sixthiterationlogs | [Wendigo-go] cry like guns across the water

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[Wendigo-go] cry like guns across the water

WHO: Owen Prichard
WHERE: 6I Village - Inn and surrounding area
WHEN: July 27-31
OPEN TO: Aragorn, Bucky Barnes, Rose Hathaway, Peeta Mellark
WARNINGS: Horror/Violence, possible injuries and descriptions -- CHARACTER DEATH IN FINAL THREAD

It made sense for the storms to disturb local wildlife, for the tremors to send it down from the mountains to collide with what they already knew. It didn't make sense for it to look like fog lights in shadow, a creature of borrowed parts in a shroud like smoke and dead skin.

Somehow, for all the lost lore of his lifetime, Owen doesn't need the nickname explained to him. It should be a word near devoid of meaning, for something so devoid of a foothold in reality. Until there were multiple sightings, until they had the physical evidence of mutilated prey, the bright-eyed predators chased away from corpses on the plains. Until the sightings grew closer and closer to home.

Funny, how creatures dragging that filament skin could get under his. It helps that the village has been picking him apart at the seams since he arrived, letting people in, making him something like amenable to Kero's raspy, whistling calls.

Kero's ugly; the Wendigo he spots shredding one of Kero's bretheren by the lake is terrifying. When Kero darts back among the houses, Owen isn't far behind, and it's something of that terror--and some of those people he's met--that spur him back to the main village with his heart pounding in his ears. When he sees that kid with the crow, meandering back with another load of peaches, there's no time for niceties--there's barely time to catch his breath.

Pulling the load from the kid's hands, to loud protest, Owen drops the bucket to the ground. "Get Mark," he tells him, knowing that much about the huffy stranger. "Get who you can to the Inn, those creatures are getting closer."

"Half the village is already at the fucking inn," Kira--the acerbic kid tackling survival in the wilderness in flip flops is Kira--says. "Or did you miss the annual earthquake on your nature quest?"

Owen kicks the bucket away when Kira dips to reach it. "So go back to the inn," he grinds out, sucking air through his teeth to catch his breath. "And get us started on the plan to deal with this. I don't know if the thing saw me, and it seems to favor gutting its victims, if you're not very attached to your own intestines." Maybe it's the shove he gives the kid, maybe it's that bitchy is his first language, but Kira seems to rile himself like Owen's cat waking up before it wants to, angry little noise in the back of his throat and all.

"What the fuck are you going to do," Kira asks, slipping out of his shoes and taking them in-hand for the long jog over the river.

"Get the stragglers," Owen answers, Kira marking the first. "Engage if it gets too close."

And, he realizes later, as he circles the edges of the village back to his house, put Kero and Nim in the cellar. Christ fucking help him--help them all--he's checking on the cat.

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WHO: The Team
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: July 27
TAG ORDER: Free For All

[ As desired or needed, post under this comment if you'd like to thread teaming up, gearing, or planning for the fight with applicable characters! ]

Edited 2018-07-03 17:16 (UTC)

WHO: Bucky Barnes, Peeta Mellark, Rose Hathaway -- Owen or Aragorn may be mentioned or tag in as needed.
WHERE: 6I Village surrounding the Inn
WHEN: July 28, early morning
TAG ORDER: Decided among the melee fighters.

[ Chase the wendigo back from the inn, note destruction of property or dead livestock, engage and fight it in the Fountain Park or the area between it and the Inn. Be aware that Owen and Aragorn will be firing on it, and your character may note arrows passing them, and either missing or striking the creature. ]

WHO: Aragorn, Owen Prichard
WHERE: Inn rooftop, possible other rooftops nearby.
WHEN: July 28, early morning

[ Firing to keep the wendigo at bay, possibly firing to kill smaller wendigos encroaching on the area. Yelling warnings to melee fighters, eventually sending a blue lily to help the team. ]

They've come a ways from startling each other at the fountain, as they ready what supplies they might need. Others among the villagers have kept watch overnight, letting them attempt rest for the fight. No sense trying to shoot the light of baleful eyes in the pitch dark, no sense wasting themselves in the work of barricades and keeping the villagers calm. They have other work.

