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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Jan 19, 2014 22:00:37 GMT -5
That he might so drastically direct his attention inward to the point of compromising himself in regards to awareness and defense was a suggestion that disagreed with what they’d learned from the Mage. The argument could be made that here, in their home of sorts, was the one place that he might allow himself to truly delve inward with all of his focus, and better accomplish whatever goal or task that he sought in doing so. Such spoke of a truth and bond with his fellow occupants of the complex, but it was not the case in this instance. His increasingly solid isolation would suggest that it was, in fact, quite rarely the case. The Assassin was ever quiet and unimposing, soft-spoken and undemanding; she was almost characteristically so. Still, after a few moments of her lingering at the large room’s entryway he’d become fully aware of her, but fail to respond. Either disinterested in her intentions, or allowing her to deliberate her fortitude in speaking with him, he said and did nothing, instead remaining in the apparent stasis to which he confined himself. The nearest light at his back did well enough in shadowing his expressions from a distance, instead casting his silhouette in a glowing outline, but as she neared his stoic focus would have been evident. To what end he sought this practice of meditative breathing a mystery or not, the silence was eventually broken by her single word, in itself an apparent admission of insecure intrusion and inquiry; there was some end to which she sought him. Granted, it could have been his distanced perspective alone, or the demanding natural instinct that he tried to familiarize himself with. In any case, it requested response. Slowly those lids would part, and a gaze of definitely glowing hued irises lingered directly ahead only a moment in returning the most immediate of his attentions to his surroundings before lifting to look upon her. Features solid enough to be cast in stone were rugged with a slight lapse in maintenance, his metallic-white strands were longer than the norm, but did little to shadow that glowingly intense gaze. The sharp line of his jaw, adorned with stubble, eventually moved, and a deep voice passed over his lips, rocky with a definite lack of use. “Yes?“ In contrast to the previous silence--the only backdrop of sound the distant hum and vibration of the network of tunnels around them--the effect was booming.
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Post by Fureya on Jan 21, 2014 14:56:27 GMT -5
It wasn't terribly shocking that Dragos didn't answer immediately. Once she was closer it had become clear that he was, at the very least, in deep meditation. The corona that outlined his back-lit form drew those mercurial eyes, the sheen of sweat that hadn't evaporated from his skin held her focus. She knew every indentation, every ridge of well-developed musculature of his form, but that didn't stop her from reacquainting herself as with the pages of a familiar-- and well-loved-- book. As it was, she missed his steady re-entry to the now, not being able to completely stop herself from flinching when the impossible thunder of his voice echoed between them. Her reaction wasn't terribly spectacular, it included no backward step or sharp intake of breath. Even that being said Fureya's micro-expressions were titanic in comparison to the customary neutrality of her features: the flinch was difficult to mask. Those fever-bright quicksilver eyes instantly cut to the side and both arms came up defensively, crossing over her lower ribs as if she couldn't quite decide if she were going to leave them there or force them to return to hanging loosely at her sides. A moment or two passed as she regathered her composure, acutely aware that she'd not been a picture of poise in the first place. It was difficult to meet the intensity of his stare-- glowing status aside-- and she found herself focusing on trivial things at first. She wondered if her own lapse in maintenance left the same impression when he looked at her. The jagged ends of greyed locks hadn't seen the end of her sword in quite some time-- long enough that they fell down her back and over her shoulders in a tousled mess. There was little else to mark her disinterest in her appearance except for, perhaps, the sheer simplicity of the clothing she wore. Like his, Fureya's attire was dark in color: trousers of a looser fit and a camisole that did nothing to hide how her flesh would not quite fill back out. Perhaps it was an eternity that passed between his reply and the end of her call for the strength to stay and find out what ground they stood on. Truthfully, it was only fractions of a second. And suddenly she was at a loss. Awkward, even. ”If my presence is not wanted, I can leave. . .” That lilting accent as halting and rough. Obviously she'd not been using her voice too terribly much either. Fureya cleared her throat, dropping her gaze to the floor before peering at him through her lashes, gauging his reaction carefully. ”Perhaps it would have been more appropriate if I had given you more warning. . .” She trailed off again, wondering why it was so fucking hard to start a conversation with the one person she felt closest to.
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Feb 22, 2014 20:34:21 GMT -5
Was he so incredibly inapproachable, or was she simply that indirect? She had come here with purpose, announcing herself by means of their Arcanum connection before doing so, even, whether or not the man had replied in kind. She had approached him and, in doing so, interrupted whatever task that he may have been occupying. A task, he thought, that she must have surely thought pointless if her injection into the span of his attentions was now wasted in an awkward, dawdling folly. Between a pair of introspective, short-winded beings, their hesitations of moments or seconds spoke as many volumes as the miniscule changes to their expressions. Yes, he noted that she flinched, but nothing on his features seemed to apologize at the abrasiveness of his response. If anything, the flesh of his jaw grew taut with the slightest increase of pressure, an announcement of his apparent frustration. Get to the point. The words were not spoken, the intense gaze little short of glaring narrowed upon her as she seemed to reconsider her approach. Before she'd truly had a point to react beyond her reconsideration, a huffing sigh passed over now parted lips, and he leaned forward into the slow action of rising from a sitting position he'd held for some time. Hours? Days? His attention to time in a setting devoid of both sun and moon, and locked so solidly in apparent stasis had become skewed. His attention distracted from her for the moment, he noted the slightest tinge of an ache in his muscles at the far corner of his mind when a large hand reached down to fetch a metal rod approximately two feet in length at its middle. Standing fully once more, he turned not to gaze upon her, but moved past her to the nearest mannequin vaguely resembling a torso, head, and limbs, on which one protrusion hung a towel. Fetching it, he ran it over the surface of his forehead and the back of his neck with his free hand. How long had it been since he'd eaten? Had anything to drink? Slept? His meditations had grown longer in their durations, and ever less purposeful, if his lack of explanation to their objective had anything to say of it. Glancing over his shoulder to the Assassin, his shoulders relaxed an inch. "What is it, Fureya?" The words were far from the barking demand of moments earlier, but clipped and direct. Slowly, he felt the emotions he'd grasped with his mind, honed into a deadly but controlled storm, start to slip into the norm. The only indication of the change, of course, was the slight decrease in the burning intensity of his glare, and partially relaxed muscles. Slight.
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Post by Fureya on Feb 22, 2014 23:19:32 GMT -5
Dragos wasn't unapproachable-- at least, not specifically. True, the former Assassin was nothing if not unerringly direct, but this arena was entirely different. The landscape was changing around her and quickly. It was already unnerving to become accustomed to hearing the Mage string more than two sentences together, but to have him directly answer her questions as he had been the last few months was earth shattering. So no, Dragos wasn't unapproachable if Fureya only had small, specific tasks in mind. What daunted her was the prospect of encouraging the relationship to her fellow Marked to evolve, and not simply because she didn't know precisely how to do that: she wanted that evolution even if she couldn't even articulate that desire. She watched his jaw tighten. Even without the silent indicator, Fureya was acutely aware that she was behaving in a way that was uncharacteristic for her. That was correct, wasn't it? The realities she'd experienced only showed alternatives for everyone else: she'd always remained the same stoic, imperturbable rock of a woman. Perhaps that was only what she chose to remember. Stalling, stalling, stalling. My, she was awkward. Finally the crossed arms slid down, hands clasping in front of her in a position that was no less defensive. "I would. . ." She swallowed, forcing herself not to stutter nor stammer. "Like," slight pause as she realized the word was incredibly accurate, "To speak with you. Dragos." His name was spoken as an afterthought, a thick enunciation of the name for he who was Dragon Borne. Drah-ghos. It was a reflexive reaction: he'd used hers and it was such a rarity that she returned the favor without calculation. She made direct eye contact and, if he thought to look for it, couldn't hide how exposed she felt in asking this trivial thing that wasn't so trivial at all. "We do not converse, and. . ." she paused, dropping her gaze to search for what was accurate and also concise to further add, "Though I do not dislike our silence, I. . ." A delicately pointed incisor bit into her lower lip in the smallest gesture of helplessness at her inability to simply ask. The temperature dropped sharply then, her feral Other exploiting her discomfort to rail against her leash. Interestingly enough, the Leviathan wasn't hostile. More like a restless cat filling the silence with a purr loud enough to shake the foundations of the Cache-- if the phenomenon could be translated into the physical plane that is. If it were possible perhaps her cheeks would redden. "I need your counsel." She stared at him, aware of her exposure but clenching her jaw against withdrawing at this point. "If you are willing to give it."
