multiversallogs | plot } the creatures descend.

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.

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The few straggling monkeys up on the rooftops are still hanging about, chattering indignantly in their direction - before she responds, Integra looks up and gives them a perturbed glance, and mentally takes stock of how much ammo she has left. Bloody obnoxious things. For now, she deigns them not worth it.

"Captain," she greets, and then takes advantage of the lull in activity to give her horse a bit of a break, and slides off. "Sir Integra Hellsing." It's a habit by now to leave off her formal titles, as hardly anyone (even Englishpeople! From Earth! Uneducated bastards..) recognizes her ranks. There's a brief, childish desire to rattle off all of them, lineage included, because how bloody grand would that be - but no, she doesn't do That Sort Of Thing. It's far too whimsical, for a knight.

She indicates over her shoulder, "I believe there's a tavern in shorter order that way. It'll be abandoned by now, but the way should be clear."

(If not, they're evidently quite capable of making it clear.)

Boromir actually does (vaguely) recognize the title, although it's not one that's been used in Gondor for a long time since only their ruling monarch can perform a knighthood. And what's more, he recognizes her surname.

"I've heard the name Hellsing spoken many times today." It's said in an approving tone, because while he knows that they've been fighting in areas of the city that are badly under attack, he's still not entirely sure what it is or who they are.

He gestures for her to lead, since she knows the way, briefly scanning around for any more threats (not you, monkeys, piss off already).

Integra recognizes his tone and is glad for it; she's pleased her people are doing good work. A nod in thanks, and she begins walking, letting go of her horse's reins after the initial tug to get it to come alongside her. He's a good boy, he'll follow.

"My agents are selected for their expertise in combating unusual and dangerous threats," she tells him. "Our numbers are small, but we do what we can. As you noted, the city's own defenses are somewhat lacking."

Her tone is dry at that - Integra is not fond of the Militia. She seems like she might say something else, then, but she's interrupted by a particularly loud shriek from a still-looming monkey, who along with its companions, has begun to follow them, rooftop to rooftop. Utterly out of patience and not at all in the mood to have any tumbling monster-tanks slam into their destination thanks to these walking alarm systems, Integra pulls her side-arm out of her shoulder holster, takes aim, and fires three rounds in rapid succession, killing each one instantly. Next to her, her horse makes an anxious nose and tosses his head, and Integra pats his neck. Suck it up, warhorse.

Boromir watches, clearly impressed with the weapon and the marksmanship. After Integra is finished, he replies in sympathy, "In my home country we were at constant threat from a neighbouring land filled with unspeakable evil. The armies of Gondor were the first line of defence against the forces of Sauron, with no outside help. I know all to well about having to 'do what you can.'"

Not that he's too bitter about that any more, as any ill-feeling is quickly chastened by guilt these days.

She's a little buggered off at having to use it, honestly; ammunition is not in ample supply in Baedal, and though she brought along a substantial amount of her hand-cast bullets, it's still a situation she maintains vigilance over. Unavoidable, in either case. (Sigh.)

"It's a notion I've ever been acquainted with." Integra looks up at the grey sky, perhaps reflecting on the blood-soaked ground of her own homeland, waiting for her like one great fatal wound, an open grave of everyone she's ever known... Or looking out for crows, more likely.

The tavern is indeed abandoned when they come to it, and she makes a point to check the area thoroughly with eyes and ears before hauling open the double doors - it seems there was minimal efforts to fortify the place by someone who's long since fled - and leading her horse inside. While she's not one normally inclined to take social breaks in the midst of a battle, Integra knows not to waste an opportunity that might not come again. She's given her rations and water bottles away to agents she's met up with over the course of this disaster - not out of suicidal selflessness, it's just that they don't have an eldritch monster who can teleport them in an emergency on psychic speed dial - and she's not so dim-witted as to deliberately overwork her horse.

... Which is now in a bar, and while the animal might be slightly put off by the wood flooring, he's at least calm. She tends to fixing the door solidly shut behind them before going to close all the windows but one, leaving it open just enough to see out of. Thorough and methodical.

"How long have you been with us, Captain?" In the city, she seems to mean. It's quiet inside, highlighted by the distant half-muted cries of creatures, and intermittent sounds of gunfire or magical combustion. Too far away to be any immediate situation that they could assist or be in danger from, but close enough to remind them to stay on edge. The floor creaks under her boots as she moves back towards him, then to the kitchen doors.

