[In the silence left by the foghorn, the singing of swords pulling free from their sheaths marks M.K.'s take on the matter. And the first thing he does with them is sink one into the body of the first spirit to attack him--a small, lizard-shaped creature--and toss the body off the end of the blade.
He, for one, has no reservations returning the fatal favor to these spirits. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened, and sometimes he hates to be right.
More attack in the escalating stampede, a mindless frenzy fuelling their biting and scratching. Insect limbs and animal appendages go flying from several spirits in the middle of grabbing at people. He kicks another aside as it races up behind someone else, its jaws yawning wide. If someone were to spot him paused in the whirlwind of fleeing and fighting at just the right angle to the bonfire, they'd see--his eyes, normally brown, now black all throughout the sclera. Blacker even than their permanent night sky.]
II. Bonfire Square | Aug 18th, morning
[Is M.K. finally getting his dance on, or is he practicing his figure skating routine? It might be hard to tell as he spins clear of several spirits pressing in on him from all sides.
Even in their rampaging, some of the ones that seem to best appreciate monkey see, monkey do see his evasive tumbling and appear to mimic it as they give chase, joining their brethren in pressing the attack until soon he has a small rolling, leaping, lunging, biting clutch of spirits mobbing him across the square.
He's heard there's a consequence for travelling too far from your lantern, but he's never experienced it for himself until now. A bulky accessory is no good when he needs to move unhampered; he'd hid the thing under a porch so he could fight unencumbered, and he feels the exact moment that tether stretches too thin. An invisible hook lodges itself in him, jerking him to a stop. To outside observers, it looks like a failure to stick a landing; a trip; a stumble. An uncharacteristically stiff movement for a dark one that profits off of pitch-perfect dexterity.
All his energy and the air in his lungs seems to fade with his momentum; he staggers against a table. And still the spirits come.]
III. Around Beacon | Aug 18th, early evening
[It's been almost twenty four hours since the spirits' outburst, though you'd never tell from the movement of the celestial bodies (or lack thereof). His body can tell, though. He walks away from the party in a costume of gore from slain spirits, streaked over his armor, with weariness for a party favor. There are a lot more of the creatures than there are of them, and the lanterns make for a challenging hindrance.
Spotting light in the distance, M.K. stops and orients himself toward it, voice commanding.]
Who's there?
[Not all of the blood on him belongs to the spirits. One had gotten in a fairly nasty bite to his leg, and lantern light cast downward would reveal scarlet blood still leaking through a hastily constructed bandage. He'd prefer to avoid a fight like this, but if the light turns out to belong to someone or something hostile, he's defended himself with worse odds.]
no subject
[In the silence left by the foghorn, the singing of swords pulling free from their sheaths marks M.K.'s take on the matter. And the first thing he does with them is sink one into the body of the first spirit to attack him--a small, lizard-shaped creature--and toss the body off the end of the blade.
He, for one, has no reservations returning the fatal favor to these spirits. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened, and sometimes he hates to be right.
More attack in the escalating stampede, a mindless frenzy fuelling their biting and scratching. Insect limbs and animal appendages go flying from several spirits in the middle of grabbing at people. He kicks another aside as it races up behind someone else, its jaws yawning wide. If someone were to spot him paused in the whirlwind of fleeing and fighting at just the right angle to the bonfire, they'd see--his eyes, normally brown, now black all throughout the sclera. Blacker even than their permanent night sky.]
II. Bonfire Square | Aug 18th, morning
[Is M.K. finally getting his dance on, or is he practicing his figure skating routine? It might be hard to tell as he spins clear of several spirits pressing in on him from all sides.
Even in their rampaging, some of the ones that seem to best appreciate monkey see, monkey do see his evasive tumbling and appear to mimic it as they give chase, joining their brethren in pressing the attack until soon he has a small rolling, leaping, lunging, biting clutch of spirits mobbing him across the square.
He's heard there's a consequence for travelling too far from your lantern, but he's never experienced it for himself until now. A bulky accessory is no good when he needs to move unhampered; he'd hid the thing under a porch so he could fight unencumbered, and he feels the exact moment that tether stretches too thin. An invisible hook lodges itself in him, jerking him to a stop. To outside observers, it looks like a failure to stick a landing; a trip; a stumble. An uncharacteristically stiff movement for a dark one that profits off of pitch-perfect dexterity.
All his energy and the air in his lungs seems to fade with his momentum; he staggers against a table. And still the spirits come.]
III. Around Beacon | Aug 18th, early evening
[It's been almost twenty four hours since the spirits' outburst, though you'd never tell from the movement of the celestial bodies (or lack thereof). His body can tell, though. He walks away from the party in a costume of gore from slain spirits, streaked over his armor, with weariness for a party favor. There are a lot more of the creatures than there are of them, and the lanterns make for a challenging hindrance.
Spotting light in the distance, M.K. stops and orients himself toward it, voice commanding.]
Who's there?
[Not all of the blood on him belongs to the spirits. One had gotten in a fairly nasty bite to his leg, and lantern light cast downward would reveal scarlet blood still leaking through a hastily constructed bandage. He'd prefer to avoid a fight like this, but if the light turns out to belong to someone or something hostile, he's defended himself with worse odds.]