2012.06.08.Gang War 1
Storyteller -- Tabitha
Participants:
As the media outlets report, the Rattlers and the East Side Joes are busy making a mess of everything. They've existed in the city for years, but are usually attributed to little more than an occasional theft and many bits of vandalism, most commonly tagging and marking. It seems like, in the span of a week, their entire attitudes changed for the worse.
High in the warehousing district stands Xipach-Totec, an obelisk of red skin with black ink, and a wretched longcoat that always smells of the ocean whipping about The Native American's body. The dark eyes stare outwards upon the city as is the norm for when he first Rises, reflecting on dreams of The Blood and the previous days. But from the blackest part of the night sky comes Chikrato'ri. A grey-feathered barn owl whos wide eyes and greatest senses made her into The Mystic's flying intelligence unit. A dead hand rises towards the Gibbous Moon, and there upon the forearm does a Lady of The Night perch upon her Master. The Native man reaches up to stroke the animal's alien face, everything that needed to be spoken was said instead with the lock of blackened eyes to brown.
The images of gangers and crime, of all The Rattlers and ESJ's had done that this creature had seen, swarm The Shaman's mind. The head would turn then, to stare at the open windows upon the roof and begin to whistle and hum at the same time. A Call that would echo into the warehouse itself, like a soft alarm.
Rooftop access to this particular warehouse is gained via ladder, from the interior, and the raising of that peculiar alarm - or at least the effect of the unlikely cry, alien in this desolation of brick and steel and asphalt - has the effect of drawing someone else up to join the little party. Hand over hand, silent as a shadow slithering up the metal bars, she joins the Shaman on his chosen perch wordlessly. They make an unlikely pair: one short, one tall; one red, one bronzed. Man with owl is joined by green-eyed woman, completing a strange kind of still-life diorama there on the flat of the roof, because it falls to Xipach-Totec to explain the reason for this summons, and Eden is apparently content to wait on his sense of timing to indulge her curiosity.
Most beasts flee the approach of the lithe woman, but it is Chikrato'ri whom approaches it. The owl drawn to the dark-skinned beauty for a reason even The Shaman cannot read, wings lifting up and floating on wind currents to perch upon an arm, or a shoulder. Mindful only so, of her talons. The Shaman's eyes are guided by the owl's memories to the areas where The Rattler's and ESJ's have met, and conflict arises. Or where their worst crimes lift up, the heavy dialect rises from dead lips. "Human gangs that are typically the children of coyote, or dogs have escalated their standing on The Chain as Wolves." The hands move to rest behind his back, "Chikrato'ri has seen violence, and a change in movements. Perhaps..." The eyes turn to look over Eden, "The Snakes have driven their fangs into the weakest of men. We should find what makes them change their ways."
The owl's talons might well leave a few scratches on the woman's forearm, but she is less mindful of that than the owl; for a few moments she makes greeting, clicking her tongue at the soft-feathered bird in a way not unlike some of the noises that Chikrato'ri herself makes, something soothing and pleasant, or maybe even pleased. It leads up to an affectionate little rub of cheek against warm feathers, an indulgent distraction that inevitably ends after the Shaman begins to speak. "I had heard this," Eden verifies, "though what gets reported in the news sounds like some kind of escalation of turf war. The Serpent might be involved, perhaps..." One more rub is given, this one more thoughtful than the first, more something to do to fill up the seconds while she weighs this. "Perhaps it is time to see what rattles the hive and shakes up the nest, what makes the insects go to war. Do you know where they congregate?"
Being comprised of those who couldn't make it in polite society, it comes to little surprise that the two gangs infest a less well to do portion of the city. Despite assurances that the place is a beacon of hope and prosperity, it is inevitable that some will be more prosperous than others.
The Dark Idol continues to stare, without ever blinking, unto the city of Prospect. "She does." A finger lifts lazily to point upon the owl, charms rattling menacingly with even the smallest of movements. "You speak better than I, you will be bait. Strip and I shall make something better. Something you have no care of tearing." Then, The Shaman turns off the ledge of the building and begins to walk towards the lithe woman. "I tire of playing Chess with a Snake. Let us find her this night, and if it is not her? We find a friend. Or an Enemy." Then the dead man would stand before Eden, and await.
Only when removed of cloth would Xipach-Totec move again, taking in an impossibly long breath and holding it for a full minute...before letting out a slow, impossibly long, exhale that rattles the pierced lungs. Aside from the cool breeze that always follows the man, there is then the billowing black miasma that floods from his nostrils and dead lips. Obtenebration seeking the warmth of flesh, to wrap around a woman's frame with an otherworldly grace. It would be fog, or silken sheets, until another moment goes by and he ceases to breathe again. The Abyss coming to take a sort of shape as an exotic black gown that at first glance, would place Eden in high-class society. What would be thought of as tendrils take closer resemblance to leeches that twine through the hair, pushing and pulling it until it fell into a picture he had seen below, the way some human model decided to wear and proclaim her Romani heritage. When this dark Gift is given, The Lasombra turns his eyes back on the city. "Shu'et."
Lasombra couture. What a novel concept. Forgive the poetry of one shadow being dressed up in another, by another; there's a small measure of amusement to be had in it, extracted by Eden who is now wrapped up in that bit of the Abyss made tangible. The smirk that she turns on the Shaman is a sharp thing, almost enough to cut with. "Bait? Me? I feel wholly overdressed for a visit to the slums." Which is, perhaps, truth; there is no chance at all that she will blend into anything, dressed as she is in obtenebrate black, but just now that is the least of her concerns. It is a gift, and not an unpleasant one. "Something will be lured, anyway, though I wonder just how conversational it will choose to be." These thoughts thus offered, she returns to the ladder, descending so that she can summon a cab for conveyance. The owl - and the Shaman - will likely have to follow the old-fashioned way.
The Mystic looks over his creation as it comes to life again, adjusting to its Host with a semi-sentience. As if Vampires and Abyss were speaking and deciding this needed to be that and that needed to be more, or less. To accentuate what the woman was, and wasn't. "Snakes like rich. Gangs like rich. Act like a bigger fish, and they will come. They will either try to rape and kill you, or bargain. Either is sufficient for our Hunt." The woman cannot escape from the Shaman's leering shadow that reaches out as if to claw at her in possession, before she vanishes into the warehouse. Chikrato'ri and The Native American perch upon the rooftops. Even when the taxi would come, Xipach-Totec then releases that soft Call again. Both to his Shu'et, and to two other beings. Strata, and Sturga, or any other number of names. Twin dark-furred German Shepherds that rolled the corner and peered up, Vampire and Beast speak together. All they give are nods, and Chikrato'ri is set free, to lead the war-party of three Devils. To follow that taxi.
Upon reaching the destination - which is precious little more than a street corner - Eden pays off the cab driver, and then loiters for a few moments to try and decide how, exactly, to be bait. Being wrapped up in Obtenebration cannot possibly improve her mien in the slightest, cannot possibly distract from the already significant creep factor that she has going for her. This is both an advantage and a disadvantage, if only as a kind of winnowing method for certain kinds of city low-life. There is very little for her to do but wait for her awful party to catch up, and to begin the quiet hunt for either faction. Or both of them.
"Don't know you," speaks a man with great eloquence. His bandanna shows him to be a part of the Joe's, for those with the streetwise to recognize it, "You a new girl, or just slumming it?" The man is gaunt, with long gangly limbs, mildly sunburnt flesh and more than a little grungy clothes. A gold chain dangles from a pocket, attached to something within.
The Shaman is of The Un-Dead. He does not have the problem of tiring muscles, nor joints that build up fluids and causes them to ache. He runs. Black longcoat flying behind his form with a ferocity of a coming storm, and before him? Are those viscious ghoul-dogs. All three following the guidance of the flying owl who swoops down to relay the direction of the taxi. Both dogs break from the Shaman once they are close, and the tall obelisk finds his way to the rooftops bringing with his presence that chilling cold wind. for he was a monster, one of Those Who Should Not Be. Beasts find Eden and hide, the owl finding a perch upon a streetlight that moves in the wind. The dogs crouching low in the alleys. Xipach-Totec, watches. Fingertips layed down upon the crest of a rooftop, causing black veins to rise from where he lays. A rising urge to Devour this man before his Shu'et...but that never comes. Not yet. For now, she is watched. He, is watched.
Oh look, a victim. "You don't know me," Eden agrees. She isn't necessarily more eloquent, but that hardly matters, given the tone with which she addresses him: her voice is black velvet and oil, a liquid kind of purr that covers the distance that yon Joe has chosen easily enough. "And I am neither. I am here to do business, though not the kind that you're hoping for. I'm looking for some... information." The last word is chosen after a pause. Deliberately.
Disappointment is clear on the man's face, "Huh, what kinda 'business'. You looking for the corner market," he hikes a thumb at the little store just over yonder, "Or," Expression brightening, "Maybe you're just low on your meds. Need a little 'special' aspirin to clear away the headache?" he asks, brows waggling and looking quite amused with his own humor.
"Oh no," comes the woman's reply. She moves finally, advancing on the Joe with a little sway of the hip and the click of heels that mark out the cadence of a predator's walk. Maybe nobody bothered to tell Elizabeth how bait was supposed to behave? "I represent a... greater interest, and it has come to our attention that you and your Rattler rivals have gotten into some sort of... disagreement." Again, her words are chosen with tremendous deliberation, in the slow way that someone might select pearls and then string them together. Her voice softens as she gets nearer, taking on a suggestion of some intimacy that might be better if it did not also come with an interest suggestive that she's wondering what his liver tastes like. "
Pfft, "They're a bunch of greasy fuckups, standing in our way. Everyone knows they're the low lifes of the town," he says with some righteous indignations, "The Joe's gonna be running things, and we do shit up right." He eyes her between his diatribe, "So, what, you doing a documentary or sumtin'? You aint a cop are ya? You have to say if you are."
Note the smirk. There are teeth in this expression. "Do I look like a cop?" There's not anywhere under that dress to hide a gun, anyway. "And no, I am simply looking for information. You might say that the interest that I represent could be interested in lending some support to the proper candidates, and simply wishes to be certain that the right choice is made."
"Righteous," he says, "You're talking to the right side then. Once we finish wiping the floor with those rattlejunkers, everyone's going to know the Joe's from here to the bay." he says with some excitement, "So what'd you need to know?"
Oh how well she played the part. Or atleast, in Totec's mind. For The Shaman would surely have burried his tomahawk into the man's stomach, and then, started to ask questions. Just to make sure they were on the same understanding of what would happen if the human failed him. Now, pressed to the rooftop of a convenience store, The Mystic's dark eyes watch over the dressed woman. The owl even closer. The dogs simply waiting for a sound, a heartbeat, a screa, or a Call. So, how can The Shaman help this situation move even smoother? The light nearest these two gathered individuals begins to dance over Eden's body. Over that hell-bound smile, while a swarm of what can only be called black moths, obscure the light. Making it dance and fade upon the ground below.
"Am I." This is not a question. Eden closes to a distance of, oh, six or seven feet and then begins to circle the unfortunate soul, heedless of the peculiar flutter of shadows. "Why them? Why now?" These two questions are set out like little poison bonbons, sweet on the outside, toxic on the inside, offered up to the object of her interest with peculiar indolence. "While I recognize your interest in expansion, your timing is peculiar and your methods... somewhat out of character, given your reputation."
He waves a hand, then squints up at the flickering light, "Huh, oh, hell man. It's long overdue. Chumps always trying to muscle in on it, spouting their stupid bullshit. Happiest day of my life when Big Al gave the go ahead to take the fight back to them for a change. Woulda done it years ago if I was in charge," pause, "But that's between you and me, right? We're meant for bigger and better." The man's right hand clenches suddenly, and he stuffs into a pocket, popping something into his mouth, "Just meant to be," he says, swallowing.
