[RP] Who is the fly in your champagne? Who's got the body and who's got the brain?
[OOC: The following takes place from 11:00 PM on Monster Day to 12:00 AM on Shapeshifter Day.]
Some things really ought to be simpler than they are in Chicago. Things like walking the two blocks between the Kashtta and your flat, for example. Sark waited until the very last minute, in the hopes that perhaps the monsters that have taken over Chicago ( Read more... )
Some things really ought to be simpler than they are in Chicago. Things like walking the two blocks between the Kashtta and your flat, for example. Sark waited until the very last minute, in the hopes that perhaps the monsters that have taken over Chicago ( Read more... )
Well, no, he's actually quite amused.
It figures, really.
There are four of the creatures, circling him with the intensity of wolves on the hunt. That's the only comparison one could make; they look vaguely like wolves, trebled in size and given long thread-fine spines in place of fur. The spines along the animals' backs rise and fall at intervals, flicking and rattling in a complex pseudo-language. The leader shrieks again, impossible jaw packed with impossible teeth dropping open far more than it should to release the sound.
The others take up the call and Den spreads his hands. "Come on, then," he hisses. His eyes are bright and unafraid. "What are you waiting for?"
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Here he has his hated enemy, surrounded by wolves... Things that look vaguely like wolves, whatever. They're clearly not interested in him, specifically. At the moment, anyway. Maybe if he backtracks, no one will actually know he was here.
Sark never claimed he wasn't an unbearable coward, and, anyway, leaving Clark to be eaten by wolfish things is a perfect end to his problems. He smirks and turns to sneak away, only to find himself staring down the fifth member of the pack, which shrieks, as if telling the rest his location.
Lovely.
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"Julian! How perfectly delightful. How are you this evening?"
Death. Death death death. The nearness of it makes Den feel--
Something. He's not sure what. Whatever it might be, he finds it thrilling.
"They're called, loosely translated, abyssal or stygian hounds. Not normally so vocal or so bold."
His voice drives one of the nearer beasts to snap at him. He jerks his hand out of the way, contemplates the animal, and then turns his attentions back to Sark. "Cave dwellers. Those who don't know better call them the guardians of the mountains, keeping out foreigners and keeping what's left of the gods' realm safe."
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He might have known these beasts would be familiar to him. Even now, he can't even seem to get Clark on uneven ground. Imagine not even being able to have someone just as disoriented as you when it comes to dealing with monsters.
He digs his feet into the pavement, stopping just short of the ring-around-the-Clark created by the other wolves and digs his gun out of his pocket.
"How well do they fare against bullets?" He asks, somewhat dryly, before popping the one advancing on him in the head.
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The remaining creatures burst into blue flame, howling in outrage and rounding on Sark. Den is not having any of that. He lifts one hand and the animal Sark killed gets to its feet, eyes full of what appear to be silver cobwebs.
Should Sark glance back, the same filigree is glowing in Den's eyes, the pupils of them huge now in the dark. The veins of his arms almost shimmer; threads like drifting spider silk trail a few inches from his fingers.
"Bad dogs," he growls.
The dead one lunges past Sark, its mouth flapping open and then snapping shut on the throat of its companion.
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When he looks back, he knows, however. Nothing in Chicago can really be simple.
He swallows hard, considering shooting Clark where he stands and risking the remainder of the hounds. Maybe they'll be distracted and won't come after him... Right, because that's likely.
Running would be a good option. It's a risk, but it's less of one than trying to execute Clark right now, and it's just enough of one to be worth taking. He takes a deep breath and starts running in the opposite direction.
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The newly-dead, still-smoldering corpse wrenches to its feet and plows after him. It's fast. It runs on three legs, on two, rolls and trips and shambles its way between Sark and escape. Its mouth flaps as it moves, its limbs, when not in motion, sag against their new master's control. One of the legs breaks when it stumbles and flails through the air, spattering oily blood across the pavement.
"Now, now, Julian," Den says. He's trying to and for the most part succeeding in hiding the strain of manipulating two complex bodies at once. The other is on limp patrol between him and the remaining three hounds. "One might think you didn't enjoy my company."
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...Oh but he can handle it. There's still three of them, but if he's fast...
"As a matter of fact, Mr. Clark, I really don't." He raises his gun and fires off four shots at Den and prepares to make a run for it and hope he can get somewhere safe before the rest of the hounds come after him.
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That shatters his control of his defending monster; as pain tears through his focus, he twists his wrist and sends the other leaping at Sark to pin the man to the ground.
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Nothing like an incredible pain to both make you forget and remind you just how terrified you are.
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Den presses his other hand against the wound and winces. "Well. Turned into quite an interesting evening."
He lifts his hand to look at the wound. "You're not a bad shot."
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"Any better and we wouldn't be having this conversation," he mutters in response, the sarcasm apparent even as he's clinching his teeth in pain.
There is about three hundred pounds of spiked wolf on him and Clark has to go and comment on his shooting... And all he can think is that he did promise Suzie that he wouldn't die before she did.
Not that death is in the cards. Death would be too much of a mercy. Clark's not going to leave him here to be crushed to death by this thing, although it might be preferable.
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"Be nice," he grunts. Den sits up slowly. "I have been."
At least it's a through-and-through shot. He sighs. Another trip to the healing angel's pen.
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He gets the majority of them out before he remembers that he dropped his gun and makes a mad dive for it.
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The other corpse is back on its feet again. "Or you could attempt civility. Either one."
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