Which doesn't mean either of them spend much of the night asleep, and doesn't mean they don't both check repeatedly at the window, or in the other rooms. Owen gives up his bed after an hour; he knows how to let exhaustion and necessity put him to sleep standing in a corner.

When the light is good enough, he goes first out the second floor window, using a tree for cover and leverage to reach the roof. He has his bow, what arrows resided in the store room, and a set of pitons and rope. Reaching down to clasp Aragorn's arm in a climber's grip, it's something like nerves, something like focus, that has him reiterating their to-do list.

"There's just enough light," he says, almost to himself, almost to the man sitting at the eaves with him, looking out over the empty paths. "We need to get as many of these metal spikes in the beams of the roof as we can, they'll anchor us if we need to take the rope down to help the others." He holds out the rope, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it and the pitons both.

Edited 2018-07-03 18:56 (UTC)

Things would be easier with the damn serum still in him, he thinks rather frantically. He's not as fast, not as strong as he once was, and with it maybe he'd have been able to end this by himself without risking anyone else getting hurt. The team that gets their shit together first isn't exactly what he'd call the Avengers, although they do have some pretty good archers on the roof. With as closely as the arrows come to Bucky and the others without hitting anything important, he'd say they must be a damn good shot.

The three of them leave the Inn to fog, to the clouds thickly covering the sun and leaving everything looking rather gray and misty. There's a heavy atmosphere about them, a thickness and humidity that seems to cling to every tree and building in this town. From the ground away from the archer's perch, it's harder to see for any real distance. At a certain point, all things just become the fog.

Fortunately, their prey has deadlights. It drifts into focus like the rolling fog itself, fades into view a dozen yards away simply by standing. They're not wholly bipedal, but like a bear from time to time they'll rise to get a better view. When this thing stands it clears nearly nine feet tall, skeletal like an emaciated man, and with two glowing orbs that pierce through the smokey ground around them.

There aren't many things that stop Bucky short, but this admittedly is one of them. It's the stark blackness in contrast to the air around them, the way the matted fur is so inky black it seems to devoid the creature of a face or distinguishing characteristics. It's the way it stares at them silently for a single moment that seems to stretch out for longer than it should in the space between heartbeats.

The wind blows gently. The fog drifts away, and their group stands exposed. Frozen. Planted. Observed.

The first arrow flies.
It fucking screams.

He has no words of wisdom, no encouraging speech to give. He simply gives the knife in his hands an artful spin, and breaks out into a sudden forward sprint.

Ready? Begin.

Oddly enough, Aragorn has slept quite well since his arrival and for no other reason than making up for the lack of rest he got in the last seven months while his mind raced whirled around the events that happened before and after the Fellowship were forced to part ways. It almost seems like a lifetime when he looks back.

And yet, the Ranger can't help but wonder if this threat, no doubt one of many, is the reason he was brought here, despite the theories of those already there. They all seem unfathomable to Aragorn, though he, above anyone, had a legitimate reason to feel that way.

So for the entire night, Aragorn watches from one of the inn's rooms upstairs, finding that it feels all too familiar to the first time he met Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin at the Prancing Pony and for a fleeting moment, he misses them. This was not the Nazgûl, but a threat none the less and it needed to be removed.

Aragorn takes the rope and without expression, looks at the pitons which were unlike anything he had used before, but he nods all the same.

"Why do you not tie your rope around that stack." he gestures towards the chimney on the far edge of the roof. He did not mean to question the use of the spikes but logic did prompt him to wonder how well they would hold his weight over Owen's.

In an already tense situation, some might rankle to be questioned: he'd had his short spats getting a few who didn't like to be herded back to the inn. But the suggestion is taken, measured against what he now sees on the roof. He isn't used to trusting buildings--

Well, he's used to having the time to poke and prod at them before he does, and in the last few months, he's spent more time poking and prodding the local wildlife.

