[M] Creativity is an Instrument of Immortality

Evelyn

POSTED: Sun Feb 17, 2019 3:50 am

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.


SLAP!

The stomach wrenching cry of an equine in terror echoed in a shrill key beneath the canopy.

"NO-URGHK!"

Wayne's voice was cut short as the rope lost it's slack. Cochise darted out from beneath him, the leather chaps of the coydog's legs flung forward, his last grip on the only thing holding him up from certain death lunged away in a horrified sprint. A dark tunnel crept in from the corners of his eyes, red bursting like fireworks at the ends of blood vessels turning that alabaster white into a pool of red. Wrenching coughs punched through his diaphragm, but he couldn't see him. He couldn't make out the devil that left him for dead. His last thought?

Were there even buzzards in this frigid wasteland?

---

A gruello blur tore through the white, the spray of ice and snow behind him swirling in his wake. Nostrils took heaping gulps of air as wide, frightened eyes searched for anything of what he was familiar with. The beast could smell the camp, and in it, someone he distinctly remembered. A scarred woman, bandaged and blind in a single eye. He knew she was close. Ripping through the camp, the horse paid no mind to what he ran through, nor did he give patient, careful steps around the fires. It didn't take long to find where Evelyn was stationed, and nearby, another familiar smell. The coyman who reeked of drink at the bar was present here as well, but the beast couldn't find either of them in his fright.

Rearing up, the stallion screamed, stomped and threw a fit. He spun and kicked, sinking his hooves into anything that was near until his lungs begged for some stillness in him. Fearful eyes moved around as he sunk his head into a nearby tent, seeking out someone, anyone to save him from this awful thing. The stinging in his rump had long since subsided, but this fear, he couldn't be free from. A snort and a stomp came from the intrusive beast, the only trick he ever knew being put to the very test.

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POSTED: Sun Feb 17, 2019 1:27 pm

The pale glow of a dying fire clutched weakly at her cloak and her face. It warmed her still, despite its failing life, though she could feel the biting teeth of winter nipping at her shoulders and her back. Bowing further into herself, her arms hugging her small frame beneath the folds of clothing she wore to keep from succumbing to unending threat of hypothermia, Evelyn blew out a cloud of breath and glowered into the fire.

They had been in this godforsaken wasteland for a small handful of moons now, by her calculation, and somehow, against all the odds, their hearts still beat. A sliver of something within her dared to suggest that she relax a little, but The Vicar knew better than to hope for a storybook ending. Periods of peace and quiet had come into her life before, only to be washed away again by the waves of violence and persecution. This tranquility was only temporary. Whether it took mere days or several long years, eventually there would be fire and fear and frenzy again.

As though summoned from the depths of her thoughts, discord erupted within the camp. Sharply, the coyote snapped her head around to the sound of hooves trampling frozen earth and instinctively rose, rigid and tense, from where she had been warming herself against the dying fire. In the fraction of seconds that followed, while her instincts weighed whether to fight or to flee, Evelyn watched the horse – a familiar beast she had never seen without its rider – streak by in a blur. She remained where she was for a long time, her ruined face turned in the direction that the beast had come, and waited for the danger to present itself.

It confused her when nothing followed except the screams and the stomping from the horse further in camp. Yelling at whoever was nearest to keep watch, Evelyn followed the path of disaster that Cochise left in his wake until she found the horse. "Woah!" she crooned, lifting her bandaged hands up to the horse in an attempt to soothe him. "Woah, now." She smelled the horse's fear, and also the familiar sting of liquor.

[WC — 364]


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Little Bandit They stole my dirty socks... :( Venerate savagery, Die savagely

POSTED: Fri Apr 19, 2019 2:54 pm

(000)

Hello yes, I am terrible and late AF

It was a mix up as to which place he crashed at. The two groups were so close, that it was mainly a question of where he passed out. John dreamed his drunken dreams and unconsciously dreaded the coming of consciousness.

The scream of a terrified horse woke him from a dead slumber.

Remembering things best forgotten, Johnathan bolted upright, hand already reaching for his knife. The tent above his head billowed in a breeze unseen, and suddenly there was a horse head shoving its way inside. John jerked backwards, startled, before squeezing himself out of the tent and coming straight up against The Vicar.

"S'Wayne's hoss." His addled brain provided. The horse was saying something. Growing up on a farm, John would have been hard pressed to not learn some of the way they spoke to each other.

He was not the best at it though, some of the intent falling upon his uncomprehending misunderstanding.

"Sumthin's wrong." The remaining threads of sleep and alcohol thickened his accent and filled it with gravel. He shook his head, and rubbed at his gritty eyes.

