( WOE, CHANGELING UPON YE - @changedbysong for alan)
they arrive with a loud thud on the fire escape above him, a sound of shifting weight and shaking metal. they lean out from one of the railings, their voice the strangled shout if someone trying to be more formidable than they are.
"KING ARTHUR!"
their teeth bare in a small, sharp grimace, desperate, feral with stress and starvation.
"I AND HAVE MUCH QUARREL WITH YOU, YOU - MURDERING, MEDDLING BASTARD!"
He needs another plot point, another story beat to follow to its conclusion. The last one was a failure—he's still here, it's already slipping from his memory, bleeding off the page, many of the intricate details lost to the darkness, the endless loop.
Tim hadn't had much to offer in the way of ideas—it's not his fault; he's a cop and they're not exactly known for their wild imaginations—but he was a friendly face, patient and endlessly pleasant to talk to, and had offered a suggestion to where to find inspiration. It was a lead, flimsy though as it was.
Not like he had anything better.
Alan jumps at the sound of rattling, shaking metal, jumping back in case the entire thing is about to come down on him. His heart hammers in his chest, roars like thunder in his ears, and he immediately snaps the torch skyward, capturing the person—creature?—in the beam, knuckles turning white from how tightly he grips it. The revolver follows a second after, aimed right at their chest. His hand trembles.
They know him. Or they think they do. Alan frantically wracks his memories, trying to dredge up where he might know them from. They play out to the sound of the typewriter carriage endlessly clacking away, but the words are illegible.
He takes another step back, assuming a defensive position.
"What—what quarrel? I'm not—who even are you? Have we met?"
@changedbysong