[color=gray]Date: Unknown Time: Unknown Location: Unkn—Clayton’s workshop. Interaction: Open to anyone[/color] [centre][img]https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1369078889900413010/1369111862935027862/0_2_1_19.jpg?ex=681ff248&is=681ea0c8&hm=724d24c7ddb78bb6241d5414c41728f916fb1657127d2c19b1ebcfbbfb9cc2ee&=&format=webp&width=529&height=703 [/img] [h3][b][u]C L A Y T O N R A D S H A W [/u][/b][/h3] [/centre] [B]Oblivion[/B]— [I]—Oblivious[/I]. There was something peaceful to be found in the deep, dark depths of the abyss. A sweet silence. The serene solitude. The still, endless, total, absolute nothingness. It was a peace reserved only for those counted amongst the dead. Unfortunately for Clay, he couldn’t consider himself as one of them—not yet. No matter how close he might feel. And as history has taught us time and time again, peace is only ever temporary. There were no exceptions here. . . . . A single stray beam of light filtered through a cracked window high above, glimmering as it descended, dancing through unsettled dust. It searched purposefully until it found Clay’s innocent, unsuspecting face. Landing on it with all the force and ferocity of a thousand suns. A guttural groan of protest escaped the lycan’s dry, cracked lips as he tossed his head, vainly trying to escape his unseen tormentor. But every sluggish movement brought on its own unique kind of torture. In his anguish, a sudden dry cough tore its way from his lungs, awakening him with more unrelenting pains as the jagged, rasping breath broke free. Everything ached. Every movement, every blink, every breath. His mouth was parched, his throat raw, his head filled with a relentless thunder. As the fit subsided and he drifted closer to the world of the living, he was met with a punishing cacophony of sounds lashing at his sensitive ears. A fly with a personal grudge against him beat its wings maliciously overhead. A nearby stranger’s soft sleeping breath roared like a chainsaw in his ears. Even the building, disturbed by the slightest shift, didn’t creak—it wailed, loudly, with the voice of a thousand lost souls. Somewhere in a distant realm, beastly hounds howled for his soul, splitting his skull with every cry. There was no escape. Blinking heavily, trying to banish the blurry blobs and smudged shadows clouding his vision, he accepted the truth. [b]He was in [u]hell.[/u][/b] Not the fire-and-brimstone kind from ancient sermons. Something worse. Drier. Louder. Crafted from stale air, old carpet, and regret. He could do little but lay there, defeated, and breathe. Each breath heightened his awareness of the smells around him, every one of them settling on his tongue like a punishment. The air was thick with the sharp tang of familiar ale. The slow rot of something long overdue for the bin. Smoke, old and bitter, soaked into every fibre of the furniture. A ghost of cheap perfume—sickly and sweet—clung to the air like an unwanted memory. And beneath it all, around him, on him, the heavy musk of body odour, sweat, and poorly considered intimacy. His own breath tasted of it all, adding to his own personal hell, a noxious, acidic cloud that could fell a lesser man. The ground beneath him was merciless. He could feel the fibres of worn carpet pressing into his bare skin. He was on the floor. Naked. A weight rested heavily on his chest, warm and suffocating, pinning him down. Black, silky tendrils of hair danced across his skin as he thoughtlessly shoved it aside, letting out a soft gasp of exertion as he free himself, only to find more restraints twisted around his legs. With a bit more care, he untangled the limbs entwined with his own, gently placing them back beside the naked body they belonged to. The woman murmured but didn’t stir. He couldn’t see her face—turned away and buried beneath the mop of wild, unruly hair—but from the rest of her, she didn’t look familiar. Not that he was surprised. Gritting his teeth, squinting his eyes, Clayton Radshaw fought gravity itself as he finally sat up, instantly expanding his known collection of aches and pains. The spinning world took most of his focus and it felt like he’d left his stomach somewhere far behind. Motion, it seemed, was not going to be his friend today. He took a slow, deep breath, even something as simple as that birthed new anguishes in his skull. The aches and trembles slowly subsided and he began to acclimate to his senses. Again, he breathed deep and slow, letting out another groan. Using the luxurious mattress of the large, expensive bed beside him, Clay pulled himself off the cold, hard floor and sat on its soft, comfy edge. Life slowly came back to his limbs. That’s when he noticed the second womanly shape, curled up beneath the sheets, with a head of blonde hair sticking out the top. Anger was his first response, jealousy that someone had used his bed while he slept on the floor. But he was far too hungover to blame someone for something that was probably his own doing. He closed his eyes and searched in his groggy mind for that elusive, lost serenity. Then he noticed it—a smell that had slipped by him earlier. Subtle, drowned out by the others, but unmistakably there. Suddenly, he was alert. [b]Wolf![/b] He might describe it to a human as "wet dog," but it was more than that. As was often the case, human language lacked the capacity to describe things it couldn’t comprehend. But Clay knew it. He knew it well. A wolf had been—or still was—here. The realisation sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins, vanquishing the weight of fatigue and snapping his senses into sharp focus. Suddenly, he was awake and standing. His nose twitched as the taste settled on his tongue, his mind compartmentalising, isolating, diagnosing the new information. Just like that, he was a coiled spring. Muscles taught, skin itching, the wolf within clawing for freedom, ready to leap to his defence. He let out a sudden, soft, derisive snort. No. It wasn’t his defence it wanted. It just wanted to fight. It yearned for violence. Clenching his fingers of his free hand into a tight fist, Clay smirked. He could understand that. But if there was a fight to be had here, the wolf would have to wait its turn. Ignoring the nameless, naked woman slumbering in his bed, his blue eyes only briefly passing over her voluptuous curves, Clay gave her just enough attention to rule her out as the source of his concern. He took a slow, staggering, wince-inducing step toward the metal railing that marked the edge of his open loft bedroom, which overlooked the cold, industrial concrete floor below. He’d been living in his workshop so long that work and personal life had long since merged, and the chaos of that union was evident in every corner. Stepping over the second woman still sprawled out uncomfortably on the floor, Clay continued toward the rails. His clumsy attempt at stealth wasn’t about kindness or silence, it was about appeasing his own aching head. At the end of his short, uneven trek, he was surprised to find—almost as if by magic—a nearly empty bottle of whisky in his hand. Not one to question the gods, Clay wet his lips and took a deep swig from the bottle, welcoming the expected burn as it ran down his throat. It smelled like the hole in his memory. And tasted like resposibility for all the bad decisions he couldn't remember. (well most of them) With a pleased gasp, he blinked heavily once more—just as a definite sound from the workshop floor below caught his attention. Naked as the day he was born, long dark hair wild and dishevelled over his shoulders, bottle still in hand, Clay leaned out over the metal railing. His sharp blue eyes swept across the cluttered concrete floor, across his kingdom. Something was down there. A thief? A client? Someone here on business? The cops? A pimp? A local gang member, sniffing about, thinking of trying to expand their turf—again. Honestly, who knows who he might’ve pissed off recently. It could be [u][b]anyone...[/b][/u] [color=darkgray]<-- [i]hint hint, nudge nudge[/i] [/color] Clay cracked his knuckles, adjusted his grip on the bottle and grin excitedly.