Nails find purchase in concrete, black veins of The Abyss draw from his flesh and bury into the soil like individual root-systems seeking to keep him static. That cold breeze, bone-chilling and soul-freezing never ceases to dance its vile twistings and turnings alone the streets. Moaning in the faintest of ways, as of The Dead had arrived with The Shaman and saught some sort of retribution. The moths continue to flicker, and flutter. Just as that dress moves to wrap around the woman like a lost lover in the cold wind, Xipach-Totec keeps his place. Watching, recording with memory, every word. Every movement. Especially that little slide of a 'magic pill' into the ganger's mouth.
Elizabeth also takes note of the popping of that something, though here it only sharpens up her smile. "You should be careful," says she, almost conversationally. "Those things will get you killed." Which, right now, is the least of her worries; she circles around again almost lazily, like a shark doing laps around a reef, no place to go and no hurry to get there in. "Big Al." The name is repeated as if it were being tasted, as if the utterance of those two syllables were an invocation that would give her more insight into their bearer. "Perhaps you should arrange a meeting for me, with him."
"Don't shit around with me," he says with some irritation, "You aint my mother. You want to talk to Al? You gotta talk to one of his men first. I aint that high a pay grade." He fishes out a phone, and flips it open, clearly meaning to make a call, pausing to look up at the light again, then dialing almost angrily.
Have you ever really watched a wolf spider approach an unaware insect? This is sort of one of those times. For as Eden uses her womanly gifts upon a man of the streets, The Shaman moves for another rooftop. Heaving himself over the ledge of an alley, only to hit and roll upon the surface then once again prowling towards the ledge. Closer this time, but still behind the ganger. When that cellphone comes out there is a loud *POP!* as the Obtenebral moths crush the filament, and therfore the bulb, of the streetlamp. The Anachronism hated cellphones. But still, he hides. He waits. He watches and listens. Daring for something to happen, so that Hell could be brought to Earth.
Womanly gifts? Elizabeth is about as seductive as a switchblade. Sharp, and stabby. "Oh?" Her disappointment is allowed to bleed in here, a little needle jabbed into this walking lost soul. "Well. I suppose you are also not enterprising enough to use this as a way to climb that ladder... but please. By all means. You find me one of them to talk to instead." She smiles, the expression like the sickle moon, thin and toothsome and particularly patient. She even gestures at the phone, as if encouraging to dial faster.
Pop! Lights out, "Fuck." says the man, distracted by the lowering of light, "Town's going straight into the fucking shitter!" Bam! He smashes the phone into the sidewalk in a sudden fury, and it flies apart in a practical explosion of electronics, "God damn it. I just got that!" he fumes, but who does he have to be angry at really? Doesn't matter much, he looks increasingly pissed. "You want to see him so bad, well fuck you. You can follow me while I do my shitty job." Hands stuff angrily in pockets and he moves to storm off.
The anger is felt, and it dosn't take much for a Mystic to put two and two together. But he waits. He'd even wait for Eden to pass below him, before crawling across the rooftop again. Watching in slow stretches of time, while dogs and an owl spread out. One Shepherd upon one side of the street, the other moving around buildings and such to always keep the Ganger in a pincer. The Vampire? Walking, patiently, along the roof. Contemplating the words he hears, and where they will go. And if he would be setting the human on fire, tonight.
Ahhh, Xipach. Can't take the Shaman anywhere. "Now, now. There's no need to be hostile..." Oh, but there is, and it has everything to do with Eden's smile, still sharp and resonant with horrible amusement at the poor gangbanger's expense. But that is all that she says now: she is content to follow wherever he might lead, and will do so without further commentary.
A day in the life of a Joe. He moves from corner to corner, scoping out the territory. The ladies he greets. From some, he collects protection money, and a phone number or two for later. On the third corner, some other guys are standing under the light, and the Joe stops up short, "Fucking Rattlesnakes." A rational thing to do would be to call in help, but, with no phone, and apparently no brains, the Joe advances anyway, "Hey, fuckers!"
