Post by Dresden Ravenskraft on Jan 25, 2018 9:43:17 GMT -5
4:36 a.m.
The battery-fed red digits on the clock served as the only source of light in the darkened room. Dresden turned over on his side, wondering why he was awake, and felt every muscle in his shoulders and ribs complain at the movement. Staring at the water stains in the ceiling, he could see his breath as a cloud of steam in the dim light. The temperature must have been hanging just above freezing, he realized. Knowing that it would probably be impossible for him to fall asleep again, he decided to get up.
Dresden sat on the edge of the bed, trying to breath warmth into his cupped fingers while contemplating whether or not he should address the gnawing pit of hunger in his stomach. For some reason, the cold reminded him of his past, and he found himself slipping into his memories of Russia. While he no longer dreamed, he often experienced flashbacks of what had happened to him in the past, especially the past hundred years. After a while, however, he shivered and then stood up. This was definitely nothing like Siberia. He could manage.
Moving around the darkened room, Dresden fumbled with the venetian blinds until he managed to open the slats. Lines of crooked orange light from the lamp across the street pierced into the dark interior, allowing him to see without using electricity. It had snowed during the night, covering the streets with a thin, cheerless blanket of gray. In fact, snow was still falling, and Dresden blamed the pollution from the oil refinery for the ash-like consistency of the large flakes.
In the span of a few minutes, Dresden had water boiling on the small gas stove on the counter, but the fridge was empty except for a lone can of beer. He had eaten the last of his ramen the night before. Muttering a curse in German under his breath, Dresden downed the lager and then used the hot water to wash his hands and face.
Staring at his ghost-like reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink next to the stove, Dresden noted the ironic resemblance he bore with the late-night, habitual drinkers who he used to serve as a bartender back in Germany. It was hard to believe that so much time had already past since then. For a moment he considered shaving. The dark gray stubble one his lower face made the contrast with his pale skin even more obvious. On the other hand, it helped to mask his sharp cheekbones, which emphasized his angular features and made it seem as though his eyes were swimming in shadows. Ultimately, Dresden decided to leave it as it was. He quickly combed through his hair with his fingers, put on his coat, scarf, and gloves, and headed out into the cold.
Keeping a brisk pace as he shuffled through the fresh snow, Dresden rolled his shoulders as he walked in order to work the stiffness out of his muscles. The training from yesterday had left him hurting, and at last he decided to give in. Reaching out to the invisible lines of reishi flowing all around him, he knit a net of energy together over his shoulder blades. Then, refining the Ransoutengai to a surgical thickness, he began to knit the worst of the muscle tears back together. The sensation relief was wonderful, and by the time he reached the grocery store, he was feeling much lighter on his feet.
In fact, he almost wasn’t annoyed at all to discover that the store was closed.
Evidentially, he had forgotten that it was barely five in the morning. Well then… Dresden accepted his poor luck placidly, taking a moment to stare up at the dark, slate-gray sky. Then, on a sudden whim, he decided to walk around the town.
Normally, Dresden tried to avoid being seen in public. He would spend the nights training in the mountains to the north, then retreat to his rented one-room apartment during the day to rest, recuperate, and avoid the scrupulous gazes of the neighbors who might start asking questions as to why he was there. Some days, he wondered that himself. Muroran was a city that looked as though it had been trapped in the 1980s. Filled with unoriginal, concrete architecture and a dwindling population, the biggest attraction in town was the completely arbitrary and inexplicable department store in the center of the city. In fact, he could see it from where he stood, as the neighborhood he was higher in elevation than the city’s center. A gangly, large white tower stood surrounded by brutally minimalist blocks of dilapidated apartment buildings. Even further in the distance, the jagged smoke stacks of the oil refinery interrupted the flat, motionless horizon of the sea, where perpetual layer of fog smothered the softening glow of dawn.
Yet the bleakness of the city didn’t affect him. Generally speaking, Dresden preferred pragmatism to sentiment. He appreciated the solitude and the lack of passerby, as it meant he was less likely to be found out or to be noticed as a Quincy. Originally, Dresden’s purpose in coming to Hokkaido was to hide from the Order as well as to begin the rigorous process of regaining his powers. While he hadn’t really betrayed the organization, he hadn’t exactly taken a leave-of-absence either. All facts considered, it was better for him to lay-low for the time being, and Muroran was a perfect place to hide.
Almost perfect.
