lucetilogs | taste the blood as feathers fly

Entry tags:

taste the blood as feathers fly

Who: Mithos, Sheena, Freyjadour, Sayo, Raine
What: Confessions of a quadmillennial drama queen
When: Saturday the 16th, morning
Where: Somewhere in the village
Summary: Martel is gone and Mithos takes it about as well as usual. Misplaced rage very nearly solves everything (except not really), until someone has to show up and ruin it all. Then other stuff happens.
Rating: T for tantrum

[Cycles, patterns, unrelenting repetition - it becomes a way of life after so many stretched-out years, and especially in somewhere like Luceti, somewhere shaped and re-shaped by comings and goings yet somehow always the same. Over and over again. Mithos climbs the stairs, like he does every morning, to pay pilgrimmage to Martel's room and make sure that even if she remains in the custody of the Malnosso, she at least hasn't returned 'home'. Insanity - doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, like maybe this time his sister would stay by his side and he could be where he belongs. When he pushes the door open, he expects to see the same clothes sitting neatly on the chair, folded by patient hands months ago, waiting to be put away by their owner. The panpipes should be on the bedside table, perched precisely where he sets them down every day when he's done playing. The sheets and blankets should be rumpled just so, just as they were the day she was taken, her scent no longer lingering between the threads, neutralized by his own.

He takes a breath and his eyes sweep the space. The bed is right. The panpipes are right. The clothes are gone.

Gone. One word, one sharp syllable lodged into his chest, his ribcage constricting around it and pushing the tips of bone into the raw yielding tissue of his heart - he swears he can feel it puncture. The only sounds he can hear are the ones in his head, gutted memories, hollow voices, the same bad dream returning with a vengeance. His feet carry him to the wardrobe. Pull a drawer open. Empty. He backs away as though singed, sinking to the bed. He crumbles as soon as his body touches the blankets that don't smell of his sister anymore. His legs fold underneath him; his spine curls him into a ball; his fingers shape trembling fists. Tears, at first startled by the suddenness of loss, finally come spilling out.

Time keeps going around him. His swollen tearducts run dry and his body is still, but it's isn't alright. It isn't enough. Crimes should be met with punishment, and it is a crime of the highest order that his sister should be denied reprieve from her imminent death in a world that wanted neither of them. It is a crime of an even higher order that she should be pried from him, that he should be separated from her. But there is nobody on the other end of this crime. Nobody to blame. Nobody to wrest revenge from. Nothing he can do about it.

He refuses to accept that answer. He pushes himself up from the blankets. He stands, and he walks back down the stairs, and he takes up a sword. Out the door. Up the road. No destination in mind - let fate choose his target, and let it choose wisely.]

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[Fate is kinder to some than to others.

It's just a morning for Sheena. One in which there is no morning help to open the shop, so she's doing all the cleanup herself. That includes the dull and often irritating task of sweeping off the stairs that lead up to her door, but it must be done, and so there she is halfway down the staircase with a broom in her hands. Sweeping.

The rhythm of it is lulling, so early in the morning. She hears someone coming with a weird kind of heavy step but doesn't think much of it - other people are morning people and actually do things around town as the sun comes up.

That's her first mistake.]

[He sees her. He sensed her from a short distance down the road and the image clicked into his mind immediately - her, beaten down and bloody and bruised, and him, sword poised to steal the final blow. She deserves it, someone who dared to pry Martel's life from him once before, someone who helped tear down his empire and grind to dust everything he had left. She deserves it because she's there and she has no right to be, not when Martel is gone.

He stops. Hidden in the shade of the neighboring building, he takes a few moments to pull together a spell. Channel his despair into the mana flowing through him, gather every razor-sharp thought so he can throw it all back at her. Three, two, one...]

Prism Sword. [Whispered darkly underneath his breath. He lingers in the shadows to recover from unleashing that much power from his weakened body, and meanwhile he'll enjoy the imminent show of destruction.]

[When the footsteps stopped, Sheena turned her head in their non-direction before leaving the broom where it was and heading down the stairs to see what became of the person.

On the bottom step she stops, feeling a buildup of mana that is so shockingly familiar in its surprise that she almost freezes again. Like last time.

Like hell she is letting that happen again.

Before the spell hits, she jumps, using the wall to help her spring into a graceful backflip over the stair rail, and continuing it as a step and roll to several feet away from the building. Mithos. Great. This again.]

[This again indeed. He will break down every single time his sister is taken from him, and he will boil over with rage at every single injustice flung his way. Again and again and this is all he can do.

He snarls as she evades the blow, knowing that he won't be able to rebound with another spell like that so quickly - this is where he draws the sword. The swift metallic scrape of the blade across the hilt. Steel glinting with a blood-thirst that is reflected in his eyes as he launches toward her.]

Just disappear!

Don't you think I'd be gone if I could've already?

