[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]The gears were beginning to turn. Like pieces moving strategically across a chess board, events were falling into place and the rest could be left to fate. Enemies on a battlefield spanned beyond their alliance - no, the enemies here were the individuals whose conflicts could at last be brought to light. Distrusting clanmates and opposing arch-nemeses alike would be subject to the same bloodshed if every chess piece played its turn. Hellboy was not the only one whose decisions would be instrumental here.
The creature has a practiced calmness about him as he moves through the territory. A knife gripped in his fist, he slashes at the underbrush in his path and makes way for his peers who follow close behind. This is routine, to him: perhaps not the setting, nor the circumstances, but it is not the first time he’s charged headfirst into uncharted grounds with naught but a weapon in hand. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s looked an unknown enemy in the eye and challenged it to kill him if it could - nor would it be the last. Like every other so-called suicide mission he’d taken on, his wit and his sledgehammer of a fist would carry him to the finish line.
His thrumming headache and the vague unease in his chest were only an inconvenience. (Fighting with a hangover didn’t exactly lead to peak performance, but even his half-assing was a little more than most mortals were used to.) The focus was on Sam, the girl who’d disappeared with but a bloodstain and claw marks in her wake. Red was hardly the inconspicuous type, thus he’d leave the rescue to his peers; instead his role was to hold the Pitt back and keep their hands tied (or, paws - he was the only one with hands here as far as he was aware). On the other hand, he was thinking of Beck. The child wasn’t exactly a son to him - more like an annoying little brother - but in the short span they’d known one another, his faith in the boy had strengthened. Beck was as reckless as he was a wreck in general. His decisions left much to be desired. His mistakes, at times, leaned towards unforgivable. But the criticism of the ex-leader, a ghost forever locked in that adolescent naivety, led the demon to feel some kind of pity that eventually evolved into hope. Beck needed a friend. Red would be there for him.
So when Beck stopped showing his face, and his house fell locked and silent, Red became worried. Scared, even, for this wasn’t the first time he’d lost someone and he wasn’t quite ready to experience that pain a a third, a fourth time. Crow had mentioned Beck’s absence in passing, while rallying the raiding party - but it was a distant concern, it seemed, at least compared to Sam’s obvious capture. Murphy’s law suggested the worst - and Red wasn’t going to accept that without proof. Beck couldn’t be here. He was stupid sometimes, but not that breed of stupid. He would have said something if he wanted his revenge on The Pitt.
So he's running through the jungle, like some wild thing, and thinking of all the ways Beck and Sam could be killed. The ghost wasn't so easily expelled from the mortal world - but Sam was a living creature, as far as he understood, and her suffering was a tangible thing. The Pitt loved to see blood on their blades, and Sam was a breathing creature with a heartbeat that could deliver that wretched satisfaction. If she wasn't dead already, she was badly hurt, that was for certain. He couldn't begin to consider what had become of Beck. He wouldn't allow himself to think of it.
Red frowns, his expression distant and focused. The knife he'd dubbed the Good Samaritan glints in the flickering sunlight that filters, hazy, through the canopy. It was a weapon built to shield as well as it could puncture: its edge was sharpened to a fine point, fine enough to slash the skin of the monsters he'd conquered in the past, but its spine was a different story. Long, hooked serrations, like arrow points, lined the spine down to its hilt. It was a sword breaker, and just as well as it could snap an attacker's weapon in two with its barbs, it could render a few organs useless with a single, jagged stab. Nobody wanted to get in the way of him - but most Pittians were lucky to have agility and a small stature on their side. Red was after far larger prey.
He flips the blade in his hand and carves a gash into a thick wall of tropical leaves, opening up to a clearing. This was the place - close to the rank scent of their camp, close enough for one lone Tangler to sneak in and save their clanmates. Something buzzes deep within him, and it isn't the nausea of a rough hangover. Like a tense fist, it grips him and shakes hard, begging for release; all of that anger, all of that stress, it could destroy him from the inside if it didn't find its way out. His expression breaks into something colder, something like suppressed fury that makes his pulse roar in his ears and the intricate markings on his grafted hand burn. He'll break a Pittian in two if they so much as breathe in his direction. He'll clear the place if it means getting their friends home alive. He'll die to keep them safe, if that's all there is left to do.