"He's sayin'..." Fear was the predominant thing, and it was all Cochise could focus on. Fear and pain and, a rope?

"Sumthin's.. Wayne's in some kinda trouble." There was a terrible twisting in his stomach, he'd seen enough bodies hanging by their necks.

Without much thought, John was hauling himself up onto the frightened horse's back. Green looking down at the scarred woman, he barked,

"Are ya comin'?" The horse would take him there, he was sure of it.

Johnathan Winthrop
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Luperci You have to love yourself a fire

POSTED: Fri Apr 19, 2019 8:47 pm

Of course, said the voice in her head after she recognized the scent through the liquor at the precise moment the man himself erupted from the tent and damned-near crashed into her. Evelyn took an instinctive step back when John burst through his sanctuary, the bridge of her nose rippling slightly while her single living eye burned brightly – uncertainly – into his startled face.

Evelyn considered his response with a weighted stare. "I done reckon it is," she replied with a slight nod, realizing with mild surprise that she had hoped she was wrong when she recognized the horse and who he belonged to. Why couldn't this have been a case of mistaken identity on her behalf?

Because she had never been, and would never be, so lucky.

The Vicar snorted sharply and glanced off in the direction Cochise had come. "That so?" she replied with feigned innocence, her sharp gaze – now against John's ruddy face – boring into the man's emerald eyes. Whether or not he picked up on her scrutiny, Evelyn cared little. Her focus, primarily, was on the horse.

But the horse, it seemed (or it seemed according to John), was focused on Wayne. Evelyn watched (with some admiration) as the drunkard heaved himself onto the back of the alarmed horse and glanced down at her with those perfect green eyes. She stared obstinately back. "I am," she replied after a pause, tugging her shawl over her shoulders more tightly with one fist. "Lead th' way."

OOC: Since Wayne is slowly suffocating in midair, I was given permission to skip him and reply again. :D

[WC — 251]


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Little Bandit They stole my dirty socks... :( Venerate savagery, Die savagely

POSTED: Mon May 13, 2019 11:34 pm

(000)

Hello yes, I am terrible and late AF AGAIN - I'm leaving off right here cause I don't want to power play others too much!

Blearily he blinked, the sudden pounding in the back of his head coming fore to real life. Throbbing in time with his incessant heartbeat. This was what he got for mixing his drinks, not that it ever stopped him. Her scrutiny washed over him, and fell from him like raindrops. Women looked at him with either veiled disgust or barely-concealed lust, depending on how wretched he looked. Considering how he felt, he assumed it was the former and hardly bothered to check. Judgement rained upon him.

"Mhmm.." He replied, preoccupied with try to get his foot in the darn stirrups. Fucking feet.

She didn't appear to want to get on the horse with him, and quite honestly he didn't blame her. He probably reeked of old booze and stale smoke -- but he offered a hand anyway and she got up behind him.

Back through the destruction caused by the run away horse, and out along the dusty trail. He didn't speak, and nursed his throbbing headache in one hand, rubbing fingers deep against his closed eyes. He was just a drunken rogue, he had no place anywhere really.

At quite a fast clip Cochise led them further away from the camps, John keeping an eye on the woman to make sure she wasn't about to fall off.

"Oh fuck." A shape coalesced from the fog, that of a jerking man grasping on for dear life. John dug his heels into the horse's side and urged him faster, now not noticing if Evelyn struggled to stay on.

Wayne dangled from his rope necklace, clawing at the rope and kicking uselessly.

Johnathan Winthrop
I'm a dead man walkin'
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Jace
Luperci You have to love yourself a fire

POSTED: Sat Jul 20, 2019 6:43 pm

[[Sorry it's small, but I'd like to get this thread back up if that's okay with ya'll?]]

Ethereal was the way which Wayne dangled through the tendrils of branches. His sway began above his shoulders as tawny foot paws kicked beneath him, begging to grasp at something, anything, for purchase. He could feel the blood pooling in his head, the pressure building within his skull as his ears rang. The ex-ranger had survived the worst of it. After so many years of testing the same stroke of luck, his neck hadn't broken, but the pain was never easy to deal with.

A second stroke of luck was yet to come, but in all his dumb stallion's qualities he begged that going straight back to their camp was one of the things that beast remembered to do.