As Dresden stared at the horizon, he felt a sense of instinctual fear creep up his spine. It felt as though an electric current shot through the clouds in the air, and he felt cold… but not from the temperature. There was a presence there, and it seemed to have emerged somewhere near the oil refinery. Dresden didn’t even have to try to identify the reiatsu signature, as years of experience had already given him insight into what he was sensing.
It was a Hollow.
Using a few steps of Hirenkyaku to cut across the distance, Dresden arrived at the docks, The sprawling extent of concrete and steal ran right up to the water’s edge, allowing cargo ships to come into harbor. Thick fog clung close to the ground, hampering visibility, and the salt and humidity practically cut into his skin. Massive structures, consisting of support beams, cranes, and steel crates, towered over him. But, like the city itself, the shipping bay was empty and still.
Fingering the smooth metal of his Quincy’s cross, Dresden began to weave his way through the labyrinth of industrial equipment. All his senses were trained and alert, and he moved with slow, calculated movements. He knew the Hollow was here: it was only a question of which corner he would turn before coming face to face with a bloodthirsty, faceless monster, and he didn’t want to be taken by surprise.
Something metal clanged, and Dresden froze. It sounded like a pipe had dropped. Silently releasing the seal on his cross, the Luger P08 that served as a substitute spirit weapon materialized in his hands. Pressing close to the shipping crate, he crept around the side until, at last, he stepped out into the opening. But nothing was there, and the only movement was a blowing drift of snow. Dresden’s eyes narrowed. There shouldn’t have been a breeze, as the air was eerily stagnant. That had to mean…
He was interrupted by a low, echoing howl. Glancing up, Dresden saw a panther-like shape leap from the top of the crane, jumping down from platform to platform with fluid, animalistic agility. He tried to track its movement, but it sank below the level of the fog and disappeared. He could hear it though: massive paws thudding into the ground and causing the steel around him to reverberate.
This is it, he thought. Sinking down onto one knee for better stability, Dresden leveled his gun and waited for the Hollow to emerge.
He didn’t have to wait long.
All at once, a white mask came barreling out of the fog. A skeletal, canine-like jaw split open to reveal neat rows of flashing teeth, but Dresden didn’t pause to take in the scenery.
He pulled the trigger.
Word count 1,375
Running total 1,375
The battery-fed red digits on the clock served as the only source of light in the darkened room. Dresden turned over on his side, wondering why he was awake, and felt every muscle in his shoulders and ribs complain at the movement. Staring at the water stains in the ceiling, he could see his breath as a cloud of steam in the dim light. The temperature must have been hanging just above freezing, he realized. Knowing that it would probably be impossible for him to fall asleep again, he decided to get up.
Dresden sat on the edge of the bed, trying to breath warmth into his cupped fingers while contemplating whether or not he should address the gnawing pit of hunger in his stomach. For some reason, the cold reminded him of his past, and he found himself slipping into his memories of Russia. While he no longer dreamed, he often experienced flashbacks of what had happened to him in the past, especially the past hundred years. After a while, however, he shivered and then stood up. This was definitely nothing like Siberia. He could manage.
Moving around the darkened room, Dresden fumbled with the venetian blinds until he managed to open the slats. Lines of crooked orange light from the lamp across the street pierced into the dark interior, allowing him to see without using electricity. It had snowed during the night, covering the streets with a thin, cheerless blanket of gray. In fact, snow was still falling, and Dresden blamed the pollution from the oil refinery for the ash-like consistency of the large flakes.
In the span of a few minutes, Dresden had water boiling on the small gas stove on the counter, but the fridge was empty except for a lone can of beer. He had eaten the last of his ramen the night before. Muttering a curse in German under his breath, Dresden downed the lager and then used the hot water to wash his hands and face.
Staring at his ghost-like reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink next to the stove, Dresden noted the ironic resemblance he bore with the late-night, habitual drinkers who he used to serve as a bartender back in Germany. It was hard to believe that so much time had already past since then. For a moment he considered shaving. The dark gray stubble one his lower face made the contrast with his pale skin even more obvious. On the other hand, it helped to mask his sharp cheekbones, which emphasized his angular features and made it seem as though his eyes were swimming in shadows. Ultimately, Dresden decided to leave it as it was. He quickly combed through his hair with his fingers, put on his coat, scarf, and gloves, and headed out into the cold.
