#calabrun

     A yawn, a peek into his box of cigarettes. Only a handful left. He’d have to buy more in the morning. John idly wondered if the bartender would let him borrow a pen to write a reminder on his wrist. Before leaving the bar to smoke, he flicked the tab on his lighter. The flint sparked but there was no ignition. John shook it, swore softly, and glanced across the bar top. There was a pile of complimentary matchbooks in a bowl at a solitary man’s elbow. He was a little surprised he was just now noticing how empty the pub had become, but then again he’d been spending half the night chatting up a lovely bird that had left a half hour ago without telling him her name or offering her digits. Shame that, but it had been a nice conversation nonetheless.

Maybe it wasn’t a large one, but it was truthfully a chance all the same. 

Even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“Maybe i’ve already became that,” he says sharply, “and there’s no way to come back. To hunt them, one must become more than what they are, but without loosing themselves. A difficult feat for anyone - it doesn’t matter what is done. It doesn’t matter how hard an attempt is made... it will happen.”

“It may have already happened. I just have yet to discover that truth.”

       “My advisers and generals have told me what the soldiers in the field call you. Or at least the rumors of you.” Every inch of her was wound and tensed at being in the same room as the man before her despite the reassurance of guards standing right outside the door listening in for her call if need be. The newly crowned tsarina had done the exact opposite of what everyone begged her not to do- which was the same thing her father did- visit and stay close to the front lines. Granted, she had returned military lead back to the proper generals and leaders to manage the war and its after effects, but that did not mean she would be blind or sheltered from the horrors of it. She saw and cared for wounded and dismembered soldiers from the ‘Great’ war with her mother and sister in their hospital. Many of them murmuring about a mythical man with inhuman strength and abilities. No one believed he could actually be supernatural...but right now she had her doubts about whether it was true or a fable. Instincts screamed at her that this man wasn’t natural. That something was wrong- that she stood in the presence of possible danger, but she merely dug her heels into her boots and kept her head high, gaze level and back erect as she held his gaze while trying to hide her nerves.

     walking the line somewhere between society and complete anarchism , one could find gemma teller. clad in leather and lace , walking tall in her heels and toting a gun. she's taken to the road , running from her sins lest she be buried alongside them. she'd put enough people in the ground for one lifetime , and now she must attempt to live with having done it.   one hand on the trigger , one hand on the cross , jesus and her family are two things she's lost.   standing outside the club , she brings a joint to her lips and puffs hard. despite not having spoken , she offers it to the man beside her. 

   ❝ No, please-  ❞ 

   He shrunk away from the gentleman in his midst. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead as he stared at the stranger with wide eyes. Had he not wandering the streets of Ingolstadt in a feverish haze, perhaps he would have regarded the other man as just another person on the street. Yet, his sickly paranoia ruled him; every building, every figure he encountered was yet another beast that was out to get him. To punish him for the sins he had committed. The young man trembled in terror, unsure of what to do. 

   A part of Victor was convinced there was something very unnatural about this man before him-- something that conjured within him the same feelings as when he beheld the demon he’d created on this night.  Feebly, he held out his hand in an attempt to ward the gentleman off, his movements growing more and more frantic, though periodically interrupted by violent coughs. 

“Where are your demons, Summoner?” 

The Land Beyond the Forest is frozen this time of year. Snowflakes have already gathered in the ebon fur of her cloak, dotting her veil like starlight. The Scholomance, no matter its distance, has been unable to warm the flakes to water. Raising her green eyes to the one who had entreated her not so long ago, she sighed.

“Have I risked my life crossing Eastern borders for this? A cool reception and lonely building? I had thought your magics from a better school than this.” Oh, he must know that she teases, turning away from him to study her surroundings. Had she been truly disappointed, she would not have made herself known. Instead, she has arrived in her own time, of her own volition.

Despite his efforts in reaching out to her, she was not a thing to be summoned. Crossing her hands behind her back, a rotted hand gripping at the other bloodless wrist, she squared her shoulders and offered an imperious lift of the chin.