It's a rough, small fucking town; full of poverty and violence. Where most of the crimes are the everyday sort, unreported. The sort've town that's a morass for every soul it traps there.
And on the heels of Mairon's exit slips another figure, nodded to by the unaffected bartender who's dialing the local emergency services. There's a look that passes, almost invisibly between them... and the phone clicks quietly back into the cradle, in the same sure quiet that the shabby, slanted door clicks open... and closed again. There's only one garish light in the parking lot, and Melkor stands fleetingly illuminated by it; long, unkempt, windswept black hair gathered behind his head in an easy knot. A cheap, liquor-stained, faded muscle shirt showing off the skeleton serpents that bare their fangs on his broad, knuckly hands and coil up his bared arms. His jeans are tight enough to show off his thighs and calves, and are tucked neatly into secondhand military boots in a faded, scuffed leather that somehow matches the ancient-looking, cracked leather jacked he's flung over his shoulder.
Scars interrupt the tattoos, the pale skin of his neck, his face. Two slash diagonally along his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, along the opposite cheek. Clean, neat knifework. He's a solid half-decade older than Mairon at least, his weathered skin marked by the fine lines one earns squinting into hard winds and scowling frequently.
"Shame to see you roll out so fast, Fire. Seemed to me you were only just getting started."
The words roll out of him, deep and low as the distant thunder. Unhurried. Confident. Commanding attention. His eyes shine in the light like bared knifeblades.
no subject
And on the heels of Mairon's exit slips another figure, nodded to by the unaffected bartender who's dialing the local emergency services. There's a look that passes, almost invisibly between them... and the phone clicks quietly back into the cradle, in the same sure quiet that the shabby, slanted door clicks open... and closed again. There's only one garish light in the parking lot, and Melkor stands fleetingly illuminated by it; long, unkempt, windswept black hair gathered behind his head in an easy knot. A cheap, liquor-stained, faded muscle shirt showing off the skeleton serpents that bare their fangs on his broad, knuckly hands and coil up his bared arms. His jeans are tight enough to show off his thighs and calves, and are tucked neatly into secondhand military boots in a faded, scuffed leather that somehow matches the ancient-looking, cracked leather jacked he's flung over his shoulder.
Scars interrupt the tattoos, the pale skin of his neck, his face. Two slash diagonally along his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, along the opposite cheek. Clean, neat knifework. He's a solid half-decade older than Mairon at least, his weathered skin marked by the fine lines one earns squinting into hard winds and scowling frequently.
"Shame to see you roll out so fast, Fire. Seemed to me you were only just getting started."
The words roll out of him, deep and low as the distant thunder. Unhurried. Confident. Commanding attention. His eyes shine in the light like bared knifeblades.