singillatim | you can run but you can't escape

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you can run but you can't escape

THE DARKWALKER COMES

The Darkwalker strikes again. This time, it does not come for one Interloper — but four.

WHEN: March 2nd.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: death of playable character; supernatural death; mention of dead body; themes of death; supernatural beings; themes of terror; themes of peril.

YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN'T ESCAPE

The sun sets on another day in the Northern Territories. The night is calm but cold, scant clouds drifting low in the skies promising snowfall soon. A waning moon sits in the skies amongst its sea of stars, and those looking up may notice it — slowly, one by one, the stars begin to go out.

Then the moon's light is swallowed whole, and a blanket of green gloom descends upon the town of Milton. One more, the sky is dark and green and terrible. Many of those will recognise it, what this means and what will come. Others will not understand it, not know what it is that awaits them all.

They will soon find out: the Darkwalker comes.

Fear washes over you like a cold wave, a vice-tight grip that squeezes the breath from you. Interlopers will find themselves over-come, and everything in their bodies and minds tells them to run. To flee. And so you run, heading for cover indoors. Curtains will be drawn, some may hide under beds, within closets or wardrobes. Some desperate attempt to conceal themselves, make themselves small, unseen. Some Interlopers, in that fear, may rush to friends or loved ones to hide with them, others may simply cowered alone — crawling and whimpering away from the night. The fear is irrational, unable to be overcome — even by the bravest or most stoic of Interlopers.

The Darkwalker howls: indescribable, unnatural, demonic. Low moans and groans. It comes from the east, the faint booms of footsteps in the distance growing ever nearer. It is coming, once more. It's coming for one of you. And still, you are powerless, unable to do anything. And it is an agony, awaiting its arrival. You cry, you whimper, you cower. Curling up for some shred of comfort, and finding none.

The footsteps draw closer and closer, and you feel like the ground itself may be threatening splitting open beneath you. It isn't you that it hunts, but you notice its path — a straight line from the east towards Milton Church. It seems to go on forever, building into a crescendo. Your heart beats so hard you fear it may burst from your chest, as if you might die of fright.

There is an almighty sound; the Darkwalker devours and suddenly the sky is alight: streaks of pale colour shoot across the gloomy green — almost blinding for one long moment. A woman's scream fills the air and then snaps into silence.

The skies return to normal, the green is gone, the fear melts away from you. It is done.

There is no body in the street. Interlopers venturing out will need to go looking for whoever it is that's fallen victim to the Devourer. The answer will be found within Milton Church.

Towards the altar, peppered amongst faint glimmers of intangible green that will fade by morning, lie the twisted and mangled bodies of Nicholas Wolfwood, Millions Knives and both iterations of Vash the Stampede. There's no blood, no physical wounds — simply the contorted bodies that lie dropped like ragdolls. Each of their faces stare with wide eyes, frozen in horror — just as La'an Noonien-Singh was.

The Darkwalker has devoured more. There is a story, told by Methuselah: It is said that the Darkwalker will awake from its slumber and swallow the world whole. One head will swallow the stars and moon and sun. Another will swallow the seas and lakes and rivers. The third will swallow the land, and every living thing upon it — and only then will the Darkwalker be satisfied and return to sleep once more.

It feels as if the Darkwalker is making good on its story: one by one, it will devour you all whole. And now the Interlopers of Milton must grapple with more death.

FAQs

1. Essentially, a 'party post' for reactions to the Darkwalker's attack, the immediate aftermath, and any funerary preparations. Have... fun???

2. Information on the Darkwalker's attack can be found here.

3. An OOC Rundown for the original Darkwalker's attack, which includes some FAQs can be found here.

4. Notes about the characters:

Wolfwood: He doesn't leave any messages behind. Folks are welcome to go through his house, which is the cabin by the pond -- there's nothing in there of his, and the only changes he made to the house was pulling a twin bed over in front of the fireplace. The wall of the cabin is also scorched from inside, from where his Lightbringer power erupted at one point.

Vash The Stampede (Trigun Stampede): He really didn't have much belongings or anything in particular of note, so it is a free for all situation in terms of possessions.

