[event log CLOSED] sharpest teeth on the block

[strangeboy]

Who: D'Artagnan and Susan, Daryl, Crowley, Clara and Claire
Where: around the mansion!
When: the second and third days of the event
Rating: M FOR MATURE
Summary: D'Artagnan can also definitely handle this. (Only marginally better than Annie)
The Story:

The first day hadn't been difficult. It was filled with incessant howling and trying to keep Faraday from running into the woods. He'd finally managed to get her holed up in the room to keep her safe, and made his way around the mansion. The end of the day was spent defending and helping Chell as she set up traps for the impending attackers. (Wolves? Or hounds, perhaps. D'Artagnan wasn't sure, but the howling was unsettling enough that he wasn't sure he wanted to know either way.)

He went to bed that night with his doors and windows barricaded securely, hoping it was enough to keep them out.

Comments

DAY 2

[strangeboy]

Claire

[strangeboy]

[It's early in the day, and D'Artagnan's just snuck out of his room without waking Faraday and blocked the door so she can't get out. He's not sure what the day holds for him, or whether or not wandering around is actually an intelligent option, but it's not like he cares or spends much time thinking about it. Besides, he needs to eat, right? And he can't just get food from his closet. He'll get tired of it. Whatever, it seems like a good enough excuse to him.

He makes his way down the hallway and is almost to the stairs when he hears another door open. He turns to see Claire, and gives her a wave.]

Decided to test your luck as well, I see.

[cheerleader]

[Claire's less concerned about food or her own luck, as much as the luck of the people she's met during her time here. D'Artagnan is one of those people, he's her neighbor and a friend. So seeing that he's okay makes her smile briefly in relief, and she gives a shrug of her shoulders in response to his statement. She jogs the rest of the way down the hallway to join him at the stairs, glancing down them before looking up at him.]

Luck's got nothing to do with it.

[She's just reckless and stupid, and she guesses he probably is too, to be out of his room right now.]

I'm just figuring I'll have a better survival rate than almost anything here.

[She plays that off as confidence alone, smirk and everything.]

[strangeboy]

[They can be two reckless and stupid peas in a pod, then. D'Artagnan calls dibs on 'stupid'! Wait...]

Really? Why's that?

[Yeah, he'll have to call you on that confidence. He appreciates it, though.]

[cheerleader]

Just really lucky, I guess.

[She shrugs, turning to glance down the hall as she swears she hears something approaching. Afraid, she reaches over to grab hold of his wrist, and moves to stand halfway behind him. As indestructible as she is, she still hasn't really figured out how to get past being afraid of things like this. ]

We should head downstairs. Like now.

[strangeboy]

[He frowns when she grabs his wrist, but not because he's offended, no just mostly confused. He didn't hear anything, so he just turns to look at her.]

Are you all right?

[And of course, it's then that the growling starts.]

Crowley

[strangeboy]

[D'Artagnan hasn't been doing too well. These things-- these, dogs or wolves or whatever they are-- they're invisible, which means he can't see them (obviously) which means he can't really think of a great attack plan and basically has to swing his sword around wildly and hope he gets one. His normal blade is steel, but he's traded it out for a pure iron one after hearing that they're working better. He doesn't know how true that is, but he's willing to take the chance.

Of course, he'd be at less risk of getting himself killed (and look less stupid) if he could actually see the damn things. As it is, he's found himself in the ballroom, with maybe two or three of them? He knows he should just run for the door, but they're fast, and he's seen the injuries at the clinic. Better just to fight, maybe.]

Crowley

[goesdown]

[ The first day, Crowley had been having a good time. He has a soft spot for the little hellpuppies and the feeling tends to be mutual. He's good with dogs. It was fine until one of the little shits had bit him and nearly took his arm off.

Now, he's being a bit more wary. He can't exactly walk around with iron all willy-nilly, but he's got a fireplace poker that he's holding with a thick leather glove. It's all pretty ridiculous looking, if he's honest.

He walks into the ballroom just as three of them are surrounding D'Artagnan. ]

One is closing in at your two o'clock.

[strangeboy]

What?

[D'Artagnan glances over his shoulder to confirm that it's Crowley's voice he just heard. All right. He can see them? And what does two o'clock mean? As in the placement of the two on a clock? Who says things like that??

But, he doesn't have any reason to believe that Crowley would lead him astray, so he moves forward, satisfied when his blade hits...something, and comes back stained red.]

Thank you. The others?

[Might as well get them all, especially if Crowley can see them.]

[goesdown]

One's right in front of you and the other's at your three.

[ He indicates their general locations with his poker.

He's so helpful, or he would be if he'd been honest, but there's only one more hound and Crowley just wants to see if he can get the boy to flail around with his sword a bit. ]

[strangeboy]

[Fortunately for Crowley-- and unfortunately for D'Artagnan-- he's a bit more loyal than he really should be, especially to people who make a habit out of teasing him when he doesn't realize it. In any case, he's fairly certain he only hears one other one, but if Crowley says there are two...