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Feb 23, 2014 2:11:48 GMT -5
Her stalling was, at least, beneficial to her in that it allowed the man time to disconnect from his deep state of thought; his deepest dwellings over the most crucial of topics. The Mage chided him for his obsession concerning his self-improvement; mocked it and devalued it. Whether, when he pulled the towel away from its task of wiping away the thin sheen of sweat upon his neck, his thick fingers balled around the coarse material and clenched into it was a byproduct of this recollection or a persistent irritation at her delay in addressing the matter directly after interrupting such meditations was a mystery. The anger was slow to subside, and roiled within him like magma beneath the surface. Tossing the towel dismissively onto a nearby table on which rested several bits and components of unexplained design, he turned to face and approach it, his back now more fully to the woman, even as she finally broke the silence once more. Despite his direct attention seeming to focus on the short rod in his hand, which he now tended to with both such extremities, he stifled a chill from rolling up his spine as the muscles in his shoulders clenched slightly. Like a child only now learning to speak, her words were broken by pauses of apparent uncertainty.
Dragon Borne? If she'd spoken it, she might have prompted a laugh radiating powerfully from his abdomen. Was he a dragon? Or was it that he was the product of experimentation of a people descended from an apparent and singular God? The ever-shifting cosmology of his blood was a sore topic, and one of recent deliberation, but one thing was certain. He was draconian by action, not mythos. That he might seem so disconnected and isolated from her now was a byproduct of the great length of time in which they had not spoken, not that they'd had an ongoing tradition of long-winded expression and familiarity in previous conversations. Or, was it something else? Despite whatever apparently ongoing stimulus for a thinly-veiled frustration at either her presence or antics may have been, his observant nature started to hone in on the struggle in her words. Perhaps, if only to save himself time, he could assume the direction of the conversation, and better put into words what she seemed barely able to, expediting the conversation altogether.
What was this hesitation? As a new thought, and old memory, lifted to the foremost of his thoughts, his tinkering slowed and he finally placed the object upon the table before him, spreading either hand on the table's surface to support his weight as he leaned forward against it. His head sunk slightly, putting her words and efforts second to his ongoing, internal dialogue. His anger cooled, but did not fade. It coldly burning in the pit of his stomach while the gears of his mind whirred as he considered this conversation as a variable. A variable in the equation of her behavior since being taken. When he and the Mage had found her, broken and tossed aside as she was. The cold fire in his gut mirrored the shift in temperature around them, and he made a conscious effort to restrain his hackles from raising, and his fists from clenching. An anger born of defensive attachment, and guilt at being unable to protect the Assassin. He observed his reaction objectively in his mind before putting it aside, lest it distract from his conclusion. Was the ongoing struggle of their limited and difficultly exchanged communication a result of the mental strain put upon her, best reflected in her now previous inability to control the Leviathan like she had before? Despite their lack of communication, he was aware of her own and the Mage’s interactions and efforts to resume a level of control and stability, which he supposed rested largely on the state of her mind. A state, as theorized, that might be so shaken that it might be trying to rebuild itself. To mend broken connections, and form new ones, like a child, or even a patient recovering from brain damage. He paused at the thought.
Suddenly aware of the silence hanging in the air, and a continued stillness that he’d not broken in the real-time moments of his intricate processing, he tucked the concluded theory away, feeling no less informed than when he’d begun the consideration, if only because of a haunting uncertainty. Did he already know this? Had they spoken of it before? Was it that he could not recall the conversation amid the hazy memories of rare, if occasionally passionate exchanges? It had been so long, and so much had happened even in this great span of silence and seclusion into which they had locked themselves away. Glancing over his shoulder, barely catching the side of her form in the peripheral of his vision, he resumed a straight posture and busied his hands with tinkering once more, the sounds all the more pronounced above the only backdrop noise of a low hum. “Speak.” His tone was dry and cool, resembling qualities the Assassin herself was typically known for. Still, as his primary attentions returned to his immediate surroundings, the distinct distancing he’d enacted between himself and that cold fire inside of him for the favoring of collected and objective thought resided, and he felt the warming sensation of this humming pulse returning to him like a shell-shocked man slowly regains his hearing over the high pitch of inflicted silence. The resumed connection was best exemplified by his irritation that, despite his attempts to hasten the flow of the conversation and his desire for her to get to the point, the pace was just as slow--if not slower--as it had been throughout. That he seemed to be ignoring her exposed vulnerability, or completely unaware of it, was ironic to her intention. She wanted to bond, and the most serious effort that he had put into the conversation was trying to deduce the fastest way to reach its end. It was tragic, really, and whether such tragedy escaped him or not was left to the wayside as he paused yet again, now contemplating the Leviathan that had stirred around them for the past several moments. He could not stop himself from pondering at the relationship between it and his Magi that, until this point, they had always understood to be a steady constant. What if it wasn’t? His tinkering slowed as he once again distracted himself, intentionally or not, from all but the heart of the matter, hesitantly and awkwardly spoken as it was.
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Post by Fureya on Feb 23, 2014 21:27:20 GMT -5
Those eyes, that which had become so alien in nature— the entire visible surface apparently covered with the sheen of liquid metal— tracked every minute detail of his movement. The tossing aside of the square of cloth, the tinkering. All of it. It was clear— it was always clear— without words that he was not the sovereign of composure either. She could not disguise her hesitation and vulnerability just as he could not, or would not, conceal his irritation. It was probably a terrible idea to insist on intruding further, but what would the cost be if she simply retreated and left him to his machinations now? It would not miraculously become easier to talk to him with time: if time was the only factor they should have become one another's most trusted confidante by now. The former Assassin had risked a brutal, and potentially physically painful, rejection when she sought to open the lines of communication between herself and the Mage: there had most certainly been a moment or two that she expected ruthless retaliation. Instead she'd been rewarded for her gamble and had been given an insight to the Mage and her role as Marked she would have never gotten otherwise. On some level, the thinking process that led her in that direction also influenced her to approach Dragos in his private sanctum.
It would be an outright untruth to say now that Fureya had achieved a working understanding of open communication with Achréiøs that she didn't long for the same with Dragos. How could she not now that Achréiøs had decreed in no uncertain terms that they were to travel together and that there were tasks to be completed? Her trust in him was enough and their ability to survive together was enough if she could have nothing else, but she wanted to explore the depth of their bond while there was time to sort out any conflict in the safety of the Cache. Truly, that wasn't a fair estimation: she felt safe with Dragos regardless of their location. But, and there wasn't often a but, there were things between them that needed to be hammered smooth. Things that she would not expose herself to outside the Cache, even in his presence.
With these things being noted, and Fureya's general lack of education and surety in how these things were done— her progress with the Mage, unfortunately, did not suddenly raise her to expert level in forming meaningful connections— fully explained her hesitation and need to express herself accurately in her desires. The hope and want for reassurance that her desires were returned was prioritized and the reason why they existed was secondary: perhaps it was the wrong way to approach Dragos, but Fureya's emotional immaturity did not allow her to look past her vulnerability so easily. She was not the brilliant tactician and objectively devoid Assassin here: she was Fureya— a woman struggling to reconcile the halves of herself threatening to completely Fracture and to root herself to the most meaningful ties in her life. It was a very human response to reach out in the face of rebuilding from the destruction that had been wrought upon her.
