Encounterlogs
Veronicas Odd Encounter Sr Korina 240910
In an evocative twist of supernatural encounters and moral quandaries, Veronica and Dean's stories unfold under a veil of mystery and danger. Veronica, amidst the cozy confines of her coastal-themed apartment, finds herself visited by an enigmatic and seemingly young man, Lucius Velek, amidst a stormy afternoon. Initially believed to be a misdirected visitor, Lucius quickly reveals his true intent, hinting at a pursuit riddled with supernatural undertones and mistaken identity. Veronica, thrown into a situation far beyond the ordinary, is coerced into an uneasy alliance with Lucius, under the guise of aiding his search for a mysterious entity, Julius, while grappling with the surreal reality of her situation. The encounter takes a dark turn as Lucius reveals his vampiric nature, marking Veronica not just physically but thrusting her into a world where allegiances are as fluid as the identities people hide behind.
Meanwhile, Dean's narrative unfolds in the hauntingly quiet forests of Haven, where the rain and shadows dance in a macabre ballet. Stumbling upon a tense altercation between hunters and their prey, Dean, a figure of formidable prowess and undisclosed nature, finds himself the protector of a young werewolf, caught in the crosshairs of supernatural hunters. The complexity of Dean's character is unveiled through his methodical and menacing approach to handling the hunters, opting for intimidation and sabotage rather than outright violence. His adept manipulation of the situation, bending a rifle's barrel with ease and threatening the male hunter with a broken jaw if he does not comply, displays not just his physical dominance but a strategic mind that tempers brute force with cunning, ultimately challenging the notion of predator and prey. As the encounter culminates, Dean's actions not only save the young werewolf but also cast a shadow over his true intentions and the murky waters of supernatural ethics and allegiances within the forest's eerie silence.
(Veronica's odd encounter(SRKorina):SRKorina)
[Mon Sep 9 2024]
In a shoreline apartment living area and kitchen
The space unfolds into a harmonious blend of living and dining. The room is bathed in a soft, warm raffia woven sconces. A plush, white sofa dominates the space, inviting relaxation with its loose cushions. A weathered wood coffee table, its surface smooth from years of use, sits at its heart. The room's walls, painted a deep, calming blue. Woven coastal baskets filled with cozy blankets sit in the corners, offering warmth and texture. The overall atmosphere is one of intimate comfort and understated elegance. A sleek, minimalist kitchen is illuminated in warm inset lighting, its clean lines echoing the room's understated elegance. Sleek black countertops contrast with the warm wood cabinetry, while a statement pendant light, shaped like a stylized droplet, illuminates the cooking area. The kitchen island, a marble slab with a waterfall edge, doubles as a breakfast bar, its smooth surface inviting casual meals. Open shelving displays a curated collection of glassware and ceramics, adding a touch of personal style. The overall atmosphere is one of refined functionality, a seamless transition in this open floor plan.
It is afternoon, about 65F(18C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside.
(Your target has been abducted and is being held hostage by a supernatural criminal out to trade them for something or just use them as a shield against the factions. Your target must attempt to find a way to escape, or simply survive until they can be rescued by their allies.
)
Veronica took a shift earlier this morning at Black Rose Book Store, which ultimately turned out to be less-than-eventful. She's home now, and dry, thankfully - the weather wasn't super conducive to moped travel. Now, in her new apartment, she idly stares at her phone, waiting on a reply to a text she's sent out, and taps her foot as her mind flip-flops between romance and changing out this dreadful kitschy coastal decor. She wishes she had a cigarette - she's never smoked - or something, anything to wile away the time when nobody is answering or out on the town.
The mid-afternoon, late summer sun is blotted out by the heavy cover of stormclouds that have unleashed a seemingly never-ending torrent upon the town, the distant tapping of raindrops upon the windows and roof a pleasant background noise to keep Veronica company while she waits on the answer to her text. There's no smoke in her hand, no buzzing of her phone to denote an incoming text, and no good weather to help her out with productivity - the rain is the best weather to just cozy up upon the couch and read a book, after all, not to fix the terrible decor she has to deal with thanks to whoever lived here last.
Her musings are interrupted by a tapping - the rain? No. It's more insistent, this one, a stubborn knock-knock-knock upon the front door. Was she expecting a guest? Whether or not that may be the case, she's certainly got a guest.
If there's any convenient windows or cameras in sight of the front door, she might be able to spy dark hair laden down with wetness from the rain, and tall, masculine figure that stands outside, entirely drenched in the heavy rain. Knock-knock-knock, it comes again.
Veronica lets her phone-hand hang limply by her side and turns her face to look toward the door. Whomever was expecting a guest is not in right now, she imagines, and scans the decor again, now cursing the previous tenant for poor taste and for refusing to submit the address change form with the postmistress. Or master. Whatever. If her mind is good at one thing, it's segues. She shuffles toward the insistent knocking and heaves a heavy sigh, pressing her ear to the door. "Who is it?" she calls out, trying to find a healthy medium between stern and polite - what comes out is sort of an irritated croak. This guest needs to move along.
Hey, can't anyone just visit Veronica for Veronica's sake? Maybe it's not the fault of the previous tenant.
"Lucius Velek, ma'am. May I come in?" comes the polite voice from outside, just loud enough to be heard about the sound of the raindrops. Okay, maybe not here for Veronica's sake, if it's not a name she recognizes at all.
The voice is boyish, almost, like a man barely out of his teenaged years, even if the accent is something unfamiliar to these places - a blessing, certainly. Who wants to hear the New England accent everywhere? And, well, at least if they're offering their name outright, it's nobody out to axe murder her as soon as the door is opened, right? At least, there'd been no axes spotted through the window and/or camera that may or may not exist.
Veronica and her slightly-crossed psychological cables collectively cave, and she supposes that Lucius Velek just wants a moment of her time, which she has in droves. She never filled her meds, after all, and maybe it'd be nice to share with another living, breathing human being. Defeated by her own solitude, and perhaps by a lingering mental illness, she reaches out and releases the deadbolt, letting the door swing open toward her. Thinking she might try a little fun, she says: "Of course, Mister Velek, uhm. Do come in?"
The man outside looks a little surprised at the ease with which Veronica lets him in; for all she knew, he could've been here to start off a conversation with 'Do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior, Jesus Christ?', or to ask about her car's extended warranty. Whether or not she has a car aside is a matter for another time, though; for now, Lucius - dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a pleasing, square face and an entirely non-threatening aura - steps into the house, dripping water all over. He's carrying an umbrella tucked beneath one arm - why carry it if you're not going to use it? - and something about the fit of his clothing, casual as it may be, gives the suggestion of wealth.
"Why, thank you," she tells Veronica, wiping his shoes on the mat if there is one, and walking into the living area with a casual air. There's a glance around, as though searching for something, or someone, and he doesn't offer up an explanation as to why he may be here just yet. His eyes turn to Veronica again after that, and there's a pleased little twitch at the corner of his lips, and a tilt of her head to the side when he asks, "And what might your name be, ma'am?"