Today, he'll continue that from a distance. With sharp, thin sticks.

"That's not a bad idea," he says, letting the pressure of the task push him to cooperate. "We can still use the spikes to direct it, share the load. Get it started round the bricks?" The man's judgment seems sound enough, Owen puts his attention back toward the rolling fog, the pinking dawn. Somewhere among the houses were a pair of bright eyes, and he'd rather find them at the edge of sight than directly below. "If you leave me the other end, I'll start threading the pitons."

Sometimes it's funny, how life can loop back through its own devices, turn memories on their heads. More so in the body than the head: the left hand could learn what the right used to know, the lizard brain could take what was safe and make it ugly.

Owen used to like small, dark spaces. He can still see the advantage of them, with something like the wendigo stalking the village. With it's low ceiling, it might be a last resort for anyone who can't run or fight. It would have been a lot better than the tree he'd climbed, when the badger stormed through.

But standing in it today just makes his shoulder itch, his remaining fingers tap hard to his thigh. He isn't the only one who had volunteered to check supplies, judge the building's defense. He could have eased his mind counting arrows upstairs, but the threat of another earthquake and those old instincts--to close up in some echoing compartment of his father's boat--they told him to go below. Now he's trying to judge the sturdiness of the shelves and the stretch of canned fruits while his new instincts tell him to get the fuck outside where he can at least plot an exit, where he won't be stuck in a hole with a monster.

When the stairs creak under someone's weight, his head whips, a harsh breath slips through his teeth. He's a little too wild-eyed for counting peach preserves, and the number escapes him.

"Barnes," he murmurs, letting the shit go unspoken before a softer exhale. It's not a silhouette that's easy to forget, even after the simple introduction of splitting their tasks. "How are they doing with the windows?"

He'd seen Owen disappear, slip away to somewhere with some quiet solitude. He knows of the man, knows that he volunteered to help, knows his name, but nothing more. With that flighty bygone came some nostalgic familiarity; not of Owen personally but of the green recruits back in the war. Whether or not Owen feels fear he can't say for sure, but he certainly has the posture of a soldier finding a trench or a foxhole for comfort.

It's not with the sole interest of checking on him that he follows; he actually came to grab some of the disused shelving to take back up, but a status check isn't a bad side quest.

He rhythmically clears the last few steps with bouncing heels, settles at the bottom before he answers.

"Doing what they can," is his vague answer, and he surveys Owen's face. "What about you?"

Owen wouldn't have called himself green before Montana; he thought he'd seen it all, learned all the tricks. Knew better than to get involved. But there he was, and here he is, doing it all over again. Picking up the gauntlet when life throws it, replacing the monsters back home with--whatever that is, out there.

He could have stayed in his own cellar, with his stupid reptile, with his cat. Ride out the panic and wait for someone else to deal with the problem. Let the traps in his house shred anything pushing in.

But he's here, wishing he'd brought some of the nails and wire to string around the doors. The creature had followed too soon, they're left with what they have. Barnes gives him the only real answer, with no judgment in it. Owen's impression of the man is--that he fits here, in his own way. That he might be good for the whole. Right now though, he's between Owen and the door, and somehow--that's grinding his back teeth.

Shake it off, Prichard. "Trying to figure out how many of them could fit in here, if we can't close up the ground floor. I thought--" keep talking, keep working. "Upstairs has more space, but that thing is tall enough I don't think it would matter even if we knocked out the stairs."

It's a good enough excuse, as excuses go. He doesn't seem to carry any judgement in his gaze or his posture at least, and after just another brief couple of seconds of scrutiny his eyes drop and he moves across the cellar toward the far wall. Toward the ceiling are some unused shelves, sturdy and thick.

"I think if that thing gets in it's not gonna matter if we're down here or up there," is his dark reply, just before securing his hands around the blank and forcibly ripping it from the wall. It only takes two firm jerks before it detaches, dust falling and splinters coating the shelf beneath it. Mission accomplished, he tucks it under a metal arm and turns toward the other occupant again. "Doesn't matter anyway. It's not gonna get a foot in."

