[The rooftop, overlooking the alley.]
The sound of stone being ground to cinders could be heard above the large gathering of people and the dust that fell pittered against the concrete sidewalk. Looking up, any one of them could see someone standing over them, on the corner of the building behind them. Nearly his entire body was covered; not an inch of skin showed but for two bright, slitted, peridot eyes that looked menacing and murderous with the shadows cast over them. His black gloves covered his hands up to his fingertips, which ended in points; his arms were hidden beneath deeply tanned leather wraps; his head was completely covered by a black hood, and underneath white bandages bound his skin, save the openings for his eyes and mouth; he was wearing some kind of leather robe or cloak that disappeared past the edge of the rooftop as he stared down at them; his legs, covered by a pair of grayed leather pants; and the hilt of a short sword and several smaller knives stuck out from a belt which looped around his back.
When people started to notice him, he looked at them each in turn. "Quite a group," he hissed. The tone of his voice was calm and matter-of-factly, though to anyone who hadn't spoken to him before, it would have been utterly imperceptible; he spoke in piercing sibilations and guttural breaths. He shifted his posture to the point where he was crouched on the corner of the building above them. Although it wasn't the case, he looked like he were about to leap down and murder them all. Instead, he lept, but simply landed atop the street light, and turned, overlooking them quietly.
Wrapped as he was, he ate with gloved hands. He wanted not to betray his appearance, and taking off the gloves would do just that. If he concentrated hard enough, he could make the slits of his eyes even out and become more of an oval, but it still didn't look quite human--though it did soften the looks he got. He was doing this now, as he ate with both hands, tearing the flesh off the bones, savoring the taste of the blood and tendons as his teeth made short work of them. The owner, behind the counter--who everyone called Leb--passed glances up at him as he served drinks and food to the people seated at the counter.
A fellow seated on the other end of the bar shakily came to his feet, slurring his speech with his drunkeness. "Well, Leb. Times to go, I reccolleckon."
Leb gave him a concerned smile. "Be careful out there, Jim. Say hello to Carol for me."
Jim gave a sort of half-salute and began tottering towards to door, swaying left and right as if he were holding a heavy weight in both arms and was trying to balance it out. And then he finally lost his footing and stumbled into the man clad in leather. "Ooh, sorry, sorry, sorry." He patted him on the shoulder as he turned around, grumbling with his mouth full about watching where he was going.
The man left a little more steadily, and turned the corner.
Leb regarded his ravenous customer. "You gonna order anything else, buddy?"
With his best attempt at sounding less snake-like, which still wasn't much to praise, he replied, "No, I'm almost finished." He had eaten an entire chicken and two leg of lamb. Still, he knew he was good for it, no matter how expensive it was. He always kept a good bit of money on him, because he knew how hungry he got. It was either that, or become a cannibal.
Cannibal? He shook his head clear of the thought. He still sometimes thought in terms of humanity, though it really no longer applied to him. He had eaten people before, but it had been out of desperation due to hunger. And a few of the people he had eaten were people that he felt the world was better off without: rapists, slavers, guys who murdered women and tossed their corpses in dumpsters. It was the kill of an innocent man he had been ashamed of. After that, he trained at holding the hunger at bay, and he had trained his willpower so that being hungry was no longer an overwhelming hysteria. He could stay his teeth and claws until he found more rewarding prey. He hadn't eaten a human in a couple years, and he was proud of that fact.
The jobs he took to pay for all this had been especially dangerous, but he had performed them flawlessly. And he had been rewarded quite handsomely for them. He never stayed anywhere for longer than he needed to, but he kept close to food supplies. Heavily forested areas were home to some interesting and powerful game, but if he wanted a proper meal with little effort, he needed to be close to town. And as the owner brought the check, he reached behind him for his wallet.
He stopped and reached back with his other hand. It wasn't there. He'd had it when he came in. He felt all around the sides of his pants, and looked at the floor all around him, and jumped up from the bar stool, knocking it over, looking around frantically.
Someone stole his wallet!
Damn it! He had three hundred dollars in there!
"What's wrong?" Leb looked at him with some suspicion.
"My wallet's gone!"
He wasn't convinced. "Buddy, I don't have time for this. If you don't got the money, then we're gonna have problems."
"Look, I came in with my wallet, and it's gone. It's not like I--" The owner kept staring at him, his gaze darkening now. He fumbled for a resolution and found none.
The other patrons were looking at him now, as he stared back at them expressionlessly. A few began to rise, and slowly began stepping towards him. One cracked his knuckles. Fuck. He didn't want to hurt them. But he didn't have the money. And if he couldn't pay, they were getting ready to try and beat him to death. And they would find out about him. And because of his appearance, he knew they weren't going to believe a word he said. He knew of only one way to handle this situation.
He jumped out the door and turned the corner, out of sight, as the others ran after him, out the door and began looking around, scanning the crowd for his form as they ran down the street.
He sighed, and watched them run from where he lay. He had jumped up, grabbed the edge of the rooftop and pulled himself over it, landing prone, and pushed himself to the edge, watching them give chase to nothing.
Damn it. That wasn't going to bode well for him. Still, he pushed himself to his feet and weighed his options. He could leave town; that probably wasn't the best option, because he wasn't familiar with his particular area. And he had just gotten here, so he didn't want to leave yet. But he needed money. He would get some money, and take the time to go back and pay for his meal. He wasn't a dine-and-dash. He'd pay.
But... how would he pay it back, now that he was marked by misfortune in a city that he just got to? He turned and started walking off.
And then he was hit in the face by something and was blind. He pushed it off his face and looked at it. The wind had blown a flier for Lunatic Inc. into his face. He forgot the restaurant as he poured over the slip of paper. He read it over, his eyes widening and the ovals in his eyes becoming slits again.
He clutched the paper in his hands. The paper gave him hope, and he forgot entirely about his recent unpaid lunch. The address was printed, and so he surged forward, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, looking for the right place. Eventually he saw it, and slowed down to see who was there. And then he made his appearance
From the street light, he turned his gaze to each of them in turn, and finally hissed, "My name is Scael Clawver. Which one of you is in charge?"