#(but Raptor came outta me knocking on my head like)

[nappainanotherdimension]

☹ !

{For every ☹ I get I will show a sample of a muse I used to play but don’t anymore. Or send a ☻ for a muse I would like to play, but haven’t yet! || Open and Accepting!}

*cue another theme for this former muse o’ mine!* 

Things were pretty dull lately for the God of Metal. No worthy dark ones to fight around these parts. They all were migratin’ away, heh, runnin’ away more like! It’s a shame the weaker ones scampered off. Coulda used their souls to increase his own power. Every little bit helps him get closer to his ultimate goal of overpowering his master, Lord Ozum. 

Rumor has it there was a nasty Night Warrior coming this way. Yet here was Lord Raptor, laying around in his human façade waiting for this threat to come. “Bloody fools.” The Aussie rocker muttered to himself. “I’d recon if they’re really that strong, all the more reason to stick around and fight! I bet their soul’s both powerful and tasty!”

Sitting up with a light groan he continued speaking to himself out of boredom. “Been an awful long time since I’ve had a real challenge, and I’ve done my part terrorizin’ the locals. Doin’ my best not to take all their souls. Leavin’ just ‘nough behind to get the word out of a powerful darkstalker lurkin’ ‘ere.” 

There’s another town up ahead. Tiny, with lots of innocent people runnin’ round. The souls of the wicked were much more delectable, but if this’d bring the highly anticipated Night Warrior to him sooner…

Conjuring up his electric guitar, the zombie transformed into his true self with the power he sacrificed a hundred of his own devoted fans – and his own mortal being – in order to gain. 

Boney fingers stroked the taught strings to cut the silence of the night with electrifying wails of his instrument that were loud enough to awaken the dead from their nearby graves. Literally. What kind of rock star went around on a killin’ spree without an entourage? He might be dead, but he still had a reputation to uphold! 

“Whaddya say we play another small gig before we hit it big, boys?” Raptor rhetorically asked his zombie troops. 

Before they could shamble along to his side or even moan out in agreement, a blur spun into sight, choppin’ and cuttin’ ‘em all down! RUDE! When this challenger landed gracefully a couple o’ meters away from him, they turned out to be a downright gorgeous undead sheela! Greetin’ him with a pretty lil’ smirk and a cheeky “Ni hou.” 

“Ni how are you doin’ love?” Raptor quipped as he eagerly posed himself for a scrap.

Looks like all the darkstalkers didn’t hightail it outta here after all! FANTASTIC! Maybe if he beats her, she’ll go on a date with ‘im! If not well…he could always add her soul to his own power. They’d be together forever then! 

How ROMANTIC!!! ♥

That’d make a good power ballad too, come to think of it.

A Former Muse: The Looney Goon of DoomLord Raptor from the Darkstalkers franchise

Man is Lord Raptor fun to write! As you can probably tell from how long this sample got. Wish I could have fit in some more puns and jargon jokes into there, but no point in overdoing it. This dude is both goofy and terrifying at the same time! That’s not always an easy thing to balance, but since comedy and horror are my favorites, I feel like I do a good job portraying him whenever I have the pleasure of doing so. 

When I first began to seriously play Darkstalkers, I was scared of him. He’s fast and twitches around like crazy, and if I wasn’t careful he’d beat me in a match. Didn’t even realize he was a zombie. Then one day I decided to play him and what’d ya know?  He’s a perfect fit for my play style! Learning he was a zombie made him even more awesome to me. The rest is history.

As I mentioned in the last ask, I also played him in that Wreck-it Ralph roleplay. Few people were playing true bad guys, and even though he wasn’t up to anything evil, he was exactly the type of person that people could love to hate as an antagonistic presence. 

I think it really shows how much I love this character. Even though I moved back into the DBZ and Tenchi fandom as my main focus and creative drive, still got a place in my heart for the Darkstalkers franchise, and this ghoul in particular. ♥ It also helps that currently Udon’s doing the Streetfighter vs Darkstalkers series which I’ve been keeping up with collecting by some miracle! (All the icons except the chibi one at the end came from that comic series.)

His English voice actor is one of my favorite voice actors, Scott McNeil aka, Ocean dub Piccolo and so many other characters. I just love it when my faves also get the same voice actor as other faves. 

