Asher
sand crunches (bone crumbles) beneath the steady progression (degeneration) of the Galliard within the club's boundaries, mismatched (metis) eyes half lidded beneath the throbbing weight (pulsebeat bass) of music
he can feel it speaking to him (just him)
treble's (brilliant) chill on skin
subbeat's gutwrench (nightmare) sickness
the steady writhe of sweaty lives around him
wrapped in this blanket of thickening delight
the wolf among the sacrificial lambs
pleasure finds way to creep into his smile, the lean blond swathed in black (in so. many. ways.), a flyer retrieved (so.... that... was her last name) from previous venture into this territory, a whim bringing him from the tunnels of (hell) home into the catacombs of mythology
the marked (stigmata) running his fingers along the entryway walls, tracing the heiroglyphs, a pause just before crossing the (veiled) entrace, paying the cover, faking the ID
black velvet curtains parting for a blacker soul
Kaj'sha.
Behind the depraved Galliard, the immaculate Philodox whose hands do not touch the walls, whose eyes pass with only the slightest of curiosities over those within, whose feet do not touch the floor. He pays and flashes ID without so much as looking at the bouncer. Dressed all in white, he somehow manages to pull the 'look' off: angel, cherub, seraph.
His eyes are black.
His eyes are black, and they cast over the room, over the hundred dancing skeletons. Most the decorations are lost on Kaj'sha, and the music does not tug at him the way it does Asher, but...
...not bad. Overall, not bad. The sand crunching beneath his feet makes him smile, half-distractedly.
Erik
Mistakes. Already they're making mistakes.
No, that isn't right. He is making mistakes. Should have checked the gift earlier. Could have got em at that lab place. But nooooo. He snuck his pack up all the way to the lab, then powered his senses with gnosis, and found that Asher had already gone...
Fuck. fuck fuckfuck fuck fuck!
Now, finally, he is cornered. But hiding in a mass of sheep. Nightclub...
a low growl escapes the No-Moon's mouth as he stands in the dark alley, the rest of the pack back in the shadows, and stares at the club.
finally he turns to the pack. "We'll have to cross over..."
Decker
Crouching on the alley floor while the Alpha checked his senses and consulted with himself, Decker looks up as he speaks. Nods wordlessly, holds out his hand for one of his packmates to pull him across. Decker's spirit was...less than powerful. In the usual army-surplus cargoes and wifebeater, one hand rubs idly at the jagged, stylized tattoo sprawled over his right arm from shoulder to just below the elbow. Ogre. A good weapon, but he would not desecrate his grandfather's memory in using it against an unworthy foe.
In his hand, a knife glinting dully, unable to hold the edge steel can. Silver. Asher's knife.
What comes around, goes around.
Rune
Sleek and cool as the night, Rune slouches back against the brick wall of the alley, breathing deliberately through her mouth (it stinks back here) and avoiding the strewn debris with assiduous care, attentive to her clothing even now, despite the gravity of their mission. The heels are gone for the night, and so too the more expensive clothing. Tonight, she's dressed down in dedicated clothing she usually eschews - lowslung leather pants curving across her hips, black, and a black sleeveless shell, stark against her pale skin. She slips her leather coat from her shoulders and tosses it aside, but not before retrieving her own silver knife from the pockets. Dark hair swings across her face, obscuring hard dark eyes, as she grasps Decker's hand and pulls him across the gauntlet.
The club. The sheep.
It won't be a pretty night.
Asher
the angel and the devil
(damnation and salvation)
the dream and the darkness
the Philodox and the Galliard
perhaps there's an uncoinscious feed (sharing) what crackles synergy through the lean form, each note a thousand tiny sparks to stimulate and aggravate each muscle, each chaotic refrain (frenzy) of the exotic against animal (whatever became of the man........ you were never a man) skin stroke through the strangest of (invisable) pelts
he does not choose a place to sit
he stops at the edge of the sand covered floor
listening
breathing
unweaving this tapestry of sound and scent that lays itself at his feet
Kaj'sha
At his side, the slighter, slimmer Alpha cocks his head briefly, lightless eyes half-lidding as though listening.
Strange...could have sworn I felt...
But this is the heart of the city, the realm of the Weaver, who answers to no man nor beast - Wyld, Wyrm or Gaia. No wyrmlings comes to speak to the Philodox, and he has not the skills of the Theurge to force an answer from them.
Probably nothing.
"Just watching?" - this, to Asher.
Erik
He hammers a way through the steely guantlet of the city. Immdiately he is alert, looking in every direction with fevered intensity.
All clear for now. He begins the crackling shift to Crinos and grips the black barrelled, sawed off shotgun fetish in his hand. Only here its barel looks made out of hammered storm clouds... They writhe and seethe yet retain their shape. And a white hot light flickers down inside the barrel...
He waits for the rest of the pack to follow across. Then orders are given. the plan is already known. He adds only "Wait. seperate from the herd. Hunt like pack."
The bathroom would be an ideal place for this...
Decker
If Rune thought the alley smelled bad, the Umbra was about to smell worse. In apparent response to his Alpha's command, the Modi cracks his neck to one side - swells - and then to the other.
