March 01, 2003.03.01.03. - chitters [imogen-dire-rune-decker][noje]
(james)
at least tonight it's the occasional drizzle rather than the monsoonal downpour
so the Gnawer is not a drowned sewer rat; instead only a damp one
dreads cling wetly to his shoulders
hands shove protectively in his pockets
strides slowly plishing through the puddles
it's the black moon high overhead
Luna's anger hidden from her Children
and it's more than obvious in the Ahrounthe way his shoulders set even and low
that swing in his gait that lends more stroll than stalk
there might even be a partial easy smile resident on those lipshours ago, he watched the sun sizzle down
since then he's been roaming the city
and now he's finally found his way back to the complex
wandering.... through.... the puddles in the parking lot
eventually stepping up the curb onto the walk
weaving up the shoveled paths that outline where the flowers will be come spring
yep.... heading home
(however strange that still is)(imogen)
The rain pratically hangs in the air, it's so fine, a veritable mist as he walks down the walkway. The snow is nearly gone, only small piles of dense whiteness, small islands in a sea of dampness. The grass is brown and yellow, long dead after the winter. Some day, the green would return, taking over the white and grey and brown. Until then, she will have to content herself with the rain.She was likely smoking. Or had been. The ashtray rests on the balustrade, a cigarette butt resting cold in the glass receptacle. It's cold and damp and forearms rest on the edge of the balustrade of the balcony. She watches as he approaches, the guttermutt half damp to the bone, the wetness seeping through his clothing. A smirk touches her mouth, as her hand slides into her pocket, searching for the cigarette package, a faint lift of her chin in his direction, her free hand running over her hair.
Thick and rather disagreeable, it is unaided by the rain, the moisture causing it to stick against her cheekbones and neck in places, and in other kink in even more riotous waves as it falls down her back, a waterfall of colours, darkened by dampness. Red and roan, darkened blonde, auburn and oak spilled over her shoulders.
(dire)
The Jetta pulls into the parking lot and stops. Powers down and the skald steps out. Teeshirt under his oversized leather jacket. The ballcap, black with the white explination point. Jeans. Steel toed boots. He looks up at the portches. Glaciers heart ice eyes take them in.
(james)
red and road
darkened blond
auburn and oak
like some elemental caught on the balcony
backlit by the low lights coming out of the sliding doors
wreathed by the frame of crafted stucco construction
some poet in his right mind would have noticed her from ten yards out
already composing some ranting sonnet to the fire that dances halohe?
must be in his left mind
because there's that bit of a nod up
because there's that bit of an easy grin
and, in fact, there might even be a word or two by the time he's about three steps off the sidewalk
rebar clanking the punctuating question mark"Gotta light?"
a glance back to the door shutting on the Jetta
due time.... due time(chitter)
(chitter)In this dismal rainstrewn world, rats outnumber humans a hundred to one in every human city. The ratio's much higher than that in rural places. They scamper unseen through the night, tunneling through the topsoil, gnawing into the walls, stealing, breeding, fighting, dying.
Spreading disease. Pestilence.
Vermin they are, vermin they will be.But James is intimately familiar with the much-maligned rodents. And the chittering from the side of the path catches his attention. There's a large rat there, sleek and black, beadyeyed, forepaws clasped to a chest splashed with white.
Watching the Bone Gnawer quite purposefully. Nose twitching. Whiskers moving.
Emissary from Mama Rat...?
(imogen)
She comes from a long line of ranting poets, the songs and sonnets, though it's doubtful she'd ever heard such, and if she did, she may not have cared. She doesn't appear to be the type of person to be serenaded.She glances down at him at where he stands, "Yeah..." a quiet answer as she begins down the steps, hands still probing her pockets, "'ere somewhere anyway." the rain dampens her hair almost immediately, a small rivulet of raindrops following the curve of her cheekbone, across the smoothness of pale white skin.
