#hob-tow

[claudio-tow]

hob-tow replied to your post:.

(HE’S AN OLD MAN FACING DEATH AFTER JUST BARELY PUTTING TOGETHER A FAMILY AFTER CENTURIES OF SELF-IMPOSED ISOLATION. He has a lot of feels. So do I. *fountains of tears*)

8'|

[cavan-tow]

Grim Portents

            Every knife hit its mark with an audible thump in the quiet of the scouting camp.  Cavan had a book propped on his knee, and he angled it towards the fire as he made pictorial notes in the margins of yet another field notebook.  Sig played at his newest favorite pastime, which involved making his “cousin” stand against a tree and throwing knives as near to the elf’s face as he could without marring the famously perfect complexion of his extended family.  Nilidh, forever stoic, might as well have been standing outside a royal palace ignoring tourists for all the interest he showed in the blades crowding around his head like a macabre halo.

            This, perhaps, explained why Sig bored so soon of the game.  It would have been much more challenging and entertaining if he had a target who flinched unexpectedly or at least whimpered a little.

            The Unseelie flopped down next to the fire and army crawled over to Cavan.  He rested his chin on the pooka’s shoulder to read the field journal.  Cavan shrugged him off, but Sig deliberately returned, this time with a subtle air of menace.  The message was clear: all space is my space, even the space you thought was personal.

            Sig read over Cavan’s shoulder for several minutes.  He turned the pages of the field journal and then plucked it from Cavan’s hands.

            “I was working on that,” said the pooka.  He twirled his pen over and under his fingers like a stage magician.  “It will be more useful to you if you let me finish.”

            “Oh, it’s useful now, Cavan.”  Sig dog-earred a relevant page.  “Unless you feel you should withhold information on the Grim from me longer?”  Hyacinth blue eyes fixed on Cavan’s face like rifle sights.  Sig’s innocent expression belied his bloodlust.  He’d been months on the Isle without so much as a drop of blood to stain his teeth.  Unless you counted the woman from the bus stop, the man he’d met at the pub, or the girl with the platform boots; Sig didn’t.

            Cavan merely rolled his eyes.  “You go through the evidence the same as I do, Sig.  I don’t know anything you don’t.  He’s here, living with a socially challenged mortician who cooks but doesn’t eat, and seems to have adopted the shiftiest Boy Scout troop on the Isle.  The tall lanky one gives me the skeeves.  No one who looks that morose about life should be trusted to talk to dead people.  The other tall one spends way too much time staring at the woods in rapt sexual frustration, and the third’s a punk kid with a dubious past which is code for ‘smokes pot and thinks he’s Banksy.’”

            Nilidh made a sound that might have been a muffled snort.  Sig threw a knife at him then continued needling the pooka.  Cavan was still squinting at the elf, wondering if someone who couldn’t identify a wrist watch if you cinched it around his elegantly skinny neck really knew about Banksy.

            “So you’re saying we should pick them off one at a time until he caves?”  Sig jotted some notes of his own in the field journal.

            “No,” said Cavan, emphatically shaking his head.  “He’s a death omen.  He might look like someone’s grandpa and act like someone’s grandpa, but I think he’d buckle down and take a murder spree in stride.  He’s an old, gnarly son of a bitch.”

            Sig smiled at the joke.  It was an unpleasant toothsome smile.  “And yet he is training successors.  Three successors.  It’s almost as if he feels the need for spares.  We should kill one of them to show him his plans are appreciated.”

            “What, and motivate the other two and give him a martyr to put on his banner?”  Cavan opened a flask he’d been heating near the fire.  Despite the warmth of the sun lingering in the soil, the breeze carried a chilly breath of winter’s last hurrah.  He took a sip of the gently steaming liquor and passed it to Nilidh.

            Sig accepted and kept the flask once it was in his hands.  “None of them are making exceptional progress,” said the Unseelie at last.  He narrowed his eyes.  “Ol’ Grimmy’s not being as kind as he wants them to believe.  Three people are harder to catch than one.  If the mantle’s split between three…”  Whatever else he was, Sig wasn’t stupid.

            “‘Bearing the burden’ is a nice bonus,” Cavan finished.  “He hasn’t bestowed much on them, but he’s chosen them.  Even if we get him, if he dies, the mantle goes to them.  We can’t channel it to the Huntsman unless we round up three misfits with heroic hearts of gold.”  The pooka rolled his eyes.

            “What a bastard,” said Sigmundr admiringly.  He grinned.  “Unfortunately for our canny old Grim, his plan currently hinges on us being merciful enough to kill him.”

[damien-tow]

and I'm hoping you'll come soon.

Anna requested: Hob.

Song: x

[claudio-tow]

hob-tow replied to your quote: #Hob approves in an amused kind of disapproval.

"No." (OhmanherewegoHOBBENICEPLEASE)

-arches an eyebrow at Hob.- "...oh good. I'd hate to give you a heart attack or somethin'." ((wellp. Good luck, gentlemen.))

[angus-tow]

hob-tow replied to your post: .

Um… not the one I posted, I hope? I can delete it?

;x; no it's okay.