So if what we see on his arms and neck is his skin then so should be what we see on his legs right?! So does that mean that Strife is just walking around in a loincloth and knee-high boots????? Not that I’m complaining tho……
Looks like a bodysuit to me tbh.Exactly like war’s black chest piece.
That is one tight bodysuit then
Yep,just like every comicbook bodysuit. Hopefully the horsemen dont sweat,cause I have NO idea where it would go XD
Yeeah, pretty sure that’s a body suit. Unless he has a very rare medical condition, especially affecting khm some sensitive areas. _
Each one of the Nephilim bois approaches crises from a different angle.
If you come back home with your eyes red and your face puffy - War will frown, ask for a name…and then go fetch his humongous sword. You’ll have to snap out of it and redirect all your mental energy into convincing him that not all problems can be massacred with a humongous sword.
Strife will be like: “Oh, baby. Oh, cupcakes. COME HERE THIS INSTANT!” and drown you in a hug.
Deathwill probably sigh soundlessly, stand up from where he was haunching, put his hands on his hips and ask: “Are you solution-oriented about this or are you at the feelings stage?”
It helps to know what can be expected from each one of them though.
It’s been three, nail-biting, nerve-wracking days since you made that nightmarish trek through the city on your way home from Tony’s bar.
The first day was spent shoving furniture in front of your door and digging lollipop sticks out of kitchen drawers to fashion into splints for your broken knuckles. Briefly, you entertained the notion of going to A&E, but after no more than a minute’s thought, you swept it aside entirely.
The Accident and Emergency department is for exactly that. Emergencies. Your own stupidity, you reasoned, is not an emergency.
What in the world would you have told them to put under ‘cause of injury’ anyway?
'Punched a Horseman of the Apocalypse in the face?’
They’d probably throw you in the psych ward.
No… No hospitals. Besides, humans have become fairly self-reliant when it comes to their own injuries nowadays. The End of the World made survivalists of you all, it seemed.
For two, gruelling days, you sat in your apartment with bloodshot eyes darting between the doors and windows, convinced that if you so much as blinked, you’d open your eyes to see a silver, avian helmet peering in through the gap in the curtains, and there’d be nothing but fragile glass and flimsy wood between you and your demise.
What little sleep you managed to snag was spent fitfully, and all the while, you were plague by visions of gleaming, golden eyes and the unmistakable clap of a gunshot that rang in your ears, only to fade away into silence as you threw yourself out of bed and ended up tangled in a heap of blankets and sheets on the floor of your room.
It was at the end of the first day that you received the anticipated phone call from Tony.
All fire and brimstone on the other end of the line, he demanded to know why you were already an hour late for work. However, to his immediate alarm, his reprimand had been just the catalyst needed to open up the floodgates.
You’d sobbed your way through a faltering apology, explaining, with no small number of hitching breaths, that you’d been attacked on the way home from work.
Tony had fallen deathly silent on the other end for so long that you’d sniffled his name, wondering if you’d been cut off, only to hear his deep, quiet voice seethe down the line, “What’d they take, kid?”
After a long pause, all you could think to reply was, “They weren’t after my purse, Tones…”
Thank God he’d had the wit not to pry any further except to tentatively ask, “How’d you… get away?”
You were careful to only tell him that the Horseman had shown up just in the nick of time, distracting your assailants and allowing you to slip away before anything… happened.
After expressing his sheer disbelief that it was the Horseman that had come to your rescue - a disbelief you yourself could understand all too well – Tony all but ordered you to take whatever time off you needed, paid, of course.
He’d find a way to entertain the patrons. Perhaps he’d sing in your stead.
It must have pleased him to hear you unsuccessfully stifle a snort of laughter at his suggestion, because you were further startled when the old man let out a seldom-heard chuckle of his own.
He’s a good sort, Tony. Terribly gruff and grouchy, even on the best of days. But for all his more unpalatable qualities, you know him to be a very fair man.
He gave you a job, didn’t he? Said he’d pay you to do some evenings at the bar, singing, entertaining his customers, even after hearing you absolutely butcher Billy Joel’s 'We didn’t start the fire’ one night during a karaoke party.
The other bar-goers had been on the floor laughing, though you chalked that up to alcohol and its tendency to make things seem much funnier than they actually are.
“But, I can’t sing?” you’d insisted quite emphatically.
“Doesn’t matter,” was Tony’s blunt response, “You got good energy. You’re animated. Don’t mumble into the mic. F'you can make people laugh like you just did, I want you workin’ for me.”
Laughter, according to the man who never laughs, is a far better medicine that alcohol could ever be – a point you’d raised a brow at, giving the barman a curious look.
In the end though, you took the job, beyond grateful for Tony’s generosity.
While you’re certainly no class-act, you’d been a popular novelty from the get-go, and while you aren’t deluded enough to think that Tony needs you for his bar to turn a profit, you like to think he appreciates you in his quiet way whenever you offer your waitressing services during breaks.
You wear a lot of hats at that bar.
And you’re happy to. You owe Tony that much,
Hell, it’s that very loyalty to your boss that drags up the scant, few ounces of courage that haven’t yet been kicked out of you and sees you pulling on your coat and boots to creep swiftly, but vigilantly out through the front door of your apartment building, after you check thoroughly for any sign of an oversized, armoured giant skulking about.
For the past few days, you’ve never once dared to look out of your bedroom window, and you’ve ended up working yourself into a paranoid frenzy at the thought of the Nephilim watching your home.
Even though you don’t see hide nor hair of him lurking about, you don’t relax the crushing grip you have around the dull, old penknife you’d pulled from a box stashed at the back of your closet.
Your injured hand meanwhile, dangles limp and useless by your side. You hardly think you’ll be a threat to anything more ferocious than a duckling at the minute, but the knife at least serves to give you the illusion of safety.
You find the afternoon quickly melting away into a crisp and quiet evening as you stand uncertainly on the front steps outside your building, facing the near-empty street beyond.
For several, hair-raising moments, you remain frozen in place, half expecting something or someone to swoop out of the lengthening shadows to snatch you up and whisk you away to a place of unspeakable nightmares…
But when a minute or two pass by without any such incident, you permit yourself a shaky sigh.
