Killian Jones // Captain Hook (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
seekingcrocodile) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-11-25 12:16 am
seekingcrocodile) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-11-25 12:16 am
(no subject)
WHO: Frank Castle, Killian Jones, and ota
WHERE: near the inn/the inn
WHEN: the night of the feast
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: Uh. Gore and blood and stuff.
STATUS: Open and ongoing.
After four mutilated animals in as many weeks, Frank isn’t feeling much like celebrating. Word gets around, and the sudden appearance of this morning’s feast does nothing to settle him. They need the food, to be sure, with more hungry mouths coming out of the fountain every day and their winter stores getting no fuller; he doesn’t begrudge those who decide to eat it — but a meal like that appearing out of thin air? Sounds like a trap to him, and somebody’s got to not get caught in it. (If the feast would have turned his thoughts to crayon-colored hand turkeys and cookie crumbs and Frank Jr.’s small, still fingers in the blood-wet grass no matter what the circumstance, Frank doesn’t let his mind linger too long on that. )
Almost as soon as he’d arrived at the inn, Frank had set back out into the cold, bright day, but by the time the sun start to dip he’s swinging back towards it again, black wool coat buttoned up over his overalls, a lamp swinging by his side.
The now-familiar scent of fresh woodsmoke gusts through the air — and beneath it, the coppery bite of blood.
Killian had fewer qualms about enjoying the feast, even though he is still uncomfortable at the thought of someone watching them. Someone toying with them. But like he’d said all those months ago after he and Jo found the weapons (or tools, as some prefer to think of them), it’s also about survival, and the spread of food currently occupying the inn will go a long way towards ensuring their survival for another day. Discovering the presence of alcohol, which he hasn’t had a drop of in months, was another deciding factor in his determination to enjoy the food and worry about its consequences later. (He’s good at dealing with consequences. He’s had a lot of practice at just going with a situation.)
Even though the warm inn, with its smells of food and the smoke from the fire, is exactly the sort of place he used to frequent when he and his crew would put in at some port or another, he finds himself in need of some fresh air to clear his head. He’s been indulging in the rum, and having lost his tolerance due to going without a drop of it for months, it’s gone to his head more than it used to. Plus there is the looming concern about making it through the winter, and even if he’s not in charge here, worrying about the survival of everyone present is a hard habit to break.
He’s a distance from the inn before he stops, reaching for a tree for support. There’s the smell of blood in the air, familiar from his many years of a life at sea, but he thinks nothing of it. There have been so many attacks lately, and the smell ends up clinging to his clothes when he’s been preparing a pile of fresh-caught fish. It’s a smell he’s used to by now.
It’s when he’s reaching for the tree that it happens. His foot connects with something, something that shouldn’t be at the base of a tree. Something he can’t see in the dark. If only he’d thought to bring something with him when he came outside.
“What the hell…?”
At the sound of a voice, Frank squints ahead into the dark, trying to make out the approaching figure. Luckily, it’s someone he’s seen around enough to recognize from a vague outline in the dark. “Everything alright, Captain?”
As Frank lifts his lamp, the light falls across the well-trodden ground toward the tree, and Killian — and the limp arm resting against the ground at his feet. A woman’s, and far too quiet and still out here in the night. Frank lifts the lamp higher.
"Karen," he breathes, as the light hits her pale face. "Karen--" Louder now, Frank’s moving before he's thinking, boots skidding through the dirt as he rushes for her, his lamp hitting the ground hard and his knees harder as he drops down beside her.
She's too still. Too red. At her neck, in her hair, there's so much red, Jesus. Meat is coming out of her abdomen, and on some futile instinct Frank reaches to scoop it back in, like he can just put her stomach back where it belongs and she'll make it. She'll be okay. (She doesn’t look like she’s going to be okay.)
When Killian catches sight of her face, he can tell right away that she’s someone he saw around but not anyone he ever talked to in any way more than passing. He wishes he had, though, if only because he’s sure that she wouldn’t want to be remembered this way by strangers. He reaches out to stop the other man -- he doesn’t have to be a sawbones to know that it’s too late -- but then stops. This is how he’d be reacting if it were Emma beneath the tree, and he’d strike out at anyone who tried to stop him.
“The others need to know.” They’ll probably wonder, for one thing, and now it’s a matter of everyone’s survival. “I’ll keep them from coming out here themselves.” For privacy, and also because even during the course of several lifetimes at sea, he never saw anything like this. The others don’t need these images keeping them from sleeping tonight.
He turns away from the tree and heads back to the inn, allowing time for Frank to speak if he wants, but not expecting it. Killian pauses for a moment outside the door to the inn. He really doesn’t want to be the one to break the festive mood, but there’s no other choice. At least it’s given him a chance to sober up somewhat.
He stops just inside the door and waits until he has everyone’s attention. It takes a moment, because everyone is enjoying themselves, but the grave look on his face and the blood that he’s sure to have picked up from stumbling in the dark should help with that. He makes sure to stay calm when addressing the room -- panic would only cause more panic, and he’s hoping to keep enough of them calm for this not to turn into an even bigger disaster.
“It’s not just animals. Whatever is out there, going after livestock, has come for one of us now.” He pauses a moment to let that sink in. “Her name was Karen.”
WHERE: near the inn/the inn
WHEN: the night of the feast
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: Uh. Gore and blood and stuff.
STATUS: Open and ongoing.
