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Post by Achréiøs on Jul 23, 2014 21:19:09 GMT -5
Oddly enough, the Mage had actually reached his final thought, though were Dragos to assume the words would be Achréiøs’ final bit of wisdom, he would be demonstrating the exact kind of childish thinking that had left him without the use of half his face for all those long months. A head-butt? Really? Certainly it was true that Achréiøs hadn’t been expecting Dragos to assault him with a sudden forehead projectile, but that lack of preparation on the Mage’s part undoubtedly had more to do with his higher estimations of Dragos’ common sense, estimations that clearly would not have brought Achréiøs a payday on the Dow. The red-head’s hard-headedness was legendary. Epic even, and by all accounts, Dragos' hope that his head would somehow have a more solid foundation than the Mage’s was taking his own life into his hands. It made about as much sense as a door-mouse challenging a gorilla to a bout of arm wrestling, but that might have been exactly why it worked . . . seemingly, at least.
It would be nearly impossible to tell what the Son had been expecting from his blow, had he put any forethought into it at all, but it likely would have included a Mage who stumbled back from the concussive force, perhaps with a little spurt of blood. Hell, Dragos could have been praying for a bit of forceful facial reconstruction to take place from his attempt at caveman plastic surgery: it would have certainly been satisfying, if only for a second or two before the wound healed itself up, since the Mage was prone to such rapid displays of “oh fuck no, I’m not even close to dead yet!” The expected sound might have been something of a crack!, the sort of note you get from a wet twig when you snap it underfoot: that probably would have been satisfying too, that note of breaking that so many warriors on the battlefield sought in the bodies of their foes. It was sharp. Exhilarating. It was final. And, despite whatever anticipation had been built around the sound’s arrival it, also totally didn’t happen.
The sound that did ring out was a much less-satisfying, much more disgusting smack! of a noise. It was the kind of noise that came from that wet, decomposing side of beef you smashed with a sledgehammer during rush week on a dare; the kind of sound a corpse that has been floating in the river for a couple of days makes when it is put into a body-bag and unceremoniously tossed off the roof of an eight-story building. It was the kind of sound that turned your stomach, and almost always came with a rancid odor or a spurting fluid of some kind. It was disgusting to hear, but not nearly as disgusting as the way that the Mage’s face just caved in, red-purple blood oozing and spraying across Dragos’ face and upper body from the unrecognizable mass that still, somehow, seemed to be grinning. It was like the Mage had been more meat-bag than skeletal humanoid, more Realdoll ™ than real Mage. Yet still, the stomach-turning constellation of face-caving happened the second Dragos’ forehead struck what had previously been thought to be the hardest surface known to creation. It would have been heroic, given the bloody mess spewing into his face (and probably open mouth, what with all the breathing and anger and stuff) if Dragos managed to keep the contents of his stomach settled in that split second, but considering how long the little shit had been brooding in his hidey-hole, the chances the Son had actually eaten were fairly slim. Serendipity comes in the strangest of ways.
The grotesque sound of Mage-face implosion was immediately accompanied by an equally-stomach-churning sucking sound, as well before Dragos could even hope to pull his head back and clear the gore of his eyes, the rest of the Mage’s coated body would seem to rapidly disintegrate, an opaque cloud of red-violet darkness welling up in its place before blinking out of existence. Seemingly, at least – were Dragos or Fureya to somehow possess magical time-slowing abilities, they would clearly see the tissue structure breakdown, the liquid mass standing in near humanoid form, and then the loud of red, misty liquid surging directly at, and through Dragos. However, absent such abilities, in a blink the Mage would seemingly be just gone, as if he had removed himself room much in the same way he had entered it, though not by exactly the same means considering that the tear that had brought him to their argument had closed the second it’s purpose had been completed, much to the bane of Dragos through-the-door-throwing aspirations. Dragos might wonder what had just happened, or how or why the Mage had disintegrated so fast, but he wouldn’t have to ponder more than another blink before he would feel the shadow standing over his back shoulder, and feel the piercing pain of ten sharp knives stabbing their way into his back from the semi-humanoid mass of violet gore that was standing behind him.
Faceless, shifting, and barely shaped into the caricature of a humanoid structure, the seemingly animate mass of blood and viscera had extended its ribboned, twisted ‘arms’ towards the Son’s wide back. At the end of each appendage were five ‘fingers’, shaped like crude spikes, that with the force of a giant’s crossbow (or a tomahawk missile, if you want the more modern reference) would be shoved, splayed wide as though they were griping a ball, into Dragos’ flesh. To say they meant to stab Dragos before he could so much as turn his head would be a fairly correct estimation of the turn of events that had just taken place, but such an image only gave the external story, for while the finger-like hardened-blood blade protrusions may have been stabbing inward, they were not acting to pierce the Son’s flesh on their own. Externally, the Arcanum blades sought to drive themselves inward, but within Dragos, the opposite was taking place: the Arcanum that flowed within his circulatory system, usually in liquid form, would suddenly seize in his veins, coagulating and massing like a tapeworm or snake run throughout the interior of his body. And while at first those veins would just feel full, the second those bladed ‘fingers’ would come in contact with Dragos’ flesh, the solid mass within would seek to get out. The feeling would likely be similar to the Son’s blood being replaced with twisting, writhing lines of barbed wire, lines that would seep tiny, jagged tendrils through the muscles of his back to meet with the piercing blades of Arcanum meaning to penetrate his bodily structure from the outside. Excruciating? Likely. Immobilizing? Probably. But Dragos would in no way feel like the Arcanum was being pulled out: if anything, he would feel injected with the liquid fire of pain, a fire that would rival the heat he himself would wish to create, if given the chance.
“COWARD.”
The word was almost deafening in the way that it reverberated around both Dragos and Fureya, resounding at such a register that it would seem to vibrate in their teeth. It wasn’t spoken, this word: the mass behind Dragos wasn’t even able to be identified as the sound’s point of origin. Instead, the word almost appeared in the middle of the room, echoing in both much lower and much higher of a register than Achréiøs had ever been heard to speak, the sounds seemingly formed from pure manifestation of thought.
“IF YOU WANT TO DIE, THEN YOU MAY. A REAL COWARD CHOOSES THIS.”
The words were accompanied by a low rumble that seemed half unattached, bestial growl and half the rolling boom of thunder.
"YOU GAIN NOTHING FROM THIS, SAVE DESTRUCTION. IF YOU WANT TO SURVIVE, THEN CHOOSE TO BE RATHER THAN TO ASSUME.”
