(no subject)

[skinandbone]

Metody has reached a breaking point.

This delusion is not fading. If anything, it is becoming stronger and more elaborate. There are more people now, not just the disturbingly hordes of empty people that Metody can write off as the repetition of a hallucinating mind, but real people. They have histories and motivations and they interact in strange ways, and they are so intricately real that he cannot explain them as echoes in his mind.

And there is detail. Every rock, every tree, every dried autumn leaf he can find - they're all different. Even things that are manufactured to be similar, like bricks, even those have tiny variations. A flick of lighter brick here, a different pattern of sooty inclusions, a little scrawl of dirt there - all different. And it all leads him to conclusions that make him feel overwhelmed and reckless, and massively self destructive. In another person, this might translate to wandering through traffic or climbing on ledges, but Metody has a more indirect form of risky behavior:

Somewhere in the city, there is a quiet flurry of clicks. Something scrapes at the mouth of a storm drain, and then a waving spine extends to quiver on the air. A moment later, the creature pours out after, tapping along on a multitude of skittering rib-legs, bold and open in the sunlight.

There are other creatures, elsewhere. In the library, a delicate mouse-thing darts along the tops of the shelves, peeking down at people with a multitude of eyes it doesn't have. In the forest, octopus-like things made of ringed pelvises and far too many spines writhe over rocks and trees. And in the sewers, the heavy dog-like skulls splash down the tunnels, lurching on their too-many legs. All of them spread out, dragging or darting, ranging through Taxon in a dizzied search for the repeated patterns or hidden symbols that would prove it's all just a crazy dream.

02: Who says you can't appropriate a forge?

[whyfearthedark]

If there's one thing that can be said for Nuada, it is that he does not suffer idleness. Since his arrival he has gathered information from Long, traded for tools with Glitch, found a friend in an upside-down skull monstrosity under the delusion it's a canine companion, proposed a bargain with a werewolf - and generally made quite a nuisance of himself.

He has a standing arrangement with the barriers surrounding the city, for instance, and he knows for certain there are two residents here who would like nothing more than for him to make an untoward move. Or, well, one of them; the would-be knight, the tarnished champion of the 'peaceful' residents. The other one, the woman, he's not so sure would raise a hand unless it served her own agenda.

If she sets her filthy paws on his crown, he'll rip her voicebox right out. That goes for anyone, human or simply a fool.

But, all that aside, as mentioned, idleness sits very poorly with him. Having ventured into the Northern district, it seemed to him a natural progression to see about weapons. The Extra patron wasn't too happy about relinquishing his forge, but Nuada can be very persuasive.

And so, one elven prince can be found in the Medieval village's forge, day or night, fashioning himself a pair of blades. Bare from the waist up and perfectly covered in soot and grime, handling the metal and the heat as if he's done so a thousand times before. Perhaps so. But a more relevant question is this:

Do you dare approach?

13][Location: Central (Unknown Place to Josef)][Broadcast

[loveawkward]

The light overhead was blinding, neon white and painful as it seemed to burn into his retinas. Something held his wrists, binding him down as he fought and struggled. Already pale eyes turned icy blue, the nearly white as the skin about the sockets darkened. Fangs extended as his head lifted towards that light, roaring as he bucked up against the restraints.

They held.

At least the ones in his dream did. The bent back into place lid of his freezer wasn't so lucky. The lid flung back with a squeal of metal and a clang as it hit the wall. It wasn't the loft Josef had known before. Not that he was seeing the room.

Because just as in the dream, as the tablet began to broadcast, it showed a vampire quite on the verge of rage. Eyes icy pale, his fangs sharp and extended past the curl of his lip. Snarling as he fought to remember where he was, what was going on in this world instead of thinking about the bright light, the restraints. Except without those thoughts what he thought about was the pain burning in his chest, making his fangs literally ache with desire. With hunger.

[location: by the bridge leading across to the Medieval lollapalooza]

[hasaheart]

There's a man standing guard by the bridge at the very edge of Central, right by the Miskatonic river and the bridge leading across into the raucous, suspiciously active land beyond.

That man is Wyatt Cain, former Chief of Security to one of the most important men in his homeland, former cop in Central City, once a husband, now a widower, still a father. He isn't standing here because he wants to, or even because he cares all that much about what lies beyond this bridge.

A cold wind blows from the west, and he ducks his head away. These long winter months never agree with him, but still he is here, with his revolver in its hip holster, with his shotgun hanging from his shoulder, and a newly sharpened axe bobbing against his clavicle for every step he takes. To and fro, there and back again, suspicious blue eyes glancing across the water at the slightest sign of potential danger.

He isn't here for the credit, or even the gratitude, should he be able to keep something untoward from making it across.

He's here because he needs to be. He's here just in case he has to be.

Most of all, he's standing vigilant because it's one thing to choose adventure (or be rescued right into it, like he was some two years ago); it's another thing entirely to be ambushed by it. Those who choose to stay in their chosen residences, in their own beds, will sleep soundly tonight - and every night to come - knowing there's someone fairly well suited to the task out there.

Keeping an eye out.