His one-word response seemed to disperse the momentum she'd been struggling to gather. She knew better, surely, than to expect no less than to be faced with a sheer rock face when she took on her task? ”I do not know where to begin, if I am truthful.” She looked away from the wide expanse of his shoulders, metallic gaze fixing on the floor while she struggled to force her features into something more closely resembling neutrality. ”We do not speak openly to each other, and there has been no real need until now. The field is changing and. . . I would like that to change as well.” She glanced up at him then, willing him to face her and meet her eyes. Please, Dragos.
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Feb 25, 2014 16:06:06 GMT -5
It had been years. Not days, weeks, or months, but years that they'd spent under the Mage's thumb. He felt the heat in his blood rise in concert with his anger at the thought, strong fingers curling tighter in their grip of the miscellaneous pieces that he'd held when pausing to consider the Leviathan. That they were explicitly limited to the confines of the Cache now, while never having been put in so certain terms before, was not the escalation of confinement that it seemed. He recalled the loss of his ability to harness the power of the Arcanum, surely by Achreios's own decree, when venturing out on his own years prior. Tsk, tsk, foolish child. Air passed from his lungs in what was barely less than a sigh of exasperation, and he finally relinquished his grip of the tools to again rest splayed fingers on the table's surface. Intently glowing eyes glared down at the table's surface and its mess of objects, but in truth, he stared at nothing. His mind sat amid the roiling currents of his anger, as if he too were in possession of a Leviathan that stirred and protested furiously within him. He knew. He knew that his defiance--his rebellion--was just that; the ignorant whining of an impetuous child, so foolish and inexperienced not to see what was taken to be the true path. How could he? Though he had no idea of an exact age, he suspected that, much like his father, Achreios was a being so ancient that those of Dragos's and Fureya's kind could never fathom the number of years in their mind; it would have been more accurate to reference against the shifting of tectonic plates and the rise and fall of mountains than to estimate a number. How, then, was one to put forth an argument for what they thought; what they needed?
He turned to her then, prompted both by his internal dialogue and the words that she'd spoken. First turning his head to let a stubbly jaw linger close to his shoulder, his sidelong glance of her shifted into one much more direct as he turned to regard her fully, leaning back to rest some of his weight against the table. Golden, burning irises looked upon her in a characteristically intense gaze, his brow furrowed tightly, but there was the lingering hint of a question hidden within. How much longer had she been in the company of the Mage than he? What did she have to show for it, if not an advanced capability in the active use in her Arcanum that, to all his observations, he himself had surpassed? Was it not the very reason that they were here; this gift of the black blood of arcane magics, literally taken from the Mage's own veins? From the very core composition of his form? Having spent the last several months in isolation, he'd dedicated himself to fervently testing his limits both concerning the Arcanum and not, and when he found the farthest reaches of his ability, and speculated at what lay further ahead in the darkness of unachieved knowledge, a lingering doubt crept into the corners of his mind, exciting and fueling his frustrations. A single question concerning the matter haunted him day in and day out in his deepest thoughts, alongside one other.
He tore his gaze away from her own metallic one and to the side, as if a physical indicator of retreating from the question that he’d come to again and again. Abating the greatest flares of his anger for now, he realized the futility of lingering upon it in this moment. Instead, his mind retraced its steps to the current occupant of the room. Time and time again, she had proven to be the more dedicated student, less and less resistant to the chains--and they very much were chains--that flowed through her blood, and those words that collared and leashed her. And what did she have to show for it? Were they damned, then, to be acolytes in this twisted religion, stumbling in the darkness, and corrected by a harsh jerking of their constraints when they had strayed too far from a path that was the Mage’s ideal for them? He realized, then, that the primary reason for his stirring frustration at the woman’s presence was this; her submission to nothing short of domination guising itself in the benevolent kindness of shared knowledge.
“Why?” That he’d been gazing at the far side of the room to his right in what appeared to be the deepest consideration of her words made the sudden response potentially jarring. What was so different about the field, now? That those of Celesin might be looking for them, if they were to venture out and into the world? That Achreios had suddenly been more chatty, as of late, and tossed around vague ideas of plotting momentum and change? The pair of Son and Assassin had been through their trials together, shared pain together, and sought each other for comfort when there was no one else. What would knowing of each other’s hopes and dreams, comical pet peeves, and preference of side-dishes do to improve their efficiency as enforcers of the Mage’s will? His eyes returned to her, waiting; demanding. Was it that submission that carried the towering shadow of Achreios behind her? Or was it his defiance that pressed the shadow down upon his shoulders? He sighed, reeling in the sudden desire for fresh air and the sun’s rays. Whether through the Arcanum in his veins, or by his own mind’s infliction, he knew that physical freedom would not provide relief from these frustrations.
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Post by Fureya on Feb 26, 2014 23:01:22 GMT -5
The instant molten gold met liquid silver Fureya could feel steel ironing her posture. It was an involuntary reaction— perhaps the result of too much fear, too much confusion, and the inability to continue under the weight of both. The sharpened edge of her chin rose just enough to change the angle of her features and darken the hollows 'neath cheekbones with shadow. It wasn't defiance, precisely. Truthfully, it was the resolve to see through what she'd started: the resistance Dragos offered wasn't encouraging, no, but he was important enough to her that she wouldn't simply fold and leave him to his irritation. Really, it almost brought a faint smile to her lips when she considered that every bonding moment they'd ever had involved a heated disagreement. That was truth, wasn't it? Surely that is not fabricated. Those slender hands unclasped and finally Fureya stood not as if she considered herself an interloper, but as if there was no question that she belonged there. Perhaps he would view her abrupt surety as an intrusion to his sanctuary. It's not that she intended to disrespect his sovereignty over his own space, it's just that there were more important things than to worry for than whether expressing a hint of assertion was going to incite confrontation.
The moments passed— an eternity— as he allowed himself leave to drift through his own thoughts, slowing the pace of her attempt at conversation to a crawl. It was probably for the first time in Fureya's life that she found herself impatient and not carefully calculating or weighing every option. Surely, the repercussion couldn't be so terrible? Of course, there was much to be said of mishandling Dragos: the last time she thought she'd understood the ruleset the Mage was scarcely able to step in before he'd attempted to crush her skull with his own, fueled by nothing more than rage. And Arcanum, she supposed that detail was important as well. . .
Why? Fureya wasn't prepared for the sheer force in his voice. There was no flinch this time, only a flicker across those unnerving solid metallic eyes.
Arcanum was always the most important detail, wasn't it? It wasn't simply the Mage that had forced them to bond together: it was the undeniably searing intoxication of carrying his Mark. Without that liquid essence Achréiøs was simply a force, and one that could be denied. She and Dragos would have been utterly free to walk their own paths without Arcanum and neither of them would have chosen to walk together.
”Why?” The former Assassin echoed his inquiry with significantly less intensity. ”I do not know. . .” There was a short pause before she spoke with more surety. ”Because I want it.” Her face tilted to the side and she favored him with an expression that would have been incredulous were it less controlled. Why else would she approach him if not because she wanted to, even if she was scared of rejection? ”It is not necessary, I do not think, but. . .” And this was where the confusion began. No, it wasn't necessary to open up communications with Dragos. However, need and want aren't the same thing. Her throat cleared as she searched for the words to articulate how she felt about it.
”You and I, we agreed that we were Damned once. . “ That night had been real, hadn't it? Silver searched for gold once more. ”What is different is that now we are aware, and. . .” She looked away for a moment, forcing her hands not to clench. ”There is a 'we,' is there not? It is not simply me, not simply you, but there are. . . There are no others in our specific position.” Fureya sighed, and it wasn't a sound of exasperation. It was the exhalation of someone clinging to that sheer rock face and hoping the next handhold wouldn't crumble beneath her fingers. ”I feel lost, Dragos.” She looked away then, unwilling to let him see how raw it made her to say such things. If he didn't interrupt her, she'd go on. ”I am part of something so much larger than I am, so much more powerful, and I have to accept it. . .” There was a slight change in tone as she paused: it would be unclear if it was a statement or a question. ”What is larger cares not for who I am now, or who I was, but only what I could be, or will be. What I can be shaped into. I can accept this.” Her jaw tightened— a minute betrayal of her feelings on that fact. ”But you are here; I am not alone. I want. . .” A hard swallow as she forced herself to fixate that frigid, mercurial stare on him. ”I want to know who you are, who you were because I want, I need someone to know who I am and who I was. What is larger has no use for these things, and perhaps you have no use for these things, but they are true and I cannot simply allow them to be forgotten.” Those slender hands, made thinner by her own actions, did clench into fists then.
