Temperance lives by (verbumdomini) wrote in repose, @ 2015-12-15 23:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, claire johnson, daniel webster |
Log: Woods; Claire & Daniel
Who: Claire & Daniel
What: Someone 'got a life.' Kinda.
Where: The woods
When: Eh, now-ish? Then-ish? Something like that. Nighttime.
Warnings/Rating: Who knows. They may get morbid.
Empty branches scraped and rattled against the night sky, skeletal fingers that played eerie shadow games between the moon and the ground. Claire looked up at the pale white light that broke through towering trunks from gibbous source, wide grey eyes scanning the moon's location from the horizon. It was after midnight. Perhaps even closer to the top of the next hour. 12:45. Not yet one o'clock, that much she was certain of. Winter nights were long, but never long enough.
She had work to do.
She was on the hunt. Her prayers begged God that she was wrong, but Claire knew better. The usual warmth that came from her nightly benedictions with the Heavenly Father had been replaced by chilled shivers of ice in her veins at the mention of The Dog. The description from people around town was innocent enough for those that did not know the servants of Satan. Had that Sparrow not mentioned the watching, Claire may have written it off as paranoia. The issue laid with the fact that the watcher was never the true threat. Monsters that laid beyond, past vision of humans, beings that were created of pure evil, those were the threats that Claire was after. She had to start somewhere.
Yet the look of the young woman was hardly that of a girl brought up as an assassin for the Vatican. Her years away on her own had molded her into something that fell easily into the dregs of society. Claire learned quickly that the homeless were most often ignored by the majority of people, and that was where she wanted to be. Hidden away in plain view, where her words could be passed off as eccentricity. Her clothes came from the thrift store; thick knit leggings, blue plaid knock-off Doc Martens, ripped jean shorts, an old gas station shirt (Presumed to have been formerly owned by a man named Joshua if the ratty patch sewn above the front pocket was to be believed), and a thick army styled jacket. Oh, her jacket. Lined with pockets to hide away her holy water and various other ritual components, up to and including the rocks of salt sewn into the bottom hem (so she was always in a ring of salt, common start to protection rituals). Tonight, she only had one blade strapped to her thigh, heavy and silver, the weight a comforting familiarity.
To a layman? Claire was taking a lonely walk. She was weird enough to get away with a midnight stroll in the woods. To a trained eye? The woman was searching. To those in the know? She was tracking prey. The pauses in her steps were deliberate and slow, occasionally crouching down to brush away browned dead leaves to identify a print in the dirt, and disappointment had twisted her face into a scowl. Wrong types of paws. She sighed heavily, hot breath a plume of swirling mist that dissipated quickly in the winter air from lips curtained behind long brown hair.. Maybe she should go back to the motel to continue her search, but there were places in the shadows of these trees and that darkness beckoned for her to go deeper. Not that she had anything to fear. The Lord was on her side.