When he moves, it opens the space between Owen and the exit--which doesn't stop him from flinching when the shelf rips from the wall. There's something to be expected from a man with a metal arm, but in the dark, small space, with the sudden display of strength--

He was green, once. He was more-than, and there's a spark between anger and shame, that anything can still make him feel that way. Literal monsters at the doors, and his body can still remember, prioritize the past. It's stupid; this is stupid. Making himself stay where he is, Owen squares up his shoulders and lifts his head. "I don't want to leave that to some building materials," he says.

Hiding in a hole isn't the answer; hasn't been for a long time. He remembers Kamala, terrified she'd brought her monsters with her. He'd told her they would deal with it if she had. He'd told her it was safe.

He's a fucking liar, when he needs to be, but he doesn't want that to be one of them. "What were your plans for after," he asks, nodding at the thick plank. "I'm a decent shot with a bow."

He had debated whether or not to tell Katniss about his volunteering for this mission. As capable as he was to look after himself, it would never be enough to reassure her, not after barely surviving two arenas. Whatever his bravado, he was uncertain about this fight, never having seen a wendigo before and having to work around his prosthetic. When it came to the subject of combat, he never saw himself as anything special, just someone who had a great deal of dumb luck.

The weapons, he at least remembered how to wield. He grabbed one of the larger knives and tucked it into his belt, his heart already hammering. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat, the same adrenaline rush he had when he entered the arena. 'May the odds be ever in your favor.'

He shook his head, pushing himself from those darker memories. There was no fight or flight here. After two months, it was clear that he was going to be allowed some peace. This was the first sign of combat he'd seen, but it still managed to make him nervous. and return him to that scared boy, certain he was going to be slaughtered.

"Keep it together." He muttered to himself.

There was no countdown, no sound of trumpets to tell them to begin. Instead, it all started with a single arrow and they all seemed to rush forward. The black mass watched them with haunting eyes, a cold buried in their depths that he had come to recognize as death. He understood it when he saw it and it was present in this creature, this mutt.

He darted closer, thankfully not tripping over his leg and making a fool of himself against these stronger and faster warriors. It seemed to lunge at them with a speed he wasn't used to. Only by a stroke of luck did he manage to dart out of the way and avoid its claws. They looked razor sharp, enough that it would leave a nasty scar and a great deal of pain. he couldn't see teeth, but he knew they were there.

Brandishing his knife, he thrust out, trying to side swipe it, but came short. "He's fast! Watch your back!"

The Dhampir were so like the human half of their genetic make-up that despite the fact that Rose never saw herself as one, she never realized how unlike them she was until she found herself here. The differences were subtle but in the dark of night, preparing to go fight a creature whose only interest seemed to be in death and destruction, her inability to see quite so well was something she was cursing her fully human form, over.

She was painfully aware, that unlike metal-armed dude, she didn’t look like she should be a part of their trio. She was more lean than muscle-bound and while she carried the machete she’d picked up at the Inn like she probably knew how to use it. At first glance, she didn’t look like a battle-hardened warrior and at five foot seven, she hardly cut an imposing figure.

Rose seemed like she should be in college, flirting with professors and attending Greek mixers. Not assembling with a group of grown men to willingly throw herself into harm's way.

She hadn’t hesitated to volunteer herself for this fight, though, something almost disturbing in how eager she had seemed to be involved and not once between arming themselves and moving out to face their foe, had she seemed anything other than sure of herself. Perhaps it was the arrogance of youth or maybe it was the fact that looks could be deceiving. Knowing Rose? It was a healthy dose of both. That and the fact that she had never been good at allowing fear to keep her from doing something suicidally stupid.

She fell into step with the other two, eyeing Bucky in her periphery as if she’d marked him as the one most at ease in a fight; moving when he did, stopping when he did. The open mouth staring that came when the creature turned its glowing orbs on them, however. That was all her.

Rose hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing until the arrow whizzed past her ear, the shift of air that made her hair lift, prompting her grip on the machete to tighten as every muscle tensed for her to spring. As if sensing his movement, rather than seeing it, Rose pushed off in time with Bucky, splitting from him to try and flank the creature that made even the beings she fought look clumsy in their speed.

She watched as Peeta came within a hair of having his insides become his outsides, instinct seeing Rose try to move so that she was the more obvious target.

“Draw it away.” She bit out, her speed and lack of height a benefit as she ducked and swung out with her blade, Rose intentionally trying to keep the creature's ire aimed at her until she was sure Peeta had enough distance to keep from being an easy mark.

Edited (I can words) 2018-07-04 12:30 (UTC)

A smart person would be swallowing a healthy amount of fear, given what the five of them were about to do, but there was something disturbing about how at ease Rose seemed to be as she sorted through the weak assortment of weapons they'd gathered. She looked more like somebody trying to choose what book they wanted to read over the weekend, than somebody finding something to stab a creepy supernatural creature with.

What you had to realize about Rose was that this, for all its extreme danger and weirdness combined, was as close to normal as the brunette had known since she'd found herself back in this place. She was aware she shouldn't light up at the chance to risk her neck, sure as hell not with the destruction this thing had wrought ever since it had been drawn to the village. The truth was? She had to fight to keep the edge of excitement from taking over.

Returning to one of the machetes she'd dismissed at first, Rose picked it up and gave it an experimental twirl. Testing the weight and the length as she tucked it flat against her arm. The small wrinkles that crease her brow suggest that she's not entirely happy with her choice, but the kind of weapon she was used to fighting with, wasn't exactly on offer.

With a huff of acceptance, she moved away from the table and headed over to one of the few windows yet to be boarded up. The wrinkles returned as she squinted, trying to adjust her sight to the darkness beyond. The sound of people moving about inside the Inn, made it impossible for her to hear much beyond its walls. Rose's weight shifting from one foot to the other as her impatience rose to the surface.

"Anyone thought about what we're going to do if we can't kill this one the way we did the others?" The idle thought, given voice as she glanced over her shoulder to seek out anyone who might be listening.

Rose certainly doesn't look like the stereotypical picture of a warrior woman, she doesn't have the subtle aggression or stacked muscular build of the Wakandan dora milaje, but despite that he doesn't seem to question her decision visibly or vocally. Looks mean nothing, he's well experienced in that. One of the closest matches to the winter soldier's capabilities had been Natasha Romanoff, a slight 5'3 with the ability to snap a man's neck in two seconds with her fucking thighs while he was standing on his own two feet. If Rose believes she can do this then perhaps she can, and if not he'll be sure to eject her from the fight at the first sign of need so she doesn't get herself fucking killed.

For whatever reason the beast chooses Peeta first; perhaps the color of his hair, his skin, the way he seems brighter than the other two and stands out in their tiny group. Whatever the case may be it swipes, Peeta ducks, and it takes Rose on as it's next intended target. With a snarl, it gallops toward her, long and gangly steps that somehow still seem graceful and deliberate. Fast, strong, and coordinated.

It lunges at her, mouth opening to reveal a mouth full of pointed teeth, sharpened and broken and jagged, spittle clinging to some and flying out at her with the strength of it's yawp...

Until the mouth gets stuffed with a great big metal bicep, because like a fucking elf or something he runs up the creature's spine to throw an arm around it's head and jerk it backwards via a metal arm in it's mouth like a bridle. Flesh hand still holding the knife, he stabs quickly into a shoulder, knife embedding in meat, using it as a hand hold to keep himself attached to the creature's back.

It rears back ugly and angry, clawing at his metal arm, exposing it's stomach in the time it takes to grab Bucky by the shoulder and forcefully fling him off and into a nearby tree.

He observes the sudden shift in posture with an inscrutable expression; takes in the defiance, the desire. The gathering of his balls, possibly. After a long and seemingly scrutinizing pause he finally nods in acceptance. He hadn't intended to leave this all up to some building materials, no, he'd intended to secure the place so that if a fight went awry or if more of them took this inopportune moment to burst they'd be sorely thwarted.

This is step 1.

Step 2 would have a leg up if a decent shot with a bow were involved.

"Goin' out there," is his answer, flatly as though it should be obvious. "Seeing if I can take it's head off"

There's a subtle invitation in the way one of his eyebrows arches up a bit.

He managed to stumble back from the wendigo just as Rose took its attention, drawing the creature away from him. He watched in amazement as several more arrows flew at the monster, piercing at his wispy hide, suddenly there was the sound of teeth hitting metal. His skin crawled, the memory of the mutts and their claws against the cornucopia filled his head. His heart pounded, drowning out all other noise, save for his deep breathing.

Instinct flared forward, driving him to charge again at the wendigo. Bucky crawls on it, causing it to rear back and showed its tender belly. He barely noticed the man being tossed aside like a rag doll. Instead, he slashed out at it, letting his blade get buried in its soft flesh. The creature shrieked loudly, wounded and angry. Peeta didn't have time to respond before it swiped at him, knocking him back with its giant paws.

He could feel claws slashing down his arms, but didn't notice. Instead, he rolled backwards, struggling to get to his feet. His knife was still in the creature's belly, staunching its blood flow.

The hot stench of fetid breath hit her face, the putrid flesh that caught between its broken teeth, an assault on Rose’s senses that would stay with her for days.

“They don’t make toothbrushes in your size?” The quip rolling off her tongue as she swayed from side to side, testing the Wendigo’s responses before she sprang into action.

The two seemed to dance, the grace in her own movements almost matched by the Wendigo, as its two soulless orbs seemed to pulse with energy, never straying from its prey. As if it were able to predict what she’d do next, the creature lunged as she sidestepped. The reliability of these so-called powers of hers, about to be put to the test.

Until Bucky, like the Ninja Elf on crack that he was, appeared in her line of sight, just as he shoved a fistful of metal into the Wendigo's mouth.

Spinning to avoid a set of razor-like claws, Rose brought her machete up, pulling up short of slicing into Peeta as he sunk his blade into the creatures soft belly. On instinct, she went to shove him out of harm’s way but the sound of ripping flesh and the spray of hot blood told her all that she needed to know, Rose unable to spare a glance for either man as she dropped into a roll.

Gripping the lower half of one of its leg, Rose used her momentum to come at the Wendigo from behind, rocks and dirt scraping at her exposed skin as she aimed a hard kick to the inside of one of its joints. She felt it stumble, knew it wouldn’t be enough to incapacitate it so rather than check she dove between its legs, desperate to evade the talons that tried to rip her free.

It was in that moment that she could have kissed Peeta Mellark for his suicidally stupid bravery, the knife that was still buried in the Wendigo's belly, staring her right in the face. With a thrust of her palm towards the handle of the blade, she felt rather than saw the ripping of flesh as hot blood spilled from the open wound and coated her neck and chest.

Rose was only allowed a moment of triumph, however, as the howl of pain that rung in her ears was quickly followed by the creatures retribution. Before she could so much as scramble to her feet, she felt her body being lifted into the air, the brunette struck with the awareness of certain death as the Wendigo slashed at her with five, sharp claws.

Amidst the sound of ripping material and the roar of anger that filled her ears, it took Rose several moments to understand what had happened. She dangled there, several feet above the ground, waiting for darkness to claim her but instead of meeting death for the second time in her life, she was launched through the air in the direction of the Inn and hit the ground so hard it stole the air from her lungs.

The wendigo is fucking pissed.

Hurling Rose several yards didn't seem to be enough to abate that anger, no. With all three of their party down for the moment, it takes the time to right itself, re-find a center, and lift up on two legs. From there it roars, sound tearing from it's throat into the most ungodly, unearthly sound this place has likely heard. It's two-tonal, the scream of a woman, the bass of a lion, harmonized and horrific. It shakes the trees, splits the earth almost.