She stops on the bottom-most step, pulling out a battered zippo, well aged bronze. Senses dulled by being what she is, and not as attuned to vermin as the Gnawer is, she does not notice the rat unless James himself turns toward it.
(james)
one long arm reaches out for the bronze zippo
easy grin raking across his features
there's that telltale clack in the misted night
orange flame haloing on damp dreads
flame flickers through inhaleand that's about when the chittering smacks through his senses
zippo snapped shut and handed back with a nod for thanks
and brow.... lifts when those eyes look down at the rodent
(....yes?)(dire)
He reaches up and tugs the cap down a bit low over his eyes. His boots clomp softly as he heads the way the others are. He was in a social mood tonight. Not overly moody though a bit quiet. As he approaches he hears the rat. His ears pretty sharp and then looks over. Licks his lips. That one looks pretty meaty.(chitter)
The rat remains where it is, plump and sleek as a fed cat. Snout raised to the air, its tiny, pointed nose twitches as it scents out Dire; eyelids flicker over its eyes almost too fast to be seen, but it doesn't look away from the Gnawer. From time to time, he runs forepaws over its whiskers and ears, precise and exceedingly quick. It seems to be waiting for James to approach.(chitter)
(imogen)
Dark blue eyes flicker toward Dire as he approaches, the soft clumping of his boots bespeaking his approach. Her attention turns back in time to take the lighter from the Gnawer, plucking it from his fingers as her attention follows his toward the rat.She frowns, however briefly as she glances at the large rat, a small line forming between her eyes as she repockets the lighter.
(dire)
He stops short and eyes it "THat's a goblin sized rat...."(james)
the tip of the filter crushes between sharp teeth
curiosity peaked
just as it was when he met that strange shifter earlier
dammit it's on the rise yet again
there's a glance towards Imogen
pretty sure she's aware of the do's and don't's of the local rodentia
and there's a bit of a nod to the Skald's appraisal
(.... that's a really well fed rat....)
but he steps a little closer anyway(chitter)
Another second or two passes. Another two sweeps of forepaw over whiskers. Then for a split-instant it almost looks like the rat's eyelids droop, narrowing the eyes - a too-human expression to be certain. By the time that registers it's too late. Without warning, the large rat darts (no: flows, like a polecat) forward as James' attention shifts to his packmate, and - sleek black fur? No, no. When it drops to all fours Dire's sharp eyes can see in the blur of motion the hairless patches where the fur had fallen out from lesioned, sore-ridden skin: like radioactive sickness. Like leprosy.Worse.
Kchsh.That peculiar wet crunch of flat long rodent teeth into muscle and tendon: the net of flesh between thumb and forefinger. By the time the pain begins to register on James the rat's slid away, scampering toward Dire with all the speed a rat can possibly muster - and more.
(chitterchitterchitterchitter...)
(dire)
He blinks "GOBLINRAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
He leaps up and back. powerful legs prropelling the get in a back flip. Landing on his toes he's airbourn again, another flip as BUBBA the Long black crow bar slithers down his arm like a greasy snake and solidifies into it's long iron form.(imogen)
James could feel the sharp inhalation of the kinfolk's breath behind him as the rat speeds at him, a sharp reaction of the redhead as the rat's teeth sinks into his skin (and then he's worried of other things). Dire's eyes are sharp, as are the good doctor's, though she has less luck in the darkness. What had seemed like slick fur comes across as disease ridden in that moment she could get a good look (as James's skin is pierced, roden teeth breaks muscle and tendon).It's possible some part of her doctor's psyche told her to help the injured, however slight the damage maybe. Then again, she spent her life helping the dead; she may not be too interested in the pains of the living as she begins taking steps backward up the steps, working her way obliquely back away from the altercation as Dire surges forward for the attack.