There was no word for how she felt standing there, so unsure of how he would respond to her. If he would respond to her. Was their bond as deep as she felt it to be? Was she right to trust him with a piece of herself like this? Every tendon in her body was poised like a steel cable ready to snap. . .
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Mar 6, 2014 13:11:56 GMT -5
Even amid the rolling thunder of his frustrations, golden hues were keen to notice the uplifting of her chin; the rigidness of her posture not born from preparation or defense, but fortitude and...assertion? Among his myriad of thoughts and internal dialogue, a curiosity voiced its interest. It was not that he had known the woman to be feeble or cowering as defining attributes of her character, but there were reasons that this confrontation had not happened sooner. Aside from the very unique relationship formed by the triad of Assassin, Son, and Mage there was an unspoken habit of traits among them. As earlier accounted, the woman before him now was often unimposing and distant, and in return he had always been rigid and guarded. However, as she herself noted unbeknownst to him, they had their moments of deepening connections, and many were born of conflict or desperation. That she held her ground now so adamantly before his telling and almost characteristic guard showed something more in her. Perhaps not a development or sign of growth as it might well be taken, but a surety which he did not often witness in her, lest the circumstances demanded it.
As she made to answer him, he found more of his focus shifting now to this rousing inquiry. Her initial answer was simple, perhaps even childish. Want. He had already theorized at her outreaching resembling that of a child using muscles that it had not yet developed, but this blatant search of personal desire--especially when contrasted with her role as the more devoted of the two acolytes--beckoned at his interest, and dare he say, approval. His attentions shifting to focus more upon her than the endless pit of dwellings and speculations, he tucked away the notion that his pending approval may have resulted from his own defiance of the Mage's apparent oppression. After all, had the Mage himself not stated to some effect that he had no use for mindless drones or copies of himself in his service?
Silent now, his attention was intent upon her, and perhaps obviously so. Even as she worked through her thoughts and seeming confusion, he did not favor the standard frustration, but patience. Damned. He recalled the conversation with a definite clarity, but now doubted the usefulness of identifying themselves as such; with time, the term had come to be almost meaningless to him now. Still, it held reference to her verbally developing thought process, and he listened. Even as the physical manifestations of her resoluteness began to fade, he stood fast, waiting for her to find the words to voice herself. The slightest twitch suggesting the furrowing of his brow was made unbeknownst to him as she expressed the necessity of her acceptance, but he made no immediate decision to fault her for it. Even he, the defiant and troublesome student, realized that he had to accept the circumstances of his position if he were to benefit from them, lest the question that haunted him be answered all too easily.
Finally working herself to the full voicing of her desire, his answer was not immediate. Surely she didn't expect it to be. His gaze slipped from her in obvious deliberation, but perhaps she would take his interest in her words as relief that he was, at least, debating more immediate concerns. The desire to be known was a characteristic all too human; the reason that individuals latched themselves to cultures and subcultures, groups devoted to ideas and belief. This is who I am, they sought to say. That their individual person and consciousness were resolute and unique. Barely aware of his mind's command to his body, his arms lifted to fold over a rigid chest. Could he fault her for it? Though so many attributes of human nature continually perplexed him as time went by, did he not previously cling to clear goals ideas of philosophy in days long past? Did he still? The next development of such a notion, of course, was to share this conceptualized individuality with others, mocking at immortalizing one's self as did the creation of design or biology. But could he fault her?
Perhaps it had only been a moment since she'd finished, preparing herself for rejection or outburst; perhaps it had been a full minute. Finally, his eyes looking expectantly into her own, now, he felt the more immediate of his frustrations slip away, freeing him of a frenzy that he'd meditated upon for some time now. "Who are you, then?" His voice was not the rocky, thunderous boom of demand, but of equal and objective expectancy. "If you are not defined by your existence as one Marked by Achreios, what about you now speaks of your past?" He wondered if she evaluated why she needed this; whether asking her to call it into question would be helpful or damning. If her answer would be informed enough about herself that it could be defined in no simple terms. "What is it in yourself that needs to be known, and by whom? Why?" Some part of him hoped that she would recognize the steady barrage not to be taken as literal, but to be developed in thought, just as she had made her first, clumsy stumbling at forming the declaration of her desires. Only then did he let a small portion of his mind acknowledge the cool sensation flowing throughout his mind and body; the absence of a burning anger now quieted to sink beneath the surface and radiate at his core. A time and place for all things.
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Post by Fureya on Mar 9, 2014 14:55:48 GMT -5
Her vulnerability wasn't masked— and really, it couldn't be— rather it had somehow been incorporated into the first show of agency she'd ever given Dragos— or anyone for that matter. Certainly she feared his rejection, but she'd already made her choice and that step, or inevitable leap, held its own sort of comfort. Somewhere between her verbal assertion and when she realized he was listening and not dismissing her out of hand her fear truly slipped away to be replaced by an intensity the former Assassin rarely possessed outside of a combat situation. Perhaps he was correct in likening her inarticulate language to that of a child: it wasn't as if what she expressed was the polished proposal a woman of her age should have been capable of offering. To say she was emotionally underdeveloped was to understate the truth: Dragos wasn't wrong, but there was no way for him to realize the depth of that sentiment— not yet.
Fureya watched every tiny shift of his brow, every slight hint that some of the tension in him had melted away. Her eyes were the most alien they'd ever been, lacking any proper human characteristic: no pupil, no outline to the iris— nothing but pure, cold metal, and yet, her sharp features were not stoically inhuman. There was a softness to her expression that decried those eyes, contradicting what Dragos knew to be true of her. And when he asked her the most important question, the frame around those un-human eyes widened. Had she expected reciprocation? By her reaction, it was probable the answer was 'no.' Why then, had she forced herself to reach out and to expose herself if she hadn't actually expected Dragos to take her hand in any sense, metaphorical or not?
Her thinking wasn't ordered, and the burn of Arcanum, triggered earlier to warn him of her approach, returned.
The stirring was instinctive, just like the harsh pull of her reign over the Leviathan— a tightened grip that came only after the temperature dropped noticeably in their vicinity. Fureya inhaled, only then realizing she'd stopped breathing. It was incredibly foolish of her to try to talk to him about this when she was so clearly still unstable, but, on some level, she felt she needed to be right with him, now rather than later. It meant she'd have something to look forward to, didn't it? Not that conversations with the Mage weren't meaningful and fulfilling in their own way, but Fureya already guessed at the truth of it: this was temporary. This was only her reality until she was soldered back together and able to weather the world without withdrawing into herself again. The fact that Achréiøs had said as much wasn't what informed her decision. It was the realization that she and Dragos, barring unforeseeable circumstances, would be paired for an indeterminate amount of time. That it wasn't simply until “the mission was over.” It wasn't as easy as “when Celesin fell” or when “the enemy was destroyed.” Just the handful of conversations she'd shared with Achréiøs were enough to show her that lifetimes were too short in comparison to the longevity of the Mage's designs— even considering how time had not touched her since Achréiøs had pressed his thumb to her cheek and raised his Mark. If her lifetime was no longer limited, and her refusal to walk the path of the other Marked remained true, then her relationship with Dragos outside of the Mage's influence was remarkably important. She'd lied, then, when she said it wasn't necessary to for them to know each other. Perhaps her very real need was beyond her ability to acknowledge.
It was difficult to accept that the fate of Viers could be what waited for Dragos— so difficult in fact that Fureya couldn't even entertain the idea— but, whether she could acknowledge it or not, there was some part of her making an attempt to ensure it wouldn't happen.
