"Your definition of tourism seems markedly different from mine."
He thinks that's true, at least; it sounds true, even as it doesn't appear to faze the man behind the reception desk, beyond a brief blink and a smooth transition to We're so glad you chose to stay at the Staywell. Letting out a sigh, Darlington turns from the counter, adjusting the cuffs of his long, black duster coat. Like the rest of his clothes, the dark jeans and the plain buttondown shirt, the sturdy boots and grey kerchief knotted about his throat, it feels right and yet not, even if he wears it all easily. His eyes scan the room, confusion and interest intermingled in his expression. Nothing here is right, but compared to what came before...
Well, that, he's not as sure of as he wants to be.
"...continental breakfast is served from--" the concierge continues, and Darlington rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "Six to ten every day," he recites along with the other man. "You've said."
2: Something's Coming
The graveyard at the edge of town draws him, makes him ache with the urge to say something, even as he can't think of the words, even as trying to makes pain star his vision and brings a slow thread of blood trickling from one nostril. That, too, is distantly familiar in its way. Focused as he is on the things dancing just at the edge of his grasp, Darlington doesn't hear the snarl from a low outcropping nearby, doesn't catch the low, creeping blur of movement until almost the last moment.
And when the creature lunges, something else happens. It feels like reaching for something, flexing an unknown muscle, taking hold and saying come forth. His frame lengthens, shoulders broadening, claws sprouting from the tips of his fingers as gold-ridged horns curl back from his temples. His eyes blaze golden, too, and the opening of his mouth--to speak? to snarl? he can't be sure--reveals sharp-tipped canines lengthened to fangs. He meets the creature in midleap, seizing it in sudden fury and throwing it just as fast, dashing it towards the rocks it had lurked behind only moments prior. It lands with a crunch, a squeal, and then lies still. Darlington's left breathing hard, still blazing with light--eyes, horns, glints of it at throat and wrist, half-covered by his clothing.
"What the fuck." The profanity feels harsh, but warranted.
3: Walls Have Eyes
There aren't a lot of them, but there's enough. All of them make his head hurt, to one degree or another; the scarred, emerald cat's eye that regards him balefully from the knot in a tree is a dull twinge eased by a murmured forgive me as he passes, while the startled, almost rabbity blue one he sees amongst the tiles in the hotel's atrium causes a pain that wavers with the turn of his head, his guts cramping hard with the effort of his avoidance. The one he finds by his tub, its iris night-black and cold, nearly makes him flee his room again in agony even as something else half-compels him to stay.
The worst are the eyes that look like his. Not exactly, enough difference in them to make clear that they're not his own, but close enough to feel familiar. In the general store, he quails like a child from the aged, rheumy one that glares from the wall, the hazy, half-formed memory of a bed and a hand gripping his wrist rising up before sinking down again. It leaves him unmoored enough that he's unprepared for the others, pinned underneath their fear and horror, their shock as they see him and understand...but what?
"It wasn't me," he says, and doesn't know where the words are coming from. His head splits, an agony, the pain nearly blinding. "It was. It wasn't. I didn't..."
[[Just a note to say I'll match your formatting, whatever works for you!]]
Darlington | Hell Bent
"Your definition of tourism seems markedly different from mine."
He thinks that's true, at least; it sounds true, even as it doesn't appear to faze the man behind the reception desk, beyond a brief blink and a smooth transition to We're so glad you chose to stay at the Staywell. Letting out a sigh, Darlington turns from the counter, adjusting the cuffs of his long, black duster coat. Like the rest of his clothes, the dark jeans and the plain buttondown shirt, the sturdy boots and grey kerchief knotted about his throat, it feels right and yet not, even if he wears it all easily. His eyes scan the room, confusion and interest intermingled in his expression. Nothing here is right, but compared to what came before...
Well, that, he's not as sure of as he wants to be.
"...continental breakfast is served from--" the concierge continues, and Darlington rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "Six to ten every day," he recites along with the other man. "You've said."
2: Something's Coming
The graveyard at the edge of town draws him, makes him ache with the urge to say something, even as he can't think of the words, even as trying to makes pain star his vision and brings a slow thread of blood trickling from one nostril. That, too, is distantly familiar in its way. Focused as he is on the things dancing just at the edge of his grasp, Darlington doesn't hear the snarl from a low outcropping nearby, doesn't catch the low, creeping blur of movement until almost the last moment.
And when the creature lunges, something else happens. It feels like reaching for something, flexing an unknown muscle, taking hold and saying come forth. His frame lengthens, shoulders broadening, claws sprouting from the tips of his fingers as gold-ridged horns curl back from his temples. His eyes blaze golden, too, and the opening of his mouth--to speak? to snarl? he can't be sure--reveals sharp-tipped canines lengthened to fangs. He meets the creature in midleap, seizing it in sudden fury and throwing it just as fast, dashing it towards the rocks it had lurked behind only moments prior. It lands with a crunch, a squeal, and then lies still. Darlington's left breathing hard, still blazing with light--eyes, horns, glints of it at throat and wrist, half-covered by his clothing.
"What the fuck." The profanity feels harsh, but warranted.
3: Walls Have Eyes
There aren't a lot of them, but there's enough. All of them make his head hurt, to one degree or another; the scarred, emerald cat's eye that regards him balefully from the knot in a tree is a dull twinge eased by a murmured forgive me as he passes, while the startled, almost rabbity blue one he sees amongst the tiles in the hotel's atrium causes a pain that wavers with the turn of his head, his guts cramping hard with the effort of his avoidance. The one he finds by his tub, its iris night-black and cold, nearly makes him flee his room again in agony even as something else half-compels him to stay.
The worst are the eyes that look like his. Not exactly, enough difference in them to make clear that they're not his own, but close enough to feel familiar. In the general store, he quails like a child from the aged, rheumy one that glares from the wall, the hazy, half-formed memory of a bed and a hand gripping his wrist rising up before sinking down again. It leaves him unmoored enough that he's unprepared for the others, pinned underneath their fear and horror, their shock as they see him and understand...but what?
"It wasn't me," he says, and doesn't know where the words are coming from. His head splits, an agony, the pain nearly blinding. "It was. It wasn't. I didn't..."
[[Just a note to say I'll match your formatting, whatever works for you!]]