You suddenly feel very, very exposed, like a fish in open water, unable to see into the murky depths below you, where any manner of large, far more dangerous creature might lay in wait.
The comparison sends an unwitting shiver up and down your arms and you hug yourself tightly for a moment, setting your jaw into a square, rigid line.
You’ve made this journey hundreds of times before without incident, you remind yourself firmly, and the men who tried to… Well. They’ve been dealt with.
At least, one of them has been. Technically, you didn’t see the second man die, but you can’t imagine the Nephilim with that wicked-keen eye would just allow his prey to escape.
Which brings you to your third, most prominent source of concern and the reason why you’ve barely eaten or slept in three days.
The Horseman.
Nowthere’s a creature you have no desire to run into again any time soon.
You’ve had three days to think of little else but your timely introduction to Haven’s resident Nephilim. Everything that happened the other night sits like a big, dark stain in your memory, a memory that you’re finding hasn’t done a very good job at retaining the finer details of events. Not that you’re especially surprised. You’d more or less been in survival mode at the time.
What you do remember though, is that the Horseman had saved you. But, and this is a terribly critical 'but,’ he’d also shot a man dead right in front of you, granted he’d been shot at first, yet there was something so chilling about the casual, almost bored manner in which he dispatched your assailant, as if taking a life was a run-of-the-mill occurrence. Like it was nothing…
There was an efficiency about it too, and an apathetic look in the Nephilim’s searing stare that reminded you that you could easily be on the receiving end of those bullets if you stepped out of line.
It’s a harsh reminder that humans were, and still are, the Universe’s weak link. The cosmic runt of the litter. Young and inexperienced and so much more vulnerable than the other species that now walk the Earth…
Your throat closes painfully as you try to swallow your nerves at the mere prospect of crossing paths with Strife again.
Would he recognise you?
God, you hope not.
He must see thousands of human faces every day in this city, the odds are that he can’t remember them all, surely.
Subconsciously, you tug your winter coat even more snugly around yourself and remain very still on the steps as your palms grow slick with a definite sweat, despite of the frost that nips at your fingers.
If there’s one thing that you and the rest of humanity have learned to do in excess, it’s to live with trauma.
This, you tell yourself stoutly, is no different.
You’ve seen what happens to the poor sods who can’t come to terms with the state of the world today.
So, lifting your chin, you suck in a breath of cold, fresh air and take the first step down onto the pavement.
A jarring thud stops your journey short, before it can even begin.
You halt in your tracks when another thud follows the first, quickly accompanied in slow, loping succession by another and another, each reverberating through the soles of your boots as you turn to aim a glance down the street to your right, hardly surprised by the scene that greets you.
The thunderous footsteps could only ever belong to one being.
A colossal maker stomps down the road towards you, tailed, as he always is at this time of day, by a gaggle of the neighbourhood kids.
The coil of anxiety in your chest begins to unwind at the sight.
You know this man – if you didn’t, you’d probably be horrified to see so many young children playing about near his enormous, leather boots, each wide enough to crush a human flat with a single, misplaced step.
His name is Ulthane.
Even by makers’ own standards, this one, to put it as eloquently as possible, is built like a brick shithouse, tall enough to look a giraffe in the eye and broad enough to make a woolly mammoth seem malnourished.
If you’d have known eight months ago that you were trying to rebuild your life well-within the territory of such an immense and bearish giant, you’d have spun about on your heel and fled for the hills.
As it stands, you’re glad you decided to stick around.
It’s something of a welcome distraction to see the neighbourhood kids play their favourite game with the uninformed maker.
The rules of the game, from what you’ve come to learn by watching this same occurrence take place almost every afternoon, are very simple.
Whomsoever can get the closest to the giant without him realising it, wins.
Simple.
You shake your head fondly and let a gentle smirk play at the corners of your lips as the bravest of the children – a scrappy girl with plasters adorning her knees – breaks away from the group and sneaks right up to Ulthane’s pounding boots, keeping pace at a jog behind him before she begins to stretch her hand out, boldly moving to touch the gigantic maker. This is evidently a reckless and exciting move if the gasps and titters from her friends are anything to go by.
Behind her, the other kids have their hands stuffed over their mouths to keep rampant fits of giggles from streaming out as they scamper along in the giant’s shadow, whispering encouragement to their friend.
You have to wonder if they really believe that Ulthane has no idea they’re following him.
You shift your gaze up to his face and bite back a laugh when his default expression changes in the blink of an eye.
You’re fairly certain that the most intimidating aspect about the old warrior isn’t his stature, nor is it the size of the hammer strapped across his back that could flatten a Honda Civic with one blow.
No. It’s his face that put the ice in your veins when you first laid eyes on him.
To say 'murderous’ hardly does it justice.
His default expression is downright heart-stopping. Thick, auburn eyebrows squash together above a pair of eye squinted, slate-grey eyes that look to have seen thousands of years worth of battles and wars. His jaw is thick and square, softened only slightly by a shaggy beard that lends to his generally rugged appearance. And as he walks, he walks with his mouth parted into what can only be described as a lax snarl, with just enough space left between each lip to show off a pair of formidable, protruding tusks that jut several centimetres from his lower gums.
That look is on his face as he stomps heavily down the road, until suddenly, it isn’t.
As he draws closer, you can clearly see his lips close to cover his teeth and tilt up into a mischievous smirk, thick brows easing apart to diminish the shadows hanging over his eyes that now dance with mirth, not malice.
Without breaking his stride, Ulthane suddenly swings his bulky head over a shoulder and squints playfully down at the little humans behind him, pushing a gentle growl out of his throat in a completely harmless threat.
The reaction is instantaneous.
Shrieks of laughter erupt from the kids who scatter like rabbits fleeing from a hungry bear, tripping over themselves and each other in their haste to bolt behind parked cars or flee into the safety of nearby gardens for cover.
In response, Ulthane throws his head back and roars with laughter.
You can no longer keep a lid on your own amusement and momentarily shove the last few days to the back of your mind, making the executive decision to appreciate the frankly endearing scene playing out in front of you.
Once upon a time, you’d been utterly terrified of this maker. A single glimpse of his face, and you were convinced he’d crush you as soon as look at you.
You’d likely still be terrified were it not for the evidence of one, simple fact: When it comes to humans, Ulthane is a complete pushover.