Standing there, at the edge of death, with the prospect of being ripped apart from the inside out by the Arcanum he had used to make himself stronger looming just over his shoulder, perhaps it would be too much to ask of Dragos to call on him to start thinking rationally. He might be too far gone in his rage and internal strife, too stubborn or caught up in his own act of ‘defiance’ to give the situation another real, serious moment of contemplation. But if he did, maybe he would realize that, not only was the threat on his life a real one, it had always been real. Therefore, the Mage had allowed him to live up until this point: while that thought in and of itself may have brought Dragos even more rage, if he followed the thought through to its conclusion, then he might realize that it is much easier for Achréiøs to dispatch him than to keep him around, and therefore, so long as the Mage did keep him, and especially when the Mage chose to reclaim him in such a way the Achréiøs put himself in danger, he should know that he was valued as more than a throwaway or a simple tool. The logic was there for Dragos to grab ahold of, if he made the choice to do so and explore its ramifications, something that had seemingly never occurred to him. Yet even if he did, what that realization would mean to Dragos was uncertain at best. In the end, Dragos could choose to live outside his own head, in a word his thoughts did not create, or he could choose to die in the world he had pulled around himself due to his own flawed assumptions. One choice was much harder than the other.
“CHOOSE.”
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Jul 25, 2014 14:43:37 GMT -5
Fureya’s cry of what seemed part protest, part warning, might as well have been the shouts of a butterfly on a particularly stormy day. Believe that he hadn’t forgotten her there, hurled against the wall with more of his scalp, hair, and flesh than he had cared to notate at the moment, but it wasn’t her turn yet. At some point in the future he’d look back and note her resiliency and the dedication that she’d displayed to the see-through of her attack; that she wouldn’t surrender an inch of the ground she’d gained on him without his having to pry it from her cold, dead hands. He’d be happy to oblige, hopefully with more cries like the one she’d just thrown at him from across the room. As soon as he finished with the Mage.
If Achreios in all his terrific might and wonder had paused the scene here, and asked Dragos if he’d been hoping for that satisfying snap of his nose at the very least, the younger man’s answer would have been a solid yes. As these things had a way of playing out, however, his attempted face-smashing turned out to be a face...splashing. That the thrust of his head had angled it down slightly didn’t save his eyes from being obstructed by the red-violet, mess of splattering Arcanum gore, no matter how sternly that brow furrowed to shelter them. Given his familiarity--rather, limited observation--with the Mage’s physical characteristics, that the Mage’s predictably unpredictable tactics managed to provide an outcome wholly unaffected to his assault was a grim note in an already bleak story. Prepared momentum for the now unfired arm cannons shifted awkwardly as he try to pull himself away, unable to escape the gelatinous Arcanum as it clung to his face and torso, intermingling with the blood oozing from the wounds Fureya had inflicted, and even the saliva of his mouth as he both huffed in his angry rage and gasped in surprise. While he wasn’t one easily put off by gore and injury, the unexpected result and particular fact that the sludge now coated his flesh similarly to an amateur pornography’s ‘glory shot’ was enough to unbalance his level of personal comfort to severe discomfort.
His reaction of trying to pull and stagger away with arms a mix of flailing and trying to pull the substance from himself was accompanied by a loud garble that was both an angry outcry at just how useless his attack had been and a gag as even his enhanced body reacted in natural ways. For his pride, it was at least fortunate that he wouldn’t be forced to focus on how futile and disgusting this exact moment was for long. Blinded and distracted as he was, that Achreios had disappeared at all went entirely unobserved and, given a particular lack of time between this and his following re-emergence, inconsequential. The only thing that mattered now was, in fact, ten things. He felt them like hot spears forged by lightning as the sanguine mass of Achreios stabbed into his flesh with enough impact to shove him forward and knock the breath right out of his gargling lungs. His heavy body hit the stone floor before him with an ungraceful thud, though that his face had smashed solidly enough with the ground to play out the very result he’d tried to inflict upon Achreios only an instant prior escaped his sense of irony, and did little to assist him in determining which way was up in his mix of blindness and pain. That is, unless the Mage kept him suspended there, even as his knees went weak and unable to hold that otherwise immovable structure of flesh and bone. The fact of the matter was that, either way, the ever-thinking and assuming Dragos could find only one thought on his mind.
At first, he had thought the Mage had skewered him with ten spears he’d left warming with their tips in a hearth, but as the sensation spread throughout his veins like a virus, he realized what was happening--or thought he did. It was the Arcanum, or something. With every passing millisecond the younger man found himself less and less capable of focusing on anything else accept that pain in all of its entirety. That his veins felt as if they’d gained the weight, viscosity, and--most importantly--the searing heat of lava was all that filled his mind. Well, that and the screams of the purest, most intense agony he’d ever felt. This was a fire that no familiarity with developing Magi to harness flame as an element would ever help him cope with, and yet, it was nothing to the event that came the very next millisecond. As the effect reached his heart, it was as if the organ had gone supernova, and the maddeningly painful explosion ripped through his veins like it was tearing his every cell to pieces. Somewhere in the mix of it all his lungs found the air to let out a coincidentally blood-curdling scream, spraying viscous Mage-sludge, saliva, and the bile brought about by dry-heaving into the air and onto the stone before him. His muscles contorted and thrashed in a dance of trying to run from the pain then seeking stillness to avoid its attention, firing madly again with the pain pooled and overflowed within their fibers the very next fraction of an instant.
The pain was all he knew, and as every moment of time seemed to draw out into eternity, he wondered if he had ever known anything else. That is, he would have wondered, if he could form even the beginnings of a coherent thought. Rather than filled with a myriad of endless query and quandary that only led to more of the same, there was only the pain. Even the anger that he’d spend hour after hour focusing into a useable tool was torn asunder like an old, rickety house in the shockwave and blinding heat of an atomic bomb. Would it ever end? Would whatever terrible source it spawned from just kill him, so that it would end?
As if on cue, the voice spoke. It was around him, inside of him, and neither. There wasn’t enough in him to either be confused at who the coward was or angry that it addressed him as such. Still, the voice continued. Choice? He had a choice, in all of this existence that was only pain and fire? He was no stranger to pain, and had endured more than most, but this was like nothing that ever came before it. Somewhere deep within the pit of it all, however, something answered. No, he didn’t want to die. More than that, it wasn’t just that he wanted the pain to end. There was a startling clarity in what seemed to be the one cell of his brain that wasn’t completely overwhelmed by pain, and he realized that his situation was broken and misshaped beyond it. There was more, but even in this completely contradictory moment of revelation, the answer escaped him, just beyond the pain. When he tried to take a breath to answer the voice, he realized he was already speaking. Screaming, rather. He hadn’t stopped, and his sense of time was too far gone to have any hope at guessing how long it had been.
