Patrollogs
(Sam's nightmare battle with Connor)
[Wed Oct 30 2024]
In an apartment stairwell
The stairwell of this brick building bears the marks of an ecletic urban canvas, likely touched upon by a myriad of individuals. The space has been provided only with the barest of flickering fluorescent lights, creating a marginal amount of difficulty for those seeking to traverse the stairwell. Sturdy metal railings, showing signs of age and use, help guide the way and offer both stability and an air of industrial charm.
It is night, about 59F(15C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a new moon.
Sam blinks a little, rubbing his eyes.
Sam says "Oi. "
Connor holds his hands up and says, "I dunno what kinda Halloween thing ya doin', but I ain't wantin' none'v't."
Sam steps forward suddenly. "It'ss in the nature of a dream, to ssee thingss that one fearss, right?" He barrels onward, bull-rushing towards Connor.
"Feckin' shit!" Connor cries out when Sam comes barreling toward him. While he may, somehow, have armor on, he does not seem all that comfortable in it. Like it is new to him, and he is used to more back alley sort of scuffles. Or avoiding them. A hunting knife appears in his hand. Perhaps as part of this dream theory Sam has suggested. Connor ducks to the side to avoid the charge, putting the knife up in the other man's path. It is more of a desperation move than a straight out attempt to kill the other guy, almost like an attempt at deterrence. When he straightens up to face Sam again, Connor adopts a loose, agile stance and says, "Ain't 'ere to 'urt no one," in his Irish-bastardized version of a Bostonian accent.
Sam lets out a snarl as the blade hits him, and he just barrels forward, reaching into the pack on hsi back as he grabs a knife, likewise. "At leasst fight fair, damnit, no fun if it ain't fair, isssit?" He hisses, his voice featuring a lisp or hiss of some sorts, like he isn't quite used to the lips and mouth it's using. "An' don't pull me into your dream ifya ain't wanna fuckin' fight, aight?" He spits out, a heavy new york drawl mixing with that hissing lips.
"I ain't'ven know who ya'r," Connor retorts with eyes widening with panic as Sam comes toward him still. He manages to get his knife up between himself and Sam's knife, then he starts backing away and circling a little, looking for an opening. He flinches forward to one side, but it is a fairly obvious feint as he goes to try to stab lower. "Feck," he curses when it does not manage to connect with anything more than Sam's blade, and he ducks away again, trying to avoid falling down the stairs.
Sam continues to step forward, fighting like a cornered animal. He bares his teeth, and shrugs. "Well, then I guess you are my pressent for the night." He speaks with some certainty, despite his attack being parried again. He hisses angrily, nostrils flaring. "Jusst lie down already, yeh? Been a rough feckin' day."
"Naw," Connor replies casually as he ducks down and slips his knife up to block once more. He scrambles out of that position quickly, then shuffles around to try to get behind Sam. He brings his own knife down toward Sam's back, trying to get out of this with something resembling dignity. Only to encounter the armored vest Sam is wearing with the blade. "Feck!" he curses again and backpedals really fast away from Sam. He readies his knife again and gulps hard, figuring the end of the fight will be soon upon him, dream or not.
Sam staggers back too, spitting on the ground, before he coils his body up like a snake, then lunches forward, aiming a hard gash across Connor's chest, skidding off of the kevlar. "Fuckin'... You're strong, mouse." He lets out a hissing chuckle. "I will enjoy what comess next..." He licks his lips.
Connor lets out a startled cry as Sam's knife impacts with his own armor. He is still not used to that even being a thing, so perhaps he really thought he was about to take a knife in the gut. As Sam continues the lunge, Connor falls backward. He braces himself, but manages to get his free hand out to grab Sam by the jacket on his way down. When his knife hand elbow hits the ground though, the fall suddenly turns into injury, as Sam's weight comes down on top of Connor and the blade sticking up to meet him. "Feck, sorry! Sorry!" Connor cries as he tries to get out from under Sam without getting injured himself.
Sam fades out of the nightmare.
