Post by The Lone Wolf on Aug 12, 2007 17:39:40 GMT -5
It was surprised just how easy this was. Perhaps It had spent too long amidst the supposed “lower” life forms with their vastly superior senses and infinitely more well attuned instincts compared to human fair. Perhaps It overestimated Its current query and thus expected greater challenge than was evident. Whatever the case, It found it nearly pathetically easy to stalk Alistair Steele.
It had been following him now for days, following him, in fact, on and off sense the Oily Rags challenge was offered and accepted. It followed him still tonight. It had learned much already, and hoped to learn more before this hunt ended. To bring the kill, one must know ones prey better than oneself.
And the more It learned about Steele, the more It longed for the hunt. Steele was not a nice man. No, in fact, the more It thought about it, the more It was sure Steele was not any kind of a “man” at all. Considering how little It thought of the term “man,” that was really saying something.
Steele was swine. Steele was animal in the worst sense. Steele wallowed in the filth of his own putrid existence, and it made It sick. The green eyed devil with his ridiculous gray hair taunted the world with every gesture, every word out of his disgustingly self assured mouth. How It would love to rip that smirk off of his vain little face.
It could kill him right now. The thought casually passed through Its mind. In the time It had followed him, It had seen dozens of opportunities, hundreds. It would be so sublimely simple. A few quick motions, no more than a second’s time, and it would all be over.
But that was not what It wanted, at least, not fully. And perhaps more importantly, that is not what It needed.
If Steele were some random degenerate walking the streets, just another of the countless stinking examples of society’s decay, perhaps It would end him now. If he were nothing but the detestable scum not worthy of a soul, the Lone Wolf may well strike out with cold, swift efficiency. But to do so now would be to deny the vary reason for the selection of this hunt in the first place.
Steele may well be sickening waste of bone and flesh, but that was not what brought his scent to the Lone Wolf’s nostrils. It was the fire that had brought them together…
It cringed involuntarily at the recollection of it. Its first match back and Its worst fears realized. Somehow Steele had known… he had known what fire would do to It, and he had gleefully taken advantage of it.
As the memory of the fire with which Steele sought to assault him from the outside, a very different kind of fire built from the inside. The hatred was such that It had to forcibly restrain Itself from snarling aloud.
Rage It had inside Itself a plenty, with bitter acerbic wrath to spare. But rage alone was not what made It seek this hunt. If that were all there was, It would pounce open him now and tear him to shreds, rend the flesh from his bones and leave him in hype of viscera and death. That would satisfy, surely, but would not fulfill the greater need.
It was that need that propelled It onward now, it was that need that made It set forth the challenge as It had. Oily Rags Match… The thought of it filled It with wild, unreasoning terror. It was almost overwhelmed by the urge to run, to turn and flee from this cursed place with all the speed Its body could manage. To run and to never look back. But that would not do. It could hide in the shadows for the rest of Its existence. It could wallow in deprecation, sustain itself with vermin and rancid water as It waited always for the end of time. Or It could face Its fears.
It could take that which engulfed its mind with chaos and pain, master it, tame it to Its will, and turn it against Its enemies. That was the only way It could ever be whole again. It needed this… It needed to take this step, or all would be lost. That was why It stalked Alistair Steele now. That was why it waited for the match of the Oily Rags.
It had almost lost control earlier in its pursuit of the prey. It had seen him leer at a girl with those diseased eyes, a girl, no woman. A child no more than 15, and his eyes had sought to devour her. It very nearly leaped from the shadows and tore his throat from his neck with Its bare teeth when it witnessed that. But It had forced Itself to contain the anger. Thank the Gods that he had not touched the girl, or surely there would have been blood.
Unchecked lust was not the extent of his sins. As it watched from a distance, he indulged his appetite for food and drink, booze and pills in unhealthy amounts. It did not care what chemicals he chose for his recreation, but the effect they had upon him was of interest. They dulled his senses and slowed his reflexes, It watched the decay of his mind as he exposed himself to unsavory compounds and situations. It watched, and It was glad.
His associates were another matter. It had observed them only from a distance. One black, one white, both radiating brazen confidence and a playful sense that everyone else in the world was nothing but a pun in the games played for their own amusement. There was something about these men, and it bothered It. It was sure, somehow, without understanding how It knew, that they were the ones responsible for Steele’s knowledge of Its fears. It knew this on some deep unconscious level, and it considered shifting Its focus to them.
But It felt somehow that they were to be avoided. It sensed that were It to stray too close, It would fall under their scrutiny, and It had the distinct feeling that that was not a place It wanted to be.
