singillatim | you can run but you can't escape

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Did you know him?" Lalo asks. Why is he still here? Who knows. He's a creeper. Creepers be creepin'.

Lalo's body language is relaxed and easy, his hands shoved into the pockets of his threadbare coat. One finger sticks out of a hole in one of said pockets. Lalo seems unphased.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

For Lalo, it's actually less glib than you'd expect, his normal cheery affect tempered by an understanding of the solemnity of the situation. He notices Lestat's gun, of course, but to Lalo, that's nothing. What drives his real focus is the confidence with which Lestat carries himself.

He looks around at the green haze, faded quite a bit since Lalo first got here, but still slightly visible. "Does this remind you of anything?"

"Only in passing," Lestat says, with a shake of his head. Now isn't the time to make false claims of closer acquaintance than existed. For one thing, it would demand more of a performance of grief than he feels inclined to in the wake of the unwelcome disturbance to his evening.

"A loss for us all, I would think." He follows Lalo's line of sight with the easy subtlety of the hunter he is, more for the affect than for the purposes of concealment. He'd prefer that it be noticed. He didn't come all the way to this gruesome display of mortal terror to be overlooked.

"The sky turned at its approach," he supplies, as any idiot could do, but in tones implying some greater insight in development, "And it seems it brought the light with it. If this can be called a light."

Lalo, for his part, is very happy that Lestat isn't the type for performative grief. Pretending to comfort people experiencing real, actual grief irritates him enough; he can't imagine having to pretend-comfort someone who is only pretend-grieving themselves. Yeesh.

Lalo nods to Lestat's observation. True and obvious, of course, but with a tone behind it implying that there's more to the Lestat's insights than what can be surmised from words alone.

"Remember when that dipshit in the mask? A few months ago?" Lalo allows himself a smirk, figuring that Lestat isn't the kind of guy to be bothered. "There was green light then, too." Is it related? A coincidence? Who fucking knows. But it seems worth mentioning.

His smirk fades into an easy smile (like there aren't four dead bodies slowly transitioning into a state of rigor mortis right beside them) and he leans in, to shake Lestat's hand - if Lestat will allow it, of course. The man has a princely air about him, and Lalo would never want to show such bad manners as being presumptuous in front of royalty.

"Salamanca, by the way. Lalo Salamanca. And if I may say, I'm charmed to meet you."

Lestat takes Lalo's hand readily, meeting Lalo's deferential approach with the gracious friendliness of one pleased by recognition. So few people know how to see quality when it stands before them, despite Lestat's best efforts to arrange himself to his best advantage.

The man standing before him with an easy smile resembles the man Lestat met in that bloodied chamber as an alligator at rest below the surface of a swamp resembles its own flashing teeth.

"As am I," Lestat says, voice not quite dipping into a murmur but suggestive of the possibility, his eyelids dipping slightly as he lingers on Lalo's handsome features with evident approval. Not so much as to venture into dangerous territory, but all acquaintanceships are a form of seduction, one way or another. "Lestat de Lioncourt, and I would say this was an auspicious reunion, if not for - "

He releases Lalo's hand and tips his own at the corpses, his face assuming an expression of mild disapproval mingled with an effort at morbidity. He could care less about the bodies, if he put his mind to it, but only by a hair's breadth.

"It'd seem whatever forces are at work in this place are fond of leaving a signature, although I can't imagine the necessity of it. It would be difficult to mistake this for an everyday misadventure." He shakes his head, mouth doleful, eyes gleaming. "Though that would presume that our stalking killer reasons to begin with."

Lalo is - there's no other word for it - charmed. There's the faintest edge of embarrassment tracing his broad smile, but it's a deeply pleased self-consciousness, more simply self-aware than self-effacing.

Perhaps the smile itself is out of place among the dead, but then, Lalo sees dead bodies often. Just not quite like this.

"Right!" Lalo agrees, too jolly, but he suspect Lestat won't mind because Lestat seems normal and not fussy like some of the do-gooders here. He watches Lestat's eyes gleam with rapt interest. His own glimmer back.

"Oh, I'm sure he has reasons. Nobody kills somebody for no reason. Me, I just don't know what the reason could be. What do you think?"

His eyes linger approvingly on Lestat's blond curls, shining in the rapidly dimming green glow.

Lalo's smile shines like the apocryphal dead man's hand, made all the more appealing by the knowing edge to it. There's a time and a place for the sweetness of those unaware of their own charms, but Lestat tends to prefer those who carry themselves with confidence through the world. If one doesn't value oneself, one becomes a cheap commodity once the bloom of naivety has faded.

Lestat personally considers himself all but priceless. He cocks his head to accentuate the fall of his curls, serenely accepting the returned admiration for what it is. There's no intention behind it - not yet, at least - merely the simple pleasure of two men appreciating each other in tacit understanding.

"Terror, perhaps," he says, airily, as if it isn't his first suspicion. Whether that terror is incited for the creature itself, or for some shadowy author of its existence, remains to be seen. "We have been told we are unwanted guests. The general inhospitality of our hosts, whoever they may be - if they even exist - has yet to drive us off. If we had anywhere to go, I'd imagine this display would prove quite motivating for a general exodus."

