Post by The Lone Wolf on Jul 29, 2007 9:41:41 GMT -5
(OOC Note: I’m trying something new, where I always capitalize “It” when in reference to the Lone Wolf, to hopefully make it more clear when I’m referring to him rather than some random “it.” Let me know if this is better or worse.)
It was dusk. The sun had crawled below the horizon for another evening of slumber, but had not yet sunk far enough that the full power of its magnificent rays was unable to pierce the thin veil of gases clinging to the planet’s dismal surface. Shadows stretched long and ominous beyond any object sturdy enough for even the most tentative of reaches towards the sky. The forest was a sea of misshapen and exaggerated forms, dark ghosts, macabre mockeries of the plant life that formed them. Their creeping skeletal images would be enough to make most men cringe in fear. Luckily It was not thus affected.
It strode smoothly between the trees, effortless, almost seeming to glide just above the surface of the ground. Preternatural senses attuned to every aspect of the world around It, It was not afraid, yet was ready for anything. Subtle wisps of movement, elusive odors, faint sounds in the distance, imperceptible to “human” senses, all register in Its field of sensory awareness. It was keenly aware of a number of opportunities within the horizon, a plethora of potential game It could bring down to slake its hunger should the thought strike Its fancy. But It had Its sights set on bigger prey tonight… Prey that was far from elusive, quite the opposite, prey almost impossible to miss, and yet prey potentially more dangerous than the most ravenous of beasts… Still, It walked on.
A new kind of sound began to penetrate Its consciousness, a sound that might bode ill, for it indicated that It was nearing Its prey. It paused for a moment. It was weary of this encounter, almost dreadful of it, yet this had been a long time coming, and It knew it was unavoidable. It would have to continue. Steeling itself against that which was to come, it pressed onward.
As Its steady methodical movements carried It closer to the goal It sought, the sounds ahead rose higher into the perceptual level. As the noises grew to reach less adept sets of ears, game grew continuously more scarce, as the prey It sought tonight tended to drive off lesser adversaries. The wildlife continually dropped off, and in the distance the stretched and skewed shadows produced by the just set sun took on a more uniform and geometric nature. It was leaving now the lair of the wild and preparing to enter into the territory of that most bizarre of animals: man. This was it, the proverbial moment of truth. For the first time since Its near annihilation, It would willingly, intentionally expose itself to the force that so nearly ended it.
For this mission It would have to look the part. As It drew further and further from the habitat of man, It had abandoned all that had the stench of humanity upon it. Through years of physical hardship and eons spent studying mental discipline, It had learned to face the world with no barrier to shield It. It was capable of extended exposure to sweltering heat or chilling cold with minimum loss of functionality, and through force of will could demand his body function through greater encumbrances. As such, It had torn aside the rags that covered Itself months ago. The civilized, the cultured, the “human,” that was the sickness, that the cancer that sought to destroy It from without and within. The feral, the naturalistic, the pure animal base, simple instinctual survival, that was the cure. And it was a cure that It had pursued aggressively, obsessively. A cure It had devoted Itself to wholly with no reservation or second thought.
But now that all must change. It could not parade into civilization nude under the best of circumstances, and these were hardly the best of circumstances. It had accomplished Herculean recovery since the fire, a truly superhuman level of regeneration. Yet that healing process, astonishing as it may be, was far from complete. The physical signs of the ordeal It survived were obvious and potent. To the common eye of your average man, It was an eyesore, an abomination, a monstrous creature to be either pitied or feared, and in either case shunned. It could not face the hideous human multitudes if It was to be an obvious and immediate monstrosity. It must, at least in part, blend in. And as such, It had been forced to acquire clothing.
Where It retrieved these garments and how were both details irrelevant. What was important was that It had found them, and they should prove to be sufficient for Its machinations.
Its feet were covered by simple work boots, dark brown in color, common to any man and distinctive to no man. Its legs were wrapped in black denim, likewise indistinguishable from that commonly worn by the multitudes. The shirt was barely visible, only its dark shade testifying to its existence. For the bulk of Its body was obscured by the black cloak, hooded, that draped over its form. Leather and worn, it was the most distinctive of Its garments. Its gloved hands nearly disappeared into the sleeves of the cloak, its hood hanging low over Its eyes, mercifully masking Its face from the world.
