Location: Lost Forest
Faction: None || Open Ground
Open to: All
TW: Finger Injury, Torture/Torture Mention, Teeth Pulling, Psychological Break, Trauma Mention, State of Psychosis, Gore, Body Mutilation/Body Horror, PTSD.
The sound of gunfire is both a blessing and a curse; the noise of bullets emptying, silencer attached or not, is a needed reprise for Cole thatâs not quite any other. From his hand, itâs manageable. He knows that metal â the kind that isnât all that harmless to the supernatural, is a comfort. Means that the custom forged salt-laced-silveriron does formidable damage to the majority Kaysonâs aiming for. Place the pistol in anotherâs hand and itâs suddenly a device that triggers his mind to act out, to remind him of the dangers; the trauma that sits like a friend in the crevices of his thoughts and offers him so little reprieve. Cole can only sit there, haunted by the past until something pulls him from it.
And usually, itâs the same screaming he dreads to hear, a twisted, sickening roar of agony that only drives the man to clench fists around a weapon of defence and to put an end to the cause. Itâs all he wants of the world; to rid the monsters that plague it. Everything else, his sanity even can be sacrificed if that is the achievable end goal.
Itâs cold, Kaysonâs not immune to the prickles of condensation that tease his arms as the darkest hours of the night swallow him, bury all moonlight behind high hanging branches and low grown leaves that paw at him as though they may detach and cling to his skin. Like arms that want to wrap around him and engulf the man, bury him in the earth beneath his feet and let dust become of the Second. Cole considers the thought for a moment, pulled out of it when his finger tightens on the trigger and a bang of a bullet firing down the shaft of a pistol resounds in the expanse of the forest.
Itâs target practice. Not the kind so simply permitted in the walls of the Hideout. Cole doesnât want prying eyes witness to what heâs doing; the slightly monstrous thing that he feels an overwhelming sense of need to partake in. Thereâs a figure, shrouded in shadows that are cast by haphazard Oak trees, scorched by past flames and emitting a strangely struggled sound from between their lips. The howl thatâs forced from them echoes; itâs intentional, Coleâs not beyond the idea of attracting hungry parties to his location, he dares them too even. Craves the kill like any creature cursed with dark magics, only, his motivation is driven by hate.
Driven by this ideology that what heâs doing is right.
And the creature strapped to the trunk of the tree, fingerless, absent working limbs and screeching like a banshee at every new wound Cole inflicts is all put down to the idea that what heâs doing is for the greater good. Thereâs a sever absence of flesh on the creature, if it werenât so dark, the rotted bone would be visible from the shredded skin of where a blade has peeled it layer by layer, left pale streams like ribbons hanging from itâs form. Â
Coleâs arm lowers, the leathers heâs wearing squeaking when he closes in on the vampire thatâs been in his clutches for days now, only finally granted a death thatâs been so desperately begged for. But Coleâs far from done. Heâs blaming everyone for the lack of control at the circus; what was so out of his hands, out of his depth. Happens to be that this specific vampire fell into his clutches, so easily caught and when he made light work of prying digits off, testing the capabilities of the monsters healing process, he knew he was buried in dark thoughts that couldnât be so easily forced aside.
The distance closes, Coleâs fist rockets in pain when it collides with the face of the creature, expects it to be as like-brick as it is, relishes like a broken thing at the pain produced; on both sides. Heâs keen to see how long it lasts; how much more time the vampire has in its state of bloodlust, prevented from causing harm by heavy chains that bind them to the wood. Coleâs fist doesnât stop at just one hit.
And suddenly, thereâs pliers. Heâs truly surprised heâs made it this far â so out in the open, so without control to his surroundings and so blissfully ignorant to how easily his own death could come. And thereâs the point of being beyond caring. Coleâs lifting the metal contraptions, uses them to force a bloodied mouth open; squeezes the cheeks where only reddened muscle is evident, wraps around the creatureâs chin to secure it whilst he tightens the other on a single remaining fang in the vampireâs mouth.
Youâve never heard a wail like it.
Thereâs no hesitation in the yanking of the tooth, a scraping of bone exiting flesh; breaking out of gums is almost too satisfying that Coleâs ready to pry another out. But thereâs none left. Thereâs hard rocks beneath his boots already, can already hear the crack of ivory breaking under his weight, crushed into the blades of grass and lost to the earth; given freely; forcefully to Mother Nature to do as she pleases. The illegible curses that spit red all over Coleâs face are hardly a bother, heâs disgusted with it, spits any excess blood of the creature to the ground as though itâs merely a slight inconvenience to him. Kaysonâs laughing now, a wicked grin thatâs not reflective of a mortal man with a conscience. Itâs long buried underneath the harsh flickers of bloodshed that obscure his vision every time he blinks; sands of a beach he canât ever forget hanging there, hooking into him and choking him where he stands.
