Announced Properly
| Announced Properly | |
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| Players |
A werewolf mistakes a changeling for a particular kind of prey. |
It didn't take much; Solomon's temper is an uncertain thing at the best of times, and this evening, the service was bad enough at a local restaurant - and the owner rude enough - that after he stalked out (still having paid and tipped, because Debts Must Be Paid), he didn't just snarl his way home. Instead, he tucked himself in an alleyway where he thought he was unobserved, and whistled up a whole host of spiders, directing them to crawl out of pipes and drop from the ceiling into people's food and drinks. The screams were beautiful. And he was not unobserved, although he doesn't realize that until he's walking away. He might not immediately know //who// is stalking him, or why, but a Lost is always hunted, and as soon as he realizes he's picked up a tail, he casually takes a detour into Portage Park, ambling through the paths until he can find somewhere quiet and sheltered from public view to try and get a look at his pursuer. Darwin had been what he considered lucky, to be in the right spot at the right time, glimpsing the shadow of a disgruntled man over a thick display of flowers just outside of the nearby florist. He'd paused mid-bite of his puck of a fast food hashbrown, stepping just enough to open up the angle and catching sight of something that sets off multiple mental alarms. Bug. Insects. Spiders. SPIDERS. Darwin abandons his food to follow Solomon for a few blocks. If he can just keep out of sight, he might be led back to a potential nest. But he is not the master of stealth here, at least not when he's in slacks and an overcoat. Still, he keeps to the shadows, and slinks along the trees. Solomon strolls his way to a isolated little clearing in the depths of the park. The discarded condoms and drug needles in the grass mean it's definitely not entirely unknown, but it's still early enough in the night that neither junkies nor horny teens have clamed it. It's nice and dark and lonely. Solomon slips around behind a tree on the edge of the clearing, and tries to do a little hiding himself. In his button-down shirt and business slacks, he's not terribly well camoflauged, but it IS dark. Darwin's gaze manages to stay locked on the figure as it drifts behind the trees. He breaks his stare to glance around. No one else about, and there's a bigger threat to worry about. For a moment, he lingers there, waiting, but his patience runs out quick. An awful fury builds the longer he stares at the shadow, until he finally pushes out from his cover, flesh and fabric blending to a thick, gray hide. The paws of a massive, horse-sized wolf crush the grass, and it lopes straight towards Solomon, jaws wide, trailing a vicious growl. Solomon was probably intending on saying something scathing or witty once he got a good look at his pursuer. But what actually comes out is, "What the fuck--" when said pursuer turns into a very large, very angry wolf. His eyes widen, and he's quick to bounce away from the giant creature. "What the fuck did I do to you?" he snaps back, fear transmuting into anger. "Back off unless you want trouble, wolfboy." He attempts to punctuate this with an open handed scratch on the wolf's giant, angry (but hopefully still tender) nose. Darwin snaps the air right beside Solomon, saliva whipping to dash the nearby foliage. The gray-white hide bristles as he falls back to all fours, just in time to get a nice clawing across the (tender) snout. Blood blooms through the flesh and spatters his maw, and he swings his head back with a sharp yip. No visible claws. Okay, that's /slightly/ strange. But not strange enough to stop Darwin from attempting another heavy snap of his jaws, angled for Solomon's clawing arm. "Goddamnit!" That tells Darwin that his attack struck home, even before Solomon's shirt tears and blood pours out of the wound. He staggers backwards, holding the arm close, and his eyes spark with fury and more than a touch of fear. "You wanna go? Fine! Let's go! You and me! A duel, if you like." He braces himself, but doesn't attack; now he's watchful and wary. And /moving/. He's circling the wolf with an unnatural grace and speed, as if looking for the right place to strike. Darwin had HOPED to be biting through carapace about now, and watching buggy legs fly, but his maw is bloody and this fucker is annoyingly /quick/. He digs his claws into the ground as Solomon circles, and throws his strength into a wild lunge. He's absolutely sure he's got the man centered, but the world seems to spin at the last minute, and he finds himself tumbling headlong into a nearby oak. Another yelp follows the splintering crash as bones dislocate and bark flies. "RAGH! Thi sah kathar, viruhk!" For the moment, he does nothing, dazed as he struggles to push back upright. Darwin takes significant lethal and is now noticeably bleeding. Solomon is not the kind of guy who is graceful in victory. He crows with pleasure when the wolf lunges at him and gets tumbled into hard, splintery wood. For a moment, just a _moment_, it looked like Solomon had a couple more sets of arms than he should have. He spins, his arm still bleeding and held protectively to his