The demon - the monster inside him that he so hated - roars. "Come on!"
The creature has a practiced calmness about him as he moves through the territory. A knife gripped in his fist, he slashes at the underbrush in his path and makes way for his peers who follow close behind. This is routine, to him: perhaps not the setting, nor the circumstances, but it is not the first time he’s charged headfirst into uncharted grounds with naught but a weapon in hand. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s looked an unknown enemy in the eye and challenged it to kill him if it could - nor would it be the last. Like every other so-called suicide mission he’d taken on, his wit and his sledgehammer of a fist would carry him to the finish line.
His thrumming headache and the vague unease in his chest were only an inconvenience. (Fighting with a hangover didn’t exactly lead to peak performance, but even his half-assing was a little more than most mortals were used to.) The focus was on Sam, the girl who’d disappeared with but a bloodstain and claw marks in her wake. Red was hardly the inconspicuous type, thus he’d leave the rescue to his peers; instead his role was to hold the Pitt back and keep their hands tied (or, paws - he was the only one with hands here as far as he was aware). On the other hand, he was thinking of Beck. The child wasn’t exactly a son to him - more like an annoying little brother - but in the short span they’d known one another, his faith in the boy had strengthened. Beck was as reckless as he was a wreck in general. His decisions left much to be desired. His mistakes, at times, leaned towards unforgivable. But the criticism of the ex-leader, a ghost forever locked in that adolescent naivety, led the demon to feel some kind of pity that eventually evolved into hope. Beck needed a friend. Red would be there for him.
So when Beck stopped showing his face, and his house fell locked and silent, Red became worried. Scared, even, for this wasn’t the first time he’d lost someone and he wasn’t quite ready to experience that pain a a third, a fourth time. Crow had mentioned Beck’s absence in passing, while rallying the raiding party - but it was a distant concern, it seemed, at least compared to Sam’s obvious capture. Murphy’s law suggested the worst - and Red wasn’t going to accept that without proof. Beck couldn’t be here. He was stupid sometimes, but not that breed of stupid. He would have said something if he wanted his revenge on The Pitt.
So he's running through the jungle, like some wild thing, and thinking of all the ways Beck and Sam could be killed. The ghost wasn't so easily expelled from the mortal world - but Sam was a living creature, as far as he understood, and her suffering was a tangible thing. The Pitt loved to see blood on their blades, and Sam was a breathing creature with a heartbeat that could deliver that wretched satisfaction. If she wasn't dead already, she was badly hurt, that was for certain. He couldn't begin to consider what had become of Beck. He wouldn't allow himself to think of it.
Red frowns, his expression distant and focused. The knife he'd dubbed the Good Samaritan glints in the flickering sunlight that filters, hazy, through the canopy. It was a weapon built to shield as well as it could puncture: its edge was sharpened to a fine point, fine enough to slash the skin of the monsters he'd conquered in the past, but its spine was a different story. Long, hooked serrations, like arrow points, lined the spine down to its hilt. It was a sword breaker, and just as well as it could snap an attacker's weapon in two with its barbs, it could render a few organs useless with a single, jagged stab. Nobody wanted to get in the way of him - but most Pittians were lucky to have agility and a small stature on their side. Red was after far larger prey.
He flips the blade in his hand and carves a gash into a thick wall of tropical leaves, opening up to a clearing. This was the place - close to the rank scent of their camp, close enough for one lone Tangler to sneak in and save their clanmates. Something buzzes deep within him, and it isn't the nausea of a rough hangover. Like a tense fist, it grips him and shakes hard, begging for release; all of that anger, all of that stress, it could destroy him from the inside if it didn't find its way out. His expression breaks into something colder, something like suppressed fury that makes his pulse roar in his ears and the intricate markings on his grafted hand burn. He'll break a Pittian in two if they so much as breathe in his direction. He'll clear the place if it means getting their friends home alive. He'll die to keep them safe, if that's all there is left to do.
The demon - the monster inside him that he so hated - roars. "Come on!"
[div style="text-align:center;font-size:10pt;line-height:9pt;color:black;font-weight:bold;font-family:verdana;"]IF YOUR FORTRESS IS UNDER SIEGE,
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME