ArchivedLogs:As We Do

As We Do
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Isra
In Absentia	2013-11-25 Zombie patrol. Warning: graphic violence. (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <WES> Westchester
Less than an hour from the city proper, Westchester is accessible by train but far enough removed to play home to extensive sweeps of farmland, as well as enough parks, reservoirs and riverland by the Hudson to make people feel like they have gotten away from urban life. Though the temperature has crept a few degrees above freezing, it remains a cold, gray afternoon in Westchester. The threat of snow never materialized, but has left a certain stillness in the air. The suburban wildlife seem to sense this, and lie quiescent in their burrows, nests, and windfalls. Winter is coming. Through a break in the clouds, the sun shines watery and wan for a few moments--not long enough to warm the landscape, but it throws the shadow of something in flight, larger than any native bird, across a barren field. The creature's wings, horns, and tail confer a certain mythological quality that clashes with her black bodysuit. Isra viers windward and follows the course of a creek and the trail beside it through a patch of woodland. A single beat of her wings--the moment still awkward and taxing--reclaims some of the altitude she lost in the maneuver. Her green eyes search the leaf-littered ground and her nostrils flare periodically. One large shadow is trailed by another, more prosaic in largely just skater-punk jeans and Vans sneakers and black denim jacket, though Dusk’s enormous wings still lend a more surreal quality to his silhouette as it passes over the ground. In the air he moves, in contrast, rather effortlessly, a fluid glide that he adjusts through small bends and shifts of flexible wings. Through the trees there is movement -- first only from a small herd of deer. Deer that are running swift and startled from a disturbance /other/ than the two flying figures -- some ways behind them, there is a herd of a different sort, bodies moving slow and awkward-gaited but inexorably forward after the herd. Dusk gestures with one gloved hand, downwards towards the shambling forms. Isra's eyes track the deer, and then the figures indicated by Dusk. She gives a very abbreviated nod and banks hard to the right. Circling on silent wings behind the group of walking corpses, she descends toward a gap between winter-bare trees from which she might reach the odd straggling zombie while the deer still occupy their attention. As she approaches, she pulls in her wings so that she can actually fit between the branches without--hopefully--creating a terrible racket or severely injuring herself. With less lift, she falls faster, though she does not panic. Here is a gargoyle who has done her share of falling, and, perhaps, her share of landing in wooded areas. She mantles her wings wide after descending past the canopy and backwings hard to slow her descent before landing in a crouch behind the zombies. Dusk pulls his wings in, as well, following Isra down into the trees in a swift dive that he pulls up out of just before touching down. He has a sledgehammer strapped across his chest rather than his back, so as not to impede his wings; probably an impractically heavy weapon for most people but he hefts it effortlessly. He pokes his wing to one side, gesturing to the left side of the herd as he starts to move right, absently swinging his sledgehammer in one hand like someone else might swing a baseball bat. He moves up quietly on one of the straggling zombies, whirling the hammer up to crunch solidly through skull. Isra's weapons are strapped to her long digitigrade legs, a machete on one side and a crowbar on the other. She pulls the machete free from its sheath as she swings to the left. The blade has clearly seen much use, and its handle is wrapped in several layers of cloth tape to better fit her long-fingered hands. Her low, stalking gait looks sluggish, but covers a great deal of ground quite rapidly. If her target could see her and had a mind with which to know fear, it might have been terrified. As it is, though, the corpse seems largely oblivious until the machete cleaves through its neck by way of its jaw. She is either not particularly adept with the weapon or not overly concerned about finesse. Her ears flick independently--one forward to the rest of the herd and one toward Dusk--and her eyes search for her next mark. The element of surprise works especially well on those opponents too brainless to notice their comrades falling. Dusk's wing flicks towards the decapitated head of the zombie Isra has just attacked, mouth still clamping open and shut where the head lies on the leafy ground. There's a dozen or so zombies in the bulk of the herd, a few stragglers still lingering behind, and Dusk makes his way to the next one with teeth bared and his sledgehammer swinging. With her left hand, Isra draws the crowbar and sinks the curved end into the still-moving head as she passes it on gliding steps. She leads with the crowbar when she reaches the next zombie, caving in its parietal bone and hastening its end with the machete when it does not crumple as quickly as she would like. Her expression remains quite placid, as though she were only clearing particularly tenacious weeds from an overgrown garden. The next zombie she targets happens to stumble as she is in the act of swinging the machete, which still cuts a couple of inches into its cranium before getting stuck. This actually steadies the falling corpse, but must have somehow tipped it off, for it turns around--helpfully wrenching the machete blade free in the process--to lunge at Isra. She snaps one wing forward, slamming the knobby thumb joint into the corpse's jaw and sending it reeling. When Dusk fights