(james)
first thought: Decker's gonna be pissed.
simply cause Imogen was in the proximity
second thought: SONOFABITCH THAT HURTS
third thought:it's a movement, really
nothing ruins a mellow mood like a goblinrat
invisable hackles blister up his spine and nape
as he steps back something moves forward
switchblade snikts open and whizzes through the air
aimed at that (damn fast) rat(james throw diff 7: 6D10 Dice Roll: 2; 2; 3; 8; 10; 3 )
(rat dodge diff 5: 4D10 Dice Roll: 4; 6; 5; 2 )
(dire)
Landing Dire abruptly changes direction. With a snarl of anger he grunts out "BITEMYBROTHERWILLYOUYOULITTLESQUEEKYGOBLINMOUNT!!! I"LL SHOW YOU!!!"
He swings. perfect swing full extention Bubba coming around in an ark that could shatter stone if he connects!(dire swing diff 7: 8D10 Dice Roll: 5; 10; 10; 5; 10; 3; 5; 1 )
(dire: 3D10 Dice Roll: 9; 4; 5 )
(rat: 4D10 Dice Roll: 8; 1; 3; 2)(chitter)
Just like that the rat changes course. Not your average insane beast, this, mindlessly pursuing a single target. No; it has a brain. It calculates - perhaps a little too well. In midstep, as soon as Dire leaves the ground, the rat switches direction, doubling back on itself to race, instead, toward the kin at the bottom of the steps. It's that sudden switch in direction that saves it - the switchblade hits the concrete, raising sparks, a millimeter from the rat's flank.It's a damn well-fed rat with some damn ugly lesions on its back, but it's still fast as hell. It's like a little liquid shadow streaking along the ground, an impression of movement seen more as a long slither from pointed nose to trailing naked tail, a serpentine shape, than the elongated, assymmetrical oval of a rat standing still. And now it's approaching the stairs, not so much scrabbling up as it simply leaps.
Rats can't do that--
--and the rat doesn't do that, after all.Dire's crowbar smashes into the rodent as it's heaving itself up the first step toward the good doctor. The force of the blow is enough to split a head open, and the rat...well. It does more than split.
(krunchSPLAT)
It explodes like an overripe melon.
(dire dodge splatter: 4D10 Dice Roll: 4; 2; 8; 2 )
(imogen: 5D10 Dice Roll: 3; 5; 8; 4; 7 )
(dire rolling stam: 3D10 Dice Roll: 2; 9; 7 )(chitter)
...rats don't do that, either. But it happened. All that remains is a smear of blood uncurling drifitly into the nearest puddle, some fur drifting in the frigid air. It's drizzling, and the evidence is slowly being eliminated.Dire is splattered. James is bit. Other than that, it doesn't seem too bad. Neither of them are experiencing any sort of pain (other than the inherent pain of getting bit by a rat), and Imogen is unharmed.
There is, however, an ominous rustling in the bushes. Something's in there. Something quite a bit larger than a rat.
(dire)
He turns to the bushes and snarls "Get her out of here James.... I'll hold the line...... "
He shifts up to glabro and pops his neck(chitter)
The rustling grows closer. Thirty, forty yards. It's moving fast.(imogen)
She'd been half way up the steps (backing up slo-o-owly) when the rat had come diving at her, followed by Dire and his crowbar.Splatter.
She had more or less dropped to avoid the splatter, and her hand grabs the railing dragging herself up. The bushes now. Her attention flickers toward Dire, then James, and the knife beyond, before speaking to James, "Stay." Spoken between sharp breaths as she completes the straightening, starting to back up again, heading toward the door, "I'll get m'self inside."
It's coming too fast for her to go anywhere else, even with a Garou's help, and she would be damned to drag break the pack up just for her own protection.
Thirty yards away and it's moving fast. She starts back up the steps without waiting for an answer from either Garou.
