[They stay crouched in the undergrowth, communicating in a language of looks and nods, breath bitten back as they take aim. By the time Isaac feels the familiar, visceral twinge of a holy aura somewhere in the middle distance - Belmont-like, but less overbearing -, he's already in their crosshairs. Abel moves fast, lunging for the shadows with a powerful snap of its wings. But projectiles are faster.
It's not the first time a hunter has gotten him wrong: Isaac doesn't burst into flames or crumble to ashes when a jagged bolt punches into him, or when a stake does as he whirls around, wild-eyed. Jacked with fury and adrenaline, he's as alive as he's ever been, roaring for blood while Abel tears through their formation. They break apart and fall back, some in pieces, survivors fumbling desperately to reload. A flask of holy water shatters into Isaac's shoulder, splashing his face as he rips through a man from hip to armpit and severs another's head in the same swing. Someone turns, stumbling back the way he came. They don't make it more than ten feet before Hector's dagger leaves Isaac's hand and catches up, burying into the back of his skull. The one man left alive survives just long enough for Isaac to drive his heel into his crotch and twist it, squeezing everything he needs to know out of him.
There are others on the move: packs of village-grown hunters led around by sorcerers, all humans emboldened by Dracula's fall and determined to reclaim their homeland, piece by piece.
It's not the thought of Hector that makes his stomach swoop when he has Abel take him up into the air and set him down along the steep, craggy footpath leading up the mountain to intercept him. Isaac wasn't counting on a reunion this soon, if at all; but the fierce look in his eyes leaves little room for talk of anything but the situation on hand.]
You will go no further. [He doesn't raise his wet, sheening sword but doesn't sheathe it either, standing with a slight slouch to his shoulders as though he's struggling under the weight of his own blood-soaked cloak.] We are being followed.
[For common hunters, his enemies were clever enough to anoint their weaponry. He managed to wrench the stake from his blistering flesh, but the bolts snapped off, leaving the heads buried. Whether poor craftsmanship or a deliberate choice in its design is to blame, they're aggravatingly effective; he can already feel the blessing leaching from the metal, the wrongness of it as it slowly eats at his insides.]
similarly, lemme know if this word dump is ok. I'm sure future tags won't be half as long
It's not the first time a hunter has gotten him wrong: Isaac doesn't burst into flames or crumble to ashes when a jagged bolt punches into him, or when a stake does as he whirls around, wild-eyed. Jacked with fury and adrenaline, he's as alive as he's ever been, roaring for blood while Abel tears through their formation. They break apart and fall back, some in pieces, survivors fumbling desperately to reload. A flask of holy water shatters into Isaac's shoulder, splashing his face as he rips through a man from hip to armpit and severs another's head in the same swing. Someone turns, stumbling back the way he came. They don't make it more than ten feet before Hector's dagger leaves Isaac's hand and catches up, burying into the back of his skull. The one man left alive survives just long enough for Isaac to drive his heel into his crotch and twist it, squeezing everything he needs to know out of him.
There are others on the move: packs of village-grown hunters led around by sorcerers, all humans emboldened by Dracula's fall and determined to reclaim their homeland, piece by piece.
It's not the thought of Hector that makes his stomach swoop when he has Abel take him up into the air and set him down along the steep, craggy footpath leading up the mountain to intercept him. Isaac wasn't counting on a reunion this soon, if at all; but the fierce look in his eyes leaves little room for talk of anything but the situation on hand.]
You will go no further. [He doesn't raise his wet, sheening sword but doesn't sheathe it either, standing with a slight slouch to his shoulders as though he's struggling under the weight of his own blood-soaked cloak.] We are being followed.
[For common hunters, his enemies were clever enough to anoint their weaponry. He managed to wrench the stake from his blistering flesh, but the bolts snapped off, leaving the heads buried. Whether poor craftsmanship or a deliberate choice in its design is to blame, they're aggravatingly effective; he can already feel the blessing leaching from the metal, the wrongness of it as it slowly eats at his insides.]