Sams Nightmare Battle With Connor 241102
(Sam's nightmare battle with Connor)
[Wed Oct 30 2024]
In an apartment stairwell
The stairwell of this brick building bears the marks of an ecletic urban canvas, likely touched upon by a myriad of individuals. The space has been provided only with the barest of flickering fluorescent lights, creating a marginal amount of difficulty for those seeking to traverse the stairwell. Sturdy metal railings, showing signs of age and use, help guide the way and offer both stability and an air of industrial charm.
It is night, about 59F(15C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a new moon.
Sam blinks a little, rubbing his eyes.
Sam says "Oi. "
Connor holds his hands up and says, "I dunno what kinda Halloween thing ya doin', but I ain't wantin' none'v't."
Sam steps forward suddenly. "It'ss in the nature of a dream, to ssee thingss that one fearss, right?" He barrels onward, bull-rushing towards Connor.
"Feckin' shit!" Connor cries out when Sam comes barreling toward him. While he may, somehow, have armor on, he does not seem all that comfortable in it. Like it is new to him, and he is used to more back alley sort of scuffles. Or avoiding them. A hunting knife appears in his hand. Perhaps as part of this dream theory Sam has suggested. Connor ducks to the side to avoid the charge, putting the knife up in the other man's path. It is more of a desperation move than a straight out attempt to kill the other guy, almost like an attempt at deterrence. When he straightens up to face Sam again, Connor adopts a loose, agile stance and says, "Ain't 'ere to 'urt no one," in his Irish-bastardized version of a Bostonian accent.
Sam lets out a snarl as the blade hits him, and he just barrels forward, reaching into the pack on hsi back as he grabs a knife, likewise. "At leasst fight fair, damnit, no fun if it ain't fair, isssit?" He hisses, his voice featuring a lisp or hiss of some sorts, like he isn't quite used to the lips and mouth it's using. "An' don't pull me into your dream ifya ain't wanna fuckin' fight, aight?" He spits out, a heavy new york drawl mixing with that hissing lips.
"I ain't'ven know who ya'r," Connor retorts with eyes widening with panic as Sam comes toward him still. He manages to get his knife up between himself and Sam's knife, then he starts backing away and circling a little, looking for an opening. He flinches forward to one side, but it is a fairly obvious feint as he goes to try to stab lower. "Feck," he curses when it does not manage to connect with anything more than Sam's blade, and he ducks away again, trying to avoid falling down the stairs.
Sam continues to step forward, fighting like a cornered animal. He bares his teeth, and shrugs. "Well, then I guess you are my pressent for the night." He speaks with some certainty, despite his attack being parried again. He hisses angrily, nostrils flaring. "Jusst lie down already, yeh? Been a rough feckin' day."
"Naw," Connor replies casually as he ducks down and slips his knife up to block once more. He scrambles out of that position quickly, then shuffles around to try to get behind Sam. He brings his own knife down toward Sam's back, trying to get out of this with something resembling dignity. Only to encounter the armored vest Sam is wearing with the blade. "Feck!" he curses again and backpedals really fast away from Sam. He readies his knife again and gulps hard, figuring the end of the fight will be soon upon him, dream or not.
Sam staggers back too, spitting on the ground, before he coils his body up like a snake, then lunches forward, aiming a hard gash across Connor's chest, skidding off of the kevlar. "Fuckin'... You're strong, mouse." He lets out a hissing chuckle. "I will enjoy what comess next..." He licks his lips.
Connor lets out a startled cry as Sam's knife impacts with his own armor. He is still not used to that even being a thing, so perhaps he really thought he was about to take a knife in the gut. As Sam continues the lunge, Connor falls backward. He braces himself, but manages to get his free hand out to grab Sam by the jacket on his way down. When his knife hand elbow hits the ground though, the fall suddenly turns into injury, as Sam's weight comes down on top of Connor and the blade sticking up to meet him. "Feck, sorry! Sorry!" Connor cries as he tries to get out from under Sam without getting injured himself.
Sam fades out of the nightmare.