As she gets closer, she'll start seeing signs that something else has been here, something that definitely isn't human, but doesn't seem to fit any of the creatures terrorising the city. The path is marred by sparse pockets (there really is no better way to describe how restrained it looks, as though the perpetrator has at least tried to keep damage to a minimum) of gouged concrete, clusters of five parallel slashes that might've been caused by the claws of some huge animal. This only lasts for the next dozen feet or so before the slew of bodies begin, all furred, all bleeding from what looks to be similar claw marks, all either dead or too injured to cause anyone trouble, until the path is practically littered with primates. By now, it should be clear what those seemingly random gouges in the road were meant to be: warning shots. Whatever fought off the monkeys in this particular area has attempted, however briefly, to chase them off instead of outright killing them all.
Further along the way, a dead armadillo lies on the side of the road in halves, cleaved clean through its middle. The severed ends are still glowing faintly with fast-fading lines of pale green light, and should Integra reach them in time, with eyes sharp enough, she may be able to tell a cross had burned bright on bone and sinew not too long ago.
A figure dressed all in white stands right in the middle of a modest square up ahead, the furred hood of his cowl tugged low to hide the distinguishing colour of his hair. When he lifts his head to eye the swarming crows, light glances sharply off the silver masquerade mask obscuring the upper half of his face. It's an obvious effort at anonymity, one he doesn't seem to care about undermining as he strives to get the attention of an agitated crowd of civilians, trying to direct them inside a building he appears to have chosen for its relative lack of windows. You can tell he chose it by the way the front door's lock is slashed open, and how the marks match the strange, metallic-looking claw in place of his left hand.
"Everyone ― this way, please!" His tone is rough with urgency, British accent a lot more evident than usual, but there's no mistaking this voice for anyone but the not-quite young man Integra met a few days ago. "If you'd just get inside, I'll hold them off!"
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Further along the way, a dead armadillo lies on the side of the road in halves, cleaved clean through its middle. The severed ends are still glowing faintly with fast-fading lines of pale green light, and should Integra reach them in time, with eyes sharp enough, she may be able to tell a cross had burned bright on bone and sinew not too long ago.
A figure dressed all in white stands right in the middle of a modest square up ahead, the furred hood of his cowl tugged low to hide the distinguishing colour of his hair. When he lifts his head to eye the swarming crows, light glances sharply off the silver masquerade mask obscuring the upper half of his face. It's an obvious effort at anonymity, one he doesn't seem to care about undermining as he strives to get the attention of an agitated crowd of civilians, trying to direct them inside a building he appears to have chosen for its relative lack of windows. You can tell he chose it by the way the front door's lock is slashed open, and how the marks match the strange, metallic-looking claw in place of his left hand.
"Everyone ― this way, please!" His tone is rough with urgency, British accent a lot more evident than usual, but there's no mistaking this voice for anyone but the not-quite young man Integra met a few days ago. "If you'd just get inside, I'll hold them off!"