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In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

@Atrophy@Fernstone@Punished GN
Church

Some had ignored him, or at least hadn't noticed his presence. Clancy looked away, and when he turned back - the host-girl and the parasitic monkey on her back had disappeared, while a few others at the back row were still bickering over something he could only guess was inane high school bullshit that none of them could afford to waste time on.

“... sorry for your loss, as I am sorry for our behavior. This situation has left us at our worst. My name is Sloane..."

Then, finally, he realised he'd managed to turn a few heads, but it took the first of them stepping up from the pew to finally acknowledge him, and imply she had some useful information. “...the rest of the congregation would like to offer this young man their condolences?”

Although he would credit the girl - Sloane - that, the gentleness of her tone betrayed a condescendance that he didn't have time for. "I don't need condolences-"

Two others cut in.

”...for your loss, Clancy. My name's Anya Baksh, and I also… worked with Ashley.”

The first, Anya, followed suit with Sloane, which wasn't much use given they had bigger issues on their plate. Hearing his name spoken aloud by someone else was something he'd almost forgotten, and not a thing he would get used to anytime soon, but that bottle had been uncorked already.

The second speaker, not so much.

”Oh, so you do know how to offer condolences, Sloane? You didn't even like Ashley. After everything Jinhai did for him, it's the least you could do, bitch.

This is going in circles. Exasperation made him question why it took a child to recognise their bickering was a waste of time, in light of everything. Seriously?! As the asian girl seemed ready to smash Sloane in the face with a book, Clancy stepped down from the lectern towards them, thrusting the axe back inside the bag so he didn't give in to the temptation to brain them with the flat end.

"Was I talking Yid-?!" he exclaimed, only for the last few syllables to be drowned out by the pitched crackle of broken glass. Clancy pivoted on his heels, fingers tightening around the handle of the axe, watching as a pair of cannisters bounced off the drywall and skidded across the floorboards of the church, a thin white trail of something noxious released from them, judging by the reaction the others were having.

This wasn't good.

Doors kicked in. People in full SWAT gear, wearing masks and yelling out orders.

“EVERYONE! GET ON THE GROUND! ON! THE! GROUND!”


They cops or whoever they were had arrived in strength this time, he knew. Clancy recognised a few of the voices, namely the asian girl from last night who'd offered him the business card. She seemed to have history with he girl with the bible, more bad blood.

For a moment Clancy stood there, lips pursed, apparently unaffected by what he eventually realised was tear gas. It rolled over him and he felt... nothing. He'd never been gassed before, not like this, but it still came as a surprise, the perplexed expression creased across his face as Bianca copped a bible nearvthe head and responded by tasing Linqian.

It was an expression that turned to momentary rage when a gloved hand clamped around his arm, close to the elbow.

“Hey, little guy-” the voice was cut off as he yanked the arm back hard enough for the masked man to lose his footing, landing on the floor.

"Don't-" he spat, seething at the masked man. Although he stood over him, he felt a semblance of restraint that kept him from taking that building anger any further.

“... What the hell?!” Samson asked.

Clancy stepped back, wordlessly planting a foot on Samson's rifle and kicking it to one side beneath a nearby pew, before anything stupid happened. His gaze was searching for an exit, fully conscious that all the conventional means of leaving had been covered by the SWAT team.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

@Estylwen@Punished GN@Fernstone
Old Church


"There was a boy at Veni Vedi. Said he knew something. If we can find him, there's our next lead. He might be alive, despite getting shot."

A slow clapping filled the air, echoed off the steepled ceiling and inner walls of the church so it felt like it was a dozen hands making the noise, rather than a single pair.

"That boy has a name, and he could hear you all from a mile away."

One leg thrown over each side, perched between one of the roof beams and the ceiling, was a pubescent boy - the same boy that had shown up at the club, been shot, then disappeared without a trace. In one swoop, he clambered down from the beam, shoes scuffing against the religious decor as he dropped down to the lectern at the far side of the hall. He was dressed differently, this time.

"Gotta say, if you people really were her friends, you're doing a terrible job of looking out for her memory. Why wait to get picked off when you can do half the work and kill each other?"