chest as he crouches, ready to take another attack. "Oh, so you DO talk? Well, I don't speak crazy fucking spirit language. This isn't your fucking territory--unless," his eyes widen, "are you one of those crazy-ass wolves the others talk about? Names like Devours-the-fucking-Soul and shit? Because whatever little war you've got going on, I'm not a part of it." His nostrils flare. "But don't let that stop you from throwing down. I still got plenty of shit to throw you into." Darwin steadies himself on his paws, fur pocked with bright red gashes wedged with thick branches. They shift and shed as wounds attempt to knit back together. He licks his nose, blue eyes wide and fierce as they study Solomon for a tense moment. Little war. This... doesn't /sound/ like the usual prey. But then Solomon /taunts/. And that laughter lingers in Darwin's ears. He growls something indiscernible, then lunges again, this time shifting forms. The quadruped shape becomes biped, a monstrous form with frayed hackles, sickle claws and curving fangs spread wide as they make to come down on whatever he can catch of slippery, slippery Solomon. Darwin manages a guttural growl somewhere in the attack, a mixture of tongues. "Die already!" There's another blur, and Solomon is just not where he's supposed to be. Where he _is_, though, is helping Darwin's momentum send him straight into another tree. "I prefer to be announced properly when I reach Hell," he grates out, "so why don't you go first?" He pivots to keep the wolf in sight, his initial outrage turning into something colder and more predatory as he regains his composure. Darwin takes significant lethal and is now badly bleeding. No no oh god not the tree aga-- CRACK goes the tree, and Darwin. He feels the dull snap of broken ribs as he drops into a ruined bush. Innate rage urges him up again, though he wavers there, bleeding heavily. The prey has gotten... clever. Snarky. Powerful. There's something off. Enough of it that Darwin's rational mind pulls him out of the anger of war form. He slumps to his knees, loosely braced on his palms, slowly shrinking back to human and glaring up through bloodied hair. He's a bit of a mess, yet he still lifts his voice to demand, "Name yourself. Who are you?" Solomon sniffs. "Yes, because apparently the bloodiest person in the fight gets to ask the questions." He reaches into a pocket with his good hand, and pulls out a shiny Accord coin. It gets tossed to the grass just before where Darwin is crouched. "You can call me Sol. When you fucking apologize for jumping me like an overeager gangbanger on his first mugging. Who the fuck are you?" Darwin stares down at the coin. Then glares right back up at Solomon, riding the high of adrenaline as blood begins to blot his overcoat. "I'm not a--" He sets his teeth, anger welling up again. "You--! You filled that restaurant with shartha! With... spiders! And you thought you could just /carry on/? Who do you think you are? Fuck that, fuck you, fuck apologies!" A beat, as he grunts through some painfully slow healing around his shoulder, face still bloodied with the streaks of claws. "You're not... host," he realizes. Well, mutters. Sheepishly. Oh no, he fucked up. "It was a terrible restaurant. Really, I was doing everyone a favor," Solomon snaps back, but from the way his cheeks go red, maaaaaybe he's a bit embarrassed about having been _caught_ abusing magic powers to do something incredibly petty and vengeful. The various fuck yous mean he doesn't feel that guilty, though, because he continues, "I did, in fact, think that I could walk home - even in this city - without being jumped by a murderous psychopath in a fursuit! And no, I'm not a fucking host! Whatever...a host is. Shit." He looks around at the dark park, then down at Darwin. There's another irritated huff. "Look. Are you going to fucking die? That seems like more trouble I don't need, so if you're planning to bleed out from any arteries, let me know so we can call...I don't fucking know, an emergency vet." Darwin feels the rush of blood around his neck. His blood really shouldn't be rushing anywhere. Fursuit!? VET?! "No, I'm not going to /fucking die/," he manages in a clipped, tense voice. Oh god that's a lot of blood. "I... mistook you for a kind of spider spirit," he admits. "I'm..." He grinds teeth, looking skyward through the canopy. Say sorry. SAY SORRY. Instead, Darwin growls to himself and scoops up the coin to flick back at Solomon. "Keep your coin and just... don't tell anyone, alright?" he says more than asks, rising to his feet. Solomon catches the coin, fumbling because someone tore up his dominant hand, but does manage to stuff it back into his trouser pocket. He just...doesn't look remotely cool doing it, like he probably looked in his head before that happened. He snorts. "I'm no spirit, and you're no briarwolf. So, the way I see it, we don't gotta have a problem unless we decide we want to have a problem." That's not exactly a promise not to tell, but at least he seems content to back away towards the path, and leave the werewolf a chance to heal in dignity. Although, once he's rounded the corner and is out of sight, keen hearing might pick up, "MotherFUCKER that fucking hurts. Christ on a cracker..." and similar sentiments trailing away. | |