The Mog Hill safehouse is as settled and secure as it can possibly be, and he starts chafing, knowing he can be useful elsewhere; he's convenient for them but they don't need him the way other people do. He can find people in danger -- he hears them in his head, their fear and sense of urgency -- and goes if he thinks he can handle it himself, or he reaches out for help if he can't. It troubles him how often he's had to speak to the Militia. They terrify him, his palms get sweaty and he starts to shake whenever they look in his direction, but they're around and they're actually doing their damn job, protecting the city. It's usually easier to direct them to people who need help than go on his own.
But if it's just one or two people and he's the closest one, he'll go in alone. He's armed -- he picked up a baseball bat with nails hammered into the head at some point, and he turned the whole thing to metal because it packs a harder hit that way, although it's harder to swing -- and what he wouldn't give for a gun right now. In the service, he had steady hands and a good eye; that's still half-true. But ammunition's hard to come by in Baedal. If he could just get one, he wonders if he couldn't find a way to make more, but... now is not the time for that kind of experimentation.
(Never is actually the time for that, because there is no fucking way he's going to attract that kind of attention to himself. Never again.)
This time he picks up on intense distress and fear coming from two people who he can sense are in dire need, and there is no time to get anyone else; it's going to have to be him. He takes off in that direction, expanding his awareness to try and sense what else is there, although he's learned that he doesn't always pick up on the presence of non-human monsters; some of them are invisible to him, psychically. Still, a little forewarning is better than none. That he senses nothing worries him desperately, and he doesn't see why there's a big blank spot in his mind until he turns the corner and sees it.
They're dead, that's why. Mindless. They're quadripedal, hairless, naked monstrous things with what look like backwards human limbs, their "hands" -- or are those feet? -- twisted into horrible claws. As he pauses to assess the situation, he can see two of them get up on two legs and walk just as easily. They have no heads, and their faces -- what they have of faces, anyway -- look as if they were smashed right into their torsos. They're not zombies, he's pretty sure, but they feel tainted in a way he can't pin immediately. Not vampire, but like that, and neither are they human, but... his stomach rolls when he realises that they used to be.
The two men they've cornered are paralyzed in terror -- that happens sometimes, people freeze up. They're unarmed and defenseless and these things are frankly fucking horrifying. He should call for backup, but there's no time. He can do this, he knows he can, which is why he decides to go ahead. He can't just walk away and do nothing.
He swings and hits one of them from behind, jerking back after he feels it connect so it doesn't drag him down with him. A quick mental burst gets their attention; he can't get in their heads but he can make himself a great big flaming target. It's much easier to compel the two living people to turn and run and hide; their minds are human and familiar. He'll have time to feel bad about making people do things later, right now he's got three awful, aggressive problems in his immediate personal space -- four when the one he knocked down earlier makes it back to its feet.
They advance, he retreats. He's trying to keep a wall at his back so they can't surround him, and he ducks into a narrow alley so that they can't all attack at once. He has less room to maneuver, but so do they. Unfortunately he didn't count on them being so damn limber.
He shuts his eyes and when he opens them again, he can see them -- the threads of fate and fortune, woven in the air around him like a tapestry. He doesn't have time to be picky; he just reaches out and pulls on what looks like thin air, hoping for something useful. A set of wires on the side of the building snap and start shooting out sparks into the alley. One of the things steps in the way and immediately erupts into flame.
Oh good, so now he's fighting four undead monsters and one of them is on fucking fire.
Wolfgang is quick and he's clever, but he is not strong, and even at his most healthy, he's never been suited for close quarters combat like this. And he's outnumbered. If he could just get some damn room, he could do something with magic, but there are too many and he doesn't have enough time. He swings and feels the spiked half of his club hit home in what must be the heart of one of them because it screams and collapses -- but this time his weapon sticks in its flesh and it pulls him down hard, throwing him off balance. He's trying to extract his weapon from its flesh when another of them falls on him and he has to let go to grapple with the thing. It's stronger than he is; he's losing.