Vash The Stampede (Trigun Maximum): He'll be leaving behind his meager belongings. all of it can be found on either his person or in the church's living quarters which is also decently stocked with foraged foods. alas he's prepared no messages because he is absolutely atrocious at saying goodbyes.

Millions Knives: He'll leave behind sharpened hunting and skinning knives (hah), some fishing equipment, and scattered feathers around the church.

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Lestat clasps his hand over his heart, widening his eyes in due solemnity.

"I give thanks every day that I am fortunate enough to be counted among your friends, and not the ranks of the foul things that stalk the unhallowed darkness," he proclaims, earnestly, "I'm far too fond of my limbs to bear the thought of it being otherwise."

A reversal of the pretense they once engaged in: Lestat follows two dutiful steps behind Louis, an attendant on a princeling of the night. To the indiscriminate eyes of this motley crowd, liberated as they are from so many of the social mores of their time, it means nothing. It means little to Lestat, who knows his place wherever he might stand. Playing at the fool or the dilettante were no more an insult to his dignity than playing at the follower is now.

But such things mean a great deal to Louis. His propriety, his station, his gravitas. With the state of their rebalanced truce, Lestat thinks that this gesture will help shield the little spark of warmth that they kindled in the priest's vacant office, nurturing it through the dark like a candle.

He pays his respects to the dead in passing in his own way. He thinks of them even when they are out of sight, bestowing upon them the unusual distinction of being worthy of his recollection. In a hundred years time, he will still be able to call the scene to mind, marked out from anonymity. Few humans ever merit such consideration. It will do them no good, but it is what he can provide.

The night is beautiful. The moon floats in her sea of stars, untouched by any mortal concern, and the air is as clear as glass. The cold barely touches him as he steps up to Louis' side to guide him home.

"You should know you can trust me."

Yeah, right. Lalo would snort, but that wouldn't be gentlemanly, now would it? Instead, he gives her an indulgent, warm sort of look. Her hands are soft and smooth interlocked with this, and he appreciates that feeling.

"Of course you can trust me," Lalo lies smoothly.

"Well- It's not exactly an exclusive club or anything. But I'd rather as many of us stick together as we can here. I don't think any of us are or should be gunning to make more enemies.

But I'll gladly take the thanks for what it is. And make sure you put those limbs to good use!"

Lanfear knows only to take his words at face value; too many people would just as soon betray each other or pull out the metaphorical knife to stab another in the back than do anything honorable. Men, in particular, have their own ulterior motives, and it's for that reason alone she knows she can't underestimate him.

But her hand remains secure in his, and her smile appears soft and genuine when she lifts her chin to regard him directly.

"I thought that would be the case as soon as I laid eyes on you, Lalo. But the pieces of yourself you shared with me in the springs proved that my suspicions were correct." Her smile adopts a more private quality then, a light flush in her cheeks that references their other pursuit in the springs, the pleasures they'd experienced together.

"I always do."

He tilts his head winsomely and smiles, refraining from a laugh due to their grim surroundings.

"And speaking of - I ought to employ them in circling the perimeter, so here is where I beg your leave, mademoiselle. May we part as friends and never meet as enemies."

[ Yeah. Yeah. He's had that thought, more than once — that it's all the more important that he let people know. They deserve to know if something like him is walking around among them.

(Tatiana would want him to tell people, if he's going to live here and engage with them. He can hear her voice in his mind, as clearly as anything. She'd sharpen the edges of it, not holding back her frustration with him. She'd bring up the fact that a hero would never put innocents' lives at risk. She was furious enough with him for letting those horrible criminals meet a gruesome end, but these people aren't like that. They're.... civilians. Men and women and some much younger than that. It's all the more horrifying that he would let himself be around them.)

He hesitates, uneasy, stomach curling with something that feels like guilt, and as it tightens, he can feel the creature stir a little, sensitive to the movements of the tight walls that surround it.

Bigby's words make sense and they're also the right thing to do, but not for the first time in his life, Konstantin finds that "the right thing to do" could be the most threatening, to him. To his survival. To what he needs to get done, which is to survive this place long enough to escape it, and to find his child. What if someone does try to hurt him, because of what he is? Or locks him up? What if some kind of authority are called? The scientists will still be looking for him. They'll do anything to get him back.