Distaste crept into It, coupled with a hint of fear. The forest had thinned, the landscape was changing. As It stepped forth into the clearing, It faced a hideous sight. The beast stood high, towering over Its head, and broad, its shoulder stretching vastly across the ground. Its ominous frame could crush one into oblivion, yet it made no move, no advance towards It. Instead it stood totally still, laughing at It, mocking It with the hideous message emblazoned across it’s chest… “Welcome to Fort McMurray, population 64,441.”
Revulsion boiled up inside of It. Bile rose up in Its throat, screaming to be released violently into the world, a protest against the abomination of the sight before It. But It held the urge back. It forced the tumultuous sea of visceral response down deep inside of Itself. This was the point of no return. There was no turning back now… It strode forth, taking Its first strides into the human city.
It felt like a caged animals. Though the air was open and a multitude of avenues for escape surrounded It, It felt as though the constructs of man were closing in around It, locking It away, imprisoning It in adamantine bars from whence there could be no escape. It had to fight back the urge to run immediately, to sprint away from this sickening collection of what was foolishly referred to as “culture” or “society.” It had to clamp down Its jaw, clench Its fists to force itself to continue passed the pedestrians milling through the streets and not pounce upon them, tearing flesh from bone.
The men and women who walked passed It paid It little mind. To them it was just another man walking the street. Slowly It came to be partially acclimated to their presence, and the urge to run or strike out at once lessened inside of It. The occasional gasps or double takes from a man or woman catching a glimpse of Its flesh beneath the hood provided the unnecessary reminder to keep its guard up. It soldiered on, measuring Its breath, quelling the emotional storm that desperately sought a path out of It.
Something caught Its eye, and It was reminded of one aspect of these creatures that called themselves man It hadn’t shunned, something It had actually missed. Turning sharply, It strode forth into the liquor store.
As the door closed behind It, It fought down a fresh swell of panic, blind fear and pumping adrenaline at being trapped inside the confines of four walls. It reminded Itself consciously that Its exit was not blocked, that It could flee from this place at any moment, and It grabbed the first bottle off of the first shelf It passed, taking it immediately to the counter and setting it unceremoniously in front of the clerk.
He was perhaps in his mid forties, shaggy brown hair showing signs of grey, brown eyes deep and soft. His arms were thick and his frame strong, the build of a man who was no stranger to hard work, his belly swelled beneath his dark blue T-shirt, sign of decades of good meals with his family and good drinks with his friends. He glanced at the bottle, then started to speak as his eyes shifted up to the newcomer to his establishment.
“Hey, pal, can I see some I.D., eh?...”
His voice trailed off and his jaw dropped open as his gaze reached his customer’s face and he caught sight of what lay underneath the hood. The face was crisscrossed with twisting, uneven lines of mottled scar tissue, interspersed with regions where the trauma had been too much and the skin had cracked open, revealing the bright pink tissue beneath. The face bore only a hint of the youthful handsomeness that once dominated its features. What was left was harsh, hardened, somehow more in keeping with the infinite recesses of those piercing blue eyes that seemed to burn straight through him. The customer retrieved a wad of cash from Its pockets and tossed it on the counter. The clerk did not say a word as It grabbed its bottle, turned promptly on Its heels, and walked out of the store.
It tore open the cap on the bottle, neither noticing nor caring what its label read. It rose the bottle to its lips and tipped it back, pouring its contents into Its gullet, swallowing the amber liquid eagerly. It drained half of the bottle in a single pull, feeling its warmth spread out from Its core, dulling the strain of the day’s encounters. Taking a step further into the city, it contemplated what Its next move would be.
It stopped in Its tracks when the words from a flier affixed to a telephone pole seeped into Its consciousness. It turned to the pole, Its free hand shooting out and ripping the flier from it, holding it before Its face to confirm what it thought it saw. The flier read:
Outlaw Wrestling Federation Returns!
Coming Soon, the Clash at the Oilcan!