Veronica gives the man a curious elevator once-over, and decides that he's definitely here to see the previous tenant of one-zero-six. Veronica's phone finally buzzes in her hand, but she seems only vaguely conscious of this fact. "Er, they call me Ronnie. Or Veronica, y'know - whichever feels more palatable to you. Are you looking for the old owner, or what?" Veronica hooks a thumb over her shoulder, a vague conversational gesture she intended to use to indicate the decor. Ugh, the decor she thinks. "I just moved in here a few days ago. Haven't gotten around to getting rid of all this coastal calamity. It's sort of an eyesore, isn't it?" Veronica's hand reflexively reaches out to take the man's umbrella as a show of hospitality, but she thinks better of it, and recoils - though she tries to make this look like a shift of weight from foot to foot. She looks awkward, and finishes with a polite ahem.
"Ronnie," Lucius drawls out slowly, as though tasting the name to see how it rolls off his tongue, and there's amusement in his gaze, somehow, as he continues to give Veronica a once-over as much as she does him. He's not ashamed; young as he looks - about her age, maybe, if not younger - there's confidence in him that can only have come from the passing of years. A supernatural thing, if Veronica wants to look too deeply into it? Perhaps.
"Yes, /Ronnie/, I do believe I am here for the old owner." Lucius says, catching the gesture of attempted hospitality, and he now moves over to place his umbrella next to the door, just leaning it against the wall. He checks for the lock on the door - it's locked now, if it wasn't before, thanks to her guest - and then, between one moment and the next, there's a hand reaching out for Veronica's face, fingers cupping her chin in a vice grip and digging into her cheeks. Her head is tilted up to meet the deep, dark depths of the man's eyes. "That's a cute story." He says, smiling; it doesn't meet his eyes. "I didn't think any fleshformers would be willing to work on you again, after the last time." Does she want to know? "Why don't you drop the act, Julius?"
... does he think she's someone she's very much not? He might.
Veronica isn't exactly defiant or fighting, but she's not frozen, either. Her eyes take a slight glossy sheen, and her damaged hands rise to rest upon Lucius's hands that firmly grip her face. She looks over the features of the man's face, scanning, scanning - she's seen clues before with her sensitivity - for anything that might tell her what the man is - or what he's up to. Her teeth chatter slightly as she fights against the grip to answer the man, "I'm s-s-s-orry, I don't know...any... J-j-Julius," she stammers out through the pressure.
One doesn't quite need to be a sensitive to figure out exactly Lucius may be; there's a glint of sharp, sharp canines hidden behind his teeth as the man smiles again, seeming unamused despite the human-like expression, features like a doll that's learned how to flex the muscles that bring about a smile without having any feelings behind it at all. "I see," comes the slow recognition, and the hand upon Veronica's chin loosens its grip, letting her go even if he remains quite close in case of any sudden movements.
"My intel cannot have been wrong," he claims, pondering Veronica as though to figure out what he may do with her next. "Henry Ashford? Leo Langley? Julius Hawthorne? Jasper Bennett? I suppose he has had many names." Surely, Veronica must recognize /one/ of them, says his anticipatory expression. "Don't let me down, now." He's been calm so far; that may yet change - or at least, that's the implication.
Veronica's hand rises to gingerly scrub at where she was gripped, obviously taking some measure of offense to being manhandled. She looks past the man to the locked door, not making any effort whatsoever to be surreptitious about it. A little insanely, perhaps, she nods along as he spouts off the list of names. Her weight shifts from foot to foot, and finally, uncomfortably, she thrusts her hands into her armpits, leaving her arms folded across her chest. "Listen mister Barstock, I don't know any of those people, but I may be able to cut a deal with you, you know? If you need a hand with your search, or whatever. I don't know that running around grabbing people up by the face is the most productive way to go about this whole thing." For theatrics, she lets one hand free and rubs at her cheek again, affecting an injury there from the man's touch. "What do you think?" As she looses these final words, she scans the man's doll face again - observing.
Veronica is perhaps a little unhinged.
"Velek," Lucius corrects Veronica, but he doesn't seem to take much offense to his surname being entirely butchered by the woman. There's a sigh instead, heavy-hearted, and he makes his way over to the plush white sofa in the place, seating himself upon it, legs man-spreading, an arm throwing itself along the back of the seat.
"I think," he begins then, now that he's comfortable, drying strands of dark hair curling at the ends while he sits there, the very picture of poise like he hadn't just committed at least a light felony by assaulting Veronica not three minutes prior. "That this is simply /too/ convenient. Everything, all my contacts, all my intel, leads me /here/, and you so conveniently agree to help me with my search, hmm? Perhaps so you can clue in Julius to the fact that I'm on his tail, /Ronnie/?" There's a click of his tongue and a shake of his head; he wasn't born /yesterday/, Veronica. "What do you get out of it, hmm?" He's not moved by the injured act in the least.
Veronica pivots to watch the man seat himself upon the furniture - and she makes a mental note that if she survives, the sofa needs to go to. As her feet pivots, her mind is deciding how to pivot also. A hand disentagles itself from her armpit, and starts to dance around in vague conversational flourishes, "Well, I suppose you stop vigorously assaulting my little face and perhaps no gnashing of incisors near my eyeballs? That'd be a start for a professional accord, don't you think" Veronica thinks so, at least. "And first of all, couldn't you just..." And that conversational hand rises up around her temple and taps it a few times, apparently indicating what's inside the temple rather than the temple itself, "...just check inside here? Seems like you've perhaps some other methods for finding out what I know. Besides, if you're running around strong-arming twenty-somethings, it's bound to catch up with ya eventually... unless... I mean unless you intend on leaving me dead on my living room floor. Fuck," Veronica concludes, "...not in this crummy beach-comber bullshit." Apparently, she'd always imagined something a little more dignified.
"It would'nt be the first time he's evaded me by wiping his own memories," the man sighs out forlornly. Whoever this Julius is, he sure is giving him a run for his money. Maybe Veronica should suggest he Get Good, as the kids say.
... or maybe she shouldn't, lest she really does end up dead on the living room floor.
"I assure you," he says next, and this time, he /does/ sound just a little offended. Or maybe that's just because he's been reminded of his failures at catching his mortal enemy, or whatever Julius is to him. "I have never received complaints about my assaulting of faces before, and I am told my teeth are quite lovely. They're actually insured by the Court of- ah, never mind, you wouldn't appreciate it." What kind of company, exactly, has he been hanging out around?
There's a clearing of the man's throat, and he shifts upon the couch again, leaning forward with his elbows resting upon his knees as he takes in Veronica. "Fine," he says begrudgingly. "Let's say I believe you." He doesn't /really/, is the implication there. "I will have you be my eyes and ears in this... quaint little town. You will inform me if Julius comes scurrying back, post haste. He always ends up back here, sooner or later. I shall make my leave after I've had a meal. Do we have a deal, Ronnie?"
Veronica /definitely/ feels a pang of guilt, or sympathy, or something vaguely human that Lucius probably wouldn't understand at this point anyways. It seems the vestiges of his former self have come back to haunt him. For a moment, Veronica's mind tells her to go comfort the young-looking chap, but she thinks better of it - much like the umbrella. Either way, she sidles alongside the man, the - whatever Veronica thinks he is, on the sofa, gaze dragged into his. "I'll be your eyes and ears in this little town, Mister Bellick." Something off-kilter is telling her to touch him, to provide him with some comfort - for whatever angst has pervaded his being during this pursuit. "Any evidence of Julio, Hank, Leo, or Hester," Veronica imagines she got at least one of those names correct. There's something about Lucius that she just can't stop meeting his eyes, staring into her, staring into him. And, she's never even taken a second look at a man. "We have an accord, sir," she offers, although there's a lack of finality in the way the words cross her teeth and jump her lips.
He doesn't bother correcting her regarding his name this time - Lucius here is much too busy bemoaning his lost prey(?) to care about a name that may or may not even be real. Instead, his eyes track Veronica's movements with some sort of... hope, is it? Maybe it's something approaching it. There is light in his eyes, either way, though whether it means anything good for Veronica or not is yet to be seen.
"An accord," he all but purrs out the words, eyes going half-lidded with consideration. "Perfect. Don't mind me then, dear, I'll be on my way soon." Dear? Are they at that stage of their relationship already?
They must be, because Lucius is suddenly all too close in the span of a few heartbeats, the scent of rain still strong upon his person. His hand reaches up to cradle Veronica's cheek in dire contrast to the way he'd gripped her chin earlier, tilting her head to the side beneath his icy cold touch, leaning in--
His fangs sink into her neck.
In obvious shock - or perhaps paralyzed - Veronica is frozen stiff as Lucius' bite finds her flesh. Her eyes widen behind the glasses, and she's not even able to think - at least that was her first thought. Now that she's thinking, this isn't at all how she thought it would go. In her mind, she's flailing, throwing all her fists and nails and knobby bits like joints at her attacker, but something unseen, some phantasm has paralyzed her into this victim position on the sofa. Maybe it's her own mind, her own darkness, all she knows is that nothing is working the way she intends. She closes her eyes.
When he finally pulls his fangs free of Veronica's neck, the blood in her veins feels like ice, and there's a lively flush to his skin, a healthy redness to his cheeks that suits him quite well, for as doll-like the man may have looked earlier. "That's a good girl," he murmurs now, licking his tongue along his lips to gather the last few droplets of crimson lifeblood that stain his skin, and his hand pats gently at Veronica's cheek, once. The smell of iron lingers in the air between them. "An exquisite taste," he praises, for as little or as much as that means to her.
"You will call this number when you find /any/ hint of Julius." There's a card being placed between her fingers. "And if I find out you've hidden anything from me, I will make sure to visit you again, hm?" The implication in his tone /there/, if she wants to read into it, is that the visit might be a lot less pleasant, next time.
And then he's standing up, the coldness of his form leaving her side when he makes his way over to the door, grabbing his umbrella along the way. There's one last look afforded to Veronica over his shoulder, while he unlocks the door to leave. "Try to be more careful about who you let into your apartment, hmm?"
(Your target comes upon an NPC being targeted by a group of supernatural hunters or a lone vigilante. They need to try to keep them safe for long enough for help to arrive.
)
The rain and thunder are one of the first things one would notice when outside in Haven this evening, especially where Dean happens to be wandering. The lack of light seems to make night come on even earlier so far out in the forest, particularly when coupled with the eerie silence and ever present mist that flows just above the ground, curling around Dean's ankles as he walks.
Trees loom on either side of the dirt road, which is really no more than a makeshift path through the forest as opposed to an actual street. Dark and forbodeing, their branches twist in all directions, their shapes clearly visible as an outline against the sky each time lightning cracks above. Coupled with the way the rain comes down, it might be difficult for a normal person to even see out here, but Dean is anything but normal, and this is anything but a normal walk.
Perhaps by chance, or by fate he's wandering along at just the right time. There's a distinct rustle within the trees, and the snap of branches. A scuffle, an animal maybe? A close listen would pick up a faint, self-conscious sounding growl before the crunch of more debris on the forest floor, and the squelch of shoes stepping through soaked soil. Suddenly, a single shot rings through the air.
"Damn." An angry male voice is heard swearing softly through the trees. It's a deep tone, carrying with it a hint of age and wisdom. Apparently, some of that wisdom is lost when moving about, as every thud of the man's boots can be heard easily. He doesn't bother to step lightly over, well, anything. There's the crunching of branches, the occasional "Oof!" when a rock is found, and it is quickly learned that graceful is something this man is not. After a moment, he speaks again. "You go ahead, someone needs to find it." It. Whatever it is, that man isn't alone out here. His companion seems more graceful, only soft steps heard as they disappear further into the woods, that man following not far behind.
Most people would probably shrug a shoulder and go on their way. There's all kinds of monsters out here, after all. However, there's something else that can be heard, just barely, if Dean listens hard enough. Along with that growl, there's a whimper. A distinctly human whimper, and it doesn't appear to be that far away from him. With more rain coming down by the second, it seems there's a choice to be made. Keep wandering along the dirt road, or investigate what's going on before any trail can be comprimised by the storm?
In Dean's stride, there is aa heavily inebriated stupor. His gaze is just on the edge of unfocused - and despite the thundering sky, the sheet of lightning that cracks through the clouds and illuminates his path, he's shirtless. Not that the darkness, even this deep in the forest and bereft of any light is of any obstacle to Dean. Even the way he is, his eyes glimmer with the unkind, keen and lit glimmer of a predator. Green's that reflect the moonlight peeking whichever way in tiny slivers through the clouds that blot and nearly bloat it. The eruption of the occasional lightnging that lends further glimmer. He sees it all, hears, smells - he's a creature of the forest, of the night, and with that sort of life comes an unmatched ferocity, an undisturbed awareness - only diluted by his inebriation.
Hands in his pockets, Dean cares not for the cracks within the forest. The creatures that lurk within. He's out here to imply walk off his drunken mind - but it is the voices that halt his advance through the hardly paved path cutting through the far and deep outer rim of the forest. He pauses as any silent predator does. There isn't the trepidation of prey, the wary lift of a head. There is only a sudden turn of his gaze, to follow along the direction of the speaking voices, and then a casual, nonplussed drift of it towards another sound, a more subdued one. He waits with it, among the noises, between it all while the trees above create a canopy that barely hides anything. His tongue drifts along under his teeth in a slightly parted mouth, tests the elongated canids nestled in his mouth, the monstrous make and sharpness of them -- and with it comes decision past deliberation.
Dean turns not towards the voices that clearly seek and search. Instead, he braves the danger of the forest, unarmed, unarmored, ill-prepared, with the reckless penchant of yet another big, bad monster that should belong to it, not where he's walking nonchalantly. And soon, he's the one seeking. It's likely a relatively easy effort. The sound of breathing draws him, the warm scent of it that mixes with the cold, evening air. His eyes are far too keen for anything to truly hide in any meaningful manner - not while he actively looks anyway for the smallest hint of a shape, an outline, hiding or otherwise that doesn't belong in the forest's usual presence. Whatever he finds, wherever he finds it, he's no doubt approaching it.
Heading into the trees, there are soon unmistakable footprints that have been pressed into the ground. On any other night this may not have been an issue for the hunters in the woods, but unfortunately the rain has made the ground beneath quite soft and prone to picking up indentations from things that may be lurking about. Where a human would surely not be able to see, Dean certainly can, and the impression he finds is of a hunting boot, fairly large in size that suggests the voice he heard belongs to a relatively tall man. They lead through in a straight line, then pause at the trunk of a tree, likely where he took that brief rest.