He blinks in surprise at the mention of a vampire, still unable to wholly believe such a claim, but.... with a bit less doubt than before. Is he truly just one monster among many, here? ]

I see. [ He finally says, and it's with as much nonchalance as he can muster, and a small smile. ] It does make sense. Keep one step ahead. Stop a problem before it can ever become one.

[ ....But he can't. He can't do that, not yet. He doesn't know who he can trust. Is it selfish? To want to protect himself this way? Tatiana had accused him of all the worst things. Coward. No better than the creature inside of you. ]

If I happen across any other monsters, I'll point them your way.

[ It's not said with sarcasm. He does mean it. But he needs to shrug this off, and pretend that he's something he's not, which is someone who's safe. And he needs to leave, before this conversation turns into something he can't come back from. It wouldn't be the first time Konstantin Veshnyakov ran away. ]

In the meantime, I should probably get going, my friend. Doesn't seem like a good idea to be out after dark.

"I do!" Lalo's dark eyes light up, a spark of interest. Almost like a cat, captivated by a mouse. He does like music, although he's not a musician himself. "Do you play an instrument?"

That seems to track, in Lalo's mind. Lestat has an aristocratic air about him. And don't all good aristocrats want their children to learn an instrument?

The gratification of being appreciated also soothes, the arched back of his ire settling like a stroked cat. He smiles coquettishly and cocks his head, affecting self-aware ironic modesty with a glance to one side.

"The piano," he says, with a little wave of his hand, "And the violin. I also sing, when the mood strikes me. It's been some time since I've given a private concert, but I could be persuaded by the correct audience. I would have to find an instrument, of course, and I fear that there may be a lack of decent strings...but we make do."

[ Bigby quietly watches the other man for a moment.

He could tell Konstantin how obvious he's being. Maybe not to your regular person, but to someone who knows exactly where to look for the signs like Bigby? He couldn't possibly be more obvious. Just the choice of the word monsters by itself is saying so much, and it's also saying a lot about the reasons why Konstantin isn't coming clean to him about whatever specifically is going on with him.

It's because he thinks himself a monster. It's not a sentiment that's foreign to Bigby. He's been called a monster. Still called that, sometimes.

He doesn't think they're wrong.

But at least he can be open about what he is. Konstantin clearly hasn't reached that level yet. He's running away from it - quite literally, with what he's saying in the end there.

.. Bigby doesn't say any of it. Maybe it's better to let the other man live with it for now. It's not like there's many people in town who can see the signs of something other as well as Bigby can, having been surrounded by it all his life, being born from it.

Instead-- he just nods. ]

Sure.

[ He will just let Konstantin go. ]

You can go. I'll stay here for a while more. For-- [ .. he pauses, gesturing vaguely at the feathers that litter on the floor of the church. ] For him.

Ha! Isn't that nice? Lalo appreciates the coquettish smile; it's not how he operates. There's nothing coquettish about him, and there never has been. But he can appreciate that kind of coyness in others.

"Sing?" Lalo says, his eyes shining as he fixates on that one word specifically. He's always admired singers. It's not a skill he possesses. "Well! I hope I could be the right audience." A grin. Very devil-may-care. "But now I gotta ask..." Because Lestat doesn't seem like the kind of man to offer something for nothing. "...what do you want from me?"

The dead bodies are forgotten on the church floor. Not important anymore now that Lalo has investigated all he could of the scene.

Lestat wants all kinds of things from Lalo. He wants something from nearly everyone he meets, in some fashion. Attention, amusement, distraction, pleasure, and, always, the warm, dark richness of their blood.

But what to ask for, in this moment? He makes no effort to conceal his consideration of the answer he'll give, affording Lalo the respect Lestat hopes he might be due.

"You'll think it trivial," he says, clearly not believing that Lalo will think any such thing, "But I'd love to hear some stories of yours, if you'd be so accommodating. And don't tell me that you have nothing interesting to say for yourself - I have an instinct for these things."

And he knows some of the darkness behind that gleaming smile already, but while the dead are past caring what they hear, the still-teaming living might.