Edited 2011-05-31 11:11 (UTC)

Between the two of them the tavern is thoroughly checked, although again Boromir lets her take the lead because, firstly, this is her turf. Or at least Integra takes charge more than the so-called militia. He wouldn't take presume to lead here in the same way he wouldn't in Rohan, or any other dwelling of man in Middle-Earth. Secondly, this woman was formidable in her own right and she definitely did not need his protection. He did not know the customs of this city, but he knew better by now than to impose his own onto others.

"Three days, or at least I have been awake for three days." He pauses, listening, then moves on again. He's not been in a tavern for a long time and this one differs slightly from the kind he's used to (a result of the blend of cultures in the city, no doubt) and he still can't help but compare. "What I mean is...I was heavily wounded before I came here. Someone must have brought me to a healer first."

He's sure he died; he knows it. But he hasn't discussed his departure from Middle-Earth with anyone and he doesn't really feel like getting into it for obvious reasons, especially with someone he's only just met. This is the closest version of the truth he feels comfortable letting people know right now and, to be fair, it is very close to it.

Her first thought, half by virtue of living her whole life in the grave one way or another, is that he's dead; she knows of plenty of people who arrived after their own ends, mended. But it's not her business, and she casts the thought aside anyway. Plenty of other, perfectly alive people have also arrived healed of grievous injuries. She tells him as much as she digs around for a large silver kettle, "The city's magic is strong enough to drag us all from our homes, I don't find it a stretch to think it may have mended you on the way. It's not unheard of."

She sets the pot in the sink and begins to fill it with water. "I'm sorry," she says, looking at him. "That's a good a welcome as I can offer anyone."

As Integra pulls the half-full thing from the sink and walks with it back into the main room, she realizes just how jaded she's become of this phenomenon. Boromir is dressed like something out of a fairy tale, and she hasn't even considered telling him what a refrigerator is - not because she doesn't care, or that she'd rather take the lead in all things, but because she has so utterly given up assuming anything about anyone. For all she knows he's a LARPer from Mars* in the year 3012. She sets the pot on the nearest table, and then goes to unbuckle her horse's cinch while he drinks.

* If this is the case, he is an extremely fucking badass Martian LARPer.

Edited 2011-05-31 12:30 (UTC)

It doesn't help that Middle-Earth's own theories on life after death are complicated, to say the least. Some say that men go to the Halls of Mandos once they die, others say their spirits go outside the circle of their world, and there are many interpretations about what that means. Although he didn't think it would be quite this literal.

"It's still good to know," he says, although it doesn't completely reassure him. His thoughts have become somewhat existentialist in the past few days, given everything he's been through. In the end it's something he has to get through himself. This too shall pass.

He looks around and finds a glass (he's...not going to chug from the kettle just in case Integra wants some, and he is mindful of other people) and takes a good, long drink, which chases away any lingering queasiness.

Changing the subject, he turns to admire the horse. "It's a fine creature." And then, a thought occurs. "Is there someone to buy from in the city?"

"There are a few," she tells him, getting water for herself. "They can get a little inbred, though. The farmers have better stock, since they pull from horses who've been transported in like us. They'll sell off the ill tempered ones who'll make poor workhorses." Half-affectionate, she reaches out and tweaks her horse's nose, and though he hikes his head up and snorts indignantly, that's the whole of his reaction. "I like them better that way."

And now, food. (She barely holds still, even when drinking; as restful as she might seem in brief moments, she is never off guard, and the immediacy of this crisis is never lost on her. She will have to move on, soon.) Integra pulls open the industrial refrigerator and starts pulling out what looks cooked already. "I imagine we're pressing our luck with running the water," she says, thinking of the pipe crawlers.

There's a few plates and bowls of cold meat, which Boromir starts to pick at -while nutrition isn't exactly a big point in Middle Earth, they've caught on that meat, bread and the like are good as far as energy is concerned, and it's usually what soldier rations consist of.

He stores that knowledge away for a time when he can actually think about buying a horse. "I don't have a pack, so I don't intend to take anything with me. I'll stop off in places as I go along."

Integra makes herself an unglamorous sandwich with bread, something that isn't turkey, and cheese, and holds it with one hand as she begins to look for something else in the stock drawers. Aha - large zip-lock bags. She holds her remaining half a sandwich in her mouth as she constructs a few more and shoves them in one plastic bag, then another.

"You might be able to get by sticking it in your shirt," she says, sliding one over. She isn't motherly, not by far, just efficient, like there's some kind of deep-ingrained compulsion inside of her that cannot abide not addressing whatever problem gets in her line of sight. "Do you have companions here? Any contacts that you've made?"

Boromir slides the zip-lock bag closer to him. Not that he's particularly fussy about anything in any situation, but he can't help note that whatever clear thing it's made of feels odd. Another nuance in his new life. "Thank you."