Lalo could be speaking of the reasons for killing in the abstract, or as a man with a staunch opposition to those who commit the second of all sins. He rather hopes that isn't the explanation.

If Lestat considers himself priceless, Lalo considers himself someone who has never had to think about the cost of anything. The world is his oyster, after all. He takes what he pleases. And who wouldn't want to take something valuable and priceless?

Lalo nods in agreement. But he's rapidly losing interest in the bodies and why they died, and rapidly gaining interest in his new companion. There aren't many answers here. He sizes Lestat up quickly. Takes a risk.

"We could play a game. Make bets on who's next." He lets the tension hang in the air for maybe a second. "Nah! I'm just kidding. Of course."

Of course.

Edited 2024-05-02 01:30 (UTC)

"Of course."

Lestat bobs his chin in agreement, his smile still on the side of the angels. A joke about a game is perfectly innocuous, if perhaps not suitable for all company - but they're men of the world, it seems, inured to reflexive moral quibbles.

"But," he says, drawing the word out as he lifts the fingers on one hand and wavers them side to side, "If we were to make such bets, what stakes would we play for? All our currency is good for so much tinder."

He's aware of Louis' little general store, and the pretenses of an economy springing up around it. He'll indulge it, but he cannot say he puts much stock in it, not even for Louis' sake.

Lestat certainly looks like an angel, in Lalo's opinion. It's fascinating. Real people, in Lalo's world, even extremely good-looking ones - he should know, he is one of the extremely good-looking ones - don't have the kind of ethereal charm Lestat exudes.

But then he remembers Lestat is a guy and these thoughts are kind of gay to be having and he vanishes them, flinching away in a moment of shame. Briefly, his eyes flit away from Lestat's and he almost seems like he might back away.

But he recovers quickly. "You got me there," he admits cheerfully. A loose shrug. "Yeah, I don't know. What does the queen who owns the general store take?" A hypothetical question Lalo cannot understand the significance of. "Favors? Info? Let's play for that!"

He talks cheerfully, lively, animated with every movement, all the while four dead bodies, their faces frozen in eternal terror, lay motionless on the ground beside him.

So Lalo has made Louis' acquaintance, and in a word, slits through to the heart of what Louis most fears. If it was being done to anyone else, Lestat could admire the casualness with which that blade flicks out.

Does Lalo know, or only suspect? Suspicion is one thing. It dogs the footsteps of any man who comports himself with a certain air, and can, for the most part, go ignored, particularly when paired with his recognition of that self-conscious flinch in Lalo's averted gaze. Knowledge is a different matter. Knowledge implies either witnessing, or participation. Either incites the possessive, covetous thing that is his heart.

For an instant, Lestat imagines burying his fangs in the lovely stretch of Lalo's throat as he speaks. He could frame that bobbing Adam's apple with his mouth and swallow that gleaming vivacity, and so quiet the snarl that has opened up inside of his chest.

But he's too well-mannered a monster to succumb to that urge in the presence of witnesses. He transforms the tensing at the corners of his mouth into an even brighter smile, mirroring Lalo's good humor; he changes the icy glint of his eyes out for a merry light, so easily and swiftly that perhaps the moment of predatory intent never occurred at all.

"Favours," he says, playfully assured, "To cover a multitude of sins. One for each wager won, of the winner's choice? I'm afraid I have such little knowledge to trade in - unless you long to hear the bygone gossip of New Orleans' concert halls and drawing rooms."

In truth, Lalo doesn't know. Not for sure. But he'd seen Louis's nails. The easy, charming way Louis conducts himself. And the way Louis befriends women so readily, and speaks about them without any hint of jealousy or lust.

That circumstantial evidence, paired with the paranoia of someone deep in self-disgust over his own tendencies, is enough to make the connection in Lalo's mind. If he can ready identify that Louis is one of those people, then who would suspect he is too?

Would Lalo have even felt compelled to bring it up if he hadn't for a moment been transfixed on the eerie green glow shining almost hypnotically off of Lestat's golden locks?

Probably not.

But Lalo seems none the wiser, cheerfully matching Lestat's merry tone. "Favors it is!" Lalo agrees readily. He was thinking the same thing. Favors makes the most sense. "Now... what kind of favor would you done for me, I wonder?"

A playful smirk accompanies those words. Almost teasing.

Now that the first impulse to violence has passed, Lestat imposes a regime of calm over his heart. He allows his imagination to transport him, but in the absence of evidence, perhaps his jealousy overstates the possibilities. After all - how much sense would it make for Lalo to speak of Louis' proclivities if he knew of them by way of the work of his generous mouth?

A sop to his pride, perhaps. Or a flicker of sense, as rare as the glimmers of green over the dead.

It's only that it's difficult to see how Lalo might not charm and entice, his languid, confident masculinity as compelling as it is. Lestat takes some perverse comfort in permitting it to soothe him, studying the gleam of Lalo's dark eyes with lingering appreciation even now.

"What is there to offer you," he muses aloud, "That I cannot imagine you cannot offer yourself? Tell me - do you care for music, Lalo?"

"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."

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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

you can run but you can't escape

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

ohmigod i'm sorry this is so late!!

no worries at all!

Yay!

no subject

no subject

cw: imagined violence

cw: internalized homophobia/biphobia

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject