#(laurence is somewhere complaining about the smell)

[karnaca78]

Inktober Day 17: Demon

These quick doodles don't strictly answer the prompt but these scholars and hunters still committed some horrors in the name of progress, so... I dare say it counts.

I'm in my Fishing Hamlet era right now and though I have no time to draw a full comic in the middle of Inktober, I hope I'll be able to cook up one some day. Even if it ends up being only a few random pages.

(The last one is my version of Caryll)

[m-myrddin]

Laurence “The Hound” Everick

Roles: Member of The Council - Head of Investigation

(He/Him)

Patron Deities: Earth

When Laurence was first appointed to The Council, his title was very nearly “The Banshee.” This idea was scrapped in favour of the much more fitting title of “The Gods Bloodhound” or simply “The Hound.” A title that derives not only from the shape of his soul, but also from his strong sense of smell and tracking capabilities. Before joining The Council, Laurence was known within the Clan for being able to quickly find monsters while on The Hunt. When groups would head out to clear the area near the Clans home, they would often ask Laurence if he was available to come with them to make it easier, assuming that he himself was not already out on The Hunt. 

Because of his simple title, Laurence has garnered the reputation for being the weakest and least intimidating member of the Alzanar Clans Council. A reputation that does not at all reflect the true nature of things. However, it works in his favour. People do not expect for him to have the skill he has in a fight, nor do they expect to feel the chill of fear that runs down their spine during his pursuit of them. Laurence, like many of the rest of The Council, is relentless. It is a trait favoured by their Disciple, and reflected in her (and the Gods) selection. 

Likes: 

His own cooking (no one else agrees)

Keeping strange things in his pockets (once pulled out a live rat and handed it to the person he was talking to because he “didn’t want it there anymore.”)

Fashion

Swords

Dislikes:

Sparrow meat

Rats

Being alone

Physical Description:

6′1

Out of all of the members of The Council, Laurence is the most well groomed. He loves to dress nice, and can often be found in clothing that is as close to modern day High Fashion as it gets. It’s not uncommon to see Laurence utilizing things that would often be seen on field or herding dogs. One of his most beloved accessories is a necklace designed after the anti-wolf collar. 

Laurence himself is incredibly sharp looking. There is not an inch of him that is round or soft. Many people are a bit intimidated by the intense look in his eye that he carries around with him on the day to day. He keeps the stubble on his face just as well groomed as the rest of him, though his boyfriend, Damien, often complains about the scratch of it. 

Despite his strength and powerful build, Laurence has the appearance of a lanky man with little meat on his bones, a fact not helped by his habit of wearing clothes slightly too big for him that accentuates his height and the unusual length of his limbs.  

Laurence is one of the lower ranking members of The Council and doesn’t have as many piercings to boast as others. 

Right eyebrow piercing

Vertical labret

Septum

Lobe

Helix and mid helix 

Industrial 

Because of his lower ranking, Laurence may not wear large jewelry during traditional or formal occasions, despite his preference to do so. Instead, he wears smaller spikes, studs, and hoops in his piercings and makes up for their lack of flamboyancy by shining them until they are perfect and commissioning them to be made in bright colours. 

Laurence has a surprising lack of scars compared to many other Hunters. Many people wonder just how he managed to avoid the beatings that everyone else takes, which he attributes to dumb luck. The fact of the matter is, nearly every single one of his scars are located somewhere that makes it very easy for him to cover them up. 

Large claw marks in the center of his back

Precisely four stab wounds in a near perfect circle on his left shoulder

Another stab wound on his stomach 

A large skin graft on his right thigh, slightly paler than the rest of him

A burn mark in the perfect shape of a hand on his right side 

A slash starting from his left hip bone approximately 7 inches long

Fun fact: Despite the fact that Hunters spend a lot of time out on the road and cooking for themselves, Laurence is horrendous at it. Most people outright refuse to eat anything that he cooks for them out of fear of falling ill. However, Laurence believes himself to be a fantastic cook, and often prefers his own cooking over anything else. Those around him believe that he has simply eaten so much of his own cooking that his tastebuds have shriveled up and died. Some even joke that his cooking was so horrendous it gave him enough brain damage that it tricked itself into thinking it was good. Whatever the cause, Laurence eats every meal he cooks for himself like its the best thing he has ever tasted. 

Want to get a general feel of his vibe? Here are a couple songs from his playlist to get started:

Shut Eye - Stealing Sheep 

Way of the Triune God - Tyler Childers 

My Name is Bocephus - Hank William Jr. 