Also the Lord Raptor Rap from the dopey American cartoon always puts a smile on my face. Always. 

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Arc II: Watt Outta Hell (2)

Chapter 2: I am Captured by Deinonychus Gangsters

           I woke up on a craps table, surrounded by demons. Well, I didn’t know it was a craps table at the time, just that there were a bunch of plastic chips everywhere. I’m just glad I was undead, otherwise the combination of plaster and smoke surrounding me would probably have given me asphyxiation. Normally, I’d try to run, but my body felt like it had just fallen through a building, which judging by the combination of plaster and sawdust around me, it most likely had. If there was one silver lining, the hellions around the table were at least less horrible than a certain purple dinosaur.  

Not to say they didn’t have all sorts of hideous forms, some of which probably weren’t from this plane of existence, but they all had one thing in common: Goodwill clothes. I could tell because the clothes at those stores always have this weird smell of white walls and charity that clings to them no matter where they go, like a ghost constantly reminding their owners they’re hand-me-downs. Weird combinations, too: there were trifolds over bandanas, pinstripe jackets over tye-dye shirts-all odd and mismatched as the abominations that wore them. An insect-looking one was even wearing a ‘shirt’ that was just a baseball cap with arm holes. And in the middle of all of them, at the other end of the table, was the biggest demon of all. I still remember him clear as day: all dark, no face, high as the ceiling with horns as tall as me. I reckoned he was the leader on account of him being the only one with decent clothes, though where he got suspenders and a white button down in his size I will never know. A pair of panama hats were skewered on each of his giant horns.

The demon leaned forward, his empty face mere inches from mine. His breath smelled like bologna.

“I. WIN!” He said, in a voice that surprised me with how human it sounded. I could even hear a tinge of an Australian accent in there.

Then I realized he wasn’t looking at me, but a pair of dice that were next to my head.

“Like shit you did.” Came a voice from the other side of the table. “It only landed that way ‘cause some punk landed on the forking table!”

Its’ source leaned in until his face was right over mine. If it weren’t for the fall knocking all the wind out of me, I would have squealed like a kid on Christmas Day. Towering right above me was the face of none other than one of the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, wearing a plastic green tennis visor. “By the way, you filthy piece of shiv!” he told me “You’re paying for these forking property damages!”

Some other stuff happened, though at the moment I was so caught up in my dinosaur obsession (and several broken bones) I barely noticed.

What I do remember is that apparently the big demon had gotten two sixes, which when combined with his previous two rolls, which were also sixes, which were rolled on the sixth day of the sixth hour of the sixth minute of the sixth second of the sixth Deci second of the sixth millisecond, meant that he had the Porcelain God’s favor and therefore the jackpot. The raptor (whose name turned out to be Shizzle) argued the last six was a three until some moron landed on the table, to which the demon pointed out that there were no official rules against somebody landing on the table, at least when you played by the Rules of Ifnir, which they were. Long story short, Shizzle took out a rulebook while the demon took away all the plastic chips, followed by a posse of lesser demons cheering “Leroy beat the house! Leroy built the house!” as they danced out of the casino.

Schizzle glared at me with a look that could cut glass.

“You rotten piece of shit! I have half the mind to slice you in half right here and now! Too bad for you I’m in a really bad mood, so I’m gonna pawn you off on A-Hole!”

As he dragged me off the table (surprisingly strong given how thin he was) I saw he was wearing an armband and a vest clearly not meant for a dinosaur. We headed through rows and rows of demons playing with bright lights and slot machines, all covered by a lair of smoke.

We stopped in a room that reminded me way too much of a dentist’s office, except instead of a reception desk there was a door with a plaque that read ‘A-hole’ and the television played nothing but Fox News. Shizzle sat me down in one of the chairs and tied me to it using some string from his vest.

“Alright punk. I know what you’re thinking: that because it’s your first day in the underworld, everything is gonna go easy for you. But guess what, shivhead! Life ain’t that simple. Down here, if you scratch somebody, you best be prepared to get scratched hard. And A-hole? He scratches harder than anybody! See this?”

Shizzle turned around, revealing a tattoo of a piece of poop on his tushie, complete with flies and stink marks. I know it doesn’t sound that great the way I’m saying it, but it was like, Da Vinci level artistry. Below it, in cursive almost too fancy to read, was written ‘I am a doo-doo head’.

