felt like his head was going to split open, felt like he'd buckle over and vomit his guts over the pavement -- felt like he'd explode, unless he got to something else, first. A series of half-staggering, half-lunging steps, almost drunken -- before he broke out into a low run, lips curved in a snarl as dark eyes scanned the streets, searching for something, anything to destroy. (Something alive, something that would bleed. He needed to feel that sense of control, that sense of living -- needed to prove that he wasn't dead yet. The only reason he had survived this far.)
A lurching halt, and the sound of concrete shattering, glass splintering, iron bars bending -- he'd smashed the end of the lead pipe in his hand against the window of the nearest building -- the tiniest relief, before the tearing in his skull started up once more. And the shortest pause -- leaning against the wall, eyes narrowed and breathing detiorating into harsh pants -- greedy for air. (And for the smell of blood. Oh, it was there, in the air -- no doubt there were others in the city having fun with this opportunity -- but where were they, he wanted it, needed it -- craved it.)
"Fuck." Muttered darkly under his breath, before he started down the street once more, the end of the lead pipe dragging against the ground, heralding the harsh grind of metal against concrete. Desperate, almost, for something -- anything. Like an addict, starving for the sight of murky red. (Perhaps even his own.)