Her lips parted with the intention of replying to the first question before she realized she couldn't answer it, nor could she properly answer any of the questions that followed. Still, she didn't allow it to frustrate her: Dragos wasn't denying her what she wanted. If anything, what he asked was encouraging.
”I do not understand how to answer that question. Yet,” she added quickly before continuing, explaining in her own way. ”I can offer you my earliest memories, and what I know of my history. I can map out my political connections and my network for you. I can tell you of my Other. . . I can give you these things, these logistics and dossiers because that is how I, “ there was hesitation as she searched for the appropriate way to express herself, ”that is how I have been trained to relay information, to process it. This information, this intelligence, about me is superficial and irrelevant. It is not who I am, just as I suspect your lineage from Mesiphidon, your relationship to Celesin, and your Mark are not who you are. I understand these concrete ideas, but the abstract who is. . .” She sighed, shrugging her shoulders in the only gesture that could communicate her helplessness and inability to articulate. ”I do not want you to care about those facts even if I give them to you. I want you to c-- to understand,” she corrected herself quickly, ”what those facts created, who those facts represent.” Fureya wasn't sure if she was making sense any more.
”I have no desire to be known only as 'Marked by Achréiøs' to you. To anyone else,” she looked away, one corner of her mouth pulling into the beginnings of a small smile, ”I can be whatever is necessary. To you, I want to be the woman called Fureya, of no great lineage or title— a woman who is not simply a means to an end or a honed weapon to be used.” If Dragos was told she couldn't understand the meaning of 'friendship' he might be truly surprised: it seemed that was exactly what she was asking him for.
Fureya leveled her stare, willing gold to touch silver once more. ”I would like to know the same of you— not as a Son of Mesiphidon or 'Marked by Achréiøs'— but the man who is called Dragos, a man who is not simply a means or a weapon.” She looked at him then. Would he deem her weak that she dared to hope?
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Apr 20, 2014 20:04:10 GMT -5
Though not at the forefront of his attention, Dragos noted the rising, burning sensation within his veins triggered by her own Arcanum at some unknown command. Was the reason detached from why she let the Leviathan roil through the space around them; a potential lack of attention to control? Had their current topic of conversation so potently taken hold of her focus that secondary procedures of the mind had fallen to the wayside? Aside from taking this into consideration as it related to just how important the matter seemed to her personally, he forcefully removed the line of thought from his mind for the moment, lest it start to slip into theorizing at the nature of their apparently bonded Arcanum, and what levels of interaction they might be able to play out with it.
As per the tradition established in this conversation thus far and many like it, he let the silence maintain itself for the several moments it took for her to process what he'd asked of her, or whatever other matters that she took the time to process. Whether or not he truly found value in the topic, he understood the weight of the matter as it related to someone whom found it significant, and the very real focus it demanded to evaluate properly. With the cool sensation of his patience staying intact for the time being, he waited, his folded arms and steady gaze expectant, but observant. He had been the one to ask the questions, and she was searching within herself--a spectrum of which the balance seemed fractured and instable, still--for answers. That she was considering his future as it related to herself and the Mage, even if only for an instant, never crossed his mind. This effort, he assumed, was not for him, no matter how she attempted to veil it with a message of connection between them.
When words finally came, better strung together now even if only in bursts, he listened, but the moments that followed did not linger in the silence of speculation at the best response. Instead, it was immediate. He shook his head, both in disagreement and to visibly cast away her weak point of expressing interest in him in kind for wanting to be known by him. "No." The word hung in the air only long enough to hint at rejection, as unintentional as it may have been, before he continued. "Whereas you believe that these variables in your life do not determine who you are, their context best exemplifies why you became who you are." 'Whomever that may be.' "Though I think it best to approach the subject of self with an understanding of loose definitions and hazy parameters at best when relating to the mechanics of communication, history is the foundation, or, equation through which the numbers must go to reach a result."
If he'd been maintaining an effort to keep things simple in consideration to her possibly hindered mindset, he was doing a poor job by comparing language and identity to mathematics. Still, it was promising that, in the right light, his response was close enough to a question about the events in her life that it prompted further delving into the matter. At least, it had for a moment. "Ultimately, even if the truest nature of such a result is not something that can be properly put into the system of restraints that are language, the direction with which you're approaching it is erroneous." The pause here, in contrast to before, was intentional. A small portion of him wondered if it would prompt anger in her, but he did not keep the pause long enough to let such an anger find a voice. "Or, perhaps, the reason behind your approach. Little different than the practical interactions of non-sentient life forms, we interact with others purely for the sake of our perceived needs, consciously or not. Your desire to be known is such a need, for the belief that such an understanding established within someone other than yourself more firmly solidifies your individuality. Whomever it is that you may be, no amount of communication or shared experience can ever result in the perfect mirroring of ourselves and the selves of us that are perceived by others." The tone he spoke with was cool, crisp, and calm. No matter how correct he may have been, he spoke with the mannerisms of someone informed or educated on the topic, as if that would diminish the potential sting of his words. That is, at the very least, he believed himself to be correct.
In truth, he knew that they were harsh words to take. The human mind, himself included not all too long ago, rejected these ideas for the same reason that it created the system of society. Whereas there were certainly functional advantages to collaborative efforts, a large portion of that investment in time and energy was inconsequential and irrelevant even on its best day. At least, as he saw it. It was his one condolence, and it wasn't even spoken. "Who I am to you will always be who I am in relation to you, and never who I am. Can you define such individuality free of those parameters? I cannot, and would much rather make an effort to better understand myself as it relates to me, and me alone." He was unaware that the point related to her earlier consideration of his future.
Still, at some point, he'd pushed away from the table and stood in full to look upon her with still-folded arms. If she hadn't already interjected, be it with bold protests to the contrary of his point or sobbing acceptance of the isolating truth of them, he'd linger there in silence. Some part of his mind acknowledged that she would most likely understand him to be dismissive of her; that he was using her as a partner much in the same way that the Mage used her as a pawn, and as others might have done in her lifetime. It was better that she understood that now, rather than later. They had relied on each other before, and taken comfort in each other even if only on an emotional level, true. Remaining attached to those memories, however, was dangerous. There was nothing so concrete in the future that said they would never be at odds with one another. That under no circumstance would they never be enemies. The touch of heat at the back of his mind reminded him of the distant echoes of thunder in his thoughts; the all-too-important question that hung with him. His eyes narrowed reflexively at it, unintentionally fixing her with a scrutinizing glare all too close to sizing her up as a foe. Before he allowed himself to start speculating on the results of such a confrontation, he let his arms part and stepped forward, making to pass by her and exit through the very opening she'd made her entrance lest she stopped him. His only pause was a glance to her as he passed directly at her side less than a foot away, and couldn't conceal all of his speculation. She'd said that the field was changing, and it was. It always was. Nothing was ever truly static.
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Post by Fureya on May 26, 2014 22:30:07 GMT -5
No.
A single syllable, the smallest uttering one could form in spoken language. It was truly remarkable that the most miniscule unit of measurement in verbal expression— the tiniest inflection— could evoke the most powerful emotion and elicit the most titanic reaction.
Their position was already precarious, surely Dragos sensed that? He'd spent more than enough time with the former Assassin to learn what was characteristic and what was not. Their relationship had begun rapidly evolving the moment she'd escorted him, mind-weary and overextended, to her most guarded inner sanctum— an offering she'd never made to another. Perhaps he couldn't see it— or even refused to see it— but there was no 'message of connection' between them: there was simply a connection. That he would seek to so apparently unwrite that connection for himself—whether out of fear, or some misguided desire to protect himself— was equivalent to him taking the two foot metal rod he'd picked up earlier and casually thrusting it through the center of her chest, walking away as she was felled.
There was no air in the room. Her blood had run cold. He spoke, droning intellectually about individuality and desire and things she couldn't understand. She was suddenly numb, but could that affect how she heard him? Her expression had frozen, unable to reflect the shock she felt at such a grievous wound. The burn of Arcanum abruptly became an inferno and the temperature dropped by double digits almost instantly.
