Clint's blood drained from his wrinkled face at the sight of those bones. His lower lip trembles with an indignant (and very masculine) mixture of hatred and fear. His heart pounds like a roaring waterfall in his ears.
And with a muttered, gasping curse, he lifts his shotgun and steps back. And back. And back. Until he feels that he is a safe enough distance away to turn tail and duck out of sight. It can be said that as he scrambled away, he cursed all the while about 'goddamn Lichs' and how he swears he will conduct that sting operation to blow up every fuckin' phylactery he can dig up.
For now, though, he retreats to his porch. A porch which happens to be a part of a prime beachfront property mere meters away, with a porch in full view of the two monsters on the sand. Clint Eastwood scrabbles inside of the screen door, puts on about 3 layers of body armor, then flips off all the lights and lies in silent wait. This won't be the last of ol' grandpa E'Wood, he mutters hatefully to himself, stroking the shotgun like a beloved pet cat. I've got my eyes on you.
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With the gun now safely far away from his brains, a very miserable Javert rubs the wad of chewed tobacco off his cheek. He is already surrounded with his own filth and vomit, what did it matter if someone else added their mess to the pile? His eyes remain on the white stranger at his side as he rolls laboriously onto his hands and knees. A mouthful of the sewage and sand heave out of his bone-dry mouth. Very elegant.
"Javert," he says weakly. He coughs and hacks, and another mound of unidentifiable filth works its way out of his gut. Stronger, then, as he forces his voice to cooperate, "I am Javert. And you..." He allows that to hang in the air, his eyes snaking their way to the stranger's exposed bone.
Death.
That is his only internal explanation. That is who this stranger must be. For who else would come to collect him after a dive into strongest rapids of the Seine? Nothing else made sense, but then again, he could not be certain that he was not experiencing a delusion or a hallucination, either.
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And with a muttered, gasping curse, he lifts his shotgun and steps back. And back. And back. Until he feels that he is a safe enough distance away to turn tail and duck out of sight. It can be said that as he scrambled away, he cursed all the while about 'goddamn Lichs' and how he swears he will conduct that sting operation to blow up every fuckin' phylactery he can dig up.
For now, though, he retreats to his porch. A porch which happens to be a part of a prime beachfront property mere meters away, with a porch in full view of the two monsters on the sand. Clint Eastwood scrabbles inside of the screen door, puts on about 3 layers of body armor, then flips off all the lights and lies in silent wait. This won't be the last of ol' grandpa E'Wood, he mutters hatefully to himself, stroking the shotgun like a beloved pet cat. I've got my eyes on you.
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With the gun now safely far away from his brains, a very miserable Javert rubs the wad of chewed tobacco off his cheek. He is already surrounded with his own filth and vomit, what did it matter if someone else added their mess to the pile? His eyes remain on the white stranger at his side as he rolls laboriously onto his hands and knees. A mouthful of the sewage and sand heave out of his bone-dry mouth. Very elegant.
"Javert," he says weakly. He coughs and hacks, and another mound of unidentifiable filth works its way out of his gut. Stronger, then, as he forces his voice to cooperate, "I am Javert. And you..." He allows that to hang in the air, his eyes snaking their way to the stranger's exposed bone.
Death.
That is his only internal explanation. That is who this stranger must be. For who else would come to collect him after a dive into strongest rapids of the Seine? Nothing else made sense, but then again, he could not be certain that he was not experiencing a delusion or a hallucination, either.