Furious Angels BEGIN

[Trevlac]

Introduction to Furious Angels written by Ordin.

To the students it seemed like a normal day, if cold and drizzly. It was the last day of the session, with final presentations going on in different places. About 60 students sat in classroom C-230, on the building's second floor. It was just after 5 p.m., and the sky had darkened. For some, that made it easier to focus on the lecture offered by two students about the mechanics of heat transfer. The incident that day, only minutes away, would be covered extensively in Montreal's Gazette and the Toronto Star.

A thin, young man with a shaved head (according to one source, though others say he had shaved only his beard) and a white baseball cap, had been sitting for a while on a bench in the hall outside the registrar's office. Those who passed noticed that he wore jeans, work boots, and a blue-striped sweater, but because he also wore a gray parka, they could not see the design on the back — a skull wearing glasses, as reported later in The Gazette. He had a green plastic bag with him, although no one realized that inside was a lethal weapon, and beneath his sweater he had strapped on a sheath containing a six-inch hunting knife.

He looked agitated, as if he were waiting for someone who had wined to arrive. He made eye contact with no one, but his attitude was clear in his stiff posture and grim expression. When an employee in the office asked if he needed assistance, he got up, grabbed his bag without a word, and walked away. She didn't think much about it. The end of the semester was a tough time for students, and many were tired.

A few minutes after 5 p.m.,the halls had cleared and no one was about — no one who could raise an alarm. People in the offices were preparing to leave for the day. That, at least, would work in his favor.

With care, he removed a lightweight Sturm Ruger Mini-14, .223-caliber semi-automatic rifle from his bag, recalling how he had told the clerk at Checkmate Sports not long before that he was going after "small game." The clerk hadn't grasped the significance of the comment. Still amused by his little secret, the armed man strode toward classroom 230 (some say 303). This was the moment. He had attached a high-capacity banana clip magazine so he could fire 30 rounds in quick succession, and he had plenty of ammunition. He was ready. No one would forget this day. Small game, indeed.

As the lone man entered the room, a few people looked over at him and he offered a slight smile, as if to apologize for the interruption. He looked at the women, as if to make certain of where they sat. Used to students arriving late, Professors Yvan Bouchard and Adrien Cernea both ignored him.

But then the grinning man in the baseball cap ordered them all to pay attention. "Everyone stop everything," he insisted. Professor Bouchard looked over, annoyed. He squinted as if trying to remember who this student was.

In French, the young man asked the 10 female students to get up and move across the room. He then told the men to leave. No one moved. A few people laughed, as if this were some kind of joke. That was the worst thing they could have done. He had been humiliated enough in his 25 years. On this day, of all days, he was not going to be treated in that way.

Lifting his rifle, he shot twice into the ceiling. It was no joke.

"You're all a of bunch of feminists!" the man shouted, his eyes now alight with anger. "And I hate feminists!"

This time, he ordered the women to get up from their seats and the men to leave. A few moved to obey, but others remained confused. They wondered whether they should try to overpower the gunman, protect the women, or leave. The choice as to what was best was unclear. But after a few moments, the male students and teachers walked outside. In weeks to come, many of them would have nightmares about this moment, reliving it over and over, wishing they had acted differently.

When the 10 women had moved into the specified corner, the gunman explained his reason for being there. According to survivors who spoke later to police or reporters, he told them that he was there on behalf of males. "I'm fighting feminism." Women had been taking employment and opportunities away from men, he said, and feminists needed to be taught their place.

Nathalie Provost tried to tell him that they were not necessarily feminists, but this only enraged him. He lifted the rifle again and, as they screamed for mercy or tried to leap out of range, he methodically shot them from left to right. All were hit. Provost was shot three times.

The men waiting outside heard the shots and the agonized or frightened screams. They could hardly believe what was happening. At least 20 rounds had been fired. A few ran up the hall to raise an alarm and find someone who could call for he;lp, while others waited.

Then the gunman came out and strode past them. No one tried to stop him. No one dared. He aimed the rifle precariously at them and they backed away, allowing him to leave. He fired at several other students on that floor, and three more were hit, including two women. Then he continued on his way.

