Of course the first thing Lucien saw as he passed through the gates was a massacre. Immediately he recognized the stench. The iron in the air, the salty aroma of viscera. His senses were stimulated by all of it as much as he tried to suppress it - the beast inside him howling for bloodlust in recognition of the slaughter. Within a fractals of a second he drew his Raging Judge Mateba and loaded 4 rounds of .454 casull and two .410 shotgun shells at the end. Just in case. His other hand flashed with silver, his Oriental blade suddenly being drawn with a rasp of machinery. The sidearm was held in his left while the blade was held in his right, a stance that would normally be detrimental to any normal human due to the recoil of the former. But he was no ordinary man. He was mentored by the Tribals themselves, mastering the Wanderer stance since the advent of his training. Not only that, but he was also their feared False Prophet, an exile outcast by all with the mark of a demon... He crouched down by one cadaver and looked at the cause of death. Bullet wounds that would've be survivable given the right treatment were complicated by neckties. [i]Alister. Gotta find him before... Whatever did this does it to him.[/i] He puts his revolver down for a second to retrieve the gas mask clipped to his belt, inhaling some oxygen before putting on the herb-filled headgear. Suddenly everything became enhanced. His senses, reflexes and most importantly, his perception. The herbs of the Tribals ensured that their hunters would be able to be quick - if not quicker - than their abominable quarry during their raids. [i]Those people spoke of fighting anywhere here, but this is no duel. This is a massacre.[/i] He picked up his revolver as determination burned in his eyes beneath his new matte black face. He would have to put a stop to the slaughter so he could find the boy without any danger. He ducked into an alleyway and followed the trail of bodies, listening to the source of the slaughter through the many gunshots and screams.