Old dogs, new tricks. [closed]

[Storm Veritas]

It was only a few moments later that the door from the room adjacent to Shinsou’s unfortunate quarters was opened again. The door opened in with a gentle creak, exposing the wizard who had finished his interrogative work. He appeared a bimodal disaster; well dressed with sharp creases in his suit offset by his hair uncharacteristically messy, sweat stains forming in the center of his chest and at his armpits. Most notably, blood was spattered across his clothing in seemingly errant streaks, six or seven slashes of crimson and battery orange-brown across his knuckles, suit, and shoes. There was no sound behind him coming from the room, the fate of the salesmen seemed to have been terrible.

Walking sharply but without panic towards the quarters of Vaan Osiris, a thin, petite blonde nurse was stopped by the villain. Her eyes were doe-like as she tried to balance her fear beneath duel masks of preoccupation and polite desire to serve.

“Nurse, see to Master Greysmith behind me. He’s passed out having undergone some harrowing dental work, and will likely be well served by a stiff drink or something heavier when he comes to.”

Looking back at the puddle of scarlet slowly walking its way into view from the room he had just exited, Veritas strode to check on his Telgradian business partner. Satisfied with the stability of his trusted ally, his eyes met the front door of the lean-to hospital.

Sorry friend; I can’t do shit for you in here. I can barely set a stitch, let alone run these little machines faster. I’ve got to go where I can be useful. I will stop them from coming back.

His eyes moved from his friend, who was breathing with the help of some incredible machines, and back to the door, where the bright sun framed the rectangular passage behind the oaken door, betraying what had been an undeniably dark day. His curious gaze pivoted quickly back into focused slits, the electromancer returning to a singular focus. He was two strides forward when the door was opened for him, and one step forward through the threshold when his attention found a man named Gabriel.

Gabriel was a gambler; one the adventurer had met early in his travels. He was connected, relatively wealthy and a connoisseur of rumors. He was one of a handful of men Storm Veritas had short-listed for tier-two leadership before Tylermande went sideways on him. Gabriel was also a short, fat man with tanned skin that burned in unique patterns atop his particularly lackluster hairline, and his cheeks wobbled in a frenzy when he saw Storm bearing down on him. Gabriel had wondered into a very bad place at a very bad time.

“Sir Veritas, I…” The glistening face of the cherubic hustler was stopped mid-phrase by the long, vicious fingers of Storm, who had closed on him and grabbed his face like an angler looking to hoist a prize smallmouth bass. Pushing forward, Storm had driven Gabriel into a shady alley beside the hospital building, oblivious to the dozen or so onlooking citizens. They were still quite visible here, but few would be bold enough to move into their periphery. If the shade delivered any respite from the heat, the corpulent swindler didn’t sweat a drop less.

“Shut the fuck up, Gabriel.” It was at this moment that the fear yielded to abject terror, as the doughy weasel noticed the eclectic spatters of blood upon Tylermande’s connected elite. Gabriel’s fat little mouth closed into a taut circle as he wisely followed instructions, not complaining at the pain inflicted upon his face.

“Damascus. Tenedos. You know the names, I’m sure. I have the who, I need the where. Let’s not let this get messier for you, shall we?”

As expected, the coward named Gabriel folded like a beach towel, offering up every morsel that Storm Veritas would need to locate his new prey. They’d be on the run, but their likely next stop wasn’t so far away. With one more horrifying and promised glare, Storm released his captor with a rough push, watching Gabriel bump roughly into the stucco wall behind him. For his obesity, the little fellow popped up and excused himself with impressive speed.

After only a moment or so, the terrible Storm Veritas emerged from the alley alone. His hair was pulled back taut, face and hands cleared of bloody debris. This was easily overridden by the soulless grey eyes that seemed to stare out forever, towards the western parts of the city. His expression was totally vacant, as though humanity had left him altogether for his singular, driving purpose.

He was hunting, and he would succeed.