2013.10.14 - Eye-Teeth

The Chimera of Souls is dead. Nothing else is hunting Rain or Amaya (okay, maybe there are still things hunting Amaya, but they are unrelated to the Chimera), there's no more mass murders for Martin to stop, and that should be reason enough to relax just a little or at least to focus thoughts on something other than monstrous amalgams of spirit-fragments. It's early morning, just before the sun comes out. It's cold, and -- for once -- rather quiet. Bristol, North Gotham, as well as the woods that -- until recently -- were the hunting grounds for a wolfbearspidereaglemountainlionsnakecentipedehumanthing have not yet returned to their natural liveliness. Much of their inhabitants are dead now, after all, even putting aside that they are likely scared to return to a place that still smells so strongly of something so very Wrong.
But some of the scavengers are still picking through the remains left behind. So there are rats and insects and so forth very tentatively searching for food. But that's about it. Deer, birds, and all manner of other animals just aren't HERE anymore.
And the people of North Gotham are likely still scared as well. As far as most of THEM know that thing is still on the loose, whether they acknowledge it as 'that thing' or not. And the vast majority of the murders have taken place here, in North Gotham. Gotham City is a dangerous place, but even it has certain thresholds for violent deaths in a certain time frame. These incidents have exceeded them. But it's over now.
Rain's definitely sympathetic. She's used to being towards the bottom of the metaphysical and food totem poles, in a non-culturally appropriative way. She's surprised the thing is dead. But life never returns quite so easily. Granted, she's somewhat relieved people haven't gotten quite so jaded to murder. For her part, she does let Amaya visit and is open to explanations and plans. On hearing that their freaking Chimera might have quite a few friends and apparently has a home town, she's a bit startled and worried. This is her neighborhood, where her aunt's manor landed, dangit.
"I wish I knew more about it..." At least her manor makes a decent meeting place, now that she got rid of the newting trap over the liquor cellar.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Amy had replied. She was very tired when she showed up at Rain's door, the kind where she comes off as being a little drunk. Her journey from the cemetery was delayed by zombies and a Batwoman. The coffee wasn't helping.
"It's... um." The teen sat in a chair, holding her head in her hands. Her pause had been dangerously close to a spontaneous nap. "It's a bad place. We should talk to Doctor Strange."
It took many reassurances to get her to drop the idea of leaving for the Sanctum Sanctorum. It is Rain's neighborhood, after all. It's her aunt's manor. She finally agreed to take just a short nap in one of the guest rooms, and then they really had to get on this.
It is now close to dawn and it turns out Amy is really difficult to wake up.
Well, Martin wasn't looking forward to the report on all of this, that was for sure. He didn't often drive to work, of course, not when he lived a few blocks away, and knew to keep his head down. Walking made it easier to think of some things, and had less of a propensity to take your mind away from your surroundings than driving down these streets. Sometimes you got mugged, of course, but it's not like those credit cards held any vital information... or that he didn't know how to make it hurt.
His worn dress shoes click aganist the pavement, coat held up to avoid the biting cold of the quickly approching New Jersey winter. Brisk, to say the least, as he was just a few blocks from home now, and going overthings in his head. What he would have to explain for going full convent on something of that nature. How to get a follow up done, some anaylsis... over and over again, as, even when you had to sleep at home, you never left this job.
Rain would likely hear a thump. A dull, blunt, semi-quiet impact. Then nothing. The wait is long enough that she might even begin to suspect it was her imagination, or it was someone closing a car door somewhere, or any number of other explanations. Slowly, gradually, the shadows deepen. There's another thump of the same type as the first. Muffled, as though coming from behind something. Black lines crawl and creep, extending outwards from any sources of darkness in the house and connecting to other points -- drawing a pattern or network of nearly vein-like designs on walls, floor, and ceilings. It's still somewhat unobtrusive. But then there's two thumps in rapid succession, more distinct.
Ten seconds later the door to the liquor cellar *THUMPS* loudly and visibly moves as though something had struck it from the other side. The door practically JUMPS under another impact. An awful, pale, not-light grey starts to shine out from under the door even if it's airtight.
There's something down there.
In Amy's guest room, as she sleeps, there's a sound of wordless whispers. An air current blows from under the bed, rustling any curtains or hanging bed sheets. The air current ceases... Then repeats. It is methodical, like breathing. Then the shadows under the bed start stretching up from under the bed, inky blackness in the shape of something long and spindly... The end of the streak of darkness gradually divides and splits into a number of thin fingers. Then the arm of shadow is joined by six or seven or twelve friends who also slither out from under the bed. They hover over Amy's sleeping form, and the whispers rush out to fill the room in a deluge of half-heard voices.
The streets Martin has been walking have been a lot emptier than usual, even for this time of night. Emptier and quieter. But after awhile, he may catch sight out of the periphery of his vision of movement. Every alley he passes, every corner he turns, there's a glimpse of movement -- of presence. If he tries to focus on any of it, to look in the direction of the movement, to listen for footsteps, there would be nothing.
Is he being tailed? Watched? As he passes a shop with a smudged, wall-length window, he may also pick up there are a number of reflections in the glass. Whether he looks or not, the window shows that the entire street, the sidewalk, the windows behind him, everything reflected in that window is packed with what appear to be people in black robes with white, bird-skull-like masks. But all around him, outside of the reflections, there's nothing.
The door to the cellar bursts open, revealing some hideous place that is Other than what should be behind it. An enormous hand composed of dozens of other appendages thrusts out, making any necessary adjustments to its course it must to reach Rain, try to grab her, and pull her into this place where grey light pours forth and leeches the color from everything it touches, seemingly just TAKING IN light and life and giving nothing back. And the cellar door would slam shut behind her if it succeeds.
The shadow hands around Amy descend all at once, trying to grab her and pull her under the bed in one swift movement. She might not even have time to wake up if she wasn't already. And if she's pulled under, the room and the underside of the bed are suddenly empty and quiet once more.
The window reflecting all those figures suddenly breaks outwards and dozens of bird-skull-masked figures pour out, swarming towards Martin, trying to seize him and manhandle him into the shop. If they succeed, the shop is empty once more.
Category:Log