And then it charges Rose with deft and unavoidable intensity.

At least, until a well-placed arrow hurtles through the air and into the beast's open mouth. It completely pierces through the flesh of it's right cheek and jaw, half in it's mouth and half jutting out the back. With a clear screech of pain it stops the charge, clawing frantically at the new ornament decorating it's skull.

In that moment Bucky's back, having full-on sprinted into a leap, the momentum of which he uses to bring a metal fist into the beast's injured jaw. In the two-second span it buys him, he grabs at the arrow and jerks. The arrow shreds and tears, rips through muscle and tissue until it's out the hard way. The beast carries a new jagged smile, a half-displaced jaw with ligaments visible, jaw hanging wonky and sideways. When it snarls and snaps, the right side wobbles slightly off-time and useless.

His balls are generally on hand, very figuratively speaking; it's only recently that he's noticed how much could startle him. How much he can need to be alone, how much comfort he can seek without really thinking about it. And today, realizing: some of that comfort is gone.

At least the comfort in a stretched bow is still there for him.

"You might be the man to do it," he agrees, not so obvious as to stare at the man's arm. It's an advantage, it's something they need. At the very least, it probably doesn't bleed when some living imprint of hunger and rage tries to chew on it. With no sense of how well the thing could climb or jump, he hadn't wanted to immediately start stalking it across rooftops--but if someone intends to be on the ground, they could at least cover each other.

"Let me recruit another archer; we'll set up watch on the roof while you finish boarding up. See if we can't poke a few holes and keep it off the livestock."

Owen was glad they'd conferred to one of the upstairs rooms to count supplies and plan ahead; realistic questions weren't always helpful, spread through a group of civilians. Especially from the people they were relying on to resolve a situation.

Right now, Owen was the only audience, and his response was almost as idle. "We learn from the attempt. Or the next group learns from our failure."

That they could slip out to their deaths come morning didn't weigh much on him; every sunrise had that promise back home. The passage of time, for individuals, was not guaranteed: only for the whole. "Better than sitting in here; I'd like to die with my thumb outside of my asshole, personally."

She appeared to consider that for a moment but if the thought of dying is something that rested uneasily on her shoulders, it certainly didn’t show. It wasn’t that Rose had a death wish, despite choices that might have people thinking otherwise. It was more that death was something she’d accepted as a realistic consequence long ago. If you went into a fight worrying about getting killed, it’d probably happen. Fear was the very thing that would see you hesitate and be the eventual cause of your fall.

“That works.”

If she was going to die? She always wanted it to be for something: Protecting others, or at least damn well trying.

As if reading her own thoughts, he, in turn, offered her the same sentiment in words, a hint of a smile playing across her lips as Rose nodded her agreement. Back to the window frame now, she folded her arms across her chest, sizing Owen up, more out of habit than judging if she thought him worthy for the upcoming battle. She’d seen Guardians twice his size and probable skill brought down by a single Strigoi, while people less seemingly capable than him, came out on top against a dozen. Rose was living proof that you can’t judge a book by its cover.

“I’ve never been one for staying put, either.” Or keeping out of trouble for that matter. Though she’d argue it found her first, not that she went looking for it. The truth was likely somewhere in between.

Aragorn's experience on buildings was generally at a much higher advantage. Still one shouldn't dismiss using whatever one could if it meant saving time, which was what they were trying to do. As much as the Ranger didn't want to offend the other man, he wasn't so sure he could put his trust in those sharp, thin sticks. No matter how many there were.

He moves quickly, but carefully up the edge of the roof where the structure has more support and sets to work on tying a bowline knot for the brick stack, grey eyes watchful of the area down below and the areas further out. When he secures the loop, he looks over to Owen to see what progress he's made.

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[Wendigo-go] cry like guns across the water

THE MEETING

CLOSE RANGE FIGHTING

RANGED FIGHTING

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