ʀᴏᴍᴇ (domovoi) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-09-30 23:43:00 |
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The air of anticipation in the camp is palpable; you could have cut it with a rusty knife. Roman can smell it in the air around the bonfire as he stalks past it; he can see it in the restless movements of the patches, the sort of feverish glint that lights their eyes, that turns their laughter sharper and more jittery. It’s an atmosphere of tense, excited expectation and one that he recognises: men getting ready before a job, laughing off the nerves, shaking out the last-minute jitters like his comrades once did in the Bratva. Their king has a plan, and even if not all of them know what it is, they know that something’s a-comin’. They know that the time for waiting is over, and action’s about to come careening and smashing back into their lives. The Hellhounds, as a whole, do better with action than the waiting. This particular man would have preferred a lot less action, but extenuating times call for extenuating measures and when Caesar calls, Rome answers. So the big man saunters through the camp as if there’s nothing going on—exchanging nods and half-bared smiles with the rest of the crew, a wave of the hand—but then he’s past the sentries, at the gates, where the last of the daylight is bleeding away. He notices the pale mop of Rodeo’s long blond hair, standing on the outskirts for once rather than in the heart and nerve centre of the camp. “Nice night for it, brother,” Roman says lightly. But it turns out the anticipation is contagious: he can feel it settling into his own limbs, nudging at his steady heartbeat, stirring him to hear whatever job is required of him. |