Wolfgang cries out once, not allowing himself to despair even though he's pretty sure no one is around to hear him. In a second, this thing is going to break both his wrists and render him helpless. He's not yielding, but neither is he liking his odds right now.
for Will
But if it's just one or two people and he's the closest one, he'll go in alone. He's armed -- he picked up a baseball bat with nails hammered into the head at some point, and he turned the whole thing to metal because it packs a harder hit that way, although it's harder to swing -- and what he wouldn't give for a gun right now. In the service, he had steady hands and a good eye; that's still half-true. But ammunition's hard to come by in Baedal. If he could just get one, he wonders if he couldn't find a way to make more, but... now is not the time for that kind of experimentation.
(Never is actually the time for that, because there is no fucking way he's going to attract that kind of attention to himself. Never again.)
This time he picks up on intense distress and fear coming from two people who he can sense are in dire need, and there is no time to get anyone else; it's going to have to be him. He takes off in that direction, expanding his awareness to try and sense what else is there, although he's learned that he doesn't always pick up on the presence of non-human monsters; some of them are invisible to him, psychically. Still, a little forewarning is better than none. That he senses nothing worries him desperately, and he doesn't see why there's a big blank spot in his mind until he turns the corner and sees it.
They're dead, that's why. Mindless. They're quadripedal, hairless, naked monstrous things with what look like backwards human limbs, their "hands" -- or are those feet? -- twisted into horrible claws. As he pauses to assess the situation, he can see two of them get up on two legs and walk just as easily. They have no heads, and their faces -- what they have of faces, anyway -- look as if they were smashed right into their torsos. They're not zombies, he's pretty sure, but they feel tainted in a way he can't pin immediately. Not vampire, but like that, and neither are they human, but... his stomach rolls when he realises that they used to be.
The two men they've cornered are paralyzed in terror -- that happens sometimes, people freeze up. They're unarmed and defenseless and these things are frankly fucking horrifying. He should call for backup, but there's no time. He can do this, he knows he can, which is why he decides to go ahead. He can't just walk away and do nothing.
He swings and hits one of them from behind, jerking back after he feels it connect so it doesn't drag him down with him. A quick mental burst gets their attention; he can't get in their heads but he can make himself a great big flaming target. It's much easier to compel the two living people to turn and run and hide; their minds are human and familiar. He'll have time to feel bad about making people do things later, right now he's got three awful, aggressive problems in his immediate personal space -- four when the one he knocked down earlier makes it back to its feet.
They advance, he retreats. He's trying to keep a wall at his back so they can't surround him, and he ducks into a narrow alley so that they can't all attack at once. He has less room to maneuver, but so do they. Unfortunately he didn't count on them being so damn limber.
He shuts his eyes and when he opens them again, he can see them -- the threads of fate and fortune, woven in the air around him like a tapestry. He doesn't have time to be picky; he just reaches out and pulls on what looks like thin air, hoping for something useful. A set of wires on the side of the building snap and start shooting out sparks into the alley. One of the things steps in the way and immediately erupts into flame.
Oh good, so now he's fighting four undead monsters and one of them is on fucking fire.
Wolfgang is quick and he's clever, but he is not strong, and even at his most healthy, he's never been suited for close quarters combat like this. And he's outnumbered. If he could just get some damn room, he could do something with magic, but there are too many and he doesn't have enough time. He swings and feels the spiked half of his club hit home in what must be the heart of one of them because it screams and collapses -- but this time his weapon sticks in its flesh and it pulls him down hard, throwing him off balance. He's trying to extract his weapon from its flesh when another of them falls on him and he has to let go to grapple with the thing. It's stronger than he is; he's losing.
Wolfgang cries out once, not allowing himself to despair even though he's pretty sure no one is around to hear him. In a second, this thing is going to break both his wrists and render him helpless. He's not yielding, but neither is he liking his odds right now.