A Shadowy Cabal (Mod Acct) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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multiversallogs2011-05-27 08:05 pm
synergismus) wrote in multiversallogs2011-05-27 08:05 pm
Entry tags:
- # operation: bio,
- @ brock marsh,
- @ mog hill,
- @ mog hill: valhalla inn,
- @ sobek croix,
- @ ~ gross tar river,
- alucard,
- anna demirovna,
- dean winchester,
- hellboy,
- ilde decima,
- integra hellsing,
- jones,
- marie-sixtine st. vincent,
- martel,
- rachel conway,
- raylan givens,
- sonja garin,
- { boromir,
- { nazca barsavi,
- } adrian veidt,
- } allen walker,
- } balthier,
- } cassandra of troy,
- } clark kent,
- } edward nigma,
- } gabriel gray,
- } ianto jones,
- } jo harvelle,
- } jysiri,
- } katherine pierce,
- } kriv scorpion-tongue,
- } lex luthor,
- } mabel albans,
- } max guevara,
- } michael anders,
- } mina barrett
plot } the creatures descend.
Who: Everyone!
What: Creatures descend!
Where: All across the city, although attacks will be most fervent at its heart.
When: Friday/Veerdi evening and into the week.
Notes: Slow and back-tagging is, as always, permitted. If you are confused, look at these two posts for more information.
Warnings: Violence, creepiness, swearing knowing these characters.
On Veerdi, the presence of the creatures reaches a fever pitch. Something has provoked them into launching an all-out assault, though it is one that begins slowly. The pipe-crawlers, generally harmless though they may be, are seen across homes in Baedal, sneaking up through the pipes and into bathtub drains or sinks. They come by the dozens, and their keening makes most homeowners nauseated--but it's their appearance that leads to a number of distressed Network calls.
This is just the distraction for the rest.
The call of the crawlers draws in the armored, sickly creatures with the tiny primates carried inside of it. They are inelegantly lumbering, but much faster than one might expect, and certainly hostile. They trudge across the city, barreling over anyone who gets in their path and leaving them half-crushed in the street. They're certainly unsettling in their obvious unhealthiness, and the disease-ridden animals they carry are downright vicious, especially once they escape (messily, bloodily) from their fleshy cage.
It's the birds that are the worst, though; the cleverest, and the cruelest.
These strange black birds are resistant to typical attacks and flying in large groups. They descend on pedestrians, picking at their eyes and faces, ready to rapidly tear flesh from bone until there's nothing left but skeletal remains. They fly out of range when they can, only to divebomb anyone who might think they've escaped.
This is just the distraction for the rest.
The call of the crawlers draws in the armored, sickly creatures with the tiny primates carried inside of it. They are inelegantly lumbering, but much faster than one might expect, and certainly hostile. They trudge across the city, barreling over anyone who gets in their path and leaving them half-crushed in the street. They're certainly unsettling in their obvious unhealthiness, and the disease-ridden animals they carry are downright vicious, especially once they escape (messily, bloodily) from their fleshy cage.
It's the birds that are the worst, though; the cleverest, and the cruelest.
These strange black birds are resistant to typical attacks and flying in large groups. They descend on pedestrians, picking at their eyes and faces, ready to rapidly tear flesh from bone until there's nothing left but skeletal remains. They fly out of range when they can, only to divebomb anyone who might think they've escaped.
no subject
"What on...?" He breathes around the sudden lump in his throat, with the unthinking negligence of the utterly stunned. If Alucard cares enough to seek out the source of his voice, he'll see an English boy crouched on the roof of a squat building nearby, face as bloodless as the sheer white of his cowl. A cogwheeled monocle spins slowly over his left eye, its iris currently a screaming red, and though he's facing Alucard, he's not looking at the other at all, just... Up. Up, up, and further up still into empty air, like he just can't stop himself. He doesn't even blink when stray crows dart across his line of vision.
no subject
Though it's easy to catch sight of Allen (white isn't the most difficult colour to make out, after all), it's what he feels that has him intrigued. It's an energy that he can't quite place, as if it might not know just what it is, itself - and it draws a barking laugh from him, one that's more audible in Baskerville's echoing growl. Not half a second passes, and suddenly there's silence, unmarred by his voice and perhaps, more notably, by the crows. The previous flock, thick enough a moment ago to have blocked out the sun, has been done away with in the abrupt moment. Stragglers remain, having avoided the Hellhound's bite, but they appear to be fleeing from an unseen enemy; there isn't a man in sight where Alucard stood a moment ago. It isn't until they're a safe distance away that their cries echo again, decidedly more humanoid - Devil! Abomination! Monster!
