lancelot-sharpkeen

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

@curiosstarryasking

Hi! How was your new year's?

"I still have a headache from new year's. I'm not talking about that."

New Year parties go crazy at the Hunter's guild.

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

You took me down ....

BUT YOU DID'T FINISH ME OFF !

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

Yikes bestie. You're stinky as fuck. And it's quite embarrassing too, being yelled at for something that he doesn't particularly like as well! Unfortunately he had to deal with one monster too many lately, and the chance of finding a washing mashine in the hotel rooms he had to rent was little to none, as always. Cleaning everything up in the bath tub was a quick solution, but truly felt like putting a bandait on a gunshot wound, most of the times: pointless and, from an outside prospective, kind of dumb, too.

"They did, but--!" he starts, at least trying to defend himself and his actions, just to be silenced immediately by the princess' scolding. It's rare for anyone to shut Lance up so easily, and yet, here we are!

This is awkward.

"There's no need, I'm about to go back to the Headquarters and--"

She moves closer, and the Hunter takes a step back in response, both hands up to sign that he really doesn't need to deal with this. True, it could've been an opportunity to talk about how he survived and onslaught of battles and came out all in one piece, if not for the copious amount of blood and guts that ended up on his shirt and coat, but, for once, he knows better. There's a place and time for anything, after all, and this wasn't it!

"I swear, I don't like this either!"

She snorts — or sneezes, the motion is all the same, a dramatic tossing of her head downwards like the strength of it is appalling to her, while she squints her eyes up and the pale skin around her nostrils dramatically expands as she exhales, a great big huff of a sound that pleases her for its own sake.

It's not that the scent is bad. Actually, that might be the problem. Sure, it's got a familiar sort of rancid taste to it, a stagnancy that turns it sour and hints to her that it's gone old, an important cue to someone like her who's made to just as easily scavenge her meals as hunt them herself. But that would just be a mote of flavor, a suggestion as to what happened, a directing of her senses. Old meat, perhaps! Something washed up on a beach or floating on the open seas, buoyed up by the waste-gases in its guts. Fragrant, many predators have surely been here already, but there is meat still to be found, or the predators themselves, if she is quick. Maybe even an injured animal, harmed by some prior encounter, still alive and healing but wasting precious resources to do so, a chance that could be in her favor!

It lingers in her sinuses, plastered up against the roof of her mouth, leaking into her scent organs and dripping down the back of her throat. She can feel it in her gills, a tingling sensation, an anticipation. It makes her mouth turn wet, her stomach cavernous, awakening the old enemy, and abruptly her body remembers to complain to her, stirred from the dormancy of lack.

It's irritating. It's also irritating because Miranda has spent enough time around Bellanda to get specific about the conditions of hired arms, and strict about the hygiene of their tools. Scent, a primary sense for her far moreso than sight, sensitive to such things, could easily identify mess and improper care where her eyes regularly failed her, and she just wasn't about to not chew someone else out.

"Yes it is!! You cannot just leave it there for an extended period of time — it will damage your gear!!! And you will give away your own position before you even have a chance! Has no one taught you how to properly care for what you have?" Miranda rears up as much as she can, a precious few inches up from the near horizontal slope of her back. It's just enough leverage for her to paw at his arms and gently tug at what loose bits she can move out of the way, trying to identify where the smell is strongest. "Where is the worst of it? I will fix this, but I have to see how bad it is first!"

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

Looks like they were both quite tense, huh. Of course. Lance wouldn't blame the stranger one bit, and he sure hopes he doesn't blame him, either, if he takes one precaution too many, as paranoid as he could seem.

The grip on the gun's handle tighten ever so slightly in the half second of silence that follows his question, just to relax as the other talks back. Quite literally talks back.

Once again. Tension all over the place. Once again, one that Lance fully understands - enough to contain an otherwise annoyed scoff at the sass thrown at him.

There's no need to escalate things.

"I was mostly asking if you were bitten, or something like that." the hunter explains, attempting to keep his voice firm and calm as he, indeed, lowers the flashlight enough to not blind the poor guy in front of him. It rests on the side, enough for Lance to squint a bit and still get a good look of the man in front of him, quietly searching for any sign of possible future zombiefication.

"It's better to be safe than sorry. It's hell out there."

Finally, his tone gets lowered as well, green eyes darting to the door as soon as he hears a noise. Something falling. Likely a piece of the wall giving up on its own.

He's getting jumpy.

"And, honestly. It's not really that better in here."

It's a shitty situation by itself already. He doesn't need this.

Out of ammo and without a melee weapon, the only solution Carmine could find to the umpteenth wave was to hide and stay as quiet as possible. The hotel had many rooms, one more full than others, and closing himself in a particularly full wardrobe seemed the only real solution to the mess. Out there, hell went loose. He heard gunshots, infected, a Witch's scream, then steps. And then nothing. He got out very slowly, hoping that nothing was around anymore - and a moment later he found himself pressed in the corner, the wall to one side and the wardrobe to the other, and both a gun and a flashlight pointed against.

It's already a bad situation, but it's worse when you're blinded by the light and can't get a look at the other. And when that other doesn't say anything.

