[You might hear the grass rustle, but that might have been the wind blowing through it. Something moves in the shadows beyond the circle of firelight, and you wonder if you imagined it, if the spooky stories you’ve heard this evening have caused your mind to play tricks with the small movements you see out of the corners of your eyes and soft noises you hear over the crackle of the fire.]
[Something shifts in the darkness and a tall man in an unseasonable black suit strides out of it. Even here at night, he’s wearing aviator glasses for some reason. As he pauses, observing the scene, given the slight angling of his head, he adjusts the cuffs of his black driving gloves and straightens the sleeves of his jacket.]
I hadn’t heard there was a gathering in progress. Local custom I take it?
[There might be something a little high-falutin’ in his deep, throaty baritone voice, though his accent – upper class Bostonian? Aristocratic British? Mid-Atlantic? - might lend it that hoity-toity air. He might shift as if to step back into the shadows, but something about the way he appears to look at you, even behind those dark lenses suggest he’d be willing to linger for a little while.]
[Wesker does not unsettle easily. If anything, he prefers being the one spoken about in hushed tones, and he’s imagined Chris Redfield and his compatriots, that deluded bunch of the would-be righteous, talking about him and the things that lead to the Mansion Incident and everything else that followed, with the same manner that these story tellers have been relating their anecdotes. But as he makes his way back to his lodgings – temporary, he hopes – he can’t stop the frisson sliding up his spine and prickling at the back of his neck.]
This is absurd. Fear with no tangible cause is a human flaw…. [He might be trying to psyche himself up, but it’s not working, as he feels that ice trickle run down his limbs. He might quicken his pace, peering out of the corners of his eyes, swearing he’s seen movement in the trees and bushes that line the path. He could easily break into a run that would turn him into a dark flash in the dark if he wanted to, but he can’t show his hand here, not yet. Not just yet. And that fear, that sense he prefers to see in the eyes of others when the moment arrives for it, has started to cloud his mind. He tries running down the chemical components of several RNA protein chains in his mind, but that fear causes his recall to stumble over the names.]
If this is a prank, it’s a highly childish one. Who’s doing that? [He tries putting some annoyance and condescension into his tone, but a warble of fear creeps in despite his efforts to stay in control of the situation.
Wessskerrrr….
[A hiss on the wind, and he wonders if only his ears could hear it. At that name, his name, his head comes up, his spine straightening. He turns on his heel, reaching under his jacket for the handgun holstered there. In the shadows, he spies the translucent figure of a patrician old man, regarding him with cold, hollowed eyes]
You can’t be here, unless hell exists and this is its location. [Panic is unseemly, but he’s come to the razor edge of it…]
2. Network: un: A_Wesker
Does anyone know the significance the antler design which someone inked on me before my abrupt awakening here? And could they have placed it less conspicuously? I’m in the habit of rolling up my sleeves.
[Attached is a pair of photographs of someone’s nicely muscled forearms, displaying a single antler freshly tattooed onto each. If one looks closely, on the right arm, a stylized 1 has been worked into the tines, and a 3 into the tines of the other.]
3. Wildcard
((Got an idea for a prompt? Throw it at him! He promises to be on his best behavior. For now…. Permissions and an opt-in are here.))
Albert Wesker / Resident Evil (VG) / [CW: hallucinatory moment, sarcasm, violence possible]
[You might hear the grass rustle, but that might have been the wind blowing through it. Something moves in the shadows beyond the circle of firelight, and you wonder if you imagined it, if the spooky stories you’ve heard this evening have caused your mind to play tricks with the small movements you see out of the corners of your eyes and soft noises you hear over the crackle of the fire.]
[Something shifts in the darkness and a tall man in an unseasonable black suit strides out of it. Even here at night, he’s wearing aviator glasses for some reason. As he pauses, observing the scene, given the slight angling of his head, he adjusts the cuffs of his black driving gloves and straightens the sleeves of his jacket.]
I hadn’t heard there was a gathering in progress. Local custom I take it?
[There might be something a little high-falutin’ in his deep, throaty baritone voice, though his accent – upper class Bostonian? Aristocratic British? Mid-Atlantic? - might lend it that hoity-toity air. He might shift as if to step back into the shadows, but something about the way he appears to look at you, even behind those dark lenses suggest he’d be willing to linger for a little while.]
1.2. Are You Afraid of the Dark Suggested track
[Wesker does not unsettle easily. If anything, he prefers being the one spoken about in hushed tones, and he’s imagined Chris Redfield and his compatriots, that deluded bunch of the would-be righteous, talking about him and the things that lead to the Mansion Incident and everything else that followed, with the same manner that these story tellers have been relating their anecdotes. But as he makes his way back to his lodgings – temporary, he hopes – he can’t stop the frisson sliding up his spine and prickling at the back of his neck.]
This is absurd. Fear with no tangible cause is a human flaw…. [He might be trying to psyche himself up, but it’s not working, as he feels that ice trickle run down his limbs. He might quicken his pace, peering out of the corners of his eyes, swearing he’s seen movement in the trees and bushes that line the path. He could easily break into a run that would turn him into a dark flash in the dark if he wanted to, but he can’t show his hand here, not yet. Not just yet. And that fear, that sense he prefers to see in the eyes of others when the moment arrives for it, has started to cloud his mind. He tries running down the chemical components of several RNA protein chains in his mind, but that fear causes his recall to stumble over the names.]
If this is a prank, it’s a highly childish one. Who’s doing that? [He tries putting some annoyance and condescension into his tone, but a warble of fear creeps in despite his efforts to stay in control of the situation.
Wessskerrrr….
[A hiss on the wind, and he wonders if only his ears could hear it. At that name, his name, his head comes up, his spine straightening. He turns on his heel, reaching under his jacket for the handgun holstered there. In the shadows, he spies the translucent figure of a patrician old man, regarding him with cold, hollowed eyes]
You can’t be here, unless hell exists and this is its location. [Panic is unseemly, but he’s come to the razor edge of it…]
2. Network: un: A_Wesker
Does anyone know the significance the antler design which someone inked on me before my abrupt awakening here? And could they have placed it less conspicuously? I’m in the habit of rolling up my sleeves.
[Attached is a pair of photographs of someone’s nicely muscled forearms, displaying a single antler freshly tattooed onto each. If one looks closely, on the right arm, a stylized 1 has been worked into the tines, and a 3 into the tines of the other.]
3. Wildcard
((Got an idea for a prompt? Throw it at him! He promises to be on his best behavior. For now…. Permissions and an opt-in are here.))