#talbitten

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The light flicking on and sound of footsteps was enough to disturb his nap, but the caress of his calf jolts him completely awake.

"Do you mind?" he asks, jerking his legs away from the man's touch. "If you'd like to sit, a polite 'excuse me' would suffice. It should be simple enough for you to remember."

ㅤthe man before him looks, in a word, fucked. blood coats his clothing and hands, glossy - eyed gaze anywhere but in the present. slowly, james makes his approach, each footfall of his boots deliberate in their wariness. ❛ hey ― are you alright? you don't... look so good. ❜

ngl that's the reason i decided to make this blog

It's frightening, almost, how well London has adapted to this new plague. There are times when he wishes he could go back to civilian ignorance -- to the blind and blissful assumption that the uptick in carnage is nothing more than some new flu variant or a product of simple human crime. Mass graves and quarantine blockades have become fixtures of the city, part of everyday life. Apparently it's just as easy for the shrieks of rabid Skals to fade into the background.

Times are certainly changing.

Priwen's never been much of a public facing organization before. Historically, their work has been done quietly and efficiently. The less aware the average populace is of them -- and leeches by extension -- the better. It's part of the Guard's defensive mission, to stand between mankind and the threats they can hardly conceive of, and to ensure they never have to conceive of them. But that unwritten rule of stealth has fallen by the wayside now. Geoffrey never thought he'd see the day when he'd be sending out regular patrols to every London district, much less instructing them to kill Skals on sight on residential streets. Ekons are, naturally, a trickier distinction. He isn't keen to bring the wrath of Ascalon down on them now, and with the number of new recruits in their ranks it would be suicide to ask them to attack every vampire. But the most diseased and ravenous of their kind are more easily matched.

Or that had been the case, at least, when he'd first returned to London. Now it seems that even the lowliest of leeches are becoming formidable enemies. He'd sent the two recruits on his patrol back to their base of operations, one of them sporting a deep gouge from elbow to wrist where the creature's claws caught him. Sending him back alone, bleeding and trembling, was too risky to consider -- so he'd barked at the other owl-eyed rookie to see him back safely. That leaves Geoffrey to deal with the aftermath alone.

As a leader he strives to practice what he preaches, and never work alone is one of the first rules any rookie learns. But the second one they typically learn is don't fucking argue with McCullum. He'd sooner put himself at risk than any of his people. Cold eyes scan the monsters' would-be victim, looking for any possibility of infection. One wayward drop is all it takes, after all. It's this silent assessment that finally calls forth a verbal reaction in the form of an admonishment.

It's rude to stare.

Behind the scarf pulled up over his mouth and nose, he snorts. He wonders what the other man thinks he's just seen. If he's aware of how close he'd come to a grisly end. Geoffrey knows, broadly, what people assume of the Guard -- that they're mindless vigilantes, a gang no better than the Wet Boot Boys who have the Docks under their thumb. But with two twisted corpses smoldering to ash in the alley beside them, the hunter can't imagine how anyone in this damned city is still ignorant of what's coming for them in the dark. It's willful obliviousness he isn't here to fight -- if this man thinks Geoffrey's scrutiny is the worst offense of the evening, far be it from him to make the correction.

He pulls the scarf down enough so that he can speak unobscured. "I take it you aren't from around here?" The accent places him as a foreigner, not that Geoffrey's one to talk. Still, it's enough for him to hold back some of the contempt he might show to a Londoner. Anyone within the city should be well aware of its dangers, even if they don't comprehend them fully, and although traveling here is a daft decision all its own, it softens some of his judgement. "Friendly advice," though his firm tone is anything but, "-- this isn't somewhere you want to be caught wandering at night. I would suggest going back to wherever you're staying, and keeping yourself there until daylight."

the  monkshood  has  her  by  the  throat  now,  TEARING  HER  APART  IN  ITS  ABSENCE.  her  fingers  twitch  against  the  floor,  a  feeble  attempt  at  movement,  but  even  that  takes  too  much  effort.  she’s  too  weak  to  fight,  or  run.  her  body  is  shutting  down  on  her,  punishing  her  for  not  feeding  it  its  fix.

the  weakened  girl  picks  up  on  his  voice,  a  very  specific  tone  that  makes  it  obvious  he's  trying  not  to  spook  her.  I'M  NOT  GOING  TO  HURT  YOU.

her  breath  stutters,  not  quite  a  laugh,  but  not  a  sob  either.  if  she  had  the  energy,  she'd  snap  back  with  some  snarky  comment,  but  right  now,  she  can  barely  stay  present  IN  HER  OWN  SKIN.

brigitte  doesn’t  move,  doesn’t  try  to  get  away,  she  can’t.  she  just  lies  there,  caught  between  FEVER  AND  EXHAUSTION,  waiting  to  see  if  she’s  made  a  mistake  in  believing  him.