The boy wore a green hoodie bearing the likeness of a sports mascot he couldn't personally recognise, an oversized cartoon bird with a sailor's hat that could best be described as a poor man's Donald Duck. Along with that were a pair of denim pants that were a shade too large, with sleeves that had been too obviously torn at the edges in an amateur attempt to adjust them to the wearer's shorter height. Slung over his back was a navy gym bag, about half his size, the length running from head to hips. Something long and heavy was sat inside, judging by the outline bulging through the fabric.

"By the way," he remarked jabbing a finger at Layla, "They're not wrong about what you're in for." He shifted his gaze towards the entropic Void, eyes crinkling. He shook his head, shrugged it off. "Guess one dead host isn't enough? She might not know what you are, but be honest - you're just another predator."



Last Night.

Rooftops


As he sat watching the world snap to reality, a memory of a hospital room and the thrum of a heart monitor sat in his memory.

"I'm sorry." That's what he'd told her, and the only shred of honesty he'd given that night. "I'll go tell Mom I'm home, Judes."

It had been a lie. There was no home, not anymore, not for him, that ship had sailed.

"Just get some sleep." That was their final goodbye, the last thing he'd said to her. She died a few weeks later.

Judy and Ashley were gone, there was no bringing either of them back. But for Ashley's sake, he could try and unpick what happened and deal with whoever was responsible. His one lead, the biker, was dead, the stranger gone, which left only one other word in his mind.

Overhead, the dull buzz of an aircraft filled his ears. Emergency lights and distant voices chattering as the inertia of tearing up a neighbourhood finally hit the brick wall. The area had been swarmed with a scattering of emergency workers and locals whom had been roused at the dead of night by the chaos. No doubt they'd officially blame that on a faultline, an occupational hazard of living in the Pacific Northwest.

His thoughts drifted to the people who'd shown up and tried to spirit him away after taking a twelve gauge to the face, they weren't kids, they were organised. Cops? More than that, he knew there were government agencies that took an interest in things that sat beyond the mundane world, things like him. Had they seen enough of him that questions would come up? It was a point of frustration, but one he would deal with later.

Bag, shoes and new clothes. Those were his priorities right now.

The bag had a couple of his belongings in it, stuff that would've been more of an inconvenience to replace in a short amount of time. The shoes, he didn't want to go through the trouble of finding a replacement pair that would fit him without slipping off. Clothes, well-

Now he was pacing along a side-street, half-naked and speckled with blood that belonged to at least three other human beings and one decidedly inhuman creature, the clothes he'd been wearing now a tattered ruin for the most part. The only article close to remaining somewhat intact were his pants, and they too had seen better days. That he could thank the bikers and their pet for ruining. Good clothes were frustratedly difficult to come by.

He touched at his own face and glanced at the distorted reflection in the side mirror of an adjacent car. For the most part, everything had shifted back into place, where it was supposed to be, although he couldn't say he ever truly felt like himself - there was no real normal, not for him, just the state of being. At least he'd taken his pound of flesh in turn, and had managed to find the contents of the heavy bundle that was now wrapped under his arm in the tattered remains of his hoodie.

Across the street was the Veni Vedi Veni, definitely closed for business after the night's events, although he found irony in the fact that despite a few buildings being damaged beyond repair, the strip club where the night's events all started had probably escaped unscathed, save for one private room that would need new carpets and a deep clean. The police had taped off the parking lot, and as he crossed the street and slipped under the tape and behind the nearest car, he caught a glimpse of a mixed group of SPPD and SPFD officers talking near the front of the club.

Sand, trash and other detritus had been scattered everywhere. Near a wrecked car, a white sheet had been draped over the ground, a humanoid shape laid out beneath it. There, he spotted his bag and shoes, dumped a few feet away with a marker taped over them. When the nearby cop stepped away to drag on his cigarette, he made his play, scrabbling on hands and knees until he was able to swipe both. He didn't waste time slipping them on, instead making an exit just in time to hear an older cop cursing out the other on their smoke break.