When the male students ran back into the room to he;lp the women, they found a gory spectacle. Six were dead. The others needed immediate assistance. The wall behind where they had been standing was sprayed with their blood. Those who were still alive were crying or moaning.

A student called for emergency assistance, but the gunman had already found his way to another part of the building. And even when the ambulances arrived as fast as they could, the paramedics were instructed to wait until the police had cleared the building. So those inside could not yet be helped. Few people waiting outside realized what a nightmare was happening in the halls.

The news spread fast through the building that a maniac was shooting people, and those on other floors could hear the screaming and gunfire. A few managed to get behind locked doors where they waited in a panic, unsure if they were really safe. Those students who saw the gunman walk by reported later that he was smiling. "Nothing crazy," said one, "just like he was having a good time."

One female student was trapped inside a room the gunman entered. He aimed and fired, but the clip was empty, so he walked away, sparing her life. She quickly locked the door.

Inside a stairway, he bent over his gun. A student running up the steps heard him swear over his lack of bullets, fled past him, and then heard a shot fired. Apparently the man had reloaded.

He returned for the prey he had missed, but could not get past the locked door. He shot at the lock, but it still hindered him, so he went in search of easier targets. The woman's quick thinking had saved her.

He passed three people lying in the hall in pools of blood — his handiwork — and came into view of a young woman walking up a stalled escalator. The man lined her up in his sights and hit her, knocking her up the rest of the steps.

Remaining on the second floor, he saw a woman locking an office from the inside. He could see her through the glass, so he fired and hit her. She was recently married and was just an employee who had stayed a little late. But she was a woman. That's all that mattered to him.

Satisfied, the rampage killer returned to the escalator and went up. His next stop: the first floor cafeteria, where more than 100 people had gone for dinner. Students running through had urged them all to flee, but many had dismissed the warnings as last-day pranks. Those few who decided to leave did so quickly. Many remained and continued with their meal or indulged in the free wine offered that day to celebrate the term ending. Around them hung signs wishing them a Happy New Year a year that some would never see. For them, it would be their last drink.

One student who saw the shooter later told the Gazette how the slight, young man seemed to have a real facility with his weapon. "He had his rifle in both hands, pointing up above his shoulder, like he could slip it up and fire real fast."

Apparently when he spotted only men, he left them alone, but if they were with women, they might become targets as well. A few were hit, but mostly in the arm or shoulder.

Ten minutes into his rampage, the gunman entered the cafeteria, walking past the festive red and white balloons. He spotted a woman in line to get food, lifted his rifle and shot her, even as her husband was swept to the floor by the sudden stampede. Two other women were shot as well, and were left slumped in their chairs.

By that time, police had arrived and assembled outside. Several went to cover the exits, lest the gunman slip away, but it took nearly 20 minutes before they decided to enter. They were not certain where he was and did not wish to endanger anyone. Calls went to a dispatcher for more ambulances, and those wounded students who could walk on their own went to meet them at the roadblocks.

Inside, the shooter climbed the escalator to the third floor, where he fired at a woman and two men, and then passed classroom B-311 with windows that allowed anyone in the hallway to see inside. Surprisingly, class was still in session. No one had thought to warn these people to get out. Two professors and 26 students were inside, proceeding as if nothing was happening.

Two young men and a woman were in the middle of giving a presentation on a platform. Maryse Leclair was the female student, in her final year of the program, and her father was the director of communications for the city police. She didn't know it, but he was on his way. And he could not know that his daughter was in danger.

"Get out, get out!" the gunman shouted.

They looked at him but no one moved. No one knew what to do. One student later told reporters that the gun had looked like a toy. It was hard to take this man seriously, especially on the last day of the term.

To emphasize his point, he aimed the rifle at Maryse Leclair and shot her. She gasped and fell to the platform, blood staining her shirt from the wound to her abdomen. Then he turned the rifle on students sitting in the front row. They dove for cover beneath the desks. The man was serious.

Two women tried to get out a door near the platform and were shot for their efforts. The gunman then aimed at other students attempting escape through a second door and fired, hitting them. As people hid beneath desks, the madman strode up and up the rows as if looking for something. He shot until his clip was empty, reloaded, and shot again. People who had been hit and were still alive groaned in pain. Others gasped in terror.