“SSSTOP!” He barely recognized his voice as his effort went into closing his mouth to speak more than particle-spewing screams, hissing out the word with all the concentration he could muster. His jaw clenched, stiff and unfamiliar as he slipped into the exertion. Had he lost consciousness? “P-rrrLEASE! STOP!” He felt warmth at his eyes, and recognized that even though the substance was just as sanity-crushingly hot as everything else about him, that tears intermingled with the various concoction of fluids he’d stop trying to distinguish as more than a mystery. Still, just as soon as he recognized, he forgot, in favor of focusing all of the willpower he could muster. “LET ME--” he gasped, seizing even as he tried to pull his thrashing limbs in around himself, drawing up into a ball to hide from the pain, even while he shouted against it. “--OUT! I NEED OUT!” Just as strange as his voice was to him now, no matter how much titanic effort it took to form words, the demand was itself just as unfamiliar. Yet, it wasn’t. He’d said it more times than he could count, in his mind and heart.
Outside him, the Cache surrounded all three of them. Outside it, stone and tunnels. Beyond that there was more. He needed that, somewhere, but more, he needed out from beneath this position that he’d been in for so long. Whether he’d trapped himself within his own mind, or he’d been pinned to the ground in terror of growing outside what the Mage found to be satisfactory, he’d become a slave to the notion of this confinement, even more than the anger for which he was so widely known. Was he a coward? Even as panic and agony ripped through him, had he been terrified of dying before? No matter how idiotic the Mage found his attempts at finding meaning, he believed solidly that there was never any guarantee that he would reach the next second in time. Whether it was the Mage that chose killing him was easier than keeping him as his slave, or a meteor that ate magic and shat absolution slammed into the planet they resided on, he had always known that along with there being no guarantee he would be alive to think his next thought, he was alive because the Mage allowed it. And he hated it. That he couldn’t focus on that hate, of course, was brought about by the paradoxically enlightening crisis he was suffering. If it was just more babbling from an idiot--a royal one, if we’re going for puns--to the Mage, it couldn’t be helped. Dragos didn’t have enough in him to brood or meander around the point, and expressing himself had never been his forte. Plus, you know. The pain.
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Post by Fureya on Jul 26, 2014 20:42:57 GMT -5
Fureya found herself leaning forward and hunkering down into something of a half-crouch as she watched Dragos attack the Mage. She even went as far as to reach toward them with her left hand─ the only one still completely intact─ as Dragos' forehead impacted that of the Mage. She was too far away; she couldn't have gotten there fast enough to influence what was happening even if she hadn't taken the time to bleed off some of the emotion threatening to overwhelm her.
Those unadulterated eyes of mercury became impossibly wide at the wet, solid thud that was loud enough to replace the roar in her ears with nothing but echoes of that disgusting sound.
Dragos was not the only one to gasp sharply at the Mage-melting─ not a single scream she'd ever made could compare to the pitch or sheer volume of what was clawing out of her throat now. It was the scream of someone who had woken from a nightmare only to find that reality was far, far worse. That the nightmare was really a dream.
Instantly white hot tears spilled down her cheeks. They were the kind of tears that came with no preamble and were only in response to a set of circumstances so frightening that there was no other way for the body to react.
”DRAGOS!”
The former Assassin stumbled backward, her hand swinging back toward the wall in a shell-shocked attempt to keep herself upright.
What the fuck was happening?
Her thoughts raced. She understood the danger. This was no teaching moment. This was something else. By the time the badly-formed reconstruction of the Mage appeared behind Dragos, Fureya had managed to jolt herself back to her feet. Every nerve ending in her entire body protested at her continued advancement toward them─ her survival instinct certainly screamed at her to run. But she couldn't turn her back. She felt it down as deep as her bones that Achréiøs was targeting what all three of them shared: Arcanum. Dragos' store of Arcanum, to be precise. This was her fault.
”ACHRÉIØS! PLEASE!”
This was her fault.
Hers for invading Dragos' space and for reaching out at― what turned out to be― the entirely wrong moment.
Her stomach twisted and the taste of bile replaced copper in her mouth.
It was her fault for lashing out violently, albeit childishly, at Dragos for not understanding her terrible attempt to connect to him.
It was she that drew the Mage's attention and created this situation in the first place. If Dragos died here it would be on her hands.
”Achréiøs. . .” His name came out at a higher pitch, but breathlessly, the sound scarcely holding back a sob that would be borne of despair and the kind of terror that removes all capacity for rational perspective.
”Not like this. Please, not like this.” Fureya could barely keep her voice above a whisper as she edged closer, unable to keep from wincing visibly when Dragos' posture weakened and the effects of the Mage's influence reduced him to incoherence. She moved like an omega wolf pleading with the Alpha for mercy, hyper-aware that the very act could be considered treason and her life could be forfeit as well. ”Not like this.” Her hands were shaking. She was too afraid to come closer, but more scared still of retreating. When Dragos protested on his own she thought she might simply shatter. . .
Hadn't she wanted to make him writhe in pain, screaming just as he was now? It was remarkable how a slight change in context could reverse even the darkest rage.
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Post by Achréiøs on Jul 27, 2014 19:29:10 GMT -5
Please.
Please?
The fact that such a polite word had decided to make an appearance so many times in a matter of seconds must have spoken to the apparent direness of the situation. What is it about having death literally standing behind you, albeit in blood-god form, that suddenly made everyone so fucking polite?
Please.
It was a word of helplessness. A beg. A prayer. An admittance that control is not in your hands, and therefore you must appeal to the benevolent mercy of a being with more situational power than you possess. Mankind had begged in such a way since its inception, to unseen gods and spirits which the beggar could never confirm existed, nor that it heard the called out requests even if it did. They also begged to each other, appealing to the proverbial goodness of ‘human nature’ to prevail over the powerful and change the outcome in a positive way for the weak.
Please.
