#cainiine

"You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature." —Madeline Miller   &   "You may win in the end, you may ensorcell me and hurt me and humiliate me, but I will make sure you lose everything I can take from you on the way down. I promise you this is the least of what I can do."  —Holly Black

Joanna. “That’s a lovely name,” Morgan smiles and slides the girl her drink across the lacquered surface of the bar top. A memory of a certain country song written about a certain beautiful albeit lonely lost spirit comes to the witch. She decides it’s best to not mention it to the patron, lest the meaning of song’s origin offends or frightens the girl. “I’m Morgan. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, then again, I only just rolled into town a couple of weeks ago. Kind of a...rough crowd around here, wouldn't you say? I hope I’m not the only one who thinks so. Hell, I hope I can learn to get used to it.” 

@cainiine​  sent  :   "that's quite a scratch you've got there." ( from Johnny for Eric (: ))

The  fluttering  of  the  winged  creature  nearby  matches  his  heart...erratic  and  growing  frantic.  The  cut  stretching  from  his  clavicle  to  his  hip  radiates  hot  crimson,  pooling  around  his  clothes  colorlessly  against  black.  

He  needs  to  lay  low  for  a  while,  allow  the  crow  time  to  clean  it’s  wounds...but  he’s  never  been  great  at  hanging  back.  Draven  CRAVES  motion.  To  GO.  FASTER.  Anything  but  sitting  alone  with  himself,  with  his  thoughts.  

                                      “I  wish  I  could  say  this  is  the  worst  one.  I’ve  made  getting  cut  up  a  hobby.”  Eric  pushes  himself  to  walk,  ignoring  the  pain  with  a  hiss  of  pure  will.  “What  about  you,  friend?”

—  “You didn’t have to do that. But you did.”

               The loud commotion ripped him violently out of a peaceful slumber besides a dumpster; his fighting instincts immediately kicking in. He was wide awake and alert within seconds. Since becoming a werewolf, every sense had heightened significantly; his vision and hearing was sharper, he could taste and smell miniscule things in the air, and he was far stronger than before. It was an alarming change, especially for a fifteen year old at the time, but he was forced to adapt -- to accept this complex lifestyle against his will. Despite many years passing, entering well into his twenties, Reynardine was still trying to make sense of it all; he had nobody to guide him. There was no handy pamphlet given to him on being a beast that was only ever found within the pages of a horror comic. He wished there was, because his life would be a whole lot easier to manage with step-by-step instructions. Or a helpline, at least! A friendly voice on the other side of a call, reassuring him that everything was okay.  

                    This was real life, however, and he had no hand to hold.

             Sometimes, however, these abilities came in handy when a situation escalated to the point of potential danger. And this was one of those exact moments. The signs of a fight was clear, sounds of struggle erupting from both parties, and he remained behind the dumpster to avoid being detected. Darkness was certainly his friend right now. He wondered whether it was another turf war -- a lot of his own kind often fought for dominion -- but the theory was scrapped after picking up a myriad of aromas. Reynardine often recognised other werewolves straight away, but these fell on a different spectrum altogether. He had no idea what they were, but one thing was certain; this was not a fight between humans. A singular gunshot, sounds of flesh being torn -- the scent of blood was strong. Strong enough for him to taste, and it took all restraint not to gag at the unwanted sensation. How ironic.

              “Jesus Christ, I am not prepared for this!” What he thought had been spoken inside his mind had actually been blurted out, loud enough for one of them to stare directly at him. “Fuck,” he sucked air through his teeth, pressing his entire body against the wall behind him. As if that would make an ounce of difference, but he liked to be optimistic. From here, Reynardine was able to watch through a sliver of a gap between the wall and dumpster, witnessing the end of a life as they were immediately stabbed. They seemed to dissolve. “Okay, cool. Tha’ happened. Right, sure.” Breathing heavily, the werewolf ran both hands over his face in a bid to compose himself, shaking them out afterwards. Calm and collected. He needed to do something.