The man hopped onto a desk and went from one desk to another, shooting as he went, looking specifically for females who were hiding. He hit four students.

Maryse Leclair was up, but still alive. She pleaded for assistance, which attracted the gunman back to her. Those who survived this bloodbath recalled for the newspapers what he did next. The strange young man sat up next to the wounded woman, quietly pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to his body, and used it to stab her in the heart. She screamed in surprise and pain. This violent act shocked those who were watching. The man had no mercy, but there was nothing anyone could do. He pulled the knife out and then plunged it in twice more until the girl lay silent, blood gushing from her wounds.

No one dared to move. No one wanted to draw his attention. "We were trapped like rats," one student later told the papers. "He was shooting all over the place."

Clearly this crazy man was bent on absolute destruction. For all they knew, he might kill them all. Canadians knew little about such incidents, but it was clear that this angry man had an agenda. Every movement was full of purpose. He rose to his feet and walked over to the professor's desk. They waited to see what he would do next. Without a word, he laid his knife up, along with his remaining ammunition. He removed his cap and placed it on the table. The room was deathly still. People hardly dared to breathe. This man was up to something but his actions masked his intent. Still, he seemed emotionally spent, as if he had done what he came to do.

Even as the police prepared to enter the building downstairs, he removed his parka and wrapped it around the rifle's barrel. Someone in the building pulled the fire alarm, which jarred everyone.

The gunman said, "Ah, shit." He turned the rifle's barrel toward his own face, pressed the muzzle against his forehead, and pulled the trigger. The rifle exploded, blowing off part of his skull and he fell to the floor. No one moved. The place smelled of hot metal, gunpowder, and fresh blood. But clearly it was over.

Trevlac was laying alone on his bed. The strange thing he was doing today was watching Television. He had a television, but he rarely watched it. He believed himself to be above such feeble tripe. Today, today was different, a mass murderer right in the Toronto area. He was not six blocks from the incident. His new home was now in Toronto, Canada; the location of the demon gate to Samael's - or should he say Sparta's - castle in Hell. He had unfinished business in that place and needed to wait for another opening to occur. But the recent news had disturbed him so much. Can I do this anymore? I can't kill...the bodies of all those women...that man is evil. Am I not just as evil as he? I've killed innocent people - even enjoyed it. I'm a monster and I don't deserve to live.

Trevlac vaguely wondered where Karik, Sparta, and Ordin were. The dream team, all of them as friends together were unstoppable but now they had drifted apart in the year that followed the events of Lucifer. Where she was doing or plotting at the moment was of no concern. It would be first minute breaking news if her influence was upon the world again.

What bothered Trevlac was that the possibility of his life being meaningless was high. He missed his family in Germany, never knew his father, hadn't seen Alice in nearly two years, and had killed so many innocent people he didn't think the blood would ever be washed from his cold undead hands. A vampire. I'm still a monster for as long as I live...and that might be forever. I don't want to live forever...I want to die.

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" Trevlac slammed his fist on his nightstand and smashed it in two. His alarm clock catapulted across the room and smashed on the opposite wall. The splintered wood jutted through his now-bleeding hand. "Peice of shit table. I want to die. It's not fair that all of these roaches of the world get to leave this prison - this zoo - and I am stuck in the middle of it all. Rotting. Rotting for eternity."

Trevlac vomitted cold dark blood all over his black velvet bed. Fuck.

[Raven]

The sound of a fist pounding against the door to Trevlac's bedroom rattles the walls before the pouding stops and an angry female voice replaces it, "Stop being so emo Trev or I swear I will eat you!"
Shadel growled, annoyed at the vampire as she leaned back against the wall opposite to his door, her legs crossed at the ankles. Everything seemed so different after so much had passed since the group first met, including Trev's demeanor. His constant whining about wanting to see his family annoyed the Hell outta her... but she was one to talk, since she used to miss her family after their death many years ago. Maybe she was acting hypocritical, but at that moment she just didn't care. She had stopped her crying of her family years ago, and atleast he may still see his family again... She had to wait 'till her life was severed before she would ever see hers again.