“That’s from when I forgot to flush. Doesn’t matter if you’re new, doesn’t matter if using a toilet is hard when you have a long-asp tail, A-hole doesn’t give. A. Crap. And not just ‘cause he’s constipated!”

I tried best I could to shake out of my chair, but it was no good. For someone without opposable thumbs, Shizzle had locked me up tight.

Without another word, he went out back into the casino, leaving me along with the roaring voices on Fox News. I struggled against my ropes, eager to escape, until the noise of the television hypnotized me. The weird thing is, I didn’t understand half the things they were saying, though I will say this: I understood it more than my Dad did, and if I squinted my eyes at the right angle the guys onscreen turned into monkeys. Also like with my Dad, someone came to take me away just as the exciting part was happening. (They were about to discuss red paint’s communist agenda). That someone was another raptor, a bit more feathery than Schizzle, but with a floral dress from a 60’s fashion magazine paired with an equally gaudy pair of high heels that I’m still not entirely sure how she got into. A chill went down my spine as I saw the blood flowing down her mouth, at least until I realized it was just poorly applied lipstick.

“Good afternoon, dearie. Welcome to A-hole’s. My name is Hoe, and I’ll be taking you to our main office, where you’ll receive the ultimate punishment shortly.”

Back in school, there was this one kid named Don Beasly who’d sometimes imitate girls’ voices for fun. This lady (at least, I thought she was a lady) sounded just like him. Lifting my chair, she took me into the office, which smelled of dead, even by afterlife standards. It looked dead, too, with the grey walls so shot through with bullet holes it’d look like it would come crumbling down any minute. Not exactly the kind of room I’d want to spend more than a minute in if I’d had the choice. Which of course I didn’t. There was a back window, but it was gated over and blurred by something that looked like mucous. And in front of this window, under his own personal yellow spotlight, was the most mature raptor I’d ever seen. I could tell he was mature because he held a cigar in one hand and a jar of prunes in the other. A tiny handlebar mustache was glued to his face.

“So you’re the asp who lost my money, huh? Landed on the craps table?”

Before I could talk, he added

“Of course I’m right, dumbasp. That was a rhetorical question. But now, onto the real questions: Do you know who I am?”

“A… a velociraptor?”

A-Hole’s cigarette dropped to the table, where it caught a bunch of papers on fire. He looked at me with what can only be described as a death glare, the light from the fire casting shadows under his scaly face.

“What did you just say?”

“V-velociraptor?”

He slammed his claws on the desk, breathing so heavy I could feel it from ten feet away. He just stood there, staring and breathing for several minutes, then he was calm. Too calm, actually.

“You know pal, I was thinking off letting ya off the hook, see? Sure, you cost us over a million Hellbucks in property damage alone, but I’m a nice guy, see? But please-“

He walked right up to me, putting a claw under my chin just enough to draw a trickle of blood.

“Nobody ever, ever compares me and my crew me to one of those dirty, lecherous Velossis, see?”

He returned to his desk; clapped his claws.

“F-Bomb!” he called to nowhere in particular “Give our guest a taste of the usual.” The way he said the last part nearly made my toenails fall off.

Another ra- I mean, Deinonychus, burst in from the door behind us. At first I didn’t think much of him, since he looked more like a fuzzy chicken than the others, and was about the size of one, too. But if I’ve learned one thing about dinosaurs in my journeys through the Underworld, it’s that if the dino is wearing an eyepatch and a fedora, he usually means business. Or tastes good served with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy. If it weren’t for his small size, he would have been intimidating, though the folding table and covered serving platter he carried made him give off more of a waiter vibe.

“Listen the fork up, forkface!” he screeched, setting up the table “The forkin’ name’s motherforkin’ F-Bomb, and I was having a forkin’ good time until you done forked it up with your forkin’ little scene on the forkin’ craps table!”

Now, I had no idea what the hey was on that serving platter, but if the smell coming from it was any indignation, I did not want to find out. Fortunately, even with my limbs tied up, yours truly still has one trick left up his sleeves. It was a gamble, since there was no gurantee it would work on dinosaurs, but at that moment there was nothing else to lose (well, except my dignity).

