w (heir) wrote in repose, @ 2015-12-02 02:12:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *log, bruce wainright, damian wainright |
Wainright Manor: Bruce W & Damian W
Who: Bruce Wainright & Damian Wainright
What: oh, you're not dead :)
Where: Wainright Manor
When: nowish
Warnings/Rating: TBD
He did not stop. His journey from the black-watered, bloodied shores of New Jersey to this insipid town in the middle of nowhere, he did not stop; not before, not during, only after. Even then, it simply felt like taking a breath. He had his father's money, and it got him here quickly, almost unseen, out of the crabbing claw of the city he had destroyed and the collateral damage of shattered lives. Damian Wainright did not run. He had no fear, as he had been raised and indoctrinated to understand fear as useful only as a rare motivator. Otherwise, it was why those weaker than himself ran. It was as surrender was to victory.—He had wanted to stay, if not to right his wrongs—scars deep enough to revel tendon, bone, fascia in that viscous yellow of fat over muscle, nothing that could heal—then, because it was his duty as his father's successor. But, he could not. Wainright Enterprises suggested he take time away, away from the city and its mounting death tolls, and the Board was unyielding on the matter. Keeping Bruce Wainright's only son in the city, when the man himself was dead, was bad for business, and that simply could not be tolerated. So, he was escorted out. To a town too far removed to allow the boy any influence, to a family lot long-held, to a manor empty, save for the cow that Damian insisted accompany him. He too could be unyielding. Indeed, he was by nature. He was not brittle as was the overwrought steel of the European long sword, that was all but blunt, but rather, he was the Khopesh, sickled and harsh, not like to break as teeth in jaw, if just as bloody. He had his cow in tow as he made the walk from the gate, one hand on her neck, against warm, agitated skin, her tail flicking under moonless sky, and he murmured to her from night-melted shadows: "I know." It felt off to him too. Blue-green eyes cast about, alert, and Damian was well-attuned to unusual noises, trained to listen through the white—but, there was nothing. He left the cow on the grass as he went to the double-set of front doors and stared them down, wondering as to why the hair along his neck stood on end and why cold trickled down his spine as ice did from window panes in spring. But, there was no fear roiling in his stomach. There was nothing, and he opened the door without a second thought, listening only for changes and feeling only for differences in air pressure. |