upforanything (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
upforanything) wrote2018-04-18 05:41 pm
upforanything) wrote2018-04-18 05:41 pm
Destiny - How You Like Me Now
Pushing into the dark interior, the hunter pulls his cloak in tighter around his shoulders after a quick assessment of the crowded space. There's endless bounds of laughter and clattering glass as the packed club hosts many jovial guardians as much as the denizens of the city within a dim yet comfortable confine. Passing through, a couple of patrons give the newcomer a curious turn of their heads before returning back to their drinks and conversations. None stand in the man’s way, parting away to give him a berth of respect at the length of the cloak that hangs from his shoulders despite its tattered state.
That and the disconcerting helmet that is worn. Its exterior built of husks from creatures that had sunk their claws into the moon. The chitin marked with scars from whatever its owner had been before having been laid claim as prey.
He sets himself in the back, far in the shadows of a booth that gives ample view of the space. All to better watch the comings and goings of anyone and everyone. A server comes to take care of any of his needs but they get a dismissive wave of a hand before he settles back with arms crossed. They show a fault in their charismatic display for a brief second until simply disappearing back off into the crowds.
There’s too much focus on the hunt. Every degree of his attention keen on catching a sign of his quarry.
Nothing garners much of his focus no matter how much it flashes or glitters let alone how little is worn by some of the club’s entertainment. Minute shifts of the helm the only indication that he was alive and not some statue set out on display. Soon enough there was plenty of soft murmurings that there was some off putting hunter closing himself off to the edges. Plenty enough to rouse his prey out of hiding and finally earning a slow change in the man as he straightens up to watch.
Sometimes it pays to play the stereotype afterall.
No matter how much he flaunted himself as being retired from the line of duty, his quarry continued on wearing the garb of his class for the most part. Maybe now more ornamental than practical as he tries to recall.
Golds accenting storm grey robes that held enough glitz and glam to catch attention. Ripples of black along the fabric though not drawing away from the worn leather and gleaming metal on his chest. At least there was no longer that awful ram skull hiding away that smug smile and predatory eyes. Was there even a helmet to go with all this? As he wonders, his gaze flickers away before his breath stills. For a split second he wants to swear that they lock eyes for a moment but it was merely the helm’s optics enhancing the environment.
He wasn’t the exact same as when he had left. Gear changed save for the cloak that’s more frayed with time. Internally there’s almost a shift that the battle had left scarred into him. How the void had called to him, dragged him out of a grave he didn’t remember until Lance finalized his revival after struggling to lock the light back into place.
Does he have any right to be here? What if he should have stayed in that grave? The man has moved on rather well it seems. Why can’t he?
That and the disconcerting helmet that is worn. Its exterior built of husks from creatures that had sunk their claws into the moon. The chitin marked with scars from whatever its owner had been before having been laid claim as prey.
He sets himself in the back, far in the shadows of a booth that gives ample view of the space. All to better watch the comings and goings of anyone and everyone. A server comes to take care of any of his needs but they get a dismissive wave of a hand before he settles back with arms crossed. They show a fault in their charismatic display for a brief second until simply disappearing back off into the crowds.
There’s too much focus on the hunt. Every degree of his attention keen on catching a sign of his quarry.
Nothing garners much of his focus no matter how much it flashes or glitters let alone how little is worn by some of the club’s entertainment. Minute shifts of the helm the only indication that he was alive and not some statue set out on display. Soon enough there was plenty of soft murmurings that there was some off putting hunter closing himself off to the edges. Plenty enough to rouse his prey out of hiding and finally earning a slow change in the man as he straightens up to watch.
Sometimes it pays to play the stereotype afterall.
No matter how much he flaunted himself as being retired from the line of duty, his quarry continued on wearing the garb of his class for the most part. Maybe now more ornamental than practical as he tries to recall.
Golds accenting storm grey robes that held enough glitz and glam to catch attention. Ripples of black along the fabric though not drawing away from the worn leather and gleaming metal on his chest. At least there was no longer that awful ram skull hiding away that smug smile and predatory eyes. Was there even a helmet to go with all this? As he wonders, his gaze flickers away before his breath stills. For a split second he wants to swear that they lock eyes for a moment but it was merely the helm’s optics enhancing the environment.
He wasn’t the exact same as when he had left. Gear changed save for the cloak that’s more frayed with time. Internally there’s almost a shift that the battle had left scarred into him. How the void had called to him, dragged him out of a grave he didn’t remember until Lance finalized his revival after struggling to lock the light back into place.
Does he have any right to be here? What if he should have stayed in that grave? The man has moved on rather well it seems. Why can’t he?