he is anything but placid; there's a fierce /vigor/ to him, face flushed, fangs bared in an expression that might be grimace or might be /grin/, sharp and wide. He keeps his wings pressed flush against his back, more out of the way when an unnoticed half-a-zombie crawling across the ground reaches up to clench grabbing fingers against a lower pinion. At the moment though he ignores the scratching tearing fingers, yanking back with a soft breath expelled through his clenched teeth. He whirls instead, past one tree and towards the zombie Isra has just sent spinning. He catches it with a sudden outstretched wing, knocking it forward where it's been about to fall back and meeting its forward fall with a crunch of the heavy head of his hammer. All the snapping of wings, though, /does/ draw the attention of the herd; the zombies stop, turn, slow and disjointed in their movements. Dead eyes locking on the pair of winged mutants. Dusk's smile /sharpens/. He draws a long knife from where it's been sheathed at his hip, blade flashing as he grips it in his off-hand. "Guess warm-up's over," he calls to Isra, over the harsh rattling of many zombie groans in unison. "Indeed," is all Isra gives by way of reply. Her ears press back as she sinks into a crouch and pounces, closing the distance to the leader of the zombie pack--until recently one of the stragglers. The machete parts its face and the force of her impact knocks it backward. It trips and stumbles into the one behind it before slumping into the ground. She swings the crowbar and knocks the next nearest zombie in the head, but that one does not go down. A cold, clammy and sharp-clawed hand on her wing draws her attention away. The accidentally sneak-attacking corpse is rewarded with a swift not-quite decapitation. All the while, though, the horde advances. Dusk just growls, after this. His wings press to his back once more, and he wades straight into the bulk of the zombies. Still some of those at the edges of the group stragglers march for Isra, biting, grasping, but in the center of the pack they turn their attentions to Dusk. It's hard to hear his quiet hissing breaths over their rattling, as fingers grab at his wings and clothing, but the thudding crunch of his hammer is distinctive enough. His wings spread, a zombie clinging to one as he tries to shake it off. Though not utterly swarmed like Dusk, Isra has more than enough to handle. The sounds of fragmenting bone and the smell of rotting flesh fills the air as she splits open skulls left and right--sometimes to greater effect than others. Hands grasping with mindless strength leave scratch marks here and there on her exposed skin, but even the dead have only human fingernails. One set of mostly in-tact zombie jaws manages to latch onto her right forearm, though it seems to have trouble biting through the heavy elastic fabric of her bodysuit. From the forest floor, from amidst shambling feet and severed body parts, something grabs hold of her lashing tail and pulls hard. Her wings flare out instinctively in a bid to keep her balance, knocking zombies aside but presenting better targets to yet others. Teeth cut into an unprotected wing spur, drawing blood. With a snarl, Isra /punches/ the zombie to get it off of her arm, then caves in the head of the one gnawing on her wing. There is a wild gleam in her eyes, pupils dilating until her irises are thin rings of uncanny green. Her lips draw back, but it is hard to say whether she is grinning or baring her teeth like animal ready to bite. No more the calm and methodical gardener, she chops and crushes the corpses as they present themselves. Dusk's wing sheds droplets of blood when he finally shakes free of his zombie-barnacle, but his fierce teeth-bared grin has not faded. His hammer slams down into the skull of a zombie in front of him, and he shoves another away as it tries to bite through the thick denim of his jacket. And for a time that is it; soft snarl and hisses contrasting with the rattling groans of the dead. The thud of flesh of flesh and the crunch of bones. Dusk's chest is heaving by the time he returns to Isra's side; his hammer drops to his side, its head moving down to rest against the head of a zombie on the ground, legs crushed, broken arms scrabbling at the ground. Dusk looks down, watching as the once-woman's teeth champ futilely, head not moving beneath the heavy hammer head. "They don't get scared." His face is still flushed, free arm lifting to wipe at his face. "The smell, the biting, smashing open skulls of -- fff. But it's that part I don't ever get used to." Isra looks almost /confused/ when she runs out of zombies to kill. She blinks her eyes clear and straightens up, crowbar still clutched in one hand. The other is bloodied from talons to wrist. A long trail of /fresh/ blood stands out against the deep gray of her wing membrane, but the wound itself appears superficial. The suggestion of feral aggression slowly drains from her posture. "They are, for all intents and purposes, automata." She yanks hard on the machete to dislodge it from the skull of a zombie lying at her feet. "It is the form they inhabit which leads us to expect that they should suffer from fear, or pain, or weariness." Her eyes scan the woods around them and come to rest on Dusk. "As we do." Then, looking up. "Another circuit, then?" Aggression doesn't drain from Dusk's, muscles coiled tense and a bright intensity still to his eyes. His dark eyes close, though, as he lifts his hammer to thud it down heavily, halting the scrabbling of the figure at his feet. "As we do," he agrees softly, in time with that crunch. "Yeah. West, maybe. Saw hella light coming from the northeast, Jax and Liam probably have a handle on --" His wings, more bloodied and tattered than before, fold in at his back. "Right. Another circuit."