Lalo lights up. He loves to tell stories about himself, and he has so many! Lestat is right.

"You flatter me, eh?" Lalo nudges Lestat gently with an elbow. Lestat is right, though. Lalo doesn't think it's trivial. But he's too much of a gentleman to say that out loud. "Alright! A story. You got it. I win, you sing for me. You win," Lalo winks, "and I'll tell you that story.

Who knows! Maybe I'll throw in another one for free. So!

Who's next?"

Lestat's grin loses all of its coyness. It's a open flash of light off the edge of a knife, but not one turned to lethal ends. A circus performer's trick blade, forged for style and balance over lethality.

"Mr. Gibson," he says, dropping his voice to a more private register as he leans in, "Or one of that poxy, scurvy-ridden ilk. But don't take me for hedging my bets - I'm quite firm on my first selection."

There's no especial reason to choose Mr. Gibson, or to name the stranded ship's crew. Lestat just has a fleeting suspicion that the doom hanging over them will win out in the end, one way or another.

Lalo considers this. Privately, he's a little annoyed he let Lestat go first, mostly just because that's such a good answer. Damn. And Lestat's breath is pleasantly warm against his skin. The hairs on the back of Lalo's neck stand up, but in a pleasant, tingly way.

The slight, if non-malicious, edge to Lestat's smile is nice too. Lalo keeps grinning back.

"For me, then I'll say..." He rocks back and forth on his heels. "Hmmmm. Yeah, I agree with you. Since you say Mr. Gibson, I'll say Mr. Hickey. Why not?"

Lestat hasn't made the acquaintance of one Mr. Hickey yet, and the name sparks no recognition. He simply ferrets it away for future use, tilting his head slightly with a glint of interest.

"Why not?" He says, in agreement, and offers Lalo his hand to shake. "Our terms are settled. I wish you luck."

No one can ever say that Lestat is incapable of enjoying a game by its rules, if the whim strikes him. When everything eventually and inevitably turns up in his favour, in the long run, it costs him nothing to be generous with his well-wishes - well-wishes for Lalo, at least. Less so for the unfortunate Mr. Hickey.

Lalo grips Lestat's hand, firmly, but his shake his gentle. "Good luck to you, too!" he says merrily. He glances at the bodies.

"Now come on. Let's get outta here before some goody-two-shoes comes along." Lalo doesn't roll his eyes, but he might as well be. His tone implies it. "Grab whatever you can carry! I'll let you keep it."

As if Lalo could stop Lestat from doing anything at all, but he doesn't know that.

The warm press of Lalo's palm is enticing still, despite everything else. In some other context, he might venture a lingering touch, one of those glances of fingertips on the release easily put down to his European manners.

But the invitation to go with him reminds Lestat of why he can't, for the time being. He releases Lalo with nothing more than a slightly rueful smile, waving his other hand in a flutter of regret.

"I have more condolences to give," he demurs, as if he's given any condolences at all, "So the spoils are yours tonight."

"Condolences?" Lalo asks, interested. Curious. Amused. "To who?" He won't press, if Lestat demures. It's not gentlemanly to poke into somebody else's business.

But fuck it. He can't help himself. He's curious.

He's also grabbing all the guns and ammo he can carry, but he does stop along to keep his undivided attention on Lestat a little while longer.

Edited 2024-08-14 03:03 (UTC)

Lestat's smile slants all the further towards mystery, an expression cultivated even when he lived and breathed as everyone else does. He's had quite a bit of practice in cultivating ambiguity.

But his eyes flick ever so briefly towards a certain mournfully handsome shopkeep keeping vigil near the corpses. Lalo might be able to connect that glance to Louis, or he might not, but Lestat is unaware that he might have given himself away in either case.

"The particularly bereaved, of course," he lies, smoothly, barely skimming his attention over Lalo's purloining before politely taking up guard as promised, "I'm an expert in consolations."

Lalo loves a good mystery. A puzzle to solve. A knot to untangle.

Lestat's glance is all the clue he needs. Lalo chuckles. "Then, by all means, don't let me keep you." He winks. "Tell him Lalo Salamanca sends his regards."

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you can run but you can't escape

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