He’s still chuckling jovially when he draws parallel with you and finally turns his head to notice he has an audience. The giant slows to a halt, his chuckles tapering off into an awkward hum, the very picture of a cool, older brother getting caught playing 'tea party’ with his younger siblings. Never in your life did you think you’d find a ten tonne giant with the strength of a thousand men 'cute.’
But. Here you are.
Making a show of gruffly clearing his throat, he gives you a bob of his head in greeting, his fiery braid bouncing over a shoulder with the motion.
“Ahem… Evenin’, Lass.”
“Ulthane,” you return pleasantly, flashing him a smile, “Still being terrorised by the local youths, I see.”
Perhaps realising that there’ll be no salvaging his reputation now, the maker lets his burly shoulders slouch, heaving a very long-suffering sigh and bracing his hand on the thick, leather belt that sits around his waist.
“Ach, bunch o’ wee trouble-makers, this lot,” he grouches without a lick of sincerity, casting a sidelong glance at the giggling 'cars’ nearby and raising his voice theatrically, “S'a right shame they don’t believe the rumours, 'bout makers gobblin’ up younglings for breakfast!”
The response he gets is a series of delighted squeals, though some of the children, realising that their game has been temporarily paused, venture out of their hiding spots and chase one another up to you and the maker, teasing their friends for screaming and being scared.
One of the older boys, barely in his double digits, lingers at the back of the group and crosses his arms, rolling his eyes up to the sky as if he’s exasperated with Ulthane’s claim. “Tch, you’re not gonna eat us,” he announces with such cool conviction that you have to stuff your lips together to refrain from grinning widely as he continues, “Mr Greene told my mom that you saved his kitten from the big oak in the park.”
Ulthane’s face goes slack and some of the other kids laugh aloud, one girl even gives the maker an endeared look and exclaims 'aaaw,’ much to his mounting dismay.
Even you indulge in a sunny giggle that earns you his most withering glare.
“He’s got a point,” you tell him matter-of-factly, “Guys who rescue cats from trees aren’t typically the type to gobble up children, no matter how much they might misbehave.”
Outnumbered, Ulthane raises a meaty hand and rubs it sheepishly at the base of his thick, sturdy neck, huffing out a chuckle. “Heh. Didn’t… er… Didn’t realise that was public knowledge.”
“There goes your street cred,” you nod sagely.
“Ha! Aye… Aye… My what?”
“Um, miss?” There’s a tug on the sleeve of your coat and you drag your eyes away from the clueless maker to peer down at a young boy whose face you instantly recognise.
“Bertie,” you greet him cheerfully, “What’s up?”
He looks back at you for a moment from beneath a mop of dirty blonde hair, eventually dropping his gaze and cocking his head inquisitively at your hand.
Yourinjuredhand…
Oh no.
Sure enough….
“What happened to your hand?” he asks.
The atmosphere around you shifts noticeably as the kids stop chattering among themselves to stare at you instead, some even standing on their tip toes to see over their friends’ heads.
From the corner of an eye, you see Ulthane bridle, the leather of his gloves creaking noisily when his formidable hands curl into fists.
You know exactly what’s coming before it even happens, rolling your eyes skyward for a second or two to heave an internal sigh. ’Here we go..’
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s just a fracture,” you shrug nonchalantly, attempting to appease the maker, who is already bending carefully onto one knee in front of you, mindful of the tiny humans gathering around him to watch as he shifts his gigantic body about.
“Fractured knuckles?” he guesses with practiced ease, draping an arm across his bent knee and scrutinising the makeshift splint you’ve fashioned around your fingers. “Mmm. Most only get that type of injury f'they hit somethin’ real hard..” His ears flick down and he hikes an eyebrow up onto his forehead.
You make the mistake of meeting that stern, grey stare.
“You been getting’ into scraps, girl?” Then, more dangerously, he growls, “Someone do this to you?”
Ulthane has… a reputation around the neighbourhood. It isn’t a bad one, necessarily, but it has birthed quite a few inside jokes among the humans who know him.
All too easily, you deflect his query with a simple, practiced method.
“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” you tease, pulling a fresh bout of giggles from the children and earning another scowl from the maker.
“Oi, watch it,” he grumbles, raising a thick, leather-clad finger and pointing it in your face, “I found out what that means, you know – and, don’tgochangin’ the subject!”
Unfortunately for the poor, old giant, the kids seem to have found their favourite new game.
They’re merciless in their efforts, making all manner of chicken noises, 'bawking’ and 'clucking’ and laughing fit to bust, delighted to have discovered a new way to torment their otherworldly neighbour.
You’ll admit fault for this instance of disrespect, by really, Ulthane only has himself to blame.
You certainly aren’t the first human to fall victim to his notorious mother-henning.
He gives his entourage a half-hearted scowl, yet there’s a quiver to his lips that seemingly suggests he’s fighting back a smirk.
“Starting to rethink your human-free diet yet?” you ask.
The maker grunts, an animalistic sound like that of a snorting bull. “Startin’ to…”
“Liar,” you grin and tip your head back to raise a brow at him.
The wink he flashes you amidst the squawking kids is tremendously gentle for a man of his stature, but all too soon, his expression turns sombre once more.
“Jokes aside, lassie,” he rumbles in his deep, baritone voice, “I ain’t tryin’ to fuss or nothin’… But… Well. Been in enough scrapes me'self to know how knuckles get broken… If you’re in… some kind of trouble-”
“-It’s nothing like that, Ulthane,” you cut him off, rolling immediately into a lie, “A friend of mine accidentally shut my hand in her car door. It was just an accident.”
He pulls a face and narrows his misty gaze at you, but you don’t bat an eyelid. You know very well that if Ulthane ever found out the truth about how and why you’d been injured, he’d inevitably realise that there was a threat out there in his jealously-guarded territory, and he hadn’t been there to protect the humans within it.
No, you don’t blame the maker for failing to stumble across you that night. But you have a feeling that the sentimental, old softy would blame himself.
“Hmm,” he grumbles, studying your hand once more and eyeing the purplish bruise that sticks out over the hem of the bandages wrapped around your index and middle fingers. “F'you say so… Splint’s a bit on the shoddy side. You didn’t go to the healers, did you?”