His words at least get a reaction out of the other: a normal voice asking normal things, making him just a little bit calmer. Relatively. Both the gun and the flashlight don't even hint about moving.

« Infected not ask questions, do they? » he replies, unable to contain a bit of irritation, one hand still risen to protect the eyes and still trying to get a look at the other between the fingers. « I'm okay! Lower the... the, uh- ». He gestures vaguely at the flashlight. « The thing. The light. Please and thank you. »

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

If I Could Go Back In Time

I'd Put A Gun In My Bra

Point It Straight To Your Brain

ASK IF YOU LIKE WHAT YOU SAW

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

@crownhcart

"Why are you staring at me? What are you looking at?"

Admittedly, he was tense. More than usual. A near death experience too many with a Witch awakened by a moment of distraction does that to you.

Gun and flashlight remain pointed at the other as he held his breath, his eyes darting around the stranger's body, looking for possible wounds, scratches. Bitemarks. There weren't any as far as he knew, but... what tells him that he isn't hiding them?

He wouldn't blame him. But it would be rather troublesome.

"You're not infected, are you?" he asks after a few seconds of silence, not lowering his weapon "Just to be sure."

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

Francis turns, and Lance answers to those teases with a silent one of his own, mocking his words under his breath. Very mature. Still, despite everything, the redhead follows the other down, holding his breath whenever one of their step raised dust and made spiders and bugs crawl away from their light.

All for nothing, as far as he's concerned. Anything important likely turned into a moldy mess or was taken by other survivors. Lance hoped for the latter. Truly hoped their small team weren't the only ones who didn't turn into zombies or were eaten alive in the chaos of the past days. Francis did his things, Lance did his, looking around with one hand holding onto the flashlight way more tightly than he thought - wether the silence or the smell put him more on edge, he isn't sure - the other tapping on his gun, brushing the trigger, ready to remove the secure at the very hint of danger.

Danger that, turns out, has an awful timing. Or an incredible sense of humor.

There's no need to say anything at that point. A proper hero knows to keep monologues, cool one liners and jokes only for non-serious situations, or for after the monster is done with. The hand holding the gun moves quick and precise, the undead barely a meter away from the muzzle as the bullet escapes it, piercing the creature's skull, right between the eyes. There's a shriek, a hiss, and after a hard push against the zombie's chest it falls on the same stairs, his skull cracking further on the steps.

And then there's silence. For one second. Two. Three.

"...you're welcome."

--and here's the cool one liner.

"I ain't the one splittin' up. You're the one bein' left behind."

Stopping to swipe cobwebs from the pathway with the large gauge, Francis could've groaned loud enough to wake the dead. Or. Wake more dead. Lips in a thin line, not even bothering to turn around to face Lance, he instead busied himself peering into the dark. Finally coming to rest a story and a half below ground. Flashlight out and clicked on, sweeping in broad strokes across the large space.

A few boxes, some shelves. Nothing fantastical, no fancy treasure chests or gold encrusted crypt-- just another dusty ass basement. Glints of metal on some of the far boxes, old padlocks hiding goods within antique military crates. He'd seen so much in several of the places he'd broken into over the years, had broken into the chests as well. Piece of cake.

"Like I tol'ja. Ain't nothin gonna be down here but us, some boxes of shit, and a zombie."

Wait.

"Oh. shit. A zombie--!"

Currently launching itself at the closer of the two at the bottom of the stairs.

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

anon:

There's a small, wrapped package lying near Lance, clearly marked "To Lance, from your Secret Santa." Once opened, the package contained a pair of winter gloves, with a note attached. "With a name like Spider-Hunter, I'd think you're outside a lot. So I got you something to keep you warm during the season! Good luck, and Merry Christmas! Keep it up, Your Secret Santa!"

Oh this is not only incredibly cute, but also useful! Of course hunts in the winter are always much worse to deal with... especially with someone as sensitive to the cold as he is! Lance immediately tries them, them, carefully putting them on and opening and closing his hand a few times to get used to them.

He'll have to find a way to thank whoever sent them properly soon!

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

"Oh I got this one."

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

What does kindness look like to your muse?

[ a bunch of hcs ; ACCEPTING ]

[ oh, that's easy: helping someone without expecting anything in return. helping might include giving money or shelter, bringing cookies when nobody expects you to, or simply offer a moment of quietness when the world is a little too loud.

just being there is enough ]

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

Name one line in the sand your muse has. Tell us one way someone can go ‘too far’.

Would your muse use the word ‘brave’, about themselves? Should they?

[ a bunch of hcs ; ACCEPTING ]

[ while I think that his patience changes heavily from person to person, and as clichè as he could be, hurting someone who can't protect themselves is too far. civilians, children, animals, yknow. there's a 100% chance he will at the very least lose any respect for anyone who does that crap, and even more chances he immediately goes for the offensive

and alas, yes. he's brave, he knows he's brave, and he'll make sure everyone knows that as well. some might say he's mostly reckless and understimates problems and enemies (and he does), but he's still always ready to face his fears and still stand against anything that scares him ]

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

@royalreef

"Why do you smell like that?"