At first, F-bomb stared at me, clearly baffled by what I was doing. Then he got angry. “What the fork are you doin’ with your forkin’ eyes, you forkin’ punk?! Sweet Porcelain Forkin’ God, they look like forkin’ watermelons! Is this some kinda forkin’ trap?!! Are those forkin bombs? BOSS!! I think this guy has forkin’ bombs in his eyes!!!!!!!!!”

A-Hole was reclining in his chair, clawed feet on the desk, head blocked by a catalogue of L.L. Bean’s winter clothing catalogue (which I later learned was the official catalogue of Hell).

“F-Bomb, ya retarded turd! That’s what the overlanders call a ‘puppy dog face’. Dumb as shiv kids use it ta make their parents inta personal slaves or somethin’. Now would you kindly leave me the fork alone?! I just got to this real engrossing part about the importance of fashionable snow boots, see!”

Though I couldn’t see myself, I know by F-Bomb’s widening grin that it had melted into the look of despair. Especially after F-Bomb scratched me in the face.

“So that’s it, ya forkin’ punk?! You thing you can forkin’ screw with me?! What the actual forkity fork!” He hopped on the table, walking up to me until my nose touched his. “Now get ready to be forkin’ served.” His breath smelled just like I imagined raw meat would.

Stepping back, he lifted the lid of the platter, releasing a foul smelling mist that practically made me gag. When it cleared, I saw the platter had a tiny silver fork, and next to that fork was what I like to call ‘the tree of death’: a vile creation, one that since I was a kid had always stood between me and glorious, glorious dessert, whose tyranny I had sought to escape again and again, but could never escape. It was only fitting that here, in the depths of Hell, it would find me again.

“Now before ya ask, yes, I forkin’ know this is forkin’ broccoli, ya forkin’ genius. But this ain’t your forkin’ retarded fork of a Grandma’s forkin’ broccoli.” He pointed to a little halo that mysteriously hung over the little floret. As he did, I swore I could hear an angelic chorus in the distance. “This is forkin’ holy broccoli, watered with only the purest forkin’ holy water and the son’s forkin’ pee, fertilized in the soil of forkin’ Eden, and grown in the light of the forkin’ Lord himself. The level of vitamin forkin’ K in this forkin’ thing is too good for this sinful world. And when it gets in your forkin’ belly, the rapid influx of vitamins will slowly poison you before making your forkin’ head explode!”

I shook me chair, but it was no good. I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Nice forkin’ try, buster!” he taunted, bringing the flower of death closer to my mouth “But there’s no forkin’ way the forkin’ Lord is gonna come for you now!”

           Now it was my turn to smile. Back at home, I’d watched a lot of movies, and if there was one thing those movies taught me, it’s that whenever a bad guy says something like that when the good guy is in a bad spot they can’t possibly get out of, the direct- I mean, God- swoops in to give them a free pass. And considering I’m telling you this story right now, I’m pretty sure you can put two and two together.

While I was fidgeting, a small piece of paper had fallen out of my pocket. F-Bomb noticed, too.

“What the f-“

Just like that, A-Hole dropped his magazine and sniffed the air.

“Hold it, F-Bomb, I smell somethin’, somethin’ like… money.”

“Boss, it’s probably just a piece of forkin’ paper now could I please get on with-“

But A-Hole wasn’t having any of it. He put his nose to the ground and sniffed like a bloodhound until he found the piece of paper. He held it up in his claw with a delicacy I didn’t expect from a deinonychus, as though he were holding the most valuable diamond in the world. The moment I saw its’ yellowed paper, I recognized it instantly: a $500 dollar bill from Monopoly bill.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked

I took a breath, relieved my death by nutritious flower had been delayed.

“He, ya turd, I’m talkin’ to you!” he cried, slapping me on the side of the face “Where’d. You. Get. This?”

For a second my brain was in a trance. Back at home, I’d always been the dumb one, the one who everyone  except Mom thought was either gonna grow up to be either a dirty hobo or a shameless reality T.V. star. Possibly both. My mind reeled at having someone around who was actually dumber than me. And as I mentioned before, I’m also a Tostig, and if there’s one thing we Tostigs are good at, it’s seizing opportunities by the freakin’ horns!

“Real estate.” There it was, the ultimate blend of truth and lie, or as I like to call it, a tie.

“Sweet Porcelain God, kid! No wonder you- wait a minute! How do I know you ain’t fibbin’?”