This post has been edited by Trevlac on Jan 17 2007, 04:49 PM

[Trevlac]

Trevlac rolled his eyes and stared at the Television again. Living with Shadel was proving to be more difficult on his temper than he could bear. The worst part was that they acted like an old married couple all the time, and he didn't want to cheat on Alice.

The Television flickered back to the main story coverage from a commercial (Weaboo's Anime Emporium). The reporter was a stocky short female in her mid-thirties. She wore a voilently pink dress blouse and matching skirt. Her dark hair was drawn up into a tight bun and her fingernails were long and painted lime green. The woman had no sense of fashion at all, or perhaps she was colorblind - like a dog. She was rattling off more news of the terrorist shooting inside the building.

"...local police are absolutely baffled and some of the students inside the college were frightened even more by his sudden disappearance. A few eye-witness reports claim that when the man shot himself, he fell to the floor and vanished. Earlier this evening ..."

She trailed off with more mindless jabber. Trevlac muted the Television and mulled that over for a moment. Vanished? Did the woman mean that he shot himself and he was vaporized by the blast? No, no, it was only a .223 caliber autorifle. That wouldn't have even made a big hole. That is not normal.

[Ordin]

Ordin stalked down the sidewalk. His cross, now a bit dinged and grimy with a year of carelessness, bounced mockingly against his gut with each step. He crammed his hands as far into his pockets as he could, causing him to slouch over. He mulled over everything that had happened in the past twelve months. Nothing good. A solid year of terror and combat. Exorcisms and plain old murder. Not that there was much wrong with it. The Priest felt that it was his lot in life. He wouldn't be able to get a job anywhere but a cathedral. Not that he had a criminal record (he had never been caught, even though he stuck out like a sore thumb. It was miraculous) or anything, but because he wouldn't be able to stand it. His wild, violent mind would draw him else where.

He sighed. It was a thick, heavy sigh that caused his whole body to shake. He hadn't slept in almost a week. He'd been kept awake by nightmares. Even during his waking hours, he sometimes hallucinated. He currently saw faces glaring at him from in between two buildings. He ignored them.

There was a sudden screaming. A lout, mechanical howl. Almost by instinct, Ordin hurled himself into an alleyway, pulled down a trashcan for cover, and drew Scipio to protect him. Protect him from what? An ambulance stormed by. There was nothing dangerous. But then, a fire truck, and three police cars. What the hell? He stood up from his garbage bin castle and peered around the corner of the building, in the direction the emergency vehicles went. He saw more lights in the distance.

It called to him... he had had enough terrors for a lifetime. Enough fighting. Enough nightmares. Enough hallucinations. Enough of it all. But it called to him. Like a wicked Siren drawing sailors to their doom. He knew he would regret it, but he couldn't stop his legs from churning in through the sea of oxygen towards something that could easily kill him.

He thought back to when he was in Europe, traveling. Trying to find a place to stop, and live. One day he stopped at a pub to get a drink. He was addressed, by name, by a man who simply called him Julius. He was an odd fellow, who carried a leather whip at his side. Not a very common weapon. But who was Ordin to judge? He himself carried a roman Gladius at his side. This man had heard of Ordin as a great exorcist, slayer of the undead, and banisher of demons. He asked to borrow the Priest's abilities. Ordin had no way to procure money, so agreed. He didn't know exactly what they were doing, but they boarded the next train to Wallachia. It was a blood-red full moon the night they arrived. Julius murmured something about a Lunar eclipse.

Ordin eventually came to an immense college campus. There were many police cars, fire trucks, ambulances loading people. Worried looking sheep standing around, sweating bullets. It was complete chaos. Ordin moved to cross the police line, but a fool stepped in front of him. His crisp navy suit, silver badge gleaming in the sun.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snapped "Get back behind the line!"

"I'm a Priest. I was ordered to oversee the last rights to dying peoples inside the building." the Judas One growled.

