Hey folks, just want to apologise for going completely MIA the past few days. I had some issues getting home due to a delayed flight, and among various other things since arriving it's just been impossible for me to find time to think, let alone log in and make a post. It wasn't my intention to make a few posts and ditch for a short eternity. I assure you it won't happen again and I'll be more careful about warning of a potential absence in the future.
Peeds Member
that's kinda gay
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- Peeds 7 yrs ago
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eat the lamp
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In Wes' short life, he had learned that if things could get weirder, they very often would. He had expected to leave here alone, making his merry way to whatever was next, but now this guy was barging in and asking questions like he was the one that deserved answers. It was baffling, but Wes didn't find himself irritated by it. He had, after all, been waiting for something to happen, and it had landed right in his lap like a tiny gift from heaven.
What he was less jazzed about was the fact that this newcomer here was helping out the lady he had just gone through all the effort to get rid of, and that it seemed to be working. Though she made some obvious noises of discomfort, the magic slowly stitched her arm back together like she was a doll. It was rather grotesque, but fascinating to watch all the same; this was the kind of thing Wes had missed out on during his upbringing, for sure. The blood-licking was kind of nasty, but he had seen worse.
"From the way you seem, I'm sure you know what it's like to be a wanted man," said Wes, now uncertain about who to aim the gun at. The woman was still taking her time after her recovery, but he had no doubt in his mind that she was thinking something nefarious for herself - or was she? She had already chickened out on the arm, so who was to say she wasn't going to on actually going through with what she was here to do? At his feet, however, the man was stirring, and Wes gently placed his foot on the back of his head, not yet applying pressure, but enough to make his presence clear. "I was minding my own business until these two came along, and now you, Mr....? You here for me, too?"
The woman, now over the brief moments of pain and regaining some of her sanity, suddenly decided it was a good time to regain some of her courage.
"Wesley Lan is a wanted man by the Disciples," she said stiffly, though her voice was hoarse. "You will not get involved." She was too weak to lift any limbs, but she had to immobilize the new threat in case he somehow took his own revenge upon Wesley, and so she focused her mana hard, trying to neutralise that of Nemo and Wes. She, too, could see the stirring of her partner - it was only a matter of time before he came to as well and helped her level the playing field.
What he was less jazzed about was the fact that this newcomer here was helping out the lady he had just gone through all the effort to get rid of, and that it seemed to be working. Though she made some obvious noises of discomfort, the magic slowly stitched her arm back together like she was a doll. It was rather grotesque, but fascinating to watch all the same; this was the kind of thing Wes had missed out on during his upbringing, for sure. The blood-licking was kind of nasty, but he had seen worse.
"From the way you seem, I'm sure you know what it's like to be a wanted man," said Wes, now uncertain about who to aim the gun at. The woman was still taking her time after her recovery, but he had no doubt in his mind that she was thinking something nefarious for herself - or was she? She had already chickened out on the arm, so who was to say she wasn't going to on actually going through with what she was here to do? At his feet, however, the man was stirring, and Wes gently placed his foot on the back of his head, not yet applying pressure, but enough to make his presence clear. "I was minding my own business until these two came along, and now you, Mr....? You here for me, too?"
The woman, now over the brief moments of pain and regaining some of her sanity, suddenly decided it was a good time to regain some of her courage.
"Wesley Lan is a wanted man by the Disciples," she said stiffly, though her voice was hoarse. "You will not get involved." She was too weak to lift any limbs, but she had to immobilize the new threat in case he somehow took his own revenge upon Wesley, and so she focused her mana hard, trying to neutralise that of Nemo and Wes. She, too, could see the stirring of her partner - it was only a matter of time before he came to as well and helped her level the playing field.
Well, the night wasn't over yet - not once an overwhelmingly strong mana pool almost set Wes' body to tingling, and that for sure had to be new; he would have noticed that in an instant. It couldn't be the kid, unless his joking suspicion of him somehow being this terrible creature was correct, but even then, wasn't there a football game happening right now? And what, to these simple-minded folk, could be more important than football? Not him, that he was certain of. It was close by. In fact, it was probably right outside the door. Wes was surprised for the second time that night - there probably was not enough time to prepare and orchestrate for a counter-attack of some kind before that person came through the door, so instead he lamely spun on his heel to face whomever - whatever - was about to come through that door.
