09-09-2019, 08:48 AM
[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]”Beck.”
He feels it before he sees it. In the same way that the clouds go dark overhead, he feels the very ground beneath his feet turn over, an undoubted signal of something terrible crawling out from the annals of their world. It reeked of decay, like a bloated body in stagnant water, and the buzz of flies seemed like a hovering presence that swarmed just out of earshot. Rather than emanating chaos, as beasts from below often did, this feeling that overcame Red was a lack of presence. Whatever was crawling across his home was devoid of aura, an open wound in the fabric of reality that ate away at the souls of those surrounding.
He picks up his knife. As he emerges from the bunker, he thumbs the rosary on his wrist. The steady rainfall turns into a torrential downpour.
”Beck! Where are you?” The poltergeist didn’t have much of a presence - Beck was a frail thing, and his aura seemed to mimic that as an airy breeze that often dropped the temperature of a room, and made hairs stand on end. He seeks out that disembodied sensation now, feels it mingling with that black hole and starts to worry that he called out for Beck’s safety too soon.
Red thinks he has it, almost, that smell of rot and mildew growing overpowering - and just as he thinks he’ll have to break down Beck’s door when he gets there, or how he’s going to fight the thing with all his wounds, the sensation of utter nothingness fills out and the scent is gone. Like it was never there, Red just feels vaguely cold. He grips the hilt of his blade and follows that feeling, slashing through undergrowth until the horizon crests and he can see the deep valley of the crater in the near distance.
Scanning the brush, he spots a small group huddled around a body. A rock drops in the pit of his stomach. Red carefully sheaths his weapon.
He’s still uneasy, because the sudden disappearance of that thing was all too convenient for his comfort. But for now there’s Beck writhing in the mud, the air around him cold, and Red can already see that the stitches across his body have come loose. Oddly-tinged blood streaks the wet soil beneath him. ”What - What the hell happened here?” His exclamation was hardly a question.
Red gasps hard, already out of breath from the trek - the wound in his chest aches, but the feeling is distant compared to the sense of dread that had befell them. Rain mats fur to his skin and leaves him shuddering as his broken body fails to offer warmth.
”I’ve… Got it, Moth. I’ll hold him.” Red moved over to where Moth is standing, offering with an open palm to take her place. ”Hey, Beck. You’re alright. You’re okay.” As he carefully takes the feline’s upper limbs, he adds, ”I’m gonna hold you so Selby n’ Moth can patch you up, alright?” What hurt you, he wants to say, the words bitten back from the tip of his tongue. The buzz of bloat flies still lingers in his ears.
He wasn’t sure either of them had an answer.
He feels it before he sees it. In the same way that the clouds go dark overhead, he feels the very ground beneath his feet turn over, an undoubted signal of something terrible crawling out from the annals of their world. It reeked of decay, like a bloated body in stagnant water, and the buzz of flies seemed like a hovering presence that swarmed just out of earshot. Rather than emanating chaos, as beasts from below often did, this feeling that overcame Red was a lack of presence. Whatever was crawling across his home was devoid of aura, an open wound in the fabric of reality that ate away at the souls of those surrounding.
He picks up his knife. As he emerges from the bunker, he thumbs the rosary on his wrist. The steady rainfall turns into a torrential downpour.
”Beck! Where are you?” The poltergeist didn’t have much of a presence - Beck was a frail thing, and his aura seemed to mimic that as an airy breeze that often dropped the temperature of a room, and made hairs stand on end. He seeks out that disembodied sensation now, feels it mingling with that black hole and starts to worry that he called out for Beck’s safety too soon.
Red thinks he has it, almost, that smell of rot and mildew growing overpowering - and just as he thinks he’ll have to break down Beck’s door when he gets there, or how he’s going to fight the thing with all his wounds, the sensation of utter nothingness fills out and the scent is gone. Like it was never there, Red just feels vaguely cold. He grips the hilt of his blade and follows that feeling, slashing through undergrowth until the horizon crests and he can see the deep valley of the crater in the near distance.
Scanning the brush, he spots a small group huddled around a body. A rock drops in the pit of his stomach. Red carefully sheaths his weapon.
He’s still uneasy, because the sudden disappearance of that thing was all too convenient for his comfort. But for now there’s Beck writhing in the mud, the air around him cold, and Red can already see that the stitches across his body have come loose. Oddly-tinged blood streaks the wet soil beneath him. ”What - What the hell happened here?” His exclamation was hardly a question.
Red gasps hard, already out of breath from the trek - the wound in his chest aches, but the feeling is distant compared to the sense of dread that had befell them. Rain mats fur to his skin and leaves him shuddering as his broken body fails to offer warmth.
”I’ve… Got it, Moth. I’ll hold him.” Red moved over to where Moth is standing, offering with an open palm to take her place. ”Hey, Beck. You’re alright. You’re okay.” As he carefully takes the feline’s upper limbs, he adds, ”I’m gonna hold you so Selby n’ Moth can patch you up, alright?” What hurt you, he wants to say, the words bitten back from the tip of his tongue. The buzz of bloat flies still lingers in his ears.
He wasn’t sure either of them had an answer.
[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