The policeman looked Ordin up and down, cocking one eye in disgust. How dare someone not fit in with the fashions of society? What is this guy? A foreigner? He smelled like he hadn't bathed in WEEKS! The Priest tugged at his coat a bit to block the pig's view of his firearms. Maybe he wouldn't notice that it was stained with blood because of it's red color... hahaha the Priest thought to himself.

[Trevlac]

"I'm going out. I'll be back whenever."

Trevlac had dressed in his usual coat and was heading to the door. He announced his departure to Shadel in the back bedroom and made to the door. Before leaving, Trevlac grabbed his .454 Casull from the kitchen counter, the fluorescent lights made him feel, if possible, even worse. His Zwiehander was lying propped against the wall like an eager dog greets its master. Trevlac hurreidly picked it up and stowed it on the iside of his long trench. He was going to the college, nothing about it felt right. There was something supernatural there.

Trevlac walked for what seemed like hours. He was too fixed on his own thoughts to realize that he had no idea where he was even going. New to Toronto, he didn't even have a map of the town. At the moment, he was walking down a dark and wet alleyway, the sun had long abandoned it's child the Earth. Paper wads, empty rum bottles, and rats were the residents of the downtown Toronto streets. Trevlac barely noticed the pile of knocked over trash cans. Nothing really menat any concern to him. He knew, somehow that this was the way he needed to go. Maybe it was the night sky guiding him north to the college, maybe it was...something else. He could smell the color red, odd enough. It had the smell of distraught upon it...and Trevlac was following it.

Not one hour of walking later, Trevlac approached flashing red and blue lights. A whole menagerie of them. They were all crammed around a large brick building with a square top. And there was the smell of red he had followed, a tall, slouched priest in a red coat and fedora. Ordin.

Forgetting himself, Trevlac ran, flat-out to the man as if he'd vanish on the spot in three seconds. His asthma was acting up, and Trevlac slowed to a fast walk...but get there he would. Every foot he traversed felt like a mile, and he felt like an iron locomotive on it's last batch of coal. Before he could move another step, he could almost touch Ordin's coat...he fell to the ground like a doll and passed out.

[Raven]

Staring neutrally at the plain, boring, pasty white wall, Shadel came to one conclusion:
Fuck this.
Shoving away from the wall she was leaning back against, the she-wolf grabbed her black hoody from the coat hook and pulled it over her black halter, the large shirt hiding her natural curves as the bottom of the hoody hung halfway down her bum. Slipping her slender hands into the pouch infront of the oversized shirt, Shadel ran her fingers over the cool metal of her folded claw boomerang hidden within the pocket's warm depths. With a slight smile the Were slipped the shoulder strap of her klaive and sheath over her head and stepped out into the night air, pulling the dark hood over her head as she took in the air and its many scents and smells. She could make out the smell of death, the scent making a low growl rumble in her golden-skinned throat. Death made her blood boil in rage, but she new even before she picked up his scent that the damned vampire was in that same direction.
Shoving her hands into the front pouch again, Shadel followed the scent to its source, not at all surprised to see that annoying human standing before the carnage. Where else would a crazed priest be?

This post has been edited by Raven on Jan 18 2007, 09:54 PM

[Ordin]

A hand brushed Ordin's coat. He was sure of this. Cocking an eyebrow out of confusion, he slowly turned and saw the black-cloaked figure of... of someone familiar. The policeman chuckled to himself, but cut it shot when the Priest gave him a glare.

Kneeling, he rolled the blond-haired figure over on his back. There was no mistaking it. The pale complexion, gaunt face, it was Trevlac the Vampire. Ordin grinned unconsciously. He hadn't seen this man in over a year. A painful year of... no... that didn't matter now. He was glad to finally see someone he recognized, even if the two didn't always get along so well.

With a slight grunt, he lifted the vampire up into his arms and carried him to an ambulance who was seeing to those who weren't hurt at all. More of that stigmata shit; they want to seem important so they pretend like they're injured. The medics couldn't see to his friend (for this, he was sure, Trevlac was thankful) so the Priest simply placed him on a nearby bench. The vampire most likely had an asthma attack (sort of ironic, if you think about it). However, Ordin had no idea what to do for this. Maybe ignoring it will make him awaken.