Achréiøs could hardly form the word as a coherent thought. He didn’t beg, for he had no need to: the Mage never allowed himself into a situation where he was not the one with the power. The same, potentially, could be true of both Fureya and Dragos. Instead, the squabbled with each other, violently and unnecessarily, and wandered into enemy strongholds instead of focusing on self-improvement. They brooded and fought with their own perceptions of reality. They fought shadows instead of just brightening the light of their own ability in order to banish them for good. They acted as fools, lost in a world they could not begin to understand.
However, it wasn’t entirely their fault.
Achréiøs, within that moment, was aware of his own part in their perpetual foolishness. He had let them go too early after giving them power, and like children with firearms, they too often managed to hurt themselves with what they had been given than their intended targets. They hadn’t learned how to use those weapons, the maturity needed to judge the right time to use them properly, and therefore they acted violently in moments calling for restraint and held back in moments of action. They were children, both more and less than the Mage had ever encountered, and that was his mistake as much as theirs: they needed guidance in ways those before them had not, but they also had far more potential than any before them had shown. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late to turn things around: Fureya would make the smart choice and listen, if only because of her investment in Achréiøs as a lover and protector, which made her growth very likely, if not totally assured. Dragos did not possess the same investment, however, and therefore it is possible that his stubbornness would override his sense entirely, leading him to be unsavable, which would be a monumental waste of the Mage’s time.
Achréiøs didn’t waste time.
As Dragos tried to slump to the floor, his body seizing and writhing in pain, his throat raw with a ceaseless scream of agony, the claws dug into his back would hold him upright, holding him limp above the floor much in the way of the marionette he felt he was becoming under Achréiøs’ care. Those ‘fingers’ the mass of malleable Mage had stabbed wholesale into his back were interlaced with the now-solidified network of Arcanum running through Dragos’ body, and like roots holding a tree in place, so too did that network hold Dragos aloft despite his wish to curl up on the floor and find some way to escape the pain. There wasn’t an escape, and Dragos knew that immediately. He asked for it to stop: but did he just mean the pain? Or, was the Son voicing his desire to stave off death, showing his survival instinct in the only way he could in an impossible situation? A man stubborn enough to get himself killed might have buried himself in some concept of his own honor and stayed silent, weathering the pain as some testament of his own fortitude, thinking that would help him survive. A realist, however, recognized things for what they were and did whatever he could to survive the situation, even if that meant resorting to begging. Dragos was acting like a realist: it was a good start.
“STOP?”
As if a switch had been flipped, the pain would do just that: stop. In a split second, the agonizing network of Arcanum piercing through Dragos’ body would seemingly disappear, returning to its liquid state, and as it did, Dragos would be unceremoniously dropped to the ground. By the time the Son would be able to regain his grip on reality, he would realize that there was no carry-over of pain, no soreness that would still rack his nervous system with sensations. Even the piercing wounds on his back would be gone by the time he hit the floor, leaving him entirely intact. Instant gratification wasn’t usually a thing that happened so literally: apparently Dragos had lucked out.
Yet, still behind him stood the Mage, the half-shaped monstrosity of liquid Magic looming over him like a god of the old world. Faceless, mouthless, the spectre of blood had no manner of displaying reaction, and yet, after only seconds of absolute, terrifying chaos, it seemed to radiate a surprising sense of calm. As Dragos regained his senses, the shifting mass would take a more definitive shape, with a white-grey outer shell of flesh slowly radiating across its surface, creating the lines of humanoid limbs and musculature. Assuming Dragos didn’t do anything so foolish as turn around and try to attack again, the form of the Mage, sans his usual clothing, would quickly enough be standing in the room again, though perhaps reshaped into a harder, more gaunt form than usual, his red eyes, often perpetually wide as saucers, near narrowed into slits of scarlet light. Achréiøs stretched his jaw, showing his curved, sharpened bear-trap teeth as the bones clicked into place. Speech rapidly followed that click, and though the spectral, disembodied vibration of the voice of moments before was gone, remnants of its tone had worked their way into the Mage’s speech, the animalistic growl of the previous Mage replaced with a darker, lower, more reverberating tone that marked closer to elegance than primality, if only just.
“Out? What would you do outside this place? Wander aimlessly like you have been? Go back to Celesin, surrender yourself to their prison again?”
The sound of scorn was unmistakable, but it was tempered into a cutting edge by the slow, careful crafting of Achréiøs’ voice.
“The only thing keeping you here is you. You have halted your progress and called me a slaver because of the chains you yourself created. You are both here, and will stay here, because you aren’t ready to handle what’s outside. When that changes, nothing will be off limits.”
The Mage cast a glance toward Fureya’s cowering corner (complete with punching wall! Act fast and you too can be the proud owner! Cowering Corner ™ - for when blind panic needs a proper backdrop!) as he spoke, including her in the conversation again despite that all her pleas had seemingly gone unnoticed. They both needed direction and guidance, but they both needed to be willing to receive it: hopefully Fureya’s drop off the biggest hill on the panic coaster would make her more receptive in the same way that Dragos’ recent near-death experience had the potential to, if he finally decided to get out of his own way.
Achréiøs’ frustration at the situation was palpable, but also visibly restrained. The Mage (still seemingly uncaring about how naked he was at the moment) held onto a strange aura of calm that was intensely at-odds with the extreme, chaotic violence of the preceding moments; with any luck, Dragos and Fureya would take the hint and play along with the vibe, because a second round of violence would undoubtedly create much more lasting effects than the first . . .
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Jul 30, 2014 9:10:40 GMT -5
Dragos, to his credit, was not pleading to some imagined God, nor was he simpering for second helpings of stew. His plea was to a very real source, understood entirely in only that if the pain did not stop he would surely die. If he let himself consider the topic too far, he'd be able to see that it was entirely the same as the rest of humanity might have done, and it would have angered him. He was different. He had to be.
And yet he wasn't, and he found himself in a situation that, despite the sudden clarity of just how close to the brink he had brought himself, wasn't altogether different than moments he'd experienced in the past. What perplexed him most was in whom to place the blame; Achreios for failing as a teacher or enslaving him, or himself in failing to overcome...what? The way of the world, a teacher hell-bent on seeing his understanding of reality rocked to its foundations, or himself? Failure rang out in his mind in the sudden lack of pain, and seeped through him with a cold stillness like death. He was alive, and as muddled, stirring thoughts finally began to assess the current state of things, that he was on the floor with the residual lingering of pain from impact was the least of his concerns. The stone beneath him was cold, and he didn't bother to pull away from it for several long moments.
