The Final Ghost {Private}

[crumbl]

// @bmkmb

Sweat soaked through Zen's shirt as she clutched Orion's clammy hand tightly in her own. The day was sweltering, but that didn't stop the market of Balluz from being bustling, as usual. People of all shapes and sizes bumped into them, screamed advertisements from their stalls, or curiously reached for her money purse before backing away at the sight of Zen's pistol. "Stay close," she muttered to her brother. She didn't like crowds, and especially right now. She knew there were hunters on her trail.

Peering over her shoulder, she checked to make sure the coast was clear, and then ducked into an alley, dragging Orion along with her. "In here," she murmured, and retreated into the dark shade until she was sure they couldn't be seen. Letting out a slow breath, she relaxed a bit. "Sorry about that. We need to--"

Orion was staring at her frantically. Why did he look so panicked? "Orion--"

"Shhh!" he whispered hurriedly, shoving his pudgy hand over her mouth. Anxiety flickered in his eyes. "I think I hear something."

Sure enough, as Zen strained to listen, she heard quiet, measured breathing, somewhere in the alley with them. Thank Goddess for Orion's ears.

"Come out," she called to the air, forcing her tone to be cold. One hand rested on the pistol. "Don't hide from us." Her finger squeezed the trigger.

[nocturnal]

// @VALLIANCE

He despised the city. Granted, he despised many things, but cities and markets topped the list. Too many people bustling around, none showing respect for any others. People lacked dignity in markets. They cared more about the money than the actual work, more about reputation than trust.

Trust—funny that he should bring that up. Funny that he trusted no one, yet he valued that nonexistant trust. The young man fought against his temptation to sigh; he paused mid-stride, stepping into the safety, the peace and quiet of darkness, then looked straight up at the sky. Silver-white clouds sat lazily up above, decorating the lower atmosphere in small, swift streaks.

Said streaks, however, did absolutely nothing to disipate the heat—another thing he didn't quite care for.

Feeling significantly calmer, the dark-haired man sank down into a crouching position. He closed his eyes, allowing—urging—the shadows to sense his surroundings. Communication with the shadows revolved around raw emotion. Nothing primal, sharp and angry. Rather, gentle prodding proved most effective.

Before the darkness could report back, he heard hushed voices. He recognized the first speaker as the leader from their tone, and the second as a follower, not to mention somewhat younger. Then, the voice hardened, and he didn't need to see to confirm that the leader was threatening him.

Zebulon, as he went by, held his hand out, palm facing the leader as the rose. His eyes opened, nearly glinting amethyst despite the lack of light.

"I'm not hiding," he said bluntly, dropping the limb back to his side. The shadows returned then, gleefully reporting that they'd found his target. Pfff, like he didn't already know—they were standing right in front of him!

He spoke quietly, but loud enough to hear without strain; somewhat vague, but the meaning out there all the same: "Do you prefer the darkness and silence over the rambunctious market, also?"

[crumbl]

Originally Posted by bmkmb

// @VALLIANCE

He despised the city. Granted, he despised many things, but cities and markets topped the list. Too many people bustling around, none showing respect for any others. People lacked dignity in markets. They cared more about the money than the actual work, more about reputation than trust.

Trust—funny that he should bring that up. Funny that he trusted no one, yet he valued that nonexistant trust. The young man fought against his temptation to sigh; he paused mid-stride, stepping into the safety, the peace and quiet of darkness, then looked straight up at the sky. Silver-white clouds sat lazily up above, decorating the lower atmosphere in small, swift streaks.

Said streaks, however, did absolutely nothing to disipate the heat—another thing he didn't quite care for.

Feeling significantly calmer, the dark-haired man sank down into a crouching position. He closed his eyes, allowing—urging—the shadows to sense his surroundings. Communication with the shadows revolved around raw emotion. Nothing primal, sharp and angry. Rather, gentle prodding proved most effective.

Before the darkness could report back, he heard hushed voices. He recognized the first speaker as the leader from their tone, and the second as a follower, not to mention somewhat younger. Then, the voice hardened, and he didn't need to see to confirm that the leader was threatening him.

Zebulon, as he went by, held his hand out, palm facing the leader as the rose. His eyes opened, nearly glinting amethyst despite the lack of light.

"I'm not hiding," he said bluntly, dropping the limb back to his side. The shadows returned then, gleefully reporting that they'd found his target. Pfff, like he didn't already know—they were standing right in front of him!

He spoke quietly, but loud enough to hear without strain; somewhat vague, but the meaning out there all the same: "Do you prefer the darkness and silence over the rambunctious market, also?"

Zen relaxed slightly but didn't take her hand off her gun. This... person had a strange way of speaking. "I guess," she said curtly, instinctively moving in front of her brother. A chill ran down her spine. She scrunched her brow in confusion, though quickly hid it. Usually felt this way in the presence of shades, but she was too distracted to focus on that right now. "Who are you?"

Orion assessed the stranger curiously. "I'm Orion," he said amiably, wriggling out from behind his sister. "Do you like pigs?" The question seemed odd, but on it would hang the boy's entire opinion of his new acquaintance. His pet had come into too many close calls with butchers for him to feel comfortable introducing Luz straightaway. Eyeing the porker in the shadows, he waved him away in a covert gesture. "Stay hidden," he whispered.

[nocturnal]

// @VALLIANCE

The young man eyed the gun still pointed in his direction, and he crossed his arms defensively. He tsked yet stated clearly, "Some people call me Zebulon." Of course, that wasn't his real name. Only one, possibly two people knew of that, excluding himself. The name translated quite literally to "evil shadow" and he despised his father for assigning to him such a horrendous calling.

He glanced at the follower who greeted him with much less hostility than the leader. "Yes, I do," Zebulon confirmed, and the shadows danced in the back of his mind. No living creature evaded them; if it breathed or created energy, he could sense it. Even bacteria met the criteria although purposely sensing for it backfired more often than not. "Pigs make good pets," he said, recalling Redeire and masking his reminisce.

The predator within him urged him to move forwards, to strike when their guards were lowered, but he refused. He would not kill in an unfair battle; his target was the leader, not the follower. He would leave said follower unscathed… at least, for as long as possible.