After four mutilated animals in as many weeks, Frank isn’t feeling much like celebrating. Word gets around, and the sudden appearance of this morning’s feast does nothing to settle him. They need the food, to be sure, with more hungry mouths coming out of the fountain every day and their winter stores getting no fuller; he doesn’t begrudge those who decide to eat it — but a meal like that appearing out of thin air? Sounds like a trap to him, and somebody’s got to not get caught in it. (If the feast would have turned his thoughts to crayon-colored hand turkeys and cookie crumbs and Frank Jr.’s small, still fingers in the blood-wet grass no matter what the circumstance, Frank doesn’t let his mind linger too long on that. )
Almost as soon as he’d arrived at the inn, Frank had set back out into the cold, bright day, but by the time the sun start to dip he’s swinging back towards it again, black wool coat buttoned up over his overalls, a lamp swinging by his side.
The now-familiar scent of fresh woodsmoke gusts through the air — and beneath it, the coppery bite of blood.
Killian had fewer qualms about enjoying the feast, even though he is still uncomfortable at the thought of someone watching them. Someone toying with them. But like he’d said all those months ago after he and Jo found the weapons (or tools, as some prefer to think of them), it’s also about survival, and the spread of food currently occupying the inn will go a long way towards ensuring their survival for another day. Discovering the presence of alcohol, which he hasn’t had a drop of in months, was another deciding factor in his determination to enjoy the food and worry about its consequences later. (He’s good at dealing with consequences. He’s had a lot of practice at just going with a situation.)
Even though the warm inn, with its smells of food and the smoke from the fire, is exactly the sort of place he used to frequent when he and his crew would put in at some port or another, he finds himself in need of some fresh air to clear his head. He’s been indulging in the rum, and having lost his tolerance due to going without a drop of it for months, it’s gone to his head more than it used to. Plus there is the looming concern about making it through the winter, and even if he’s not in charge here, worrying about the survival of everyone present is a hard habit to break.
He’s a distance from the inn before he stops, reaching for a tree for support. There’s the smell of blood in the air, familiar from his many years of a life at sea, but he thinks nothing of it. There have been so many attacks lately, and the smell ends up clinging to his clothes when he’s been preparing a pile of fresh-caught fish. It’s a smell he’s used to by now.
It’s when he’s reaching for the tree that it happens. His foot connects with something, something that shouldn’t be at the base of a tree. Something he can’t see in the dark. If only he’d thought to bring something with him when he came outside.
“What the hell…?”
At the sound of a voice, Frank squints ahead into the dark, trying to make out the approaching figure. Luckily, it’s someone he’s seen around enough to recognize from a vague outline in the dark. “Everything alright, Captain?”
As Frank lifts his lamp, the light falls across the well-trodden ground toward the tree, and Killian — and the limp arm resting against the ground at his feet. A woman’s, and far too quiet and still out here in the night. Frank lifts the lamp higher.
"Karen," he breathes, as the light hits her pale face. "Karen--" Louder now, Frank’s moving before he's thinking, boots skidding through the dirt as he rushes for her, his lamp hitting the ground hard and his knees harder as he drops down beside her.
She's too still. Too red. At her neck, in her hair, there's so much red, Jesus. Meat is coming out of her abdomen, and on some futile instinct Frank reaches to scoop it back in, like he can just put her stomach back where it belongs and she'll make it. She'll be okay. (She doesn’t look like she’s going to be okay.)
When Killian catches sight of her face, he can tell right away that she’s someone he saw around but not anyone he ever talked to in any way more than passing. He wishes he had, though, if only because he’s sure that she wouldn’t want to be remembered this way by strangers. He reaches out to stop the other man -- he doesn’t have to be a sawbones to know that it’s too late -- but then stops. This is how he’d be reacting if it were Emma beneath the tree, and he’d strike out at anyone who tried to stop him.
“The others need to know.” They’ll probably wonder, for one thing, and now it’s a matter of everyone’s survival. “I’ll keep them from coming out here themselves.” For privacy, and also because even during the course of several lifetimes at sea, he never saw anything like this. The others don’t need these images keeping them from sleeping tonight.
He turns away from the tree and heads back to the inn, allowing time for Frank to speak if he wants, but not expecting it. Killian pauses for a moment outside the door to the inn. He really doesn’t want to be the one to break the festive mood, but there’s no other choice. At least it’s given him a chance to sober up somewhat.
He stops just inside the door and waits until he has everyone’s attention. It takes a moment, because everyone is enjoying themselves, but the grave look on his face and the blood that he’s sure to have picked up from stumbling in the dark should help with that. He makes sure to stay calm when addressing the room -- panic would only cause more panic, and he’s hoping to keep enough of them calm for this not to turn into an even bigger disaster.
“It’s not just animals. Whatever is out there, going after livestock, has come for one of us now.” He pauses a moment to let that sink in. “Her name was Karen.”
no subject
"But the way her throat's been torn out — this looks like teeth or claws. A knife cut would have cleaner edges. The tearing of the scalp here... I would say she's been dragged by something much larger."
It's dark, though, and the lamplight only affords her so much. Stella lets out a breath, steps back a little. "She needs a post-mortem and I'm not sure how likely we are to get one, a real one." Which is her way of saying that she is not a medical examiner and she could be wrong — but Stella has long been in the habit of going with her instincts when it comes to things like this.
no subject
"I don't know medicine, but I've got a strong stomach if I can be of any help. I've- seen worse things," He says, like that fact ought to make him more able to handle this instead of less. He brings his bloodied hands together to keep his trigger finger from twitching. "I want to see right done by her."
no subject
Stella looks up at him again when he says he's seen worse, and one of her brows arches a little. That could either be a good indicator, or a very bad one. Seeing the movement of his hands, she passes the lamp back to him so he'll have something to hold on to.
"The least we can do is give her a funeral," she suggests. There's a brief pause, then, "Do you know if we've a doctor who could examine her?"
She's not hoping for an actual pathologist, but in theory any doctor could perform a credible examination to try to determine how this woman died.