Rain. Hard, cold, wet. It streaks the colors that are seen by blurs in the night. Clapping boots. Puddles cascading across the ebony walls of darkness. The chase -- it is on. Through the brick alley ways, through the minds of the lost; they see things they do not believe in, but see them none the less; mortified, petrified -- stupefied in their curiosities and ignorance. Seeing is believing?
Through the dark alleyways of the skyscraper-dense city, men gave chase. More than men, as their leaps and bounds were by the dozens of feet and their abilities and reactions uncanny. Bounds from the walls, claws digging into brick and mortar as if a knife into hot bread and butter. With powerful thrusts the pack moved in for the kill -- a small figure wielding a very, very large blade.
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Boots slid across the wet asphalt, gliding to a silent halt without any effort and yet the reversed momentum brought the heavy blade down from high overhead. The Will of the Blade alone was bent upon one thing, and one thing alone -- destruction. Whichever way it was aimed, death happened; worlds ended; dust settled.
Three lay dead now. Their mangled, cleaved bodies bubbled and popped with acidic pustules before seeping into the very pores of the ground below this robe-clad figure. Eyes of silver peered beyond the brilliance of an oddly shimmering robe. Hues of sepia and hunter green reflected with emerald, glinted from beneath the low ambient streetlights. Their ringed glow seeming to portray a watching eye within the sheets of rain that fell from the crying heavens. They wept for the loss of one of their brethren.
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The robes had only opened once and the glimmer of oil shown from the inner lining. The blade of chaos seemed to slink into the enigma's guts and fall into a soft slumber -- undisturbed. The man couldn't stay long, not now. On the run, he was; pushing harder now that the pursuers were down and out without eyes. Not knowing where he was, meant they would have to re-find him, and this meant rest. Well deserved, definitely needed -- rest.
His speed and reactions were fast -- faster than any human and even to the point where he might blur in times of desperation, when humans might be looking. Law enforcement would be the last thing he needed, because where they were - criminals were, criminals to lawyers -- direct lines to hell, if you asked Ivore. Direct.
He would hide out for now in the warehouse district. It would be a haven for a while, but only a while. Enough to rest this mortal coil until he had the strength and power to take out every city, one by one.
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Entering a large corrugated steel edifice near the water's edge in some alternate location of New York City, a world where corruption wasn't anything short of consuming the entire city and not just the mafia families and the international lords of the town, Ivore tried to seek shelter. In a place like this, wherever he'd landed - God might have taken the upper hand in order to smite him to some alternate plane. But once his strength was back, this plane wouldn't hold him forever and he would gun for what he thought was the present world.
This one for now, would have to do; to destroy. Ivore held his hand to the ground in a moonlit spot on the floor through a dusty window upon the roof. His fingers pulsed with a holy white light before trickling against the ground and forming a circle upon the cement. When it finished, he sat within it -- legs crossed and eyes closed in a sighing silence. His meditation had begun and his breathing grew deep and hearty; each one after the other, cleansing and refreshing. Within this circle, evil would be utterly baffled and good would have lost track of him becoming one with his surroundings -- for now...