From that point, two other sets of prints join the first. One more dainty, given by a light form that seemed to barely touch the ground hard enough to leave anything more than a subtle impression of the sole of a shoe, and a sharp, pointed indent indicating a heel. The other prints were made by bare feet. Not quite belonging to an adult, it's very obvious their maker was scrambling to get away, as the soil has been dug in, and clawed at in places. From the tree trunk, all three lead to the west.
A glance in that direction would of course, give them further away. They're not that far in, and after all, it's cold. Every time there's a breath taken it releases a small puff of air that can be clearly discerned from a distance. With what little light is left to peek through the tops of the trees, a small sliver hits here and there, affording only shapes at the moment. The man- ungraceful as he is, looms around six feet in height, dressed in a long, black coat. With him stands a woman, pale and long haired. Short though she is, she curiously seems to hold no weapon, where her counterpart occasionally twitches the barrel of a rifle while hissing to her. Hand gestures cut through the stillness, and it becomes clear they're having some sort of disagreement.
More sounds are heard, even through the pelting of the rain, the occasional clap of thunder. A fast heartbeat, that same soft whine, however faint, and the panting of air. Whatever or whoever it is, they're more than afraid. They're terrified.
Seemingly unaware of Dean's presence, there's an audible irritated sigh from the female, and she steps between two thick trees, her back clearly visible to him as she contemplates. Her head turns this way and that, narrowed eyes searching with no real source of light as she stands silently for a few moments. A long breath creeps from her, and a rather bony, pale finger points in front of her. "This way," she says under her breath. "And be quiet." As she turns, there's a gleam from her mouth, white teeth that seem a bit too sharp. Within a moment, she's stepped forward and is seemingly gone again, while the taller man glances warily about himself. He seems reluctant to move further, and after a long silence, that same bony hand reaches from darkness to grab him and easily pull him along. More footsteps, that horrible squish within the soil, and then there's simply a silence as they stop.
It, evidently, doesn't lead Dean to the source of the whimpering. A shame, that - but at least his hands are out of his pockets now. They're pressed to tree trunks, massive behemoths that veil his silent approach. It's a wonder how he doesn't snap a twig, or make a ruckus with every step given his deceptive weight. Lean as he is, but hiding an unimaginable weight just beneath the skin. The two figures he chances upon, regardless of who they may be, are the target of his piqued curiosity. Not a beat, no deliberation this time while he starts to trail from one tree to another -- and then another, and by the next?
Dean is gone.
He appears again, having misted out of sight, pathed straight up to a treeline where he can get a better vintage, crouched like just another tree-dwelling, dangerous denizen of the forest that are always so eager and primed to swoop down and grab on or another. The thick branch he's settled over bears his weight, and the rattling creaks beneath him are merely that. Easily lost within the natural sounds of the forest this deep, this eager to call in and conjure beasts on any. Whatever their goal is, it is simply unlucky that they've summoned possibly the worst monster that wanders the woods.
As the duo moves, so does Dean.
Silent as a whisper, pathing within the canopy to remain above, following.
Once Dean reaches that treeline above where the pair have stopped, there's a loud squeal that would surely mask any sound he may have made anyway, even if he didn't bother to be silent in his approach. A glance down will have him looking at a very uncomfortable man in his mid to late 40's, with most of his face shrouded by a rather impressive beard. While still holding that rifle in one large hand, the other slicks his sopping wet hair back from his face, sending water flying in all directions that include down his face as he gives a sigh that indicates he may not really want to be here. Next to him, the petite woman, just over five feet in height, has a hand firmly clenched in a mop of tousled, messy brown hair belonging to a boy in his late teens that she drags a few feet with her, before yanking his head back. Curiously, her fingers pry at the boy's face with ease, and as she forces his lips apart, pointed canines that only indicate one thing are visible in his mouth.
"Pay attention!" are the harsh, hissed words to her companion, and she makes a show of pointing out those very teeth. "This is what we're after, why I hired you to come with me. They all need..extinguishing. This one was perhaps the easiest." She flashes a cruel smile, slender fangs of her own showing. "So, do what you came to do." There's a motion of her arm, and she's indicating the man's rifle as she counters any resistance given by the boy with a rather rough yank of hair.
That boy, bless him. He tries so hard to get away from her, such a valiant effort to escape that grasp. Unfortunately for him, he's just not strong enough. Where one more experienced may have shifted, ran, done anything for self-preservation, it seems that perhaps this boy doesn't quite grasp what he is, just yet. His hazel eyes are wide with terror, and he's visibly shaking. "I didn't...DO anything to you!" he protests through a tightly clenched jaw and the grind of teeth, attempting to pull his face away.
With an ethereal movement not quite human, that woman responds with a sweep of her foot, a heel to the back of the boy's knees that forces him to the ground as she glares at him, looking expectantly at her companion. He, however, stops short of raising that rifle. "I don't know," he says, not bothering to whisper, though his tone is low. "He's a kid. I didn't sign up for killin' kids."
The disgust from the slender woman in the woods could be cut with a knife the way it radiates off her. "I'm paying you. You'll do it," she says simply, threateningly before she suddenly smiles with a sweetness, almost an innocent look. "Or, I'll just kill you, too. It's supposed to be a hunting accident," she reminds him, another yank of the boy's hair given in response to his gasp of realization. Helpless, he's left to just hang within her grasp as they decide his fate.
Now, if Dean had seen anything else. Absolutely anyone else - any other creature, human, or otherwise being the tormented beneat the canopy he's watching from, squatting above a branch - He may have let it be. He may have left it all be. And yet, that there is a young wolf. Not that Dean was ever beyond killing wolves himself, or leeches - but one innocent? Not yet reared in his image? He drags his tongue beneath his own teeth and canids, their sharp ends all too easily felt in that mask of vehement, nothing. His expressionless face is not a facade. It is as real as he is, as the glowing, pinpricks of light high above - his eyes - that are aligned low, watching with silent intensity. Only green is visible from the shroud of darkness he hides within yet.
Not for long.
While the two converse, the boy whimpers, and that woman drives the boy down to the ground, a silent descent on Dean's part ensues. He paths, as he often does. Moving through the shadows, the mist that's ankle-height at all times this deep in the forest. So eager to call in all that is bloodthirsty through it by virtue of luck or misfortune. He is one of those - for either party. Fortune for the wolf, misery for the leech, and her companion, even if the man is reluctant to do anything. Of course Dean can tell what the teenager is. The scent is unmistakable. The subtle hints impossible to avoid. He appears just step behind the man. Still as unarmed as he was, still shirtless, wet, features slick with the rainwater clinging to the frame of his face. That grim look of him.
Almost casually, before he's noticed, Dean spreads an arm around the man's shoulders like he's catching an old friend off-guard. So close that the warmth of his breath, misting against the shiver inducing temperatures of a forest's dusk, is felt upon his skin. "Yeah, I think you should do it." The words, monotone as they are, are delivered without any inebriation. It's all enough to sober him up. His other hand, just as he spoke, had curled around the tip of the barrel of that rifle, guided it in the man's handss to the poor, younger werewolf. "She told you to shoot already, it's fucking lame to renegade on a contract." And yet, that overbearing strength coiled in his deceptive frame both keeps the man very still, with his arm curling to lead his fingers around the man's jaw in a claim of his face, forces him to keep looking - while the hand at the barrel of the rifle starts to squeeze. It bends the metal, collapses it inward - blocks the hole where any projectiel would be shot. "If you don't pull the trigger, I'm going to break your jaw."
