02-03-2014, 08:19 PM
The forest of the tsars. It called to Dane. Originally a hunting ground, then parceled up by bygone nobility. The hands of the Russian blood carved a chunk of the earth like flesh from an arm. The corporations started chiseling next. They clawed at the edges of the great forest, and tree by tree, tore out firs, oak and redwood until the government itself stepped in and declared the land holy. A national park. As soon as Dane learned the story, he heard its song. A deep melody that stretched back in time as old as the land itself. He didn't give a flying fuck about history, but the beauty in untainted ferality was something he recognized. It was in him also.
He'd been part of an afternoon tour by horseback. Normal people took tours. As a self-proclaimed tourist, Dane was within reason to sign up. A fat Indian man had been his "buddy" for the ride. The cow could barely scramble into the saddle, but Dane was kind enough to show him a trick for how to use his own momentum to his advantage. Then he spent the next twenty minutes picturing the blubber of fat leaking from the stab wounds in his gullet.
Their group made it to some ridiculous monument in the trees, but Dane did not hear a word of its significance. His mind was busy buzzing with all the ways he might slaughter each and every man here and never be tracked for it. At one point the call of the power sizzled at his fingertips, but he did not give in. He had another reason to play the nice foreigner. He bid his time.
He and the fat Indian rode last in the line, side by side back to the carriage house. The bastard could hardly conceive that the Custody's greatest nightmare rode solemnly alongside. Air, solid like a bag of bricks, slammed to the back of the man's head. His horse reared and threw him from the saddle. Dane's spooked and sprinted off. The noise drew the attention of the others ahead, but by the time the guide galloped back, the gluttonous fucker was bleeding out in the snow and Dane's animal was no where in sight.
He was, of course, an excellent horseman. His animal reared because Dane tugged on the bridle just so, not because the beast sensed something otherworldly around them. Into the wind and snow he rode. They might have followed the prints but for the back-tracking across already trod paths. By nightfall, Dane was well and gone. Good for him that he'd given a false Custody Identification Number when signing up. Otherwise, he might make headlines, and the only title he was interested in splashing on the news was his favored moniker: Mockingbird.
He put his Wallet to good use, and calculated the directions and time it would take to reach the fabled heart of darkness itself: Losiny Ostrov. Whatever was at the center of this maelstrom of snow, branches and wildlife, it drew the attention of Rasputin himself. And anything of interest to the great legend like Rasputin was at least worth a mild curiosity to the Mockingbird.
He'd been part of an afternoon tour by horseback. Normal people took tours. As a self-proclaimed tourist, Dane was within reason to sign up. A fat Indian man had been his "buddy" for the ride. The cow could barely scramble into the saddle, but Dane was kind enough to show him a trick for how to use his own momentum to his advantage. Then he spent the next twenty minutes picturing the blubber of fat leaking from the stab wounds in his gullet.
Their group made it to some ridiculous monument in the trees, but Dane did not hear a word of its significance. His mind was busy buzzing with all the ways he might slaughter each and every man here and never be tracked for it. At one point the call of the power sizzled at his fingertips, but he did not give in. He had another reason to play the nice foreigner. He bid his time.
He and the fat Indian rode last in the line, side by side back to the carriage house. The bastard could hardly conceive that the Custody's greatest nightmare rode solemnly alongside. Air, solid like a bag of bricks, slammed to the back of the man's head. His horse reared and threw him from the saddle. Dane's spooked and sprinted off. The noise drew the attention of the others ahead, but by the time the guide galloped back, the gluttonous fucker was bleeding out in the snow and Dane's animal was no where in sight.
He was, of course, an excellent horseman. His animal reared because Dane tugged on the bridle just so, not because the beast sensed something otherworldly around them. Into the wind and snow he rode. They might have followed the prints but for the back-tracking across already trod paths. By nightfall, Dane was well and gone. Good for him that he'd given a false Custody Identification Number when signing up. Otherwise, he might make headlines, and the only title he was interested in splashing on the news was his favored moniker: Mockingbird.
He put his Wallet to good use, and calculated the directions and time it would take to reach the fabled heart of darkness itself: Losiny Ostrov. Whatever was at the center of this maelstrom of snow, branches and wildlife, it drew the attention of Rasputin himself. And anything of interest to the great legend like Rasputin was at least worth a mild curiosity to the Mockingbird.