Someone needs some melanin, was the first thought that crossed his mind, and it was true. This guy put Jack Frost to shame with his face, and the white eyes were especially disconcerting. Wes' fingers tightened around the gun he was holding, his blade having been abandoned when he had ducked to get it. Now it felt more like a toy wedged between his fingers, and he doubted it would do much at all.
When his name was spoken, he had a hilarious moment of doubt that this guy was somehow related to the Disciples, and that somehow they had finally decided to go against their own doctrine; it passed quickly, but still, this guy somehow knew. Wes did not believe he was that infamous, since he did his best not to be. Unless this guy somehow was on a revenge trip for one of Wes' previous targets, had somehow traced the bullet in a skull back to him and then managed to follow his multiple and quick movements...that was a possibility too. But he stayed his hand for now - unless this guy gave him a reason to attack, revealed himself as an immediate threat, he wasn't going to put himself in a more dangerous situation. He didn't lower the gun, but he did release his finger's slight press against the trigger.
Before he had the chance to make a response, the man seemed to take an interest in the arm on the floor. So much so, in fact, that his face broke into a wide grin, throwing Wes off slightly. Well, at least someone was having fun with the situation so far. He still kept the gun trained on his new arrival and swallowed heavily as he spoke to the Hunter who was still sitting on the bed, her own biology rebelling against her as the shock, pain, and obvious blood loss caused her to rock slightly as she clung to trying to stay awake. She obviously knew the moment she let herself fall into unconsciousness, that was the end for her.
Wes was more interested in the moral dilemma this stranger had provided. He had seen situations like this before, but in reverse - cornered Talents promising Hunters power, fame, fortune, whatever they thought most likely to get them out of there whole or at least alive - but he had never seen any of them take it. Then again, the Hunters were never the ones in danger, especially if there were two or three of them up against even a terribly powerful Talent. Did he feel guilty for what he had done to her? Not particularly, since she had probably done far worse to plenty of perfectly innocent people - people, not just Talents, they were humans first.
The Hunter was having very different thoughts. She could hardly hear what the man was saying, but at that moment, anything that promised to take away the suffering was extremely appealing, and he was right - if she lived and went back as a cripple, what would they think of her then? Defeated by an ex-Disciple, humiliated in front of her peer? It wasn't like they would offer her the Talent this guy would, to fix her - she would become an exile too, but not an honourable one. If anything, maybe her own brothers and sisters would turn on her. And would they know? If he did it right, would anyone know? In a second, she could turn back the tables against these two and return home with a powerful Talent and the traitor's heads without even looking scratched. What was there to be lost for her?
Maybe it was the blood loss, but she did trust this man, and thus she mustered the strength she had left and muttered "please, yes."
Wes couldn't help it; he briefly giggled aloud. Though the situation wasn't that funny, more barbaric than anything, this supposed proud Hunter, who would take death before the hand of a Talent, was reduced to a begging mess. Fuck it, it was funny. Whether she lived or died now, it would be in absolute shame, and what would whatever gods she had think of that?
Someone needs some melanin, was the first thought that crossed his mind, and it was true. This guy put Jack Frost to shame with his face, and the white eyes were especially disconcerting. Wes' fingers tightened around the gun he was holding, his blade having been abandoned when he had ducked to get it. Now it felt more like a toy wedged between his fingers, and he doubted it would do much at all.
When his name was spoken, he had a hilarious moment of doubt that this guy was somehow related to the Disciples, and that somehow they had finally decided to go against their own doctrine; it passed quickly, but still, this guy somehow knew. Wes did not believe he was that infamous, since he did his best not to be. Unless this guy somehow was on a revenge trip for one of Wes' previous targets, had somehow traced the bullet in a skull back to him and then managed to follow his multiple and quick movements...that was a possibility too. But he stayed his hand for now - unless this guy gave him a reason to attack, revealed himself as an immediate threat, he wasn't going to put himself in a more dangerous situation. He didn't lower the gun, but he did release his finger's slight press against the trigger.