"No. None of my companions are here. And as far as I can tell, no one from my world." Or at least that's what he thinks, because that's quite an underestimation of this city. Somewhere there will be the trace of a Silvan elf or another familiar being. Lurking. "I've not had much of a chance to make new ones. Nothing so far has extended beyond introductions."

Well. Except this. "But for the most part people have been helpful."

"You do your people proud, to fight for this world so selflessly." She says it with a proper measure of respect - no matter who he is, or what he does, he's certainly not obligated to do anything besides save himself and hole up somewhere. This is a city-prison, full of strangers, and while the notion of being resigned to community efforts eventually wins over almost everyone who is abducted, three days is quite the speedy effort. (It matches her own, practically.)

"Do you know how to use your CiD?" If not, she aims to show him, apparently, for some purpose she will get to shortly.

Giant men of Gondor don't blush, it bears noting. And he still thinks he has a lot to do to make up for past indiscretions (which...makes no sense because he was like this before the Fellowship, but guilty consciences don't have much in the way of reason). "It would discredit them not to."

Ha ha, the answer is no. Boromir fishes it out of some fold in his clothing. "If I press this button, pictures appear." Shut up, that's impressive where he's from. "It does more than that?"

In return, it's worth it to point out that Hellsings - even the relatively sane ones - have no shame for their coldness, but when Boromir remarks about pictures appearing, Integra has the thought, Oh, I should have told him about the refrigerator.

"It's a communication device," she tells him, and if he'll let her, she'll show him how to operate it. "A very tiny machine - people made little clockwork bits smaller and smaller until they became absurd like this."

... History of the world, with Professor Integra. She demonstrates how to pull up the map of the city, and find the cohort network. (Doing it all wearing her gloves, still, with the sort of easy dexterity that suggests she all but lives in them.) "You can use it to address your peers if there's an emergency, or speak to a single person."

At least they do have clockwork where he's from. And it doesn't sound in the least bit crazy -look, long ago someone managed to trap the light from two trees into three jewels, and even though it was thousands of years ago, he has since met close relations of the elves involved.

He watches her fingers move, the pictures changing on the screen. "It's more efficient than our methods," he says, thoroughly amused with the device. Boys and their toys. "Does this mean other people can contact me?"

Small blessings.

"It does." She gives him his back, and takes her own out of her pocket, and then sends him a quick message: Hello. (Beep?) "There's different buttons - there - for showing pictures of people meanwhile, or just hearing them. If you end up wounded, or cornered somewhere, you can contact me, and I'll make sure one of my people knows to catch you while they're out. If you see anyone in the city fighting wearing this-" she indicates the red and black badge on her shoulder, "They're one of mine."

He seems to be following quite well. Although like tech things for most people, it will require a bit of tinkering with over time. He's not going to acquire mad hacking skills any time soon.

"I may have seen, and met, a few of them already. But thank you. If there's anything I can do to repay the favour, my sword is ready."

That he picks up quickly doesn't surprise her; he doesn't seem exactly panicked to be out of his depth. She appreciates the attitude of reacting to the unknown with curiosity, instead of fear. (Integra herself is not truly so blasé about all things technological; being from 1999, she still won't touch her laptop unless she must. There was a bit of learning for her, too.)

"Hopefully they've made a decent impression." Now that she's got a plastic bag with a few sandwiches for herself, Integra nicks a few apples and heads back out to the front. "And I hope that your sword, as well as your integrity, weathers this storm, Captain. I feel we'll meet again."

Boromir tucks his CiD and sandwich away, and picks up a bar cloth to wipe the gore off his sword, before following suit. He listens carefully for a moment. The chaos throughout the city can still be heard but it has kept its distance in this short meeting. He keeps to a wall and tries his best to keep directly out of sight, peering down the street. No immediate threat that he can see, and so he goes to unsecure the door for Integra and her horse.

"May a brighter star shine upon that meeting," he says, still keeping watch. "For now, I wish you well Sir Integra, and that the wind rides with you."

Integra lets him take the lead, giving her horse the pilfered apples meanwhile. She's not about to let the animal over-drink or eat and end up sick, but she has to be mindful of its exhaustion, too. When the coast is clear, she leads it out, and that there's no skittish responses to be had ensures the notion that they're alone, at least in this immediate vicinity.

Food packed away in a saddlebag, Integra swings easily up onto her horse and seats herself. She nods at Boromir. "Fight well, Captain."

And she's off, seeking out more civilians, making the rounds with her agents, and working to uncover the source of this hellish infestation.

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plot } the creatures descend.

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