I: Little Nightmares The bedroom is large and dim, ambient light filtering in through the window. One wall holds a collection of training weapons, nothing too sharp or too hard, sized for use by a child. The full-size mattress holds a restless sleeper: a pale-skinned, dark-haired boy older than five but younger than eight. He whimpers briefly, before his eyes snap open and he surveys the room with an alarm that fades when no threats make themselves immediately visible.
He peers over the edge of his mattress, then rolls off of it onto the floor, landing surprisingly quietly for his age. He pads over to the wall of weapons, selecting a couple short batons, and then makes for the door with a sense of purpose.
II: Morning Run Brand, dressed in a sweatsuit and sneakers, is going through his warm-ups for his morning run in front of a gothic mansion so ridiculous that it's practically a castle. The place had clearly fallen into disrepair at some point, and was in the process of being restored.
The front door opens and Brand looks up, raising an eyebrow at the man passing through. He's handsome and well over six feet tall, with a well-trimmed beard and sandy blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. One of his hands appears to be made of brass.
"You're late," Brand says, mostly without rancor. The man nods solemnly, though a smile quirks his lips.
"I am," he acknowledges. "Rune didn't want to let me go this morning." The words are colored by a Slavic accent.
"Rune's like that," Brand agrees, rolling his eyes. "Get warmed up, Saint Nicholas, I'm not going to fucking wait around all day."
Brand
The bedroom is large and dim, ambient light filtering in through the window. One wall holds a collection of training weapons, nothing too sharp or too hard, sized for use by a child. The full-size mattress holds a restless sleeper: a pale-skinned, dark-haired boy older than five but younger than eight. He whimpers briefly, before his eyes snap open and he surveys the room with an alarm that fades when no threats make themselves immediately visible.
He peers over the edge of his mattress, then rolls off of it onto the floor, landing surprisingly quietly for his age. He pads over to the wall of weapons, selecting a couple short batons, and then makes for the door with a sense of purpose.
II: Morning Run
Brand, dressed in a sweatsuit and sneakers, is going through his warm-ups for his morning run in front of a gothic mansion so ridiculous that it's practically a castle. The place had clearly fallen into disrepair at some point, and was in the process of being restored.
The front door opens and Brand looks up, raising an eyebrow at the man passing through. He's handsome and well over six feet tall, with a well-trimmed beard and sandy blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. One of his hands appears to be made of brass.
"You're late," Brand says, mostly without rancor. The man nods solemnly, though a smile quirks his lips.
"I am," he acknowledges. "Rune didn't want to let me go this morning." The words are colored by a Slavic accent.
"Rune's like that," Brand agrees, rolling his eyes. "Get warmed up, Saint Nicholas, I'm not going to fucking wait around all day."