Gabe truck pulls in a little later then most of the other groups. There'd been a few delays, mostly arguing over where to get food, and a minor kerfuffle getting the industrial grade chemical vat strapped to the back of his beat up old truck.
It'd been a pleasant bunch of distractions really, but now that they were all here, there was nothing to do but sit and wait in foreboding.
Or well, that's what anybody with a death wish to do. Gabe? He was doing stretches. If worst came to worse, he could do what he did best, run.
(3)
The memories had hit like a truck the moment he'd torn out his heart. Griffith. Casca. His friends. The Band of the Hawk. All precious, all stolen away like they'd never even mattered. Like Gut's would be better toothless and hobbled without his anger. His very reason to live, his mission for revenge, all stolen like some worthless bauble.
It was sickening and he had only himself to blame, but that wasnt important right now.
What was important was the sword in his hand (could hardly be called a sword, more of a great iron club), familiar armor against his skin and a familiar dark wolflike shape gnashing its teeth and beating wings(?) behind him. The words of violence are familiar and for once, he lets it consume him.
He blocks it all out, his memories, his life here, the horrifying sense of loss, leaving nothing but a desire to kill.
[ooc: guts is going a little berserk (ba-dum-tsh) at the moment and will indescrimatly attack ally or foe without intervention. so pls talk him out of it. or knock him out. ]
no subject
Gabe truck pulls in a little later then most of the other groups. There'd been a few delays, mostly arguing over where to get food, and a minor kerfuffle getting the industrial grade chemical vat strapped to the back of his beat up old truck.
It'd been a pleasant bunch of distractions really, but now that they were all here, there was nothing to do but sit and wait in foreboding.
Or well, that's what anybody with a death wish to do. Gabe? He was doing stretches. If worst came to worse, he could do what he did best, run.
(3)
The memories had hit like a truck the moment he'd torn out his heart. Griffith. Casca. His friends. The Band of the Hawk. All precious, all stolen away like they'd never even mattered. Like Gut's would be better toothless and hobbled without his anger. His very reason to live, his mission for revenge, all stolen like some worthless bauble.
It was sickening and he had only himself to blame, but that wasnt important right now.
What was important was the sword in his hand (could hardly be called a sword, more of a great iron club), familiar armor against his skin and a familiar dark wolflike shape gnashing its teeth and beating wings(?) behind him. The words of violence are familiar and for once, he lets it consume him.
He blocks it all out, his memories, his life here, the horrifying sense of loss, leaving nothing but a desire to kill.
[ooc: guts is going a little berserk (ba-dum-tsh) at the moment and will indescrimatly attack ally or foe without intervention. so pls talk him out of it. or knock him out. ]