cider
Rune bid farewell to Eva, giving her his number for when he was ready to move on the soulstone proper.
Being out of Avalo, Rune took stock of his situation. The twice accursed weapon he now kept underneath his coat whispered and simmered in the back of his mind. He himself was feeling a little ragged and in a desperate need of a drink. But that would have to wait for now. He staggered across New York, having to stop to dry heave in a alleyway every so often. He had forgot how jarring the Witchkiller was to posses as he was magically imbued himself. Now that Arcane energies that flowed directly itno him was constantly at odds with the vile weapon. His feet led him to the apartment he rented in Hells Kitched. He barely percieved the portier as he staggered past him into the lobby. He was sweating profusely as he was leaning on the cool metal of the elevator walls. He staggered out, half falling against the door to his penthouse apartment. Fumbling with the key he threw himself inside and tossed the thing away. It scrambled against the floor bone and metal bouncing lightly agains the marble tiles of the foyér. The seperation shocked him like a bolt of lightning up his arm. He gritted his teeth, staring at the damn thing.
Only then did he realize the womanly shape that sat by his table. Grabbed his spear and spun, but it vanished into thin little vapors of black smoke. But he knew what he had seen. His eyes went ubnidden to the witch killer where it lay on the floor.
"Allready with the fucking ghosts?! Really?!" He stared at it. For a piece of inert metal and bone, it sure felt smug. Grabbing a large rectangular box from under his bed, he quickly disposed of it, locking it inside. Runes flared all along the black led box as it locked.
Soon enough, he was heading to the closest bar. Every so often, he saw the smoke like apperitions walking among people. He knew what they were, the memories of the peoples whos bones where used for the gun in his apartment. They were all out of place, from the late 1800's in clothing. This was why he got rid of it in the first place. For a non-practioner, the gun was a powerfull tool and you would never see these things. If your not a magician, the gun would not hurt you. It could corrupt you, drive you to bloodlust. But you would not have to see the ghosts or have to fight its more insidius effects.. For a person attuned to the mystical and arcane, it was a curse and a bane. He needed to find Otto and plan their next step.
The bar that was unfortunate enough to be his destinations was Willards Lager and Stouts. A joint he had terrorized with his drunken charms before. He quickly ordered a shot of whiskey and downed it. The burning sensation of the malt kicked his brain back into gear. He eyed the bar before picking up his phone. Otto picked up on the first call.
"Rune. When did you get back?"
"Just now. Its as bad as ever man. The thing is just as evil as when I left it."
"Shit man. You sure you need it?" Ottos voice sounded more concerned then Rune had thought it would. Something else had spooked him aside from the return of Runes gun.
"You ok Otto? You sound shaken." Rune inquired curiusly.
"Listen. I think something happened with our necromancer friend." Otto began but Rune cut him off.
"Yeah no shit. she got her soul sucked out." It was true enough. They had both agreed to that being what fate had befallen her.
"That is the thing. She apperently got up and walked out of Pucks by her own will and power." Otto said, sounding as full of disbelief as Rune was feeling in that instant. But Rune quickly shook his head.
"...Ok you know what? We will worry about that another day. We gotta handle the stone first." They didn't have time to deal with that shit. Not right now.
"You are right. So where are you now?" Otto inquired.
"Willards." Rune called for another shot of whiskey.
"Be there in 20" Otto confirmed.
"See you then my friend." Rune killed the phone and downed another shot.
Being out of Avalo, Rune took stock of his situation. The twice accursed weapon he now kept underneath his coat whispered and simmered in the back of his mind. He himself was feeling a little ragged and in a desperate need of a drink. But that would have to wait for now. He staggered across New York, having to stop to dry heave in a alleyway every so often. He had forgot how jarring the Witchkiller was to posses as he was magically imbued himself. Now that Arcane energies that flowed directly itno him was constantly at odds with the vile weapon. His feet led him to the apartment he rented in Hells Kitched. He barely percieved the portier as he staggered past him into the lobby. He was sweating profusely as he was leaning on the cool metal of the elevator walls. He staggered out, half falling against the door to his penthouse apartment. Fumbling with the key he threw himself inside and tossed the thing away. It scrambled against the floor bone and metal bouncing lightly agains the marble tiles of the foyér. The seperation shocked him like a bolt of lightning up his arm. He gritted his teeth, staring at the damn thing.
Only then did he realize the womanly shape that sat by his table. Grabbed his spear and spun, but it vanished into thin little vapors of black smoke. But he knew what he had seen. His eyes went ubnidden to the witch killer where it lay on the floor.
"Allready with the fucking ghosts?! Really?!" He stared at it. For a piece of inert metal and bone, it sure felt smug. Grabbing a large rectangular box from under his bed, he quickly disposed of it, locking it inside. Runes flared all along the black led box as it locked.
Soon enough, he was heading to the closest bar. Every so often, he saw the smoke like apperitions walking among people. He knew what they were, the memories of the peoples whos bones where used for the gun in his apartment. They were all out of place, from the late 1800's in clothing. This was why he got rid of it in the first place. For a non-practioner, the gun was a powerfull tool and you would never see these things. If your not a magician, the gun would not hurt you. It could corrupt you, drive you to bloodlust. But you would not have to see the ghosts or have to fight its more insidius effects.. For a person attuned to the mystical and arcane, it was a curse and a bane. He needed to find Otto and plan their next step.
The bar that was unfortunate enough to be his destinations was Willards Lager and Stouts. A joint he had terrorized with his drunken charms before. He quickly ordered a shot of whiskey and downed it. The burning sensation of the malt kicked his brain back into gear. He eyed the bar before picking up his phone. Otto picked up on the first call.
"Rune. When did you get back?"
"Just now. Its as bad as ever man. The thing is just as evil as when I left it."
"Shit man. You sure you need it?" Ottos voice sounded more concerned then Rune had thought it would. Something else had spooked him aside from the return of Runes gun.
"You ok Otto? You sound shaken." Rune inquired curiusly.
"Listen. I think something happened with our necromancer friend." Otto began but Rune cut him off.
"Yeah no shit. she got her soul sucked out." It was true enough. They had both agreed to that being what fate had befallen her.
"That is the thing. She apperently got up and walked out of Pucks by her own will and power." Otto said, sounding as full of disbelief as Rune was feeling in that instant. But Rune quickly shook his head.
"...Ok you know what? We will worry about that another day. We gotta handle the stone first." They didn't have time to deal with that shit. Not right now.
"You are right. So where are you now?" Otto inquired.
"Willards." Rune called for another shot of whiskey.
"Be there in 20" Otto confirmed.
"See you then my friend." Rune killed the phone and downed another shot.