See the Light - Ghost

[outofcontexturi]

edible high >>> smoking high<<<<< like that’s just so obvious to me now. I actually hate smoking. I thank God that I don’t smoke like that and that I’m just a social smoker cause fuck all that man. I do need to stop taking them with the chip though cause that shit taste so foul I can’t believe people just smoke cigarettes like that man. Disgusting stuff. I just came from Travis’. Currently in my Uber. It’s 00:01am. Friday. 7th October 2022. I’m on north end road idk where that is Hammersmith and Fulham borough. A fed car just went by us. Uber driver is silent. He’s been super complimentary though. Most Ubers I get don’t give a fuck they just like me though cause it’s a no talking straight driving/vibing thing for me. I vibe you drive. but this guy asked if I wanted to play music and if I was comfortable and shit. I feels good man. I’ve probably manifested this you know? In a way. The high is kicking in again kinda. It’s a mild high. I think because edibles are so much stronger I feel them differently now. Reba just messaged me. It’s 00:05am. Gonna message her back wait. Oh yeah mum got to Ghana safely . Just had a nice convo with Reba. It’s now currently 00:12am. twelve twelve. Had a great day of rehearsals. Just had a really good day yesterday. A lot of laughter. A lot leant too. Have some great audio with Travis too. It’s just nice to see life being kinder too me. And just having to confidence to just carry on with whatever is thrown my way. And how the power of the mind is so crazy. And how manifestation is real. Travis said that fear and excitement are chemically the same thing but the brain processes them differently and how I should take that into third year shows. I spoke to him about feeling the fear and doing it anyways and how my life has changed since taking on that advice. I just did it again. A small thing but still something. In my Uber and the window is open and I’d usually be the type to firm it and just think about doing it and not do it but like I just asked and he did it. Man it’s the small things sometimes man. I think my dad says one drop makes a mighty ocean or something like that. I should be sleeping now to be fair. I have an early start today. It’s gonna be a long day but it’s gonna be a good one and I’m working this weekend so I’m happy man: making some money with some friends. I can’t complain. Just remembered I need to send Vik the 4 people I wanna work with on my showcase. I fear I’m not tired but I think it’s cause I’m not home yet and when I do get back I will be but right now my mind is active but not in the way like when I’m on edibles. I think the taste of the weed is horrendous and the smell isn’t nice either. Or I’m just to accustomed to edibles that smoking doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Like you smoke? better take that edible and have a good time bruh. Idk where I am but I’m somewhere. Enjoying the journey. Still haven’t played a single song from my phone but just have my AirPods in. People find me funny which I find so funny cause I’m the past 2 weeks three people have openly called me funny and like I’m usually someone that makes people laugh but not laugh enough for them to call me funny immediately after but fuck man I’m attracting jokes and good vibes so I can’t complain. Or I’m creating it idk idk but whatever I’m doing I’m happy. The feeling makes me happy. This is what celebrity feels like. Just prepping myself. Had to play the remedy remix from the Hause. that snippet slaps so much. I’m upset it’s not an official song yet. I need them to release that shit man. Also also also, the first show we have is now sold out!!! That’s cool. Okay the tiredness is hitting me now. It’s 00:28am. Idk where I am but I’m tired but I need to stay awake. Bro I closed my eyes and didn’t know where I was I opened them and I was I in Catford opposite Laurence house wtf. & I beat Travis at fifa. I have audio footage of this shit. I told him that I don’t play with big teams cause it’s easier to feel the loss of underdog but like he was talking to me ab.. lost train of thought. 00:33am finish

[luninosity]

The next chapter of In Focus is up now! In which Sam worries about meeting Jason, and Leo has dinner with - and comes out to - his parents! (This was the first part of what was turning into a Very Long Chapter, so...this seemed like a good pause point!)

Read at AO3 here! Teaser below. <3

#

Leo, letting himself into his parents’ cluttered but tidy house, shut the door and gazed at a pink-painted wall and the multiple coat-hooks and the framed poster depicting Sir Laurence Taylor in Macbeth at the Coronation Theatre in 1996, and let home sink into his bones. All the way to his toes. Up to his hair.

 He wondered momentarily whether his hair had memories, and if it did, whether his had forgiven him for the terrible bleach-blond dye job a decade or so ago. Probably, he decided. He got on well enough with his hair these days.

 He shrugged out of his jacket. Hung it up.

 His mother’s voice floated over from the back office: “Leo, is that you? Stand and unfold yourself!”

 Leo shouted back, “You come most carefully upon your hour!” because it was the next line of Hamlet, and then, “But that’s wrong, I’m the one coming in to find you!” while wandering through the sitting room and dining room and kitchen, navigating dentistry-related journal towers and time-worn squishy chairs. “Mum, why’s there a sword in the umbrella stand?”

