Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 23, 2007 3:40:09 GMT -5
Tenebrae shouted, "Get off me, you! I wasn’t doing anything! Hands off that, or I’ll… ow!"
Tenebrae would erupt into the jail’s interior in a flurry of motion, three guards grappling various limbs in what appeared to be the exceedingly difficult task of manouvering the unwilling vampiress into the building. She was fighting like a hellcat, all wild hair and fangs gnashing, spiked boots flailing; all three wore wounds that spoke of not getting out of the way in time to avoid her blows. But there was three of the stoutly-built men, and these days Tene had little of the power her shadows once afforded her. Plus, she was so very occupied with trying to break loose, she didn’t see the thick truncheon that one of the guards, a little smarter than his companions, now unhooked from his belt, lifted and swung in a high arc, bringing it down on the vampiress’ head with a gut-lurching ‘thud’. Tene went down like a sack of bricks, and the trio of men, suddenly bereft of her violence, could only stand and stare at the very small woman who’s almost taken out two more their number not fifteen minutes before. “Huh.” That was the second-ranking guardsman’s contribution to the situation. The third, at on the order of the first, limped away to find something to bind her with. The guard with the key to the cells was on a break, perhaps.. there was no move to toss her behind bars. Tene lay, outside the cell, silent. And listening. Through the stars swimming in her vision, screaming, she heard the hoarse voices of men, and a soft, warm spray of blood splashed over her face, or the portion not still covered by her mask. But she didn't move-- playing possum was sometimes the smartest ruse.
Demont eyes the new comers as the blood, and brain matter drips from his fingers, "A feast for her this eve, with the dawn, burning." Eye of chaos fall upon Tenebrae and then the new guards, "Release her..." His ragged voice echoes and a grotesque finger indicates Caedan in the adjacent cell, "Or end up like him..." Head jolts downwards to a headless man, or nearly headless man, who has two halves of said missing head folded outward resting on each shoulder in a very very bloody and stomach twisting mess.
Caedan reaches for him, but it is no use; the avian tears free of her grasp to complete his macabre designs upon the unsuspecting, horrified guard. Caedan watches in silence, stoic even when a spray of sanguine vitae splashes across her face, and paints her dress in a veritable fan of color. "Come away," she whispers, voice quiet, words murmured in a sing-song manner. The interruption is a welcome one, as it proves to garner the attention of the three hooligans still in possession of their lives. They turn to the guards hauling in the wiley vampiress, while Caedan turns her attention to the avian in the adjacent cell. "Come away," she reiterates, hand snaking through the bars once more, reaching for her bloodied confidant. There will be time to fight tomorrow, for events have been forseen, played out before they ever happened, before any money exchanged hands, before the plot was ever concocted. "Come. Come away." The guards continue to talk amongst themselves, though the troubled girl makes no effort to eavesdrop.
Tenebrae recognised one of the voices. That grump-feather of an avian; and she guessed the softer tone was the madwoman he ran with. Things were just getting better… She’d lost two of her best smugglers to the guards stationed on Merchant Street, and the others had scattered – she couldn’t blame them, a criminal’s first duty is always to himself – and had been left alone to bolt for the safety of an alley, maybe climb a drainpipe to the roofs. What she hadn’t figured on was the contingent on a break, whose game of toss-a-coin was rudely interrupted by her fleeing form. These were the men who’d brought her in. Dammit… samples of goods smuggled from Rynvale lay in the pack they hadn’t bothered searching yet. Just now, she was some corner-whore running from a purse-light customer, or so she’d led them to believe. Boots rang on stone, everything stank of death and despair, and her practised predator’s ears sourced five men. Six, with the one sent to fetch a rope or cuffs. She gritted her teeth, tensed. The diamond-coated wire that held the appearance of an innocuous bracelet was scraped, slowly, along the floor; springing free of its coil, the wire was gathered, palmed. She prayed that in the mess likely caused by the rampant Demont, nobody would notice.. She’d wait til the mayhem hit a peak and, still blinking to clear her head of the stars, scramble upright, launching toward the first blurred form. She hoped it was a guard. The wire was wrapped to the unfortunate’s neck before he had a chance to blink, and pulled in a tight loop, sinking deep into the flesh of his throat. Bloodspatter did further harm to visibility; she figured it best to back to a wall, holding the still-gurgling corpse before her, in case anyone had a sword handy. Meat and bone made not a bad shield, in a pinch. She’d rub her face along her arm, to smear the gore from her eyes, and blink, trying to assess the situation.