"... prints all over the floor, tell those pricks to stop walking over and moving shit..."

Just one more thing.


Now

Church


"It's Clancy, by the way. Ashley was my cousin, we used to speak sometimes, before..." Some things didn't need explaining, so he let the silence hang there for a moment while he gathered his thoughts.

The truth was that he'd been following them for a while, and learned enough along the way. A retelling of last night's events, how more of them were dead this morning. Each going for the other's jugular, until a cloud of butterflies had put an end to that. They had all been Ashley's 'friends', although given how divided they were, he wondered how far that was stretching the term.

"You were Ashley's friends, right?" His thoughts found their form in speech.

They were, altogether, a wretched group. His gaze particularly crinkled whenever it passed over 'Void' and its new host, the girl who went by Layla. Its very presence was a point of consternation, a reflection that he had no desire to see. Truth was, he felt sorry for the girl and the world she was in for, and had doubts as to whether he was as much responsible for her plight as he was for getting the last host, Alizee killed.

Given one of the others - Anya - had spoken of sharing information while the contenders for 'senior it-girl' had disappeared, he felt it opportune to share what he knew.

"Since you were busy with the crazies, I spoke with their boss... who maybe just convinced me he had nothing to do with Ashley or your friends dying." Clancy tugged at the strap around his shoulder, then unzipped the gym bag he was hauling with him. Reaching inside with one hand, he pulled out a familiar axe with ornate decor furnishing both the handle and head. "Said that 'Dollhouse' gave the bikers their stuff, abstracthangs- whatever you wanna call them."

Clancy shrugged, balancing the axe with a one-handed grip just below the the head, "Means nothing to me, except they sound like a bunch of creeps. But you know this town, and I know Ashley knew stuff too. And we want the same thing, which is to find whoever killed her."
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


@Punished GN@Estylwen@Atrophy@FernStone@LanaStorm
Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


Momentarily, he felt nothing but a haze, and sensed everything peripherally. A gunshot rang out, followed by more noise, angry voices and the cries of the others, and some ephemeral song in a language he didn't understand. Something washed over him like a breeze, but he felt no warmth from it. A voice raged, set apart from the rest in its raw anguish.

"Alizée!!!"


His senses reclaimed him.

Clancy blinked, hunched beside a pickup truck where the engine still ran, one palm pressed against the door. When he pulled it away, he noted the deep gouges torn into the metal, like fingernails through paper, and chunks of wet, meaty viscera sloughing away from whatever or whoever had sat at the other side, and then he glanced down.

There were punctures and tears in his shirt and hoodie, barely concealing the pale unblemished skin beneath. There was no hiding that, nor the wet, crimson substance wh ich overlapped the layer of dried blood that had belonged to the other Nazi on his fingertips.

The French-speaking girl whom had tried to reach out to him - Alizée - was dead. The thing that sat inside her heart was notably absent, Clancy knew - he couldn't feel its presence anymore.

Had Alizée died because of him? There was no easy answer, none which sat right, even with him. He shrugged it off. More important things to focus on. It wasn't his fault those biker assholes were psychopathic junkies.

An axe lay at his feet, ornate decor wrought into the handle and head. Surprisingly, it remained untarnished despite the scene he'd extracted it from. Its previous owner had no further use nor any ability to wield it after they'd settled matters, though when he knelt to pick it up, he felt no different from before - not that he expected to. But it was sturdy, and sharp - the way it had cut through clothing, stone and metal in similar fashion had made that very clear. And given what he'd seen tonight, that might have been useful.

The weight of it seemed inconsequential compared to everything else. He was stronger than he looked

Where he stood, he was at the far side of the lot, away from the heart of the fighting now. The others were still arguing, still ready for a fight, he could hear them. There was a new arrival, someone who'd transitioned from a fiery eagle to man. He was talking with the asian girl, the one who'd offered him the business card for the fishery earlier.

"WOLFPACK!"


A voice bellowed from a building overlooking the lot. Clancy squinted at the rotund figure stood atop the rooftop, clutching a trio of meaty creatures that seemed halfway between goat and wolf. Something about them struck him with a vague, dreadful sense of deja vu, a bad memory from a time when he'd been out by the Great Lakes on his own, when he'd first left home.