[She's lucky - she's armed. A pair of sharpened knives appear in her hands and she takes enough of a backstep to end in a ready defensive stance.]

Just leave me alone! I don't wanna have another fight with you.

Shut up! [He's beyond reason - dropped straight off the edge and hasn't stopped plummeting. Why are you still here why did they take Martel again why is it always Martel? He swings his blade, sharp and quick and deadly. Even with how fast he's moving, at this proximity she might catch a glimpse of the swollen redness underneath his eyes if she's not too busy with the sword that's attempting to slice through her.]

[As though she'd object to going home for good or something.

She spends a few swipes of the sword staying out of its reach, dodging and twisting as acrobatically as ever. After that last time, she swore he would never catch her off-guard or out of practice again. Working in the tea shop has not curbed her abilities in the least.

Once, maybe twice, it catches the edge of her shirt and leaves a slice, but it doesn't break skin. Good. When she sees an opening, she goes for it, pivot-plant-lunge to get inside the deadly and usable range of that sword and try to twist his arm enough for him to drop it.]

[He sees her lunging for his sword arm and he pulls it back - he'll quickly jab his knee upward to slam into her, with the goal of determent. His skill hasn't dulled through his long break from combat. A half year of rest is an insignificant air bubble in four thousand years of being in prime fighting condition. Even without his Cruxis Crystal, his mind and body still know the anatomy of a battle, inside and out. Even without the boost to his mana, he can try to make up for it with unhinged anger and anguish. All feeling, no thought required.]

[His knee connects, into her side instead of her stomach because she turned, was turning, backs away now instead of continuing to turn because it's hard to stay that close to your enemy and also need space to catch your breath.

Yeah, he's got more practice and control and maneuverability than she does, despite the larger weapon. It's the benefit of such a small body that's had millennia to learn how it moves itself.

Is he faster than her?

Sheena likes to think not. Not on his own, without special angel powers. With an Exsphere on her side - and one not on his - and the training of Mizuho, she thinks she can beat his reflex speed. When her lungs aren't suddenly on fire.

...Fire. The edges of the knives glow briefly red as they take up a seal aspect, and she rushes in again, mindful of the sword.]

[Like this, her speed outstrips his and he knows it. His first instinct is to launch another spell in the instant she steps back to catch her breath - but no, it would take to long to prepare. Instead he growls in frustration, hating the lack of power to back up his skill, and gets ready to defend from her counterattack.

He almost isn't quick enough - his stance isn't solid enough and he gets pushed back as the tip of a knife kisses his arm and draws a line of blood.]

[Sheena doesn't bat an eye at it. Obviously he is too intent on some random stupid fight for no reason to walk away. Chances are he won't let her walk, either. All she can hope to do is disable him first, and then get well away from any of his magic. Unless she knocks him out.

It feels a little weird not to wanna kill him. Not that she ever wanted to even at home, really, wanting to kill people is something she tries to avoid, but facing the inevitable was another matter. Here it's...just not necessary.

Another quick turn, and she has her back half-to him but she's looking for a good pressure point to strike, with the hardest part of her elbow if possible, hoping to get him on the ground. This would be easier empty-handed; she's just not dumb enough to face a blade with nothing.]

[Of course he won't let her walk away - because then what would he do? If he's falling apart on the inside, he's going to make sure everything and everyone else is falling apart too. It's only fair.

He won't let her hold him on the defensive either. He won't be silenced. He jukes to one side and slices through the air, his arm a well-oiled hinge, precise and machine-like through the haze of emotions.]

[He would learn to deal with loss just like the rest of them have. The way a 4000-year-old man ought to have learned by now: that the world doesn't exist to do exactly what you want all the time.

Whether she overestimated her own ability to dodge or underestimated the length of his blade doesn't matter. Either way it bites into her arm, making a curved slice as she pulls away from the metal feeling. Backing away again to get her bearings, Sheena spares a glance at it and flinches. That's deep. But it won't slow her down if she can help it.

Time to stop playing around (as though she has been). Can he take a few Demon Seals to the chest? That's what she aims to give him.]

[Correction: he's a 4000-year-old child who learned how unrelenting the world can be a long time ago but never figured out how to move forward in spite of it. It was easier to delude himself into believing he could bend the world to his demands forever.

His eyes glint madly as he feels the blade connect, but it's an empty thrill. He can slice every inch of her flesh, let blood fill his vision, but it won't bring his sister back. Even he can see that. Realizing it only fans the flames and pushes him harder through his disconnected logic. Her attack pushes him back with a pained grunt, forces him to pause and jaggedly gulp air, but it isn't enough to extinguish his retaliation - he comes back swinging. His sword, that is.]

[Every inch? Not if she can help it.

The Demon Seals did something, and if she can get inside his guard like that again she'll definitely be repeating it. First she has to get there. It's harder to do with one arm bleeding and starting to feel weak, numb almost; Sheena will have to manage.