(Talent with wrestling experience welcomed to audition, see Marcus Ash)
Its lips pulled away from Its teeth in a sneer that may have once born some slight resemblance to a smirk. A part of It that could almost remember the concept of something more than the absence of pain very nearly laughed. It knew what It would do next…
Crumpling the flier, It shoved it into Its pocket and set forth to find the Oilcan and Marcus Ash…
It was dusk. The sun had crawled below the horizon for another evening of slumber, but had not yet sunk far enough that the full power of its magnificent rays was unable to pierce the thin veil of gases clinging to the planet’s dismal surface. Shadows stretched long and ominous beyond any object sturdy enough for even the most tentative of reaches towards the sky. The forest was a sea of misshapen and exaggerated forms, dark ghosts, macabre mockeries of the plant life that formed them. Their creeping skeletal images would be enough to make most men cringe in fear. Luckily It was not thus affected.
It strode smoothly between the trees, effortless, almost seeming to glide just above the surface of the ground. Preternatural senses attuned to every aspect of the world around It, It was not afraid, yet was ready for anything. Subtle wisps of movement, elusive odors, faint sounds in the distance, imperceptible to “human” senses, all register in Its field of sensory awareness. It was keenly aware of a number of opportunities within the horizon, a plethora of potential game It could bring down to slake its hunger should the thought strike Its fancy. But It had Its sights set on bigger prey tonight… Prey that was far from elusive, quite the opposite, prey almost impossible to miss, and yet prey potentially more dangerous than the most ravenous of beasts… Still, It walked on.
A new kind of sound began to penetrate Its consciousness, a sound that might bode ill, for it indicated that It was nearing Its prey. It paused for a moment. It was weary of this encounter, almost dreadful of it, yet this had been a long time coming, and It knew it was unavoidable. It would have to continue. Steeling itself against that which was to come, it pressed onward.
As Its steady methodical movements carried It closer to the goal It sought, the sounds ahead rose higher into the perceptual level. As the noises grew to reach less adept sets of ears, game grew continuously more scarce, as the prey It sought tonight tended to drive off lesser adversaries. The wildlife continually dropped off, and in the distance the stretched and skewed shadows produced by the just set sun took on a more uniform and geometric nature. It was leaving now the lair of the wild and preparing to enter into the territory of that most bizarre of animals: man. This was it, the proverbial moment of truth. For the first time since Its near annihilation, It would willingly, intentionally expose itself to the force that so nearly ended it.
For this mission It would have to look the part. As It drew further and further from the habitat of man, It had abandoned all that had the stench of humanity upon it. Through years of physical hardship and eons spent studying mental discipline, It had learned to face the world with no barrier to shield It. It was capable of extended exposure to sweltering heat or chilling cold with minimum loss of functionality, and through force of will could demand his body function through greater encumbrances. As such, It had torn aside the rags that covered Itself months ago. The civilized, the cultured, the “human,” that was the sickness, that the cancer that sought to destroy It from without and within. The feral, the naturalistic, the pure animal base, simple instinctual survival, that was the cure. And it was a cure that It had pursued aggressively, obsessively. A cure It had devoted Itself to wholly with no reservation or second thought.
But now that all must change. It could not parade into civilization nude under the best of circumstances, and these were hardly the best of circumstances. It had accomplished Herculean recovery since the fire, a truly superhuman level of regeneration. Yet that healing process, astonishing as it may be, was far from complete. The physical signs of the ordeal It survived were obvious and potent. To the common eye of your average man, It was an eyesore, an abomination, a monstrous creature to be either pitied or feared, and in either case shunned. It could not face the hideous human multitudes if It was to be an obvious and immediate monstrosity. It must, at least in part, blend in. And as such, It had been forced to acquire clothing.
Where It retrieved these garments and how were both details irrelevant. What was important was that It had found them, and they should prove to be sufficient for Its machinations.
Its feet were covered by simple work boots, dark brown in color, common to any man and distinctive to no man. Its legs were wrapped in black denim, likewise indistinguishable from that commonly worn by the multitudes. The shirt was barely visible, only its dark shade testifying to its existence. For the bulk of Its body was obscured by the black cloak, hooded, that draped over its form. Leather and worn, it was the most distinctive of Its garments. Its gloved hands nearly disappeared into the sleeves of the cloak, its hood hanging low over Its eyes, mercifully masking Its face from the world.