[Trevlac]

The medics were relucant to attend the man. It was by sheer luck that the fat slimy woman in scrubs inside didn't notice the huge Zwiehander tucked away in Trevlac's coat. A splash of cold water and a puff of an inhaler later, Trevlac was up and out of the ambulance.

"I thought I'd never see you again. You don't know how much I stay awake at night wondering if I'll ever see my friends again." Trevlac had the voice and apparance of a broken man. A man so totally filled with the destruction of the world that it had destroyed him inside out. The look of desperation on his face was unnatural, like a hungry Ethiopian child longs for food and drink. He clutched the hems of Ordin's coat as if it would save his soul and gazed into the preist's large sapphire eyes. And he cried.

[Ordin]

Ordin was stunned at the sudden wave of emotion that flowed from the vampire. The past year must have been much tougher on his friend than himself. With a gentle smile, the Priest raised his right hand and patted the sobbing man on the shoulder. His left hand hung limply at his side.

"Well. It's a miracle to say the least... though," he smirked "not a work of god."

After allowing the lamia a few moments to work through his state, Ordin erected himself near a lamp post, a beacon in the dimming light. He carefully surveyed the area, looking at each of the people, the policemen, the medics. He didn't know what he was looking for, but the past year had taught him many things about the disguises enemies can take.

"Trevlac! Do you know what happened here?" he said at last, though he kept his gaze on the crowd.

[Trevlac]

"I know this is going to sound weird, I was watching television. It was on the tube that the man simply vanished after he supposedly committed suicide. This reeks of supernatural."

Trevlac's tears were gone, and so too were his emotions. He spoke in the same, confident, monotonous voice that suggested an air of certainty. It was as if he had no feelings again. Back to the old Trevlac. The past year's events had taken their toll on him greatly. As long as everyone thought he simply longed for friends and family and never found out the truth, he'd be okay.

[Blue_Strife]

Looking down unto the city streets from his apartment window, Dimitrius Caim mused over the day's events. Classes were put to, more or less, a halt. At least until they figured out that debacle down by the college. The bright lights from passing cars flickered in the iris' of his eyes, despite the distance. Like ants they were. Was this how a killer would feel? Looking down like this? Is this what that man had felt when he squeezed the trigger countless times? That he was merely crushing ants?

School shootings... Dim couldn't quite grasp the reason as to why the man had suddenly massacred the student body. With the man dead and vanished (supposedly), it's not like he could ask him. Of course, Dim should've already known. He was, afterall, a bounty hunter. He's killed before and he surmised he'd kill again in the near future. But he does it for money, not for bloodlust.

Nonchalently raising his right hand, he brushed back his blue locks, only to have them fall right back down, obscuring his view. There no point to it, he thought, force of habit. Yet, he did it all the same. He felt somewhat the same about this whole situation. He needed to know what happened, from the people who were there. Maybe if he understood the man's reasoning, it'd help bring him closer to... to...

Raising a hand and scoffing as if to banish the thought, Dimitrius turned and grabbed his Beretta off the table. Holstering it, and already having his knife on his person, headed for the door; not forgetting to grab Cicero on his way, crimson dress shirt flowing behind him as he grasped the handle of the stairway door. He'd be at the college sooner or later, he assumed. With no marks or classes right now, it's not like he had anything to do anyways.

This post has been edited by Blue_Strife on Jan 20 2007, 09:47 PM

[Raven]

Watching quietly, Shadel listened to tid-bits of their rambling before rolling her eyes and making sure the shoulder strap to her klaive sheath was secure before turning away from the scene and heading down another street. The distance between her and the others were becoming more and more apparent everyday... Why did she even bother to fit in with a group that wasn’t exactly helping her with her cause? None of them cared if she were there or not anyway, which made her confused as to why the vampire had saved her a year ago in the first place.
Sighing softly to herself, the she-wolf made her silent way down the dark foreign street, hands stuffed deep in the pouch of her hoody. She didn't know where she was going, but she trusted that her feet would lead her somewhere interesting, like always.

