milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The first thing Pearly notices on arrival in Milliways is that the world is smaller, much smaller, far too small. Not in the sense of space – he’s used to the cramped alleys and underground cellars of the Narrows or the Five Points – but in that his vision is restricted. He looks up at the ceiling with a quiet snarl, razor eyes rolling back in his head…no Avenue of the Nine, nor the Twenty. No Sarganda Street, no Diamond Row. Nothing.

He looks around, glaring. The knife in one hand drips blood on to the floor, and he wipes his face with the other, which holds a gun, single-barrel, ivory handle. His mouth opens to speak to the place at large – the first saloon in a long time not to quiet at his entrance – but then his eyes fall upon the Observation Window.

….oh. Oh.

The knife drops to the floor, and everything else melts away.

[OOC: I strongly recommend reading this post before tagging, and perhaps his profile as well. Open until whenever!]

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He folds his expression into a smile, but it's like his heartbeat is pushing the faintest of cracks across his face, small red lines in a jagged blast pattern like someone dropped a miniature grenade.

'Don't like the silver, is it? I prefer gold myself, but there's no accounting for taste.'

His thick Irish accent gets broader and deeper when it goads, and there's an echo of a snarl in there somewhere, a noise dragged up from a deeper well that any human holds.

There is something wrong with this guy.

Like he is bigger inside. Bigger and deeper and - something.
He fucking hates when he doesn't know what is going on, but who would show it to an enemy?

"This place is hallowed," he hisses, the old words spoken with much more of an accent than he normally has.
"Hospitality rules here. You hurt someone, you pay."

And everything about him suggests that he will be happy to arrange for that payment to fall straight away.

Pam's curiosity about this stranger has soured completely. She couldn't care less what he is or what Eric does to him.

She casually fingers the knife in her hand and holds it up, the blade glinting.

"There are rules here," she says, arching an eyebrow at the man. "Not that I thought you'd be the type to follow them anyway, being an asshole and all."

'I've been called worse, sweetheart,' he says, his electric eyes glinting at the man.

Man? Maybe. Not sure.

'First time I've heard anywhere in the city hallowed, I'll give you that much, and I didn't think there was a place in it I didn't know. What're you going to do? Always something new.'

His fingers dance lightly along the barrel of his gun, as though itching to aim.

'Payment, is it? Well, what is it you want? We'll see, we'll see.'

"Oh, but you are not in your city anymore. You are far, far away. So however much of a big shot you are there? Forget about it here," Eric spits out.

He has one arm out to the side, his palm turned towards Pam behind him. Making sure she stays there..

"As for payment, how about your fucking heart?"

Edited 2014-09-18 20:14 (UTC)

Pam stays where she is.

She did say that he was now at the end of the universe, but he was too busy literally staring into space.

Not her fault.

His head sways from side to side slightly, like a cobra being charmed out of its basket, eyes sliding between one and the other.

'My heart?'

He laughs quietly, but the sound is still too deep to match his voice. Just at the end, when it cuts off. He spreads his arms, his eyes flash silver, and he openly bares his teeth.

'You want it? Come and try.'

Eric pulls his lips back from his fangs.

And listens.

When everything inside of him is screaming, that something is off he is not going to throw himself at anyone without paying attention first.

Listening for the sound of his blood, his breath. His heartbeat.

Edited 2014-09-18 20:31 (UTC)

Pam knows that Eric knows that something about this man is different.

It's why the man's guts aren't all over the floor yet.

(That, and because of the rules.)

(But still.)

"Eric..."

'Well?' he says, and though the word is short and starts quiet, it ends in a roaring growl.

'Are you just going to stand and stare? You want your price, come and take it - but I'll warn you, you'll find yourself paying in return, boy. So think on it, and hard.'

He's a mean fighter, and he can't be killed. He's not worried.

Boy?

Boy?.

Okay, now he doesn't care whatever the fuck this clown is. He just wants him dead.

"Only idiots let their opponent decide when they strike," he snarls, slowly moving to the right. Staying firmly between the guy and Pam.

Edited 2014-09-18 20:53 (UTC)

It's like the situation with the Maenad. There was something so old and sinister in those woods that not even vampires knew what it was or how to kill it.

So it doesn't help that something as of yet unnameable has just threatened Pam.

If it were human it would be dead by now.

But whatever it is, she still has Eric's back.

Pearly doesn't advance - it doesn't seem like he'll need to, if he's reading this right - he just paves a few steps to the left, then the right, his eyes not straying from the man in front of him.

It doesn't much matter to him that things feel different in this place, wherever it is and however he got here; he's still who and what he is, and he knows what to do when a snarling man threatens to attack. You stand your ground and fight. That's it.