Distaste crept into It, coupled with a hint of fear. The forest had thinned, the landscape was changing. As It stepped forth into the clearing, It faced a hideous sight. The beast stood high, towering over Its head, and broad, its shoulder stretching vastly across the ground. Its ominous frame could crush one into oblivion, yet it made no move, no advance towards It. Instead it stood totally still, laughing at It, mocking It with the hideous message emblazoned across it’s chest… “Welcome to Fort McMurray, population 64,441.”
Revulsion boiled up inside of It. Bile rose up in Its throat, screaming to be released violently into the world, a protest against the abomination of the sight before It. But It held the urge back. It forced the tumultuous sea of visceral response down deep inside of Itself. This was the point of no return. There was no turning back now… It strode forth, taking Its first strides into the human city.
It felt like a caged animals. Though the air was open and a multitude of avenues for escape surrounded It, It felt as though the constructs of man were closing in around It, locking It away, imprisoning It in adamantine bars from whence there could be no escape. It had to fight back the urge to run immediately, to sprint away from this sickening collection of what was foolishly referred to as “culture” or “society.” It had to clamp down Its jaw, clench Its fists to force itself to continue passed the pedestrians milling through the streets and not pounce upon them, tearing flesh from bone.
The men and women who walked passed It paid It little mind. To them it was just another man walking the street. Slowly It came to be partially acclimated to their presence, and the urge to run or strike out at once lessened inside of It. The occasional gasps or double takes from a man or woman catching a glimpse of Its flesh beneath the hood provided the unnecessary reminder to keep its guard up. It soldiered on, measuring Its breath, quelling the emotional storm that desperately sought a path out of It.
Something caught Its eye, and It was reminded of one aspect of these creatures that called themselves man It hadn’t shunned, something It had actually missed. Turning sharply, It strode forth into the liquor store.
As the door closed behind It, It fought down a fresh swell of panic, blind fear and pumping adrenaline at being trapped inside the confines of four walls. It reminded Itself consciously that Its exit was not blocked, that It could flee from this place at any moment, and It grabbed the first bottle off of the first shelf It passed, taking it immediately to the counter and setting it unceremoniously in front of the clerk.
He was perhaps in his mid forties, shaggy brown hair showing signs of grey, brown eyes deep and soft. His arms were thick and his frame strong, the build of a man who was no stranger to hard work, his belly swelled beneath his dark blue T-shirt, sign of decades of good meals with his family and good drinks with his friends. He glanced at the bottle, then started to speak as his eyes shifted up to the newcomer to his establishment.
“Hey, pal, can I see some I.D., eh?...”
His voice trailed off and his jaw dropped open as his gaze reached his customer’s face and he caught sight of what lay underneath the hood. The face was crisscrossed with twisting, uneven lines of mottled scar tissue, interspersed with regions where the trauma had been too much and the skin had cracked open, revealing the bright pink tissue beneath. The face bore only a hint of the youthful handsomeness that once dominated its features. What was left was harsh, hardened, somehow more in keeping with the infinite recesses of those piercing blue eyes that seemed to burn straight through him. The customer retrieved a wad of cash from Its pockets and tossed it on the counter. The clerk did not say a word as It grabbed its bottle, turned promptly on Its heels, and walked out of the store.
It tore open the cap on the bottle, neither noticing nor caring what its label read. It rose the bottle to its lips and tipped it back, pouring its contents into Its gullet, swallowing the amber liquid eagerly. It drained half of the bottle in a single pull, feeling its warmth spread out from Its core, dulling the strain of the day’s encounters. Taking a step further into the city, it contemplated what Its next move would be.
It stopped in Its tracks when the words from a flier affixed to a telephone pole seeped into Its consciousness. It turned to the pole, Its free hand shooting out and ripping the flier from it, holding it before Its face to confirm what it thought it saw. The flier read:
Outlaw Wrestling Federation Returns!
Coming Soon, the Clash at the Oilcan!
(Talent with wrestling experience welcomed to audition, see Marcus Ash)
Its lips pulled away from Its teeth in a sneer that may have once born some slight resemblance to a smirk. A part of It that could almost remember the concept of something more than the absence of pain very nearly laughed. It knew what It would do next…
Crumpling the flier, It shoved it into Its pocket and set forth to find the Oilcan and Marcus Ash…