Brennan was deep within his boat, upon that lonely dock he called his own. Books, as usual had been his companion in the evening as he buried himself within those aged cryptic pages as if he could find some kind of answers within those ancient texts. As usual, it produced nothing. He slammed the heavy, leather bound book shut with a finality, a curse fresh upon his lips. How the cursed warlock managed to stay out of the demon's line of sight was beyond him. Perhaps he.. It, or whatever that grotesque entity was had grown busy. Busy with some other poor shit desperate enough to curse himself. The dark circles that formed beneath the man's eyes, or the week long stubble that lined his jaw had to have show that Brennan was tired. Dorian's gifted blade had served him well... and Serafina was still making sense of that stupid book, or perhaps she had simply grown tired of trying. She had a life without him. She was busy with her hunter, he couldn't fault her in that. She deserved what he could not have. He was beginning to think books were not the god damn answer that he should just face the thing with that blade and let the best man win. Man... as if that thing was a man at all!
He was sick of staring at those weathered pages older than himself. If this was all he had traded his life for, it was hardly a life at all. The roguish warlock sat in the darkness, save for a dim warm, inviting light illuminating the dining table. It brought him little comfort. He swallowed the sweet whiskey he had poured himself, the only solace to a tired man, it warmed him from the inside. But even that had lost its appeal. One could only drown themselves so much. He put those books and pages away, along with the rest, where he would undoubtedly have to deal with the next night and the night after that. Yet even through that heavy tiredness, he still tried, somehow unwilling to face death so long as he had sea air in his lungs. Simply because he was too damn stubborn to die... or maybe... it was the only thing he feared.... Beyond the obvious that he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge anymore.
He thought he heard a thud, passing it off as just another wave hitting the side of the boat at an odd angle. He was familiar with all kinds of sounds of the night by the water, comforted by it. He knew how to differentiate that... and the sound of trouble. Hell, the mark on his arm was a literal alarm system. Barney shifted suddenly, his regal black head shot upwards as his body grew tense and aware. Brennan could hardly help that habitual glance to the inside mark upon his arm. No glow. It was probably nothing worth his notice. Very few bothered with the Irish warlock here, which was how he had preferred it as of late. Who would have thought he would turn into the bitter old man with the permanent scowl upon his face. Of all the hardship he had endured it was a wonder it took this long. He drank another welcomed mouthful of that amber substance which coated his throat, his tongue. How much would it be tonight? He wondered mutely, a hum drew from his chest in consideration as his fingers toyed with the edge of the table.
Another vague sound of a thud upon his dock, an ominous unplaceable sound saw the hellhound rush to his feet, an anxious whine indicated trouble before he was gone. The hellbeast was nothing but a black blur that skittered up and out of the ship, his nails undoubtedly marking his once pristine wooden boat. Fucking hell.
The wind it would seem, carried Raylin's weak call away from the Irish warlock's ears, but not Barnabus. No. He was already on that dock with the bloodied girl upon it nudging the familiar girl with his cold wet nose, huffing that humid breath as he examined that blood. A mix between a drawn out whine and bark loud enough to rise the warlock from his tomb. "Alright... I am coming." His irish brogue ran out. Couldn't he be left in peace? It was a moment when he saw the familiar hair illuminated by a light on the dock that saw him change from ambling grump to... something far faster. He all but leapt off the ship. He questioned as he moved towards her, although he already knew the answer with every step. He lowered to pick up the gun, before he tossed it idly onto the cushion inside his boat. Can't leave that about. But it hardly slowed him as he moved to her side, the worried whine of Barney echoed as he stared at his master. That look alone, perhaps a pleasing thing, saying... Help her. That glamoured hellhound liked so very few people and yet Raylin, he took to instantly.
Gone was the vivacious woman he had known... What the hell happened? "Raylin.." He uttered, falling to his knees to examine her. His hands hardly knew where to land with so much blood, he needed her inside. "What have you gotten yourself into? It looks like you pissed off a shark." He muttered. It was hard to see the damage in the lowlight but in an instant he had her scooped in his arms and brought inside, Barney glued to his side. At least she was breathing...
"Ray, look at me.." There was an uncharacteristic softness to his tone as he looked down upon her. He moved with haste into his boat, down the steps so he could bring her inside. A familiar place to her, he placed her with care onto the couch next to where his switch panel was. He questioned as he immediately pulled out his first aid kit and a fresh towel, quick to press it against the still bleeding wound. The bite looked no larger than a human's jaw. Hm.
The Irish man was no stranger to wounds, having suffered through far more than he could count. So long as he could keep her with him, he was certain he could patch her up. What better way... to wake her... up... than to provoke the girl. He knew her nature, or at least he thought he did. "This new 'I got mauled' look doesn't really suit you." He attempted to push the concern out of his tone in lieu for something far more goading. After all.. A pissed off Raylin was better than a dead one. She needed that spirit now more than anything. He applied more pressure to the wound, he would need her awake for what happens next. He was certain the young woman would be cursing his name in no time. At least he hoped.
a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor