Re: Take Me To Church- Prague 1 (IC)
Eyes narrowed from the sting, and with the stench clearly trying to suppress his sense of smell, appeal to the hunger that was even now tearing into his mental faculties, or both, the Hunter forced himself- with difficulty- to take a step backwards from the obvious trap. Even as the hunger gnawed at him and the temperature dropped further in tandem with his flaring instincts, the grounds cracking with rimes of frost, he purposely stopped breathing for a moment, and reached into two pouches on his harness.
The first thing he pulled out was a small ovaloid canister, which he held very carefully in a clawed hand, trying his best to focus on keeping the nails from growing in length further. The second was a wrapped packet, which without even trying to open, he simply bit into and then devoured in a fraction of a second. The soft sounds of tearing cloth and meat, likely a jerky of some kind were the only sounds to permeate the air around the Windigo for a brief time, as the refrain of the track he had on played. His breathing was still increasingly erratic, but his posture straightened with the brief influx of a very specific kind of meal and nutrients, long enough for him to quickly dash his now free hand back into the pouches, and pull out something, a canister of some sort. He hurriedly brought it to his mouth, popped it open, and downed it.
It took another several seconds, but his breathing began to level out, and his nails ceased trying to grow any longer than a standard razor. It took another moment, but with a bit more focus, they returned to their normal, only slightly bestial length, and he could finally open the canister. Within it lay what appeared to be a folded up set of goggles, something out of World War II or the Cold War Era. He daintily pulled them out, and then carefully tied them around his head, the bands quickly hidden under the mess of hair, which had similarly been effected by the frost that poured from him.
With them on, he finally was able to see clearly again, and took out one more package, which he hastily ate. As he did so, the canister was deposited, freeing up both hands, which busied themselves. One of his pistols was drawn, and a magazine of ammunition, labeled in a strange language and with distinctly different colored heads, was loaded, along with a long Amerindian blade, a strange sheen or coating along it. Carefully holding it with the same hand as his pistol, he reached into his backpack, and pulled out three more small objects, placing them within easy reach in a pouch. He then transferred the blade back to his off-hand, and stepped in, the blood on the windows freezing over as he did.
"Couldn't ya at least try an' be creative?" He drawled as he entered, looking at the coffins the same way a human might look at an ant. "Even with yer li'l stench, I c'n still smell ya. An' yer not impressin' anyone wi' yer allegory there. Last Judgement's th' single most overused fuckin' image I have to see wi' every ambush."
This message was last edited by the player at 06:26, Tue 07 July 2020.