As his thoughts found the thoughts to speak to him again, he felt the echoes of anger like distant thunder on the wind, yet the cold stillness stayed with him, holding complete sway. Eyes blinked slowly, a soft turquoise in comparison to their usually blazing gold and he tried to gather himself, barely registering the shadow in his peripheral vision that was the crawling(?) form of Fureya. Pulling a long, quiet breath into his lungs, his torso expanded as he turned to rest the majority of his side, aware of his right arm now only as it rested beneath him where he'd fallen. Was the pain really over? Though his body felt absolutely no trace of it in any inch of his veins, his mind struggled to cope with the sudden contrast.
Still, his head shifting even with its right said against the floor, his eyes moved to look over the reforming shape towering above him. He watched quietly as the shape became slowly more and more recognizable, but didn't move to stand or even sit, apparently content just to have the thing in his field of vision. Hopefully Achreios wouldn't be too insulted, given that even with a complete lack of the agony he'd endured only seconds prior, he didn't want to move. What the Mage could have found insulting, however, was lack of an immediate response. Turquoise eyes looked upon his own red slits--seemingly completely uncaring of the man's missing attire--as if formulating an answer, or searching for one. It was only after that long moment that lips parted to let free a tone that sounded, if anything, tired. Certainly quiet in contrast to his screams, of which he still felt the vibrations in his vocal chords.
"That's it, then? Life on your terms, or not at all?" That he sounded almost resigned to the thought was misleading; he was just too tired, or too relieved from escaping the pain, to rebuild the structure of his anger that was completely obliterated in the Mage's onslaught of pain. "What you call...progress..." his quiet voice trailed off and he looked to the floor, unable to find words to voice his discontent with the matter. That the Mage would decide when he was 'ready' to face the outside world sent another echo of thunder through his mind, but Dragos shrugged off the feeling. Mostly.
"When will that be? For someone like you, the matter of time is trivial, yet..." Thoughts of his father came to mind before vanishing, and the side of his face slid on stone as he turned his gaze to Fureya. As covered in filth and blood as most of his features were, his expression was a mystery all the same. Surprisingly numb, yet too firm to be called null. "...we haven't had the time that you have. To figure things out, or deal with ourselves. We're different, from each other, and from you." Only now did he notice that, along with how talkative he was being, he was unafraid. Why? If he hadn't cared about dying, he wouldn't have begged the man towering over him to stop. Moving just enough to raise himself to an elbow, his head hung for a moment, as if he was trying to get used to the weight of his body once more. "I would do what I had to, to uncover more about Magi." A belated answer to the Mage's first question, but he'd had an answer to that since before this exchange. He could seek out Nebuchadnezzar and, after inquiring about the striking similarity she had to Mesiphidon's latest trophy, use her as a resource. Or he could do...something. The thoughts and planning had been there. Now, he was just speaking about them loosely, but still speaking. Improvement?
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Post by Fureya on Jul 30, 2014 22:20:20 GMT -5
It wasn't until Dragos hit the ground― released from torment and still alive― that Fureya's awareness started to expand beyond him. The muscles in her legs and lower back were so tense that it was a miracle they were still supporting her body in the low-to-the-ground mostly-crouch she was locked into: how she'd managed to get as close to Dragos as she had was a testament to adrenaline and raw emotion. The sound of her bottom dropping onto cold stone was probably lost in the Mage's scathing interrogation. It wasn't that what the Mage was saying wasn't important to her― certainly on some level it was― but coming out of such sudden and intense panic does strange things to a mind, especially one as divided and battered as Fureya's.
While she kept a close eye on Dragos, she couldn't help but notice a few details about herself that were like revelations in the comparative quiet. Warm blood― quickly beginning to cool― was tickling its way down her right arm, originating from a shoulder that was actually pretty badly dislocated and also heavily lacerated. Now that she could think beyond screaming she realized the entire right side of her face was probably just as torn and abraded considering how strands of silver hair were clinging to her right cheek and that the smell of iron was strong enough to make her mouth water. It took her another minute or so to realize the soft noises in the background were her own sobbing: it was an involuntary response to the level of hysterical emotion and the sudden release of tension.
As soon as she heard the sobs she fell silent. It was eerie, how empty and drained she suddenly felt. Dragos wasn't dead. The Mage was angry, but no one was being threatened right this second.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Dragos himself, and his response was surprising enough to the former Assassin to elicit a quizzical glance in his direction. He was so remarkably calm in his address to Achréiøs, and yet those words were challenging. Was he going to so quickly take away her sense of relief at him not getting himself killed? There was no filter to shield against the mild glare in Dragos' direction when he continued to speak. Oh, now he wanted to talk? Fureya's expression was just as unreadable when she met his eyes, no trace of gold to be found in his irises. Certainly she was relieved by the fact that he was no longer under imminent threat of death, but there was an unfortunately copious amount of distance and unspent rage between them now. The Mage had very effectively shifted her own priorities: Fureya no longer had any intention to maim or murder Dragos but the shifting had not soothed the burn of outright rejection. She could think clearly enough to realize it was a child's wish to lash out at he who had hurt her, but it didn't change that hurt: it only changed her outward reaction to it.
Dragos might have included her in his little speech, but the expression on Fureya's face when she finally looked at the Mage would make it entirely clear that she didn't feel the same way he did. She didn't care about when they would be able to leave. As far as she was concerned, she was perfectly content to burrow into the depths of the Cache and sleep for eternity. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She'd been tired when the Amazonian representative of Celesin had shoved her against a concrete wall in Haven and threatened to kill her if she resisted. She hadn't, and it wasn't because she'd feared for her life. . .
She remembered now why she'd been willing to allow Daul to escort her to a holding cell. Whether her accommodations were of Celesin origin or something older Fureya didn't care anymore. The desire to withdraw was becoming overwhelming. Let the Mage and the Son deal with each other. She only wanted to retreat to one of the many dark corners and be lost.
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Post by Achréiøs on Jul 31, 2014 16:18:36 GMT -5
Time is trivial.
Dragos’ thought-sorting delayed response didn’t seem to make an impact on the Mage. Achréiøs just stared at him, patiently. Waiting. The Mage had survived literally longer than the two other beings in his presence could comprehend: why should he be troubled by waiting a few more minutes for an answer to his question?
Actually, why should he be concerned with any of this? Why should he have so urgently broke the two compatriot knumbskulls out of their respective prisons in the middle of an enemy stronghold? Couldn’t he have just grown new students, new tools from scratch? He had the time, right? So why even worry about these two, about Dragos and his doubts, when the Mage had all the time he needed to just go right back to the drawing board and start over?