 “So I remember to bring it back, of course.” His mother popped out of the office, beaming at him. They’d always looked alike; Leo took after her in tall height, thick dark blond hair, expressive eyebrows. Harriet Whyte had browner eyes—Leo’s own hazel had come out midway between his parents’ woodsmoke and emerald—and the inexhaustible energy of a greyhound before a race, assuming that greyhound also knew how to wield a broadsword, speak Latin, and manage the finances for one of the oldest and most intimate examples of London’s theatre world. “I borrowed it for some practice with that grip. It’s for a production of Blood and Sand next month. Oh, those’re lovely, thank you—”

 Leo had picked up the flowers with her favorite colors in mind, riotous pinks and purples and the occasional pop of white and gold; he said cheerfully, “Maybe they’re for Dad, not you,” and wiggled them at her. “Got a vase?”

 “Oh, yes, somewhere.” His mother glanced back at her office, which currently held multiple bookshelves, one dozing tabby cat on his perch, two computer monitors, and ten toy knights arranged along her desk. “Not in here, obviously. Kitchen?”

 “Logical,” Leo agreed, and trailed her back out to the world of copper pots and an old but much-loved teakettle and a covered pan of something mysterious but savory-smelling on the stove. Benvolio the tabby yawned, stretched, and sauntered after them.

 “Your father’s been experimenting again, so it’s a sort of venison cobbler? I think? With horseradish scones.”

 “I’m not even going to ask.” Leo peeked into the pan. “Actually, yes I am. Are those parsnips?”

 “Probably? I really couldn’t tell you. I’m sure it’ll be delicious, though.” Harriet Whyte did not cook, famously so. Leo adored his mother and would physically stand between her and the stove if she ever expressed interest in attempting scrambled eggs again. They’d been simultaneously rubbery and crispy. He to this day had many unanswered questions.

 She got down on the floor to peek into a cupboard. Benvolio sat down beside her and put whiskers forward. “Here, will this work?”

 Leo looked at the object in question. It was in fact a vase—odds had been against that—though it was a vase of a tall hand-blown murky green glass variety, with perplexing lumps and ripples in unexpected places. “Where’d this come from? And how can I get one?”

 “It’s hideous.”

 “It’s incredible. I want three on display somewhere. Mum, the cat’s in the cupboard.”

 Harriet looked at the cupboard she’d just closed. The cupboard meowed plaintively. She said, “Oh dear,” and opened it again. Benvolio strolled out, tail held high, and went over to sit by his food bowl.

 Leo put flowers into vase, water into vase, and vase on kitchen counter, next to the small sculpture of Dionysus with grapes. And then hugged his mother properly. And hard.

 Harriet hugged him right back. “This is quite nice. It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it? Oh, there, I know you’ve missed us, we’ve missed you too, what’s brought this on? Not that I’m complaining.”

 “Nothing,” Leo said. “Just. I love you. And Dad.” He let go, reluctantly. “Where is Dad?”

[richardkickler]

Richard Kichler: 1

Richard Kichler: 1

Richard shifted his bag onto his lap from the bench seat of his Buick. He made a quick inventory of its contents. He was liable to get ornery if he was deprived of his smokes and dented, green coffee thermos. With his morning ritual complete, he opened the door and stepped into the rays of sunlight streaming through the fog that hug immobile in the chill dawn. With a small, satisfied smirk about his lot in life he walked from the street to a pair of steel storm doors set into the sidewalk. Crouching down he grabbed the handle of the left door and wrenched it with all his might. When the entrance to the descending stairs was open he massaged his lower back. He couldn’t help but notice that opening these doors was getting harder and harder each year; He wasn’t a spring chicken anymore.

Closing the blast door once he was safely down bellow, Richard was bathed in cool subterranean darkness. Reaching to his right he grasped the handle of a breaker lever. Richard smiled a bit more to himself comforted that it was right where it always was. Some things are absolute, can always be depended upon to be there. With a mighty kachunmk, light flooded into the tunnels from bare bulbs strung from the ceiling every few feet. Further inside the complex unseen generators whirred to life. Down the main corridor that led to the supply depot he couldn't help but notice a large spider web fracture in the concrete at the halfway point across from a large locker labeled," CONTAINMENT." I guess I know what I'm doing today after I have my coffee. Never a dull day. 