Demont makes his way to Caedan, falling to his knees, the creature soaked in blood. "Places...Dark, screams...My own..." He leans against the bars, hands slipped through the bars to hold onto Caedan. With his forehead to the cool steel, eyes close, and sleep overcomes him quickly.
Caedan grins that strange, maniacal smile so common to her, as she is again doused with a spray of blood, which results in a dress more red than the white it once held. To Tenebrae, the teen directs, "That one has a pair of knives ... behind him. The other, a sword. That one is ill-prepared." The guard indicated with a jerk of her head snaps his gaze to her own, eyes holding fright at her clairvoyance. The guards are none-too-pleased, and soon rush in a frantic panic to subdue the vampiress, or exit the cell altogether, to take sanctuary within the outer halls of the jail, and away from the cells. Caedan -- if she receives no instruction, no urgent direction for help -- will sink to the floor with her ghost, one hand tenderly smoothing crumpled feathers, as she seeks to soothe a soul so closely intertwined with her own.
Tenebrae nodded to Caedan—she didn’t care how the woman knew, and only hoped she was right—and a seconds later was mainly worried by the sword, seeing as the knives she heard spoken of in a sing-song tone were just now hurtling toward her corpse-shielded body, that ex-guard raised in time to receive the deadly missiles that sank with fleshy ‘thunks’ into the body. She let the whole bloody mess drop to the floor, and clearing vision confirmed a sword, alright, the blade ringing free of its sheath, and the lumbering tread forward of the knife thrower and the swordsman, as well as the ‘ill-prepared’ man . Who held only the truncheon he’d smacked her with. More hesitant to approach, the three, backed by a fourth who seemed to be quite unwilling to gain her proximity, paused as if to re-group, sliding grim glances to each other that were so clumsy as to be clearly silent orders. One, she surmised– the one now knifeless—was to distract her at the left flank, the truncheon-bearing guard the right, while the one with the sword lunged in for the kill. Fun and games. Of course by the time the two guards converged she had ducked to her heels to tug one of the knives from their fallen comrade, avoiding their grappling and the first swing of the truncheon. Knife-boy got his weapon back— the curved blade arced upward to his groin, and the man went down screaming like a banshee. Truncheon was swinging wildly- battering her flesh with a series of agonising blows that’d soon have her beaten down.. she had to get out. And gods, he landed her one across the nose, she felt something crunch, tasted a thick spurt of stolen blood down the back of her throat. Sword-man was panicked; she could smell his fear, even over the blood. Thighs tightening, the vampiress sprang, lunged forward, rolled—the sword sank deep into bone. Not hers, luckily, but the body of the garrotted man a few inches from where she’d been. The swordsman was busy tugging the blade from out his companion, Truncheon was gibbering something to the dying knife-wielder and she was on her feet, running for the door. She’d swing a quick look behind, toward Caedan. Oh, what the hell. Might be something to the rumours.. Tene gathered her will and pushed a thought to the woman’s mind, unsure of whether anything’d come of it. Then she was gone.
Caedan watches intently, interest instantly aroused by the scuffle, the freshly spilled blood, the thrill of the fight. A kiss is pressed to Demont's brow, as she gently settles him against the bars of his cell so as not to awaken him -- though, the ensuing altercation and accompanying shouts don't seem to be bothering him any. The psychic languidly strides to the front of the cell, closer, still closer to the small battle, pitting one against so many. Caedan watches, still, emotionless visage surveying the fight as if there weren't lives at stake, including Tenebrae's, who holds a certain amount of respect from the troubled creature, if only for strength of will. Admirable. Her nose wrinkles, and she slides forward, closer, still closer. There. A guard rushes forward, formerly injured, now catching his second wind. Nonchalantly, Caedan slips a long leg through the bars, and succeeds in knocking the unsuspecting bloke completely off his feet. In an instant, she has crouched, and free a dagger from her boot, where she has nearly a limitless store -- or so it seems -- and slipped it into the fleshy prison of the man's heart. She smirks, clearly pleased with the aid she had managed to provide, even if it goes unnoticed. However, a thought presses into her mind, origin not from the voices heard so frequently, nor the nightmares suffered during restless sleeps, nor any other distinguishable source. It causes her to panic, stumbling backward towards the shadowed recesses of her cell, one hand pressed to her temple -- until ... until she catches the fleeing form of the vampiress. Her jaw drops, mouth agape. The image escapes comprehension, though it is duly stored away within an ever-faulty memory. But it is the vampiress' gesture that causes a twitch of lips into an upward submission, and a momentary brightening of an otherwise dreary, blood-speckled countenance, as the teen pads back to her ghost's side, and cradles him as best she can, with a wall of bars separating them.
