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Snippet #2684134

located in Ekland Farm, a part of The Spirit Detectives, one of the many universes on RPG.

Ekland Farm

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Duncan McAlister Character Portrait: Briella Adair Character Portrait: Leon D'Artagnan Character Portrait: Tom Passano Character Portrait: Cassandra Artemis Character Portrait: Monk Dawa
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Tom relaxes his arm after the spirit is obviously in another area of the house, and breathes out a sigh. He walks into the parlor in a semicircle before he freezes.
The weight was off his back.

He doesn't need to wait for anyone to say anything. Head turning to the monitor sharply in time with Cassie's warning, his body stiffens-- he can't waste any time worrying about what's happened. It's like the place sucked Leon in; though, Tom's familiar enough with him to know that he loves to wander around in zones that he's definitely not supposed to go. His jaw clenches and he glances to Duncan with an obvious resolve of what he wants to do, exuding tension at losing track of his partner.

"I'm on it." He says, his voice a little rougher than usual-- it's not that he's upset. It just feels odd to be away from the other person. He does have a limited amount of trust in Leon's own actions, but he also knows he can't defend himself for long, especially against any of the challenging opponents that lie within the foundation of the house. He flanks Duncan as they set off, saying nothing as they travel; he's probably too immersed in his resolve to communicate adequately yet. Not that he's a chatty person in general.

Admittedly, if Duncan hadn't suggested they go after him soon enough, Tom probably would've trailed Leon wordlessly without waiting for a command.

His eyes move across the marks. They remind Tom vaguely of a wolverine or a puma, but it's unlikely that any animal would want to climb into the window of this place. Besides...He tightens his glove for a moment and uses his dominant hand to trace his fingers across the ragged wood, acutely noticing that the marks are about the size of what a human could make. 5 scores on each side. His eyes narrow, and he rolls his shoulders as if he's shaking something off. He grunts softly, lifting a wrist to his mouth. "Air's different over here, too." He murmurs. "Can't be a good sign."

At Duncan's request, he nods. His stance changes, his elbow and weight shifts forward, and he slams himself into the door, swiftly disarming the rusted hinges and kicking it down after he dislodges the wood enough for it to loosen. Unfazed by this feat, he brushes off the splinters on his jacket and advances-- he keeps his gun readied, arm folded to his chest to allow ease of movement through any small areas. As if they had opened the door to a refrigerator, the whole place oozes with a frigid draft.

Immediately after Tom enters, a chair flies across the room-- there's a strange hissing noise, like the sound water makes through the taps, rattling and distorting to the point where it's more than obvious it's a lot more sinister than that. Tom, abruptly sliding across the room to catch the leg of the chair and throw the item against the ground (whilst apologizing in his head to whoever took pride in the things he's smashed in the last couple minutes) is most likely face-to-face with whatever had the bright idea to throw it at him. He goes very still, but not out of fear. He's waiting for the dark form in the corner to make a move, or perhaps it's there for another reason-- it's vaguely visible as a person, crouching on the ground. Its face is difficult to make out.

"Pretty sure it's the one who made those scores on the door," He notes in a low, calm voice. Whoever, or whatever is in front of Tom has begun to make a series of soft, almost mesmerizing noises, incomprehensive to the human ear. Well...Most ears. "Leon," Tom remarks, knowing the other is in the room with them. "Translate."