Grabbing his smokes and coffee from his bag he walked over to a rail just beyond the reinforced blast doors leading into the depot. He lit a smoke as he rested his forearms on the barrier. Accidently singing his cupped palm with the lighter, he dropped it into the pit below. He counted four Mississippies before it hit the unseen floor. It wasn't the first of last time he dropped his trusty Zippo into the warehouse. The Cold War designers of this place hadn't built this bomb shelter with clumsy civil servants in mind.  Clasping his red in his teeth Richard climbed down the ladder beside him. Back in the late 80's he had taken great pride in how fast he could mantle the rungs but with age came an untaxing pace. He didn't have anywhere to be so why should he rush? On the floor besides vapor wrapped, wooden crates he found his lighter. It had a new dent but was otherwise unharmed. Puffing his smoke Richard poured some coffee into the lid of the thermos. Sipping his mud, he read the stencilled labels of the GI crates: Canned peaches, .45 caliber ammunition, MREs, spare Browning barrels,. toilet paper. The Ruskies had never dropped the rocked but still all this Vietnam era crap was down here; Not that Richard would complain about never being turned into a shadow by a white hot flash of atomic hellfire.

Grabbing a crowbar from atop one of the crates, Richard pried open the nearest crate of peaches. He put one of the aluminum cylinders in his bag then returned up topside. Placing his bag on a chair, he went to a pile of bags of cement that he kept along the wall for the frequent repairs the tunnels required. It went into a wheelbarrow and then over to the only hose in the upper veranda of the depot. Shovel in hand he sidled over to where he had seen the cracked section of wall, chain smoking all the way while thinking of last nights game. That new kid on the team really had an arm like a fucking cannon. Back at the fracture, Richard gently laid down the wheelbarrow. Mixing the concrete slurry slowly with his shovel he allowed himself to drift into thought. He couldn’t help but think of how wonderful dinner with the family had been last night. For once he and his Phillie weren’t at each other's throats, Saddie had remembered to add egg to her meatloaf, and Bobbi had made varsity quarterback. Life was downright wonderful. Somewhere in the deep background a low, familiar  rumble cut overtook the white noise of the hummer generators. Richard sighed and walked the wheelbarrow a safe distance away mumbling,”I guess it’s that time,” in a monotone to himself. Lifting the latch to the containment locker Richard spot checked his gear. It was always best to be thorough. Lighting another cigarette while placing a spare behind his ear, he put on a fluorescent yellow safety vest with, “Mendota DNR,” emblazoned on the back. He yearned for the days when he had worn the vest with pride out in the vast forests of the region. Sometimes he missed daylight and the pure, blue sky but he knew that somebody had to provide while Sadie was on the mend. When the cracked wall exploded out as a massive drill blasted through it , Richard knew there was no more time for daydreaming. 

Slipping on his holstered .45 and the tank to his flamethrower over his vest he began to count. He knew it would be thirty Mississippis until the first wave. As the drill withdrew Richard reached into the cabinet with practiced measure. He pulled the pin from a M34 white phosphorus grenade and lobbed it into the gap in the wall with disinterested familiarity. Third time this week.. Why does it always have to be on my shift on the day I planned my weekly hike with my boys? The grenade went off with a flash and a wave of dry heat that he could feel from down the hallway. For the dusty hole in the wall pained screams issued as the sweet, sickly smell of flash fried flesh wafted over to Richard. Pointing the 12-ga Remmington riot gun that had been hanging next to the M34 fired a warning round at the gap he yelled, “Go home and you critters won’t get hurt,” in the same monotone he had used when belaboring that he had to patch the cracked wall. To emphasize his point, he squeezed the trigger sending flechet flying into the dust. Now there was evermore vliod curdling screeching. This was worse though. The white phosphorus had been fatal. At this distance the flechet would only flesh wound. The sound of frenzied footsteps stampedee towards him. Making sure his shots were leveled below three feet Richard discharged his shotgun five times before pausing to reload. “Go home, Laurence. Return to your subterranean kingdom. Stop being such a dick.”

As the smoke cleared Richard could see that they had really gone all  out this time. A huge cavern had been constructed just outside of the tunnel complex walls before they had driven the drill tank through the wall. On the ground mole men unlucky enough to not been granted immediate death writhed in agony. The ones that had succumbed to the flame were little more than charred husks. The ones who had absorbed his boomstick's wrath bled into the two foot capes customary for a mole man legionnaire. The thin aluminum breast plates that their armorershad crafted were no match for Richard's thunder. Their gnarled fingers grasped at the voids of missing flesh on their bare bellies. Gnashing their teeth as they bled out, Richard couldn’t help but be sorry for them even though he knew that if he let the mole men go again his supervision was going to have his ass. He’d already been written up twice for not wearing his safety vest while operating in a municipal capacity so he wasn’t going to take any second chances,

The cavern that had been blown in the wall ended in a tunnel that turned 90 degrees before leading to unseen depths. From around that corner there was the squawk of a bullhorn. Over its hissing white noise a trill, tiny voice proclaimed, “I am Laurence biggest of my people, first of my name. Tremble Richard Kichler, last of your name, my eternal foe! I shall grind you down man titan that stands at least six feet tall! Once we slay you we shall reign for a thousand years on the surface world! Hear me and shake knowing that you face the largest of my kind. Today is the day that my justice is prosecuted! Leave now and you may yet see your wife’s puny front teeth again.”