Tenebrae would erupt into the jail’s interior in a flurry of motion, three guards grappling various limbs in what appeared to be the exceedingly difficult task of manouvering the unwilling vampiress into the building. She was fighting like a hellcat, all wild hair and fangs gnashing, spiked boots flailing; all three wore wounds that spoke of not getting out of the way in time to avoid her blows. But there was three of the stoutly-built men, and these days Tene had little of the power her shadows once afforded her. Plus, she was so very occupied with trying to break loose, she didn’t see the thick truncheon that one of the guards, a little smarter than his companions, now unhooked from his belt, lifted and swung in a high arc, bringing it down on the vampiress’ head with a gut-lurching ‘thud’. Tene went down like a sack of bricks, and the trio of men, suddenly bereft of her violence, could only stand and stare at the very small woman who’s almost taken out two more their number not fifteen minutes before. “Huh.” That was the second-ranking guardsman’s contribution to the situation. The third, at on the order of the first, limped away to find something to bind her with. The guard with the key to the cells was on a break, perhaps.. there was no move to toss her behind bars. Tene lay, outside the cell, silent. And listening. Through the stars swimming in her vision, screaming, she heard the hoarse voices of men, and a soft, warm spray of blood splashed over her face, or the portion not still covered by her mask. But she didn't move-- playing possum was sometimes the smartest ruse.
Demont eyes the new comers as the blood, and brain matter drips from his fingers, "A feast for her this eve, with the dawn, burning." Eye of chaos fall upon Tenebrae and then the new guards, "Release her..." His ragged voice echoes and a grotesque finger indicates Caedan in the adjacent cell, "Or end up like him..." Head jolts downwards to a headless man, or nearly headless man, who has two halves of said missing head folded outward resting on each shoulder in a very very bloody and stomach twisting mess.
Caedan reaches for him, but it is no use; the avian tears free of her grasp to complete his macabre designs upon the unsuspecting, horrified guard. Caedan watches in silence, stoic even when a spray of sanguine vitae splashes across her face, and paints her dress in a veritable fan of color. "Come away," she whispers, voice quiet, words murmured in a sing-song manner. The interruption is a welcome one, as it proves to garner the attention of the three hooligans still in possession of their lives. They turn to the guards hauling in the wiley vampiress, while Caedan turns her attention to the avian in the adjacent cell. "Come away," she reiterates, hand snaking through the bars once more, reaching for her bloodied confidant. There will be time to fight tomorrow, for events have been forseen, played out before they ever happened, before any money exchanged hands, before the plot was ever concocted. "Come. Come away." The guards continue to talk amongst themselves, though the troubled girl makes no effort to eavesdrop.
Tenebrae recognised one of the voices. That grump-feather of an avian; and she guessed the softer tone was the madwoman he ran with. Things were just getting better… She’d lost two of her best smugglers to the guards stationed on Merchant Street, and the others had scattered – she couldn’t blame them, a criminal’s first duty is always to himself – and had been left alone to bolt for the safety of an alley, maybe climb a drainpipe to the roofs. What she hadn’t figured on was the contingent on a break, whose game of toss-a-coin was rudely interrupted by her fleeing form. These were the men who’d brought her in. Dammit… samples of goods smuggled from Rynvale lay in the pack they hadn’t bothered searching yet. Just now, she was some corner-whore running from a purse-light customer, or so she’d led them to believe. Boots rang on stone, everything stank of death and despair, and her practised predator’s ears sourced five men. Six, with the one sent to fetch a rope or cuffs. She gritted her teeth, tensed. The diamond-coated wire that held the appearance of an innocuous bracelet was scraped, slowly, along the floor; springing free of its coil, the wire was gathered, palmed. She prayed that in the mess likely caused by the rampant Demont, nobody would notice.. She’d wait til the mayhem hit a peak and, still blinking to clear her head of the stars, scramble upright, launching toward the first blurred form. She hoped it was a guard. The wire was wrapped to the unfortunate’s neck before he had a chance to blink, and pulled in a tight loop, sinking deep into the flesh of his throat. Bloodspatter did further harm to visibility; she figured it best to back to a wall, holding the still-gurgling corpse before her, in case anyone had a sword handy. Meat and bone made not a bad shield, in a pinch. She’d rub her face along her arm, to smear the gore from her eyes, and blink, trying to assess the situation.
Demont makes his way to Caedan, falling to his knees, the creature soaked in blood. "Places...Dark, screams...My own..." He leans against the bars, hands slipped through the bars to hold onto Caedan. With his forehead to the cool steel, eyes close, and sleep overcomes him quickly.