Ugh, he says it as a statement of fact, rather than a question.
You have to bite back a groan.
Luckily for you however, a timely distraction arrives in the form of Bertie once again, who suddenly appears at your side and asks, “Is that why you weren’t in work yesterday?”
Before you can think it odd that a seven year old would know that, he continues, “My dad says you weren’t there yesterday or the day before.”
Ah. Right. Your brows raise in understanding. Mr Weir, a regular.
… A regular creep, in your very private opinion. But that’s not his son’s fault.
“Well, he was right!” you tell him diplomatically, “My hand hurt too much, and I couldn’t concentrate. Ergo, I couldn’t sing.”
Nearby, another boy playing with the buckles that decorate Ulthane’s boots pipes up, “My mummy says you can’t sing anyway.”
“Oi,” the maker is quick yet gentle in his reprimand, but you simply wave your good hand through the air, dismissing his defensiveness. “Ah well, she’s not exactly wrong-”
“-Um,my mom,” Bertie interrupts as he tugs on your sleeve to get your attention once more, “Says that daddy doesn’t go to listen to you sing.”
Oh dear...
“So, Ulthane!” Forcing a chipper tone, you pointedly ignore the kids and crane your neck back to stare at the maker and ask, “Where are you off to this evening anyway?”
’H e l p,’ you attempt to broadcast through wide, sustained eye contact alone.
The giant cocks one of his auburn eyebrows and studies you for some time before he eventually drops his eyelid in another lazy wink and jerks his head over a shoulder, indicating the large, brown knapsack strapped to his back.
“Repairs need doin’ a bit deeper in the city,” he sniffs, “Noticed there’s a scraper in central district that I do not like the look of.”
Some of the kids peer up at him curiously but you just give a sage hum, smiling from the corner of your mouth. “Uh oh.”
This won’t be the first time the maker has found failings in human architecture.
You know from experience that Ulthane can rant about unsafe infrastructure for hours.
“Uh oh’s right,” he mutters, bending down to absently nudge a girl’s reaching hands away from the sharp tools that dangle from his belt. “Some daft basta- err, nitwit, has gone n’ used bolted joints instead of steel bracin’.”
“Shameful.”
He misses the sarcasm, blundering on eagerly at your agreement. “Avoidable! F'a strong enough quarterin’ wind hits it, that building’ll come down like slate off a shaggy hill.”
Maker similes will forever take a bit of getting used to.
You let out a long whistle, trusting that the giant knows what he’s talking about, even if you and the kids remain in the dark.
“Ulthane, how’d you get to be so smart?” you banter.
Puffing out his chest, he thumbs at the golden belt buckle slung around his waist and proudly states, “Been alive a lot longer than whatever twit designed thatdeath-trap.”
“And… any particular reason you’re doing the repairs at night?”
It becomes immediately evident that you’ve said the wrong thing because Ulthane’s whole demeanour shrinks and his keen, blue eyes droop to absently watch the children milling about nearby, all of whom are now preoccupied with a paper fortune teller that one of the girls has produced from her coat pocket.
A rueful smile tugs at the very edge of his lips.
“Not everyone in this city likes makers,” he rumbles to you quietly, “I’m less likely to cause an upset if I go after dark…”
Your face screws up sympathetically.
Sadly, you’re not surprised.
Some humans will cling to any excuse to live their lives in fear, spreading their cruel rhetoric to everyone around them. The fact that there are kids out there in the city whose parents have convinced them that makers really do eat humans is as absurd as it is offensive, not to mention heart-wrenching.
You’ll never forget the time you saw Mx. Jeffreys hand Ulthane their week-old baby to hold after much reassurance that ’no, they trust that he won’t drop her,’ and the baby – being… well, a baby – had recognised that the person holding her wasn’t her parent and began to wail her tiny guts out in his palm.
To say that Ulthane had looked heart broken would be an understatement.
The poor maker’s face crumpled and his ears flopped miserably back against his skull. He’d handed the girl back with the utmost gentleness and apologised non-stop to Mx and Mrs Jeffreys, much to their entertainment.
’Babies cry, Ulthane,” they’d told him patiently, valiantly trying to smother their grins at the giant’s inordinate distress.
But the very next morning, they’d awoken to find a beautiful, hand-carved cradle made from pink ivory wood sitting on their doorstep and were so touched that they wept over the gift, insisting that Ulthane – and the rest of the neighbourhood – join them for a potluck party the following week.
You told him to come to your house before hand and he stood outside the window, tall enough to peer into your kitchen whilst you baked a carrot cake and explained the etiquette of bringing a contribution to a potluck. Of course, you offered to say the cake was from both of you, and he’d gratefully, if sheepishly, nodded, gracing you with the gentlest smile you’d ever seen on a face so rugged.
The very idea of Ulthane being any kind of threat to anyone, let alone to kids, is your idea of a bad joke. You can understand why he’d rather avoid the less… receptive areas of Haven. You only wish he didn’t have to.
Flashing him what you hope is an encouraging smile, you reach up and give his thick forearm a hearty pat and whisper, “Hey. Don’t pay any mind to those racists, okay? They’re not worth the bother. One day, hopefully, their kids will grow up to be more like this lot…” You pause to gesture at the children by his side and he follows the motion, his expression turning considerably tender, unnoticed by the miniature rabble.
“I know most of them are pesky little hellions,” you add, getting a snort from the maker, “But they think you’re amazing. You know that right?”
Bashful, Ulthane sweeps a thumb under his nose and scoffs lightly, “Don’t worry about me, lass. Takes more'n a couple of bigots to keep old Ulthane down, eh?”
“Good,” you attest, taking a step backwards and lifting your hand to wave, “You just be careful though, yeah? And come home safe.”
You’ll never know how much it means to him that you refer to this neighbourhood as his home as well as yours.
“Count on it, lass,” he nods, throwing you his own, sweeping wave as you begin to make your way down the street in the direction he and the kids had come from, glancing over your shoulder at him again when he calls after you, “Oi, same goes for you, aye?”
“Aye, aye,” you shout back, throwing him a quick salute.
As you turn around and continue on your way, you overhear the maker addressing the kids.
“Now then, wee ones. Reckon it’s time you all went home. In’t it well past your bed times?.”
You laugh softly to yourself when they all reply at once with a variety of loud, affronted protests.