Always a showman, Laurence. You’d think a mole man could just be content with running an underground kingdom that stretched a cubic mile but for some people nothing is ever good enough. Richard figured it had to be a size thing; Phillie called it a Napoleon Complex after he came back from his first semester at college.  As the biggest, he had to fight something bigger to prove his regal, godhead status. To Laurence, king of the mole men, if Richard, guardian of what they had dubbed the Exoworld, could be disposed of, the conquest of surface was assured by right of manifest destiny. In truth, Richard had seen more manpower devoted to booms in the racoon population. Fifteen Mississipies until the mutants. 

Lighting up another smoke he walked with confidence and grabbed another tool from the cupboard. The mole men of Laurence’s dynasty had been attacking every few days since the late 80’s but still they hadn’t learned to look for claymores. Richard set one up at the mouth of the 90 degree bend and at the breach point across from the cabinet. After years of doing this he had started to pity them. Their tiny brains and poor eyesight meant that the average mole man could neither see nor remember that after their first wave Richard placed out the two minimum claymores, as per city council dictates, everytime they attacked. “Hey Laurence, first of your name, I left out claymores. The steel ball bearings will shred your men. Go home, sir.” Richard had been allowed to use more colorful language when conversing with Laurence in the past but ever since the city had passed an ordinance that had made mole men an endangered species he had been barred from adding insult to injury. Big government, small town. If I had  my way I’d just smoke that four foot tall rat. Knowing that they wouldn’t turn around Richard went back out into the tunnel to wait in relative safety from any wayward ricochet. He couldn’t dwell too long on the head of the snake as his oblivious minions had wandered into the tripwire. There was a blast followed by the sound of gallons of paint being whipped at wall in one pulpy wave. “Hey, Laurence?”

The white noise piped up again. “What surface man? Do you wish to surrender?”

“No, sir, I’d just like to say that there is another one. Your men will get blasted again if you don’t go back to your palace.”

Enraged Laurence shouted back with a high pitched squawk, “Do not lie, titan, you do not possess any more tiny earthquakes! Do you think I am a coward or a fool? I am far too massive for your mind games to work on me, you wretch!”

“Laurence, you are only half a foot taller than the other mole men.” There was a pressure drop and more pulp as the second line of defense was triggered. “I told you. I know that the mutants are next and that you’ve gotta get rid of them but you know it's the flamethrower next.”

“What does a titan know of the size of a mortal? I, the hugest paragon of my noble blood to ever exist, do not need your opinion! May your Exoworld god forgive me for what I have to do to you next! I will build a shrine to my bigness with you bones, Richard!”

“You look like a walking armpit.” Richard really wished that the mole men hadn’t learned how to pirate cable onto a tube tv one of their wrinkled expeditionary teams had recovered on trash day over on Lawndale Street. Every since they had taught themselves English from reruns of Alf and The Andy Griffith Show and ever since then been able to read the name tag that the city made him wear. He shook his head. They definitely had the ability to get to the surface with their aluminum tipped drill tanks. Laying Richard low had somehow been worked into Laurence’s mole man dogma to the point that he refused to go to the surface without walking over a fallen titan’s carcass. Unfortunately for them, along with forgetting about claymores they forgot about jellied gasoline.

When Richard heard the jangle of aluminum chains he knew the mutants were coming. He sparked his trusty Zippo and placed it to the pre-ignition chamber. The nozzle of his flamethrower sprang to life as he made a mental note that he had to pickup milk on the way home. Stepping over mangled mole men, Richard firmly planted himself in the breach. The moment he head slapping footsteps he let fly the kiss of dragon's breath. Up until recently he'd have to cull the mutants with a Browning. It'd always been a hassle to set up and take down with an extra kicker of the murder it did on his back. Ever since Elon Musk started selling them, the city council deemed bringing this masterpiece of American steel out of storage. From the other side it might appear as though the gates of Hell had opened wide but atop the carnage it only looked like a longer Wednesday than Richard had planned for. The dancing wall of flame reflected off the faux brass nametag pinned to the front pocket of his shirt.