Re: Roadside tent: Daniel W & Damian W
Damian would never deign to play his violin for the Devil. He was above such inanity. He would have told Daniel this, but, obviously, he was unaware of any charmedness (not a word, Damian was oblivious to this, as well), et cetera, occurring. So, rather than tut once more and begin to assert his superiority to the literal devil, the man waited for the stranger before him to react to his proposal of going about this together.—Vengeance was a concept so integral to the al Gols and their ultimate goal of destruction, it had been among the first Damian had learned by repetition. (Along with its various synonyms/concepts adjacent: requital, reprisal, retribution, retaliation, vindicate, et cetera.) In Arabic, the word was 'انتقام.' At its utterance, he smiled, though slightly—enough that it did not register in the eyes. He lifted his chin again as the man winked at him and gave an overly grave nod in return. To Damian, vengeance was a matter of duty. That this man should seek it was both his right and his obligation.
There was a second's pause, however, then, as the mention of 'slander' seemed to settle. Damian considered what he had heard of this tent and its show, and how any of it might fit with slander of such depth (breadth?), vengeance was required. It occurred to the younger man then that this stranger without shoes was, in fact, likely a vampire or something similar. It made sense for multiple reasons (the preternatural gaze, the deliberate movement, the hour, the mention of slander (a supposed vampire was wreaking havoc on small wildlife), the... lack of shoes, perhaps). This assumption was accepted by Damian easily. In fact, it likely lacked the proper scrutiny. But, he was dating an angel and, ultimately, he did not need the details to do what he had come to do. "Fine. First, we must see what scum we are dealing with."
Damian took the stage offered. He had scouted the tent somewhat, so he knew, for example, seeking to hang upside down from anywhere inside of it was not only stupid, but impossible. Fine. He went in low to the ground to inspect the scene. He had cut the power, so there was no light to see by, but that was fine.—Inside the stuffy tent, there was the sarcophagus, if it could be called such. Indeed, it could not. It was but a corpse, mummified, ancient, and likely half papier-mâché and paint. It was meant to be a vampire. They had even given it yellowing fangs that protruded from dry, shriveled lips. Its eye sockets were sunken, a stretch of skin sewn over gape. The mummy was garbed as a steel penny, in opulence that crumbled under any real scrutiny. It held, for no discernible reason, a small scepter to its breast. There was the unmistakable aroma of formaldehyde to the enclosed space as well, which betrayed a more recent mummification than resin and balm (though not too recent, judging by the wear on the body). On either side of the display table a man slept in nothing more than a cheap sleeping bag upon the floor. Each, Damian could tell from a silhouette-limned glance, was armed. That such protection should be given to such a shoddy show was a curiosity.
More importantly, however, the owner—said to be an older man—was conspicuously absent. Damian had noted footprints outside, a multitude. There were four pairs, however, that repeated with enough frequency to be of note. Here, he imagined, they had two of the owners of such. The other two would, more than likely, be the culprits in the deaths of the animals. Fine. They would dispatch these two goons first, then either wait for the return of the others or seek them out.