you can run but you can't escape

[singmod]

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.

Comments

[salamanca]

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?"

[flanerie]

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.

[salamanca]

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?"

[flanerie]

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.

[salamanca]

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.

[flanerie]

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."

[salamanca]

"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.

[flanerie]

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."

[salamanca]

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."