01-12-2017, 01:08 PM
Anderson remained silent, staring at the newly-revealed man, who had seemingly been invisible until that moment. Such trickery set a very poor precedent, especially given the situation at hand. And even with his offered explanation, it did nothing to sway the building opinion of the crusader. It had been written, Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Such sorcery as to render oneself invisible was an abomination, as much as that of being a creature of the night. And as the gears slowly turned in his head, Anderson was drawing to the conclusion that this man, this Vic Hendy, as he offered his name, was not merely a practitioner of black magic, but also the vampire that he had been made aware of.
It was faint, now. Almost overpowered by the volume of people in attendance, in the immediate area. And it would have been all too easy to dismiss it as coming from the other body, lying not far off, with a gaping wound blasted in the chest. A large-caliber firearm, from the look of it. Not the first time a vampire had used the weapons of modern man to aid in its hunt.
It was faint, but it was there. That sickly-sweet, almost salty, metallic tang. Even now, already drying and losing the sharpest edges of its pungency. But decades of the Hunt had honed his mind, and the executioner of God could not be mistaken. Blood. Vic Hendy reeked of it, in a way beyond simply the physical. His every word, slurred in that ridiculous, almost comical accent, expelled the faintest whiff of it. It would have been terribly, terribly easy to not notice it all, especially at the distance between them.
But he knew. Anderson knew.
In the blink of an eye, a flash of silver. Anderson's formerly empty right hand bore a bayonet, clutched tightly. Jesus Christ is in Heaven. The message on his glove stretched taut over his clenched fist, as Anderson's expression twisted, doing one last comparison in his mind between this man and the description that Malon had given. Slowly, he lifted his face, twisting his gaze about until one eye could be seen beyond the glare on his glasses, wide and staring, with a borderline insane stare. The pale green of his eye trembled, wavering unsteadily, crazily. "Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs; like a sharp razor, workin' deceitfully," he announced, a sharp, fanatical edge to his tone. And with a swift, ringing shiiing, a matching bayonet was suddenly in his left hand, gleaming and shimmering silver in the glare of the Nexus.
"Thou lovest evil more than good; and lying rather than tae speak righteousness." A swift clatter of metal on metal, as both of the silver blades came together. Showers of sparks spattered across the ground, one blade being drawn across the other, as Anderson slowly paced forward, toward the 'old school Oirish Catholic'. "Tha smell o' death crawls on yer hide in a way ye cannae ever hope tae be clean of," he growled. The cross about his neck shifted, jingling slightly, with the sound of a bell chiming. Was it hollow? "We've all jus' arrived here...an' the Lord has seen fit tae make it so, that I migh' be here tae clenase this place o' the likes o' you!"
It was faint, now. Almost overpowered by the volume of people in attendance, in the immediate area. And it would have been all too easy to dismiss it as coming from the other body, lying not far off, with a gaping wound blasted in the chest. A large-caliber firearm, from the look of it. Not the first time a vampire had used the weapons of modern man to aid in its hunt.
It was faint, but it was there. That sickly-sweet, almost salty, metallic tang. Even now, already drying and losing the sharpest edges of its pungency. But decades of the Hunt had honed his mind, and the executioner of God could not be mistaken. Blood. Vic Hendy reeked of it, in a way beyond simply the physical. His every word, slurred in that ridiculous, almost comical accent, expelled the faintest whiff of it. It would have been terribly, terribly easy to not notice it all, especially at the distance between them.
But he knew. Anderson knew.
In the blink of an eye, a flash of silver. Anderson's formerly empty right hand bore a bayonet, clutched tightly. Jesus Christ is in Heaven. The message on his glove stretched taut over his clenched fist, as Anderson's expression twisted, doing one last comparison in his mind between this man and the description that Malon had given. Slowly, he lifted his face, twisting his gaze about until one eye could be seen beyond the glare on his glasses, wide and staring, with a borderline insane stare. The pale green of his eye trembled, wavering unsteadily, crazily. "Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs; like a sharp razor, workin' deceitfully," he announced, a sharp, fanatical edge to his tone. And with a swift, ringing shiiing, a matching bayonet was suddenly in his left hand, gleaming and shimmering silver in the glare of the Nexus.
"Thou lovest evil more than good; and lying rather than tae speak righteousness." A swift clatter of metal on metal, as both of the silver blades came together. Showers of sparks spattered across the ground, one blade being drawn across the other, as Anderson slowly paced forward, toward the 'old school Oirish Catholic'. "Tha smell o' death crawls on yer hide in a way ye cannae ever hope tae be clean of," he growled. The cross about his neck shifted, jingling slightly, with the sound of a bell chiming. Was it hollow? "We've all jus' arrived here...an' the Lord has seen fit tae make it so, that I migh' be here tae clenase this place o' the likes o' you!"