——
The trip to Tony’s bar passes by in relative peace.
The cold weather has kept all but the hardiest souls in their homes this evening, it seems.
You’ve almost made it, just a block or two away and deep in the middle of praising yourself for your progress when you encounter a… setback.
There’s a man walking down the path towards you.
At once, you’re on high alert.
Nondescript, middle-aged, black hair with a beanie pulled over it, only slightly taller than you…
You notice that your breathing has picked up and your step falters, slowing you considerably.
He hasn’t done anything. He hasn’t even glanced up at you, but your first instinct is to treat him like a threat, not a person.
The penknife feels slippery and heavy in your sweat-slicked palm and you push the blade through your fingers, never once tearing your unblinking eyes off the stranger.
He’s almost upon you now, head turned down against the icy wind to stare at the path in front of his feet.
The thought that he’s hiding his face crosses your mind…
Five feet away… You clutch the knife like a lifeline and brace yourself.
Dark eyes shadowed by a fringe flick up to meet your stare before dropping again as he draws level with you, too quickly to fully register the panic that surely paints your face like a target.
The arm holding your penknife begins to bend at the elbow, drawing upwards into a readied position…
“Evenin’,” the man grunts…
And then…
He just… carries on.
You can’t help but stiffly turn to stare after him as he trundles on down the icy street, oblivious to your inner turmoil, oblivious to the weapon in your hand.
God. You almost -… He could have-..
A hand flies up and clamps around your mouth – your own hand – just in time to capture a strangled gasp. On shaking legs, you stagger to the wall of a nearby building and sag against it, unwilling to take your eyes off your surroundings even as anxiety leeches into your stomach and sends your brain momentarily fizzy, leaving you to shiver alone at the side of the road.
If you weren’t already so well-acquainted with anxiety attacks, you’d probably slide down the wall and lay on your side, flush against the cold ground. Most humans get them now. They’re yet another long-term consequence of coming back from the dead and realising you’d just come out the other side of a biblical Apocalypse.
You’re going to be exhausted at work tonight… More-so than you already are.
Maybe you’ll ask Tony for a stool to sit on while you sing.
Sticky palms cling to the wall behind you as you breathe in – one, two, three. Out, one, two, three, four…
Rinse.
Repeat.
Same as last time.
And the time before that.
It’s funny, how focused one can be on their breathing. That’s the point of the exercise isn’t it? Just focus on those inhales and exhales. Deafen yourself to the world around you for a few, precious moments. Sometimes, the trick works a little too well, especially when your brain is trying so hard to be aware of your surroundings.
The steady approach of hoofbeats is just ambient noise. Hell, you probably could have mistaken the plodding gait for your own, thundering heart as it pounds incessantly in your ear, until-
“Hey, you okay?”
You’re horribly ashamed of the yelp that jumps out of you, and the way you leap from the wall, tumbling over onto your backside with a jarring thump that causes your teeth to clack painfully inside your head.
“Oh, dammit! Sorry, that’s my fault. Uh, hang on…”
Faster than a whip-crack, you throw your head up and flinch backwards, finding yourself almost nose to muzzle with an utterly titanic, armour-clad horse.
Once more, you let out a yell of shock and alarm, scrabbling to drag yourself backwards and causing the beast to yank its head away from you in turn, snorting a puff of white air through the slatted visor that’s been locked in front of its teeth.
How the Hell did you miss thatthing!?
You continue to slide yourself away from the horse, your eyes glued to the expressionless eye sockets cut out of its chanfron, beneath which are only twin pools of darkness and nothing more.
All at once, you catch movement near the horse’s withers and your attention snaps up to see the veritable titan in silver armour swinging himself out of the saddle, just as heavily reinforced as his steed.
Your heart plummets into your shoes.
Not now.
Nothim.
Surely you can’t be that unlucky?
The easy-going drawl of the Horseman grates on your hyperactive ears.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he’s telling you as he drops heavily from the steed with a deafening clang of metal, “Thought for sure you’d’ve heard us coming… Well, don’t worry, Mayhem here ain’t gonna hurt you.”
You entertain the idea of letting a nervous bubble of laughter escape your throat but you stubbornly swallow it back.
The horse’s name is Mayhem.
Ofcourse it is.
Footsteps move towards you before you can even think to scramble back to your feet until they come to a stop right in front of you.
Gulping sharply, you tip your head back and finally meet the Nephilim’s golden gaze for the second time in less than a week.
You barely reach the Horseman’s knees sitting down.
“Ha. Sorry. You okay?” he chuckles, thrusting his gauntleted hand down towards you, his featureless eyes sparkling with mirth, “Didn’t think you’d fall for me that fast, but… I’m not complaining.”
If your tongue weren’t frozen to the roof of your mouth in terror, you’d probably say something stupid about his joke fallingflat.
After you don’t respond at all, he clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly on his feet. “Huh… Guess that joke fell kind of flat, didn’t it?”
Dammit.
His deadpan delivery and the sheer absurdity of an Apocalyptic entity making a pun startles a nervous titter of laughter from your lips, though it’s cut short by your hand slapping roughly over your treacherous mouth, eyes blown wide in abject horror at what you’d just done.
You’d laughed at a Nephilim, and while you have no idea if they’re the kind of beasts who’ll be affronted at such a slight, you don’t have any desire to find out.
But if Strife feels any kind of offence at being laughed at, he certainly doesn’t show it. In fact, much to your shock, he perks up considerably, the ethereal light behind his eyes flashing a brilliant shade of gold, and breathlessly, he asks, “You… laughed?”
You nearly jump out of your skin when he whirls around with a barked laugh of his own to face the horse at his side, elbowing its armoured shoulder as he exclaims, “See!? I told you humans have great senses of humour.”
In response, the horse snorts through its visor and shakes its shaggy, black mane whilst its rider turns to look down at you again, hands splayed proudly on his hips. “Think that’s the first time somebody’s laughed at one of my jokes! Usually I get 'Shut up, Strife!’ or, ’That’s not funny, Strife!’ or even, ’I don’t get it!”
“Uh, what-?” You stumble over coherent words as you slide yourself backwards along the icy ground on your backside.