These thoughts would occur to Dragos, though clearly he was unable to each them on his own. Like a second voice in his mind, not intrusive, but attention-grabbing, such things would be wondered. It was his blood speaking to him, and he would realize it immediately, and therefore have the unique choice to either block out the private musings or let them drive his thoughts to a new conclusion. What the Son couldn’t block out, and what both Fureya and Dragos would hear in tandem, was the Mage’s laughter.
It started off more like a chuckle, but it didn’t stop there, as it always had before. Slowly the sounds filtered around the room, building from a soft, breathy rhythmic exhalation to something that sounded more like a wolf ridiculing its latest meal, a sort of half-growl half laugh that created an overall tone of deprecating violence that could send chills down even the most hardened of spines.
Achréiøs just stared his pupil down for a long moment. The expression on his monstrous features was surprisingly subtle, and reeked of incredulous amusement. Finally, the Mage opened his mouth to create sounds other than those of bemused annoyance.
”Your supposed understanding of my reference of time fits yourself better than it does me. You treat the time you have been given as trivial. You grew more, learned more, increased in power more in the few weeks you have spent under my ‘enslavement’ than you have in all the time you have had outside my presence. What did you do with the past year, wandering on your own? How productive was your time under your Father’s thumb, instead of mine, where you were left to rot in a cell rather than bestowed with all the knowledge you were seeking? I have given you ten times the time away from me then you have spent in my presence since I first marked you, and like a child sent for a few hours each day to school, you complain of being trapped. You are in a rush, but have no idea where you are going. You have the potential to live endlessly, and had this potential before you were marked by me – but instead of using what time you have to better yourself and prepare to reach eternity, you squander it. You waste it in the same way a child does, and complain that you don’t have enough of it. Even your father did more with what time he has been given, which is exactly why he has control and you lack it. You have more potential than he could hope to, so blinded by his own arrogant assertions, but you are, in your own narcissistic way, lazy.”
The Mage exhaled slowly before continuing. As much as Dragos fancied himself momentarily calm, Achréiøs was calmer; but even in his strange state of naked serenity, his frustration peeked through. Dragos could ponder over the significance of that frustration on his own: no voice in the back of his mind was going to spell it out for him this time.
”In the time you have chosen to waste, you could have grown immensely farther than you can even conceive of, as you are. And therein lies the problem: I have, generously, given you freedom, and you have chosen to squander it instead of using it to grow. Both of you were released onto this world in a state like human teenagers: full of new strength, but with no concept of how to use it, of how to advance it. So you struggled, and wasted years of valuable time pursuing your foolish whims. This was my mistake: you are both more capable and much more inexperienced than any others I have marked before, and I miscalculated in assuming your quick growth in power also translated to maturity and mental ability. Clearly that was not the case, and now you have wasted not only your own time, but mine. Which is far more valuable than you seem to comprehend.”
“You went to Celesin seeking to learn more of your own strength, but you were a fool: you ran from the one being alive who commands the most magical power ever wielded to your kin, who refuse you. In all the time before I marked you, what did Mesiphidon teach you about your own power? How has he helped you grow? Or had you done it all on your own? If you had thought with the mind of an analytical creature rather than an emotional one, you would have realized the idea was folly before you chose to implement it, but you have not yet grown enough to think wisely, and therefore you lost yet more time in their prisons, again ignored and abandoned by those like you. And here you are, like a petulant teenager, cursing me for taking the decision away from you.”
The last sentence was said with a laugh. As he had been speaking, red wires of substance had begun to creep out of the Mage’s shock-white flesh and intertwine, slowly knitting together into a covering that, by the time Achréiøs took a short break from speaking, had come to resemble his former coat and pants. Clearly the Mage was settling in for the long haul, and as he smoothed the newly-made fabric over his shoulders, Achréiøs swept his overlarge gaze past the both of them carefully.
”Neither of you were prepared for the world outside: that’s due to my own miscalculation. Now, it will take twice the precious time to prepare you to survive. Until you are prepared, you will stay with me, so that I can guide you properly and reverse the damage that has been done to both of you, in order to prepare you to survive for the eternity you have to look forward to you if you are smart. This time is paramount, and it will end when you are ready, and not before. If you are not ready to learn, or don’t feel capable of doing so, then we will end your journey now and save everyone the later trouble: as you are, you won’t survive much longer anyway.”
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Aug 2, 2014 8:37:42 GMT -5
That the Assassin shot a brief glare at him did not go unnoticed. If she was upset that he had finally decided to open up to at least mildly effective communication, she was a fool. No matter the effectiveness of her sudden and brutal assault, she possessed nothing in her arsenal to so quickly bring the Son to the final inch of do-or-die as Acrheios. That they had shared a connection, the state of which being questionable now, seemed like folly by the way he acted. That she was hurt by it didn't seem to change much. Perhaps next time she would try an approach that involved fully-formed sentences, and spoke directly to a point that she could clearly formulate in her mind before the exchange. That might work if she ever tried again, or if Dragos let her. Attentive enough to spare some attention to her while he argued his case, he didn't miss her silent but definite disagreement. The thunder of anger and frustration at the back of his mind echoed louder with that; she should take the time and speak up too, telling the Mage of how content she'd be to stay lost. Dragos would tell her to stay that way. Forever.
His momentary sense of calm and clarity brought about by his near brush with death's door was fading, however. Waiting for the Mage's response, he slowly became aware of the thoughts surfacing in his mind in a time when the only real questions were those he was posing verbally. Directing his attention inward, it took him only a moment to realize the source of the thoughts; it flowed through his veins like blood, but spoke directly to his mind. As the Mage began to speak, his stomach gave a nauseating turn with the onset of frustration crashing back to him like a wave. While he'd experienced a mental collection with the Mage before in the incident of what had happened to Fureya during her kidnapping, and that the Mage had spoken to the effect of being aware of Dragos's very words if he so chose, his capability to so easily invade, or at least intermingle with his thoughts was so infuriating that it nearly made him sick. Again, if the stimuli to provoke him further would only end there, but it did not.
The onset of the typical insults followed. That he was a child, and an inefficient one at that. Lazy, even. Perhaps it was wrong of him to focus so heavily on the insults over the message, but if the Mage was so intent on teaching Dragos, even provoking him into wondering why Achreios spared him his precious time and attention, why was his communication so polluted with insults that would cause the Son to pull away and close off? Sure, he could smash his way to the heart of the matter once again if he so chose, but it lacked the eloquence of one so supposedly timeless as he, and seemed...inefficient.
