Post by Raph Vander on Sept 30, 2009 4:49:54 GMT -8
The door swung inwards, hinges hanging loose on there screws, lock long since picked. A flashlight clicked on and beamed in, light refractions glinting off the muzzle and sleek gun-metal grey body of an automatic pistol hovering three inches behind the light.
Few Vampires held much truck with guns; they were loud and clumsy and 'inelegant'. Most Undead seemed to prefer blades because they were quiet, required skill and allowed one to get in close. Raph had never been particularly fussed with elegance or athletics. He preferred guns as a tool of mortal dispatch because they wasted less blood, raised less questions (especially in a city) and offered expedient results from a distance.
Plus, he had to admit, there was a trace element of 'fucking cool' that had aroused his interest.
The spotlight poured over areas of the dingy room within, illuminating out the various traces of recent habitation; used syringes, scorched spoons, piles of unwashed rags. The stench of human filth, stale sweat, sickness and rot permeated the musty air.
Home sweet home. Raph stepped into the room.
The sound of carousing still hummed from the tavern common room on the first story below.
Raph optimistically tried the light switch. The light bulb hanging in its electrical chord noose buzzed weakly and died with a faint pop.
Something gasped in the new-dark.
Raph whirled and brought flashlight and death-spitter up to cover the source of the sound.
Lit by the halo of his torch, a dishevelled Junkie huddled in the corner, one grimy hand clawed to shield and protect its face. Between the oily, gnarled fingers, one eye stared out in terror at Raph; a pinprick pupil in a blood shot sea with shoals of capillaries.
Raph sighed and lowered the gun. Why he had come back here to make his stand in the immanent war had confused even hmi, until he reasoned that out of the various places he had made Haven in Ravenblack city, this one contained the least regrets.
It had been well over a year since he had been back here to this, his first squat and Haven; a one room apartment above a dingy Tavern overlooking a barren cross roads in the ghettos. He hadn’t expected it to be vacant, nor was he surprised by the state of the current tenant.
Raph gave the Junkie a cursory look over. It was clutching its left arm tight to its chest, holding the limb against the grubby, threadbare T shirt it wore.
The source of the dreadful stench had been found.
Raph took a step forward, and the Junkie whimpered shrilly and hunkered down further. Bloodlust rushed through the Vampire, instinctive and feral, courted by the Junkies abject fear. Raph had not fed properly in over a week now, and it wasn’t just the blood in the Junkies veins Raph wanted. His eyes dilated in silent, introspective horror as he realized the want was still there inside him, deeper down than the lust or the thirst or the need.
The want for the quiet, sedated heaven of a Smack dose…
Raph had come a long way from the mortal refuse of the gutters, and the thin-blooded excuses rising fresh from it. This wasn’t feeding. This was carrion.
He sucked in one, needless breath and set his shoulders. He reached out, set the muzzle of his Beretta against the Junkies temple, and blew its drug-fucked mind out over the wall.
Few Vampires held much truck with guns; they were loud and clumsy and 'inelegant'. Most Undead seemed to prefer blades because they were quiet, required skill and allowed one to get in close. Raph had never been particularly fussed with elegance or athletics. He preferred guns as a tool of mortal dispatch because they wasted less blood, raised less questions (especially in a city) and offered expedient results from a distance.
Plus, he had to admit, there was a trace element of 'fucking cool' that had aroused his interest.
The spotlight poured over areas of the dingy room within, illuminating out the various traces of recent habitation; used syringes, scorched spoons, piles of unwashed rags. The stench of human filth, stale sweat, sickness and rot permeated the musty air.
Home sweet home. Raph stepped into the room.
The sound of carousing still hummed from the tavern common room on the first story below.
Raph optimistically tried the light switch. The light bulb hanging in its electrical chord noose buzzed weakly and died with a faint pop.
Something gasped in the new-dark.
Raph whirled and brought flashlight and death-spitter up to cover the source of the sound.
Lit by the halo of his torch, a dishevelled Junkie huddled in the corner, one grimy hand clawed to shield and protect its face. Between the oily, gnarled fingers, one eye stared out in terror at Raph; a pinprick pupil in a blood shot sea with shoals of capillaries.
Raph sighed and lowered the gun. Why he had come back here to make his stand in the immanent war had confused even hmi, until he reasoned that out of the various places he had made Haven in Ravenblack city, this one contained the least regrets.
It had been well over a year since he had been back here to this, his first squat and Haven; a one room apartment above a dingy Tavern overlooking a barren cross roads in the ghettos. He hadn’t expected it to be vacant, nor was he surprised by the state of the current tenant.
Raph gave the Junkie a cursory look over. It was clutching its left arm tight to its chest, holding the limb against the grubby, threadbare T shirt it wore.
The source of the dreadful stench had been found.
Raph took a step forward, and the Junkie whimpered shrilly and hunkered down further. Bloodlust rushed through the Vampire, instinctive and feral, courted by the Junkies abject fear. Raph had not fed properly in over a week now, and it wasn’t just the blood in the Junkies veins Raph wanted. His eyes dilated in silent, introspective horror as he realized the want was still there inside him, deeper down than the lust or the thirst or the need.
The want for the quiet, sedated heaven of a Smack dose…
Raph had come a long way from the mortal refuse of the gutters, and the thin-blooded excuses rising fresh from it. This wasn’t feeding. This was carrion.
He sucked in one, needless breath and set his shoulders. He reached out, set the muzzle of his Beretta against the Junkies temple, and blew its drug-fucked mind out over the wall.