Lowering his helm, eye lights dimming to a softer yellow. It takes you a second to realise that he’s shifted his attention to the bruised hand hanging limply at your side. “Damn,” he lowers his voice and bends at the waist, absently reaching out towards you, “My helm did that? Uh, here… Lemme help you up.”
You recognise with a jolt of distress that he means to touch you, a realisation that has you placing your good hand on the ground and shoving yourself hastily onto your feet, blurting out, “Ah! No! That’s – that’s okay!’
God, is that why he’s followed you around? Because he decided that a punch to the face is too great an offence for a human to get away with?
Having several hundred kilos of titanic metal suddenly standing in your path is not something you’re particularly keen on.
Pulling up short of another step, you nearly swallow your tongue when he promptly crowds a little closer, his body language open and eager – too eager, like he’s excited to just be near you and isn’t yet ready for this interaction to end.
“Okay, okay,” he tries, “You’re freaked out – I get it, I do! I-I’m a little new to this whole -” Gesturing to you and them himself again, he continues, “- socialising.. thing.”
He hesitates then, lifting a large hand to the back of his head and scraping his fingers through the jagged, black hair poking out from behind his helm whilst you’re busy reeling from how eerily human his behaviour is. “So… I was hoping that uhm… Man, sorry, I’m usually kind of a smooth-talker, would you believe?”
He chuckles awkwardly, letting the sound of it linger in the air between you for a while, and after several, uneasy moments, he manages to blurt, “Can we – that is, you and I – can we just start over?”
… There are a lot of things you’d like to say in response to that baffling request. What you do instead, is endeavour to continue moving around him, your knuckles throbbing something fierce all of a sudden, though you have no idea whether it’s from the break itself or the mere memory of punching the Nephilim in his face.
“Listen, I – I really would love to take back what happened the other night,” you stammer, edging sideways around him and staring hard at the ground near his boots, missing the way his helm follows you, tipped to one side in confusion, “But, I’m actually like, super late for work already, so… yeah.”
Silently, you beg him not to follow and pivot around on a heel, striding briskly into the evening.
About twenty seconds pass by where the only sound echoing dully down the darkening street are the thuds of your boots, but just when you almost, almost start to think that he’s actually lost interest, there comes the sudden addition of another pair of feet, metallic and heavy and quickly closing the distance between you both.
Go. Away.
“Work, huh?” comes his exuberant response, catching up to you in a few, short strides and keeping pace with an enviable ease, steady, unhurried, even as you attempt to power walk ahead of him, “Neat! I forgot you guys have jobs and stuff. Like me! I got a job – Well, actually I was… ahem, let gorecently-”
Of all the rumours and hearsay you’ve picked up about Haven’s resident Horseman, the fact that he’s a complete chatterbox has never cropped up in conversation, and you’re only now realising what a juicy tidbit of information you hold. If you were the type to regularly engage in idle gossip, you’d probably be elated.
You try to block his incessant voice out and instead take stock of your surroundings.
Not far to go now…
“-But I could talk about myself all day! What about you? What do you do for a living?”
You’re prodded quite rudely back into the one-sided conversation by a large elbow knocking against yours. You have to stuff your lip into your teeth to smother a fearful whinge.
Oblivious, the Horseman beside you continues, “Bet it’s something cool like… like a cowboy, or something.”
Good god… Is he… is he trying to make smalltalk?
“…. Singer,” you mumble, just to appease him.
But damn him, he simply latches onto your response like a dog with a bone.
“Woah! No kidding?” he exclaims, “I’ve heard about you guys. Stonestars, right?”
You resist the very sensible urge to ask him if he knows anything about humanity and cast the Nephilim a dubious, sideways glance.
The trouble with that mask is, you have no idea if you’re being messed with right now.
Something tells you that you aren’t.
“…Rockstars,” you voice softly, tentatively. Every time you speak up, it so feels as though you’re prodding a very large and unpredictable beast with a stick. Yet instead of snapping its jaws and getting angry as you’d expect, this particular beast appears, of all things, pleased by your supposed willingness to engage it in conversation.
“What’s that?” he hums, still maintaining his leisurely pace.
Praying that he won’t kill you for daring to correct him, you fidget anxiously with your fingers and gulp, “You said.. stonestars. I think you mean rockstars?”
There’s a long and agonising minute in which he only scrutinises you closely through narrowed eyes until your brows are glistening with sweat.
When he speaks, his voice is loud enough to startle you right out of your skin.
“ROCKstars!” he announces, giving his helm a thunk with the flat of his palm, “Oh boy. Don’t tell me I’ve been saying that wrong these last few decades.” He shakes his head at himself, still chuckling and therefore missing the absolutely agog stare you’re giving him from the corner of an eye.
You don’t know what in the world to say to that, so you just keep marching forwards on auto-pilot. The clop, clopping of shoed hooves follows you both down the street, maintaining the awful reminder that the Horseman is never too far from the beast that carries him.
Your legs almost collapse out from under you when you finally spot the garish neon sign that hangs over the doorway of a nondescript building at the end of the road, right on the corner.
If the Horseman notices that you’ve sped up, he says nothing of it, though you can tell – irritably now – that he hardly needs to stretch his legs far at all to keep up with your antisocial pace.
“Well!” you proclaim all of a sudden, cutting off an inhale that would have signified the start of another of his inane sentences, “There it is! I’d better get inside – lots to do! I, um.. this has been…”
'Don’t say creepy. Don’t say weird. Don’t say terrifying.’
“…Nice,” you settle on eventually, too focused on the bar ahead to notice the way your shadow’s bright-white pupils expand and he slows, falling slightly behind you.
“Really?” you hear him ask in a soft tone at your back, followed by an even gentler laugh before he adds, “Yeah – Same here!”
You reply with a noncommittal hum as you all but rip the keys from your back pocket and turn to step inside the alleyway that runs along the side of the bar. There’s a back door there, half-hidden among dumpsters and boxes stacked high against the wall. You prefer to use it so that you can get into the back without being accosted by people trying to buy you a drink.
Theymean well, you’re sure but… Just… not tonight. You don’t want ’means well’ tonight…
The door is within your sights, you have your hands on the right key - you’re itching to get inside and away from the hulking, metal behemoth behind you…
And yet as soon as your eyes dart up and narrow in on the darkness of the long alleyway stretched out ahead of you, your footsteps grind to a flimsy halt.