So It had keep Its distance from them, observed their interactions with his prey, waited for them to depart, and then drawn closer to the target. Shutting out the myriad distractions the world offered, It focused solely on Steele, and what It saw intrigued It. Steele was deteriorating.
Sleep was eluding him, despite the pills and drink. Troubling thoughts plagued his mind. This could prove a weakness easily exploited. What the cause of his inner turmoil may be, It could not say. But whatever it was, it was bad news for Alistair Steele.
Facing the Lone Wolf under any circumstances was not a pleasant option for beast or man. Facing the Wolf in a fight where permanent injury was not only possibly but highly probably was even worse. Facing the Wolf at less than your best may well prove to be suicidal.
It would not underestimate Steele when the hunt in earnest began. It had long ago learned that man when pushed to the brink could accomplish unheard of things in the worst of conditions. But It had watched him carefully, It had painstakingly avoided detection, and it was sure this was no act for his benefit. The life draining from Steele’s eyes was very much real.
It was torn as it pondered this. The hunter inside of It reveled at the prospect of weakened prey, understood that any and every advantage was to be exploited, new that whatever brought it one step closer to the kill was invariably a good thing.
But another part of It, a part that was concerned not only for the hunt, but for wounded pride, wanted Steele at his best. The part of It that still clung to a concept of vanity despite of Itself and the part of It that knew a hollow victory would not return Its wholeness, needed not only a victory, but a real victory. A death blow dealt to an opponent ready for the battle. A killing stroke to prey that knew it was prey and fought back.
But one way or another, there was nothing It could do to alter Steele’s state of being. So It watched. It watched, and It listened. It listened, and It learned. And as It studied Its prey, it came to feel that this observation was somehow not enough.
It only had so much time with which to prepare Itself for the hunt, and Steele in his current state did not give forth enough of himself for Its liking. It needed another way to learn of this prey, a better way to learn his scent.
It needed to solve the ultimate existential crisis, to truly know another individual. It must not just see the outside, It must know the in. It must think as he thinks, feel as he feels, know what he knows. It must find a way to truly get inside of his head. It must become him…
The Lone Wolf pulled back from his trail. He allowed the prey to slip farther into the distance, to eventually fall out of sight all together. It watched the tiny sliver of sky where Steele had stood for a long moment, contemplating Its next move. And then it turned and swiftly headed in an entirely different direction. It must catch the scent of another prey…
It had been following him now for days, following him, in fact, on and off sense the Oily Rags challenge was offered and accepted. It followed him still tonight. It had learned much already, and hoped to learn more before this hunt ended. To bring the kill, one must know ones prey better than oneself.
And the more It learned about Steele, the more It longed for the hunt. Steele was not a nice man. No, in fact, the more It thought about it, the more It was sure Steele was not any kind of a “man” at all. Considering how little It thought of the term “man,” that was really saying something.
Steele was swine. Steele was animal in the worst sense. Steele wallowed in the filth of his own putrid existence, and it made It sick. The green eyed devil with his ridiculous gray hair taunted the world with every gesture, every word out of his disgustingly self assured mouth. How It would love to rip that smirk off of his vain little face.
It could kill him right now. The thought casually passed through Its mind. In the time It had followed him, It had seen dozens of opportunities, hundreds. It would be so sublimely simple. A few quick motions, no more than a second’s time, and it would all be over.
But that was not what It wanted, at least, not fully. And perhaps more importantly, that is not what It needed.
If Steele were some random degenerate walking the streets, just another of the countless stinking examples of society’s decay, perhaps It would end him now. If he were nothing but the detestable scum not worthy of a soul, the Lone Wolf may well strike out with cold, swift efficiency. But to do so now would be to deny the vary reason for the selection of this hunt in the first place.
Steele may well be sickening waste of bone and flesh, but that was not what brought his scent to the Lone Wolf’s nostrils. It was the fire that had brought them together…
It cringed involuntarily at the recollection of it. Its first match back and Its worst fears realized. Somehow Steele had known… he had known what fire would do to It, and he had gleefully taken advantage of it.
As the memory of the fire with which Steele sought to assault him from the outside, a very different kind of fire built from the inside. The hatred was such that It had to forcibly restrain Itself from snarling aloud.
Rage It had inside Itself a plenty, with bitter acerbic wrath to spare. But rage alone was not what made It seek this hunt. If that were all there was, It would pounce open him now and tear him to shreds, rend the flesh from his bones and leave him in hype of viscera and death. That would satisfy, surely, but would not fulfill the greater need.