On top of iron-grey fur, a layer of knobbed, warty, stinking hide grows. The Troll's Skin. Aptly named, indeed: those around him might find their eyes watering from the stench.
In his hand, the silver knife looks like a toy. A miniature swiss army knife gripped in the clawed handpaw of a monster.
Again, he places his hand on Rune's shoulder, letting the Ahroun's stronger spirit draw him across.
Asher
"Yes."
silk from mouth or mind, the Galliard does not say it loudly, but knows it is heard just as easily (a whisper in the darkness, a cry lost in the flames, tell of your terrors now..... child..... elsewise you've only yourself to blame) hands slipping to curl in pockets
so close, this pretty flesh (genuflect at my altar of madness) just within reach
tempting, teasing, taunting, calling out with each crawling echo of rhythmic catastrophe
indulge. yourself. in me.
only watching
newly healed flesh burning againt the fabric of his shirt
Kaj'sha
Languid as an Oscar Wilde nobleman - and as pretty - the Alpha leans (never slouches) back against the wall. Skeletons dancing in strobe lights - of which his strange eyes could pick up the distal wavelengths of, flashing through his eyelids.
Kaj'sha. Clubbing. It's a strange sight.
Presently, a pretty brunette passes by. Kaj'sha is not easily tempted by the flesh he cannot see, but Asher is another story. A slip-slide of eyes. A lick of lips. Indulge? Why, yes please.
Erik
"Yes, Just watching... Heh. There's another."
He speaks as he peers throught he guantlet, oblivious to what transpires around him. Damn ahrouns better have his back...
And he waits, and waits, watching the two wyrmlings watch the sheep and lick their chops. Maddening! Not that he cares overmuch for the sheep....
He suddenly stands and repositions himself, and then draws his senses back into the spiritual.
"Enemys not leave pack. We kill now. Look quickly as I did. then we kill."
Asher
does he even remember the name of the last that walked by in such a way (did he even know her name?) in a provocation tease of (sinister) senses
I wonder what your screams will sound like.
skull tilts in backwards glance, a scythe slash of pleasure curving young lips that will never be seen by his Alpha (and never, ever, acknowledged), weight already shifting to follow
"Not anymore."
the invitation never spoken aloud
Rune
With the word from their Alpha, Rune peers across the gauntlet and studies - briefly - the shapes and movement of those beyond. Full red lips are set in a hard, lowering line as (she likes this setting not at all, but likes Spirals even less. The flashback spills bright across her surface mind - the sleeping darkness of the pack's warehouse loft, the spiraling smoke spilling from the pack's prized hookah, distant groove teasing the senses, languid and low, and the pack - her pack - sprawled unsuspecting in the darkness, the low murmur of desultory conversation mixing with the clink of beer bottles and then - and then - ) she draws her vision back and shifts again into hulking warmform, ready to push through the gauntlet.
Erik
He fades across the guantlet quickly, crouched low (for a hulking 9 foot plus werewolf) behind a nearby bar.
Unprepared. They're fucked.
Then, when he is sure he is fully across and physical, he rockets to his feet and sends one of the deadly silver explosions into the one called Ashers back. Call him coward if you like, just make sure he spends that other round first.
Of course there is a dead silence for a split second, until the screaming starts.
Erik
He swings the deadly, steaming shotgun towards Asher's friend and pulls the modified trigged back to the second notch. Thunder laced with silver lightning erupts from it, but he is jostled by a panicking human, of all things, and doesn't harm the wyrmling much.
Rune
With the shotgun blast, the crowd scatters. The initial wave of panic that spreads through the crowd is doubled and redoubled by the sudden vision of three Crinos Garou emerging from nowhere behind the bar. Glass shatters, alcohol and blood sprays, and more than a few of those in the immediate are release the contents of their bladders in reaction to the sudden, pre-conscious surging of primordial fear.
The dim lights flash and flutter, and the crunch sand is spattered with blood from the spray of the shotgun blast, which catches more than just the Spirals unaware. Several patrons fall, and others are trampled in the ensuing panic as those mortals with wits enough turn and fucking - run.
Anywhere. Anywhere but here.
The female - in the gargantuan warform, the differences are subtle, at most - the female rockets past the bar and turn's her warrior's gift upon Kaj'sha, Asher's immaculate companion - the stink of it, the primal dominance of the full bloody moon - is almost as palpable as the stick copper stain of blood in the air, or the ammonia stench of the mortals' fear.
Still, she rages - nine feet of muscle and mottled fur, more inhuman than a nightmare - and surges forward, silver knife held low. The upward slashing stroke is inelegant, but savage in its effectiveness and soon the silver blade is running red with the other's life's blood.
Kaj'sha
He is perfect.
He is.
Pure.
His eyes are black. His eyes are black, but the rest of him is as the dawn: golden, white, rose. He is all in white, his hair a golden halo of short curls, his skin fair and luminous. His mouth is a poet's, and it is just curving to smile (...angels could fall...) when--
BLAM.
Blood. Red on white.
