The secret side of me, I never let you see//I keep it caged but I can't control it
WHO: Hidaka Ken (bloodandclaws), OPEN
WHAT: Hunting dark beasts B)
WHERE: Slums
WHEN: Nighttime
A deeper shadow darted through the darkness of the slum district, following a particular stumbling form, a drunken man who had caught the attention of the shadowed hunter.
He seemed like a promising target. Though there hadn't been any cause yet for the shadow to attack...silver blades glinted briefly. He'd be ready, if the man did slip. And if he didn't, well...there were others. There were always others.
But Siberian had picked the right man to follow. He'd been the loudest and most belligerent in the bar--he'd nearly started a brawl then and there, and had been kicked out for his trouble. And now, well. The poor woman passing by got leered at, and the drunken asshole turned around and started stumbling after her.
He barely even got to grab her before Siberian was on him. He didn't have his weapons on him--he didn't need them tonight. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he couldn't kill this man.
But he couldn't stand it anymore. He needed the rush, the adrenaline of a good fight. Inebriated as this man was, he could still give almost as good as Ken was dishing out. Almost. The bruises and lacerations were welcome, even if they would be hard, if not impossible to explain away. But as many wounds, signs of struggle, Ken was recieving--he was inflicting twice as many.
The woman shrieked. Ken didn't care. Blood from the man's split lip stained his knuckles. He didn't care.
He was beyond it.
WHAT: Hunting dark beasts B)
WHERE: Slums
WHEN: Nighttime
A deeper shadow darted through the darkness of the slum district, following a particular stumbling form, a drunken man who had caught the attention of the shadowed hunter.
He seemed like a promising target. Though there hadn't been any cause yet for the shadow to attack...silver blades glinted briefly. He'd be ready, if the man did slip. And if he didn't, well...there were others. There were always others.
But Siberian had picked the right man to follow. He'd been the loudest and most belligerent in the bar--he'd nearly started a brawl then and there, and had been kicked out for his trouble. And now, well. The poor woman passing by got leered at, and the drunken asshole turned around and started stumbling after her.
He barely even got to grab her before Siberian was on him. He didn't have his weapons on him--he didn't need them tonight. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he couldn't kill this man.
But he couldn't stand it anymore. He needed the rush, the adrenaline of a good fight. Inebriated as this man was, he could still give almost as good as Ken was dishing out. Almost. The bruises and lacerations were welcome, even if they would be hard, if not impossible to explain away. But as many wounds, signs of struggle, Ken was recieving--he was inflicting twice as many.
The woman shrieked. Ken didn't care. Blood from the man's split lip stained his knuckles. He didn't care.
He was beyond it.