Post by Cirrus on Dec 11, 2011 14:52:37 GMT -5
The natives' intent cleaved through midnight, leaving mortals on the brink of death through over excitement in its wake as it travelled towards its target, the feathers on its hind that were originally to help its flight now being but extraneous observers of the devil's work. Those feathers were red with pestilence; a sanguine colour that caught in the moonlight for the briefest of seconds, eliciting a tear from the all-watching eye. The arrow whispered through the night, passing its rumour through the gloom with alacrity; it appeared as though the sheer power of anticipation proved a veritable incentive for the projectile flew so fast and so true that it made almost no sound.
Almost no sound.
The acute ears of an ex-captain of the marines twitched in alarm as the disturbance in the night was detected. The primal instinct to survive merged with the powerful will of a wronged man wheeled with such force that the night seemed to gasp in surprise. The fist of raw justice rumbled forth, almost defying reality with its power, and hit the arrow head on. The clash of wills was electrifying. Dustin's force rippled through the wooden aggressor as he imposed his will, his justice, on the projectile. The arboreal spectre shattered into uncountable pieces, the dream of a successful ambush splintering with it. Moving through the wooden mist with the speed and determination of a truck, the mammoth of a marine made a beeline for whoever it was that had attacked him. His straight line was true, just like the arrow's had been. With passion in his heart and justice in his fists, the marines' "Wild Tiger" burst through the foliage.
The sounds of scrambling away greeted him, and for now they'd have to do; he was making them scared, making them careless. He was making them easy targets.
Dustin turned back and jogged to the marine camp. He was going to have to rouse the house if he was going to incite a successful defence; scaring the ambushers away was one thing, but it was another to keep them from coming back. And so the brown haired marine ran from the black-green alcove and to where, inevitably, the Hatter was waiting. He ran straight back into his hands. That last thought troubled the marine -- but there was no time for inner conflict, surely? His mind seemed to differ, for as he went through each tent, waking up whoever was inside and telling them to do the same, as well as remain vigilant, Dustin found himself thinking the same thing over and over again. It was a visual image of him being moulded and shaped like putty in the Hatter's hands -- hell, the fact that he thought of himself in this way was clear evidence to the mammoth of a marine that the Lieutenant was having some sort of effect on him. But Dustin was an old man.
He didn't like change.
And so somehow he'd have to resist it; fight it -- wasn't that what his outburst earlier was all about? Now that he thought about it, he must have done a piss poor job of burying his troubles because here they were again, although this time acting as more of an advisor than as a flashing vicissitude burned into his brain.
Dustin came to the Hatter's tent -- the one that they both shared, no doubt on the crazy man's request, but that didn't matter now; now was the time for action, for justice. But it wouldn't be his justice, would it? His justice aimed to save the people, not antagonise the bad guys -- but wasn't that what he was doing? Hadn't he just given the call to set up offensive forts around the camp, to shoot unknowns on sight? He'd gone against his morals, his morals that he had held as cast iron -- nay, iron was too feeble a metal for comparison; Dustin's morals were titanium.
And he'd just gone against them...
Dustin stopped outside the entrance to Lieutenant Black's tent.
He didn't knock.