Dragos felt his muscles tense involuntarily as the anger flowed into him like a physical heat, eroding away at the calm even as he moved to sit upright, but made no further move on rising any higher. Perhaps the lower positioning was, in itself, a show of submission by placement. Somewhere in there the comment that Mesiphidon--who seemed capable only of showing his attention to his latest bed-warmer at any given time--spent his time more wisely than Dragos was yet more tinder to the fire. When the Mage had finished, speaking in certain terms about Dragos's fate as the all-knowing being that he was, Dragos took another moment to consider his words; the Mage hadn't seemed to mind before, and it seemed the most conducive way to continue the conversation, not to mention his life. He let out a slow breath, letting the digits of a single hand curl into a loose fist as if to focus his frustration elsewhere besides his mouth.
"I went for more than that, and certainly more than Mesiphidon's direct tutelage." Honestly, that particular goal hadn't been one at all. "Besides seeking official canon in regards to information on Magi, I felt it necessary to study those of my kind. I have heard it put that we, specifically, are born with an unquenchable anger woven into our very genes, and given that it has proven to irreparably damage more than one interaction..." he trailed off, glancing up to the Mage with slightly narrowed eyes to emphasize moments prior, "...one possible solution was to at least learn more about it." That he had spent a great deal of effort in honing his anger to this level of precision thus far--a rapid change considering the years he spent in either a rage or interim between raging--was likely pointless to the Mage, but Dragos still felt he could find an answer somewhere, there. His tone was harsher than a moment before, but still reserved. He was trying to restrain his "childish" behavior in favor of effectively communicating for the moment, and if Achreios truly thought of him as such a child, he should be willing to understand and accommodate that.
"Unless the only, end-all-be-all source of information I should seek are the words straight from your lips?" Or the lessons to be discovered through the pain he was so fond of inflicting. Still, he tried to collect himself again before he started speaking too rebelliously, or acting on frustration once more. He harkened back to the very thoughts the other man had led him to think, taking an extra pair of seconds to push aside the anger that swelled up with it. That the Mage had absolutely no faith in his mental faculties was evident, so why he wanted Dragos to consider any topic, no matter how specifically, on his own was...conflicting. Unless he simply wanted Dragos to ask the question, though that the exchange seemed less like conversation and more akin to verbal masturbation crossed his mind as he did. "If you lack so much faith, why waste the time at all? Why go through the effort of freeing us from Lu'Rae?" If the Mage tried hard enough, which shouldn't be so difficult, as all-knowing as he was, he would see some bit of honesty in Dragos's tone, and even his posturing. That his body was slightly more tense was not only out of anger, but out of being guarded to an unknown he wasn't comfortable addressing. "Why did you pick...me?" He had started to say "us" one more time, but chose not; at this moment in time, he simply didn't care about why he'd chosen Fureya. That the Mage had grown fond of them as students in particular seemed an impossibility. Was Dragos simply the one Dra'sen family member easily snatched away? Could he not find another magic-nullifier besides the Assassin? No matter the...pleasure he'd experienced firsthand, he couldn't see the Mage keeping her around simply as a bed-warmer either, no matter how eager the diligent teacher's pet was.
So many questions flowed in tandem with emotions that were reserved, but recognizable in his every posturing. That an elbow rested on a knee while drawing itself closer to him spoke of being guarded, but being guarded hinted at vulnerability. His eyes, while lacking their usual luminescent quality, were just as intent in their struggling balance between anger and the need to know. Yet, all of these thoughts were not what ran through his mind; they had been processed already, moments earlier. The need for an answer was very definite, yes, especially if this exchange and loosely-dubbed relationship was to move forward in a manner more to the Mage's liking. His real thought, however, was singular, and not betrayed by a single muscle in the body of an introvert whom, if nothing else, was very good at blocking himself off from others. There was something else he had to know. Given enough time, I will kill you.
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Post by Fureya on Aug 4, 2014 21:04:25 GMT -5
Well, it seemed Dragos really was capable of having a conversation without coating every word in condescending and dismissive tones. No, he was right: Fureya―as a general rule― didn't have the lethal way about her that could potentially inspire Dragos to level with her in order to avoid an untimely demise, but she also hadn't realized that was what was required. For some reason, Fureya had come to this strange conclusion that threatening Dragos' life was needlessly inflammatory and counterproductive. They were supposed to be a team. A unit. She wasn't his leader and he wasn't hers: why would she think to approach him as anything other than an equal? The real question was why could she not expect him to reciprocate and treat her like an equal? What endowed him with the authority to deem her lesser and, subsequently, treat her as such?
Her jaw tightened as she watched his musculature tense: the tip of her tongue worried at the point of one of her eyeteeth until she could taste blood.
As Dragos breathed and worked to manage his own frustration and rage, Fureya let hers rise unchecked.
. . .given that it has proven to irreparably damage more than one interaction. . .
The swell of emotion plateaued. Which interaction did he speak of? The one where he attacked the Mage as he was ripping her off of him, or was he implying their interaction had been tainted by his apparent genetic predisposition to anger? She'd have to ask if she wanted clarification, but the former Assassin had already decided that incommunicado was the new protocol with Dragos until further notice.
He hadn't been angry when he was talking to her, had he? Fureya replayed the interaction in her mind, looking away and tuning them both out so she could focus. He'd been sweating and in deep meditation― she could definitively recall those details. Was it a stretch to consider that his meditation had not been a peaceful one? Her brow furrowed. It was difficult to say for sure: she'd carried her own anxieties in with her intentions and it was more than possible the extra noise in her own head had caused her normally perceptive nature to be dulled. She hadn't missed the way he looked her over as he passed her, sizing her up as if he'd mentally taken stock of her value and then dismissed her as having none.
Her jaw clenched tighter.
She could accept the possibility that she'd been observant enough to catch only part of the signs he'd given her. Perhaps she'd misunderstood why he'd looked away from her then. She had the empathy to consider that Dragos had his own “noise” to deal with, but not enough to completely cool the searing desire to finish what she'd started.