[Blue_Strife]

Walking the city streets had seemed so serene. They were deserted almost, barren; like walking in juniper and limelight. Solitude. Dim had grown accustomed to the feeling, and found that he enjoyed it. Right now he could keep walking for hours upon hours, and never tire of it. It'd been his only escape since he was but a child. With a disheartening sigh, he looked over to the left of his waist, where the bearing weight of Cicero laid.

'I'll find them, I promised I would all those years ago,' Dim mused, the heavy foot falls from his boots filling the street, 'No rest for the weary, I s'pose.'

Hand buried in his pockets, and mind buried in himself, he barely even noticed the second figure walking towards him. It wasn't until his shoulder brushed hers that he even acknowledged she was there. Looking at her from the corner of his eye, he merely stood unmoving. Half expecting an apology, and half wanting to apologise himself. He wasn't sure--the dark shadows thrown on her face from the equally dark hoody not giving him any sign.

This post has been edited by Blue_Strife on Jan 22 2007, 01:57 AM

[Raven]

Shadel's yellow-green eyes glinted yellow, as if a light from some unknown source reflected off them, before she grumbled in a uncaring tone, "Watch where you're fucking going..." before nonchalantly walking further down the street, as if lost in her own thoughts.

[Blue_Strife]

Dimitrius stood still in the spot from before, face contorted into one of annoyance, looking at the slowly retreating form of the girl. He was not in the mood for this, not tonight. Fuck it, he figured.

Turning back to her, he raised his voice to a little under a yell, "Right after you, bitch.", his last word spit out with a sneer.

[Raven]

Shadel slowly came to a stop, her dark hood obscuring all but the smirk on her face at his word choice. Turning her head to the side, a mocking chuckle breathed past her lips. "Be careful what you say human," the word sounding more like a curse than a compliment, "This bitch bites."

[Trevlac]

"Ordin, quit fucking standing there like a lifeless statue Gott damn it! We need to investigate this. In fact, why the hell are you even here?"

Trevlac's patience with his old friend was thinning. Ordin could not coincidentally be in Toronto of all fucking places. After not seeing him for a year? After being abandoned by everyone Trevlac ever loved? No, there was no coincidence, Ordin knew something.

[Blue_Strife]

Cocking an eyebrow at the choice word of hers, Dim mused over what she said. 'Human? Isn't SHE hum--No. She's one of THEM...' Tilting his head slightly to the side, he decided to egg her on. Maybe he'd get more out of her that way.

"Oh? And what's the bitch gonna do about it, huh?" His eyes scanned her darkened face for reactions, his hands crammed in his pockets to give an air of defenseless.

[Raven]

Shadel arched a dark brow, slowly turning her body and keeping her eyes glued on his until she was facing him. Her hands slowly caressing the hidden claw boomerang within the front pouch of her black hoody, the she-wolf gave him a look of innocence, "Decapitate the stupid human."
With that said, her right hand suddenly pulled free the metallic weapon, the twin blades of the boomerang sliding apart and locking into place within the same amount of time it would take for him to take in a breath. Pinch gripping the weapon between her forefinger and thumb; she takes a step forward the moment she throws the boomerang overhand with a snap of her wrist, the blades spinning precisely and silently toward his throat.

[Ordin]

Like the thin wire protruding from his back was suddenly grasped and yanked upon by a behemoth, Ordin snapped back to reality. He had faded for a moment, staring off into space, stroking is now unusually long goatee. It appeared as though he hadn't shaved for weeks, and the bruised bags under his eyes seemed to engulf his entire face. All at once, Ordin's true age began to seep in through his typical youthful demeanor. In a few short seconds he seemed to age a thousand years. He jerked with a sudden biting itch at his right cheek, and scratched with tad bit of overzealousness, his chewed fingernails raking his flesh. Then, with a thoughtful look and a small smirk;

"Never mind about that. We can catch up later, perhaps over a nice glass of wine? An investigation is in order, like you said..." his voiced trailed off as he peered around, a bit anxious and even more tired. Night was quickly setting in and the recent bought of insomnia was kicking his ass. He rammed his large hands into his pockets and took a few thousand-pound steps forward, before turning on heel and peering deep into the vampire's eyes