"Ah... the smell didn't leave just yet, huh?"

Oh this is... annoying. Maybe not the right word to describe this situation, but that's how he's feeling now! Dealing with so many monsters in so little time always ended up messily. No matter how much cologne and hand sanitizer he wears, no matter how much he tries to clean his clothes, they'll still smell like death and blood.

Mostly blood.

One of the downsides of his job.

"There isn't much I can do until I get my hands on some detergent, I'm afraid." a sigh "...is it that bad?"

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

Headcanon/Development Questions

If asked today, would your muse say they were happy? How long have they been happy?

Your muse has to share something that’s hard for them to talk about. What is the biggest thing they don’t want to say aloud/admit? What makes it hard for them to say it?

Name one line in the sand your muse has. Tell us one way someone can go ‘too far’.

Is conflict something to be avoided at all costs, or does it sometimes have to happen?

Would your muse use the word ‘brave’, about themselves? Should they?

What’s one of the bravest things your muse has done? Did they consider it brave?

Your muse is trying to calm down/unwind after a long, bad day in a hotel room/out of state, away from family and friends and most of their things. What do they do?

What does kindness look like, to your muse?

Does your muse think an action has to be intentional and malicious, to be cruel?

What’s something they’ve mildly been afraid of before? Not a huge trauma, something small?

Can they leave their work at the door (disconnect from ‘work mode’ and enter ‘home mode’) or do they carry it with them wherever they go?

The last thing your muse has been annoyed about?

What’s something your muse has done, in canon or in a thread, that just makes you Love ThemTM?

What does your muse like about [character name]?

What is their pain tolerance like - and if it’s high, how did it get to be that way?

Would they stop to help if someone needed help, in the street?

What’s something about the way your muse ‘helps’ that might be different from how someone else would help? What in particular about their style of ‘help’ is different/unusual? 

If their neighbour was sick and asked them to do some small household task, does your muse do the household task and leave or do they Offer More?

What’s a fail-safe gift for your muse?

Tell us about a small, passing relationship your muse has with someone in their everyday life. Are they on a first name basis with their barista? What about the busdriver?

If your muse was evicted from their home with no warning, today, where would they go? What would they do?

How important are apologies, to your muse? Do they have to be aloud?

Name something your muse regrets. 

Do they take hard decisions as a dare? Does your muse think “kill this person or you’re [letting bad thing happen]” is a dare (Do It Or You’re A Coward)? If they do think it’s a dare, do they do it? 

What’s something your muse isn’t proud of, about themselves?

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

@brokerofsecrets

"Wait - you're bleeding."

It went exactly like in the movies. The adrenalyne dissipates, his head gets lighter, and soon enough Lance finds himself leaning on a wall, his breath suddenly heavy and hard to come out. Everything seems to follow a script, up to him pressing a hand on his side, looking down to see his gloved hand reddened by the blood still pouring from the open wound.

Not his best moment, honestly.

"...s-sure do."

He got reckless, clearly. The Monster he fought wasn't even that dangerous, at least for his standards. The wound didn't seem too deep at first sight, but it was still bad to look at - enough to make him sit down, readjust his breathe, and look through bandages and disinfectants from his backpack.

"It doesn't look-- too bad, at least."

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

Blood!

I know I've done blood before shh it's fun

"You're bleeding."

"Where did that blood come from?"

"Whoa, hey, do you need to sit down? That's a lot of blood."

"Hold on, let me help you."

"You have to patch that up."

"Why is there blood all over your face?"

"Why do you smell like that?"

"Oh, no, oh no, that's blood."

"You're leaking everywhere, ugh."

"That smell is making me hungry."

"Just breathe. Breathe through it. You'll be okay."

"Don't look at me like you're about to bite me."

"Ah, fuck, now I got blood on the food..."

"Why are you staring at me? What are you looking at?"

"Oh... that's not good, is it?"

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

[lancelot-sharpkeen]

Okay, let's make this very clear. He's putting booze second in his priority list. Tenth, even. For some reason, the idea of finding food, fresh water or even just other survivors is a much better incentive!

"I don't think that's how it wo--"

--nevermind that, tho. There he goes. In the dark. In the place full of dust and smelling like a murder scene.

We hate it here, bestie.

"God damnit--!!"

Fine, okay. We're rushing in as well. Carefully, making sure to not touch anything other than the floorboards and the occasional, particularly big spiderweb we couldn't possibly miss, but we're going down! Yipeee.

"Anyone told you that splitting up is a sure death wish, lately?!"

"Uh huh."

Turned back around, one hand on his hip as the other brought the other to rest the shotgun against his deltoid. Offering that much of a dip as he regarded his basement-crawling buddy, then a conspiratorial laugh.

"Listen man. I get it. Sometimes you girls are skeeved out by cobwebs an' bugs. You wanna stay up top? Go on ahead. I'm goin' to see what they got down there, an if I find the booze, I ain't sharin."

A shrug, double checking his own gun. Before continuing.

"Three basements in a row, an' the last TWO didn't have SHIT. It's gotta be. Like. Illegal to not have shit in the basement to loot, right? Watch my back."

And down he goes! Bye, Lance!