(OOC: (This is a continuation of the murdered role play from the previous incarnation of our beloved website. Tears and cheers, let's continue.)IC: )
Flake calmly reclined against the wall as the bustling pub erupted with noise once more. His eyes were starting to numb, the nice pain getting dull. His mind was bustling with images of prediction and recollection. The minutes seemed to shoot on by as if he had just finished a long run and decided to play a game of cards with Dane. More memories flew on by, his attention falling further away from his ears.
Near the entrance, he heard the crusty door slam open, followed by the thunk of a few knives sinking into the wall. Cut the crap he thought, throwing knives at people is an offer for war. Sure enough, before he had time to complete his next inhalation cycle, the familiar sound of a pickpocket’s comedic act came to ear. Flake’s ears picked up a familiar voice for a moment, but it faded before he could make out who it was.
It didn’t take long for the bounty hunter to notice that the floor was warping linearly in his direction, but without any sound. Many humans thought that sight and sound were the only means for detection, however Flake knew better. His boot rested on a loose floorboard which shifted when weight was shifted along the aisle. As a result, Flake could tell that someone sneaky was approaching. He had his thoughts as to who it was, but he did not reveal any sign that he had detected his sneaky friend.
The bounty hunter appeared asleep, his arms sprawled across the wall, resting on various surfaces, his head leaned against the backrest of the booth. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and his eyes were still. As the sneak grew closer, Flake shifted his wrist slightly in preparation to draw a blade. He doubted he’d need to use it once he spooked off the amateur, but better safe than sorry.
The shifting in weight got close enough to the point where he could lift his leg and catch the trespasser between the legs, but nothing seemed to happen. Flake could barely perceive the sound of his money pouch hovering off the table as a coin shifted and clinked against another. He continued waiting in order to see if the thief would step back, but he or she didn’t. The thief’s weight shifted into the seat at the opposite side of the booth.
At the moment the weight was gone, Flake pictured possible locations for the thief’s head and neck, one leaning forward, one right against the backrest, a few to either side certain degrees. He waited a second, and his patience paid off, because he heard the soft grinding sound of hair against wood as the thief rested his or her head against the backrest.
At this moment, with one fluid motion, Flake pulled the knife out of his sleeve, positioned it in his hand, and flung it straight at the backrest beside the point where the sound was emitted. As his hand was still moving, the bounty hunter opened his eyes, and leaned toward the thief, snatching his money pouch out of the thief’s lingering hand. The knife landed point-first in the wooden backrest, the dull edge facing away from the thief’s head. As the instant passed, Flake had a revelation.
“Ahh,” he grumbled, a smug grin edging across his face, “so you decided to return after all. Typical of a person with a vendetta.” The bounty hunter then rested his right boot on the seat beside his company’s left thigh, facing her as he continued, “what’s your business in a filthy hovel such as this, Raine?” The moment he finished his question, a knife flew from the other end of the room and slammed against the wall, clattering onto the table. Flake continued staring at his company, unflinching, as his smug grin narrowed, clearly annoyed at the sudden emphasis on his negative description of their location.
Flake calmly reclined against the wall as the bustling pub erupted with noise once more. His eyes were starting to numb, the nice pain getting dull. His mind was bustling with images of prediction and recollection. The minutes seemed to shoot on by as if he had just finished a long run and decided to play a game of cards with Dane. More memories flew on by, his attention falling further away from his ears.
Near the entrance, he heard the crusty door slam open, followed by the thunk of a few knives sinking into the wall. Cut the crap he thought, throwing knives at people is an offer for war. Sure enough, before he had time to complete his next inhalation cycle, the familiar sound of a pickpocket’s comedic act came to ear. Flake’s ears picked up a familiar voice for a moment, but it faded before he could make out who it was.
It didn’t take long for the bounty hunter to notice that the floor was warping linearly in his direction, but without any sound. Many humans thought that sight and sound were the only means for detection, however Flake knew better. His boot rested on a loose floorboard which shifted when weight was shifted along the aisle. As a result, Flake could tell that someone sneaky was approaching. He had his thoughts as to who it was, but he did not reveal any sign that he had detected his sneaky friend.
The bounty hunter appeared asleep, his arms sprawled across the wall, resting on various surfaces, his head leaned against the backrest of the booth. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and his eyes were still. As the sneak grew closer, Flake shifted his wrist slightly in preparation to draw a blade. He doubted he’d need to use it once he spooked off the amateur, but better safe than sorry.
The shifting in weight got close enough to the point where he could lift his leg and catch the trespasser between the legs, but nothing seemed to happen. Flake could barely perceive the sound of his money pouch hovering off the table as a coin shifted and clinked against another. He continued waiting in order to see if the thief would step back, but he or she didn’t. The thief’s weight shifted into the seat at the opposite side of the booth.
At the moment the weight was gone, Flake pictured possible locations for the thief’s head and neck, one leaning forward, one right against the backrest, a few to either side certain degrees. He waited a second, and his patience paid off, because he heard the soft grinding sound of hair against wood as the thief rested his or her head against the backrest.
At this moment, with one fluid motion, Flake pulled the knife out of his sleeve, positioned it in his hand, and flung it straight at the backrest beside the point where the sound was emitted. As his hand was still moving, the bounty hunter opened his eyes, and leaned toward the thief, snatching his money pouch out of the thief’s lingering hand. The knife landed point-first in the wooden backrest, the dull edge facing away from the thief’s head. As the instant passed, Flake had a revelation.
“Ahh,” he grumbled, a smug grin edging across his face, “so you decided to return after all. Typical of a person with a vendetta.” The bounty hunter then rested his right boot on the seat beside his company’s left thigh, facing her as he continued, “what’s your business in a filthy hovel such as this, Raine?” The moment he finished his question, a knife flew from the other end of the room and slammed against the wall, clattering onto the table. Flake continued staring at his company, unflinching, as his smug grin narrowed, clearly annoyed at the sudden emphasis on his negative description of their location.
