- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- On fairly regularly, every day. I'll notice a PM almost immediately. Replies come randomly.
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- No Preferences
- Genres
- High fantasy is my personal favorite, followed closely by modern fantasy and post-apocalyptic, but I can happily play in any genre if the plot is good enough.
Quebec slowed from a jog to a walk at the front of the house, letting out an irritable sigh. It was almost certain that the girl had found the key, so she was now either loose in the house, or fleeing. But the front door was closed, and, as Quebec quickly circled the house, he saw no other signs of egress. Of course, that did not mean that she wasn’t gone, but most escapees did not take the time to close the door behind their escape.
Satisfied that meant the girl was still in the house, Quebec walked back around to the front of the door, carefully unlocked it, and stepped into the house. Only to be greeted with the sight of an axe, flying right for his chest. He barely even had a chance to laugh before the head buried itself in his ribcage. Of all the weapons in this house, she went for the axe. Well, he had to give her points for style.
For an instant after the axe struck there was blinding pain. The force was enough to send him flying backwards, the axe ripping itself out of his chest. There was blood everywhere, and there was no doubt that his shirt was ruined. Quebec hit the ground, and the healing process took over automatically. He was incapacitated for half a second, but then his leg was snapping out like a whip, tripping up the girl. He simply had to hope that she did not imbed herself on the axe in the process of falling.
He pushed himself up from the ground quickly, able to feel his ribs coming back together, new skin growing over the wound, and the flow of blood stopping. He didn’t even bother to check the injury, half concealed behind his bloody, tattered shirt. The state of his body was one of the few things he knew intimately, without having to ever check.
He seized Sveta by the hair, roughly dragging her further into the house. The main door was kicked closed after their passage, but he didn’t stop to lock it. She wasn’t going anywhere. “You certainly have got chutzpah,” Quebec spat out, flinging her against the wall. His boot lashed out once, landing on the side of her torso. There would be no broken ribs, but there would certainly be some bruising.
“But now at least you should understand exactly how futile your situation is.” He sat down across from her, the irritation sliding off of his face like wax. He even smiled at her, although it was the smile of a cat looking at a juicy piece of flesh. He pulled the bloody shirt off before using it to mop the last of the fresh blood off of his chest. Satisfied that he was about as bloodless as he was going to get, Quebec tossed the shirt into a corner.
“You really are the most unlucky person I have ever met,” he told her, a smile of satisfaction spreading over his face. “No one has ever found me three times before, even if you had no clue what you were doing.” He unfolded a leg and straightened it out, planting it firmly against her chest. “First you engage in a staring contest with sweet Jan here.” His face seemed to ripple, stretching and squishing until Svetlana was staring into the cold eyes of the Polish terrorist.
“Then you meet Rotham,” his face changed again, this time more drastically, to the sweet-faced but ruddy complexion of the overweight businessman. “And of all the nonsense, you ask him if you’ve met him before.
“And then you spill coffee all over Cyryl. Well, I could hardly just let you walk, or be carried, away again. So we just had to go through this little bit of unpleasantness.
“Now that you are thoroughly terrified, perhaps you can begin to understand the kind of situation you are in right now. Perhaps not. I’ll give you a few minutes to stop hyperventilating, and then perhaps you can start by telling me anything you can possibly think of about how you recognize me, and how you keep finding me. Or, I can try and rip it out of your head manually. But, believe me, talking would probably be much more pleasant.”
Satisfied that meant the girl was still in the house, Quebec walked back around to the front of the door, carefully unlocked it, and stepped into the house. Only to be greeted with the sight of an axe, flying right for his chest. He barely even had a chance to laugh before the head buried itself in his ribcage. Of all the weapons in this house, she went for the axe. Well, he had to give her points for style.
For an instant after the axe struck there was blinding pain. The force was enough to send him flying backwards, the axe ripping itself out of his chest. There was blood everywhere, and there was no doubt that his shirt was ruined. Quebec hit the ground, and the healing process took over automatically. He was incapacitated for half a second, but then his leg was snapping out like a whip, tripping up the girl. He simply had to hope that she did not imbed herself on the axe in the process of falling.
He pushed himself up from the ground quickly, able to feel his ribs coming back together, new skin growing over the wound, and the flow of blood stopping. He didn’t even bother to check the injury, half concealed behind his bloody, tattered shirt. The state of his body was one of the few things he knew intimately, without having to ever check.
He seized Sveta by the hair, roughly dragging her further into the house. The main door was kicked closed after their passage, but he didn’t stop to lock it. She wasn’t going anywhere. “You certainly have got chutzpah,” Quebec spat out, flinging her against the wall. His boot lashed out once, landing on the side of her torso. There would be no broken ribs, but there would certainly be some bruising.
“But now at least you should understand exactly how futile your situation is.” He sat down across from her, the irritation sliding off of his face like wax. He even smiled at her, although it was the smile of a cat looking at a juicy piece of flesh. He pulled the bloody shirt off before using it to mop the last of the fresh blood off of his chest. Satisfied that he was about as bloodless as he was going to get, Quebec tossed the shirt into a corner.
“You really are the most unlucky person I have ever met,” he told her, a smile of satisfaction spreading over his face. “No one has ever found me three times before, even if you had no clue what you were doing.” He unfolded a leg and straightened it out, planting it firmly against her chest. “First you engage in a staring contest with sweet Jan here.” His face seemed to ripple, stretching and squishing until Svetlana was staring into the cold eyes of the Polish terrorist.
“Then you meet Rotham,” his face changed again, this time more drastically, to the sweet-faced but ruddy complexion of the overweight businessman. “And of all the nonsense, you ask him if you’ve met him before.
“And then you spill coffee all over Cyryl. Well, I could hardly just let you walk, or be carried, away again. So we just had to go through this little bit of unpleasantness.
“Now that you are thoroughly terrified, perhaps you can begin to understand the kind of situation you are in right now. Perhaps not. I’ll give you a few minutes to stop hyperventilating, and then perhaps you can start by telling me anything you can possibly think of about how you recognize me, and how you keep finding me. Or, I can try and rip it out of your head manually. But, believe me, talking would probably be much more pleasant.”