Huh.
It’s strange… You’ve walked down this alley hundreds of times in the past, but you’re only just noticing how uninviting it looks in the dark. How cold and empty and, dare you say, dangerous.
Your heart is already jack-hammering inside your chest, but as you stare unblinking down into that narrow space separating the buildings, you feel the thundering organ go still and cold. Dread, more than fear, settles over your heart like a blanket of snow.
The sound of heavy hoofbeats clomp up behind you and echo down the alley, haunting enough to send shivers up your spine when, all of a sudden, you lurch forwards, yelping as a cold, hard muzzle bumps into your shoulder, successfully tearing your attention away from the terror that lays ahead of you.
Spinning about on a heel, you once again come face to face with the giant horse that stares down at you from the pitch-dark eye holes set in its chanfron.
“Sorry about him,” Strife chuckles, giving the beast a hearty pat whilst you somehow manage to back-peddle without tripping over, right up to the back door that will take you into Tony’s bar.
“He’s just askin’ for attention,” the Horseman continues. Then, as if you aren’t beating a hasty and obvious retreat, he gives you an appreciative hum and adds, “I think he likes you.”
Strangely enough, you can’t find it in you to return the sentiment.
As much as you don’t want to turn your back on the unknowable alley, you aren’t too keen to have that hoofed monstrosity’s mouth anywhere near you again.
Your spine promptly hits the door and you let out a soft gasp, one part surprise and two parts relief. “I.. have to go,” you mutter again, casting a wary glance down the alleyway before snapping your gaze back up to the Horseman, who simply seems to stand there beside his steed, one hand on its neck and both of their heads cocked to one side, watching you expectantly.
“My, uh… boss’ll kill me if I’m late-”
Suddenly, the Horseman’s demeanour flips like a switch, his luminous eyes dimming. Ever so slowly, he growls, “He’ll what?” followed by a pause, as if the entity is thinking hard about something before his voice somehow dips even further and he advances towards you, rumbling like a thunderstorm, “Let him try.”
“Wait – No!” You throw up your hands, desperate and placating. “It’s just an expression! He’d never actually hurt me!”
At once, the Horseman halts his approach mid-step, blinking those yellow lights at you owlishly before his shoulders relax and he raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, chuckling, “Right… Heh, guess I’m still learnin’ about those too..”
With a loud gulp, you hazard a nod in his direction – a farewell, a motion of gratitude, however-the-hell he chooses to interpret it, you really don’t care.
You just want to go to work and pretend that the last few days have been anything but a stressful, unpleasant nightmare.
You – along with most of the poor bastards who went through a horrific death followed immediately by a traumatic resurrection – have had quite enough excitement to last a lifetime… or two, as it were.
Where once a life of adventure and danger might have appealed to your younger heart, the current Y/n can think of nothing more valuable than comfort, safety and peace. Easy. You’ve done the heartbreak, you’ve done the mind-numbing terror and unprecedented pain. You’ve faced the trial of a more exciting life, only to find that the last thing you want to do is subscribe.
An existence with less hurt? Less anxiety? Less risks?
… Less strife?
Who could ask for more?
Strife – capital ’s’ – has taken another, hesitant step towards you, just as you turn your back on him, fighting every instinct screaming for you not to.
With fumbling fingers bitten raw by the cold night air, you shove the key into the door’s dulling lock and jam it sideways, hearing that wonderful clunk! that brings you one step closer to freedom.
“Hey, I was thinkin’-”
But you’ve already wrenched the door open, causing its hinges to scream against the rough intrusion and effectively drowning out the rest of the Horseman’s sentence.
You don’t even turn to face him as light spills out into the dark alley. Your only utterance comes as a shaky, breathless, “Bye!” before you throw yourself through the door, yanking it shut in your wake and at last sealing yourself inside the questionable safety of Tony’s bar.
As if a flimsy, metal door could keep a Horseman out forever…
——-
You think it’s remarkably accomplished of you to have taken a paltry five minutes to drag yourself on shaking legs to the cloak room that stands adjacent to the bar, catching Tony’s eye over the swinging, saloon doors separating you.
The only outward sign of his shock is the quick double-take you receive before he casually continues cleaning the glass he’s holding, frowning hard at you from underneath his furrowed brows.
You hold his stare for a long moment, listening idly to the chatter happening in the main room beyond your field of view. After some time, Tony finally nods his head and you feel as if a rope has been cut loose somewhere and set you free.
Something you appreciate immensely in old Tony is his discretion. He’s never been one to cause a fuss. In his eyes, if you’re standing here with your dress on and your jaw set, you’ve obviously made up your mind to be here. He won’t pry. He trusts that you can make your own decisions.
You respect him for that.
You already have to deal with one grumpy, old, overprotective fellow, you’d rather not have to deal with two.
Your heeled shoes are in the cloak room’s singular locker – the prized pair that you only wear at work and never, ever take home. Too precious. Not for their brand – some, forgettable name you can’t remember – but for what they represent.
They were the only things you’d found intact in the ruins of your old home, the one far from Haven city. Everything else - photographs, furniture, childhood toys - you found utterly destroyed beyond recognition or burned to a crisp by Hellfire when you sifted through what was left of the old, family house just a few days after waking up from the god-forsaken rapture.
All you could find, hidden in a charred shoebox at the back of your bedroom closet, were a pair of sooty, leather heels.
Not so sooty anymore, you muse as you kick off your heavy boots and socks, slipping into the new shoes with practiced ease as you shake yourself out of the winter coat and let it fall to the floor, to be retrieved later before you go home.
Home… Back to a watched apartment.
You suppress a shudder.
You don’t enjoy looking too far into the future if you can help it – too much anxiety to be had there – but if this 'situation’ is going to continue, it occurs to you quite suddenly that you might have to think about moving.
…Huh. Situation. You smile humourlessly to yourself and the absurdity of reducing an Apocalyptic entity down to such a broad, unassuming word.
Whatever. It’s of little import right now.
You have a job to do and a point to prove to Tony.
If the man sees you choke, not only will he feel guilty that he neglected to check up on you as soon as you walked in, but he may also try to send you right back home. And home doesn’t feel quite as safe as it used to.