"Ooooooooooh, Judas! This bitch said she killed Joe Skinner- and she just killed Victor!"

Wrong on both accounts, he mused, but correcting them would've been a waste of time. The mouthy she-biker had already outed her boss for him, and the others - particularly the girl - had drawn their attention.

Judas. Poppa Wolf.

Doubt set in, however.

Did that make him Father Wolf?

That, Clancy didn't know. Only one way to find out. While the others were busy, he hunched low, axe clutched in both hands, and moved along the row of parked cars where the overhead lighting didn't offer much coverage, perhaps short enough that only the observant would've noticed him moving across. He hit the edge of the lot, eyeing the motorcycle that had belonged to Joe Skinner.

Tempting, but no. He wasn't done here, not yet. Across the street was an alleyway, filtering between a pair of building that neighboured the rooftop where Judas and his pets were waiting. Then, after a moment's thought, he darted across the street.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


Clancy threw up both arms a second too second late; the blade of Victor's axe bedded half an inch into the boy's collar before his palms caught the handle with a strength that didn't match his frame and grappled with the larger man to keep it from being driven any further.

”Stay down.” His voice was a growl, a child's pitch with an unnatural resonance, and followed with a foot being swung out at Victor's knee, breaking his footing and knocking him over.

Victor hit the ground with a thud, then glanced upwards.

“... You are no kid,”

No fluid seeped from the wound the axe had formed, only a hollow black void where the head had parted skin. Similar punctures in his shirt, barely concealed by the unbuttoned hoodie, told a similar tale.

The Pagan pressed a palm into the ground to force himself to his feet, then swung the axe down - aiming to split Clancy in two.

This time, the boy dove into the side of an adjacent car, just in time to see the axe head tear a foot of asphalt and gravel from the ground. ”Know nothing,” he snorted, back pressed against the passenger door of the car ”Do you Nazi morons know when to stop?”

Victor didn’t even flinch, he raised the axe in the air again - not to bring it down on Clancy - but a bright flash of light appeared - blinding onlookers and causing the kid to crumple inwards with a silent grimace. Then in the makeshift flashbang he made he rushed Clancy with another swing of his axe.

There was no running, no token resistance; the axe sank deep into the boy's chest, crunching through metal and glass at the other side and pinning him to the passenger door of the car. No gasp, no final breath, the kid simply slumped forward, arms limply dangling to the floorm. Victor planted a boot against Clancy’s midsection to pry the axe free; once both blade and body were released from the car, he turned around, slung the axe over his shoulder, and prepared to rush in to help Valjean-

“... The hell?!”

Something grabbed the man's boot, clamped around the ankle, and yanked hard enough to pull him off his feet and drag him along the asphalt, back towards the parking space.

Victor screamed, but no more coherent words followed. The space fell silent in seconds, and a viscous pool of blood slowly began to trickle out from beneath the car's wheels shortly thereafter.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




The pickup moved at pace, two of the boys in their leathers holding onto the bed of the truck for life. One of them, cigarette dangling from his mouth, was grumbling to his companion.

"-me why my coffee's going cold on the counter?"

The other man, squat with a goatee, spat off to the side and shrugged. "Iunno, Dutch said he got a call some fuckers trashed the Vee-Vee, and messed Joe Skinner up real bad."

"That dumbass sack o' shit," the smoker snorted, "Why should we care?"

Goatee shrugged, "He's Dutchman's brother."

"In-law, or somethin' like," the smoker corrected, "Which counts for shit."

"Don't matter Jay, still one of ours, s' the principle, and "Papa" is gonna be piss-.. ah shit, I think that's them." There was already half a riot breaking out on the parking lot, sand, detritus and cordite in the air. The two men held on for life as the driver of the pickup applied the brakes.


Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


"Oh shit," Goatee chuckled, "Val's already gone Scorpion King on them."

They'd arrived in the middle of it all, probably beating any local authority by a good mile.