Meanwhile, Dean's narrative unfolds in the hauntingly quiet forests of Haven, where the rain and shadows dance in a macabre ballet. Stumbling upon a tense altercation between hunters and their prey, Dean, a figure of formidable prowess and undisclosed nature, finds himself the protector of a young werewolf, caught in the crosshairs of supernatural hunters. The complexity of Dean's character is unveiled through his methodical and menacing approach to handling the hunters, opting for intimidation and sabotage rather than outright violence. His adept manipulation of the situation, bending a rifle's barrel with ease and threatening the male hunter with a broken jaw if he does not comply, displays not just his physical dominance but a strategic mind that tempers brute force with cunning, ultimately challenging the notion of predator and prey. As the encounter culminates, Dean's actions not only save the young werewolf but also cast a shadow over his true intentions and the murky waters of supernatural ethics and allegiances within the forest's eerie silence.
(Veronica's odd encounter(SRKorina):SRKorina)
[Mon Sep 9 2024]
In a shoreline apartment living area and kitchen
The space unfolds into a harmonious blend of living and dining. The room is bathed in a soft, warm raffia woven sconces. A plush, white sofa dominates the space, inviting relaxation with its loose cushions. A weathered wood coffee table, its surface smooth from years of use, sits at its heart. The room's walls, painted a deep, calming blue. Woven coastal baskets filled with cozy blankets sit in the corners, offering warmth and texture. The overall atmosphere is one of intimate comfort and understated elegance. A sleek, minimalist kitchen is illuminated in warm inset lighting, its clean lines echoing the room's understated elegance. Sleek black countertops contrast with the warm wood cabinetry, while a statement pendant light, shaped like a stylized droplet, illuminates the cooking area. The kitchen island, a marble slab with a waterfall edge, doubles as a breakfast bar, its smooth surface inviting casual meals. Open shelving displays a curated collection of glassware and ceramics, adding a touch of personal style. The overall atmosphere is one of refined functionality, a seamless transition in this open floor plan.
It is afternoon, about 65F(18C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside.
(Your target has been abducted and is being held hostage by a supernatural criminal out to trade them for something or just use them as a shield against the factions. Your target must attempt to find a way to escape, or simply survive until they can be rescued by their allies.
)
Veronica took a shift earlier this morning at Black Rose Book Store, which ultimately turned out to be less-than-eventful. She's home now, and dry, thankfully - the weather wasn't super conducive to moped travel. Now, in her new apartment, she idly stares at her phone, waiting on a reply to a text she's sent out, and taps her foot as her mind flip-flops between romance and changing out this dreadful kitschy coastal decor. She wishes she had a cigarette - she's never smoked - or something, anything to wile away the time when nobody is answering or out on the town.
The mid-afternoon, late summer sun is blotted out by the heavy cover of stormclouds that have unleashed a seemingly never-ending torrent upon the town, the distant tapping of raindrops upon the windows and roof a pleasant background noise to keep Veronica company while she waits on the answer to her text. There's no smoke in her hand, no buzzing of her phone to denote an incoming text, and no good weather to help her out with productivity - the rain is the best weather to just cozy up upon the couch and read a book, after all, not to fix the terrible decor she has to deal with thanks to whoever lived here last.
Her musings are interrupted by a tapping - the rain? No. It's more insistent, this one, a stubborn knock-knock-knock upon the front door. Was she expecting a guest? Whether or not that may be the case, she's certainly got a guest.
If there's any convenient windows or cameras in sight of the front door, she might be able to spy dark hair laden down with wetness from the rain, and tall, masculine figure that stands outside, entirely drenched in the heavy rain. Knock-knock-knock, it comes again.
Veronica lets her phone-hand hang limply by her side and turns her face to look toward the door. Whomever was expecting a guest is not in right now, she imagines, and scans the decor again, now cursing the previous tenant for poor taste and for refusing to submit the address change form with the postmistress. Or master. Whatever. If her mind is good at one thing, it's segues. She shuffles toward the insistent knocking and heaves a heavy sigh, pressing her ear to the door. "Who is it?" she calls out, trying to find a healthy medium between stern and polite - what comes out is sort of an irritated croak. This guest needs to move along.
Hey, can't anyone just visit Veronica for Veronica's sake? Maybe it's not the fault of the previous tenant.
"Lucius Velek, ma'am. May I come in?" comes the polite voice from outside, just loud enough to be heard about the sound of the raindrops. Okay, maybe not here for Veronica's sake, if it's not a name she recognizes at all.
The voice is boyish, almost, like a man barely out of his teenaged years, even if the accent is something unfamiliar to these places - a blessing, certainly. Who wants to hear the New England accent everywhere? And, well, at least if they're offering their name outright, it's nobody out to axe murder her as soon as the door is opened, right? At least, there'd been no axes spotted through the window and/or camera that may or may not exist.
Veronica and her slightly-crossed psychological cables collectively cave, and she supposes that Lucius Velek just wants a moment of her time, which she has in droves. She never filled her meds, after all, and maybe it'd be nice to share with another living, breathing human being. Defeated by her own solitude, and perhaps by a lingering mental illness, she reaches out and releases the deadbolt, letting the door swing open toward her. Thinking she might try a little fun, she says: "Of course, Mister Velek, uhm. Do come in?"
The man outside looks a little surprised at the ease with which Veronica lets him in; for all she knew, he could've been here to start off a conversation with 'Do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior, Jesus Christ?', or to ask about her car's extended warranty. Whether or not she has a car aside is a matter for another time, though; for now, Lucius - dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a pleasing, square face and an entirely non-threatening aura - steps into the house, dripping water all over. He's carrying an umbrella tucked beneath one arm - why carry it if you're not going to use it? - and something about the fit of his clothing, casual as it may be, gives the suggestion of wealth.
"Why, thank you," she tells Veronica, wiping his shoes on the mat if there is one, and walking into the living area with a casual air. There's a glance around, as though searching for something, or someone, and he doesn't offer up an explanation as to why he may be here just yet. His eyes turn to Veronica again after that, and there's a pleased little twitch at the corner of his lips, and a tilt of her head to the side when he asks, "And what might your name be, ma'am?"
Veronica gives the man a curious elevator once-over, and decides that he's definitely here to see the previous tenant of one-zero-six. Veronica's phone finally buzzes in her hand, but she seems only vaguely conscious of this fact. "Er, they call me Ronnie. Or Veronica, y'know - whichever feels more palatable to you. Are you looking for the old owner, or what?" Veronica hooks a thumb over her shoulder, a vague conversational gesture she intended to use to indicate the decor. Ugh, the decor she thinks. "I just moved in here a few days ago. Haven't gotten around to getting rid of all this coastal calamity. It's sort of an eyesore, isn't it?" Veronica's hand reflexively reaches out to take the man's umbrella as a show of hospitality, but she thinks better of it, and recoils - though she tries to make this look like a shift of weight from foot to foot. She looks awkward, and finishes with a polite ahem.
