The headache is enough to send him home early from a regular patrol. Richter lives in a small condo, but it's still a house. He may be religious, but he still decorates for all hallow's eve. It's only as pagan as Christmas trees, after all. He'll patrol more after the trick-or-treaters have gone. For now, though, he lights the candles in his jack-o-lanterns, and looks over the surroundings. Webs in his bushes, orange twinkling lights in the windows, pumpkins on the porch. This should about do.
Annette would have loved this. She always loved holidays. She would have dressed up and hid in the bushes to scare the kids or something, while he passed out candy. Or... There's something wrong with the memory. Like he's recalling something else. Recalling going hunting, that's nothing new, but the feel of rough fabric and no armor on his skin, a kiss from his beloved - but she's been dead or away since he was 18, hasn't she? Or undead, briefly. It's really confusing.
He's so mystified that he almost misses the first wave of trick-or-treaters. The doorbell rings twice before he scoops up the bowl of candy and makes his way to the front door, not wearing a costume, just a t-shirt and jeans, his long hair tied back, as it has to be for work. "Hey there, you all look great in those costumes! Here, have some candy!"
He doesn't turn off his light until he's out of candy, and then he goes out back for a breath of fresh air and a look at the night sky, which has so many fewer stars than he remembers... even though he's lived in Hex most of his life. Maybe he's thinking of the afghan mountains?
Later on, patrolling
It's almost morning before Richter heads out again, having caught a few hours of sleep. That was enough to halt the migraine, if not the intrusive memories. They're bothersome, but he can't skip a hunt, not on such a significant night. No one's called him, at least. He'll just patrol on his own, then, call in help if he sees anything. The weight of his guns in his shoulder holsters under his jacket is comforting. The lack of weight at his hip isn't, but he's not entirely sure why.
He stops to wave at some of the men doing clean up. Some of them he knows from church, some from work, some from... other venues. Other than the occasional brief pause, his walk is purposeful, the route familiar, taking several hours to wander the city before he has to go in for work.
Richter Belmont (Native and OTA)
The headache is enough to send him home early from a regular patrol. Richter lives in a small condo, but it's still a house. He may be religious, but he still decorates for all hallow's eve. It's only as pagan as Christmas trees, after all. He'll patrol more after the trick-or-treaters have gone. For now, though, he lights the candles in his jack-o-lanterns, and looks over the surroundings. Webs in his bushes, orange twinkling lights in the windows, pumpkins on the porch. This should about do.
Annette would have loved this. She always loved holidays. She would have dressed up and hid in the bushes to scare the kids or something, while he passed out candy. Or... There's something wrong with the memory. Like he's recalling something else. Recalling going hunting, that's nothing new, but the feel of rough fabric and no armor on his skin, a kiss from his beloved - but she's been dead or away since he was 18, hasn't she? Or undead, briefly. It's really confusing.
He's so mystified that he almost misses the first wave of trick-or-treaters. The doorbell rings twice before he scoops up the bowl of candy and makes his way to the front door, not wearing a costume, just a t-shirt and jeans, his long hair tied back, as it has to be for work. "Hey there, you all look great in those costumes! Here, have some candy!"
He doesn't turn off his light until he's out of candy, and then he goes out back for a breath of fresh air and a look at the night sky, which has so many fewer stars than he remembers... even though he's lived in Hex most of his life. Maybe he's thinking of the afghan mountains?
Later on, patrolling
It's almost morning before Richter heads out again, having caught a few hours of sleep. That was enough to halt the migraine, if not the intrusive memories. They're bothersome, but he can't skip a hunt, not on such a significant night. No one's called him, at least. He'll just patrol on his own, then, call in help if he sees anything. The weight of his guns in his shoulder holsters under his jacket is comforting. The lack of weight at his hip isn't, but he's not entirely sure why.
He stops to wave at some of the men doing clean up. Some of them he knows from church, some from work, some from... other venues. Other than the occasional brief pause, his walk is purposeful, the route familiar, taking several hours to wander the city before he has to go in for work.