Would much rather make an effort to better understand myself as it relates to me, and me alone.
He wouldn't look back when she hit the ground either. . .
Her mental state didn't allow for the possibility that she was interpreting him incorrectly. The tone of his voice, the way he sized her up— Fureya didn't make mistakes in calculating. It was exactly that advanced capability in tactical analysis the Mage seemed to source some measure of pride.
There was still no air. . . Was time moving forward or had it stilled, a mirror to her features? He stared at her and she stared back though no sound passed her lips. There were no words, no biting replies waiting to be hissed between feral eyeteeth. He would be given neither forceful protest nor silent tears marking acceptance. It was only when he passed her, scathing gaze and all, that she began to react.
He was allowed to claim half a step past her before she whipped 'round to face his back in one impossibly fluid motion. Her right hand's fingers looked to find purchase in unkempt silver hair at the same time that her left meant to secure a wrenching, iron hold on the topmost swell of his left shoulder. Neither attempted grip carried any intention to be clean: her fingers would behave as steel and claim what grasp they could manage with a surprising amount of brutalizing force— even for someone as enhanced as Fureya was. She wasted no time: even before she could finalize the security of her hold on him she was already moving to forcibly yank him toward her and off his center of gravity— an endeavor that would be aided by a strong, well-placed kick at the back of his right knee. The goal was to force him down, pulled backward and against her at such an awkward angle that he could neither stand upright nor could he build a balanced foundation to force her to release him. It was a flurry of movement with no telegraph, but she didn't expect victory to be hers immediately.
”You will not walk away from me.”
To be clear, grabbing him by the hair would be far more debilitating and therefore it was precisely where Fureya focused her rage, aiming to wrench his head back, compelling not only his spine to arch painfully and without grace, but also his face to upturn so that he might watch her in his peripheral vision. Their height difference would create a truly unwieldy position for him to be caught in it should be noted.
”You would speak to me as if I were a child when not so long ago you held me in your arms, an equal— fully developed. You touch my woman's body, and then next give me words fit to dismiss a girl?” There was something harsh and unnaturally deep in her voice, an otherworldly projection that was not simply the product of externalized rage.
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Post by Achréiøs on May 27, 2014 16:15:41 GMT -5
“Enough.”
There wasn’t any kind of special emphasis forced into the word that suddenly echoed through the room and cut through the end of Fureya’s little rant. It wasn’t shouted, and there wasn’t a cutting inflection placed on the syllables that would have made it so startlingly slice through the intense, emotion-laced vocalizations of the Assassin. Yet, it cut through anyway- directly into the heated chaos of the room, severing the built, screaming tension to replace it with the silent kind both by the nature of its finality and the way the growled voice it belonged to always managed to reverberate in a supernatural way, as if the sound went past the two creature’s ears and cut through the planar barriers disguising their energetic cores. The sound was one of finality, and its implications would be clear instantaneously to individuals as perceptive as Dragos and Fureya.
Yet both assembled parties were behaving as though half of their neurons, those that governed sane, non-emotional action, had stopped firing altogether, and therefore the owner of the voice didn’t plan to leave it to chance that they would get the hint. Being stubborn could certainly be a virtue: persistence and tenacity tended to lead to survival, and survival was the end-all-be-all of existence. That kind of stubbornness was useful, but the brand these two seemed intent on developing acted like the boneheadedness equivalent of modern art: abstract, unintelligible, chaotic, and ultimately useless, because no matter how many times you call a urinal bolted to a wall an ‘expression of my artistic self-loathing’ it’s still a damn excretion receptacle that no longer serves its intended purpose. Which, for those keeping track at home, makes it worthless. What had developed between the two cache-caught creatures had the same amount of efficient worth as that damn urinal, and no matter how ‘artistic’ their little interactive caricature about the most foolish aspects of base human nature might have been, all their childish protestations only amounted to an egregious setback of their teacher’s plans; a setback that beings in their position could not afford.
Just in case Fureya, who was by no means the actual instigator of their sudden violent feud, didn’t get the message from the reverberating quasi-planar bear-growl command to halt, as soon as she would manage to get Dragos halfway into her cat-fight hair-hold, her descending progress would be stopped by an overlarge, pale, violet-veined, black-clawed ‘hand’ clasped tightly enough around her wrist to already have begun creating stress fractures in the woman’s carpals. Achréiøs’ lovely, grimace-growling face would already be in Fureya’s peripheral vision by that point, and assuming she didn’t immediately freeze like she was playing the most deadly game of ‘red-light, green-light’ ever conceived, the woman would be bodily separated from her quarry and hurled back towards the adjacent wall with just enough force to decompress her Arcanum-supported lungs, likely taking the majority of Dragos’ scalp with her as she did unintentionally tried out for the backwards-vaulting Olympics. Assuming she froze, however, the Mage would spare her the bounce-house wrestling maneuver and instead let go of her wrist so that the two could separate on their own. Either way, the kids were about to get a talking to: whether Fureya’s oxygen-conversion abilities were impeded or not.
How the Mage had managed to get there so fast might have been a mystery in all the emotional confusion, but one look towards the rear of the red-coated monster-man would quickly discern his method of instant-transmission: a sliver of ripped reality behind him clearly showed the wavy, distorted image of the Mage’s own room, located on the opposite side of the cache. Clearly that meant that Achréiøs had decided to rapidly rip through reality to take what amounted to a one-minute walk, an action that was terribly inefficient by pretty much anyone’s standards. Given the out-of-character nature of the inefficiency, it would be pretty easy for Fureya and Dragos to judge the gravity of the situation they had found themselves in, emotional turmoil be damned. But then again, that might be giving them far to much credit, since their recent behavior had demonstrated that the intelligence they had previously been credited with had somehow been flushed down the tubes while in Lu’Rae. Did that city make everyone inside it stupid? Was that its super power, bestowing objectified arrogance? The Mage had always thought Mesiphidon had come to his gaping mental flaws on his own merit, but now he considered the possibility that it was his hometown that had done him in over all those countless dragon-eons he had supposedly been alive. It must be the Magi radiation that caused such an exaggerated version of the Bart Simpson effect: the Mage made a mental note not to expose himself to Celesin’s scenic vistas all that often, lest he somehow jeopardize his own hard-won mental superiority.
“You are both behaving like those fools we left behind in Celesin. Had I intended to bring back a pair of incestuous, petulant narcissists to babysit I would have left you both in prison and taken the other children of Mesiphidon. Did I mistake those I deemed competent and instead bring childish weaklings into my sanctum?”
Nothing in the vocal tone of the Mage changed, but his facial expression did: there was no grin to be found on his stark white features, no mocking smile in his blood red eyes. Achréiøs was snarling despite the even nature of his low, growled voice.
“It was for this reason exactly that I intended for you to work side-by-side, not one-atop the other. You both belong to me. I do not share, nor do I suffer well these sorts of distractions. You are both here to accomplish goals, both yours and mine, and instead of forcing yourselves to grow stronger, I see you both regressing into things less capable than you were when I found you both.”
Achréiøs canted his towards Dragos with the slow, lethal control of a bear trying to decide which of two meals to eat first.
“You are lost. You are more physically capable than you could have ever imagined, tapped into more sources of power than most beings can stand without destroying themselves, but you’re becoming weaker as time goes on, not stronger. Instead of acting, you turn to foolish existential philosophy and waste yourself pondering meaning, brooding like a teenage boy agonizing over why his parents don’t approve of him. Your own mind doesn’t produce new answers, Dragos: it's a labyrinth that traps you and drags you into irrationality. You think you are making yourself stronger. You’re wrong: you aren't growing because you are too afraid to act, so instead you think. You’re becoming a powerful coward, and all because you refuse to embrace the resources you are given that don’t come from your own head. Wake up.”
The Mage’s gaze drilled into Dragos as he spoke, his growl lowering and becoming more animalistic as he spoke. This was a way of speaking neither of them had ever seen from Achréiøs, and as it continued, his voice began to raise, the harshness growing in intensity so much that the roar of a lion would have been a pale sound in comparison. With the same predatory motion, the Mage turned away from Dragos before he had a chance to respond in order to round on Fureya.