The Dark Idol perches like an owl upon the corner, dead eyes staring over the group of men proclaimed Rattlesnakes. The very word made him bare spear-like maw, like a terrible and nightmarish shark given two legs and power over The Nothing. Eden wasn't forgotten about, but she was a big girl. Oh how the cry of his hungry tomahawk plagued the Shaman's ears. Reaching in to caress the shaft, but no. It is not drawn. That would ruin Eden's play, and work. Instead, The Idol keeps quiet...for now.
Maybe the Joe is expecting some backup from the creepy woman? Alas for him, Eden does not immediately leap into the fray. Her steps slow as he advances toward the Rattlesnakes, and although she does not stop immediately, she is clearly quite content to let him approach them first. It's like an experiment: what happens when you mix 1 part of Gang A with 2 parts of Gang B? At the same time, she takes no great pains to be inconspicuous, proof that she has not entirely abandoned this most unfortunate soul to his own stupidity just yet.
He advances rapidly on the other two, and they exchange harsh words about one another's lineage and taste in women. The first swing comes from a Rattlesnake. A big bruiser. The gangly Joe ducks it and comes up with a fist. His arm, though skinny, propels the fist with enough force to send the guy to the ground with a broken jaw and a muted noise of agony. The Remaining Rattlesnake leaps at him, slamming his gut with an equally powerful blow, knocking the Joe back into the light post, to slip towards the ground, "Stupid mother fucker," says the Snake, "We're gonna pull you apart and see how you fit that much damn stupid in you."
War...
It draws Xipach-Totec up from the blackness of the rooftops, to oversee the destruction of flesh and bone and pride, like some lost God. The Shaman does not waste this moment, but instead, finds his way down to join behind Shu'et and press against her. The thick dialect raising, "He took something. Will he win, with help? Or Fall? Do you want his life, or his blood?" Soon to, do the dogs join the little family. Watching the violence in place of The Master, and always looking with a questioning, curious stare. The Native American? Simply shakes his head, no. Not yet.
<---======##====================[ Dice Roll ]=====================##======--->
Elizabeth rolls Perception + Brawl vs 6 for 2 successes.
2 5 +6 +7
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<---======##====================[ Dice Roll ]=====================##======--->
Xipach rolls Perception vs 6 for 2 successes.
4 +8 +10
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It's an unpleasant gallery of shadows that watches this little brawl: the owl, the black Shepherds, Obtenebrate's cover girl and the tattooed shaman. It's like a Halloween party gone Hellraiser, or something, made more disconcerting by the way that none of them rush in to help. "I suppose," murmurs Eden after watching for a few moments, "that we ought to even the odds here a little bit. But let us not tip our hand just yet, Shu'et; the dagger will yet be effective. The sword is not necessary." Nor the tomahawk, perhaps. She reaches a hand behind her to brush her fingers across his chest, then wanders forward to break up the tango. "You. Viper. That is quite enough of that."
The man looks up towards the voice, "Hey, bitch, just stay out of the way. Crazy nigger," Who isn't black, "deserves everything he's getting." Clenched fists show thick veins as the ganger advances on the Joe who's busy scrambling to his feet, dazed, but not entirely out of the fight.
Xipach-Totec was watching with a sort of...Hunger. But wasn't this always how The Mystic looked? It is only when his eyes tear away from the violence by the woman's touch, that his blood cools back down to a terrible chill. So, dark eyes watch the swaying hips move to be a commanding socialite. But the way The Rattlesnake speaks just, causes his teeth to grit. Both German Shepherds rise upon all fours and follow after the woman, snarling visciously and snapping their jaws at the air. Spittle falling as if they were infected with Rabies, their eyes glinting with a low red light with any pass of the street lamps. Perhaps she was not so fierce, nor terrifying. But those police-dogs trot a few feet before her, daring the Ganger to disobey the woman's presence while The Native American begins to walk after her. Slowly. Each step bringing more of that cold wind, and each step causes a rattling of his talismans. For whatever reasons his eyes are overtaken with the blackness of shadows, obscuring his face and features. The fingertips dripping with the hideous black ichor of The Abyss.