Shock rockets through him. He doesn't even feel the pain until the warmth of blood blooms on the back of his immaculate jacket. Amazed - who dares?! - the Alpha whirls around; from beneath the sleeve of one long, slim arm, steel-grey drifts and solidifies from a tattoo that's sometimes there, sometimes not. Liquid into solid, smoke into steel and plastic. A shotgun. SPAS-12, futuristic, at once jarring and oh-so-fitting in the beautiful Fallen One. White and golden and pink and RED and black. Beside him, Asher totters, his back a ruined mess. Kaj'sha takes one look and levels the shotgun at the two Gaian Ahrouns crossing the Gauntlet to flank their Alpha.
I believe you have made me quite angry...
...thwarted. Unholy terror hits him; the SPAS-12 wavers in his grasp.
A second shotgun blast, poorly aimed, doesn't do nearly the damage it could've. By then the Spiral Philodox is in his beautiful/terrible Crinos form, staggering back with the blow.
It's not going well. It's not going well at all. His lips peel back, black from white teeth, pink tongue, and he looses the defiance of a howl - the Symphony of the Abyss - a maddening whine, flies and insects, maggots and centipedes.
Lucifer and Beelzebub sat under a tree...
He always has a backup plan. From his other hand, a gathering darkness; a flickering of the lights overhead as shadow expands, engulfs -
- dies.
Just a flicker.
Just a flicker of doubt in his eyes, black, looking up now -
- just in time for the Crinos female to fall upon him. Silver bites deep, thrusting up, invading his twisted perfect heart. The blood of kings, purest of the pure and the most tainted of all, falls in a flood. White. to. red.
Kaj'sha.
Staggers.
The world is woolen and indistinct. Beside him, he can hear the blade of the Fenris-wolf cleaving into his packmate. Inside him, he can feel it through the pack-bond: the shattering of the Spiral's Heart, the destruction these faithless ones wreak. Through the shield of his own disbelief, Kaj'sha makes a realization.
Am I dying...?
It comes as such a surprise. Such an inconstant, such a ...loose end.... Death. He has never considered it. The Father promised him. All this and more I shall bestow upon thee, if only thou wilt fall and worship me.
He fell.
He falls, to his knees.
One.
Last.
Plan.
The barrel of the shotgun jams up under the sleek snow-white blood-red muzzle. The Symphony of the Abyss falters in his throat, but it matters not. The maw of the abyss opens wide: darkness, as dark as the blindness he began his life in so long ago, unfolds to take him in. Less than a week ago he carved the Sign of the Beast into the breast of his Beta. Today, he carves his own sign.
And he's going home.
And he has.
One last loose end to tie.
One last silver bullet.
Kaj'sha: perfectly tainted, the Spawn of Mahsstrac, the Alpha of the Spiral's Heart, the Bastard of G'louogh, the Chosen of the Wyrm and the Philodox of the Silver Fangs:
pulls.
the.
trigger.
None but the purest shall make an end of me.
Asher
curves (sin) waltzing (entrancing) to weave through him, crowd parting a red (bloody) sea this strange, eternal voyage
blinding beauty
blinding pain
[Aethera Enamorata - there is divinity in pleasure
Spiral's Heart - there is divinity in pain]
there is no doubt in his (cracked) mind silver tears through skin (splintering bone, ripping organs) a thousand electric nerves in overdrive the sudden (blistering) heat that pumps (paniced Rage) into the lean Galliard's body, screaming crowd around him doing nothing to dim the shreiking that begins from somewhere long forgotten, somewhere deep inside (.....no...... not again...... please)
blood belches onto the floor beneath the Dancer flipping to his back, finest fabrics replaced by black tar fur, reactive (reactor) rage thundering, mule ears spike (the devil's horns) from twisted skull, tail lashing (serpent's wrath) sweeping a mortal woman from her feet (orientation waning)
just in time to see the Ahroun mauling his Alpha
..... no.
the third (final) blast shatters
something in the Galliard dies
...... not again
the fury of gray stormed skies is almost not enough to grant his attention, before the silver (how familiar) plunges into black (silken) throat there is nothing but the nightmare of white becoming crimson
and lightning cracks
massive fist reaching to wrap around the Modi's wrist, plunging the silver blade deeper into his own throat (there is nothing for me now) and echoing, whispering, completely filling this moment suddenly frozen in time, needling its way into Decker's mind (a voice he will never.... can never.... forget) in vice-grip torture
...... how does it feel...... indulging the pleasure of violence..... the glory of rage.... the ringing chorus of cruelty..... tell me of the power you feel now...... do you like it?
the Gallaird is going home (the Father's warm embrace) already he feels the Spiral's rapture pull
perhaps a smile curls the underhinged maw (I will see you there, soon enough), rippling guard hairs on deformed muzzle, somewhere behind the growing haze in uneven eyes a bitter (bale) fire erupts (victory), lips that could never form even the Spiral's twisted speech quiver as if to attempt one. last. time.
...... you're more corrupt than me.......
head twists, tongue snakes out, smearing through the (tainted) crimson soaking into gray fur (staining), combing it through the hairs, against the skin, the right (night's dark sky) eye flickering in a wink
then the light..... darkens