(james)
there's a breif scowl as the switch ting!s and skitters off the sidewalk and into a pile of remnant snow
then the rat changes directions again
(oh.... shit....)
and he's moving to now remove Imogen
then the crowbar hits and the rat explodes
(......ew)
he doesn't even want to think of what that's doing to his beloved coat
knowing how soaked it is helping the.... goo.... cling
so he doesn't think about that, instead just snarls"The fuck was THAT?!"
no James, the fuck is that
now the bushes are rustling
..... just peachy
fuck the blades fuck being social fuck being proper
out comes the rebar
(aren't you glad you went gunning tonight)
"Next door."spat as the kin goes up her own steps
she can jump the damned ballustrade
he knows pack is nearby
but he's not about to abandon Dire
for whatever doom is barreling up o'er yonder
(chitter)
And closer.Twenty-five yards. Twenty. Crashing through the manicured bushes, splashing through puddles. There's a metallic clinking, though it's hard to place exactly what it is...
James' index finger and thumb on the bitten hand twitch. In the heat of the moment, no one notices.
It's just nerves.
Steady...(dire)
He grunts and twirls the crowbar. "Lets rock and roll motherfucker..."(chitter)
Seventeen yards. They can see the winterlocked plants swaying with the movement now, and discern the vague shape (about twenty times the size of a rat) of it through the bare, dark branches.Behind the line of the two Garou, Imogen's trip up the stairs happens in relative safety, other than a patch of ice that conspires to trip her. But the kin is surefooted...
Twelve yards.
(dire)
The fuck is that? A Bear?" He steps a bit away from james Presenting two targets instead of one. Just to be sure he looks behind them to make sure something more sneaky aint' coming that way(Imogen)
She doesn't answer as the Gnawer orders her, taking the last two steps in one sharp movement. Patch of ice conspires to trip her, and sure footed or not, her movement is half caught by one booted foot going out from beneath her, one hand catching the railing as she keeps herself on her feet.In the extra second, seventeen yards becomes twelve. she must have heard James, however, because it's to the balustrade, not her door that she goes, clambering up to the railing, where the ice is worse, and there's six feet between both railings. Stepping across, one would hope without breaking her neck.
(rune)
Upstairs: showered, made-up, primping now - the shape of her eyebrows must be maintained, of course, her legs must be waxed - and while lipstick and perhaps even some other cosmetics may be applied in the presence of another, hair removal is a distinctively private business. Usually she goes to the salon and has them waxed, but... well, she only had time for the manicure and pedicure today.That's when the sharpened awareness of her packmates' approaching presence changes, lightning quick. The sharpened awareness of her (lo - ) packmate's pain, the bristling change, the charge - rip - off comes the strip of wax, leaving a quickly fading reddened strip upon her pale skin - less noticeable than it would otherwise be, since the rest of her calf has been similarly abused.
Down the stairs, doubletime. The front door swings open on the landing above James and Dire. The Glass Walker shivers briefly as the cold air hits her bare skin takes in the situation below through her own eyes.
(james)
linen wraps fall away
(damn that hurts)
razor sharpened ends uncovered as the..... thing... gets closer
(steady James, steady)
just waiting..... waiting...Fuck if I know
none too happy on Eagle's wings
Dire goes left, he goes right
flanking, two targets, work as a team, boys
the Skald can feel it, too
how the Gnawer begins drawing on Eagle's strength(chitter)
Seven yards.Over Dire's shoulder: the arc of the condos. The parking lot to one side. Nothing else. No time left, either.
Five yards. Four.
As Imogen's stepping across the space between buildings, she hears something. Hard to say what. Might be the metallic clinking below. Might be the crackle of breaking branches. Might be the cracking of ice from the doorframe as Rune opens the door, or the popping of her own joints.
Three yards. James draws on Eagle's strength.
(ready...)
(dire)
He crouches ready to leap if he has to. both hands gripping bubba ready for the swing. Ready for the attack he does't have to nod to james he KNOWS what to do. James one side, Dire the other and pretty pretty sexy momma Rune from aboive. He KNEW she liked it on top. Decker owes him $5(imogen)
One foot across.Metallic clinking below, Rune opening the door, the ice cracking from the door frame. Her own joints popping as she crosses the space as she had god knows how many times (though rarely so quickly). It might be her imagination. It might be the ground settling.