Before he had the chance to make a response, the man seemed to take an interest in the arm on the floor. So much so, in fact, that his face broke into a wide grin, throwing Wes off slightly. Well, at least someone was having fun with the situation so far. He still kept the gun trained on his new arrival and swallowed heavily as he spoke to the Hunter who was still sitting on the bed, her own biology rebelling against her as the shock, pain, and obvious blood loss caused her to rock slightly as she clung to trying to stay awake. She obviously knew the moment she let herself fall into unconsciousness, that was the end for her.
Wes was more interested in the moral dilemma this stranger had provided. He had seen situations like this before, but in reverse - cornered Talents promising Hunters power, fame, fortune, whatever they thought most likely to get them out of there whole or at least alive - but he had never seen any of them take it. Then again, the Hunters were never the ones in danger, especially if there were two or three of them up against even a terribly powerful Talent. Did he feel guilty for what he had done to her? Not particularly, since she had probably done far worse to plenty of perfectly innocent people - people, not just Talents, they were humans first.
The Hunter was having very different thoughts. She could hardly hear what the man was saying, but at that moment, anything that promised to take away the suffering was extremely appealing, and he was right - if she lived and went back as a cripple, what would they think of her then? Defeated by an ex-Disciple, humiliated in front of her peer? It wasn't like they would offer her the Talent this guy would, to fix her - she would become an exile too, but not an honourable one. If anything, maybe her own brothers and sisters would turn on her. And would they know? If he did it right, would anyone know? In a second, she could turn back the tables against these two and return home with a powerful Talent and the traitor's heads without even looking scratched. What was there to be lost for her?
Maybe it was the blood loss, but she did trust this man, and thus she mustered the strength she had left and muttered "please, yes."
Wes couldn't help it; he briefly giggled aloud. Though the situation wasn't that funny, more barbaric than anything, this supposed proud Hunter, who would take death before the hand of a Talent, was reduced to a begging mess. Fuck it, it was funny. Whether she lived or died now, it would be in absolute shame, and what would whatever gods she had think of that?
@Peeds
you're in :^)
just make a first post about whatever your character would be doing on a daily basis.
Done.
Not my best post in the world, but forgive me, it's been a while and I rewrote it like 5 times before I just gave up and did the damn thing rip
Any huge outstanding problems, let me know.
"That all?" The woman behind the counter sounded impatient, and her fingers were now drumming the hard plastic side of the register. He could see that her fourth finger had a tan in the shape of a ring, but he didn't mention it. Probably pawned with the economy around here.
"Cash, please," he said in response instead, reaching into his back pocket with two fingers to draw out the thin wallet. Never credit cards, those left traces. Working for himself, odd jobs here and there - it left what had once been a chubby length of leather almost pitifully bare. A man who had once been in one of the most feared organisations now had to wander, faceless, in shadow, but it wasn't something that particularly bothered him.
"Have a good day," he said politely as he gathered the plastic handles into callused hands, but she grunted and started swiping toilet paper for the frazzled mother and her snot-nosed kid behind him. Though there were only about 800 people in town, Wes hadn't bothered to make the most of his almost two week tenure, not that there was much to party up in with the single strip of a "main street". A liquor and grocery, a one-screened movie theatre that showed things that came out a decade ago, a dentist office, a handful of "mom and pop" shops that desperately fought to keep the WalMart from encroaching on the big empty lot near the football field...one would hardly expect that, in a town like this, monsters would make their home.
His apartment was above one of those shoddy mom and pop places, which was, unsurprisingly, devoid of life. There wasn't much in the way of tourism around here, just farms and alcoholics. The owner, Ms. Needles, an ancient widow, was probably napping in the back, so he didn't bother waking her. After her surgery, the one she loved to tell him about, she needed all the rest she could get.