Now, Elizabeth is sort of subtle. It's in her nature. The dogs? Are kind of on the line of subtlety, the sort of thing one might be able to pass off with bad lighting. The Shaman? That's a whole lot harder to rationalize. But it is Eden with her escort of slavering black dogs that must be contended with first and she is not particularly dissuaded by the Rattler, nor his foul mouth. "I have no doubt but that he does," she purrs, "but in this particular instance you should better consider what it is that you deserve." She pauses, a slash of silence inserted by way of punctuation, which is broken by the donning of that terrible smile of hers. "Last chance."
Rage, unspeakable and growing fucked up terror. The snake proves as having a survival instinct and instead snatches up his downed ally, despite the other guy looking quite large, "Yea, you have fun," he says in a half slur, as if talking were something of a challenge, and he moves to haul his fellow rattler off into the darkness.
The Joe takes this lull to empty his stomach across the sidewalk in a loud expulsion of the many toxins he likely enjoys daily. Half slumped over, he offers little to the conversation at hand.
Xipach-Totec rises behind Eden, seemingly almost twice her height as a rattling like pass of breath dances beyond his nostrils and into her hair. He had been listening, he had been patient, and he had been observing...but now? There is a snarl, a singular command to those Hell Hounds.
"Get him."
Which sums it up to - Chase. Tear out his tendons, and drag The Rattlers back to The Shaman's dark court.
It is then that his eyes turn upon The Joe, and two cold hands settle upon Eden's hips. "He owes you a Boon. Do with him what you will. Ask what herbs he took. To display such...ferocity."
--The German Shepherds themselves would release hellish snarls, and barks. Spittle flying every which way as Potence fueled their musculature and they gave chase like savage monsters of The Dark, seeking to please their Master and feed their awakened blood lust.
<---======##====================[ Dice Roll ]=====================##======--->
Tabitha rolls 6 (6 dice) vs 6 for 3 successes.
2 3 3 +6 +7 +10
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<---======##====================[ Dice Roll ]=====================##======--->
Tabitha rolls 6 (6 dice) vs 6 for 1 successes.
1 3 4 5 +7 10
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<---======##====================[ Dice Roll ]=====================##======--->
Tabitha rolls 5 + 1 (6 dice) vs 6 for 0 successes.
1 2 3 4 4 10
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And... off go the dogs. Such a mess those two make, left to their own desires. This hardly concerns Eden, however, as her own rat in the race is now barfing his guts out. Her fingertips brush over the shaman's, though she steps away from him in the next breath and wanders over to the Joe, again circling wide around to avoid contamination with the nasty puddle he's making himself there. "That," she purrs, "was quite a demonstration. You, against the both of them."
He looks up at her in a squint. Coming down from whatever it was, he's shaking pretty bad. He fumbles into a pocket, pulling out a few more pills, dropping most, and getting one into his mouth, ah, that's the SHIT! He looks up at the terrifying scream of a man being ravaged just out of sight, those snarls and gnashing, the wet slap of flesh as two men are downed for the price of one.
Have you ever witnessed what it's like, to be torn at by canines? Watch some K9-Unit training videos. Cops thank their lucky stars that they have that padding. But in the darkest places? Men are being torn apart, chunks of flesh and clothing ripped off the bones and musculature because their Blood demands they do so. Because it pleases The Master, and above all of this...vileness...that barn owl, watches. Both a lookout, and a recording device.
The Shaman let Shu'et move away, watching in the blackness as those dogs seek to strip their enemies of mobility, and by their ankles drag fully grown men back to Master. Because Master, told them to. It didn't matter how long it took, or if they lost their nails in clawing the pavement, or if prayers to a dead God were uttered past their lips. The Shaman stood like an unmoving feature of the land, and waited for his Braves to bring him what he now considered, his. To plant a large booted foot upon the back or chest of the conscious one, and impress his toes upon them.