"Ronnie," Lucius drawls out slowly, as though tasting the name to see how it rolls off his tongue, and there's amusement in his gaze, somehow, as he continues to give Veronica a once-over as much as she does him. He's not ashamed; young as he looks - about her age, maybe, if not younger - there's confidence in him that can only have come from the passing of years. A supernatural thing, if Veronica wants to look too deeply into it? Perhaps.
"Yes, /Ronnie/, I do believe I am here for the old owner." Lucius says, catching the gesture of attempted hospitality, and he now moves over to place his umbrella next to the door, just leaning it against the wall. He checks for the lock on the door - it's locked now, if it wasn't before, thanks to her guest - and then, between one moment and the next, there's a hand reaching out for Veronica's face, fingers cupping her chin in a vice grip and digging into her cheeks. Her head is tilted up to meet the deep, dark depths of the man's eyes. "That's a cute story." He says, smiling; it doesn't meet his eyes. "I didn't think any fleshformers would be willing to work on you again, after the last time." Does she want to know? "Why don't you drop the act, Julius?"
... does he think she's someone she's very much not? He might.
Veronica isn't exactly defiant or fighting, but she's not frozen, either. Her eyes take a slight glossy sheen, and her damaged hands rise to rest upon Lucius's hands that firmly grip her face. She looks over the features of the man's face, scanning, scanning - she's seen clues before with her sensitivity - for anything that might tell her what the man is - or what he's up to. Her teeth chatter slightly as she fights against the grip to answer the man, "I'm s-s-s-orry, I don't know...any... J-j-Julius," she stammers out through the pressure.
One doesn't quite need to be a sensitive to figure out exactly Lucius may be; there's a glint of sharp, sharp canines hidden behind his teeth as the man smiles again, seeming unamused despite the human-like expression, features like a doll that's learned how to flex the muscles that bring about a smile without having any feelings behind it at all. "I see," comes the slow recognition, and the hand upon Veronica's chin loosens its grip, letting her go even if he remains quite close in case of any sudden movements.
"My intel cannot have been wrong," he claims, pondering Veronica as though to figure out what he may do with her next. "Henry Ashford? Leo Langley? Julius Hawthorne? Jasper Bennett? I suppose he has had many names." Surely, Veronica must recognize /one/ of them, says his anticipatory expression. "Don't let me down, now." He's been calm so far; that may yet change - or at least, that's the implication.
Veronica's hand rises to gingerly scrub at where she was gripped, obviously taking some measure of offense to being manhandled. She looks past the man to the locked door, not making any effort whatsoever to be surreptitious about it. A little insanely, perhaps, she nods along as he spouts off the list of names. Her weight shifts from foot to foot, and finally, uncomfortably, she thrusts her hands into her armpits, leaving her arms folded across her chest. "Listen mister Barstock, I don't know any of those people, but I may be able to cut a deal with you, you know? If you need a hand with your search, or whatever. I don't know that running around grabbing people up by the face is the most productive way to go about this whole thing." For theatrics, she lets one hand free and rubs at her cheek again, affecting an injury there from the man's touch. "What do you think?" As she looses these final words, she scans the man's doll face again - observing.
Veronica is perhaps a little unhinged.
"Velek," Lucius corrects Veronica, but he doesn't seem to take much offense to his surname being entirely butchered by the woman. There's a sigh instead, heavy-hearted, and he makes his way over to the plush white sofa in the place, seating himself upon it, legs man-spreading, an arm throwing itself along the back of the seat.
"I think," he begins then, now that he's comfortable, drying strands of dark hair curling at the ends while he sits there, the very picture of poise like he hadn't just committed at least a light felony by assaulting Veronica not three minutes prior. "That this is simply /too/ convenient. Everything, all my contacts, all my intel, leads me /here/, and you so conveniently agree to help me with my search, hmm? Perhaps so you can clue in Julius to the fact that I'm on his tail, /Ronnie/?" There's a click of his tongue and a shake of his head; he wasn't born /yesterday/, Veronica. "What do you get out of it, hmm?" He's not moved by the injured act in the least.
Veronica pivots to watch the man seat himself upon the furniture - and she makes a mental note that if she survives, the sofa needs to go to. As her feet pivots, her mind is deciding how to pivot also. A hand disentagles itself from her armpit, and starts to dance around in vague conversational flourishes, "Well, I suppose you stop vigorously assaulting my little face and perhaps no gnashing of incisors near my eyeballs? That'd be a start for a professional accord, don't you think" Veronica thinks so, at least. "And first of all, couldn't you just..." And that conversational hand rises up around her temple and taps it a few times, apparently indicating what's inside the temple rather than the temple itself, "...just check inside here? Seems like you've perhaps some other methods for finding out what I know. Besides, if you're running around strong-arming twenty-somethings, it's bound to catch up with ya eventually... unless... I mean unless you intend on leaving me dead on my living room floor. Fuck," Veronica concludes, "...not in this crummy beach-comber bullshit." Apparently, she'd always imagined something a little more dignified.
"It would'nt be the first time he's evaded me by wiping his own memories," the man sighs out forlornly. Whoever this Julius is, he sure is giving him a run for his money. Maybe Veronica should suggest he Get Good, as the kids say.
... or maybe she shouldn't, lest she really does end up dead on the living room floor.
"I assure you," he says next, and this time, he /does/ sound just a little offended. Or maybe that's just because he's been reminded of his failures at catching his mortal enemy, or whatever Julius is to him. "I have never received complaints about my assaulting of faces before, and I am told my teeth are quite lovely. They're actually insured by the Court of- ah, never mind, you wouldn't appreciate it." What kind of company, exactly, has he been hanging out around?
There's a clearing of the man's throat, and he shifts upon the couch again, leaning forward with his elbows resting upon his knees as he takes in Veronica. "Fine," he says begrudgingly. "Let's say I believe you." He doesn't /really/, is the implication there. "I will have you be my eyes and ears in this... quaint little town. You will inform me if Julius comes scurrying back, post haste. He always ends up back here, sooner or later. I shall make my leave after I've had a meal. Do we have a deal, Ronnie?"
Veronica /definitely/ feels a pang of guilt, or sympathy, or something vaguely human that Lucius probably wouldn't understand at this point anyways. It seems the vestiges of his former self have come back to haunt him. For a moment, Veronica's mind tells her to go comfort the young-looking chap, but she thinks better of it - much like the umbrella. Either way, she sidles alongside the man, the - whatever Veronica thinks he is, on the sofa, gaze dragged into his. "I'll be your eyes and ears in this little town, Mister Bellick." Something off-kilter is telling her to touch him, to provide him with some comfort - for whatever angst has pervaded his being during this pursuit. "Any evidence of Julio, Hank, Leo, or Hester," Veronica imagines she got at least one of those names correct. There's something about Lucius that she just can't stop meeting his eyes, staring into her, staring into him. And, she's never even taken a second look at a man. "We have an accord, sir," she offers, although there's a lack of finality in the way the words cross her teeth and jump her lips.