“And you: you are acting on your confusion, not your own best interest. You think you’re reclaiming something vital by trying to hold onto the concept of your humanity, but what you don’t understand is that is an incidental of your existence that has no more meaning than your physical shape does. You are so close to surpassing your nature entirely that it is fighting like an animal that knows it’s about to be devoured whole, and out of fear of losing something, you are letting it drag you back down instead of casting it aside. It isn't vital. It isn't a part of who you are or what you have been any more than your child’s body defines you as an adult. It’s something to be surpassed, not treasured, because everything valuable that exists within that condition is amplified and transcendent in the condition beyond it. The connections of mortality pale next to the connections of the ageless. I chose YOU, but you still choose to cling to what I want you to surpass, because you’re afraid.”
Achréiøs stared at the Assassin, and in that moment, if it hadn’t become clear before, it would be suddenly be readily apparent just what was going on: the Mage was angry. Yet, instead of violence, he was forcefully admonishing the pair, which of its own accord could be seen as considerably significant: it wasn't often Achréiøs took the time to talk instead of kill. But these two still had the potential, if they could manage to get out of their own way and stop being foolishly stubborn.
The Mage was waiting for the objections he knew would come, especially from Dragos. The worst outcome would be for him to further retreat into his own mind instead of lashing out. Fureya’s last actions were actually encouraging, and not what Achréiøs disapproved of about the interaction: it was the motivation behind them, what the whole interaction had stemmed from that had to be dealt with. Had it been for a different reason, the Mage would have let Fureya continue as she had intended, but learning the right behavior for the wrong reason was still wrong.
Achréiøs looked between the two silently for a long moment, letting the air fall dead so both could collect their thoughts in order to respond. Before they did so, however, he had a final nugget of wisdom to impart on them both.
“You’re both afraid, differently and the same. I don’t accept fear, or the fearful. So make a choice: be afraid, or survive. Both can’t coincide for long.”
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Jul 11, 2014 12:36:02 GMT -5
The pain of the grip at his scalp shot through him like a fire all too literal in comparison to the secondary means of communication that Arcanum had established as a trend. If the woman's nails had any length to them at all, there is little doubt that, especially as caught off-guard as he was, they pierced his tender flesh like knives, spilling forth warm blood to seep over both their hard surfaces and the equally firm steel of her digits. His only vocalization was a half-gasp, half-snarl of surprise as the pain struck him. The swiftness of seizing her second purchase of his flesh was almost unbelievable, and seemed simultaneous. As blinded by apparent rage as she was, there was an animalistic cleverness in her that waited for exactly the right time to strike; he was in between strides and unprepared for her assault, as a culmination of her fashioned leverage, the kick to his leg and, ultimately, his already having dismissed her.
For an instant, in the first sensations of weightlessness that overcame him as his large body was forcibly pulled back and down, he was genuinely surprised. She had won this moment--more out of his own foolishness than the astounding tenacity she displayed--but it was the only moment in what was to come that she would be able to take without having to suffer equal, if not greater, pain and brutality for every second longer that she proved the victor. In the last milliseconds that his left foot had any connection to the ground, a surge of motion and pushing of muscle fired off reflexively, compounding the weight that she was to move exponentially, even if it was only a fleeting thrash. With any luck, she too would be pulled along with his backward momentum and robbed of even the slightest amount of stability she had in comparison. The true motive of the thrash came rising up as his body became more and more horizontal: a rising knee that, given her insistence for further communication, she might not expect. The muscles of his lower back surged to pull his lower half up, seeking the side of her skull like an inbound missile even as his arms whipped out wildly to find some hint of ground beneath him to sturdy himself.
She had made the worst mistake possible; worse even than his own for dismissing her immediately after considering what would be to come if they became foes. That he had been giving in allowing this interaction to occur rather than immediately dismissing her at the first sign of her timid entrance was a lesson she would come to learn, regret, and not soon forget. The very fraction of a second that she allowed him to, he would--
Then, it was as if lightning had struck.
As focused solely on her as he was, perhaps a cruelty in that only now, when the rage inside him found release and directed itself at her, he was caught completely unprepared for the second time in as many seconds. He had not sensed the sudden ripping of reality, nor had he noted the physical entry of the Mage. He was simply there, as if manifested, and that he was so filled to the brim with a terrible anger made him all the more ominous. In the lack of clarity that was this blurring instant, he wasn’t sure if Fureya had let go of him or if she had been torn away; the intense pain at his crown and shoulder was already searing and, as his heavy body finally found the ground with a slam, he felt warm blood flowing over the contours of his skin. By instinct, he flailed to roll from his back to his side and push at the stone floor beneath him to stand once more, solid shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths of heaving anger born of Fureya’s action and suddenly left without an outlet in this apparent break of conflict.
His brow furrowed as warm blood trailed from now matted strands of silver and down his forehand and nose. Eyes brimming with the glowing, golden hue of his Magi blinked in what could be confusion at the this unexpected development in the already unpredictable exchange. Given his proximity to Fureya’s standing position when he had intervened--whether she now stood in equally close proximity or had been flung to the wall--the Mage now stood directly face-to-face with the Son and, as his almost predictable insults and scolding began to focus on Dragos himself, the younger of the two men was close enough to physically feel the vibrations of the Mage’s voice in his breath. This directed scolding, however, did little in calming the situation. After spending what felt like months, even if it was only days, locked away in this hole--this wretched asshole of the earth buried deep beneath its surface--he was berated for letting his attentions turn inward. For not using a power ‘given,’ even though that particular choice of phrasing was laughable at best.
Dragos barely felt his jaw clench, the groan of his teeth gritting against each other a sound present only in the back of his mind. Given? Given?! The very blood in his own veins had become his cage, even if he had been told to rearrange the bars to his liking, not to mention apparently by his own guidance. Yet, even as his rage and fury--on which he had meditated in a struggle to regain the precise focus he had harnessed against the Amazonian Primoris--compounded on themselves as what felt like thunder and lightning rippled through his muscles, the Mage had considered his portion of the lecture complete and moved along to scold Fureya. Drunk on the unspent retaliation against Fureya for her act against him and enticed by the sensation of his blood hot on his flesh and the smell of it in the air, his reflex was not to listen to whatever words he had for the confused, child-like Fureya. He noticed only that he had not explicitly reprimanded her for attacking Dragos, and for just one instant, his mind harkened back to his earlier thoughts. That the Mage kept them as chained dogs, whipping them up into such a fury before unleashing them. Was this what he wanted? For them to be blinded in vicious, animalistic brutality spawning from the instinct of survival? The thought was maddening, and its surfacing to the forefront of his mind, momentary as it was, was all it took.
He didn’t care to note that instinct did not hold him back; that his bestial self-preservation held no sway over his restraint, or lack thereof. He had spent years in this game, and had seemingly failed every day. Now Achreios wanted to distinctly play the role of disapproving, angry father, and that he was as violent as a drunk had long lost its potency. Wary of Dragos or not, perhaps it would have behooved him to remember that ‘father’ was a dirty word, and playing the part carried more than its fair share of risk.
It happened while the red haired Mage was still talking; Dragos didn’t explicitly care to note exactly when. He could still have been taking his turn at scolding Fureya, or spitting out his last kernel of apparent wisdom, smug in the absolute truth of his words and the intended effects they were to have. Never having budged from the uncomfortably close proximity to the man he’d found upon standing, the distance was minimal as Dragos’s already bloodied skull hurled itself toward the Mage’s own. It was sudden, brutal, and lacking in all grace save that his forehead, the least vulnerable of his features now lashed across the minimal distance aimed at all of the Mage’s own: his nose, mouth, and even eyes depending on how their heights and postures compared at that particular moment. Dragos didn’t spend time giving thought to if the functions of the structures served the same purpose and held the same vulnerabilities; any such tangent of thought would only lead him to as to why he should not do this, and he had given up on listening to instinct. After all, that had made him a coward, no?