F-Bomb, during this whole scene, was sharpening his claws with a nail file. “Maybe forkin’ ask what kind of bill it is, then!”

“Yeah, turdy! What bill is this?”

It was that moment I realized I should have had a backup plan. Not sure what I would have come up with, but it still would have been better than

“It’s a commemorative $500 dollar bill from the failed Philadelphia sesquicentennial exposition of 1926! Very rare! Almost none exist!”

I smiled, hoping they’d buy it like I would have bought Park Place.

Ten tense seconds passed as A-Hole sniffed the bill in places no piece of American currency should ever be sniffed.

“Alright, turd.” He said, holding up the bill. “Lucky for you, I happen to be a collector of all sorts a rare currencies, see? And I don’t know a single person in the Underworld who knows about this bill. So let’s make a deal, see?” He leaned in close, so close I worried he might chomp off my ear. His breath smelled like he hadn’t brushed since the late cretaceous, but in a deliberate way, like he was using some kind of prehistoric perfume.

“I’ll let you off the hook, see? All you gotta do is be a member of my gang for the rest of eternity. I’ll even give ya room and board free of charge, see? So whaddya say? We solid?”

I thought about my parents, still in the land of the living, waiting for me to come home from camp. Then I realized that, knowing Dad, he was probably using my action figures to open his beer bottles. And if my little brother had anything to say about it, they wouldn’t even notice I was gone. As much as I wanted to get home, I’d done goofed and crossed Shel Silverstein. It would take a while, but seeing as I was in hell, there was no harm in joining a gang for a little while, right?

“Sure, why not?”

A-Hole grinned, which was pretty creepy when you realized he didn’t have any lips. “Glad we could do business, kid.” He glared at F-Bomb and me. “But if either of you so much as say the letters of any of the words relating to this piece of moolah, there’ll be Hell to pay!”

“But Boss!” protested F-Bomb “We already live in forkin’-“

“I know what I said, dipschizzle! Sweet Porcelain God, do you realize how forkin’ hard it is to come up with good threats in this dump?! Everyone’s seen it all!”

A-Hole returned to his desk, taking in several breathfuls of smoke clogged air. Once he was calm again, he snapped his claws.

“Anyway, now let’s forkin’ do this. F-Bomb, get the knockout gas! We’re doing some reconstructive surgery!”

“Wait, wha-“

I didn’t even have time to finish before F-Bomb put what I can only describe as a satanic lobster dripping with some sort of liquid over my mouth. As I got woozy, I wondered if there was any type of insurance for falling unconscious, and if so, where I could get it.

[rasekstories]

Isle of Thunder

A warm wind was blowing in from Westfall as the two little boats without names hit sand along the northern coast of Stranglethorn.

Two Trolls hopped out of each to pull the boats ashore, and a third came from the back with skinny legs and trousers rolled up over his knees.  Ahead of him lie the grassy beach and Bloodscalp ruins that the crabs had begun to make their homes in, where the wails of the native women could still be heard for the loss of their chief through the dense jungle canopy.  Here on the beach there were only the sounds of sea birds and the blinding sun.

“Joo gonna help us wit dis?”  One of the stocky Trolls called to the boy with the rolled up trousers, who shook his head.

“I can't, Ren.  Mon said to bring dis to de General as soon as possible.”  The skinny boy patted his breast pocket, where a crisp folded parchment lie safely against his breast.  “If I take all day, dey gonna skin me.”

The stocky one nodded and wished him luck and speed, and the boy was off along the sand with one hand over his chest.

The entrance to Zul'Gurub was not far off; its high sandstone walls nestled safely into the northeastern mountain range that kept them apart from Deadwind Pass, protected by some of the tallest trees a Troll had ever seen, and fearsome jade cats and snakes that had been carved into the rock thousands of years ago and since been worn by time and weather, so only their jagged smiles remained.  

Inside was a city still held in the clutches of its oldest ghosts.  Huts at the entrance remained empty, and the scars of conquest were burned into the altars and platforms that once welcomed loyal Gurubashi to the heart of the empire.  

“She lives in de first hut on de left, not up by de bats but in de second one, where de raptor pits used to be.  Ya know what I mean?  Right up dis path here, take a right after de bridge, got it?”  A leggy redhead in traditional robes pointed him in the right direction.  She shot him a sly smile when he repeated them to her for clarity and turned back to the girl she'd been talking to, and he hurried on his way.  A message for the General, had to get there quick.

