Hugo had been walking along warily himself, all too aware that something in the air tonight made him feel tense and uneasy. He hadn't known what, precisely, but had trod more carefully even than he usually did-- Especially as his stores of ammo were beginning to run out. He didn't have cause for worry, yet, but he counted every shell carefully.
He lost track of his thoughts as the now-familiar sounds of growling filled the air, bringing his formidable gun up to firing height as he rounded the corner, nerves on a hair trigger.
It didn't particularly help when he noticed the swearing man under the hound. It was just another enjoyable night in the house.
He shouted sharply, hoping to gain the attention of the hound before the other man lost his throat to it.
The sharp shout from the new man caught Murdoc's attention immediately. "Oi! Help me out you tosser!" He was lying on his back with his hands wrapped around the Hellhound's throat. His scrawny arms were the only things keeping the beast from ripping at his beloved throat. "You got a gun. Point and shoot! Point and shoot!" Murdoc wiggled his legs beneath the hound and managed to get enough leverage to kick the dog-thing off.
Scrambling to his feet, Murdoc grabbed El Diablo from his back and was ready to swing it if the military man didn't kill the thing.
Murdoc pressed himself against the wall and clapped his hands over his ears. Even his time spent fighting pirates hadn't gotten him used to the sharp, loud sounds of gun fire. It was still a beautiful sound to his ears though, 'specially now.
"Fanks," Murdoc muttered once the shooting stopped. The man who had helped him looked angry (and a little constipated but Murdoc wasn't going to say that to his face)
"Higher ground, mate. We need to get ourselves up to higher ground," Murdoc restrapped El Diablo to his back. The man had a definite point. This place creeped Murdoc out, to an extreme. Creepers lurked in the corners and crannies of this house, Murdoc could feel it. A safer a place, a higher ground, was needed.
"Jawhol." Hugo nodded and started through the hall at a trot, senses out and aware for the approach of more hounds, and one eye on the other man, waiting for possible attack.
Murdoc followed the man, his Cuban boot heels clapping loudly against the floor. Murdoc trusted that this guy knew what he was doing and that he would lead him to a safe place. Or, at least, a place where Murdoc could get something nice and strong to drink.
...He hated the man's shoes. Hated them. It was a sudden and violent reaction related entirely to the loud, constant, incessant clacking. He twitched slightly.
He whirled around, a severe scowl on his face. "Take off your shoes."
"Excuse me?" Murdoc snapped. Nobody was going to be telling what to do, regardless of any life saving that had happened previsouly. "I'm not taking off my shoes," Murdoc put his hands on his hips and glared at the man.
"You listen here you mendicant," Murdoc spat. "I am not taking off my shoes. Running is better than being a sitting duck. Yea?" Murdoc waved his finger in the man's face.
"We are inside. You don't need shoes." Says the man in heavy German combat boots.
He eyes the finger like he's considering biting it off, but considering the other man's hygiene-- Apparently even worse than Hugo's-- he decides against it.
"Gun only affects so many." Hugo had learned that the hard way once or twice already, and had thoroughly accepted the idea of running for the hills or sneaking his way around.
He lost track of his thoughts as the now-familiar sounds of growling filled the air, bringing his formidable gun up to firing height as he rounded the corner, nerves on a hair trigger.
It didn't particularly help when he noticed the swearing man under the hound. It was just another enjoyable night in the house.
He shouted sharply, hoping to gain the attention of the hound before the other man lost his throat to it.
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Scrambling to his feet, Murdoc grabbed El Diablo from his back and was ready to swing it if the military man didn't kill the thing.
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As soon as the hound fell, he looked around for more hounds-- Or anything else that was stalking the halls.
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"Fanks," Murdoc muttered once the shooting stopped. The man who had helped him looked angry (and a little constipated but Murdoc wasn't going to say that to his face)
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Something else would have heard those gunshots, and Hugo didn't like the feel of the house tonight.
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He whirled around, a severe scowl on his face. "Take off your shoes."
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He really hated those damn shoes.
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"Besides, tusspot, big gun equals dead beasties,"
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He eyes the finger like he's considering biting it off, but considering the other man's hygiene-- Apparently even worse than Hugo's-- he decides against it.
"Gun only affects so many." Hugo had learned that the hard way once or twice already, and had thoroughly accepted the idea of running for the hills or sneaking his way around.
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