He doesn't bother correcting her regarding his name this time - Lucius here is much too busy bemoaning his lost prey(?) to care about a name that may or may not even be real. Instead, his eyes track Veronica's movements with some sort of... hope, is it? Maybe it's something approaching it. There is light in his eyes, either way, though whether it means anything good for Veronica or not is yet to be seen.
"An accord," he all but purrs out the words, eyes going half-lidded with consideration. "Perfect. Don't mind me then, dear, I'll be on my way soon." Dear? Are they at that stage of their relationship already?
They must be, because Lucius is suddenly all too close in the span of a few heartbeats, the scent of rain still strong upon his person. His hand reaches up to cradle Veronica's cheek in dire contrast to the way he'd gripped her chin earlier, tilting her head to the side beneath his icy cold touch, leaning in--
His fangs sink into her neck.
In obvious shock - or perhaps paralyzed - Veronica is frozen stiff as Lucius' bite finds her flesh. Her eyes widen behind the glasses, and she's not even able to think - at least that was her first thought. Now that she's thinking, this isn't at all how she thought it would go. In her mind, she's flailing, throwing all her fists and nails and knobby bits like joints at her attacker, but something unseen, some phantasm has paralyzed her into this victim position on the sofa. Maybe it's her own mind, her own darkness, all she knows is that nothing is working the way she intends. She closes her eyes.
When he finally pulls his fangs free of Veronica's neck, the blood in her veins feels like ice, and there's a lively flush to his skin, a healthy redness to his cheeks that suits him quite well, for as doll-like the man may have looked earlier. "That's a good girl," he murmurs now, licking his tongue along his lips to gather the last few droplets of crimson lifeblood that stain his skin, and his hand pats gently at Veronica's cheek, once. The smell of iron lingers in the air between them. "An exquisite taste," he praises, for as little or as much as that means to her.
"You will call this number when you find /any/ hint of Julius." There's a card being placed between her fingers. "And if I find out you've hidden anything from me, I will make sure to visit you again, hm?" The implication in his tone /there/, if she wants to read into it, is that the visit might be a lot less pleasant, next time.
And then he's standing up, the coldness of his form leaving her side when he makes his way over to the door, grabbing his umbrella along the way. There's one last look afforded to Veronica over his shoulder, while he unlocks the door to leave. "Try to be more careful about who you let into your apartment, hmm?"
(Your target comes upon an NPC being targeted by a group of supernatural hunters or a lone vigilante. They need to try to keep them safe for long enough for help to arrive.
)
The rain and thunder are one of the first things one would notice when outside in Haven this evening, especially where Dean happens to be wandering. The lack of light seems to make night come on even earlier so far out in the forest, particularly when coupled with the eerie silence and ever present mist that flows just above the ground, curling around Dean's ankles as he walks.
Trees loom on either side of the dirt road, which is really no more than a makeshift path through the forest as opposed to an actual street. Dark and forbodeing, their branches twist in all directions, their shapes clearly visible as an outline against the sky each time lightning cracks above. Coupled with the way the rain comes down, it might be difficult for a normal person to even see out here, but Dean is anything but normal, and this is anything but a normal walk.
Perhaps by chance, or by fate he's wandering along at just the right time. There's a distinct rustle within the trees, and the snap of branches. A scuffle, an animal maybe? A close listen would pick up a faint, self-conscious sounding growl before the crunch of more debris on the forest floor, and the squelch of shoes stepping through soaked soil. Suddenly, a single shot rings through the air.
"Damn." An angry male voice is heard swearing softly through the trees. It's a deep tone, carrying with it a hint of age and wisdom. Apparently, some of that wisdom is lost when moving about, as every thud of the man's boots can be heard easily. He doesn't bother to step lightly over, well, anything. There's the crunching of branches, the occasional "Oof!" when a rock is found, and it is quickly learned that graceful is something this man is not. After a moment, he speaks again. "You go ahead, someone needs to find it." It. Whatever it is, that man isn't alone out here. His companion seems more graceful, only soft steps heard as they disappear further into the woods, that man following not far behind.
Most people would probably shrug a shoulder and go on their way. There's all kinds of monsters out here, after all. However, there's something else that can be heard, just barely, if Dean listens hard enough. Along with that growl, there's a whimper. A distinctly human whimper, and it doesn't appear to be that far away from him. With more rain coming down by the second, it seems there's a choice to be made. Keep wandering along the dirt road, or investigate what's going on before any trail can be comprimised by the storm?
In Dean's stride, there is aa heavily inebriated stupor. His gaze is just on the edge of unfocused - and despite the thundering sky, the sheet of lightning that cracks through the clouds and illuminates his path, he's shirtless. Not that the darkness, even this deep in the forest and bereft of any light is of any obstacle to Dean. Even the way he is, his eyes glimmer with the unkind, keen and lit glimmer of a predator. Green's that reflect the moonlight peeking whichever way in tiny slivers through the clouds that blot and nearly bloat it. The eruption of the occasional lightnging that lends further glimmer. He sees it all, hears, smells - he's a creature of the forest, of the night, and with that sort of life comes an unmatched ferocity, an undisturbed awareness - only diluted by his inebriation.
Hands in his pockets, Dean cares not for the cracks within the forest. The creatures that lurk within. He's out here to imply walk off his drunken mind - but it is the voices that halt his advance through the hardly paved path cutting through the far and deep outer rim of the forest. He pauses as any silent predator does. There isn't the trepidation of prey, the wary lift of a head. There is only a sudden turn of his gaze, to follow along the direction of the speaking voices, and then a casual, nonplussed drift of it towards another sound, a more subdued one. He waits with it, among the noises, between it all while the trees above create a canopy that barely hides anything. His tongue drifts along under his teeth in a slightly parted mouth, tests the elongated canids nestled in his mouth, the monstrous make and sharpness of them -- and with it comes decision past deliberation.
Dean turns not towards the voices that clearly seek and search. Instead, he braves the danger of the forest, unarmed, unarmored, ill-prepared, with the reckless penchant of yet another big, bad monster that should belong to it, not where he's walking nonchalantly. And soon, he's the one seeking. It's likely a relatively easy effort. The sound of breathing draws him, the warm scent of it that mixes with the cold, evening air. His eyes are far too keen for anything to truly hide in any meaningful manner - not while he actively looks anyway for the smallest hint of a shape, an outline, hiding or otherwise that doesn't belong in the forest's usual presence. Whatever he finds, wherever he finds it, he's no doubt approaching it.
Heading into the trees, there are soon unmistakable footprints that have been pressed into the ground. On any other night this may not have been an issue for the hunters in the woods, but unfortunately the rain has made the ground beneath quite soft and prone to picking up indentations from things that may be lurking about. Where a human would surely not be able to see, Dean certainly can, and the impression he finds is of a hunting boot, fairly large in size that suggests the voice he heard belongs to a relatively tall man. They lead through in a straight line, then pause at the trunk of a tree, likely where he took that brief rest.
From that point, two other sets of prints join the first. One more dainty, given by a light form that seemed to barely touch the ground hard enough to leave anything more than a subtle impression of the sole of a shoe, and a sharp, pointed indent indicating a heel. The other prints were made by bare feet. Not quite belonging to an adult, it's very obvious their maker was scrambling to get away, as the soil has been dug in, and clawed at in places. From the tree trunk, all three lead to the west.
