Re: Descent Unto Chaos [Quark]
The street they had been fighting on was already clean of life. Vaskalen fought well, Styx would give him that. He'd skillfully shredded each enemy in his path, leaving none alive. Styx had done much of the same, but this guy was surely keeping up. Still, he wasn't quite as fast as Styx could be.
The vampire launched himself onto nearby rooftop, crashing through its surface and into a cowering family, killing them instantly. Without slowing, he bulldozed his way through the wall, leaping into the nearest building, massive blade flailing.
He knew where everyone was. They couldn't hide. His heightened sense might as well have given him x-ray vision. He could hear every scream, smell every smell, and taste every taste. Yet, at the same time, none of it was overwhelming. He was enjoying it. He knew where they were. He could see them all.
He crashed into building after building, using his sword and armored arms to crush the foundations. Without his corpser leg, he would have imagined this technique as being difficult. However, with both legs and enhanced strength, he didn't even need the extra boost. The brick walls felt like twigs snapping in the path of a freight train.
He was killing far more than he was actually counting, but he would underestimate his numbers for the sake of modesty. He didn't want to win by a lie.
The monster crashed into a library, slaughtering the few bookkeepers and scholars within. He dashed up the stairs, working his way toward the bell tower. He slew the few that tried to escape. Slamming through the wall, he quickly brought himself to the roof. Briefly stopping his assault, Styx poised himself on the roof of a tall bell tower to survey his work of art. It was still in progress. It was coming along nicely, and Vaskalen appeared to be catching up. However, something was missing. He had sword and bone, blood and fist, but there was a tangible element that was currently intangible on this canvas. It needed a little more... lead.
Pain and Panic were withdrawn from their holsters; one in each hand. A gray eye squinted in a smile-less smile. He could kill a boar with one finger, but with that same finger he could kill that boar from a mile away. While his strength was insurmountable, there was something about guns that had a nostalgic feel to them. Not less effective, not more effective, just... different.
Pointing the guns into the street, his mouth curled open into a pearly-white shark-like grin. He could smell where they were, he knew how many were in each house and where they were hiding. Stretching his arms outward, he pulled the triggers over and over again, pointing the twin guns toward the fleeing bodies below him. Armor piercing rounds rent through the walls like tissue paper.
Somehow, someway, he felt like a child. He found this all just so damn fun. Part of him couldn't help but chuckle, but he held it back. He needed to keep the appearance of control; the appearance of a feared god. A serious face, he should keep, but why keep it? Appearance was vital in art, but art was never so... confined. Art was never what the artist originally expected. True art wasn't, anyway. True art was an expression. And this piece of art was an expression of utter bliss.
Styx threw his head back, mouth torn open in a deep, crazed laugh, guns blazing furiously from his fists. The laugh rang hard and loud, drawing all still-living eyes in his direction. The setting sun reflected off his glasses, his eyes two glaring disks on top of the clock tower that began to ring.
It only rang three times before suddenly stopping. It would have continued, but Quasimodo was now lying in a pool of his own blood, bullet through the top of his skull.