Patrollogs
(A battle in the Nightmare)
[Tue Apr 16 2024]
At a grassy field
It is before dawn, about 47F(8C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a first quarter moon.
"It's like I said, Lauren, when you enjoy what you're doing, it just doesn't feel like working. Even at five in the morning." Miles responds back with a quirk of the lips, teetering a little to the side to give someone a once-over from a fair distance away. Apparently he's learned from previous experiences with than less sober folk around this area. "Crime has been-" The sentence doesn't really get a chance to end.
"It's like I said, Lauren, when you enjoy what you're doing, it just doesn't feel like working. Even at five in the morning." Miles responds back with a quirk of the lips, teetering a little to the side to give Vik a once-over from a fair distance away. Apparently he's learned from previous experiences with than less sober folk around this area. "Crime has been-" The sentence doesn't really get a chance to end.
Viktorin clicks his tongue "What the fuck?"
Miles says "..Yeah, this is less than ideal."
Viktorin says "Who pulled me in??"
Miles raises his voice a little, "Pretty sure we both got pulled in against our will, is that you, Lauren?"
Viktorin says "No. It's me."
Viktorin says "Who- I thought -WE- had to start an ambush..."
Miles says "No, not quite. It's more like a magnet thing, you know? Negative and positive charge? The nightmare gets all weird, and then tugs some of us together."
Viktorin says "I'm drunk, not a scientist!"
Miles says "..Fair play. I'll try and make this fairly quick for you, at least. Sorry about this. "
Viktorin quickly darts forward, lifting his fingers to snap shadows around himself. With motions here and there, the shadows writhe, helping conceal the dusky demigod as moves. Barrelling straight towards Miles.
Viktorin continues to charge, lifting up his antique rifle to shower Miles with lead. Rounds expended, the man reloads and racks his bolt forward. Still running, and only slowing for just that, nothing else.
The drunken man does not take it easy, charging forth with a rage that could only be attributed to a viking beserker. Or perhaps a kidnapped drunk demigod. Reload, rounds sprayed, the man hardly seems to care about the possibility of expelling the contents of his stomach, and clearly, here, he doesn't seem that far gone that he can't barrel forth like some mad ox. "I'm going to fight you," Viktorin informs the deputy. "I'm gonna beat you with my buttstock!"
Viktorin clearly isn't pleased with the fact that he just got gassed, and he's blindly sprinting forward, the direction he was originally going, hacking up a lung and rubbing his eyes aggravatedly. "I'm gonna rip your arms off!" he growls.
Like it or not, Viktorin is still sprinting forth, though his hawkish eyes are slanted in Miles's direction. He can see now, and he's not happy.
Viktorin still keeps trying to charge forth, however, he's getting hit by everything, and at this point his charge slows to a jog, and then a wheezing trot. He still fires off, but with tranquilizer, riot gas, and alcohol in his system, nothing is really accurate.
"Yeah, that's a lot isn't it?" There's an empathetic sort of grimace afforded toward Viktorin as the poor fellow struggles under the weight of the various drugs, and drink and poisons affecting him. At least Miles seems willing to try and end it now, rather than draw it out, "Don't throw up when you wake! Don't throw up!" He blurts out, slinking in close, and bringing his baton down hard against Viktorin.
Viktorin fades out of the nightmare.
A Battle In The Nightmare 240417
(A battle in the Nightmare)
[Tue Apr 16 2024]
At a grassy field
It is before dawn, about 47F(8C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a first quarter moon.
"It's like I said, Lauren, when you enjoy what you're doing, it just doesn't feel like working. Even at five in the morning." Miles responds back with a quirk of the lips, teetering a little to the side to give someone a once-over from a fair distance away. Apparently he's learned from previous experiences with than less sober folk around this area. "Crime has been-" The sentence doesn't really get a chance to end.
"It's like I said, Lauren, when you enjoy what you're doing, it just doesn't feel like working. Even at five in the morning." Miles responds back with a quirk of the lips, teetering a little to the side to give Vik a once-over from a fair distance away. Apparently he's learned from previous experiences with than less sober folk around this area. "Crime has been-" The sentence doesn't really get a chance to end.
Viktorin clicks his tongue "What the fuck?"
Miles says "..Yeah, this is less than ideal."
Viktorin says "Who pulled me in??"
Miles raises his voice a little, "Pretty sure we both got pulled in against our will, is that you, Lauren?"
Viktorin says "No. It's me."
Viktorin says "Who- I thought -WE- had to start an ambush..."
Miles says "No, not quite. It's more like a magnet thing, you know? Negative and positive charge? The nightmare gets all weird, and then tugs some of us together."
Viktorin says "I'm drunk, not a scientist!"
Miles says "..Fair play. I'll try and make this fairly quick for you, at least. Sorry about this. "
Viktorin quickly darts forward, lifting his fingers to snap shadows around himself. With motions here and there, the shadows writhe, helping conceal the dusky demigod as moves. Barrelling straight towards Miles.
Viktorin continues to charge, lifting up his antique rifle to shower Miles with lead. Rounds expended, the man reloads and racks his bolt forward. Still running, and only slowing for just that, nothing else.
The drunken man does not take it easy, charging forth with a rage that could only be attributed to a viking beserker. Or perhaps a kidnapped drunk demigod. Reload, rounds sprayed, the man hardly seems to care about the possibility of expelling the contents of his stomach, and clearly, here, he doesn't seem that far gone that he can't barrel forth like some mad ox. "I'm going to fight you," Viktorin informs the deputy. "I'm gonna beat you with my buttstock!"
Viktorin clearly isn't pleased with the fact that he just got gassed, and he's blindly sprinting forward, the direction he was originally going, hacking up a lung and rubbing his eyes aggravatedly. "I'm gonna rip your arms off!" he growls.
Like it or not, Viktorin is still sprinting forth, though his hawkish eyes are slanted in Miles's direction. He can see now, and he's not happy.
Viktorin still keeps trying to charge forth, however, he's getting hit by everything, and at this point his charge slows to a jog, and then a wheezing trot. He still fires off, but with tranquilizer, riot gas, and alcohol in his system, nothing is really accurate.
"Yeah, that's a lot isn't it?" There's an empathetic sort of grimace afforded toward Viktorin as the poor fellow struggles under the weight of the various drugs, and drink and poisons affecting him. At least Miles seems willing to try and end it now, rather than draw it out, "Don't throw up when you wake! Don't throw up!" He blurts out, slinking in close, and bringing his baton down hard against Viktorin.
Viktorin fades out of the nightmare.