Who: Jo Harvelle [OPEN] What: Arrival Where: Outside, on the beach When: Evening Rating: PG Warnings: None so far Status: In-progress
After an evening spent over her laptop, pouring over page after digital page of eyestrain-educing lore, Jo mood was a shade darker than black. An avid card and pool shark, who would play her good girl image to the hilt, Jo had the mind like a steel-trap mind and the wolfish eyes of a gambler, but after two weeks in, she put down the cards and played picked up the pool cue once more. Jo knew never to overplay her hand, because eventually good luck would run out.
Now after a long day, the blond huntress was just breathing fire. The armies of hell were particularly kicking down the gates, how dare the slimy bastard stand her up? At five to twelve, Jo Harvelle was fit to be tied. She’d been nursing a longneck beer and grudge for the last hour, about to leave when he’d had walked into the hunters’ bar.
There was something in his affect told Jo something was wrong, so playing the hunch, she turning from his line of sight and wet her hand before held it out for a friendly shake. He took the bait, hook line, and sinker: Holy water.
From there, all hell broke loose; but what happened, she winced shifting on the gritty storage room floor, even now it was a blur except for a week’s worth of bruises and lacerations to remember it by. Her neck, back, and shoulders ached, her knuckles and hands were raw and bloody, and her head swam.
Groggy and disoriented, the smell of sulfur choked the air. The downed huntress tried to pull herself on to her feet, but the motion proved too much, knees buckled, and Jo slumped back against the broken, salt-lined, barricaded door, feeling white streaks of sickening pain blurred with the black vertigo threatening to claim her once more. But staring back at the glaring demon with the wearing familiar face like a cheap suit, "Would you shut up already," she groaned wearily. The demon kept on talking.
Her smashed fist curled, she grits her teeth and bit back the vile hatred and anguish. She knew the demon was baiting her; preying upon her insecurities and pain like a parasite—trying blind her with that righteous anger enough to her break the seal that bound him— but knowing this didn’t lessen deep soul-grinding impact of intimate knowledge betrayed from his mind catching her pointblank-- right between the eyes.
But thoughts were coming slower now: thoughts of home, thoughts of the Roadhouse, of Mom... of Ash... and Dad... Like pawing through cotton, the muddled world slowed to a painstaking crawl, words failed, and heartbeat prayer throbbing powerfully in her ears, Jo sunk down to darkness.
She gasped and sputtered, bolting upright as another mouth of salt water, lurched her body forward. Floating, drifting, a weightless sensation washing over the slowly burgeoning consciousness. Her head lifts, limp body springing to life. Pupils dilate against brown iris as oxygen starved lungs gasp a stagnant aquatic breath.
Water? Am I dead?
There was no time to think- only react. She sputtered, rejecting the acid-like mouthful; limbs unfurled, clawing for the surface breach. Head bobs under the frothing waning surface once, twice, taking on a mouthful of sterile preservative before instinct took reign: swim. Waves crashed overhead as water gushed through the glass wound before shattering, vomiting the hunter up on splinted terra firma.