Might be.
The other foot joins it's partner, and she slides off, feet hitting the balcony's floor, an audible crack.
Five yards, four. Rune's joining the rest, and Imogen's heading for the door.
(chitter)
Two yards.James' fingertips twitch, all five, all at once. A little harder to ignore, but no time no time no--
(rune)
Pretty pretty sexy momma Rune: shivering in the cold, clad in boxers and a bra, and nothing more. One doesn't dress up to wax one's legs, after all. And her legs: long and muscled and well - red, still from the waxing - inflamed and angry, the skin.Slow-motion: Imogen, across the balustrade, apprehended in a brief glance as the Glass Walker strides two steps forward and -
- shifts. Pack or no, front porch or no: she's not meeting the unknown in anything other than warform. There aren't any troubling cameras trained on the front porch to slip them up, either.
Warform: forward momentum, now yellow-eyes trained on the bristling rustle in the bushes.
(james)
hand twitches
(ow)
but he won't think about that
he won't think about that feeling crawling up his arm
just clamp down around that rebar
(forcibly. make. it. stop.)
war form shifts behind him
forward momentum towards the thing
(death from above!)
what the hell
knowing what it is or not
he charges, too
keeping flank(chitter)
One yard.
(attack!)--and bursting into sight: just a runaway, half-feral Rottweiler, chokechain collar clinking against dog tag, ribs showing, starving, drawn by the scent of warm blood. It bares its teeth at the two (now three) charging Garou, hackles rising, and skids to a halt with a confused whine-sliding-into-growl.
Meanwhile, up on the balcony of Rune's condo, way, way up there, some twenty or thirty feet away from the tensed Garou: that sound Imogen heard crossing between? She hears it again. It's coming from the roof. And she places it now. And she recognizes it now. She. remembers. it now.
(...chitter.)
(imogen)
The poor rotweiler might be the unlucky one to get the Garou's rage. From the kinfolk, she pauses, almost at the door, and stops. Stalk still for a moment, and it's just one word as her eyes pass across the balcony quickly sharply."Roof."
(dire)
Feeling the air displaced by Runes transformation more than actually seeing it as his Glacier hearts ice blue eyes are on the rottie, he feels he might as well join in the fun. Reverting to his Breed form and growls. eyes wide GOBLINS. Goblins on the dog on the roof they were mounting an attack. Bloody goblins riding dogs like wargs!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!? That movie. The two towers, with all the fomori in it. He sees it in his mind as the goblin on the back of the Rottis gestures with it's spear(rune)
The -- hell?
It's a fucking dog. There's a snarl of frustration, strange and sharp, whetted, the feeling, as she takes in the sight of the half feral rottweiler below and snarls once to send it packing.
Roof.
Half-heard through the stew of frustration that rises to cloud the clarity of battlemind, but heard nonetheless. Forward momentum carries her two - three - four steps down, but even as she's taking those steps, the Crinos is turning heavily on the concrete stairs to see what's above and behind them.
(james)
and! it's! a!
...... rottweiler?
(roof..... woof?)
OH.... roofhe doesn't have the forward momentum of Rune's Chrinos mass - nor the advantage of talons
so it's still a struggled to switch directions because of ice
fuck
the feral dog is sent packing
(no blood for you)
grip on rebar slickening
but he's not about to stop and wait for some big pumpkinhead to reach down off the roof and snatch the kinfolk up
he's already making his way up the stairs
(hi honey, i'm home, how was your day? ooh. waxing? how fresh...)
(chitter)
One word, because one word's all that she has time for. She can't see the roof from her standpoint, but the Garou can - Rune can better than anyone from her vantage point almost directly beneath the eaves - and it's teeming. swarming. With rats.Time hangs still. The breeze shifts. They're downwind of the rats now, and the sickly sweet scent of decay hits them like a tidal wave. The noise grows maddening, symphony of the fuckin abyss urban style, all the rats chittering at once. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred. Two hundred. More.