"Sand in my ass for days," Jay coughed as some of the Vasil sister's handiwork blew against the bodywork of their improvised cover, tugging at the .38 under his waistband. They were hunched low, moving between cars, a few rows away from the heart of the chaos. Goatee was keeping an eye on things, trying to dind a window to move in - the kids had the kind of power that some of the club had barely tasted, an expensive gift that only the lucky ones got to wield at their fingertips.

There was a dull thud, barely audible over everything else. "What you reckon?" Goatee asked, but no answer came. The man looked over one shoulder to see his companion crumpled against a car door one row over. "Jay?"

Closing the distance, it became clear why Jay wasn't answering. Fluids trailed from one side of what was left of his face, where something had smashed him into the windscreen of the car - a spiderweb of bloody cracks forking out from the corner. The force of the impact had shattered his eyesocket and cheekbone into bloody pulp. Bone and tissue speared through the sleeve of his jacket where the arm had been bent inwards, far beyond what human joints could handle.

"What the fugGHAAR-"

A tiny foot slammed into the back of Goatee's knee with a strength that didn't belong, hard enough that something popped. The man dropped to the ground with a yelp before someone muffled his squawking, tiny fingers clasped around the underside of his jaw, tight as a vice against his throat.

Nobody noticed the muffled shriek, blended into the cacophony of noise wreaking havoc across the parking lot.



Sully crept through what must've felt like a mile of sand, shell casings and stale piss to get to where the kid had been dropped. With visibility reduced amidst the thin cloud of sand and shadow, the only thing that stood out were a pair of child-sized sneakers peeking out from behind the tires of a parked car.

Sully found it was for nought. There were clear indents in the surrounding gravel and bodywork where Maggie's cartridges had punched past or through their target, but no blood spatter, and save for an empty pair of sneakers, the kid wasn't there.

It wasn't a discovery he had time to question, between the wave of sand and one of the Wolfpack's other hard-hitters coming up on him fast. A few muffled noises erupted a few cars away, although between the biker putting a gun to his head and the junkie throwing sand everywhere, it was easy to miss.

What wasn't easy to miss was a large, humanoid shape, flung through the air. It bounced off the hood of the car, next to where Dean and Sully were having their conversation, before flopping to the ground with a meaty crunch, between the two men,

Not humanoid. Human. A body, tossed from behind the row of parked cards. It- he was just barely twitching, limbs contorted at unnatural angles, but it was a foregone conclusion; the poor bastard's lower jaw had been pried open past human limits, until tissues which connected upper to lower had torn under the strain, leaving a gruesome, lopsided expression.

The only recognisable feature was a goatee, sticky with blood.

A vaguely familiar voice growled with a child's pitch, carrying over the row of parked cars.

"... you assholes..."


A few moments later, another shrill noise intermingled with the rest; one of the cars parked close to where Victor had been firing on the others began to sound off when something triggered its alarm. There was a faint, metallic groan, followed by the weight of the car briefly tilting downwards, before it jolted forward at a skid by a few metres - directly into the path of the armed Neo-Pagan with the full tonnage weight bearing down on him.

In the empty space it left behind was a familiar child-sized silhouette, barefoot, face shadowed by the poor lighting of the space, with dark sockets that almost appeared hollow.

@Punished GN@silvermist1116@Estylwen@Atrophy


In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
<Snipped quote by Zombiedude101>

You must be punished for your crimes.

To the torture chamber.


Is that another euphemism for the discord?
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
<Snipped quote by Zombiedude101>

Added him to the Wolfpack faction.

But from here on in, and this is a notice for everyone, when you're making an NPC; do not remove any of the coding. It's the way that it is so I can easily just slide a new NPC in the existing NPC table.


Sorry, I wrote it up on my phone and the formatting was fucked for me somehow.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Seeing as my time is a little freed up now, here's an NPC that may bear relevance to add to GN's cast of clowns.

In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

@Punished GN@Fernstone@Estylwen@AtomicEmperor
Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


His effort with the beer can had been a waste, and his argument had mostly fell on deaf ears. Clancy could see the girl wasn't in a position to reason, and he could see.... emerald light, flickering and swelling at the periphery of his vision. It was blinding, and he felt the strength of it close him like a fire licking at his clothes.