And then reality hits him like a bullet of its own.
Heâs on the ground, hands clawed at his head and a vicious screaming of a wounded vampire loud in his ears; it wonât stop. âQuiet,â itâs hissed, the Second is muttering incoherant words; almost monstrous in its own right as he attempts to gather his wits, only realises heâs on the floor after minutes, knees bent upwards and eyes fixated on the teeth that are scattered, pressed into the dirt by his military grade boots. âI said quiet - !â heâs cut off by his body wrestling to his feet, the gun heâd once been holding, on the earthen floor a good few metres from him. He doesnât remember how it got there, doesnât even recall dropping it; only sees the metal tongs, coated in a maroon at the foot of the writhing vampire, swears he can hear a chain snap for just a brief moment when he attempts to get his mind out of a state of panic.
Breathe Cole. Fucking breathe, get out of your head, itâs not real; that wars over. This is the new one, focus.
But he canât. Thereâs a new sound behind him, one that isnât the vampire heâs close to finishing and the anger that constantly sits at the base of his stomach reaches the toxicity of the hostile air and all those fears of being found; or half hoping he would be come to fruition. Thereâs something behind him; someone, he knows it.
His guns on the ground. The manâs back is facing them and heâs lost to the trauma that haunts him; you canât even run now Cole. Not that he would, but even that option is gone; removed from logical thinking. What is logical thinking right now Kayson? What really is â
âYou should fuck off and mind your fucking business,â itâs the best heâs got; a deterrent to any more involvement past his target practice in the woods to whatever is at his rear. His pulse is steady, heâs always been prepared to meet a grisly end â in the Crooked world, itâs the only way a man like he is permitted to go. Heâs barely able to see through the darkness, but he knows where his gun is laid â can see it in his peripheries when he shifts his attention to it, glances only for a moment to the snarling vampire in his captivity thatâs clinging onto life as though itâs current mutilated state is still worth being in existence for. But Kayson canât help losing himself a little more to the gutter thoughts of antagonising whateverâs met him in the late hours of the forest: âOr would you like me to pull your teeth out too?â
The forest had always been beautiful in its ashen serenity. The charred trunks, scars from the war, welcomed him into their expanse and he danced his pale hands over the rough bark. The smell of smoke lingered in the very air, even though the fires had long since been extinguished and it was here that he remembered his real birth. The moment he came into himself and learned what he was truly capable of. Knelt on the ground, he touched the spot it happened, the moment he'd sent a pack of humans on each other and watched them rip each other to pieces. Even now, he could still feel their blood splashing across his skin.
His horns had grown that evening- and now, some six centuries later, in his true form he was no longer humanoid but something else. What he was always meant to be. The monster with a penchant for driving someone out of their gourd just because it was fun to watch their brain turn to mush. He reveled in the swell of feeling that simmered up from the ground he caressed like a lover- and cut his tempest gaze to the north. An echoing cry made him inhale deeply. He could feel it- tickles of rage prickling across his skin.
It was a siren song, pulling him up from his kneeling position. Brushing away bits of dirt, he stepped forward, careful not to disturb the fallen branches beneath his leather boots. The air grew heavier with each step, and the smell of dead man's blood tinged in his nostrils. It was not Demitri nor Willow, so whatever worry might have manifested settled back in his mind. Another wail paused him at tree that had been rebirthed since the fire, his palm coming to rest as his eyes slipped closed to pull some of the rage from the air and into himself. It was intoxicating and tasted familiar. Too familiar. Like that hunter- what was his name? It didn't matter. He had a death wish, Evan had decided the last time they met- and the closer he got, he was more tempted to ghost himself directly behind.
There was something to be said about a man who appeared larger than life when he was crumpled upon the ground. Weakness only showed itself in quiet moments for most, and as Evan observed, silently, his honeysuckle lips curved into a grin. Suspicions confirmed, he decided to wait out the attack until he was so unkindly addressed. A humming tune left his lips, "Don't go out tonight, it's bound to take your life," he moved forward, sliding fingertips up Cole's spine to draw that bubbling agony and wrath out of him a little further. Lips met his ear, "there's a bad moon on the rise." He was playing with hunter fire, but he cared little for what might happen to him now. All he needed was everything that Cole could provide, even if the sight of him sent his counter into a fit of violet colored rage.
He kept her at bay, stumbling back to escape whatever attack he might get in return for his intrusion. "No, baby boy, you wouldn't dare touch my teeth. After all, didn't they feel so nice on your skin?" The comment alluded to the night Kayson had with Yasmin and Valerie, "unless you forgot so quickly and in that case, perhaps you'd like a reminder."
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