Being dead he could handle. Settling into the afterlife equivalent of Victorian New England wasn't a problem, given his heritage. Having to be...idle? That was going to make him dangerous before long.
Thank the good Lord on fucking high for those mangy little tree gremlins.
The minute Cameron Abraham hears about the brutoks, he learns all he can. Worthless pests are fun to crush, but the kidnapping and death by magic? It's the right thing to hear, because at least it'll help him to kill with some composure.
First, look after the innocent. Then he can have some fun snapping necks and crushing skulls.
He's studiously reminding himself of that fact when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. With the trained reflexes of a hunter, Cameron dives, grabs the little creature by the throat, and as it shrieks proceeds to simply slam his fist into its face, over and over, until when he drops the creature it barely manages to scuttle away with a range of shrill, mournful sounds of agony until its out of sight.
Glancing around, Cameron spots someone who had clearly ducked for cover and manages his most cordial smile.
"All clear--I don't think that little critter will be troubling you again." he declares, mild and pleasant.
Turnips, Turnips, Turnips
Cameron knows when to keep silent. This? This is one of those times.
Because he loves turnips.
Wandering the potluck, perusing the dishes laid out, he's carefully neutral as he listens to everyone complain, watches them make faces and wrinkle their noses at the array of turnip cuisine--and fills his plate at his leisure. Soups, sandwiches, and are those turnip cupcakes?...
This is one man who's good at passing for normal--but anyone who takes note of his unabashed enthusiasm in sampling everything he possibly can will easily be able to spot the fact that this otherwise innocuous, handsome to the point of banality, sturdy looking guy, just doesn't belong.
Cameron Abraham | OC (CW for general violence & graphic/gory/violent imagery)
Being dead he could handle. Settling into the afterlife equivalent of Victorian New England wasn't a problem, given his heritage. Having to be...idle? That was going to make him dangerous before long.
Thank the good Lord on fucking high for those mangy little tree gremlins.
The minute Cameron Abraham hears about the brutoks, he learns all he can. Worthless pests are fun to crush, but the kidnapping and death by magic? It's the right thing to hear, because at least it'll help him to kill with some composure.
First, look after the innocent. Then he can have some fun snapping necks and crushing skulls.
He's studiously reminding himself of that fact when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. With the trained reflexes of a hunter, Cameron dives, grabs the little creature by the throat, and as it shrieks proceeds to simply slam his fist into its face, over and over, until when he drops the creature it barely manages to scuttle away with a range of shrill, mournful sounds of agony until its out of sight.
Glancing around, Cameron spots someone who had clearly ducked for cover and manages his most cordial smile.
"All clear--I don't think that little critter will be troubling you again." he declares, mild and pleasant.
Turnips, Turnips, Turnips
Cameron knows when to keep silent. This? This is one of those times.
Because he loves turnips.
Wandering the potluck, perusing the dishes laid out, he's carefully neutral as he listens to everyone complain, watches them make faces and wrinkle their noses at the array of turnip cuisine--and fills his plate at his leisure. Soups, sandwiches, and are those turnip cupcakes?...
This is one man who's good at passing for normal--but anyone who takes note of his unabashed enthusiasm in sampling everything he possibly can will easily be able to spot the fact that this otherwise innocuous, handsome to the point of banality, sturdy looking guy, just doesn't belong.