He moves to the right, swinging his sword in a wide, sideways arc, waiting for it to make contact with something. When it doesn't, he assumes it's moved and moves on to the one that was in front of him. If it hasn't moved as well...]

Are they moving? I can't hear them.

Daryl

[strangeboy]

[D'Artagnan hates these things already. This event is probably one of the worst he's seen, and though he hasn't been here as long as some of the others, he's seen his fair share of events, and this one....it's definitely worse than the one that killed him. (And yet, somehow he's managed to stay alive this time around? Perhaps he's growing up.)

In any case, he's prowling the halls for these things, attempting to keep people safe who try to make their way to the clinic or the diner.]

look under your seat! it's a wall of text!!

[unsleeved]

[Prowling seems to be what all the cool kids are doing these days, and Daryl had, of course, hopped right on that happy bandwagon. Regardless of whether he can see these fuckers or not, they ain't exactly quiet and they sure as hell ain't subtle when they're running at you from down the hall; he'll take his chances with that if it means the people who can't defend themselves can stay a little bit safer in the designated spots that have been set up for them.

And so he, too, is making his way up and down the halls, armed with a shotgun and a scowl. And a few scrapes and bruises for his trouble, of course- that's one of the comforts of home he certainly isn't missing in Wonderland. It's been a good half hour since he's had to take one out (at least he assumes they're dying when he shoots them, he can see the blood but it ain't like there's bodies for him to count) by the time he makes it to the fourth floor landing, and apparently that's the charm: as soon as he steps into the hallway he can hear the unmistakable scraping of sharp claws against the floor... Time to go to work.

He whistles sharply to get the thing's attention, weapon at the ready, and when the beast comes (and it does, like fucking clockwork), he fires a few shots, relying on the spray of the pellets to hit even if he has no goddamn clue where he's aiming. It's worked out pretty well for him so far, but his luck was bound to run out sometime... And now is apparently that time; he can't see the claw that digs into his arm, but he can sure as shit feel it. It knocks him off balance and he hits the ground with a yelp, hand flying to his side for his knife. He's... Not in the best position. A sword to the whatever-part-of-this-thing you can hit would be greatly appreciated, D'art.]

just what I always wanted!!!!!

[strangeboy]

[D'Artagnan's just leaving a room on the fourth floor after having investigated a strange creaking noise. The room was empty and a window open, and the breeze from outside was blowing the closet door back and forth, and D'Artagnan's not sure why he felt he needed to look, but it was unsettling enough to find.

Of course, even more unsettling is the commotion outside-- the whistle, the growling, the gunshots, the yelp and thud of a body hitting the floor. He runs out of the room, sword in hand. There's a man he's never met on the ground, bleeding from his arm, and there's a trail of blood on the ground that D'Artagnan hopes is from a creature and not only the man's arm.

He runs forward and thrusts, immensely glad that his blade hits something invisible but solid. It seems to go all the way through, since the tip stops just shy of hitting Daryl himself and is painted red. He pulls it out in one quick, smooth motion and sheaths it again.]

Are you badly hurt?

HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY, MAN 8D

[unsleeved]

[The kid that comes to his rescue- and god damn would he really prefer not to think of it that way so we're gonna go with aid to spare his pride- looks familiar from the network, but isn't someone Daryl's spoken to face to face. It's only when that sword's pulled out of the beast, slick and red and dripping, that it occurs to him who he is: this kid, sword fighting...

Right. He'd meant to follow up about that, hadn't he? Oh well.

He grunts, momentarily breathless at the sudden weight at his chest (and the smell that hits him in the face as something moist slides across his cheek), and it takes a few seocnds before he finds himself again and shoves the invisible mutt off and onto the floor. His front's stained now, but most of that mess, fortunately, didn't come from him:]

Ain't that bad. 'S just a scratch...

[And as if to prove that he can handle it, he reaches out with his injured arm to retrieve that shotgun that'd been knocked just out of his reach with only a slight wince. Standing with a groan, he shakes himself off before turning his full attention to the kid.]

Thanks. You been killin' 'em with just that pig-sitcker all night?

[Because if so... He's a little impressed. Close-quarters combat ain't his thing.]

/swooooooons

[strangeboy]

[D'Artagnan frowns. A pig-sticker? This man must mean his sword, though D'Artagnan doesn't kill many pigs with it. Or, any pigs for that matter. That would just be inhumane.]

Yes, it seems to work well enough.

[Better than that gun is, at least. D'Artagnan hasn't been mauled yet. Just saying. He is covered in his fair share of black goo. It'd once been red, but he supposes when it dries, it darkens, which...isn't that comforting. He hopes it's not toxic.

In any case, that wound on Daryl's arm looks increasingly nasty by the second, and he frowns at it.]

Are you sure you don't want to go to the clinic and have someone look at it?

DAY 3

[strangeboy]

Clara

[strangeboy]

[He's made a mistake, and he knows it. He got cocky, reckless, stupid and has spent too much time nearly dying. He can't die again. He's died once, but no more. Not this time. He'll have to step up his game. Claire already saved him, but he's tired now, and getting sloppy.