"Where did you become so strong...? How?" If the answer wasn't immedietly given, one of the dogs would snarl and sink their horrible maws onto and ear - and tear it off the skull.
Yes, yes. But that's all over there, and the black-clad woman kind of moves to be a distraction from the audible carnage going down over yonder, just around the mouth of the alley. This isn't going to help the quality of her smile in the slightest, fixed though it remains, sweet and cruel as maple syrup poured over a straight razor. "Ah, there," she purrs now, "are you feeling better? You were going to introduce me to Big Al," she reminds, the prompting exquisitely delicate, as if this were some sunny garden party and not going to cause the cops a forensic headache in a couple of hours. Xipach can question the dying Rattlers: she's got her own little toy to play with. He might even survive the night, at this rate.
His eyes dart left and right, "Yea, sure, uh. Still don't have my phone. Tell ya what..." he says with a tone that implies he is becoming all too familiar with his potential mortality, "You give me your number, he'll get with you. Scout's honor and shit." He rights himself, looking more stable as the fresh influx of drug chases the tremors from his form and strength returns.
The man with the broken jaw was unconscious before now, and remains so. The other struggles mightily against the dog hauling his ass around, screaming and trying to pry those jaws off of himself in an impressively stubborn, if futile, effort. Caught in fight or flight, he is providing few useful replies other than showing just how tenacious than can be when the drug is high in the system.
Oh, a number will be provided. And a name: Tenebrae. Because really, who in their right minds wants to give their real name out under circumstances like this one? Poor Joe, turned into a messenger, and oh what a message he will have to circulate...
Dark brown eyes level with the awake Rattler, for before him was a towering Native with Ti Moko much like Irequoi markings. He dosn't threaten, he hardly speaks. Xipach-Totec watches as dogs bite and tear, and tease, and bully. That ear was a promise: a promise that something bad awaited him. A test, to see just hot potent this strange pill made mortal men.
The Shaman is busy with his own toys, leaving the other alone. A heavy Potence-enforced boot finds the man's loins, crushing down to wittle away at the organ, while black pitch begins to leak from his victim's very eyes: Obtenebration, seeking to expunge itself from the victim. The Rattler would feel something -in his head- as the sinuses are used as a passageway for Obtenebration, small little hands beginning to creep out from one of the nostrils. Darkling-claws tugging at the nose hairs, and The Shaman's voice, takes a cutting edge and depth.
"Speak to me where your strength comes from. Why your gang has become so strong, so fast..." Then the eyes turn on the unconscious man, "Or you will watch your friend's organs be eaten while he is still alive."
It's a twisted thing, watching a man kill himself in such a strange fashion. The many wounds has him bleeding copiously, and his screams have become little more than the drowning of blood as he pulls as if the only thing in the world in his vision were those jaws. With a mighty, final, wrench, he pulls a dog free, and something slides inside of him almost audibly. With a ragged, dying, wheeze, blood rushes into his punctured lung from the rib he drove into it himself, and he collapses, life rapidly fleeing him. The Joe? Yea, he's gone as soon as he has his information, zip!
That is all The Shaman wanted, watching how far this drug drove a normal Man. Even as those Hounds leave the man hideously deformed with wounds, they stare up with whimpering gazes. Like puppies, asking if it is okay. The Mystic saught the survivor, the lone Rattler, and lowered down upon his form with a great shadow; as if he too were an owl. A single finger pressing to the temple, "...Herbs that make a man strong, and feel nothing..." The head cocks to the side, then the other. Xipach-Totec's dark eyes settle on the broken jaw, before reaching beneath the human to raise it up to his shoulders. Standing, like a Dark Idol and awaiting the dark woman's presence by his side once more. A nod, given to those Hell Hounds...who begin to visciously feed on flesh and organs, for The Indian kept them starved. Just for nights like this.
