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Post by ISAIAH ASRIEL CASSON on Mar 23, 2012 22:48:28 GMT -8
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count the bodies like sheep,
It had been said, or so he had heard, that the best way to measure a civilization was by how it treated the weakest members of their society. So how was Isaiah supposed to measure the goodness in the city of London? Of course, it was like any city or town he had been to. There were always the poor and the suffering with nowhere to go and not a single person to turn to. It was the way that the world worked and Isaiah had long ago decided that there would always be that distinct black and white. It was impossible for everyone to be happy as it was impossible for everyone to be sad. There would always be a winning team which meant there had to be a losing one. Isaiah had a tendency to find himself often surrounded by the latter.
A long black trench coat hid the lithe form of Isaiah Casson and carefully trained toe-heel steps had kept his walk quiet despite the boots that he wore and the puddles he came across. He looked nothing more than a dark shadow as he slunk through the slums of London. The only noticeable color was that of his bright green eyes peering around every corner. Isaiah, the ever cautious rogue, had not been in London long but he had already decided that to keep his chin down and his arms defensively to his side. He did not feel comfortable in these streets yet though a voice cackling in his head assured him that he had little to worry about and that London would have little to offer to him. Still, Isaiah kept his eyes peeled and ears open. The demon would not win over his confidence just yet.
Isaiah turned a tight circle when he felt a pull at his side. It was a pull that was clearly trying to reach beneath his outwear to collect any valuables attached to his belt. As he completed his circle he came to face a grizzly looking man whose hand still was reaching out toward Isaiah’s pockets. Isaiah’s right hand rested on his hip to remind himself of one of the sheathed daggers he kept belted at his sides. Even though he felt it almost completely necessary to lop the man’s hands off then and there Isaiah kept from doing so and instead busied himself with piercing the man with his heavy stare.
If the man had even half a brain he would have turned around and been on his way without a word! But this man very clearly lacked any true intelligence or morals for that matter. He glared right back up at Isaiah as though the young man had somehow cheated him out of something!
“What are you about!” the man snapped up at him, spewing bits of spit from behind his full beard. The man was nervous but also aggressive… and stupid. He gave Isaiah a shove on the shoulder and straightened himself out. “What is it you’re lookin’ at then, boy? Hand over whatever you’ve got in that pocket o’ yours and let’s be done with it!” He obviously did not know Isaiah.
A man of very few words, Isaiah simply furrowed his brow and turned on his heels to start away. He was certain that this dirty fellow would not let him get away so easily though. He also had the feeling that this man thought that he would have the upper hand. Isaiah scoffed at the thought. Did this common street thug really think he could get anything from him? Hah- he could hardly be considered a thug though. He was nothing more than a poor old wretch who had lost his mind to poverty. All of these callous assumptions must have been correct. The man did come after Isaiah and he did it with another rough shove that was more than likely meant to send Isaiah sprawling to the ground. Isaiah was no novice to street thugs though and fell forward with the push, only to spin away as he fell. Again the two faced each other but now a smug grin crossed the bearded wretch’s face.
“I gived ya a chance, boy!” the man barked, finishing the statement with a misplaced and confident bout of laughter. He came at Isaiah again and that laughter was cut short. Isaiah had decided that he had already had enough of this one and one of his daggers had practically flown into his hand while the annoyance came at him. That dagger found itself buried hilt deep into the bearded man’s chin and up through his brain. Isaiah used the demonic strength within him to twist the thing as the man’s color and life blood drained from his face. Now it was Isaiah’s turn to grin.
“I gave you a chance, fool,” he murmured as he pulled the weapon from the man’s skull with a heavy tug. The man dropped in an instant into a questionable puddle of muck. Isaiah bent over his form and wiped his dagger on his used to be assailant’s clothing. Then he turned back around and started off down the road.
He already did not like London.
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Post by TARAN CAI EMBER on Mar 26, 2012 18:25:04 GMT -8
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just talk but promise nothing else [/style]
Vermin. That was all that provided even the slightest attraction for the young sailor at the moment. Fresh meat was expensive for one with little coinage, and Taran had no remaining options. His fur was regrettably bright, however, and in the perpetual dingy dark of the poorer areas of London, he looked like a walking piece of shined copper. More importantly, his presence was easily known to his prey, which the young man detested.
These slums provided a constant food source, even if that food usually tasted as vile and disgusting as the surroundings looked. The feline wished he had a different place to go, but only here was the rodent infestation so intense that he was almost guaranteed to catch something. Today, so far, he’d managed one small rat, which he stashed in a small hole in a wall where a brick once had taken up space. It wasn’t much, however, mostly bone and fur.