At first he thought the cat was asleep, but when he knocked on the wooden frame it opened its eyes and looked at him directly.  He ducked out of sight, pressing his back against the side of the yurt as he heard it yawn and shuffle to its feet, and closed his eyes as the sickening cracks and pulls of a druid changing shape filled his ears.

“You can come in.”  Her voice was sweet and low for a woman, like dripping honey or colored glass.  She welcomed him with a smile and offered him a spot on the rug in front of her.  General Tiombi was pretty in her own way.  She was clearly an older woman; her thin, girlish figure given way to generous curves, and the optimism of youth in her golden eyes had long since been drowned in pools of care and worry, but the boy still cast his eyes to the floor and crouched down before her, nearly touching his forehead to the floor.  A salute didn't seem fitting.

“I'm sorry for wakin ya, General.” He held the folded parchment out to her.  “Dis comes from my papa Nak'nama in Orgrimmar, whose cousin sent him sons to Pandaria wit de Horde fleet.  All of him sons say de same ting:  Zandalari on de isles.  De old Trolls makin a push against us in de new land, stronger den before.  Dey goin to face dem on stronga ground, and General...”  the boy looked up at her, his eyes sharp and heavy with old grudges.  “de elves leadin de assault.”

Tiombi's jaw steeled, her welcoming smile gone.  She placed the letter in front of her and folded her hands in her lap.  When she inquired as to what elves he meant, he said “Not de ones ya tinkin of.  I didn't hear nuttin about de Phoenix Highguard or any a dat rabble.  Dey say it's de mon on top, Mista One-Eye himself wit a great big ship an mon scattered across de island.”

“Very well.”  She thanked him, getting to her feet.  “Run ahead an tell Sergeant Jin'taza to meet me in him hut.”

The sergeant was home as usual, lounging in a swinging rope chair lined with pillows.  Thick green smoke curled above his wooden pipe, his robes half undone, his mask lazily pushed up on top of his hair.  He did not get up to greet Tiombi when she entered, nor make any suggestion that he knew she was there other than to look at her through the haze of felweed.

“I have a few questions.”  She managed to look everywhere else but at the sergeant himself, with his naked thighs and nearly useless robe.  He coughed and did not move. “I want ya to tell me about de Mogu and de change in de Zandalari Trolls.”

Finally, a topic that interested him. Jin'taza leaned forward, pulling his robe across his chest and legs, for which the general was grateful.  He told her all the old tales, of the slavery in Pandaria, the uprising of the monks and the friendship between the Trolls and the Pandaren's oppressors.  He told her about their desperation, their willingness to team up with nearly anyone and everyone to regain their home and make what he felt they considered their last stand.  He told her about the extra troops from the Sandfury, who were nearly gone, the Gurubashi and the Amani who'd seen defeat at the hands of the Horde and Alliance just a year prior, and the old remnants of the Drakkari empire that still clung to a shred of hope despite the loss of their people.  When she asked him why the Zandalari would fight them rather than seek help from the people they'd called allies years ago, he merely shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

“I dunno dat, girly.  Go ahead an ask em yaself, if ya want answers like dat.”  He stuck his pipe back in his mouth and smiled, satisfied with his own knowledge and pleased that she'd come to ask it of him.

“And I suppose de elves are dere to gain dere own foothold.  De wretches wouldn't crawl so far outta dere hole unless dere was a serious foothold to gain.  Whateva's on dis island dey want, de Trolls should have.  No pink traitor's gonna take de spoils of de Zandalari.  A Troll problem be dealt wit by Trolls.”

Jin'taza smirked, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nose.  “Ezzran said de same ting, girly.”

She gave him a harsh look, her gentle features warped into a frown and a low growl.  “Go find Rasek. Tell him we movin to de Isle of Thunder.  Let de Trolls deal wit Troll problems, no one else.”

“As ya say, girly.”  

She left him in a flurry of feathers and bones, the sick crunching and snapping of her body changing shape echoing off the stone walls.  If Ezzran was talking about it, he would already have his own plan.  It was likely he was already on his way there with his axe over his shoulder, his cold, resonating laugh booming forth from behind his mask's painted smile.  This time she wouldn't be bothered if he had a head start.  She'd just have to catch up.