revivalproject | A Hunting Archivist

WHO: Hunt!Jon & you
WHERE: Apocalypse!Temba
WHAT: Everything is wrong. Jon is a Hunter, out to chase some prey.
WHEN: During the event
WARNINGS: TBA
Note: No beastie traits for Jon at the beginning aside from sharp teeth. This might change during a thread.

A - The Change [ violence may happen - you set the hellscape for this one ]

Jon stands outside, looking up at the sky that looks so eerily familiar but at the same time utterly strange to him. "...it's looking back..." is all he can whisper to himself, quoting himself from what now feels like an eternity ago.

It's not the same eye. It's not The Eye. He would know, wouldn't he?

Or would he? He can't feel it. But at the same time he doesn't believe he should feel it. He hardly know how he is supposed to feel anymore. Aside from cold, maybe. It is cold. And dark. And loud. The blood is loud. It's calling him...

He lets his eyes fall away from the sky, to the ground before him. It's cold. And dead. No traces of any prey.

Wait. Prey? No, that can't be. That's wrong. It's wrong!

Shaking his head, Jon reaches up to press a shaking hand against his own temple before looking around, desperately looking for anyone who can confirm to him that this isn't happening, only to find himself shakily making his way towards the first being he spots, desperately calling out to them. "H-help me- please!"

And that's when everything changes again.

B - The Search [ hellscape starts out as The Hunt ]

These deep, dark woods feel just like home. This is where he belongs. This is where he can smell his prey, hear its very move, locate it so the chase can begin.

Thinking about it already makes Jon shake with excitement and he barely holds back a low growl. He breaks out of the deep woods and into an open clearing. Places where the strange eye above is unobscured by looming trees. But the Hunter doesn't care. He has found his prey and is approaching with measured, silent footsteps.

C - The Chase [ hellscape starts out as The Desolation ]

He had nearly caught up to his prey when the world changed again and soft forest ground turned into hard concrete, making it impossible for the Hunter to be the silent predator he is meant to be. Which doesn't mean Jon has given up, but he still pauses to take in his new surroundings, already missing the fresh, open air and the night sky around him.

There are walls and it is hot and he can hear the screams of those trapped behind closed doors.

Jon snarls to no one in particular. He can't stay here. He has to track down his prey. Randomly picking one direction, he starts down one of the corridors, ignoring the heat, the smoke, the flames. He will either find it, or be found first.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Moving is on of those things that just feel right. Especially moving in comfortable silence, senses reaching to pick up the sound, sight or scent of their prey. Unlike Cayde, Jon of course isn't armed or in any way equipped for what may be considered a traditional hunt, but he doesn't require any of that equipment. He needs none of these tools as long as he has his hands and teeth.

They weave their way around the tombstones in silence for a while. This may not be their domain, and yet moving quietly comes natural.

As does noticing their prey.

Jon stops once he has laid his eyes on the person. A careless wanderer of this place dedicated to the dead. His eyes drift over to the Exo. Of course Cayde will have seen the person.

The space is too open, with little cover to take someone by surprise, but they navigate it quite well in spite of things. Experienced hunters can make the best of even such circumstances.

Cayde keeps low, but he halts almost simultaneously as Jon does so, his hooded head lifting, his optics narrowing as their prey is in sight. He turns his head just slightly enough that he can glimpse Jon past the edge of his hood, giving a curt nod. He motions with a hand; he'd circle ahead while Jon went the direct route to spur their prey forward.

Just a small nod, that is all Jon's response comes down to before he lowers his head a little And moves forward, remaining quiet until he is certain Cayde has reached the right position for this chase. Controlling where their prey flees to is part of the hunt after all.

Once he has reached the right spot, Jon makes his presence known. A deliberate noise that would look to be a mistake to anyone else. But the prey reacts, looks at him while he looks back. Then he snarls audibly and rushes forward, sending their chosen prey running.

Running in Cayde's direction.

There are many obstacles here, but the space is otherwise seemingly endless. Driving their target between the rows rather than along one lane of them would be more challenging, yes, but Cayde trusted that they were more capable than their unfortunate prey.

Once their nameless victim approaches his cover behind an aging statue marking but another grave among many, the Exo leaps out with a metallic growl, causing a panicked yelp and sending them stumbling, scrambling to get back to their feet as they're routed. They catch themselves around headstones, tripping over others, a clumsier flight however only growing in their panic as the two hunters close after them.

Seeing their prey flee makes it impossible for Jon to resist the chase. This isn't even their domain, but the fear leaking from their target is still strong, still potent. The rush of the blood narrowing Jon's vision and focusing it on this particular being, blending out everything else.

Jon's movements remain easy and efficient, taking him close to their prey where sharp claws lash out at struggling legs, drawing blood and sending their victim into a flailing forward tumble.

First blood. It drives Cayde into another surge, quickly closing the distance where he can join Jon in bringing down their target. There's a ringing gleam of metal as he draws his knife, his steps slowing as their prey flounders on the ground. They lurch to their feet again, their breath quickening between pained hisses as they try to force themselves forward, hauling themselves around another tombstone.

The Exo's blade narrowly misses fingers and he makes sure their victim knows it, a whisper of a breeze and the slight vibration as metal once again rings off stone and the grasping hand abandons its support, sending their prey falling again, whimpering.

Jon's second swing misses entirely, but he doesn't care. Their prey is already tumbling and hardly keeping any distance to the two hunters and his next attack sends sharp claws right into an arm, pulling the person back and down with a cry of pain and rising panic as they struggle.

And they do, in fact, manage to tear their arm free, leaving them scrambling noisily on the ground, still attempting to get away.

Jon gives his hand a quick shake, then glances over to the other hunter, intrigued to share the kill.

A glance is as good as signal as any, Cayde darting in not a second after. It's almost pitiful, the state in which their prey continues to insist on fleeing. There's no need for effort to push speed, and the slash that the Hunter makes appears like a lazy swing of his arm, which nevertheless draws fresh blood as the victim cries out, collapsing under his own weight.

It's not so much scrambling any more so much as feebly pushing along the ground, using the other arm to crawl.

The noise the Archivist makes is a nearly ecstatic growl of approval and triumph as he darts forward just half a moment after Cayde and eager claws bury themselves mercilessly into the back of their victim, dragging out a wail of pain and hopeless terror.

Their victim knows it has lost. And yet it still insists on treating the hunters to its feeble struggles even though Jon is practically kneeling on their back, only reluctantly pulling one of his clawed hands free to press down on the back of the neck of their prey.

The Exo steps around in front of their panic-fraught prey. The chase has come to a close, but that fear of knowing the end is near that wafts off this poor soul is like a main course after the appetizer. Cayde leers as he stoops there, planting his knife firmly in the ground but millimeters from their victim's face, a garbled scream dying in their throat between the sight of the blade and Jon's sharp claws digging into their neck.

The rapid breaths become shorter, more ragged but no less desperate, the one good hand clawing at the dirt, flailing blindly, weakly at the weight on his back. The Exo puts a quick end to that with a quick motion and a disturbing crunch of broken bone, the arm flopping wetly onto the dry grass.

A Hunting Archivist

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