[color=gray]

[img]https://i.imgur.com/RUeksDd.jpeg[/img]
[Center][h2][color=goldenrod]Dominic Blackmoor[/color][/h2][/center]
[center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[center][color=goldenrod][b]Location:[/b][/color] Abandoned Warehouse • [color=goldenrod][b]Time:[/b][/color] Dusk[/center]
[center][color=goldenrod][b]Interactions:[/b][/color] N/A • [color=goldenrod][b]Mentions:[/b][/color] [@Infinite Cosmos] Lucian, [@deegee] Kessler[/center]
[center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

The silence held long after Kessler’s voice faded.

Dominic stood there, eyes low, fixed on the floor and the pool of blood still wet around Logan’s boots. The bottle hung loose in his hand, the other resting at his belt, unmoving. The sway of that single bulb above him carved lines into his face, deeper than usual, catching the gray in his beard and the hard shape of his jaw. For the first time in a long time, he looked tired. Not broken, never that, just heavy in a way only men who carry way more than there share ever really are.

But then he blinked, and the weight in his gaze shifted. It didn’t disappear, but rather it just hardened into something sharper.

He looked to Lucian first, then to Kessler. His voice came quiet, low, not loud enough to cut the room… but heavy enough to still it.

[color=goldenrod]“We bury him high,”[/color] he said. [color=goldenrod]“Where the sun hits first.”[/color]

He stepped back toward Logan’s body, crouching beside him one last time.
The quiet settled around him like smoke.

[color=goldenrod]“I want it to be the kind of place where the wind never forgets his name,”[/color] he said softly.
[color=goldenrod]“If we couldn’t give him peace in life… then we’ll give him light in death.”[/color]

He stood again, slower this time. Not from exhaustion …from purpose. Like the motion itself was part of the moment, part of the ritual. He looked down one more time, then turned away from the corpse and toward the space where his two most trusted brothers left had gathered.

[color=goldenrod]“Once the grave’s filled,”[/color] he said, his voice deeper now, [color=goldenrod]“we call Church.”[/color]

The word didn’t echo, it landed solid like something sacred.

[color=goldenrod]“And not just the patches,”[/color] he added. [color=goldenrod]“I want the prospects there too. All of them. The Newbloods need to see this with their own eyes.”[/color] He said, referring to his fallen brother’s bloodied kutte.  [color=goldenrod]“They need to understand what it really means to ride with us. What it means to lose one of our own.”[/color]

He paused, letting the silence fill in the meaning. It wasn’t about shame. It wasn’t about fear. It was about clarity.

[color=goldenrod]“Every kutte in this pack carries weight,”[/color] he said. [color=goldenrod]“They need to feel it.”[/color]

His boots moved across the floor again, slow and deliberate, until he came to stand beside the two men who would carry the weight of Logan’s legacy and responsibilities forward. He didn’t touch them, didn’t need to. Just stood in their space with that same quiet gravity he always carried.

[color=goldenrod]“You both showed up,”[/color] he said, voice calm again. [color=goldenrod]“Like always.”[/color]

There was a pause.

And then, finally, the storm broke in his voice…not with fury, not with fire, but with something colder. Something final.

[color=goldenrod]“After Church,”[/color] he said, [color=goldenrod]“we go hunting.”[/color][/color]