He needed it too, for tonight, but he put his groceries in his smelly mini-fridge. He was lucky she had not tried to clean his room again while he was out, or she may have found the rifle hidden lazily behind the curtain, and who knew what he would have to do then.
Every place, even a small town, changes at night. Tonight was no different - the local Wildcats were playing the Panthers, and the bright field lights could probably be seen from the space station. Even with the clouds hanging moodily overhead, obscuring the moon and stars, he felt uncomfortable, but could not stay any longer. He had dragged out his time here as much as he could, observing, figuring out the niche places to hide, and there was nothing. Whatever his source had told him, it was a lie. The only Talent there was around here to find was a young man, high school age, who didn't even seem to be aware of he could do fully, and so Wes left him wholly alone - that wasn't his department and he didn't particularly care. Sure, he had checked him out, just in case somehow this bemused C-average meathead was some Prince of Darkness, and in some sick we he had hoped he was to justify all the time he spent learning this shithole back to front, but it was all for naught.
His bag was pretty much packed, yet he still kept pacing around the room, looking out that window and taking sips from the bottle of water he had bought earlier, picking through some "salad" his hostess had so graciously brought him that was more ranch dressing with a side of lettuce and tomato. He had told her he was an author working on a small-town murder mystery, the only way he could justify hanging around without getting a job; he had promised that yes, he would somehow write her into his book. Tomorrow morning he'd have to take out whatever little he had at the bank to get the bus to a Greyhound station to...wherever next. He'd e-mailed his source with more than a little profanity at this waste of his time, but there was no response, and now he was at the mercy of having to wait until they found something for him. On his limited resources, there wasn't much he could do alone.
There was a knock on his door, and he paused, the nerves in his body screaming like millions of tiny live wires. Ms. Needles had made it extremely clear that she would be going to the game to watch her grandson, and certainly no one would rob a dying business that paid out more than it brought in. Those few seconds of distraction were enough for a bullet to fly through the flimsy wood of the door and lodge itself into the wall.
Instantly on the ground, Wes was about to go for his own rifle when the door burst open and two formless people stepped inside. Two Disciples, it was worth noting, and Wes couldn't help but almost laugh at his own mistake. A trap? He had been working with that damn source for almost two years and they hadn't led him astray, unless somehow they had been found out or hacked. No wonder the responses lately had been so short, vague, or non-existent. And what an elaborate trap, too,
"Wesley Lan," one of them said in a dead voice, a female one. He didn't recognise it, but then again, half the Disciples sounded the same to him; maybe it was that hive-minded sense of purpose he could never stand. It was fair enough, anyways, the possibility that sending one of his old "friends" would end up with them being too emotionally attached to kill him (which was a joke, they had all hated one another), but Wes suspected that this was some kind of test.
He stood up, backed up, forgetting about his rifle as he back up towards the bed.
"You caught me," he said, doing his best to sound convincingly worried, but like most times, there was still some kind of laughing smile in his voice. "So what do you want to do to me?" As he said it, he sat on the bed, raising his eyebrows suggestively alongside the question. Though he could not see her face, he suspected that neither she nor her companion were impressed.
"You will come with us," said the other figure, a male, much taller than Wesley. "You will answer for your crimes."
Wesley put down his hands, sighed; from their vantage, they could not fully see his hand slipping under the cheap mattress for his khukuri. It had to be a test - that was a rookie mistake.
"And what makes you think I want to come? You always served terrible food," he said admonishingly, the heft of the blade in his hand reassuring.
"Do not show resistance and we will not harm you. We are armed." She was approaching him, arm outstretched with some small gun lodged firmly between her fingers.
He got up (quickly, too quickly) and brought down the blade with full force into the softer flesh of her elbow. There was an awful noise before her forearm hit the ground, and she screamed in pain as Wes ducked as the man fired his own gun. Grabbing the one in the hand of the severed forearm, he quickly brought his head up and shot it out of his fingers. The man howled and held his damaged hand.
