This is for adding a Search Category to the thread.
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The fire burns and the Immolated Witch moans. Entranced she moves forward, awaiting the passionate lick of flame against her mutilated flesh. Her eyes fall closed and she sways to the music of the hitman's screams.
Hearing the rapid movement of the Poet's steps as she draws closer to the burning man, Eve pouts, lamenting the ever short life of fire.
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Time slows as the searing and pain magnifies and dies and reignites. Surface flesh dies and scorches off and exposes deeper flesh to the merciless flame. Michael becomes aware of another's efforts to smother the flames. His eyes land on Strand, his face a mix of pain, gratitude and shame. He can't bring himself to look at Eve. The loose cannon. The devil's daughter. Can she even understand the havoc she's wreaked? If he sought out revenge... would she even care? He buries the thoughts deep, focusing on his breathing.
After a few moments of ragged breathing, Michael rolls to a sitting position and assesses the damage. The black and white charred flesh can be seen in places where his pant legs had all but burned to ash. But most of the damage remained hidden, existing now only as reverberating nerves firing the same message over and over to his brain. Pain. But he survived... the massive pain may be more than a distraction, but he still remembers where they are. What they had witnessed.
"Tell... Y... ?" he manages amid grunts of pain and sucking air between his teeth. He still can't bring himself to look at Eve. There's no reason to. What purpose is there to being angry at a force of nature?
Michael takes 2 lethal on the second round, due to Strand actively smothering the flame. An additional lethal damage is incurred on the subsequent round, until the flames are finally extinguished.
Cayce "Bump" this post
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"Eve, go get my medkit," Strand snapped, her eyes fixed on the still smoldering flesh of Michael's legs. She wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel the tortured flesh underneath her fingers, to hear the incomparable sound of agony tearing its way up his throat.
The Poet shivered, her eyes closing for a moment. Perhaps next time. Perhaps when they caught that gigantic, axe-wielding bitch again...
For now, they needed to get Michael patched up and leave this ruin of a house.
"If you hurry, you can burn the house down after us," she promised, finally opening her eyes and turning to Eve once more. It was a useless promise. The house was already going to burn, but you could never have too much positive reinforcement.
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She's still humming to her self when Strand snaps at her, the sound dies down but she still sways, it's only the promise of burning the house to cinders that gets the freak moving.
Travelling up the stairs, she offers the dying flames a longing look, full of promises of soon.
Trampling over the ramshackle furniture and other debris she finds the bag of their hidden supplies, and digs around for the telltale white and red of their first aid box. Alas there is no indication of white nor red, and Eve pouts because she's been trying to get Strand to buy one. It was the best way to keep their medical supplies kept.
With a put upon sigh she drags out the sleek and many hidden pocketed bag that was the Poet's medkit. Once located she traipses back down to the basement.
"He-ere~!" with a thrust of her hands she propels it forward. It lands with a thud and the witch sits on the stairs, watching the fire twisted flesh to be treated.
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Spliced between the sensation of pain firing signals constantly to his brain is the fact that the others hadn't answered his question. Maybe on purpose, now that he thinks of it. Why let their illusive overlord know that they, for all intents and purposes, failed with the Witch Slayer. She's gone. It might even be better for him to let someone else take the blame for it. Even if it really wasn't anyone's fault but the damned escapee's. How could they have known she'd picked up those kinds of abilities?
When the medkit flops unceremoniously on the floor, he grasps it and grits his teeth. "No.... don't help. I've.. got this." His sarcastic retort hisses through clenched teeth. "Seriously... help?" Kendrick is loathe to admit that every movement brings a fresh wave of agony that threatens to make him black out. Twice, since the incident, he's fought the urge to simply sleep and let the pain cease for some precious moments. But he hasn't; any show of weakness in a group like this could spell doom. There's a fine line between people like them and victims. Michael would prefer not to tread that line.
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"Good job, Eve. Why don't you start getting the rest of the house ready to burn?" Strand suggested, her voice mild and encouraging, like a third grade teacher speaking to a troubled child. She didn't spare the burnt woman her gaze, however. Best to make sure she complied. It would hardly be poetic to be set on fire while her back was turned. It was a minor miracle they hadn't all burnt to death already, considering how much gasoline had been dumped over the basement, but apparently the flames of the charred monster could vanish just as suddenly as they had come if she really wished it.
Once she had left, however, Strand turned back to the assassin lying beneath her and took the kit from his hands.
"I hope that you'll remember this moment should you ever decide it's my throat you wish to open. Not that I expect it will stop you, but I'd like you to at least consider it. To hold it in your mind until you can practically taste the reversal of fortunes. Can you do that for me, Kendrick?"
Strand leaned closer to him as she said it, her hair falling to cast a shadow across their faces as their eyes met.
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Those are the magic words, the siren song and the vice which carries the immolated witch forward. And forward she goes, or at least upward. She takes the stairs two at a time, giggling all the while.
She stomps and dances around, shoves things this way and that. Moving things between places awkwardly, but perfectly, papers are placed and more gasoline is sprinkled upon the furniture. Their bags are ever thoughtfully placed near the door, and when she's done she sits on the couch, gasoline socking her jeans and waits.
Waits.
waits.....
Her feet hit the floor loudly, and she calls down to the other, "Hurry the fudge up!" she yells at the floor, the words interspersed with stomping.
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"Of... course." he manages, eyes leveling with those of Strand. Would he? Likely. Though their current situation makes the moment seem far-fetched. 'Y' is an unusual employer. Before, Michael killed for money. Then for money... and pleasure. But 'Y' is cryptic. His desires (or hers depending on who you ask) aren't so cut and dry. Largely because 'Y' doesn't bother to share them.
As he waits for Strand's promised assistance, he eyes Eve with a look bordering between fear and loathing. She'd done this to him. An anomaly that all the fatherly patience in the world can't control. His world would be less complicated without her in it. Or would it? Cooperation might be his best chance for survival. For now, he would have to bide his time.
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Plans are thwarted, the prey escapes, but these Three Disciples of Y are quick to cover their tracks....
....in a smouldering ruin.
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