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Rabastan Lestrange is a brilliant actor (rabastrange) wrote in anon_rpg,
@ 2012-06-05 17:16:00

Entry tags:

!06/1981, !thread, c: bellatrix lestrange, c: rabastan lestrange, c: rodolphus lestrange, p: caitlin, p: gracie, retired c: walden vox macnair, retired p: michelle

Who: Death Eaters who wish to participate; tag yourselves in as you enter!
What: Muggle hunting during a baptism
Where: Small village church, Sheffield
When: Tuesday evening, 5 June, after this
Status: In-progress
Rating: R+ for violence, gore, and infant-killing. Do not, I REPEAT, DO NOT read this thread if such things make you cringe.

Ever since the talk in journals about a Muggle hunt, Rabastan had been itching to get his hands on the nearest Muggle to take out some pent-up energy. He wouldn't consider himself an impatient person, per se, but so much waiting around, doing nothing but infiltrating the Ministry, could get boring really fast. The work was interesting, yet his restless side was becoming louder as the days drew longer with no plan in sight for a strong point to be made to the wizarding world at large. This would be it. The word was given and he finished up his day in a particularly good mood.

Now he lay beside the church in wait under the cover of a quickly fading sun, having found the perfect opportunity to put his hands to work. The baptism that was taking place tonight boasted a decent turnout for a semi-well known family in town. Rabastan felt the smile before he realised how the thought of wrapping his hands around each Muggle's throat would feel. The rush of taking a filthy life always put him in shockingly good moods after the fact, since he knew that he was doing his Lord's noble work for The Cause. A small part of him wished he could do this alone, to truly revel in his work, but he knew that now was not the time for selfishness. Not when he needed to remain somewhat discreet given his new position. Muggle means of extermination would be used for this particular hunt. It wouldn't do for the murders to be traced to magical sources just yet.

His fingers idly stroked the wand fastened to the outside of his thigh, its smooth texture having a calming effect over the inevitable rush that would soon overtake him. As soon as the village clock strikes seven, the massacre would begin.

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rabastrange
2012-06-06 11:26 pm UTC (link)

Finally the clock struck 7 and Rabastan was on the move, his brother hot on his heels with a little more decorum than Rabastan felt at the moment. The thought of killing put him in a mood that he normally managed to push to the recesses of his mind. His hand tightened on his wand as he thought about what needed to happen. First, storm the church with as much surprise as possible, thus confusing the Muggles. Then put silencing, locking, and warding charms on all possible exits. Rabastan exchanged this information with his brother, who was already passing the word along to the others that had shown up to participate in the fun.

As soon as his hand made contact with the door, he felt the air around him sizzle on every iota of exposed skin; the charge ran through him and energised him, preparing every muscle for a good fight. It was rare enough that he got to kill without magic. Some might scoff and say that to use Muggle means was uncouth, impure, but Rabastan had found no other pleasure like it. To feel the skin, muscle, and bones of your victim constrict and crumble beneath your fingertips, to see the light leave their eyes... it was a high, like reaching the proverbial zenith of a long trek, finding a climax that was otherwise elusive. There was nothing sexual about this for him, but it was certainly a physical pleasure.

The confused shouting and looks of surprise were what immediately struck him. The idiot priest held the child aloft, its flailing limbs and wailing voice becoming lost in the sudden flurry of activity. The men, neatly dressed and demanding in their demeanour, approached, insulted, perhaps, that uninvited guests had crashed their celebration. Rabastan only smiled and raised his wand, adding a layer of charms of his own, ensuring that their work would not be interrupted. The magic flowed like a live python through his arm, the tingling acute and immediate. One of the Muggles looked astounded, perhaps wondering what sort of a madman relied on a stick and babbling gibberish, but the gleam in Rabastan's eye, the malice that shone out and made him look much older than his years, quickly silenced him.

A hand reached within his robe and pulled out a small, thin blade. Enough to cut open the flesh with a neat incision, readying his victims for the rest of his meticulous work. Some would be strangled for the sake of feeling muscles and bone crunch satisfyingly under his hands. But the infant, the entire centre of this baptism... the infant was his.

Some of the men tried to rush him as soon as they saw the blade, finally realising that this meant something more than a young man flailing a stick. This was real and he might be disgruntled, or a psychopath, or worse, perfectly sane and simply looking for a thrill. Wandless binding spells caught the small group and held them still. A woman looking on gasped as Rabastan unlatched the floodgate and carefully slashed the first man's throat, and the second's gut, tearing into his fine clothing. And then he distantly felt his brother on the move, the anticipation of blood on Rodolphus's hands spurring him on. He levitated the woman, relishing in her shriek and the sobs following. Binding her so that only her head could thrash about, he made the third man watch as his blade drove into her left eye; her cries and inane thrashing made the wound worse, driving the blade deeper.

Rabastan felt himself smile as his dark eyes watched a rivulet of blood stream down his hand and coat his wrist.

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vox_the_viper
2012-06-07 10:45 pm UTC (link)

Vox allowed the Lestrange brothers to take lead as he began throwing up the necessary charms, his concentration unhindered by the frantic screaming around him. Though he was as bloodthirsty as any of the others, and far exceeded many, he'd prepared himself for a group outing rather than a hunt. And on group outings, especially those he had initiated, he had responsibilities beyond his lust. No matter how careful they were not to draw attention to themselves, for instance, the Dark Lord would take it out of his hide if one of his soldiers fell during such foolishness. So, Vox's attention was split between his need for violence and his need to keep an eye on the others.

He spotted a larger gathering of muggles that had rushed to the far aisle to flee, but instead had come up against Evan Rosier while most of the Death Eaters were occupied elsewhere. Deciding that was as good a place as any, Vox stowed his wand within easy reach and pulled his machete. He'd almost brought his dragon slaying sword, because in a church full of people, crowd control was sometimes needed. The Death Eaters had arrived in force, however, so the machete would suffice.

As he crossed the space quickly, all thought beyond his immediate goal fell away, and he chose his prey. There was a large man with strong shoulders and a broad chest. He stood shielding two women, one a wife and the other a daughter, Vox guessed. If he'd had all the time in the world, he would have kept that man for last, made him watch the slaughter of his family, and then bent him over a pew. There were still too many people for theatrics, however, and the man looked to be working himself up into a dangerous rage. The only satisfaction Vox could take was in the fear blossoming in the man's eyes as he drew ever closer; it was over all too quick as Vox fell upon him with a vicious slash across his neck and chest. Before the man hit the floor, Vox had gutted the daughter and gave the wife a sinister grin before kicking her backward, leaving her alive in her torment if only for a short time.

With the large man down and carnage in their midst, the muggles panicked and allowed their numbers to be cut in half. While Rosier handled his group, Vox laid into his own. A shrieking, hysterical woman plastering her against the wall pathetically earned a quick death; with her head pressed to the wall so obligingly, he nearly managed a full decapitation with one swing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flicker of movement as a middle aged, matronly type, rushed him with a wicked looking candle stick. He allowed her to get closer than he should out of sadistic arrogance, and only at the last minute swung out with the machete, knocking the makeshift weapon from her hand. The attack only fueled his hunger, and since his victims were in the processes of fleeing, he allowed himself the luxury of dropping the weapon and subduing her with a fist to the face. As he wrapped his long fingers around her neck and strangled the life from her, she struggled uselessly, her nails ripping gouges into his arms. Smiling viciously until the life left her eyes, he tossed her aside and retrieved his machete.

With malicious purpose, he scanned the room, searching for weaknesses in their attack, searching for his next victim.

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