His feet moved on their own, almost autonomous - Clancy circling to what he'd felt was a safer distance somewhere a little more shaded as Stormy, Sully and Alizee briefly tussled on the street. It was only when he looked back he saw the girl was spent, all-but-broken, and for a moment he felt something that was halfway between contempt and pity. She lacked self-control, he realised, and that was something which brought on a sense of disconnected self-loathing.



Noise shook him out of that notion.

The collective buzz of motorcycle engines, catalysing with a single warning shot. It had been a while since Clancy had heard that unpleasantly familiar crack associated with gunfire.

A barely discernible mutter left his mouth."... warned you."

If it wasn't for the light, Clancy might've snorted at how moronic the Wolfpack looked. Between the braids, the spiked hair that had been poorly brill-creamed and what he wagered were sores from using, they almost looked like a collection of comic book villains, like the ones he used to read. The only things he'd lacked were named, until he overheard one of the others call out some names. "Valjean, Elodie, Shayton, Cyril, Maggy, Dean, and Victor.... no Judas or Curs."

Clancy wasn't sure who was who, save that Valjean was probably the spiky asshole barking orders at them.

For bikers, they seemed characteristically pissed, though he wondered if the commotion at the bar was their only reason for being here, and being ready to hurt people.

"Now, can someone tell me, who the fuck here killed Joe Skinner?! Don't give me any of that 'Aw, we didn't do it, believe us' bullshit! Shit ain't happen until you motherfuckers showed up, thrashing the place! So, you guys have one fucking minute to decide who the fuck killed a member of our pack before we send all of you to your God!"

Oh. That.

Clancy had almost considered the matter all-but settled. But things happened, it wasn't like Skinner was aanything but a bad guy. Did it really matter?

Wasn't like he was number one public enemy here, that went to the girl with a lack of self-control.

And Daddy Wolf was on the way. Maybe this was his shot at finding Judas? He wasn't sure at this stage; too many unknowns, too many people, in a world where he was very small.

Clancy flinched, threw up his hands, inching further off to one side. His attention was really on the motorcycle off to the far side of the lot. Joe Skinner's motorcycle, to which the keys were still in his pocket. It was one option, he'd guessed-

“Hey, kid!”

Clancy heard one of the female members of the Wolfpack call him. A sulty woman leaning up against her bike with her arms crossed and a cigarette in her mouth. She gestured for him to come closer with one finger.

“C’mere.”

Shayton turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

Clancy glanced back towards the others, "H-hey, I dunno anything lady, I was just waiting for my dad." It was probably the most genuine he'd sounded tonight.

Palms still raised, he apprehensively stepped forward, then-

“Bullshit.” Clancy froze as the woman hissed at him. “Any other kid in your position would be ready to shit themselves, but you?” She quickly drew her pistol and levelled it at him. “You’re agitated. All agitated. That makes zero fuckin’ sense for a kid your age… and I’m new to this magic bullshit, but that means one of two things…”

She raised two fingers.

“... You must be some kinda sociopath, or you’re not who you say you are.”

”Or,” Clancy snorted, squinting at the woman, ”Maybe I was taught not to fall over and shit my pants over some losers replaying the sixties over and over.” She wasn't wrong. He was agitated, and not necessarily because of the Wolfpack - though that particular fact was about to change.

“Bullshit, but you know what…?”

Maggy squinted down the gunsight and tugged back on the trigger. A single muzzle flare erupted, Clancy barely able to let out a whimper before he collapsed like a deck of cards with the center torn out.

There was no blood, no spatter of brain matter or viscera on the floor, simply the sight of a child crumpling to the ground beside a row of parked cars.

In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

@Punished GN@Fernstone@Estylwen@AtomicEmperor@Blizz
Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


In a matter of moments, the fighting seemed to have died down. Clancy had the self-awareness to recognise he had barely played a small-part in that, and it was more to do with people recognising other people they knew, and those people in turn backing down. He was an outsider in all of this; the only real connection he had to St. Portwell was Ashley Stone, and now she was gone.