Still, that doesn't stop him from running to where ever he hears screams and growling. He's in the library this time, trying to get anyone holed up in here to go to either the clinic or the diner. Or back to their room. Just...anywhere that's not here. He turns a corner and runs into...Clara. Excellent. She doesn't seem to be in trouble, and he hasn't heard any growling recently, so... Maybe he can just back up without making any noise...]

[bossily]

[Oh, she definitely spots him.

It's the first time she's seen him since they were on the mirror side, but she supposes that has a lot to do with not being up on the seventh floor all that often here lately. The sight of him makes her smile in awkward tension. She's grateful he's alive, but is definitely unsure about how this little reunion of sorts is going to go.]

You're all right.

[She gives out a sigh of relief, and heads toward him at a brisk pace.]

Have you come across any of those things just yet?

[strangeboy]

[While it's nice that she sounds relieved that he's still alive, he's still not completely sure how to act around her. He won't apologize for being upset, because, well, why should he? He had every right to be upset. She hurt him. Not that he wants to admit it, but still. He takes a step backward as she approaches.]

A few. I've managed to escape unscathed. And you?

Susan

[strangeboy]

[D'Artagnan's getting better at this, after a day and a half, it seems. The growls are fewer and far between, and he's fairly certain the mansion is mostly safe. He hasn't ventured outside yet, because that seems like a plan too stupid even for him, but he is trolling the foyer, just in case a new wave bursts through the doors.

Of course, he's waiting for it, but it never happens, though a particularly loud round of growling begins from the stairs, and D'Artaganan turns slowly toward them, raising his sword.]

Right. Come on, then. It's not like I can spend my day waiting on you.

[no_nonsense]

[Susan was quite tired of these hounds. She'd been quite tired of them for some time, now. Between picking them off, bashing them dead, and being soaked in (mostly) invisible ichor, she was developing quite an aversion to dogs in general. After this event, she'd be shocked if she could set eyes on anything larger than a teacup terrier and refrain from going for a weapon.

And speaking of weapons, as well as things larger than teacup terriers...Susan was quite lacking in the former and was staring down more than a few of the latter.

Overall the creatures were reasonably formidable, even for the scattered people that could see them. They were large, had far more teeth than anything ought to, and practically exuded brimstone and ash. She'd have been hesitant to attack one of them without something to heft at it, three was straight out. Susan took a slow, smooth step back and the lot of them let out a chorus of deep, rumbling growls. As she was about to take a second step, someone called from below in the foyer.

They were sassy, bold, and she could practically hear the Heroism. Susan reflexively glanced to the side and whatever tentative, predatory, canine logic had prevented the hounds from charging her no longer applied. Susan didn't bother to turn back when she heard the scrabble of invisible paws and, instead, whipped around and bolted for the stairs.]

Impatient, aren't you?

[She'd shouted it and it was laced with more than a little irritation, but her volume and tone could be forgiven, under the circumstances...and assuming neither of them were brutally mauled in the next few minutes. Susan practically dove down the stairs and took them two at a time. Fortunately, the hounds were terrible when it came to taking corners at speed, and they scrambled and slid into one another mid-pursuit. Their invisible comical shenanigans didn't give her much of a head-start, and they righted themselves with commendable speed, but Any head-start was better than None when it came to being pursued by demonic dogs.]

If you insist, I guess we'll hurry this along! There are three behind me!

[strangeboy]

[D'Artagnan's hardly expecting a reply from a human. No, he'd been much better prepared for growls and barks and decidedly dog-like sounds, but he supposes he's not averse to humans either. ]

Three? [He can handle three, especially if she's there and has any talent at all with that poker of hers.]

Easy enough. Ready?

[no_nonsense]

[The odd thing about Heroes was that they generally looked exactly like they sounded. The boy with the sword was dressed more finely than Susan had expected (which was for the best, really, given that she expected heroes to wear leather thongs and capes), but was otherwise entirely in keeping with his ill-advised taunt. Fortunately, relative accuracy of his appearance aside, he had his sword at the ready and looked prepared to wield it.]

I suppose--[As she hit the end of the stairs, Susan whipped around and swung her poker. She caught one of the dogs across the head and knocked it into the wall. As it righted itself, she backed up, across the foyer and stood alongside the teen-aged Hero.]

I assume you're good with that?

[strangeboy]

[D'Artagnan's mouth flattened into a line as he watched Susan spun around and (apparently) hit one of the beasts with her poker. If he had to critique her form-- which, let's be honest, he's always critiquing form-- he'd have to say that she's holding the poker wrong, and that she'll probably be in pain the next day, but he supposes it's better than being dead. And it's not really an appropriate time.

It curls into a smirk as she joins him, and he nods.]

I'll have to be, won't I? Besides, it'll do for now.

[And when he hears the growling come closer, and the tell-tale thud of paws on tile, he moves forward, sword drawn, to attack.]