Caedan grins that strange, maniacal smile so common to her, as she is again doused with a spray of blood, which results in a dress more red than the white it once held. To Tenebrae, the teen directs, "That one has a pair of knives ... behind him. The other, a sword. That one is ill-prepared." The guard indicated with a jerk of her head snaps his gaze to her own, eyes holding fright at her clairvoyance. The guards are none-too-pleased, and soon rush in a frantic panic to subdue the vampiress, or exit the cell altogether, to take sanctuary within the outer halls of the jail, and away from the cells. Caedan -- if she receives no instruction, no urgent direction for help -- will sink to the floor with her ghost, one hand tenderly smoothing crumpled feathers, as she seeks to soothe a soul so closely intertwined with her own.
Tenebrae nodded to Caedan—she didn’t care how the woman knew, and only hoped she was right—and a seconds later was mainly worried by the sword, seeing as the knives she heard spoken of in a sing-song tone were just now hurtling toward her corpse-shielded body, that ex-guard raised in time to receive the deadly missiles that sank with fleshy ‘thunks’ into the body. She let the whole bloody mess drop to the floor, and clearing vision confirmed a sword, alright, the blade ringing free of its sheath, and the lumbering tread forward of the knife thrower and the swordsman, as well as the ‘ill-prepared’ man . Who held only the truncheon he’d smacked her with. More hesitant to approach, the three, backed by a fourth who seemed to be quite unwilling to gain her proximity, paused as if to re-group, sliding grim glances to each other that were so clumsy as to be clearly silent orders. One, she surmised– the one now knifeless—was to distract her at the left flank, the truncheon-bearing guard the right, while the one with the sword lunged in for the kill. Fun and games. Of course by the time the two guards converged she had ducked to her heels to tug one of the knives from their fallen comrade, avoiding their grappling and the first swing of the truncheon. Knife-boy got his weapon back— the curved blade arced upward to his groin, and the man went down screaming like a banshee. Truncheon was swinging wildly- battering her flesh with a series of agonising blows that’d soon have her beaten down.. she had to get out. And gods, he landed her one across the nose, she felt something crunch, tasted a thick spurt of stolen blood down the back of her throat. Sword-man was panicked; she could smell his fear, even over the blood. Thighs tightening, the vampiress sprang, lunged forward, rolled—the sword sank deep into bone. Not hers, luckily, but the body of the garrotted man a few inches from where she’d been. The swordsman was busy tugging the blade from out his companion, Truncheon was gibbering something to the dying knife-wielder and she was on her feet, running for the door. She’d swing a quick look behind, toward Caedan. Oh, what the hell. Might be something to the rumours.. Tene gathered her will and pushed a thought to the woman’s mind, unsure of whether anything’d come of it. Then she was gone.
Caedan watches intently, interest instantly aroused by the scuffle, the freshly spilled blood, the thrill of the fight. A kiss is pressed to Demont's brow, as she gently settles him against the bars of his cell so as not to awaken him -- though, the ensuing altercation and accompanying shouts don't seem to be bothering him any. The psychic languidly strides to the front of the cell, closer, still closer to the small battle, pitting one against so many. Caedan watches, still, emotionless visage surveying the fight as if there weren't lives at stake, including Tenebrae's, who holds a certain amount of respect from the troubled creature, if only for strength of will. Admirable. Her nose wrinkles, and she slides forward, closer, still closer. There. A guard rushes forward, formerly injured, now catching his second wind. Nonchalantly, Caedan slips a long leg through the bars, and succeeds in knocking the unsuspecting bloke completely off his feet. In an instant, she has crouched, and free a dagger from her boot, where she has nearly a limitless store -- or so it seems -- and slipped it into the fleshy prison of the man's heart. She smirks, clearly pleased with the aid she had managed to provide, even if it goes unnoticed. However, a thought presses into her mind, origin not from the voices heard so frequently, nor the nightmares suffered during restless sleeps, nor any other distinguishable source. It causes her to panic, stumbling backward towards the shadowed recesses of her cell, one hand pressed to her temple -- until ... until she catches the fleeing form of the vampiress. Her jaw drops, mouth agape. The image escapes comprehension, though it is duly stored away within an ever-faulty memory. But it is the vampiress' gesture that causes a twitch of lips into an upward submission, and a momentary brightening of an otherwise dreary, blood-speckled countenance, as the teen pads back to her ghost's side, and cradles him as best she can, with a wall of bars separating them.