Alucard has heard worse. The crows seem to have posed little distraction, as he's already moved to examine something else in that short timeframe. There's a sudden, hot exhalation at the back of Allen's neck, paired with the overpowering scent of death. Doggy breath. There's not a second, though, and by the time Allen turns around - should he choose to turn around, rather than just fleeing - Alucard will stand before him as something Almost humanoid, glowing eyes still blinking back into darkness along his form.
"Tell me, does He disapprove?"
no subject
...He rather thinks this principle may not apply to Alucard so well, and yet, the man hasn't harmed him yet. Has, in fact, been helping by getting rid of those crows, as questionable as his methods may appear to be. It's enough to make Allen suppress battle-honed instincts to strike, though it takes quite a bit of brutal effort, and all he does is whip around to face this new xenian (distressing how broad a term it's turning out to be). For a moment, he simply meets Alucard's eyes in a manner more searching than challenging ― his eyes, not whatever's sharing his body at the moment. Then confusion flickers in his expression at the question, sharp realisation lighting his eyes a bare second later, before they quickly cool in reservation.
"I wouldn't know, and I don't care what He thinks," It's spoken with the stubborn edge of someone who's invested very personally in this particular topic. "Not when I can think for myself."
no subject
By now, Alucard has reformed wholly - right down to his rune-emblazoned gloves. Though everything about his expression suggests that he's still combat-ready, his posture denotes otherwise. He's almost lax, in fact, but that may just be the pieces settling back into place.
"Forsaken you one too many times?"
( Devil! Monst-- )
His gun is drawn and fired without so much as a cursory glance in the crows' direction, and the reassembling flock scatters for a second time.
"How delightful."
There's something strange about Allen, though Alucard can't pinpoint what. It only serves to fuel his curiosity - he can't help but wonder, from the feel of him, whether this is another of God's hands gone astray. Those are his favourites.
"Are you enjoying the spectacle?"
no subject
At the sound of the gunshot, Allen raises his left arm a fraction, not enough to be threatening, but he's definitely on guard. Sunlight glints off the strangely metallic-looking claw in place of his left hand, making the white cross etched on its back gleam; and somewhere in the back of Allen's mind, a voice is telling him his master might have found this situation really bloody funny.
He's not entirely sure who thought that.
"I've never been a fan," Comes the clipped reply, and the way his voice's wound wire-tight says Alucard is slowly but systematically getting to his buttons. "Of God or demonstrations."
no subject
If Alucard's taking particular note of anything as far as Allen's appearance goes, he's not letting on. He's seen enough already, through his familiars' eyes, to ignore the tiny details - all but one.
By now his gaze has locked onto that cross, his grin ticking wider by the second.
"How contrary."
His next query proves surprisingly blunt in nature, and seemingly unrelated to the circumstances at hand.
"Are you a Catholic?"
His hunches aren't often wrong, but he'd like to be certain. Then again, it's not every day one meets a Catholic who's anything but a fan of his Father.
no subject
Since.
Now that it's been brought to his attention, though, the truth is he doesn't quite know, simply because it's never mattered enough to him to have a concrete 'yes' or 'no'. Allen may have some rather vocal opinions about God, but he doesn't doubt He exists, and working for the Vatican does mean he's Catholic by default. Does that technically still apply now that his official status is 'excommunicated', and does he even care either way? No and no. Yet here he is, still carrying a bit of God's will in his left hand, still an Exorcist to the marrow even though the title's been stripped from him.
In the end, very much aware that it's a loaded question, he again forgoes black and white in favour of the shades in between, with a wary, "Of sorts."
Sadly, that sums up everything about Allen Walker pretty well.