A glance in that direction would of course, give them further away. They're not that far in, and after all, it's cold. Every time there's a breath taken it releases a small puff of air that can be clearly discerned from a distance. With what little light is left to peek through the tops of the trees, a small sliver hits here and there, affording only shapes at the moment. The man- ungraceful as he is, looms around six feet in height, dressed in a long, black coat. With him stands a woman, pale and long haired. Short though she is, she curiously seems to hold no weapon, where her counterpart occasionally twitches the barrel of a rifle while hissing to her. Hand gestures cut through the stillness, and it becomes clear they're having some sort of disagreement.
More sounds are heard, even through the pelting of the rain, the occasional clap of thunder. A fast heartbeat, that same soft whine, however faint, and the panting of air. Whatever or whoever it is, they're more than afraid. They're terrified.
Seemingly unaware of Dean's presence, there's an audible irritated sigh from the female, and she steps between two thick trees, her back clearly visible to him as she contemplates. Her head turns this way and that, narrowed eyes searching with no real source of light as she stands silently for a few moments. A long breath creeps from her, and a rather bony, pale finger points in front of her. "This way," she says under her breath. "And be quiet." As she turns, there's a gleam from her mouth, white teeth that seem a bit too sharp. Within a moment, she's stepped forward and is seemingly gone again, while the taller man glances warily about himself. He seems reluctant to move further, and after a long silence, that same bony hand reaches from darkness to grab him and easily pull him along. More footsteps, that horrible squish within the soil, and then there's simply a silence as they stop.
It, evidently, doesn't lead Dean to the source of the whimpering. A shame, that - but at least his hands are out of his pockets now. They're pressed to tree trunks, massive behemoths that veil his silent approach. It's a wonder how he doesn't snap a twig, or make a ruckus with every step given his deceptive weight. Lean as he is, but hiding an unimaginable weight just beneath the skin. The two figures he chances upon, regardless of who they may be, are the target of his piqued curiosity. Not a beat, no deliberation this time while he starts to trail from one tree to another -- and then another, and by the next?
Dean is gone.
He appears again, having misted out of sight, pathed straight up to a treeline where he can get a better vintage, crouched like just another tree-dwelling, dangerous denizen of the forest that are always so eager and primed to swoop down and grab on or another. The thick branch he's settled over bears his weight, and the rattling creaks beneath him are merely that. Easily lost within the natural sounds of the forest this deep, this eager to call in and conjure beasts on any. Whatever their goal is, it is simply unlucky that they've summoned possibly the worst monster that wanders the woods.
As the duo moves, so does Dean.
Silent as a whisper, pathing within the canopy to remain above, following.
Once Dean reaches that treeline above where the pair have stopped, there's a loud squeal that would surely mask any sound he may have made anyway, even if he didn't bother to be silent in his approach. A glance down will have him looking at a very uncomfortable man in his mid to late 40's, with most of his face shrouded by a rather impressive beard. While still holding that rifle in one large hand, the other slicks his sopping wet hair back from his face, sending water flying in all directions that include down his face as he gives a sigh that indicates he may not really want to be here. Next to him, the petite woman, just over five feet in height, has a hand firmly clenched in a mop of tousled, messy brown hair belonging to a boy in his late teens that she drags a few feet with her, before yanking his head back. Curiously, her fingers pry at the boy's face with ease, and as she forces his lips apart, pointed canines that only indicate one thing are visible in his mouth.
"Pay attention!" are the harsh, hissed words to her companion, and she makes a show of pointing out those very teeth. "This is what we're after, why I hired you to come with me. They all need..extinguishing. This one was perhaps the easiest." She flashes a cruel smile, slender fangs of her own showing. "So, do what you came to do." There's a motion of her arm, and she's indicating the man's rifle as she counters any resistance given by the boy with a rather rough yank of hair.
That boy, bless him. He tries so hard to get away from her, such a valiant effort to escape that grasp. Unfortunately for him, he's just not strong enough. Where one more experienced may have shifted, ran, done anything for self-preservation, it seems that perhaps this boy doesn't quite grasp what he is, just yet. His hazel eyes are wide with terror, and he's visibly shaking. "I didn't...DO anything to you!" he protests through a tightly clenched jaw and the grind of teeth, attempting to pull his face away.
With an ethereal movement not quite human, that woman responds with a sweep of her foot, a heel to the back of the boy's knees that forces him to the ground as she glares at him, looking expectantly at her companion. He, however, stops short of raising that rifle. "I don't know," he says, not bothering to whisper, though his tone is low. "He's a kid. I didn't sign up for killin' kids."
The disgust from the slender woman in the woods could be cut with a knife the way it radiates off her. "I'm paying you. You'll do it," she says simply, threateningly before she suddenly smiles with a sweetness, almost an innocent look. "Or, I'll just kill you, too. It's supposed to be a hunting accident," she reminds him, another yank of the boy's hair given in response to his gasp of realization. Helpless, he's left to just hang within her grasp as they decide his fate.
Now, if Dean had seen anything else. Absolutely anyone else - any other creature, human, or otherwise being the tormented beneat the canopy he's watching from, squatting above a branch - He may have let it be. He may have left it all be. And yet, that there is a young wolf. Not that Dean was ever beyond killing wolves himself, or leeches - but one innocent? Not yet reared in his image? He drags his tongue beneath his own teeth and canids, their sharp ends all too easily felt in that mask of vehement, nothing. His expressionless face is not a facade. It is as real as he is, as the glowing, pinpricks of light high above - his eyes - that are aligned low, watching with silent intensity. Only green is visible from the shroud of darkness he hides within yet.
Not for long.
While the two converse, the boy whimpers, and that woman drives the boy down to the ground, a silent descent on Dean's part ensues. He paths, as he often does. Moving through the shadows, the mist that's ankle-height at all times this deep in the forest. So eager to call in all that is bloodthirsty through it by virtue of luck or misfortune. He is one of those - for either party. Fortune for the wolf, misery for the leech, and her companion, even if the man is reluctant to do anything. Of course Dean can tell what the teenager is. The scent is unmistakable. The subtle hints impossible to avoid. He appears just step behind the man. Still as unarmed as he was, still shirtless, wet, features slick with the rainwater clinging to the frame of his face. That grim look of him.
Almost casually, before he's noticed, Dean spreads an arm around the man's shoulders like he's catching an old friend off-guard. So close that the warmth of his breath, misting against the shiver inducing temperatures of a forest's dusk, is felt upon his skin. "Yeah, I think you should do it." The words, monotone as they are, are delivered without any inebriation. It's all enough to sober him up. His other hand, just as he spoke, had curled around the tip of the barrel of that rifle, guided it in the man's handss to the poor, younger werewolf. "She told you to shoot already, it's fucking lame to renegade on a contract." And yet, that overbearing strength coiled in his deceptive frame both keeps the man very still, with his arm curling to lead his fingers around the man's jaw in a claim of his face, forces him to keep looking - while the hand at the barrel of the rifle starts to squeeze. It bends the metal, collapses it inward - blocks the hole where any projectiel would be shot. "If you don't pull the trigger, I'm going to break your jaw."