That, and the walking embodiment of entropy needling at him, "Does it want a treat?" Asshole.

"Does it like toys?" A sense of agitation was building, more than it usually did when strangers derided him in this way. Too close to home.

"Does it want to feel the sweet, cold embrace of death?" Enough. He wasn't rising for that.

"It wants some quiet time while the grown-ups are talking..." Clancy snapped his fingers dismissively, offering no further answer to the entity or its host - at least, that's what he assumed their relationship might've been, it was difficult to tell what ties this walking embodiment of entropy had to living people except that it was closely involved with her. Good luck with that, anyway.

The woman herself had waved it off and was now speaking with one of the others in the lot, in French no less, but he couldn't follow along. His father - a military man - had spent some years deployed in Europe, but the only phrase he'd ever heard as far as he knew (from overhearing a poker night with some old friends) was "Voudriez-vous aller vous promener, mademoiselle?" followed by raucous laughter.

Meanwhile, the other would-be samaritan had chosen not to push things, but he couldn't help but find some strange amusement at being offered a business card by a stranger twice in as many days. Again, he took the card, briefly glanced over its contents, then pocketed it. If nothing else, it kept one more potential annoyance off his back.

Others were gathering, dropped off or parking close bg - and he was conscious that St. Portwell was a smaller town than he'd anticipated. Clancy wasn't entirely following along; a few names were finally being called out. Alizee, Leon. Sully. Britney. They weren't particularly ear-catching, but something- a sixth sense, maybe - gave him the impression they were supposed to mean something. Maybe something he'd seen on the internet, or when asking around.

At the least, he'd established they probably had nothing to do with the Wolfpack.

"..Sycamore Tree Coven.."

That mention caught his attention - and he linked it to what he'd known about Ashley, the group of friends (loosely using the term, he judged) she had led, that had accomplished a feat so great that it had become part of local myth and had helped lead him here. The same group who's own members were supposedly being picked off in murders by this asshole calling himself Father Wolf.

He suppressed his initial urge to immediately question them; it was obvious most of the people talking here had shared history, less than half of it good. Time wasn't necessarily on their side either; how long until some of Skinner's friends turned up and started asking pointed questions about why their favourite titty bar was trashed? Or why their friend had been left in the state he was, after a heart-to-heart conversation with an impressionable young boy? The latter part was less so concerned for his own sake, and he doubted Skinner would be talking about it to point a finger.

"...jumped me, Brit. G-got in the way of my... investig-gation."

The group he'd seen at the start of all this - that had been fighting Alizee - were still spoiling for a fight, naturally. Trying to catch and predate on some didn't make you friends, and the girl's flimsy defence against the accusations of "hunting" was a matter Clancy understood more than he had ever wanted to, and it did not evoke any warm feelings.

"If by investigation you mean trashing up the club." He wasn't particularly confident they were really listening to him, and was taking a certain relief in being blunt about the matter. "Thanks for that, by the way, you made it easier to walk out the front door."

Even her own 'friends' seemed skeptical about the matter.

”…do you have any idea why there’s a child here, by any chance?” It took a few more moments to realise the big guy with the beard had been referring to him, without directly addressing him. Well that made a change from the usual would-be samaritans, but he felt some irritation nonetheless, thumbing backwards. "The child is here because he wants-" Alizee interrupted that train of conversation by putting hands on the man - Stormy, she called him. Clancy wagered this wouldn't end well, the girl had a temper, but she seemed to back down... only to turn her anger back towards the group she'd originally been spoiling to fight.

His eyes crinkled. There is no time for this.

In the corner of his vision was a discarded beer can, only slightly crushed. Clancy knelt, grabbed it, and impulsively tossed the thing at the french speaker's back. Judging by the sloshing, it still had some liquid inside. Oops. "Listen, morons! You can kill each other whenever you want, but if these losers show up on their bikes, they're going to be your problem, so put a lid on it!" He stood there, gaze fixed on Alizee, posture tight. ".. Already have what you're looking for, it isn't you they need.."

If that didn't break her concentration, then the alternative was messy.
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