|Damian is son & (heir) wrote in repose,|
@ 2017-08-01 03:23:00
|Entry tags:||*log, damian wainright, daniel webster|
Roadside tent: Daniel W & Damian W
Who: Daniel Webster & Damian Wainright
What: delivering the swift kick of justice to an ass
Where: the gray tent on the side of the road, heading out of town
When: after this; late at night
Warnings/Rating: likely mentions of death, gore, violence, and violence against animals
He came by cover of darkness. He did not come as the Shadow, nor as Rook. He was not here to be an icon, to scare anyone straight. No, he came in all-black, in lightweight tactical shirt and pants, and with his face and head covered in a balaclava/hood combination, that revealed wide, green eyes, down to mid-nose. Damian carried nothing more than a backpack, as loose and lightweight as the rest of his gear. If he had come from the Capital by car, the vehicle was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps something smaller, more portable, lay in the line of trees that ran away from the road and into thick black. Perhaps he had only parked the car miles up the road, off on the shoulder, or on an exit ramp. Perhaps he had only walked.
However he had arrived, what was important was that he was there. It had been hours since the lights in the tent, inefficient, low-wattage bulbs of atmospheric red and yellow, had gone out. They were connected, with the rest of the electronics stowed away, into a small, silent battery that was buried some ways away from the tent. Damian had cut the wires, regardless. They were still in the grass, like fat black snacks showing their bellies. He had watched, waited, and he found that the the proprietors of the attraction stayed overnight (or at least, they had stayed so far), perhaps to protect their 'valuable' show from those seeking to come for a free peek. He could only imagine that within the musty gray tent, they pushed aside the attraction itself (a sarcophagus poorly constructed), to erect a few cots. Someone set a fan on top of the sarcophagus' display and it blew the hot air around.—So far, he had seen no further movement. He had scouted the area briefly, with a night-vision monocular, and he had found the bones and swollen summer carcasses of a few small animals. One appeared to be a raccoon, the others cats, a small dog, and perhaps a squirrel. Other animals had picked over the corpses. But, from the freshest—a poor tomcat—one could see the puncture on the creature's neck, where, presumably, a vampire had fed.
Damian sprayed the area with various urines—dog, tiger, fox, cat—to deter those territorial creatures who might come visit and be taken, drained, and added to the grisly scene. He daubed the tent's corners with citronella. He was deciding what to do about those within the tent as he began to dig a small grave for the creatures left amid gravel and human detritus.