Liam Roberts is an (author) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-02-05 09:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, liam roberts |
Marvel: Liam Roberts
Who: Liam
What: A nighttime adventure
Where: Marvel: New York City
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: NPC death and darkness
The sky was dark, clouds settling low, blocking out any moonlight that might have lit up the night sky. On the edge of a building a solitary figure stood cloaked in shadows. He watched and he waited, people scurrying past on the streets below, the city still quite alive despite the hour. Did anyone here ever sleep? It was hard to believe anyone did, that anyone could. Always active, never stopping, never slowing down.
That would change tonight, however.
The figure dropped down into a crouch, and behind him, wings spread wide, white and thick with feathers. Those wings quivered for just a moment before he launched himself off the building and into the night air, soaring silently for several moments before he gave three hard beats with his wings, bringing him higher, the wind pushing his hair away from his face, blue eyes sharp against pale skin.
His goals were clearer now for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. There was a need inside him, aching and chewing at his very soul, that demanded to be sated, and tonight, he would. It would alleviate some of the pain, some of the discomfort that plagued him, and maybe tonight he would sleep without nightmares. He had to believe that would happen, that he could find some peace if he simply soothed the ache deep within.
The voices told him it would. The voices said it would be okay.
He didn't think, he didn't stop to ponder or question what he was doing. Instead he just did, guided by instincts and the sounds of those below. A grouping of trees loomed in the distance, and it was there that he pushed himself, to the lone figure that sat there, oblivious to the world beyond with the earbuds plugged into each ear. He was a silent thing, an angel with a darker purpose.
He landed, a moment to balance with his wings extended fully to either side of his body, and it was that movement that drew the attention of the young man that sat there, the young man that he had come for. His face was emotionless even as the man lept to his feet and pulled the earbuds from his ears. There were questions as to what was going on, what was he, what was he doing, but they fell on deaf ears. This was not a time for answers, this was a time for action.
The knife was nothing special beyond being sharp and held in a glove-covered hand. It was thrust, hard and sure, in the gaps made by the man's ribs, and then he angled it sharply upwards and pushed. There was a gasp, a sharp intake of air, and the man stumbled, falling into the angel's arms as he dropped the knife and held him close. Blood stained his clothing, his chest, some even tainting the pure white of his wings. They folded tightly against his back as the man's breath shuddered in his chest, and shortly before the last breath was taken, a gloved hand swept back hair from the man's face.
"Go in peace," he said quietly, a whisper in the night air, and with those words, the man went limp in his arms. Only then was he laid down, arms folded over his chest, fingers clasped around the knife that held no prints other than the dead man's. He was tender with the positioning of the newly-fallen, closing his eyes, making sure that he was comfortable.
He was just rising from his duty when he heard a gasp behind him. Voices. Fear. He turned away, keeping his face covered, and then with three steps and a leap, white wings extended and he took to the air once more.
The hunger had to be sated. The pain had to be eased.
If it was not, then there would be another night.