Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
It was a pattern echoing in his brain. There was no heartbeat, no soul to give it rhythm, but to him it was as close to music as nature could get. Even animals seemed to lack something that the rain itself was full of. The coalescing of the sound and the thunder in the background, it put him in a mood that could only be branded as calm. In fact, it was fairly safe to say that during the storm was the only time that Corbin could consider himself as "calm." His life was usually one of panic and frantic movement -- a harmony of chaos and disorder being joined in by a third part that would underscore the first two, that third being called life.
He tapped his fingers on the desk of the office. Its layout was something similar to that of an old Gumshoe's out of a 1940s movie. It was larger, of course -- the Ashcroft family had spent quite a sum of money to widen it for more than one agent. There were doors and hallways, and not all of it was natural. There were supernatural alarms set here and there to keep out unwanted guest. After all, they ran a paranormal and occult investigation agency -- though "pest control" seemed to be the buzzword of this millennium. Still, Corbin wished he could just feel like Humphrey Bogart for once.
He raised his hand from the deeply bronze-stained oak desk, afraid he might drum a hole into its surface. He passed the hand through his black hair, noting how the length fell merely to just below his ears. He liked having longer hair, but in this business it could mean the end for you. His deep blue eyes seemed to trace over every little notch, every little mark in the surface of the desk, as if retracing its history. The desk had once been part of the original Round Table, salvaged and turned into something more suitable for a newer era.
He was wearing the standard "private eye" clothing -- black slacks and a white button-up. He had the sleeves rolled up to just past his elbows and he preferred a dark crimson tie. It was a clip on though, because you never know when some ethereal hand might try to choke the living daylights (or nightlights) out of you. He wore several different rings -- all silver in color and bared no piercings -- once more, a safety hazard in some cases. Corbin liked to be sure of things. He did however, sport several tattoos -- some for aesthetics, some for a more fruitful meaning. For instance, the small Eye of Set that was tattooed just up past his left elbow was for protection against Mummies and other sorted undead. It kept them from tracking you, and he made sure that all of his agents had the same tattoo... though others were optional.
However, as with most, there was something else that set Corbin apart. He was what was known in the Occult and Supernatural Circles as an "E-Pyro." It had nothing to do with the internet; rather, he could produce, summon, and shape a special dark green fire from nothing. It had no affect on normal people -- but if you were a goblin, a minion of Cthulhu, or otherwise something not-of-this-earth-or-plane, then you were in for a world of hurt. Corbin bared no weapon either -- aside from the fire -- and his favorite cane. It was made from blessed Holly, cut from the last Faerie Gate in Scotland. He was able to channel his fire through the wood, and improvise a devastating weapon out of it.
As Corbin's eyes and mind checked everything about him and the room, he looked up at the clock on the wall. The tick tock was not grooving with the drip drop outside of the building. It told him one thing.
His agents were late.
He felt a slight pang of worry inside of his stomach (well, it was technically a cow's stomach, but when you're missing half of your intestines, who's to argue if it works?). His eyes kept narrowed on the door instead of the clock.
Hopefully, his agents would report in soon.
It was a pattern echoing in his brain. There was no heartbeat, no soul to give it rhythm, but to him it was as close to music as nature could get. Even animals seemed to lack something that the rain itself was full of. The coalescing of the sound and the thunder in the background, it put him in a mood that could only be branded as calm. In fact, it was fairly safe to say that during the storm was the only time that Corbin could consider himself as "calm." His life was usually one of panic and frantic movement -- a harmony of chaos and disorder being joined in by a third part that would underscore the first two, that third being called life.
He tapped his fingers on the desk of the office. Its layout was something similar to that of an old Gumshoe's out of a 1940s movie. It was larger, of course -- the Ashcroft family had spent quite a sum of money to widen it for more than one agent. There were doors and hallways, and not all of it was natural. There were supernatural alarms set here and there to keep out unwanted guest. After all, they ran a paranormal and occult investigation agency -- though "pest control" seemed to be the buzzword of this millennium. Still, Corbin wished he could just feel like Humphrey Bogart for once.
He raised his hand from the deeply bronze-stained oak desk, afraid he might drum a hole into its surface. He passed the hand through his black hair, noting how the length fell merely to just below his ears. He liked having longer hair, but in this business it could mean the end for you. His deep blue eyes seemed to trace over every little notch, every little mark in the surface of the desk, as if retracing its history. The desk had once been part of the original Round Table, salvaged and turned into something more suitable for a newer era.
He was wearing the standard "private eye" clothing -- black slacks and a white button-up. He had the sleeves rolled up to just past his elbows and he preferred a dark crimson tie. It was a clip on though, because you never know when some ethereal hand might try to choke the living daylights (or nightlights) out of you. He wore several different rings -- all silver in color and bared no piercings -- once more, a safety hazard in some cases. Corbin liked to be sure of things. He did however, sport several tattoos -- some for aesthetics, some for a more fruitful meaning. For instance, the small Eye of Set that was tattooed just up past his left elbow was for protection against Mummies and other sorted undead. It kept them from tracking you, and he made sure that all of his agents had the same tattoo... though others were optional.
However, as with most, there was something else that set Corbin apart. He was what was known in the Occult and Supernatural Circles as an "E-Pyro." It had nothing to do with the internet; rather, he could produce, summon, and shape a special dark green fire from nothing. It had no affect on normal people -- but if you were a goblin, a minion of Cthulhu, or otherwise something not-of-this-earth-or-plane, then you were in for a world of hurt. Corbin bared no weapon either -- aside from the fire -- and his favorite cane. It was made from blessed Holly, cut from the last Faerie Gate in Scotland. He was able to channel his fire through the wood, and improvise a devastating weapon out of it.
As Corbin's eyes and mind checked everything about him and the room, he looked up at the clock on the wall. The tick tock was not grooving with the drip drop outside of the building. It told him one thing.
His agents were late.
He felt a slight pang of worry inside of his stomach (well, it was technically a cow's stomach, but when you're missing half of your intestines, who's to argue if it works?). His eyes kept narrowed on the door instead of the clock.
Hopefully, his agents would report in soon.