06-01-2014, 08:45 AM
There was indeed one man moving among the masses who was another predator. His prey? Thankfully, none were present at the moment, due in large part to the presence of the predator.
Armande was in all black, a color choice that in and of itself would draw no attention upon the city streets of the surface or in the tunnels below. What drew the eye of more than one drug-addled bloodsack he passed was the graceful way in which he moved, almost like a shadow drifting from one crevice to the next. He was in one such tunnel now, nimbly avoiding the crags and debris littering the floor. When he made to move into the open, such as where tunnels intersected upon cavernous rooms, he crossed openly and fearlessly.
These upper levels of the Underground were littered with individuals that could not stir his heart from its present focus. Women and men often offered themselves. One man seemed to recognize the type of armor Armande wore, "Bounty hunters are not welcome down here, scum!" that drew Armande's gaze for a moment. He crossed to the man, considering how to address such a mistaken fool.
He was in armor. The individual was correct in his assessment. His vest was not covert, however, as it was worn over the underlying clothing. Modern day chain-mail, as Armande liked to think of it. What wrapped his chest and torso was both stab and spike resistant: a necessary mandate for anyone hunting creatures of claws, fangs and intelligence. Similar coverings were on his forearms and shoulders. His thighs were wrapped with body-molded underarmor, but his hands were free, and for the moment, so was his throat. That was not to last, however, because as he approached the man, he pulled the headwear over his scalp, nose and mouth, until only the slit of his eyes remained. Their blue hue glowed like a cat in the dark.
"I am a hunter," he replied, correcting the man, "but not of bounty." A second individual seated next to the first instinctively withdrew from Armande's attentions, an act that the Regus judged to be quite wise.
He continued upon his way. As he did, his hand went to the handle of what appeared to be a safari knife belted at his hip. Rather, it was a telescoping sword that extended to a length perfect for close-quarters combat. Other edged weapons were arrayed upon his body. As was a ballistic should the first, second, and third lines of offense fail him. In the end, there were still his hands, that as they lowered him down the rungs of a ladder and he dropped to the second level tunnel, landing in a smooth crouch, were still the most dangerous weapon he bore.
The hunt went on.
Armande was in all black, a color choice that in and of itself would draw no attention upon the city streets of the surface or in the tunnels below. What drew the eye of more than one drug-addled bloodsack he passed was the graceful way in which he moved, almost like a shadow drifting from one crevice to the next. He was in one such tunnel now, nimbly avoiding the crags and debris littering the floor. When he made to move into the open, such as where tunnels intersected upon cavernous rooms, he crossed openly and fearlessly.
These upper levels of the Underground were littered with individuals that could not stir his heart from its present focus. Women and men often offered themselves. One man seemed to recognize the type of armor Armande wore, "Bounty hunters are not welcome down here, scum!" that drew Armande's gaze for a moment. He crossed to the man, considering how to address such a mistaken fool.
He was in armor. The individual was correct in his assessment. His vest was not covert, however, as it was worn over the underlying clothing. Modern day chain-mail, as Armande liked to think of it. What wrapped his chest and torso was both stab and spike resistant: a necessary mandate for anyone hunting creatures of claws, fangs and intelligence. Similar coverings were on his forearms and shoulders. His thighs were wrapped with body-molded underarmor, but his hands were free, and for the moment, so was his throat. That was not to last, however, because as he approached the man, he pulled the headwear over his scalp, nose and mouth, until only the slit of his eyes remained. Their blue hue glowed like a cat in the dark.
"I am a hunter," he replied, correcting the man, "but not of bounty." A second individual seated next to the first instinctively withdrew from Armande's attentions, an act that the Regus judged to be quite wise.
He continued upon his way. As he did, his hand went to the handle of what appeared to be a safari knife belted at his hip. Rather, it was a telescoping sword that extended to a length perfect for close-quarters combat. Other edged weapons were arrayed upon his body. As was a ballistic should the first, second, and third lines of offense fail him. In the end, there were still his hands, that as they lowered him down the rungs of a ladder and he dropped to the second level tunnel, landing in a smooth crouch, were still the most dangerous weapon he bore.
The hunt went on.