Fingers buried in the skin around his throat, and claws tore at the rope there, but it wasn't any use. The coil around his neck was thicker than he could tear through with any time. His knife lay on the ground far from his reach. Sclera flowered with broken blood vessels as his body lost it's power to struggle. Quietly, his body swung less, his nostrils and lips dribbled with spit and snot. Tear stains drained from the outer corners of his eyes as his body could no longer fight the stress. What little air he was getting was so heavy, so hard to breathe in. Eyelids fluttered and stole bloodshot blues to a fitful grimace.

The ringing of his ears buried the sound of John and Evelyn's arrival as one hand dropped from the rope and fell limply to his side. A raspy gasp came from his throat as his body relaxed, and with it a shallow, winded whistle rang out from his mouth. There was only so long he could hang here, and he knew it. He couldn't waste the last ounces of energy he had on flailing.


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POSTED: Tue Aug 20, 2019 11:52 am

Drawn by the sounds of opportunity, the rogues had watched and waited until the wolves fled and left the doomed man to hang. And then, like carrion birds to a carcass, they emerged from the fringes and set upon the man's belongings. Nobody held a semblance of regard for the prolonged suffering of the figure hanging above them.

Nobody, except for one.

The thrill of looting had left her when she noticed that the man was not yet died. "We really outta do somethin'," she suggested to a fellow rogue, who responded by laughing in her face and shoving her off of something he had found on the ground.

"There's nothin' to do. He's already a dead man."

But Paninya didn't like it. She didn't like it at all. Stealing from someone who was already dead was one thing, but stealing from someone who was still thrashing (although, it seemed as though his movements were growing feebler by the second) about but without the actual ability to do anything to stop them, was decided too amoral for her.

But what to do?






Evelyn saw it too: the shape of a man hanging from a tree. It was unnatural, sinister, and exactly the thing she had seen far too often in her life. "Hurry on up, now!" she barked at John, but he was already urging the horse on and the Vicar had to grab at anything she could get her sharp hands on in order to keep from falling off of Cochise's back.

She was only vaguely aware of a scattering of shapes that, as they approached, disappeared into the surrounding forest. All except for one: a small young woman who was waving and hollering at them to help. Evelyn regarded her with narrowed eyes, but did not waste much thought on her presence. Wayne's struggles looked to her to be weakening. If they didn't get him down now, and fast, then they'd be holding a funeral.

Once it was safe enough to do so, Evelyn slid off of Cochise's back and quickly took stock of the situation. They &ndsah; whoever "they" were – appeared to have looped the rope over a branch before hauling Waynescott up by the neck. She followed the line of the taut rope to a root near the base, where it was knotted hopelessly. A knife. She needed a knife.

Frantically, she cast her eyes against the ground before glancing at John expectantly. She had already forgotten about the small coydog.

"Here!" Evelyn turned sharply to the dark woman and, without a word, snatched the offered dagger – Wayne's dagger, she would realize later – from her little white fingers.

"Catch 'im when he comes down, John!" she ordered, already sawing at the rope without waiting for the Winthrop to react. Within seconds, she had severed the final thread, releasing their fellow companion from the heavens to come crashing back down to earth and, she hoped, life.

OOC: The rogues and means of cutting Wayne down were discussed with Dark. :D

[WC — 500]


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Little Bandit They stole my dirty socks... :( Venerate savagery, Die savagely

POSTED: Thu Oct 10, 2019 5:59 pm

hangman is coming down from the gallows, and I don't have very long

Heart caught desperately in his throat, John himself felt the wrap of a rope about his neck and could scarcely breath for the tightness it pulled at. There were others here, waiting for his friend to die like vultures after the not-yet carrion, and the blood in his veins boiled,

Get outta here, yah fuckers! He roared, as their number scattered. John would have run them the fuck over with the horse if he'd had the time.

Before he could blink, Evelyn was on the ground, moving quickly, and from there things were devolving into a blur that his drink soaked brain struggled to keep up with. A little pale woman darting forwards, offering her own knife as John reached up and under the weakly jerking man, trying to hold him up and take some of the weight from his friend's neck.

C'mon Wayne, we got yah buddy. He panted, sweat breaking out where it could on his hands, making them slippery.

Then everything came crashing down, Wayne was loose and falling and John was struggling to hold onto him. From Cochise's back did both of them crash with the hanged man landing squarely upon John, who lost all of his breath in a great 'oof'

Never had he been so glad to be breathless and aching. Crawling from beneath Wayne's limp body, the Winthrop gave the Texan a good ol' thump in the chest for good measure.

Breathe y'motherfucka'. He muttered.

Ooc| [wc — 000] template by hilli
Johnathan Winthrop
I'm a dead man walkin'
Del Cenere Gang
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Jace
Luperci You have to love yourself a fire

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