             “Yeah--uh, no need to say sorry,” slowly but surely, he approached the woman. The bullet lodged half-way into her shoulder was the first thing he noticed, recognising the familiar glint of silver. “...oh man, tha’s a silver bullet, right? Hold on -- um, lemme see wha’ I can do.” Removing his backpack, Reynardine rooted through it for anything to help remove it. “I’d take it out myself, but--” it would burn him, but he kept that information to himself. “--never mind, doesn’t matter,” he breathed out a short laugh, offering her a polite smile. He eventually found a pack of tissues, folding one over to create a shield as he gripped the bullet, but it dislodged far too easily, dropping to the ground below with a brief clink. “Oh, bangin’! Tha’ was lucky, ‘ey?”

it’s a dirty little bar, the sort of hole in the wall that you cling to when you want to crawl away from your problems. the sort you’d never bring your friends to ( at least, not for a good time, unless it was at their expense; but then. . .  those wouldn’t be your friends, now would they? ).  it’s not exactly clean, and it’s certainly not reputable ( wouldn’t dream of confessing you’d spent your night here, into the wee hours, drinking yourself stupid ). not if you had any shred of dignity left to you. but the alcohol’s cheap and they don’t ask too many questions, turn a blind eye to much. operate in such blissful ignorance that it is obviously counterfeited ( as HE would say – money talks ; in here? it screeches and orders the very fabric of reality. as long as you don’t have too much of it, else you risk finding your throat cut. )

the clientele is hardly palatable to most people. but it suits Hidan fine, when he wants to unwind. he always chooses a place as far away from the entrance as possible, a distant viewpoint from which he can indulge in surveying the scenery before him. puppets and all. there're a couple of regulars whose habits he knows like the back of his hand, now ( who operate like clockwork in chasing their vices ), but there is always the odd variable here and there, making it worth his time. making it interesting. there’s one thing that Hidan has learned from this habit of people-watching ( a rarely indulged habit, as his skin often itches to do rather than to sit still long enough to SEE ) – it’s that everyone is guilty of something. and that oftentimes, people are neither angels nor demons. just pieces of paper, blown in the wind. aimless, with little direction – their only goal being to find a goal worth having, snapping a few necks in the process ( often their own ), before ruining any chances as they have it in their grasp. self-sabotage at its finest ( or maybe that just speaks to the patrons here. half of them drowning themselves in bottles. )

Hidan clicks his tongue at the thought, and momentarily diverts himself from its finer intricacies by reaching for the open beerbottle on his table. spinning it around on its axis, the gesture lazy, taking in the label with unseeing eyes ( just blotches of colour ). the sight that greets him when he raises his gaze again. . . . that gives him pause. in a way few things have done, over the past week. ( past week? month, maybe. )

the man looks ( eerie, as if liquid shadows had frozen into a humanoid form, suddenly there )  expensive, Hidan thinks, even as his eyes rake over that black suit. therefore, he is strikingly out of place. as if someone had mixed up their chess pieces and mistakenly placed the black queen onto the wrong side of the board, admist white pawns and a single bishop. it's an interesting study in contrasts. Hidan doesn’t deign to kick off his boots from the opposite chair, but he does pluck out the earbud from his left ear, regaining access to his full auditory range.

HA! how you like that !? ( ah! ) you gonna like THAT, da ra ra da ta . . . .

a figment of your imagination, the man offers as explanation, and Hidan . . .. ( laughs ) ‘s mouth curls into an amused little smirk. behind closed lips, his tongue runs the length of his teeth, pausing upon the edge of a canine. call it instinct.

( his pale head tilts to the side. )

              “ are you? ” he asks, running a finger over the rim of the bottleneck, the gesture nearly obscene, but then he brings the beer to his lips. cool liquid travels down his throat. he can barely taste it. ( it’s a contemplation that isn’t one. a question that isn’t one. ) whether things were about to turn good or ugly, Hidan meets them with gaze at half-mast. ( still, it’s lucid and sharp, if one knows where to look. )  “ ...I’ve seen better. ”

a jest. ( there’s a kernel of truth to it, though.)