[Lurking is one of a handful of things Lucas does well. It's a job he's been on for the past two, three years. When he goes out, he goes out late. He lies low, stays on quiet roads with his hood up. Does whatever he was sent out to do. Is out before he turns a single head that doesn't need turnin'.
He knows that the streets're getting mean by night. And for a bundle of reasons, he just doesn't care. For the first time in ages, not that he's got a reflective bone in his body, he ain't lookin' for trouble. He's not a fighter; promise of cozying up to a royal court ain't nearly incentive enough to go out accosting possibly-armed gangs, and neither is the goodness of his heart, whatevertheheck that means. Hell, he'd be joining them for the thrill of a good bout of wrecking shit if a chain of logic hadn't run that "bad for the Blood in general" = "bad for you, too, son. You're carrying a jewel. Everybody knows that you're here thanks to the Queen".
But. Staying out of shit doesn't mean you can't pick through the bones afterwards. Outta curiosity or otherwise. A crash cut from around a corner. He peeked around it to see a couple dashing over themselves out through the door, a kid maybe 'bout five or six stumbling behind them. Bit of ruckus later, and out filed the landens the opposite way back down the street.
And that's why... mmmmaybe you heard the commotion, too!
And in investigating to pop your head through the doorway of a house with shattered windows, you're finding the place ransacked. Furniture overturned, a Far-caster fritzing on its side on the floor.
And a spindly figure in a hood rifling through the cabinets chest of drawers. Head down, shaking, half-whining-and-half-growling a rising aughhhh -- !
Turning and then -- catching you there with eyes huge. Stumbling backward against the chest and hands bracing into it with a grimace 'n a jerked-out dammit -- !
Before... he shakes his head again in a metronomic swing. Stance slouched. Rocks to a settled point, hands up! And face a gawking joyless smile.]
-- Listen!
[His is a very, very pronounced Southern drawl 'n twang. Aaall in a nasally singsong.]
Before you go, uhhhh -- ! -- Settin' me on FIRE or whatever's yer plan...! [A hard toss of his head into his shake as his eyes round over a jack-o'-lantern smile.] -- I didn't have nothing to DO with this... -- !
[His head lolls aside a bit. Hands comin' down and out a tad. "Jazzhands-y". Teeth parting.]
I'm Blood -- ! [With a sort of upward nod aside at it, he opens his right palm. Rrright out from it drops an opal on a chain. Into the peak of another series of rising shakes of his head:] ...Aaaain't'cha the same?!
[Nnnno, Lucas. You are not Blood.
But. Nonetheless, he holds on a look of... So how 'bout that, huh -- ?!]
B. Air Time. The Weather.
[Go fig that taking a trip to magic-land has kinda... set things up in such a way that there're little moments like this that are aggressively normal. Hell, maybe even more normal than things were before Eveline came around. He wouldn't know.
Point is, it's a moment of new-old routine. Slouchin' over a table by the wall in a cafe. Hand half-hangin' off his wrist as he turns a long sip of coffee on up between his lips. Eyes flickin' to a corner, half-lidded, as the report comes in of rain. Rain, too! That's... back-home-stuff, too...
..."Lesions".
His eyes... tick just a hint rounder before shooting back down to the table as he plops his cup down.
Practically hiccups out a little giggling sound. Draws up a toothy... smirk? Looks half-like a sneer, as his brow furrows, and he husks:]
-- Whaaat they got in the rain around here... -- ?
[Delivered like a pointedly-dry "Well. Noooow I seen everything...!"]
C. Wildcard!
[Do you have any ideas for a thread, or would you like me to cook up another prompt? Feel free to hit me, either here or over on Plurk @ schmendricks!]
Lucas Baker | Resident Evil
[Lurking is one of a handful of things Lucas does well. It's a job he's been on for the past two, three years. When he goes out, he goes out late. He lies low, stays on quiet roads with his hood up. Does whatever he was sent out to do. Is out before he turns a single head that doesn't need turnin'.
He knows that the streets're getting mean by night. And for a bundle of reasons, he just doesn't care. For the first time in ages, not that he's got a reflective bone in his body, he ain't lookin' for trouble. He's not a fighter; promise of cozying up to a royal court ain't nearly incentive enough to go out accosting possibly-armed gangs, and neither is the goodness of his heart, whatevertheheck that means. Hell, he'd be joining them for the thrill of a good bout of wrecking shit if a chain of logic hadn't run that "bad for the Blood in general" = "bad for you, too, son. You're carrying a jewel. Everybody knows that you're here thanks to the Queen".
But. Staying out of shit doesn't mean you can't pick through the bones afterwards. Outta curiosity or otherwise. A crash cut from around a corner. He peeked around it to see a couple dashing over themselves out through the door, a kid maybe 'bout five or six stumbling behind them. Bit of ruckus later, and out filed the landens the opposite way back down the street.
And that's why... mmmmaybe you heard the commotion, too!
And in investigating to pop your head through the doorway of a house with shattered windows, you're finding the place ransacked. Furniture overturned, a Far-caster fritzing on its side on the floor.
And a spindly figure in a hood rifling through the cabinets chest of drawers. Head down, shaking, half-whining-and-half-growling a rising aughhhh -- !
Turning and then -- catching you there with eyes huge. Stumbling backward against the chest and hands bracing into it with a grimace 'n a jerked-out dammit -- !
Before... he shakes his head again in a metronomic swing. Stance slouched. Rocks to a settled point, hands up! And face a gawking joyless smile.]
-- Listen!
[His is a very, very pronounced Southern drawl 'n twang. Aaall in a nasally singsong.]
Before you go, uhhhh -- ! -- Settin' me on FIRE or whatever's yer plan...! [A hard toss of his head into his shake as his eyes round over a jack-o'-lantern smile.] -- I didn't have nothing to DO with this... -- !
[His head lolls aside a bit. Hands comin' down and out a tad. "Jazzhands-y". Teeth parting.]
I'm Blood -- ! [With a sort of upward nod aside at it, he opens his right palm. Rrright out from it drops an opal on a chain. Into the peak of another series of rising shakes of his head:] ...Aaaain't'cha the same?!
[Nnnno, Lucas. You are not Blood.
But. Nonetheless, he holds on a look of... So how 'bout that, huh -- ?!]
B. Air Time. The Weather.
[Go fig that taking a trip to magic-land has kinda... set things up in such a way that there're little moments like this that are aggressively normal. Hell, maybe even more normal than things were before Eveline came around. He wouldn't know.
Point is, it's a moment of new-old routine. Slouchin' over a table by the wall in a cafe. Hand half-hangin' off his wrist as he turns a long sip of coffee on up between his lips. Eyes flickin' to a corner, half-lidded, as the report comes in of rain. Rain, too! That's... back-home-stuff, too...
..."Lesions".
His eyes... tick just a hint rounder before shooting back down to the table as he plops his cup down.
Practically hiccups out a little giggling sound. Draws up a toothy... smirk? Looks half-like a sneer, as his brow furrows, and he husks:]
-- Whaaat they got in the rain around here... -- ?
[Delivered like a pointedly-dry "Well. Noooow I seen everything...!"]
C. Wildcard!
[Do you have any ideas for a thread, or would you like me to cook up another prompt? Feel free to hit me, either here or over on Plurk @