Like Moth to Burning Flame (Open)

[Wayne Barrister]

Wayne suddenly paused...and froze in place. He had never been this afraid in his life, and had no idea what was going on. He couldn't see anything, but it was cold, cold and lonely. Wayne glanced around in terror...slowly realizing his leg was rather warm and wet.

[Sire]

There was a sound in the dark, a sort of muffled scraping sound. Had Wayne listened closely when he stopped running, he might of also heard sounds of a struggle, but those lasted for a very brief time so he can't hardly be blamed. The scraping stopped, and from the alleyway came the sound of straining plastic, and after that the sound of something large being tossed in a dumpster. After the lid clapped shut, the feeling of otherworldly wrongness seemed to fade away, but not entirely. It was suppressed, like someone had put a lid on a grease fire. The alley was now curiously silent, almost beckoning to any who would see what had caused the sickly commotion.

[Wayne Barrister]

Wayne just stood there shuddering. He knew he had peed himself, but it didn't seem to bother him anymore. Then...he took a step forward. Then another step. And slowly but surely he began to make his way down the alley. He wasn't sure what compelled him, be it fear or curiosity.

[Sire]

The alley was populated with a few rats, a cat, and a beggar. He sat alone on a piece of cardboard, clothes filthy from weeks of exposure to the city and the man's body. There was also a small amount of blood on the beggar's coat near the collar, but that must surely be nothing. The man eyed Wayne as he entered the darkness, breathing heavy in anticipation. But for what?

"... Alms for the poor?"

A little archaic, but surely no one would be confused by what he was asking. Change for someone down on his luck. A perceptive person might truly wonder why anyone would choose so old and more or less poetic phrasing in an unpoetic age.

[Wayne Barrister]

Wayne saw the man watching him, and froze. He didn't know what to do, and he was terrified that whatever he did would be the wrong thing. He wasn't good with people, or blood, or darkness. To be honest, he realized, he was afraid of too much sometimes...

Maybe this was the time for him to get over them.

But maybe he should do that later...

[Sire]

"Something? Anything? For a starving man?"

His hand was jutting out now. But it wasn't the hand of a starving man by any stretch of the imagination; it wasn't shaking with hunger or deprivation of any sort. It was calm, controlled, perhaps even dominating in its immobility. His cold eyes were fixed on Wayne's face, perhaps searching for weakness, perhaps condemning him for not parting with spare change.

"Will you leave me to my fate?"

[Wayne Barrister]

Wayne looked at the man...then bolted, straight into a nearby wall. He wasn't sure how he managed to do it, but it dropped him on his back.

Wayne just lay there, splayed on the hard ground, his head a mess of sounds and light, unsure of who or where he was anymore...

[Sire]

The hobo was quick to stand up and walk quickly to Wayne's side, strong and confident hands lifting the lad up by the shoulders so he was sitting up. Though an unmistakable aura of evil polluted the air, it was so thin and veiled that only those in league with the Watcher could sense it. The man's hands were warm... very warm, in fact. But that could be nothing, a fever or something of the sort.

"Is all well young man? You're acting as if you've seen a ghost..."

Again, the homeless man talked with an eerie diction not common in modern New York. But what did it matter? He seemed a nice enough individual, helping Wayne to his feet and dusting off his back. Being of a stink-tolerant sort, the hobo made no comment of Wayne's ruined trousers.

[Wayne Barrister]

Wayne was visibly shaking. He had no idea who this man was, or why he was helping him, or why he seemed so utterly terrifying.

"N-n-n-not really..." was all Wayne could stutter out.

[Sire]

"Well, surely you must be doing better than me. Care to talk about why you're so upset?"

The hobo's voice seemed genuine, though the eyes were cold and dead, reflective of a serial killer's loss of humanity or the dreary emptiness of a rabid animal who has run amok until all its strength is gone. Once Wayne was on his feet, the old man leaned against a wall, as if stating he had all day to talk about it. Probably did, considering his level of squalor.