[indent][color=red][i]The Sanguine Symphony 1.2[/i][/color][/indent] [hr] [center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/210902/a3e5ef275ddd9c36d12e6dd294875034.png[/img] [img]https://i.ibb.co/HHS7FTc/ragman-pc.png[/img] [/center] [hr] [indent][right][color=red][i]Starring [@Bork Lazer] and [@Rapid Reader][/i][/color][/right][/indent] [hr] A voice. A woman's voice. Warm. Familiar somehow. Tinged as it was with the faintest hint of what might have once been French. "Rory." "What? Leave me alone. It's too early." "Rory Regan," the voice insisted sternly. "Wake up!" "Why?" Rory hissed back, pulling her bedsheet closer. "There's evil in the city." "There's always evil in this city," Rory groaned back, burying her head against her pillow. "No, not like this, not evil like this, greater forces are at work here now. Wake up! This is no time for sleeping!" Rory lurched to life with a cold shiver. A thin layer of sweat tugged the sleep from her eyes as she held the pillow in her hands like a weapon. She lived alone. She lived alone above her thrift shop. There shouldn't have been anyone in her apartment. There shouldn't be a voice telling her to wake up. She could feel the threads tautening. She could feel the familiar pull. She knew it was waiting. She knew it was waiting for her. Souls tugged at her awareness. Souls bound to the suit, chained to her will. The suit of souls lay crumpled in a pile on the floor. She could never quite place it. It was always changing. Yesterday it had been a knee length skirt. Brilliant rags stitched together with an expert hand. Today. Today it was a periwinkle blouse. An elegant patchwork of blue, with a fluffy crepe and lace gown. Tomorrow? Who knew? Who knew what the suit of souls would be tomorrow? Who knew who she would be? Who knew what she would be? [hr] Ragwoman let the suit of souls guide her through the narrow streets. The suit didn't need to speak to her. The fabric had weaved through her soul. It was a part of her. Or was she a part of it? Another soul ensnared by the suit of souls? It didn't matter. Evil was evil. And she was Ragwoman. Evil had to be stopped. Evil had to be punished. And the evil souls Ragwoman encountered had to be absorbed into the suit of souls. The tugging soul lined string brought Ragwoman to the Warehouse District. Lurking in the darkness of an alley, her eyes were drawn towards a remodeled warehouse building. The Callan Contemporary. A fancy art gallery in the Warehouse District. Ragwoman sneered beneath her mask. Of course evil was hiding behind a heavy venire of tasteful class. [hr] Tendrils of fabric flared out from the soul of suits. Seeking. Testing. Judging. In the darkness of the gallery she saw two figures. One figure loomed over the other, which seemed to be writhing on the floor. A faint pain coursed through Ragwoman and the suit of souls seemed to recoil. A symphony of angry voices rose up in righteous anger. There was nothing. No souls. Not even the faintest hint of any souls in the two creatures she saw. It was wrong. The fabric of the suit twitched with anger at the wrongness of it all. It was evil. It had to be evil. Evil, the suit wordlessly told her, as a symphony of voices began to rise, souls clamoring for violent justice. Eric let the vamp he was holding slide down to the floor, head lolling on the ground in meek surrender. His hand fidgeted on the handle of his sliver claymore strapped on his back as his mind continued to scream and his skin prickled at what he saw. He remembered when he was tracking down a group of Anchorites down in the Mid-West, creeping in cornfields where rows upon rows of scarecrows loomed and swayed in the wind. He was reminded of one of those straw men as he observed the newcomer. Their costume, their skin, whatever the hell they were wearing at the moment was like looking at a patchwork quilt, a blanket that had been passed on from child to child across generations. His head throbbed as he continued to hear the voices screaming in his ear. Man, woman, child, old, young. It was as if someone had mixed together the soundtracks from a dozen rock bands to make some horrific abomination. His head turned to the vampire, still lying insensate on the ground and then, to the hooded stranger. Like Jamal said, it was better to be safe than sorry. His left hand shot towards his belt, unclipping another mixture of holy water, silver nitrate and a dozen other ingredients that Whistler included. It was a broad spectrum measure so that he didn’t have to twiddle his thumbs making stupid decisions that would kill him in the heat of battle. He’d have to get up close first, though. He grabbed a stake from his bandolier with his right hand and then, began sprinting towards the stranger, thrusting the wooden apparatus forward at where their heart was. The voices screamed as Blade violently crashed into Ragwoman. His aim was true and Ragwoman crumbled from the blow as the stake smashed into her ribcage. Ragwoman shuddered, shivering on the floor in a fit, her hands clawing at her chest before she slumped over. Well, that was easy. Eric was somewhat miffed as he watched the stranger fold like a piece of paper. He knelt down and examined the still body closer. It was evidently human with no abnormal proportions that would suggest otherwise. The only thing to do now was to find out who the hell they were. Eric began pawing around their face, trying to remove their mask. "That hurt, asshole," Ragwoman said, grabbing hold of the vampire hunter's hands with an inhumanely strong grip. Shoving Blade backwards as she staggered to her feet, Ragwoman wrenched his trench coat with her left hand and swung her fight fist