It was that need that propelled It onward now, it was that need that made It set forth the challenge as It had. Oily Rags Match… The thought of it filled It with wild, unreasoning terror. It was almost overwhelmed by the urge to run, to turn and flee from this cursed place with all the speed Its body could manage. To run and to never look back. But that would not do. It could hide in the shadows for the rest of Its existence. It could wallow in deprecation, sustain itself with vermin and rancid water as It waited always for the end of time. Or It could face Its fears.
It could take that which engulfed its mind with chaos and pain, master it, tame it to Its will, and turn it against Its enemies. That was the only way It could ever be whole again. It needed this… It needed to take this step, or all would be lost. That was why It stalked Alistair Steele now. That was why it waited for the match of the Oily Rags.
It had almost lost control earlier in its pursuit of the prey. It had seen him leer at a girl with those diseased eyes, a girl, no woman. A child no more than 15, and his eyes had sought to devour her. It very nearly leaped from the shadows and tore his throat from his neck with Its bare teeth when it witnessed that. But It had forced Itself to contain the anger. Thank the Gods that he had not touched the girl, or surely there would have been blood.
Unchecked lust was not the extent of his sins. As it watched from a distance, he indulged his appetite for food and drink, booze and pills in unhealthy amounts. It did not care what chemicals he chose for his recreation, but the effect they had upon him was of interest. They dulled his senses and slowed his reflexes, It watched the decay of his mind as he exposed himself to unsavory compounds and situations. It watched, and It was glad.
His associates were another matter. It had observed them only from a distance. One black, one white, both radiating brazen confidence and a playful sense that everyone else in the world was nothing but a pun in the games played for their own amusement. There was something about these men, and it bothered It. It was sure, somehow, without understanding how It knew, that they were the ones responsible for Steele’s knowledge of Its fears. It knew this on some deep unconscious level, and it considered shifting Its focus to them.
But It felt somehow that they were to be avoided. It sensed that were It to stray too close, It would fall under their scrutiny, and It had the distinct feeling that that was not a place It wanted to be.
So It had keep Its distance from them, observed their interactions with his prey, waited for them to depart, and then drawn closer to the target. Shutting out the myriad distractions the world offered, It focused solely on Steele, and what It saw intrigued It. Steele was deteriorating.
Sleep was eluding him, despite the pills and drink. Troubling thoughts plagued his mind. This could prove a weakness easily exploited. What the cause of his inner turmoil may be, It could not say. But whatever it was, it was bad news for Alistair Steele.
Facing the Lone Wolf under any circumstances was not a pleasant option for beast or man. Facing the Wolf in a fight where permanent injury was not only possibly but highly probably was even worse. Facing the Wolf at less than your best may well prove to be suicidal.
It would not underestimate Steele when the hunt in earnest began. It had long ago learned that man when pushed to the brink could accomplish unheard of things in the worst of conditions. But It had watched him carefully, It had painstakingly avoided detection, and it was sure this was no act for his benefit. The life draining from Steele’s eyes was very much real.
It was torn as it pondered this. The hunter inside of It reveled at the prospect of weakened prey, understood that any and every advantage was to be exploited, new that whatever brought it one step closer to the kill was invariably a good thing.
But another part of It, a part that was concerned not only for the hunt, but for wounded pride, wanted Steele at his best. The part of It that still clung to a concept of vanity despite of Itself and the part of It that knew a hollow victory would not return Its wholeness, needed not only a victory, but a real victory. A death blow dealt to an opponent ready for the battle. A killing stroke to prey that knew it was prey and fought back.
But one way or another, there was nothing It could do to alter Steele’s state of being. So It watched. It watched, and It listened. It listened, and It learned. And as It studied Its prey, it came to feel that this observation was somehow not enough.
It only had so much time with which to prepare Itself for the hunt, and Steele in his current state did not give forth enough of himself for Its liking. It needed another way to learn of this prey, a better way to learn his scent.
It needed to solve the ultimate existential crisis, to truly know another individual. It must not just see the outside, It must know the in. It must think as he thinks, feel as he feels, know what he knows. It must find a way to truly get inside of his head. It must become him…
The Lone Wolf pulled back from his trail. He allowed the prey to slip farther into the distance, to eventually fall out of sight all together. It watched the tiny sliver of sky where Steele had stood for a long moment, contemplating Its next move. And then it turned and swiftly headed in an entirely different direction. It must catch the scent of another prey…