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 that’s not quite any other. From his hand, it’s manageable. He knows that metal – the kind that isn’t all that harmless to the supernatural, is a comfort. Means that the custom forged salt-laced-silveriron does formidable damage to the majority Kayson’s aiming for. Place the pistol in another’s hand and it’s 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, it’s 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. It’s 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.
It’s cold, Kayson’s 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.
It’s target practice. Not the kind so simply permitted in the walls of the Hideout. Cole doesn’t want prying eyes witness to what he’s doing; the slightly monstrous thing that he feels an overwhelming sense of need to partake in. There’s 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 that’s forced from them echoes; it’s intentional, Cole’s 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 he’s 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 he’s doing is for the greater good. There’s a sever absence of flesh on the creature, if it weren’t 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 it’s form.
Cole’s arm lowers, the leathers he’s wearing squeaking when he closes in on the vampire that’s been in his clutches for days now, only finally granted a death that’s been so desperately begged for. But Cole’s far from done. He’s 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 couldn’t be so easily forced aside.
The distance closes, Cole’s 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. He’s 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. Cole’s fist doesn’t stop at just one hit.
And suddenly, there’s pliers. He’s truly surprised he’s made it this far – so out in the open, so without control to his surroundings and so blissfully ignorant to how easily his own death could come. And there’s the point of being beyond caring. Cole’s lifting the metal contraptions, uses them to force a bloodied mouth open; squeezes the cheeks where only reddened muscle is evident, wraps around the creature’s chin to secure it whilst he tightens the other on a single remaining fang in the vampire’s mouth.
You’ve never heard a wail like it.
There’s no hesitation in the yanking of the tooth, a scraping of bone exiting flesh; breaking out of gums is almost too satisfying that Cole’s ready to pry another out. But there’s none left. There’s 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 Cole’s face are hardly a bother, he’s disgusted with it, spits any excess blood of the creature to the ground as though it’s merely a slight inconvenience to him. Kayson’s laughing now, a wicked grin that’s not reflective of a mortal man with a conscience. It’s long buried underneath the harsh flickers of bloodshed that obscure his vision every time he blinks; sands of a beach he can’t ever forget hanging there, hooking into him and choking him where he stands.
And then reality hits him like a bullet of its own.
He’s on the ground, hands clawed at his head and a vicious screaming of a wounded vampire loud in his ears; it won’t stop. “Quiet,” it’s hissed, the Second is muttering incoherant words; almost monstrous in its own right as he attempts to gather his wits, only realises he’s 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. “I said quiet - !” he’s cut off by his body wrestling to his feet, the gun he’d once been holding, on the earthen floor a good few metres from him. He doesn’t remember how it got there, doesn’t 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, it’s not real; that wars over. This is the new one, focus.
But he can’t. There’s a new sound behind him, one that isn’t the vampire he’s 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. There’s something behind him; someone, he knows it.
His guns on the ground. The man’s back is facing them and he’s lost to the trauma that haunts him; you can’t 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 –
“You should fuck off and mind your fucking business,” it’s the best he’s got; a deterrent to any more involvement past his target practice in the woods to whatever is at his rear. His pulse is steady, he’s always been prepared to meet a grisly end – in the Crooked world, it’s the only way a man like he is permitted to go. He’s barely able to see through the darkness, but he knows where his gun is laid – 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 that’s clinging onto life as though it’s current mutilated state is still worth being in existence for. But Kayson can’t help losing himself a little more to the gutter thoughts of antagonising whatever’s met him in the late hours of the forest: “Or would you like me to pull your teeth out too?”
