the lofty "axebanger" brookstanton (connard) wrote in valesco, @ 2015-08-04 17:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | rupert brookstanton |
WHO: Axebanger Brookstanton??
WHAT: YIKESTOWN
WHERE: His place!
WHEN: Now!
Sighing, Axebanger ran his hand through his shocky head of blond hair as he walked up the stairs to the flat he had not been inside of for nearly a month. Had it really been so long? Over the last two years, with the exception of the past few months, his time spent here had been sporadic and short, but he felt that surely he must have appeared more frequently than once a month?
He had murmured something about needing a piece of equipment, languishing in his small, postage stamp-sized flat, which was partly true. Axe did not really require it, but it gave him an innocuous-seeming reason to get out of the house. He needed fresh air to clear his head, and somehow the vastly more expansive house Rose lived in compared to his own seemed suffocating of late.
Axe slid his key into the lock, a snick sounding when he turned it. The key dissolved into the door, allowing him to swing it open.
Something was wrong.
Unable to describe why or what, he frowned into the dark. There was a sharp tang lingering in the air, raking against his throat as he breathed it in, alien and yet so very familiar. With a flick of his wrist, the lamps were lit, and that was when he saw it.
Blood everywhere, it seemed, a dark, sick looking red that seemed to say it had been there for hours. Puddles of it had dripped and pooled across the hard floors, the rugs. A handprint trailed along the wall that led to the bedroom. Confusion overrode his fear, and dropping his bag of equipment softly to the ground, Axe held his wand aloft and crept, slowly, towards the bedroom, spells he never thought he would again use flooding his mind.
The door was ajar, the bedroom dark and barely lit from the dim lamps in the front. No sound stirred, but Axe could see the trail of blood along the floor disappearing into the dark. The scent of death, metallic and somehow cloying, perfumed the air the nearer he drew, and carefully, he placed his free hand on the door and gingerly pushed it open.
Axe had been mistaken; there was something stirring—the faintest rattling of breath being drawn into lungs. That was not what tipped him off that he was not alone, however.
It was that there was something—someone—in his bed.
Swiftly, he Stunned the body, and when he came close enough to yank the covers away, he froze.
It was the shock of light brown curls that had caught his attention first, now horribly matted with threads of something dark weaving between. The face below was shrunken, dirty, bloody, but there was no mistake.
"Guy—Guillaume?"
There was no response, of course.
"Mon dieu!" he shouted, falling to his knees beside the bed. Frantic, Axe reached out to grab him, but the stiff arm in his hand was burning hot, the rise and fall of Guy's chest barely palpable.
Shaking his head, he whispered, "Non, non, qu'est-ce que tu—" But when he finished drawing back the covers was when he surged to his feet in horror.
Dashing out of the room, he flew to the fireplace and hastily reached into the jar perched on the mantel. Grabbing a fistful of powder, Axe threw it at the flames, which blazed an emerald green. Collapsing on his knees into the grate, he found himself peering into the sparse parlour belonging to one Philippe Bonham.
"PHILIPPE!" he shouted into the empty room. What would he do if he was not home? Again, he called, "PHILIPPE! AIDE-MOI!"
But by the time the Healer had entered his parlour, it was too late.