Summoning is absolutely out of the question, but there are other tricks up her sleeve. Relying on speed is only going to last her for so long. She isn't sure she can out-stamina him, not losing blood like this. No time to stop and try to heal it either. Maybe if she can stun him for a few minutes?

With her knives, she'll try to turn his blade aside temporarily. Long enough to maybe kick him in the chest or side of the head, depending on her position if she manages to get the steel out of the way.]

[His chest echoes with pain, but already its sharp edge is dulling and he can breathe easier. This hurt he can deal with. Nothing can come close to touching the broken-glass pain of the instant he realized Martel wouldn't be coming back.

Does she think she's the only one with tricks hidden up her sleeve? His arm twists and the direction of his blade changes at the last second, wary of her knives. Maybe he can't predict her every move, but he expects a defensive effort of some sort and plans to circumvent it. She doesn't deserve to be spared.]

[Damn. That bites, the blade digging into the shoulder of the same arm he just hit. She throws one of her knives at him first, then pulls out and sets off a smokescreen, giving herself the time to roll away - all that dirt mixing with blood - and regroup. Maybe time to use a little healing magic. Probably not.

Down to one knife, she draws a card with her free, very injured hand. When the dust clears she'll just have to be ready to fight harder.]

[He flexes his sword upward to attempt to block the thrown knife, but it clips his shoulder - opposite his sword arm, fortunately. Unfortunately, the gash it leaves behind isn't exactly shallow. A grunt, teeth gritted. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, none of this matters as long as he grinds her down to nothing in the end.

As the smoke surrounds him, he shields his mouth and nose with his free arm - ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder as blood trickles down - and his eyes shrink to slits. He carefully treads backward, watching, waiting for the smokescreen to dissipate. When he sees her shape in the haze, he doesn't wait another second to resume his attack - he runs forward, blade ready.]

[Her form disappears just as quickly. She takes a leap, and a flip with a half-turn, trying to plant that card on Mithos's back. Between the wings would be the best, but anywhere will do.

It's not like she enjoys resorting to this. Wing damage feels a heck of a lot like fighting dirty. If she sticks the card and gets away in time, he can expect a localized puff of explosion a few seconds later.

If she misses, it will burst harmlessly on the ground while she tries to catch her breath and beat back dizziness.]

[He stops short, skidding into a defensive stance as she leaps and twisting when he feels her hand speed toward his back. The card lands a little high on his back, but it does its job - he stumbles from the force of the explosion and bites back a pained cry. The attack landed close to his shoulder blade, the same shoulder her knife sliced open. Lowering his center of gravity, planting his feet firmly in the ground, he catches his balance with his sword held across his body.]

Damn you! [His shoulder aches sharply in protest as he launches toward her again, but he refuses to pause for a breath. The violent torrent of emotions inside him pulls him forward, and he couldn't do anything to fight the current even if he wanted to.]

Quit damning me and just back off! I didn't do anything to you!

[If you don't count this fight, that is. Even in her worst emotional moments, Sheena wouldn't reach outward to destroy anyone - it was all internal - so there is little chance of her figuring out what's going on with him.

There's also no time to call for help, for either of them.

She'll just have to make do, and go back to trying to knock him out again. The blood loos is slowing her down and making her movements imprecise.]

[What about before Luceti? Was that nothing too? Because it definitely wasn't 'nothing' to him.]

Shut up! Shut up! [He doesn't want to hear her excuses. He swings his sword again, slicing through the air to whet its appetite for her blood as it screams toward her. Keep moving. Keep attacking from every angle. Keep hurting. Keep crumbling piece by piece.]

[On her end, it's keep dodging. He seems tired, too, and his sword is a lot heavier than what she's got. Maybe she can out-stamina him after all.

Except she's slowing down. One misstep will be the end of it, won't it? Her chances of escape via rooftop were cut pretty drastically around the same time as her shoulder. By now, her arm is approaching soaked.

So staying out of his way for a while is the best she can do.]

[His body is feeling the strain of his wound and slowly draining of energy as the battle stretches on, but the rest of him refuses to be slowed down. He fights and claws to keep going - because the second he stops, the outlet for everything he's feeling will seal shut and all he'll be able to do is suffocate.

He senses her slowing down as he slashes toward her again and again, changing direction to chase her movements with his blade. She can't last much longer - she'll have to fall behind him eventually, and she'll have to feel him slice her open, and she'll have to collapse to the ground.]

[You know what's a great way to start the morning?

Fresh bread. At least in Freyjadour's opinion, and that's why he decided to head towards the bakery this morning before making his usual trip to the battledome.

He paused in his steps for only a moment when he saw two people fighting in the distance, frowning before jogging over.... and quickly breaking into a run as he recognized the two people involved, pulling out his weapon as he goes, twisting the sections of his Tri-nunchaku into a staff.

Words wouldn't stop this, would it.....?]

What is going on?!

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