"Armed? Are you sure?" he asked the girl, unable to resist; she had sat down on the edge of the bed in shock, trying to stem the flow of blood. She wouldn't last long with a wound like that, so he kept his focus on the man, still pointing the gun. "You, buddy, are going to get the hell out of here unless you want to end up like her. Then you're going to back to where you came from and tell that asshole Snyder to leave me alone."
The man, breathing heavily, let out a yell at that and charged forwards; Wes neatly scampered up the wall and allowed him to almost crash into the wall before he swung his legs down heavily and kicked him in the back of the head, knocking him unconscious.
Dropping from his perch, he sighed and put his hands on his hips, deliberating what to do next. He wasn't sure if anyone else was out there now, but considering that there was a Talent besides him in the area, he had to suspect so - obviously they had been hiding themselves quite well, or he hadn't been looking hard enough. Still, wouldn't it be worth it to stay a few more days, just in case? He found himself smiling despite the situation.
But first, how would he explain this mess to poor Ms. Needles?
"Cash, please," he said in response instead, reaching into his back pocket with two fingers to draw out the thin wallet. Never credit cards, those left traces. Working for himself, odd jobs here and there - it left what had once been a chubby length of leather almost pitifully bare. A man who had once been in one of the most feared organisations now had to wander, faceless, in shadow, but it wasn't something that particularly bothered him.
"Have a good day," he said politely as he gathered the plastic handles into callused hands, but she grunted and started swiping toilet paper for the frazzled mother and her snot-nosed kid behind him. Though there were only about 800 people in town, Wes hadn't bothered to make the most of his almost two week tenure, not that there was much to party up in with the single strip of a "main street". A liquor and grocery, a one-screened movie theatre that showed things that came out a decade ago, a dentist office, a handful of "mom and pop" shops that desperately fought to keep the WalMart from encroaching on the big empty lot near the football field...one would hardly expect that, in a town like this, monsters would make their home.
His apartment was above one of those shoddy mom and pop places, which was, unsurprisingly, devoid of life. There wasn't much in the way of tourism around here, just farms and alcoholics. The owner, Ms. Needles, an ancient widow, was probably napping in the back, so he didn't bother waking her. After her surgery, the one she loved to tell him about, she needed all the rest she could get.
He needed it too, for tonight, but he put his groceries in his smelly mini-fridge. He was lucky she had not tried to clean his room again while he was out, or she may have found the rifle hidden lazily behind the curtain, and who knew what he would have to do then.
---
Every place, even a small town, changes at night. Tonight was no different - the local Wildcats were playing the Panthers, and the bright field lights could probably be seen from the space station. Even with the clouds hanging moodily overhead, obscuring the moon and stars, he felt uncomfortable, but could not stay any longer. He had dragged out his time here as much as he could, observing, figuring out the niche places to hide, and there was nothing. Whatever his source had told him, it was a lie. The only Talent there was around here to find was a young man, high school age, who didn't even seem to be aware of he could do fully, and so Wes left him wholly alone - that wasn't his department and he didn't particularly care. Sure, he had checked him out, just in case somehow this bemused C-average meathead was some Prince of Darkness, and in some sick we he had hoped he was to justify all the time he spent learning this shithole back to front, but it was all for naught.
His bag was pretty much packed, yet he still kept pacing around the room, looking out that window and taking sips from the bottle of water he had bought earlier, picking through some "salad" his hostess had so graciously brought him that was more ranch dressing with a side of lettuce and tomato. He had told her he was an author working on a small-town murder mystery, the only way he could justify hanging around without getting a job; he had promised that yes, he would somehow write her into his book. Tomorrow morning he'd have to take out whatever little he had at the bank to get the bus to a Greyhound station to...wherever next. He'd e-mailed his source with more than a little profanity at this waste of his time, but there was no response, and now he was at the mercy of having to wait until they found something for him. On his limited resources, there wasn't much he could do alone.
There was a knock on his door, and he paused, the nerves in his body screaming like millions of tiny live wires. Ms. Needles had made it extremely clear that she would be going to the game to watch her grandson, and certainly no one would rob a dying business that paid out more than it brought in. Those few seconds of distraction were enough for a bullet to fly through the flimsy wood of the door and lodge itself into the wall.