He moves like he is expecting a barroom brawl.
That is, perhaps, not so strange.

That's not what he'll get though, if Eric has his way.

But you don't show your hand all at one, so when he moves at him, he does so quickly, but not as fast as possible. And it's his hand that is aiming for the man's throat. Not his fangs.
Even though he wants to tear his throat out straight away.

The man's fast, without question. But Pearly's the head of the hundred, survivor of countless gang wars, and one of the few who have gone up against the swordsman of the Marsh and lived to tell about it. And he's been drinking in the colour of a dying universe for hours; every sense is in overdrive, and a fight's just the thing to ease him.

Eric's fingers touch his throat and start to close; in the time it takes to blink, Pearly twists away and aims to club him across the face with the fist holding the silver gun.

Not a human.

Eric snarls and lets himself fall back and away from the arm he sees coming, so the silver gun grazes his face instead of connecting with it.

His skin sizzles as it melts away from the silver and he roars with pain. And anger.
"What are you?" he grinds out as he twists to land in a crouch.
The skin on his face begins to reknit.

He grins, sharp as glass, and starts to circle slowly around Eric, shoulders tensed and more than ready.

'Could ask you the same, boy. I'd say you've got strange teeth, but my lieutenant's put yours to shame.'

But Blacky Womble's face doesn't heal like that, and it's just curious enough to make him wonder. Not for too long, though - somewhere between one step and the next, a large, shiny boot is flying out towards Eric's head.

If he's going to crouch like that, it's his own fault.

But Eric isn't there any more.
He is standing, two feet away, body tense, but his hands hanging down his side. He trusts in his own speed. And he is a little reluctant to get too close, as long as he doesn't know what he is facing.

"Vampire," he snarls. "The word you are looking for is vampire. "

Pearly blinks when he's gone, and puts his foot down hard, bent forwards to keep his balance. But then Eric reappears, and he just reacts, using the folded position to swing upwards with more velocity - a reactionary strike, but its on target if the man - vampire - doesn't move.

'What d'you want, a medal?'

This time, he does hit him.

Eric moves a little with the impact of the blow. He doesn't reattach otherwise.

His body is cold and hard. A little like hitting a boulder. A little like hitting a corpse.

"Is that the best you can do?" It's a vicious hiss. And calculated too. His eyes are wrong, his scent is wrong. He's too sure of himself. Maybe he can be made to stumble.

And if he takes Eric down, nothing will stop him from going after Pam. He needs an opening.

A frown flickers across his brow, just for a second. He doesn't know much about vampires. They don't interest him. The jibe rankles a little, enough to make the tiny red cracks pulse once in his face before disappearing back into smooth, even skin.

'No, not the best I can do, not by a long chalk.'

He squares up to him, maintaining the same distance. His silver eyes are a ceaseless, empty whirlpool, his cheek jumps madly, and his fingers jerk on the barrel of his gun.

'But if you've shown me all you can do, I suspect you're in trouble.'

Or this is going to be a long fight, which he's entirely OK with. The vampire's faster than him, but he's got silver.

What the fuck is the matter with his face?

Sometimes, he wishes that he had paid more attention when his Maker had told him of the things in the darkness best avoided.

But that hardly matters now.

"Not at all," Eric says, and then he rushes close, aiming for the man's wrist.
He'd like to get rid of the silver gun.

Edited 2014-09-19 11:22 (UTC)

Pearly just curls his right shoulder into Eric's path, shielding the gun in his left as he lowers his centre of gravity, plants himself, and then jabs out with his elbow. It's a blow designed to deflect rather than damage, because if this guy can take a full punch without flinching, he's not going to be taken down easily. Best to get him to the floor, and keep him there.

The elbow surprises him and he hits the floor - and rolls away and up. Partly at least, once again crouching.

In small spaces being tall is not necessarily an advantage in a fight.

When he snarls this time, his fangs large and white , his face is contorted with rage.
And just a hint of - not fear but worry perhaps.

Whatever he is, he is strong. And he reminds Eric of the weres on V. Bad enough without, but mad and murderous with.

He is hard to read.

And Pearly laughs, but it's not amused, it's time to stop messing with each other and get some of this energy out. It's the kind of laugh that starts sarcastic and ends in an inhuman feral growl, another of those sounds that comes from too deep, a man with some kind of animal inside.

And his face splits properly this time, cracks flaring into open red gashes, jagged ravines crackling out over his cheeks like forked lightning, before sinking back into a mask of cold fury. He doesn't want to hold back, and this vampire is annoying him now.

'Come on! You want to fight, stop playing!'

He spreads his arms in open invitation, but he's poised to fly forwards, and the gun is now turned in his hand, ready to be used like a club.