Keeping a brisk pace as he shuffled through the fresh snow, Dresden rolled his shoulders as he walked in order to work the stiffness out of his muscles. The training from yesterday had left him hurting, and at last he decided to give in. Reaching out to the invisible lines of reishi flowing all around him, he knit a net of energy together over his shoulder blades. Then, refining the Ransoutengai to a surgical thickness, he began to knit the worst of the muscle tears back together. The sensation relief was wonderful, and by the time he reached the grocery store, he was feeling much lighter on his feet.
In fact, he almost wasn’t annoyed at all to discover that the store was closed.
Evidentially, he had forgotten that it was barely five in the morning. Well then… Dresden accepted his poor luck placidly, taking a moment to stare up at the dark, slate-gray sky. Then, on a sudden whim, he decided to walk around the town.
Normally, Dresden tried to avoid being seen in public. He would spend the nights training in the mountains to the north, then retreat to his rented one-room apartment during the day to rest, recuperate, and avoid the scrupulous gazes of the neighbors who might start asking questions as to why he was there. Some days, he wondered that himself. Muroran was a city that looked as though it had been trapped in the 1980s. Filled with unoriginal, concrete architecture and a dwindling population, the biggest attraction in town was the completely arbitrary and inexplicable department store in the center of the city. In fact, he could see it from where he stood, as the neighborhood he was higher in elevation than the city’s center. A gangly, large white tower stood surrounded by brutally minimalist blocks of dilapidated apartment buildings. Even further in the distance, the jagged smoke stacks of the oil refinery interrupted the flat, motionless horizon of the sea, where perpetual layer of fog smothered the softening glow of dawn.
Yet the bleakness of the city didn’t affect him. Generally speaking, Dresden preferred pragmatism to sentiment. He appreciated the solitude and the lack of passerby, as it meant he was less likely to be found out or to be noticed as a Quincy. Originally, Dresden’s purpose in coming to Hokkaido was to hide from the Order as well as to begin the rigorous process of regaining his powers. While he hadn’t really betrayed the organization, he hadn’t exactly taken a leave-of-absence either. All facts considered, it was better for him to lay-low for the time being, and Muroran was a perfect place to hide.
Almost perfect.
As Dresden stared at the horizon, he felt a sense of instinctual fear creep up his spine. It felt as though an electric current shot through the clouds in the air, and he felt cold… but not from the temperature. There was a presence there, and it seemed to have emerged somewhere near the oil refinery. Dresden didn’t even have to try to identify the reiatsu signature, as years of experience had already given him insight into what he was sensing.
It was a Hollow.
Using a few steps of Hirenkyaku to cut across the distance, Dresden arrived at the docks, The sprawling extent of concrete and steal ran right up to the water’s edge, allowing cargo ships to come into harbor. Thick fog clung close to the ground, hampering visibility, and the salt and humidity practically cut into his skin. Massive structures, consisting of support beams, cranes, and steel crates, towered over him. But, like the city itself, the shipping bay was empty and still.
Fingering the smooth metal of his Quincy’s cross, Dresden began to weave his way through the labyrinth of industrial equipment. All his senses were trained and alert, and he moved with slow, calculated movements. He knew the Hollow was here: it was only a question of which corner he would turn before coming face to face with a bloodthirsty, faceless monster, and he didn’t want to be taken by surprise.
Something metal clanged, and Dresden froze. It sounded like a pipe had dropped. Silently releasing the seal on his cross, the Luger P08 that served as a substitute spirit weapon materialized in his hands. Pressing close to the shipping crate, he crept around the side until, at last, he stepped out into the opening. But nothing was there, and the only movement was a blowing drift of snow. Dresden’s eyes narrowed. There shouldn’t have been a breeze, as the air was eerily stagnant. That had to mean…
He was interrupted by a low, echoing howl. Glancing up, Dresden saw a panther-like shape leap from the top of the crane, jumping down from platform to platform with fluid, animalistic agility. He tried to track its movement, but it sank below the level of the fog and disappeared. He could hear it though: massive paws thudding into the ground and causing the steel around him to reverberate.
This is it, he thought. Sinking down onto one knee for better stability, Dresden leveled his gun and waited for the Hollow to emerge.
He didn’t have to wait long.
All at once, a white mask came barreling out of the fog. A skeletal, canine-like jaw split open to reveal neat rows of flashing teeth, but Dresden didn’t pause to take in the scenery.
He pulled the trigger.
Word count 1,375
Running total 1,375
