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Character Draft 1: The Mountain Man

I watched his spidery, muscly muscular form warp and stretch as he shifted up the building. Night was settling, and the Mountain Man was traversing his begotten obstacle; the dusty grey monument of a building that he currently clung to the side of. The streets had been drained of any hint of life that may have existed earlier, and nothing but an empty, flat, and straight space remained. An overtone of grey comfortably rested on the fully urbanized streets of District F2. The Mountain Man’s coat was pushed and pulled by the wind, and he shifted ever so slightly with it. It was worrying to watch him, he always threatened to slip, but somehow never did. He climbed steadily, tirelessly. Over the days I had spied on him, he seemed always to be climbing. He climbed drowsily, without hurry, but never ceased.

He was as grey as the city itself. His coat, grey and crumpled, shrouded his sooty flesh marked with lines of age. His hood revealed nothing but the occasional touch of his stony eyes, and his unsmiling, unshaven mouth. He moved very slowly.

Yet, in danger, a vitality incomparable to any other radiated from him. Under his thick coat–and thicker shell–was a heart throbbing with life. A mechanical drive for action, for victory, for justice. In his heart were the scorching flames of a dissatisfaction with a life set in stone.

And a chance at action had arrived.

On the street below, a child had been abducted. The frontest foremost man had thrown the boy over his shoulder, and the group carted him down the nearly abandoned street. The boy was screaming murderously. Across the road I saw other eyes peaking out of cracks in curtains, watching the scene unfold. The men moved slowly, with little worry. They wouldn’t be caught, the Guard cared little about petty crimes amidst civilians. However, from the view of my window, I saw the rooftops above, and the swift fate approaching the abductors. The hooded man leapt from one building to the next, gaining on the group rapidly. He moved with such grace and speed I could not resist but to simply staring at him in awe, mouth agape. He had sped far ahead of the men at this point, and now stood directly across from my place in the window, perched at the top of the splotchy, cheap building. Waiting, like a hawk choosing eyeing its rabbit. He drew his crudely constructed hooks from under his jacket. They resembled crooked ice picks, but had a much more quiet and menacing glow about them. The group was entirely incredulous of the man, and laughed amongst themselves as they pushed the few bystanders aside who got in their way.

The Mountain Man’s head tilted up, and for only a fraction of a moment, he looked right at me. His eyes were squinted, and gleamed with the sureness of impending victory. A crooked smile was plastered to his face. And no more than a second later, his heavy frame delicately lifted from the ledge. He stylishly fell from the height, catching windowsills with pedaling feet to slow the effect of gravity on him. Within five seconds, he had reached the exact spot of where his prey had stepped, around three meters above them. With masterful timing, he lashed out with his feet against the façade, projecting himself from his close proximity to the building, towards the open space above the sidewalk. Now he fell, with nothing between him and the men but a suspenseful cloud of air. His picks were drawn above his head.

With a sharp crack I could hear from six stories above, the tip of the left pick drove into the skull of the man to the farthest right, burying themselves itself deeply within his head. The man in the back was the only one to instantly realize the arrival of the violent guest, and his peeled open with terror-stricken surprise. The Mountain Man left the pick lodged in the skull of the falling corpse, and swung his right pick into the guts of the unfortunate witness, before the criminal could even flinch. The other two were turning now, reacting slowly to the commotion. The pick that was lodged in the stomach of the second victim was quickly retracted. The remaining two, thoroughly shocked, were slow to draw. The Mountain Man swung his pick with immense velocity towards the remaining two men, splattering them with gore drawn from the impaled man’s insides. They drew back, to shield themselves from the spray, and in the moment they were blinded, he struck at them, ripping out their throats. Ten seconds had passed, and nothing was left but a bloody mess of paling, lifeless bodies.

The child, who fortunately had been dropped near the beginning of this episode, was lying in the street. The hooded man, now painted with blood, turned to him. He slowly approached the boy, and slowly offered his hand. The child was tiny in contrast to the massive features of the Mountain Man, his uncultivated hand barely wrapped around one of his savior’s fingers. He pulled the boy to his feet, and knelt down to whisper in his ear. A second later, he was scaling the building again, more quickly now, and the child was scampering home, in a frightened daze.

He followed the boy the entire way.

The Mountain Man

They call him the Mountain Man.

That’s about all anyone knows about Him.

He fights for the weak. The injured and broken. He stands up for all the scum the Guard would rather just step on, eradicate. He punishes the wicked, He inspires empty hearts. He changes a landscape that is as still as a mountain. Continue reading

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