If the blow landed, having full or no effect, Dragos had little intent of waiting to see if the Mage would be rightly corrected for speaking against him, or if he would pat him on the back for lashing out. To say that concern for incriminating himself all the more was the last thought in his mind implied that it existed in the first place. Even as his teeth grit and he snarled at the intended impact, the rest of his body was already moving into action to take full advantage of the hopefully gleaned instant of surprise. Solid fists surged forth like cannon shots toward the center Achreios’s torso, intending to impact only an inch or so from each other to centralize the area of impact and impart as much sheer force as he could muster upon the other man. Even without directly using Arcanum--which he had yet to, for specific purpose--the secondary effects of its time in his body served their purpose. His bones were more durable, but not at all brittle. His muscles were wound tighter, but not at all over-constricted as they released with enough force to hurl even the hefty Mage back, back, and...back through his rip, should it have still existed. Dragos was hoping that it did, even if he didn’t care to look, for if it did it meant all the more distance from the Mage gained. Since he didn’t count on the resulting impact against the wall momentarily crippling the Mage any more than he hoped breaking the man’s nose would work, he was aiming specifically for distance, for his real intent.
Considering that any of this would or would not work was something Dragos was not doing, but was taking certain steps to make sure that it would, misguided or not. Primarily, none of his offense had been directly powered by Arcanum, as mentioned. It was as much the substance of Achreios himself as it was a source of power for Dragos. The very instant he pulled upon it, Achreios would be aware, and the sudden nature of his attack would be ruined; Dragos could only hope that the Mage was a fraction of a second slower in reacting to the standard assault than he was to one with all the warning sirens blaring. Of course, even every action had worked to its full effect, and no matter his ultimate intention, he wasn’t so held by rage to believe that giving the Mage the 'Good Ol’ One-Two’ would remove him as a threat from the equation. No, for that he needed a power less compromised and more able to attack the man on a level that didn’t bring his questionable anatomy into play. And so, after much long-winded explanation for such shortly-timed actions, the heart of the matter is addressed.
If luck was on his side--odd that he’d couldn’t recall hoping for such a thing so consistently before--Fureya’s vicious state of mind had been unbalanced by the Mage’s sudden arrival, intervening, and scolding. While he didn’t count on it, somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled similar incidents and their results, if only to gauge by analysis of past behavior how much time he actually had. The swift brutality of his actions, however, acted on the premise that he had absolutely no time to spare. The very instant he’d hopefully sent the Mage flying from him--either into the wall or through his fancy portal--and adjusted the momentum of his relatively uncompromising assault, he rounded on the Assassin with gold-blazing and blood-framed eyes. Had the Leviathan ceased at all in its discontent roiling about their surrounding space. A sliver of his attention went to reaching out with his mind, seeking the static and otherwise inert Magi he knew was there, behind the roaring haze of the non-physical entity. The rest, however, went into throwing himself at the woman with steel-like fingers resembling her own moments prior, yet each collection of digits aimed for the vulnerable points of either her throat or abdomen, and thrown with enough force to otherwise crush or rip into the average fleshy body. While her attention to him and state of mind were up for grabs in either his favor or not, there were advantages that he still held over her. While he was not nearly as flexible or agile as she, he was stronger, and his compounded muscle mass was far greater than her own. In such a simple, straight-forward burst of speed, that strength equaled all the efficiency of a professional linebacker, and that he was so much larger than she provided an object that she would be unlikely to simply avoid altogether.
All of this, a series of highly unlikely events, would have consequences to be sure, but he sought to predict and account for absolutely none of them. His only display of intelligence, though he wouldn’t leave it to the Mage to dub anything he did as thus, was the cruel calculation of priorities. If he could disable the Mage for an instant, he could perhaps seize the opportunity of a distracted Fureya. If she wasn’t, he still held the advantage in his tactic. If he could remove her from the picture, or at least disable her to the point of disabling the Leviathan, then he could fight for keeps. He could use Magi as his one, uncompromised tool to continue an exchange that had occurred years ago, when his intent had been anything but violence.
He’d lost a hand and nearly half his face for the mistake of approaching with anything but his full ruthlessness, and while he didn’t bother to consider if what he was doing was terribly erroneous, he wouldn’t make that particular mistake again. Note that his core Magi his already flaring into activity and, unless the Leviathan could stop it in such a personal working within his subtle body, heating his form to dangerous degrees. Enough to burn at the touch, and it was only continuing to rise.
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Post by Fureya on Jul 22, 2014 22:08:35 GMT -5
The points of Fureya's bared incisors were a visceral display against usually-cold features. Though the former Assassin had strong reactions before, this incredibly visible emotional response had no precedent. The softness starvation had robbed from her features emphasized the tilt to her eyes and the edges of her cheekbones─ there was no curve to her brow to deaden the harsh lines they made when drawn together as they were.
There was nothing else in that room of importance. No altar, no trinkets to tinker with. There was only the white-haired whelp that thought to brush her off as if they'd endured nothing together. As if they'd never connected at all.
Dragos would never turn his back on her again.
She felt rather than saw the upward momentum he pushed for as she viciously unbalanced him. The foot that executed the well-placed kick stomped downward, cementing her foundation so his thrash didn't upset her own stability, causing her to wrench his skull back all the more savagely.
The dull roar intensified, threatening to deafen her.
His knee was coming at her face. Unfortunately for Dragos, Fureya had far too much experience protecting her face-bones from being shattered: the Mage always went in for that smashing blow and never once had he been victorious. Dragos certainly wasn't going to succeed where Achréiøs had failed more than once.
Her left hand, the one ripping into the well-muscled flesh of his left shoulder, released its steeled grip only to offer an explosive counter that ended with Dragos' rising knee crashing into the flat of her left forearm and elbow. The fingers of her right hand dug even more sharply against silvered hair.
She could smell his blood.
The former Assassin began to pivot, wasting no time and having no intention to allow Dragos to ever regain his footing. Somewhere in that Berserker's Haze she was acutely aware that she'd lose the advantage instantly if he could ground himself. Her left arm, still vibrating with the impact from blocking his knee moved to circle his neck, her fingers looking to sink into the meat of his right shoulder. It was a headlock she was looking to secure, but would never fully realize.
She hadn't heard the Mage's warning. She wasn't looking for him in her peripheral vision. There was only Dragos, and how she intended to inflict on him until she could no longer move.
Except there was suddenly white-hot pain cutting through the molten thrall of her own Arcanum and radiating from her right wrist outward. Fureya didn't have time to thoroughly ponder the causes of that pain: she slammed shoulder-first into cold stone hard enough to make dust fall from the ceiling.
The scream torn from her throat had no trace of humanity in it. It was a feral thing, a shattering, anguished cry that expressed nothing but unrealized rage─ somehow she'd been cut off from her quarry.
Fureya spun 'round to face Dragos and saw the Mage instead.
The snarl that curled her mouth was the only way to immediately bleed off some of the heat threatening to melt her from the inside out.
WHY?!
That one word rippled through the enormity of the Leviathan, not quite contained in the former Assassin's head, and punctuated by the rush of Fureya's fist against worn stone until it began to crumble under her blows.
No, she couldn't strike at Dragos. The Mage was talking; she could hear him from far away. Time slowed as she stepped back, away from the wall she'd been thrown into and subsequently pummeled. Her right fist unfurled slowly, her own blood mixing with that of Dragos. Short, coarse white hairs were caught beneath her nails and tangled between her fingers.
He was talking to her. Achréiøs was staring at her.
The rage hadn't dissipated but it was certainly more than somewhat difficult to continue to intend to maim her comrade when the force of the Mage's own rage was aimed in her direction. She took every word like it was an attack and refused to break under the assault. . .
Then Dragos lunged for the Mage.
”No! Dragos, NO!”
Oh, Goddess, what was happening to them?
Fureya screamed as she watched, struck with the intense horror and inability to react that only sudden clarity could give. What was happening was too charged, too much. Too fast.
They could both die here. . .
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