Post by LUCILLE OLIVIA BOWEN. on Jul 28, 2013 23:19:50 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;,bTable] [atrb=vAlign,top] When she slips down the fire escape the sound of plaintive meows rise up around her, they want to know where she's going. Finger tips reach out to catch on soft fur and she coos to her feline companions, reassuring that she'll be back. Long dark hair a blowing cloud around her face as she makes her descent, ever mindful of the undead lurking. The evening is settling and that is usually the time that one might not leave whatever relative safety they had found here in Harlow but Lucille is comfortable in her knowledge of this place. It had taken her long enough but the city's layout is etched into the ridges of her brain and it would appear she was not the only brazen soul out. From her vantage point she could see living people stealing about the streets and alleyways and there was a fire burning in the distance, a glowing orange eye in the fast-approaching dark. When her boots hit the broken pavement she adjusts her leather jacket, surprised at how mild the night is. Swiping stray strands of hair out of her face she readjusts the messenger bag on her shoulder and a hand strays to the small of her back where her gun is stowed. Gang's all here. There's a knife in her boot and a loop of piano wire looped around her hand and she settles into a steady, staccato rhythm walking down the streets of Harlow. If she seems not to have a care in the world you'd be mostly incorrect--she is frighteningly aware of her surroundings and focus on the small sounds that rise up around her. Some people couldn't tell the difference between enemy movement and the city settling--San Francisco had turned into a dark, beating thing after the hellfire had ceased to rain down punishment and at the very heart of it was all manner of distasteful activity. Here in the city hordes moved, teeming masses of decaying flesh and fetid breath and gangs struggled for power and resources. Lucy had demurred when offered positions in a number of these groups and opted instead for a loner's role. Her temperament was frigid, a one woman glacier that could freeze just about anyone out if she so chose. Her cunning had been one of her major assets and this was probably among the only circumstances that she could thank her parents for the skills they had taught her. The switch in her hips has a beguiling air to it and the look in her eyes: the boredom and disinterest, it made people want to come closer. See if they could change the color and the demeanor. As she turns a corner she knows she's being followed by some oaf who fancies himself stealthy and a cruel little smile quirks the corners of her sharp mouth. When she turns down an alleyway she allows him to shove her face first into a wall covered in graffiti. She surprises him when she grinds her ass against the crotch of his jeans but when his hands wander underneath her leather jacket she smiles, come into my parlor said the spider to the fly. He smells like sweat and grime, not really her usual mark but alas, she would have to make do with what she had. She lets him paw at her, turning in his arms as she locks her legs around his waist. For it is the prettiest parlor you ever did spy. A hand reaches into the top of her boot and the knife slides out and into her waiting palm. Sealing his sentence with a kiss a hand crawls to his chest as her legs disentangle themselves and she slides the knife between his ribs and into his heart. After a brief struggle, after he stops twitching she tugs the knife out and wipes it against his grubby shirt and begins the task of searching his pockets. "There's one born every minute, they used to say." |
