Wendigo
Member
Todd did not like where the blood trail was heading.
He didn’t like the blood trail to begin with. It was wide, over-exaggerated. Whoever had left it could not be alive anymore, dragged along carelessly (he didn’t dwell on the fact that it seemed to be effortless, too, because that meant this was a meta, or a really, really big guy). Not even the river-wind could get rid of the scent completely, and Cryptid didn’t bother trying to swallow back the ache of hunger. It wasn’t a dangerous ache, just yet. It was taking all his focus to try to pick out any scents above the river, or the blood. Any kind of clue.
He patrolled the area often. Warehouses gave way to some more open spaces, factories and industrial spaces the city infrastructure had conveniently forgotten about. It was convenient for a lot of people, the kind of people Cryptid targeted – and for Cryptid himself. He didn’t like recycling the same spot, but this one seemed to have avoided most attention for the last few months. The warehouse district had a Wolf hovering around it. And anywhere else might have some surprise characters, even if he’d scoped it out before. But this place had a reputation for mystery blood and a masked monster patrolling around it. He partly controlled that reputation with the regular patrols. The rest was, admittedly, paranoia.
But it was only paranoia until he came across a blood trail a block out. Wide enough, erratic enough, to be two bodies. Dragged together, probably by a leg. It wasn’t the kind of trail he’d leave. That was partly because it was cleaner to knock prey out and stick them when he got somewhere quiet, or he needed them alive for something else, like he’d done with Jasper.
If it crossed his mind that this was a trap, that this might be someone else from Slate – it could really only be Lapis or Hemie, at this point, and neither seemed like the type for… this. If that crossed his mind, he pushed it away. A trap made of blood meant someone was trying to play on his predatory instincts on purpose. No, the simpler answer was that this was a very messy murder – pair of murders – and that whoever had done it, was going to go dismantle the bodies at the closest big, hidden structure. Occam’s razor.
That didn’t change the way his gut tightened, or his skin bristled. There was something else in the scent, under the blood and wounds and the faintest hint of what had to be the victims’ skin and clothes. Something about the killer. Something that made him drop to a stalk as he came close to the edge of the towering structure, his refuge for his most private moments. He was well aware of the blood stains he’d never be able to get out of the concrete. But right now, he wasn’t the monster. Just the hunter.
His fingers flexed gently around the bagh nakh – the new, sharp, lightweight carbon fiber. He was still getting used to the armor Nat had made for him; it was somehow both more comfortable and a lot heavier than the kevlar he’d gotten used to over the years. He’d had a short adjustment period. Besides the incident with Hematite and Wolf – and whatever had followed – he hadn’t had many chances to experiment with it. That had been another relapse, bringing the count from this month up to three.
He’d have to control himself. He had to. If it wasn’t for Sam…
Focus. In the moment. He was at the door now, as silent as the combat boots and new armor would let him be. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, waiting. Listening, sharp ears tuned to the acoustics of the open factory floor to get something, anything about his target. Size, weight, how far in they were. What they were doing with the bodies. He didn’t like the way his instincts were reacting to the scent. Any proof this was the suspected especially-big-thug would be enough to restore his confidence. Even if it was against the evidence.
He didn’t like the blood trail to begin with. It was wide, over-exaggerated. Whoever had left it could not be alive anymore, dragged along carelessly (he didn’t dwell on the fact that it seemed to be effortless, too, because that meant this was a meta, or a really, really big guy). Not even the river-wind could get rid of the scent completely, and Cryptid didn’t bother trying to swallow back the ache of hunger. It wasn’t a dangerous ache, just yet. It was taking all his focus to try to pick out any scents above the river, or the blood. Any kind of clue.
He patrolled the area often. Warehouses gave way to some more open spaces, factories and industrial spaces the city infrastructure had conveniently forgotten about. It was convenient for a lot of people, the kind of people Cryptid targeted – and for Cryptid himself. He didn’t like recycling the same spot, but this one seemed to have avoided most attention for the last few months. The warehouse district had a Wolf hovering around it. And anywhere else might have some surprise characters, even if he’d scoped it out before. But this place had a reputation for mystery blood and a masked monster patrolling around it. He partly controlled that reputation with the regular patrols. The rest was, admittedly, paranoia.
But it was only paranoia until he came across a blood trail a block out. Wide enough, erratic enough, to be two bodies. Dragged together, probably by a leg. It wasn’t the kind of trail he’d leave. That was partly because it was cleaner to knock prey out and stick them when he got somewhere quiet, or he needed them alive for something else, like he’d done with Jasper.
If it crossed his mind that this was a trap, that this might be someone else from Slate – it could really only be Lapis or Hemie, at this point, and neither seemed like the type for… this. If that crossed his mind, he pushed it away. A trap made of blood meant someone was trying to play on his predatory instincts on purpose. No, the simpler answer was that this was a very messy murder – pair of murders – and that whoever had done it, was going to go dismantle the bodies at the closest big, hidden structure. Occam’s razor.
That didn’t change the way his gut tightened, or his skin bristled. There was something else in the scent, under the blood and wounds and the faintest hint of what had to be the victims’ skin and clothes. Something about the killer. Something that made him drop to a stalk as he came close to the edge of the towering structure, his refuge for his most private moments. He was well aware of the blood stains he’d never be able to get out of the concrete. But right now, he wasn’t the monster. Just the hunter.
His fingers flexed gently around the bagh nakh – the new, sharp, lightweight carbon fiber. He was still getting used to the armor Nat had made for him; it was somehow both more comfortable and a lot heavier than the kevlar he’d gotten used to over the years. He’d had a short adjustment period. Besides the incident with Hematite and Wolf – and whatever had followed – he hadn’t had many chances to experiment with it. That had been another relapse, bringing the count from this month up to three.
He’d have to control himself. He had to. If it wasn’t for Sam…
Focus. In the moment. He was at the door now, as silent as the combat boots and new armor would let him be. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, waiting. Listening, sharp ears tuned to the acoustics of the open factory floor to get something, anything about his target. Size, weight, how far in they were. What they were doing with the bodies. He didn’t like the way his instincts were reacting to the scent. Any proof this was the suspected especially-big-thug would be enough to restore his confidence. Even if it was against the evidence.