(A hundred rats to every one of them. Mathematical population ratios. Remember?)
James is coming up the stairs when his entire hand spasms. Fur sprouts along the back of his hand against his will, and then muscles contort and grow; claws come lashing out of his fingertips. His biceps strain against the sudden weight of a Crinos forearm before his upper arm, too, is changing against his will. He can't feel his fingers. He can't feel his arm. It started slow, and now it's accelerating. Numbness races over his shoulder; acting of its own volition, his arm swings a killing arc, backed by Eagle's strength, toward the nearest target. His packmate. His lover.
And all this, all this, in the split-instant of time before
the rats
come boiling
off the roof.
(dire)
He swings his head to look up as the rottie and it's mount retreats and seeing all the rats illicits the classic sound of confusion in High tongue "Arooogh?"
Though the totem link he asks very softly because shit shit just ain't funny "RUne, what's the play?"(imogen)
James starts toward her, a step, two. And then, inexplicably, he begins to change, human skin replaced by fur (it's something that's always fascinated her, this change, the defiance of science, her only religion, this complete breaking of the laws of reality), and even more inexplicably, his arm swings out toward Rune, an attack that seems to have no rhyme or reason (It's Rune). There's hardly an instant for shock, however before the rats start to pour off the roof.She should have taken up the offer, somehow, to get her out of here. She's unarmed without her knife, because she hasn't carried it for weeks. Perhaps not because she felt safe, but for pratical reasons.
The door is still open. She'd like to help make a stand somehow. She'd like to be able to give a hand in some way, but these are rats, and James has lost his mind (or Rune has), and really she would do nothing well.
A step back. Two. And she's in the door way, shoving the door forward to slam it behind her.
(chitter)
Out of the Niagara of rats, the vast majority miss the balcony altogether and fall two stories to break bonecrushingly on the pavement below. Some explode like their predecessor; most simply hit with a crunch and lie still.That still leaves eighty, a hundred rats that do find footing. Do scrabble their way onto the balcony. Of those, many - many - pour ripplingly down the stairs toward James and Rune.
Of those, perhaps a third turn, going against the tide to rush for the kinwoman fleeing (finally, wisely) for the safety of the condo. And they're fast.
The door opens. Imogen rushes in, slams it behind her. A rat is caught in the frame - crushed, blood spurting from its mouth, eyes bulging - but before she can kick it away or simply shut.the.door anyway, three, four, five of them scramble in over the body of their brother. The door slams on the tail of the last and it wails, a sound neither humanly nor ratlike, thoroughly chilling, while it scrabbles to get free. The rest are on the kinwoman, gnawing at her shoes and her jeans, squealing and chittering in frustration as they find the leather too thick, the denim too tough - scrabbling to climb her ankles to burrow into her jeans, or climb her body to find exposed skin.
(rune)
Should've picked up that flamethrower she'd admired in Counterstrike. She saw one on the web the other day. The roof would be on fire, but at least -Rune, what's the play?
- it's not a situation for which she is prepared, in the least. (Twenty. Fifty. One hundred, rotting sweetly on the roof of the condo, boiling over the sides and -
Kill them.
- attacking. (Good plan, that one.) It is, perhaps, a good thing that she cannot see behind her, remains - for the moment - unaware of the transformation taking place behind her except peripherally. There's a loud crack to send the ratlings sprawling, and only then does Rune clarify her earlier statement.
Kill them quickly.
(james)
his hand spasms
(what the...?)
muscle and bone going through that familiar routine
expanding and crackling and lengthening and strengthening
needless to say, it slows his drive up the stairs
confusion reigns as the rampantly as the agony of it
(he can't feel his arm... it's all in ya mind, boyo, all in ya mind)uhm, hello? arm? come back....
he knows the strength that pours through his veins
he knows the power he'd have without it
and to have it out of his control
to have it aimed at his ma.....(no...)
momentum is all he has
he may no longer control his arm
but he controls the rest of his body
and it spins away
somewhere in the storming rain of rats
somewhere in the ensuing confusion
for the first time in his life
the Gnawer runs(dire)
James in homid turns and comes sprinting down the steps. Running. Dire in crinos just hops over him on his way to back up his packmates. His words in their minds showing his confusion
"Wherethefuck HE goin'??"
