breath of the beast

[sophicsulphur]

She doesn't know how far she's run, or where she's running to. When your every sense is screaming that a chill and ominous presence is closing in on you fast, a thing less of flesh than of mental tangles and piercing noise and the slow sucking sense of drowning, your first and only priority becomes, very quickly, to move. In whatever direction

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[princerat]

Saul creeps quietly along the rooftops, sometimes ten sometimes twenty stories high. This neighborhood is dangerous like most of the others, but he's not worried. Nobody can see him even if they're looking. Saul's not an indoor creature and he's restless by nature, so tonight as always, he's out just to be out. He's seen some strange things since being dumped here, and there goes one now: she runs right into something glass, screams, and faints on the ground roughly beneath his feet.

He climbs down swiftly along the side of the building, lands in the alley, and stands eying her from the dark. It's not the clothes that make her seem foreign to him; she doesn't smell like this City at all. She smells clean and untouched by urban grit, and she smells like unnameable things that have never crossed his nose before.

He stretches his senses of smell, sight and sound beyond her, unable to locate any evidence that she's being pursued. Still, it's generally a bad idea to be laying unconscious in any part of the city. He certainly can't just

[sophicsulphur]

The world feels cold, and she's inclined to protest it, until she realises that she doesn't actually want to complain of the cold, as such: it's not unpleasant. It's just unexpected. The chill of air against skin, shifting and impermanent, is in every way unlike the changeless bliss of the afterlife. She doesn't know whether she wants to relish the sensation or pull away from it.

...but pushing one thing aside only opens her mind to a positively Pandoran cascade of sensation, all of it competing for her attention, all of it alien. The pain in her body, the scratchy feel of powdered glass that's crept into her clothing, the distant pulsing of some kind of music: every tiny thing feels like an overload. She's lucky she was unconscious for the entire trip up the building: she would have panicked, not even from fear of danger but from her sheer inability to process such a rapidly changing world

[princerat]

The accuracy of her stare surprises him, as she peers into the dark not far off from where he crouches and she calls out the word. In the Greek myths, it means Death. He remembers that much from school-age readings that are literally worlds away now. If the girl can only speak Ancient Greek, they may be reduced to mad gesturings in attempts to understand each others' gibberish.

"Not that," is his susurration in reply. When he speaks he becomes visible; it's as if he were always there but was just now noticed. His voice is vaguely demonic and too low in pitch. His London accent slithers out from his lips to rest in the listener's ear, a violation of the laws of how sound waves are supposed to work. He makes a conscious effort to soften his vocal tones, and is not entirely successful. A gentle smile lightens his face.

"Hi, there." Soft and quiet are the strategy for the moment. He stays where he is and keeps himself still.

[sophicsulphur]

She gasps, a tiny bit - more like a hitch in her breath - as she notices him for the first time. But not from fright

[ninetynineprobs]

Rafe skulks around in the oddest of places at the oddest of times

[sophicsulphur]

She's being pulled forward, into an awaiting darkness. Or at least that's what it feels like, to her spinning senses: there's motion jostling her body, sending pain arcing through her like shooting stars; there's a warmth, a shadow-feeling pressed around her, like the arms of death come to retake her soul. When she struggles to open her eyes, there is only blackness, swimming blackness, minute little patterns of texture breaking up its surface

[ninetynineprobs]

Rafe isn't an honorable boy and he never has particularly honorable intentions

[sophicsulphur]

Upon hearing the voice, low and reassuring, she attempts to squirm around to get a better look at its source. Not that it would help her, much; creatures can disguise themselves in many shapes, and the Mana with which she is familiar are hardly an exception. But her thoughts are so scattered right now, and if she is with someone she knows, she can no longer quite tell whom. And that unsettles her, not because she's afraid, but because she should know. She's an alchemist. She should know these things, and pay the proper respects

[knownallbyheart]

Hermione is caught off-guard by the scream, and she moves slowly over to the girl, a hand pressed close to her chest.

This place, Chicago, is never settled. It's never calm or quiet for longer than a breath's time. There's always that restlessness, and someone is always getting broken.

She moves very close and kneels down next to the girl before taking out her wand and casting a spell to conceal them from any passers-by. No one is safe right now, particularly Wanderers, and while she has no idea if this girl is a Wanderer or not, she wants to help...without being shot while doing so.

Carefully, she moves to gently touch a spot on Iris' shoulder that doesn't seem to be completely covered in glass. "Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

[sophicsulphur]

She can't, for some moments, the world of her senses still reconstructing itself in an arbitrary order. First there's the cold, and the time-lagged sound of shattered glass, and the sick, uneasy drumming of her heart. In the end, it's the sheer wrongness of everything around her that pulls her, remorselessly, to full consciousness, her body on alert for the next predator about to strike. For a hole to open up in the floor, or the wind to turn to ashes

[knownallbyheart]

When she almost falls, Hermione reaches out to her, offering her other hand to help. Her wand is already back in it's holster; it's second-nature to her after so many long months of running.

When she speaks, Hermione breathes out. She's relieved that she's well-enough to speak, though it's obvious she's hurt. There's absolutely no doubt within her when Iris speaks, and she looks around carefully.

"You must have got away from it," she says, keeping her voice quiet in case Iris has a headache. She's not sure how extensive her injuries are, after all. "Do you think you can walk? I can help you." She pauses briefly, taking a soft breath, and it only occurs to her in the small silence that the other girl might have just come through the rift. "I know somewhere safe we can go."

If there is a monster nearby, and that's entirely possible in Hermione's opinion, she wants to get herself and Iris somewhere safe right away. It's then that she can concentrate on healing her properly and explaining things to her. "I'm Hermione."

[sophicsulphur]

She's grateful for the softness of the girl's tone. If nothing else, the fewer stimuli there are competing loudly for her attention, the better able she is to focus. It's also reassuring: someone who speaks like that probably isn't looking to hurt you.

"I... don't sense it, any more," she agrees. "I just hope it doesn't come back."

They should probably move quickly, then, before it does. Can she walk? That's a good question, but she's willing to try. She grabs onto Hermione's hand, pulling herself to a standing position, hoping she isn't grinding little bits of broken glass into the other girl's palm. She feels like the stuff is everywhere on her. It would be pretty, the shine against her skin, if the scratching of it weren't like tiny knives to her overworked senses