Instantly on the ground, Wes was about to go for his own rifle when the door burst open and two formless people stepped inside. Two Disciples, it was worth noting, and Wes couldn't help but almost laugh at his own mistake. A trap? He had been working with that damn source for almost two years and they hadn't led him astray, unless somehow they had been found out or hacked. No wonder the responses lately had been so short, vague, or non-existent. And what an elaborate trap, too,
"Wesley Lan," one of them said in a dead voice, a female one. He didn't recognise it, but then again, half the Disciples sounded the same to him; maybe it was that hive-minded sense of purpose he could never stand. It was fair enough, anyways, the possibility that sending one of his old "friends" would end up with them being too emotionally attached to kill him (which was a joke, they had all hated one another), but Wes suspected that this was some kind of test.
He stood up, backed up, forgetting about his rifle as he back up towards the bed.
"You caught me," he said, doing his best to sound convincingly worried, but like most times, there was still some kind of laughing smile in his voice. "So what do you want to do to me?" As he said it, he sat on the bed, raising his eyebrows suggestively alongside the question. Though he could not see her face, he suspected that neither she nor her companion were impressed.
"You will come with us," said the other figure, a male, much taller than Wesley. "You will answer for your crimes."
Wesley put down his hands, sighed; from their vantage, they could not fully see his hand slipping under the cheap mattress for his khukuri. It had to be a test - that was a rookie mistake.
"And what makes you think I want to come? You always served terrible food," he said admonishingly, the heft of the blade in his hand reassuring.
"Do not show resistance and we will not harm you. We are armed." She was approaching him, arm outstretched with some small gun lodged firmly between her fingers.
He got up (quickly, too quickly) and brought down the blade with full force into the softer flesh of her elbow. There was an awful noise before her forearm hit the ground, and she screamed in pain as Wes ducked as the man fired his own gun. Grabbing the one in the hand of the severed forearm, he quickly brought his head up and shot it out of his fingers. The man howled and held his damaged hand.
"Armed? Are you sure?" he asked the girl, unable to resist; she had sat down on the edge of the bed in shock, trying to stem the flow of blood. She wouldn't last long with a wound like that, so he kept his focus on the man, still pointing the gun. "You, buddy, are going to get the hell out of here unless you want to end up like her. Then you're going to back to where you came from and tell that asshole Snyder to leave me alone."
The man, breathing heavily, let out a yell at that and charged forwards; Wes neatly scampered up the wall and allowed him to almost crash into the wall before he swung his legs down heavily and kicked him in the back of the head, knocking him unconscious.
Dropping from his perch, he sighed and put his hands on his hips, deliberating what to do next. He wasn't sure if anyone else was out there now, but considering that there was a Talent besides him in the area, he had to suspect so - obviously they had been hiding themselves quite well, or he hadn't been looking hard enough. Still, wouldn't it be worth it to stay a few more days, just in case? He found himself smiling despite the situation.
But first, how would he explain this mess to poor Ms. Needles?
hi friends i'm peeds and this is my babi boii
28
Appearance
Wes stands at about 174 or 5 feet 7 inches. His body type is slender and wiry; he is not weak, but he has no use for brutal strength in his line of work. He has light brown eyes and hair (medium-length and usually tied up) and medium-toned skin, made tan and a little freckled from frequent time outside. His features are also small save for a prominent, slightly beaky nose and thick, intense eyebrows. Despite this, he is pretty easy on the eyes and generally sports a pleasant expression, even when his face is neutral.
Wesley “Wes” Lan
Male28
Appearance
Wes stands at about 174 or 5 feet 7 inches. His body type is slender and wiry; he is not weak, but he has no use for brutal strength in his line of work. He has light brown eyes and hair (medium-length and usually tied up) and medium-toned skin, made tan and a little freckled from frequent time outside. His features are also small save for a prominent, slightly beaky nose and thick, intense eyebrows. Despite this, he is pretty easy on the eyes and generally sports a pleasant expression, even when his face is neutral.
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