Could I be the Showman? And you can bet I'm using Hugh Jackmam's look
Valentino_'s forum posts
A couple miles away…
The darkness surrounded an rundown cathedral, a gothic setting outside and in. Mutilated statutes and broken windows decorated the tattered insides, inside smelled of wet charred wood with the hint of aerosol. Down the center of the aisle, stood a lone dusty mahogany podium. On the wall behind it were golden bull horns, appearing much more recent than the rest of the abandoned church.
Vatican sat at the center most pulpit, the Blade Of Sanction rested in its sheath as his arms were folded underneath his chin. He wasn't here for prayer, this wasn't holy ground. Instead, his eyes scanned the bull horns as he was trying to figure out something.
His eyes shifted to outside, through the broken glass he saw a figure in black robes and a golden mask make his way out of the forests and towards a car. A member of the cult he was following, the ensignia of a golden bull with black horns on his back proved so.
A few moments after the cultist's departure, Vatican grabbed his blind and climbed onto his own vehicle, his motorcycle.
At The Bar…
The car pulled to a stop in a back alleyway. The figure stopped out, no longer in a robe, but still wearing their golden mask. The area offered his nose beyond high heavens, smelling of both kerosene and wet dog. From the rumors in the Swiss Guard, he knew Gothic was a horrible place. But he never imagined the types of depths a person must go to come here.
Walking inside there in his Vatican attire, would most likely cause alarm. So he found a duffle bag lying around and took it off, swapping with the outfit inside the duffel bag, some tattered jeans, a rigid grey shirt, and a wife-beater.
The sword was still strapped across his back, and he knew better than to take off the Rings Of Enoch, believing he'd fare better in a bar fight against a potential mutant with them instead of without them. The rosary he carried stayed on.
With a deep breath, one he immediately regretted when he smelled the foul odor again, he pushed open the door and took a quick scan of the room. A golden masked person wasn't that hard to find, even in a crowd as diverse as this. Seated at the bar, a seat away from what seemed like a girl taking her shot with a young guy. Was the golden mask, who hovered over what seemed like bourbon.
He made a beeline towards the man, taking a seat between the man and his target, giving the two a friendly smile before looking ahead. A hand was placed on the figures back, the Strength of St. Michael now flowing through his veins, keeping the cultist in place.
A low growl emitted from his throat, making his accent difficult to pick up. But the message itself was clear.
"Move, and my hand goes through your back."
Log in to comment