[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... )
Comments 18
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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