You can hear the murmur of people and the scrape of chairs as they settle in their chosen spots around the bar, the clinking of glasses, the call to Tony for another round of shots…
Busy, noisy, distracting.
Despite your journey here, you’re glad you’ve made the effort.
Your audience will serve as much of a distraction for you as you will for them, however temporarily.
Time to go and make a fool of yourself for the amusement of others.
Oh, the things you’ll do for just a sniff of validation.
From your dress – the notable kind with pockets, no less – you pull a compact mirror and hold it up to your face, poising it delicately at the tips of your fingers.
There she is. Little Miss Mediocre.
Ah, none of that. If you start calling yourself that aloud, people will accuse you of fishing.
After inspecting your teeth and nostrils for anything out of place, you close the mirror with a snap and drop it back into its designated pocket, sucking down a steely lungful of air.
Showtime.
————-
The microphone is set out just as you’d left it the other night, in its stand at the centre of the little raised stage near the far wall, out of the way but still in full view of Tony’s position behind the bar.
Your welcome back is flatteringly uproarious as you make your way onto the stage, trading pleasantries with regulars and irregulars alike.
A wolf whistle or two aren’t uncommon, and you ignore them with well-practiced ease, standing centre-stage and facing the audience whose faces you can only half make out from beneath the glare of the spotlight shining down on you from above.
“Could one of you hand me a stool, actually?” you ask, pointing at a trio of men lounging at a table by the stage. One of them jumps up and swipes a stool off the ground, handing it up to you with a tip of his hat.
“Thanks,” you smile, detaching the microphone from its stand as you slide the stool into place and plonk yourself down on it, raising your voice to address the audience, “I know I usually stand at these things, but I’m trying to earn a laziness award – I hear you get atrophy if you win.”
Ugh. Terrible. Horrible. It earns you a few, polite laughs from those closest to you.
“Jesus. You guys had better order a few more drinks because that’s the best joke you’re going to get out of me this evening,” you quip, and at last, the crowd loosens up a little further, dissolving into quiet chuckles.
Suddenly, from the back, a nasally, familiar voice calls, “Hey! Where’ve you been, Honey!? We’ve missed you!”
Ah, Gordon.
Never heard far behind the other, a second voice chimes in, “He means he missed starin’ at your tits!”
The crackling stirrings of indignation mingle with alarm and rush across the front of your brain like an electric shock before you slam the proverbial door down on the thought that crops up, that you have something to fear.
You’re not in danger here.
And those are just words, spoken by two, drunken idiots who aren’t thinking about the tongues flopping uselessly around in their mouths.
Some of the regulars you’ve gotten to know better than others.
Gordon and his best pal, Wallace, both with the forename John, are among the most reliable hecklers you have.
Every time, they seem to hand you a nice, little set up, and every time, you return the banter in kind.
Tit for tat, you might say.
“Gordon, I’m sorry,” you rein yourself in with an air of solemnity, craning your neck to look over in the vague direction of his voice, “I’m sorry you had to trek all the way to this far-flung bar just to get within twenty feet of a pair of breasts!”
The room erupts into surprised delight.
“Hey~! I see plenty of boobs, lady!” he protests with a laugh.
Far from finished however, you toss back, “No, you’re right. That was uncalled for… Gordon, I apologise. I mean, you were hanging off your mothers breasts until you were like, what? Fifteen?”
More laughter as people begin turning around to jeer at the admonished heckler, who has the grace to give you a dismissive flop of his hand and collapse back into his seat to nurse a bottle of beer.
You meet Tony’s eye across the room and he gives a slight twitch of his head, a subtle prompt to 'get to it then.’ Not commanding, nor impatient – simply a reminder not to let yourself get taken off-track. You don’t miss the disapproving glare he sends in Gordon and Wallace’s direction though.
Somehow, you just know they’ll be getting a poor pour on their next beers…
“All right, all right. You didn’t come here to listen to me shut down the town sex-pest,” you call to the still tittering crowd, “And God knows you’re not here for the cheap swill Tony serves you-”
A roaring applause – Unequivocal agreement.
“Now, anyone here tonight a fan of Cole Porter?”
One, elderly woman sitting near the front raises a glass and hums loudly and drunkenly around her mouthful of beer in the affirmative.
Otherwise, the bar remains woefully silent.
“Cool, great,” you deadpan without missing a beat, earning a few more chuckles, “Uh, Doreen, this one goes out to you then. The rest of you…! I dunno, just make it through this song and I’ll do some Johnny Cash next, or something.”
A popular choice, if the resounding whoops are anything to go by.
You give the stool beneath you a moment’s thought before opting to stand as Tony aims a remote at the speakers above the stage and music starts to bounce from them, jolly, fast-paced and played in the comfortable, if underrated E-major.
You’ve found that there’s a knack to singing badly and still being ’good,’ and it’s all in the face and arms.
Stay animated on the stage. Exaggerate your expressions. Look like you’re having a good time and the audience will – for the most part – match that energy.
You take a deep, steadying breath.
Here goes nothing.
“~At words poetic, I’m so pathetic~” you begin, gesturing flamboyantly at yourself and bobbing lazily with the upbeat tune, “~that I always have found it best, instead of getting 'em off my chest, to let 'em rest unexpressed~!”
You’ve barely reached the second verse before there’s a commotion at the entrance, one that begins with a sudden gasp and a surge of people all clamouring to get out of the way of the door as it suddenly swings open wide, permitting entrance to the latecomer.
Undaunted, you sing on, fingers clicking rhythmically. “~ I hate parading my serenading, cause I’ll probably miss a bar! But if this ditty is not so pretty, at least it’ll tell you how great you are~”
Then, your eyes wander over to Tony, and your voice suddenly falters, catching in your throat just for a moment before you smooth it over and continue to sing, albeit far more quietly now as you try to squint over at your boss, vexed as to why he’s staring so hard at the entrance to his bar, one hand reaching slowly down underneath to where… to where he keeps the shotgun...
Nobody is really paying attention to your song anymore, especially when an almighty figure ducks through the too-small doorway, filling its frame entirely with broad, silver shoulders and a helm you recognise all too well.
Through the entrance of the pub, like a wolf stumbling upon a sheep pen ripe for the picking, stalks the Horseman, Strife.