squarely at Blade’s boxlike jawline. The heavy blow echoed through the gallery and sent Blade crashing to the ground. A brave soul, perhaps seeking redemption, had swallowed up the mortal blow, vanishing in a chorus of laughter as Ragwoman loomed over the halfbreed vampire. Stars danced in his eyes as the sucker punch got him good in the chin. He shook his head, slightly punch drunk. Eric slowly picked the cracked shades off his face, scowling up at her. He spat out a drop of blood. " Motherfucker!," Unveiling the canister in his right hand, he threw it against the stranger’s chest, the contents breaking open and spilling all over them. Ragwoman screeched as foul smelling liquid covered her, desperately brushing her suit as if it would somehow remove whatever it was that the trench coat wearing psychopath had thrown at her. She wanted to vomit. She smelled like cat piss and garlic. She was done playing around. She was done observing. She needed a shower...and a dry cleaner. Pointing a rag clothed finger at Blade, her voice rose in a cacophony of sound, interwoven with arcane energies, "Your tricks will not save you from judgment, villain." " Wait a second." Eric’s eyes squinted in disbelief " Villain? What in the - " He then thumbed over his back towards the still comatose vampire and the disemboweled remains of his companion. " - I was in the process of disposing of some villains over there till you came swaggering in with that goofy ass costume." He then pointed towards the soaked patch of where Whistler’s concoction made contact. " And how the hell are you not screaming in pain right now?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. " I swear to god, if she gave me holy water blessed by Protestants instead of Catholics to annoy me……." "First of all, goofy ass costume? How dare you. Second of all, holy water? What the fuck did you think that would do? Melt me? I’m not a witch, Dracula." "You have a lot of opinions for a psycho staking random strangers," Ragwoman continued, her voice rising as she ranted. "Besides, you’re missing something. Something is off, something is wrong about you. Beyond your apparent interest in stabbing people that is." " I sometimes shoot them as well." Eric sourly muttered before clasping both of his hands in front of himself and sighing. How the hell would Jamal do this? " I know this might sound stupid but….name’s Blade. That guy and ….." Eric motioned towards the sprayed blood everywhere " two parts of another guy over there are two idiots who happened to stumble upon me while I was investigating the area. Things got messy, then, you entered the equation. I thought you were a fuckin’ demon with all that nastiness pouring off your aura, lady." " Now that I’ve given my side of the story" Eric pointed towards Ragwoman. " - who the hell are you?" "Ragwoman," Ragwoman said, flipping her cloak dramatically over her shoulder. "Defender of the weak, savior of the oppressed, and punisher of evil, you know, the usual stuff." "Not a demon, definitely not a demon, despite whatever my aura may look like to you," she added with a shrug. "I’m here to stop some big bad evil. Trouble is I’m not quite sure what it is yet. Or where it is for that matter. You sure you’re not evil? Maybe you’re the reason I’m here?" Great. It seemed like the Big Empty was filling to the brim with more weirdos by the day. A extrajudicial vigilante, though, was acceptable in terms of all the crap Eric had dealt with in his years of hunting. He crossed his arms, deciding on whether or not to bring her in. He considered the risks and benefits. On the one hand, this person was an unknown variable in the supernatural ball game. A stranger. Someone out of left field who Eric had no context on. Danger was sewn into every fabric of her being and he didn’t want any part of it. On the other hand, allies were hard to come by, and he’d be damned if he took help for Van Helsing or any of her stuck up armchair lounging brood again. He took a deep breath and then began with a question. " How much do you know about vampires?" "They’ve got pointy teeth, drink blood, don’t tan well, hate holy water, and have a distinct lack of anything resembling a soul," Ragwoman replied. "Or so I’ve heard…I’m not really a vampire hunter, I’m just your friendly neighborhood mystic vigilante." "Not to be rude, but you look kinda like your napping friend over there," Ragwoman concluded, nodding beneath her hood in the direction of the knocked out vampire. Eric paused to digest her answer before nodding shortly. " Close enough." There was a moment of silence before he crouched down and hoisted the unconscious vampire on his shoulder like a bag of flour. " If you want to find out more ‘bout the murders that have been happening around these parts, you best follow me. Otherwise, you could also stick out of my business, but you don’t seem the type." He ripped the stake out of the vampire he was currently holding with a wet pop and inserted it onto one of his bandoliers. " So, what’s it going to be, Rags?" "Well, [b]Blade[/b], this is my city, warts, vampire cabals, spooky evil, and all. So you’re stuck with me. However, lead on Mr. Vampire Hunter, let’s get to the bottom of this mystery and save the Big Easy. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it," Ragwoman snarked back, her voice shifting into a multitude as the souls in her suit clamored to be heard. " Ain’t that the truth." He shifted slightly to ease the weight on his shoulder before turning his back. " So long as you don’t try and chop my head, I’ll do the same for you. Now, come on. I think Whistler’s got something back at that base to wash off all that crap I got on you."