lucetilogs | DRAFT LOG #2: The Battle Game!

I know you mentioned enemies. Very strong, armoured, I believe?

The Elites are armoured and the Shifters...well, they Shift. Notably? They Shift all abilities and magic and supernatural advantages away. From those of us who have them. From those of us like me.

[ and they can render her into exactly what she ought to be -- a petite woman. barely strong enough to move a piece of heavy furniture. ]

[Stephen looks at her for a moment, then... Then he nods.]

We had best see to one another then. Sword and pistol do only so much against armour. [And I can protect you from the others.]

[ hmm. it's interesting how completely, she realizes, she depends upon jack for those moments. the shifter moments. it's a strange dependence to uncover -- and frightening in the wake of the pirate's absence.

but there's stephen and his unspoken pledge and buffy, too, nods. ] Like I said? Teamwork.

[ and with that? she picked up the pace. looking for trouble. ]

[And he walks alongside her, hand on his sword's hilt, light eyes scanning the dim areas all around, ears trained for any sound of an enemy approaching.]

[ a while later: ]

...Huh.

[ was that a sound -- somewhere far ahead? like a pebble falling in a shallow pool of water, perhaps. she slows. ]

[Stephen freezes, looking up at the sound, and his dagger is out in a moment. Just in case.]

[ buffy is far more easy-breezy, for the time being. her scythe falls into a more pragmatic grip but this happens with all the normality of a person reaching for a mop or a vacuum cleaner.

large, green eyes slide over to the doctor. catching his gaze.

a smirk quirks her lips. ]

[Any kindness disappears from Stephen's face as he draws his rapier as well. His footsteps become that much more quiet, like a cat moving about in darkness, his lean body coiled and ready to strike.]

[ and it would seem as though their oncoming foe has also clued into the approach. there soon followed the cold cold sound of steel uncoupling from its sheath. shifting metal on metal -- an elite, then.

buffy breathes deep. demi-relaxed. they could dispatch this one. simply. cooperatively. but where he sank into stealth, she strides boldly forward and hopes that stephen will understand the implicit, gut-instinct plan. let her draw the soldier out and let him stay hidden. just at first.

she can take the initial onslaught; stephen could swoop in and capitalize on the elite's distraction. ]

[Stephen nodded, taking a few strides froward before putting himself low and against a rock he can brace his back against. He is crouched, ready to spring up.

No different than getting the jump on a sentry or constable.]

[ the scythe spins in one hand. ]

Nice to meetcha. [ she sasses the third party elite when he appears around the corner. squares her shoulders and wonders if -- perhaps -- there might have been a flicker of hesitation on the otherwise stoic soldier's face. it makes the slayer wonder if she's somehow known...? known for her efforts against the general, perhaps.

or maybe she's jut imagining it. ]

What? Not even a hello? Didn't your mother ever teach you some manners? [ she grunts as the elite swings his sword and it meets with the blood-red blade of the scythe. the clash rings out across the cavern and the slayer repels the charge without much ceremony.

and then she drops her shoulder and advances, sliding in behind that sword's reach. ]

[Stephen watches, sheathing his sword and shifting his dagger to his right hand. Better control, more focused. He doesn't need a sword to stab into the back or slit a throat from behind.

He only needs the opportunity, and he waits for it, taking the chance offered to watch the Slayer in action: admire the way she moves, study her attacks, monitor her defence.]

[ in terms of defense? she seems to only bother in the very last seconds of blows; a deflection or a dodge in the down-to-the-wire spaces between slices and attacks. in fact, the elite's sword does manage to catch her on the thigh and the long but shallow slice is quick to erupt in blood.

she doesn't seem to notice.

instead, buffy drops her scythe to her side and throws a heavy-fisted punch into the elite's face, satisfied to see him reel backwards. each movement is alternately hard and fluid -- one second precise and the next graceful. half-learned, half-earned, all slayer.

a high kick. her heel slams into the elite's jaw but the enemy only staggers; buffy growls. something animal and primal and flashing with violence as she risks (and takes) another sword slash -- this time along the right arm -- in order to get closer. to tackle the baddie and drag him to the ground.

in the end, she ends up with her scythe's handle locked around the elite's neck. the elite is on his knees before her and the slayer stands imperiously behind him, bucking and wrestling with his struggles to break free.

she looks up. sudden. sharp. it's a signal.

now. ]

[It is not hesitation. Not properly. Stephen stares for a moment, caught in a memory of years ago. Of bloodshed in a Paris street. He shifts his hold on the knife again as he moves, neither hurried nor slow. His strides are smooth.

He is as much animal as she is-- the cobra to her mongoose.

...India... He has the mind enough to find it funny, that his mind recalls India now. And that he thinks of her as his natural prey and predator, even as they work together.

He kneels in front of the enemy soldier, meets the eyes... before a quick slash across the throat sprays blood across his face, adding a new stain to where others have dried. He rises, takes a step back, and nods to Buffy.

Finished.]

[ and even as the life-blood begins to drain, buffy kicks the body forward -- freeing herself from the tangle of flurried, angered feathers. wide wings slapping her on the shoulders. the face.

she huffs. her hands -- the ones that had been stuck fast on either side of the scythe's handle -- were coated in gore. she wipes one palm off on her jeans only to find her own blood soaked through on one thigh. ]

Hmm. [ unperturbed, she then offers the same hand to stephen. to help him back to his feet. ]

[He takes her hand and gets to his feet, sheathing the knife as he does so. His eyes fall on her.

Two wounds. One to the leg, one to the arm.]

Shall I take a look, my dear? [He gives a faint nod toward her, eyes flitting over the two places where her enemy's blade met skin.]

...Jeez. [ talk about a cool customer. he just sliced a guy's throat and here he was my dearing and doctoring all over the place. buffy offers a low whistle. while surprised, she isn't upset by it. she appreciates it.

but for now, she paws clumsily at both wounds. ] Oh, I don't know. They're not so bad. Are they?

[ she does, at least, offer the injured arm up for inspection. wary.

the corpse is still at their feet. ]

[Too many years of constant fighting, having only those dear to him at his back, and knowing they could die.]

Best looked at now. Just to be sure.

[He takes her arm without hesitation, examining the wound to see how deep it was. It would need to be wrapped, at least. Stitches were a possibility, which he could manage even here.]

You know I heal real good, right? Like a pro.

[ oh. stitches will be met with some very interesting reactions -- but for now, she gives stephen leave to inspect the arm. stepping closer, even, to facilitate this examination. ]

When we get back to the camp, I will insist on wrapping it. [He doesn't know how well she heals. He knows about the strength and can guess that influences it...

But he would also rather not leave wounds untreated for too long.]

...Wrapping? Like -- bandaging it? I guess that's -- [ she eyes the cut. knows the one on her leg is just as long, though still shallow. ] That's okay. That'll be okay.

Edited 2011-12-18 23:17 (UTC)

Just bandaging. [The leg, he can make no promise on, but this cut... Does not look to need stitches. Hopefully, the injury to her leg won't either.]

Now?

[ she looks back the way they came. ]

[He thinks for a moment.]

Yes.

[Simple. Authoritative. The same voice he uses with an injured Jack Aubrey.]

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