Post by Ilvyn Daleroth on Feb 23, 2013 5:06:15 GMT -5
OoC: Thread is open for any and may be mature for language and violence and who knows what else.
"Shh, shh, hush," Ilvyn spoke in a soft dulcet voice. The sound rebounded off the yawning darkness along with the mewling of a dying once-human. There was imperceptible malignance in the lull of the young man's voice. The lovely tone in his voice, the quite shushing, was more to mock than to comfort. "I don't enjoy watching you suffer like this but I'm not supposed to make a mess. I've been specifically instructed to be precise. A businessman like you surely understands."
Ilvyn didn't know if the once-human was a businessman. He had been in an awfully nice suit before he destroyed it by trying to shift. Ilvyn didn't know why he tried to shift, if feeling the cold knife in his back made him think he could defend himself or if it had been a kneejerk reaction, a dying spasm. Ilvyn liked to think he was neatly wrapping up his own job for him; sure, the FBI would probably look for the young murderer should they find this body, but the body itself would become a matter of intrigue, for it was no longer a nice businessman in his thirties but a bloody mess of leathery skin pulled taut over misshapen bones. The thing sprouted inky black feathers as it writhed on the ground in its death throes. Even Vyn found it horrifying, the death and the transformation. Like the child he was, he would shake off the terror by pretending to be nonchalant, by lying to himself.
He was an excellent liar.
The mess of bone and leather and feathers gave one quavering gasp before it died at his hooves and Ilvyn looked away, fishing in his pockets for a cigarette. He usually rolled his own but he kept a few filtered ones around in case of emergency. Emergencies like this, when his wits were at end and he felt tired and human enough to know what he had done was wrong. He needed the time and the tobacco to justify his actions.
"You deserved what you got," Ilvyn said to the corpse before lighting the fag. "Mmm. No one but my, ah, client and I know that, unfortunately. Know what you've done to land you here. I have to be paid, anyways."
He disliked being under the old tunnels in Boston, but not for the usual reasons. It was not for the darkness or the decay of the place. The dark did not bother him at all; it was like an old friend, walking hand in hand with him wherever he went. What was darkness to someone that could never fully appreciate it, like Ilvyn Daleroth? Also a man like him had nothing to fear from caving ceilings as reckless as his work already was. The thing that worried him most was what company he could be unintentionally keeping. He was well-aware now that Boston was crawling with supernatural. Now he might get a chance to see what clung to the great cities underbelly.
He didn't want to. He hated all those freaks. They were all freakier than him.
"Freakier than you, Big Bird," Ilvyn muttered. The walls of the caverns whispered back. "You're pretty weird, looking like that. It makes it hard for me to feel bad about killing you."
Ilvyn realized his arms were shaking and willed them to stop. He didn't want to think it was anything more than the physical struggle of killing the shape changer at his feet. A little blood was splattered here and there on his clothing. He did an exceptionally neat job of it and only used his knives. That was a thing to be proud of, surely.
But maybe he was afraid. Maybe he was cracking.
"It's okay," Vyn told himself in a consoling voice. "You're alone."
If a tree fell in a forest when no one was around then Ilvyn could feel emotionally weak in a place where no one could see. He would be quick to recover should anything find him (after all, he would assume that anything was an unfriendly thing looking for trouble at this location) but for now he was left to wipe at his cheeks and suck on his cancer stick with the vigor of a toddler with a pacifier.
"Shh, shh, hush," Ilvyn spoke in a soft dulcet voice. The sound rebounded off the yawning darkness along with the mewling of a dying once-human. There was imperceptible malignance in the lull of the young man's voice. The lovely tone in his voice, the quite shushing, was more to mock than to comfort. "I don't enjoy watching you suffer like this but I'm not supposed to make a mess. I've been specifically instructed to be precise. A businessman like you surely understands."
Ilvyn didn't know if the once-human was a businessman. He had been in an awfully nice suit before he destroyed it by trying to shift. Ilvyn didn't know why he tried to shift, if feeling the cold knife in his back made him think he could defend himself or if it had been a kneejerk reaction, a dying spasm. Ilvyn liked to think he was neatly wrapping up his own job for him; sure, the FBI would probably look for the young murderer should they find this body, but the body itself would become a matter of intrigue, for it was no longer a nice businessman in his thirties but a bloody mess of leathery skin pulled taut over misshapen bones. The thing sprouted inky black feathers as it writhed on the ground in its death throes. Even Vyn found it horrifying, the death and the transformation. Like the child he was, he would shake off the terror by pretending to be nonchalant, by lying to himself.
He was an excellent liar.
The mess of bone and leather and feathers gave one quavering gasp before it died at his hooves and Ilvyn looked away, fishing in his pockets for a cigarette. He usually rolled his own but he kept a few filtered ones around in case of emergency. Emergencies like this, when his wits were at end and he felt tired and human enough to know what he had done was wrong. He needed the time and the tobacco to justify his actions.
"You deserved what you got," Ilvyn said to the corpse before lighting the fag. "Mmm. No one but my, ah, client and I know that, unfortunately. Know what you've done to land you here. I have to be paid, anyways."
He disliked being under the old tunnels in Boston, but not for the usual reasons. It was not for the darkness or the decay of the place. The dark did not bother him at all; it was like an old friend, walking hand in hand with him wherever he went. What was darkness to someone that could never fully appreciate it, like Ilvyn Daleroth? Also a man like him had nothing to fear from caving ceilings as reckless as his work already was. The thing that worried him most was what company he could be unintentionally keeping. He was well-aware now that Boston was crawling with supernatural. Now he might get a chance to see what clung to the great cities underbelly.
He didn't want to. He hated all those freaks. They were all freakier than him.
"Freakier than you, Big Bird," Ilvyn muttered. The walls of the caverns whispered back. "You're pretty weird, looking like that. It makes it hard for me to feel bad about killing you."
Ilvyn realized his arms were shaking and willed them to stop. He didn't want to think it was anything more than the physical struggle of killing the shape changer at his feet. A little blood was splattered here and there on his clothing. He did an exceptionally neat job of it and only used his knives. That was a thing to be proud of, surely.
But maybe he was afraid. Maybe he was cracking.
"It's okay," Vyn told himself in a consoling voice. "You're alone."
If a tree fell in a forest when no one was around then Ilvyn could feel emotionally weak in a place where no one could see. He would be quick to recover should anything find him (after all, he would assume that anything was an unfriendly thing looking for trouble at this location) but for now he was left to wipe at his cheeks and suck on his cancer stick with the vigor of a toddler with a pacifier.
