Location: An alleyway by a tube station. Date: 20|02|21. Closed: @oflightfeet
'Les anges sont un petit travail,' Angels are petty work. It’s the comment that loops around his mind. Repeating like a broken record, vinyl covered in layers of dust that caused for sound to produce in static. Saint knows that his mother-- his Horseman, was right in her statement. But then there was something deeper than War and Famine rivalries that lay beneath his proposition to strike down upon the Angel who had gone after his paired Dominion. Wren Lightfoot sits like a thorn in his side, for no apparent reason, other than blatant distaste he'd selected to hold towards the concept of their very existence and ultimately, how satisfying it should be if he were the one to eradicate them entirely.
Saint Warden dreams of many things, none of them normal and all of them laced with wickedly cruel intent. The sort of notions imbedded into his head ever since he was a boy, to be ravenous and bite. Always bite, attack and not to stop until you had been rewarded with the draw of blood. It was War’s colour after all, the crimson red that pumps through your veins, the battle paint scattered across your features on the kickback of a gun shot and the last thing you’d seen after a kill. Burgundy, ruby, vermillion, and scarlet.
He stalks them on their walk home from work. Identity easily hid all in black and concealed further by nightfall that accomplishes to inclose the sharp edges of his face. One step after the other, dead on their trail and waiting for the perfect place to pull them aside. Somewhere less populated, where a scream or wail would only seep further into the ambient noise that was London. And when the opportunity presents itself, he moves, placing a hand sternly over their mouth before pulling them into an alleyway that sat neatly below a bridge. Tube trains running above them, the sound of heavy machinery and bustling city life overhead muffling Wren's murmurs of panic and shock. It's then that a twisted grin graces across parted lips, free hand moving to draw a blade from his pocket and holding the sharp edge to their throat. Not yet digging into flesh, but laying there as a warning, evoking of the violence to come as he drops his hold from over their mouth. "Hey, no fucking yelling, or I'll slice out your voice box. Understood?" threat is spoken calm and clear, an unbothered tone as he uses his strength to keep them pinned against rough brick and makes a grab for the phone still held in their grip. Knife unmoving as he glances down at the screen, his head tilts in curiosity. 1:13 minutes through 'Videotape', "You listen to Radiohead?"
