singillatim | 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

For an evening that began so inauspiciously, Lestat could not imagine a better conclusion. His face lights with profuse and genuine pleasure, that glow that has endeared him to so many, and to most of their detriment - but not Louis. Not in this moment, when Lestat is once again his refuge from his troubles, a wanton distraction audacious enough to tempt him from his path of dour sobriety.

He brings a hand up to cup Louis' face as he kisses him once more, firmly, for luck and for gratitude and for the sake of kissing him. The tug of friction between them is no more than a tease, and one that happens nearly by accident, a byproduct of his exuberance.

There's no true innocence in Lestat. He doubts that there ever was. Perhaps there was the rough and lovely ignorance of an untested sinner, some soul not yet damned, only doomed to become so. When he breaks away from Louis, perhaps this is what makes his eyes bright and untroubled as the colour of a sky he no longer remembers when he wakes.

He seems on the cusp of saying something, then flattens his lips over it as though containing a secret. With a shake of his mane, he all but floats to the desk to retrieve his gun, all the troubles of terror and morbid conversation apparently forgotten. As easy as he is to plunge into dark moods, he is nearly as easy to pry from them. A difference from Louis, and one of the rare ones he believes ought to count as a virtue.

"After you, mon cher," he says, with a brief and ostentatiously gracious half-bow, and he pays no mind to the watchful eyes of God. If there's anything left that Lestat can do that can give him fresh offence, it certainly will have nothing to do with what he hopes for the night.

He hums and shivers enough to draw out the kiss he matches with his own firmness. Louis has to work hard to not respond too readily with enthusiasm that could very well doom them here and now. Well, doesn't Lestat look satisfied as a well-fed cat! Louis curiously ducks his head closer, as if he can pry whatever it is Lestat chose not to say. (Now there's a miracle.) Louis thought the young boy who wanted to study with monks and was brought back and beaten could have been innocent, but it could be Lestat dealt the final blow to the child himself. Violence begets violence.

"Un moment," he replies. He licks his lips, demurely savoring the taste with thoughts that are anything but demure. He dabs at them with his handkerchief. His hands straighten the collar of his jacket, adjust his cuffs, and go through all the familiar motions of making himself presentable, though he has no dressing mirror, only Lestat to tell him how he looks.

Lestat looks so ridiculous bowing like a character in a stage play that Louis nearly laughs. He reaches up and delicately rubs away a small spot of red on Lestat's lips. Louis is reminded of women and lipstick and kissing loved ones. It's oddly homey.

Before unlocking and opening the door, he glances once over his shoulder at Lestat to check if he's composed himself from pink-flushed insouciance. If Lestat thinks his own gaiety irresistible, he has called Louis's unexpectedly soft looks the same. (Maybe deep in the night they'll light two precious cigarettes tip to tip and cup their hands around the orange embers.)

Lestat knows he looks composed. Decades of practise have removed self-consciousness from how he holds himself in his mind's eye, his every gesture and movement such that he rarely breaks the lines of his clothes in any way he doesn't care for. This world may have taken some of his gifts, but it cannot remove his lifetimes of experience.

That isn't to say he doesn't like to fuss over his appearance. Quite the opposite. It's a pleasure exceeded only by watching Louis do the same, as he always did before they went anywhere, and by being the subject of his fussing in turn. He submits gladly to Louis' absent-minded ministration, the delight in his eyes mingling with a deeper, warmer vein of contentment.

He could almost forget their circumstances, like this. Transport himself back to countless early evenings at the threshold of their shared home. In that nostalgic spirit, he picks Louis' hand up in an unrepressed swoop and presses his knuckles to Lestat's freshly dabbed lips, then lets them fall away with the outer trappings of his exuberance. He composes a mask of solemnity over his features, betrayed only by Louis' familiarity with the persistent sparkle in his gaze.

"I'll behave myself," he assures Louis, a promise he even intends to keep until they're back out of sight. "You look the very picture of decorum."

Louis knows Lestat is, as ever, as composed as he wants to be. Behaved is what Louis is looking for, as well as the absence of certain damning pieces of evidence like his flush or a too-sultry look. Louis has to school himself when Lestat kisses his hand, resisting the urge to turn his palm up and capture more of the electric spark that shivers up his arm.

"Well." Well. "I admit I feel a little warm."

Then the shutters come down, and Louis wishes he had his sunglasses. He doesn't touch him, or he will be lost here forever. He opens the door.

Cool as a cucumber except for the glittering of his eyes, he strides past the gloomy proceedings and people in the nave. The bodies are sobering at least. He is reminded of himself, Lestat, and Claudia exiting his mother's funeral in step with the surety of well-dressed vampires not wishing to be around a corpse anymore.

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 can run but you can't escape

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