He sure as hell wasn't checkin' the ground for spirals this time. Dire moves up the stairs. Bubba flyin down left and right. CLANG CLANG batting rats off as he comes to them. Thinking NO longer about eating them.(imogen)
Kill them quickly.She cannot hear the mental conversation of Garou, the totem link only for packmates, however this is sentiment rather powerfully shared by the kinfolk (should have left them to it, never bothered to tell them about the roof, they're fuckin' Garou, and they would have noticed sooner or later anyway...fuckfuck), as the rats (three, four, five) slam over the body of their crushed brother, heading toward the thick leather, the cuffs of her jeans.
There are knives in the kitchen. She's seen them, but she has to get them off her now, so asking for a time out isn't exactly possible.
A kick of her boot sends two, maybe three of them sprawling, and if she's lucky, one might even hit the wall. There's another crawling up her body, tiny feet racing up the expanse of thigh.
She's lucky she's not prone to phobias and other such queasiness as sometimes seems to afflict others.
If she's lucky, the rat (or rats) climbing up her legs might be dislodged by the sudden dive toward the closet, shoulder slamming painfully into the sliding door as she reaches inside, looking for a hanger, or a jacket, and one hand reaching up, dragging a coat from it's perch as her other hands finds... the curved edge of a stiletto heel.
More solid than a hanger, if she was thinking logically. It might even be amusing if she thought about it, which she's not. Scrabbling backward as she lashes out at the nearest rodent.
(chitter)
James' reaching, rebellious claws rake the air an inch from Rune's back. She can feel the wind go by. Then the Bone Ganwer runs - the wisest thing to do at this point any way you look at it - and as he goes his runaway arm whiplashes back on him, turning talons-in, flying straight for his face to claw his own eyes out.Meanwhile, Rune gives the order to stand and fight: and thunder splits the wet night: and three-quarters of the rats fall asunder, dazed: and the Skald, too, falls dazed: and then the flood is upon them.
Dire crushes rats under the weight of his Crinos body. Rune's claws rake and tear. Rats are everywhere, pouring around their feet like living sewage, dying in tiny splashes of blood, a few exploding; dying as easily as mosquitos die under the smashing hands of an annoyed camper. But rats, too, are clambering up their furred legs, are sinking tiny claws into their feet and sinking tiny rodent teeth into their skin, biting whatever part of their bodies they could possibly reach. Their skin is tough, but the rats are many - the rats are bloody legion - and blood flows from a dozen, a hundred tiny wounds. Nothing life-threatening. A nuisance, really...
...until you consider James losing control over his own arm. How long did that take? How long do they have?
(chitter)
Here's the annoying thing about real life. The enemy doesn't patiently wait their turn, attacking you one at a time. They come in droves, in waves, two or three or four at once.Imogen kicks two or three away; one hits the wall and lies stunned. Two more are crawling up her thigh. The dive sends them both scrabbling for purchase, one falling off, the other slipping to her calf. By then the ones she kicked away are back and at it; the dazed one struggling back to its feet.
She finds a weapon. A fuckin' stiletto heel. She lashes out; the pointed heel connects with the side of one rat, glances off her own thigh painfully. Tiny ribs break and the rat lies gasping for breath, still dragging itself determinedly toward her.
Meanwhile its brethren are scrambling up her back, assisted by the prone posture of her body after the dive. Tiny feet pitterpatter over her shirt; claws dig through as she moves, and the rats hang on for dear life. One passes the divide of her bra and sinks its teeth into her shoulderblade, where the skin is thin - but her jacket is thick, and though it rips, it does not tear completely.
[must get rest of file from damon]
Posted by james at March 01, 2003 12:00 AM
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