There was another one now. Fiery pointed ears pricked up and swiveled toward the thing, a fat rat munching noisily on some unidentifiable piece of discarded food. Taran’s bright orange eyes focused on the pile of fur in front of him, narrowing slightly as he considered the best approach. This one didn’t seem like it could make a quick escape, but appearances were rarely actuality. Prowling as close to it as possible seemed to be the better option. Upon soft paws, Taran crept slowly forward, all senses monitoring the rodent before him. He made sure to carry as much weight as possible in his shoulders, as instinct told him to, to avoid making his presence known.
When he was as close as he figured he could possibly get without detection, the brilliant orange tabby hunched forward, ready to transfigure into a springboard and swiftly end the pathetic rat’s short life. With his muscles tensed and almost tingling, the biggest disappointment of his recent life squeaked and raced into a hidey-hole, seeking shelter from the disturbance right behind Taran. The cat relaxed, shaking still from the built-up anticipation, and quickly turned to take in the scene unraveling in the alley. Despite his superb feline hearing, Taran had been so incredibly focused on his next meal that he’d failed to notice the two men behind him. One young and clean, one old and ragged, with the young one obviously annoyed at the latter. This place was littered with thieves and ne’er-do-wells, which was why the young shifter preferred to only show himself in dire circumstances, and never in his human appearance. While he had little, he had more than any of the destitute beings here did. His glowing ember eyes remained trained on the scene before him, curious to see the situation that frightened away his dinner.
While Taran had no squeamish feelings towards blood or gore, it wasn’t exactly his favorite thing to be around, and watching blood spurt from beneath the older male’s scraggly chin hair was far from pleasant. The feline had missed most of the conversation, so he didn’t know what prompted any of these actions, especially the knife being sickeningly twisted around in the man’s skull. However, the young man was leaving the scene and Taran was teaching himself to become a scavenger. Steeling himself, the feline padded cautiously over to the fresh corpse to investigate. Maybe he had some items of value that the sailor could trade for a bit of money. When the cat carefully pushed his nose into a dirty, grungy pocket however, he could only recoil and hiss loudly at his discovery while pawing furiously at his nose to rid it of the smell. A few of the offending items rolled out, clacking on the grimy cobblestone below. Teeth. Human teeth the color of dirt and so pocked with holes it was astounding that they even held together. Taran though he spied a fingernail as well. Revolting.
The longer he stared, the more it seemed to affect him and soon the orange cat was retching with his stomach clutched in the most awful way. He finally couldn’t stand it any longer and bolted out of the alley, stopping just ahead of the murderous young man. At this point, Taran didn’t know what to do and turned his eyes up to look at the human, hoping he wasn’t that knife’s next victim.
notes don't hurt the kitty! tag isaiah words 723 |
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Post by ISAIAH ASRIEL CASSON on Mar 27, 2012 10:23:31 GMT -8
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count the bodies like sheep,
The blade that had been used against the pushy street thug was quickly tucked away into its respective sheath as Isaiah continued away from the body. If Isaiah was any kind of hurry he was not showing it. Death was usually intimate with the poor and if anyone happened upon the body it should not have been anything to make headlines. The man was poor and nobody ever cried for the poor and unknown in this world. At most the body would have its belongings picked clean and the stay there on the road until it was blotted with decomposition and maggots. Then, perhaps, a person of higher power would have the body removed and tossed into an unmarked grave. That was what happened when you made a living like that. And so, because of this, Isaiah could stroll as idly as he pleased through the twists and turns in the road.
When Isaiah saw a flash of color dart and stop in front of him, however, he was almost quick to draw a blade.
He managed to gather his thoughts before making himself an obvious danger though and even though one of his feet had slid back behind him in case he needed to sprint into action Isaiah still kept calm. His green eyes, once narrowed, started to widen a bit when he realized that the bright copper was the coloring of a tabby. He straightened himself back up and cocked his head forward to look down at the little creature. He found it very strange that it would not move from its spot. The thing just kept looking up at him, as if waiting for him to do something. Isaiah did not know much about felines honestly and guessed that it was waiting for him to move. So he stepped forward, fully expecting the creature to scamper away from him so that Isaiah could be on his way.
Maybe this little thing had seen him? A grin came to Isaiah’s face but he replaced it quickly. It was just funny that his conscience had even suggested such a thing. Even if this cat or any cat in all of London had seen him kill a man they would probably be less concerned than Isaiah was with the crime. They were animals. How many times had anyone seen an animal from the streets mourn the death of a human being sprawled out on the gravel?
Isaiah waved his hand at the animal passively and then started on his way again. He seemed even more relaxed than he had before. Perhaps he would not have to worry about anymore stupid humans crossing his path now. If the cats were running about, maybe the humans were not. Not unless they were filthy men with no possessions and no home to speak of. Maybe he was feeding the cats. Isaiah chuckled at that. “I wouldn’t recommend that one,” he murmured over his shoulder to the cat. Not that the cat could understand him. It was but a cat.
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