How had she gone from feeling so utterly claustrophobic as to want to disappear from the room while Dragos and the Mage sorted themselves to suddenly wanting to sink her teeth into Dragos' throat? Fureya would need to employ her own breathing exercises: the Mage had made it abundantly clear that they were no longer attacking each other. One deep inhale had her sitting up straighter, both knees rising toward her chest at the same time. Her left hand gripped her left knee and, from an outsider's perspective it might appear as if she were trying to curl up― seeking some physical refuge from the tension in the room as well as some mental distance― until her right hand slowly and awkwardly rose to cup her right knee as well. Her left hand, having more coordination, laced fingers with her right. A slow exhale was the only warning before she started leaning backward, holding her spine in perfect alignment until she'd stretched out both arms to their full span and a painful-sounding pop! signaled formally that her shoulder had been relocated. There was neither grimace nor wince on her now-cold features, no sound of protest or relief. Fureya stared out over the room, her gaze empty and disengaged: it was inward she looked. The Arcanum's burn would tip off the Mage and Dragos before the sight of her flesh becoming whole was readily apparent. Her blood wouldn't need to be wiped away: somehow the passing thought that it should be able to be absorbed back into her blood stream made it so. Even as all of her physical hurts were addressed Fureya was beginning to take in tighter rein of the Leviathan― that was, until something very specific captured her attention abruptly enough to provoke her breath to catch.
Those alien eyes, stared upward blindly as the former Assassin's chin upturned. The corner of her mouth twitched distinctly as the mercury-coated orbs narrowed subtly. There was another, sharper inhale as the Leviathan exploded outward at her command, intent on exploring what kept her thoughts rooted outside of the Cache. Every muscle fiber in her body tensed as her jaw rolled― an attempt to cover the fact that her mouth was actually watering in hunger.
”Achréiøs. . .” The low-toned voice was soft, spoken with the self-awareness that it was interrupting a conversation that could very well have far more priority.
”The man who calls himself Viers is in Vascxious Sigma. Something is happening. . .” She paused, obviously tense and trying to restrain herself. ”I can smell him. There is no mistake.” Not only could she actually smell his Arcanum-sourced energy signature, but there was something else entwined with his essence that was so magnetic Fureya had a difficult time drawing her focus away from it. ”There is. . . someone with him, I think. “ She actually fell silent, licking where her lips met in an effort not to bare her teeth. She could see the tower through the Leviathan, its top floor pulsing with ebbs and flows: a result of the metaphysical eruption that had caught her attention in the first place.
She could just reach out and taste the second signature that beckoned so attractively. There was honey and the scent of sweet things in that essence― a promise of sanctuary and warmth that would never end. Fureya's eyes half-closed, both hands closing into tight fists as she slowly became aware of the fact that she was standing, and so full of liquid tension that her muscles were actually cramping.
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Post by Achréiøs on Aug 6, 2014 19:10:28 GMT -5
As far as Achréiøs was concerned, going to Celesin for any ‘friendly’ reason was roughly equivalent in usefulness to electroshocking your own private parts for kicks – sure, it might be fun to watch from afar on the internet, but doing it yourself only ends up being an uncomfortable, awkward waste of time that could very likely lead to some of your important bits being singed off. Even if Dragos hadn’t intended his da-da to teach him anything important, what had he really hoped to gain in that place? Mesiphidon was seemingly the only living being among them with even half a clue – the rest were cast-off rejects of other kingdoms or mad science experiments to create androgynous berserker-trolls. No one, save the city’s primarch himself, would have had legitimate access to the kind of information Dragos wanted, at least as far as the Mage could see, and they all seemed more likely to try and blow something up than determine its real worth. The Mage didn’t really get anything out of Dragos’ explanation for his behavior, save for another little key as to his overall motivation.
Grinning, the Mage fixed his Gaze on the still mostly-kneeling Dragos, the laserlike-focus of his somewhat-glowing red eyes (they were dulling out as the minutes passed) locking the man in place like a tractor beam.
”Considering that I’m the longest-surviving creature you could ever hope to meet walking around this planet, and that I actually give a damn about making sure you have access to the right information rather than keeping it from you, that might not be a bad place to start.”
Achréiøs’ sneer was more than evident, but he wasn’t truly mocking Dragos; instead, he used his condescension as a segue to reach his real point.
”You still seem to be looking for someone to tell you what, and therefore who, you are. They can’t tell you that; they can just give you information, with their spin on it, and you can cling to it and let it define you or you can reject it. Your anger is a handicap you have to conquer – finding a reason that it’s there won’t change the outcome of what you have to do to deal with it. It will just give you an excuse not to change, and that’s of no use to someone like you. Neither is ‘official cannon,’ with regards to Magi – you know all you need to know about what power you possess. There’s no secret code or trick that will cause your ability to skyrocket, and Mesiphidon’s mastery of the stuff isn’t due to knowledge he has that you don’t: it comes from experience and ownership. From experimentation, from change. You already do these things, but where you struggle is that you overcomplicate them. You attach too much meaning, too much prestige.”
Dragos carried with him the unique distinction of being the most cocky self-conscious dragon-god in the world, and Achréiøs knew why: whatever strengths Mesiphidon carried with him, those strengths only seemed to benefit himself. Those he surrounded himself with did not advance or grow in any real way: the so-called ‘poet’ of the Amaranth Order may have been a powerhouse in his own right, but he had deluded himself with regards to his ability to instruct and elevate those around him. Dragos had suffered under that inability, and it had left him stunted. So of course he would look at Achréiøs with skepticism – the man had never had a real teacher before. Also, it couldn’t be discounted that the Mage’s ‘kill first, ask never’ policies didn’t always inspire confidence without reinforcement. Achréiøs was still working on the whole talking thing – it had been a few hundred years since he had been accustomed to regular company pre-Fureya, give him a break.
The Mage pointed his black-tipped finger directly at Dragos’ chest, his eyes narrowing as he spoke with conviction not often seen from the Mage without anger attached.
”Mesiphidon isn’t greater than you: he’s just older. You have the potential to be stronger and wiser than he could hope for, but you never would have reached that potential on your own; especially not while under his direction. When I met you, you were a fire that was slowly dying, starved of fuel. You were stunted, but capable in spite of that. Left alone, you would have achieved some moderate success, but your real potential would have languished without assistance, or gone out far too soon in a fast blaze.”
The Mage drew his glance to Fureya, who was in the middle of popping her dislocated shoulder back into its socket. Atta girl.
”I picked her for a similar reason: what she is cannot survive long on its own. It was impressive that she had lasted as long as she had when encountered her: most creatures I have encountered with even a fraction of her abilities drove themselves into the ground before they left their teen years, and usually took a giant mass of people with them. Her potential is almost limitless, but she would never have been able to survive long enough to reach it alone.”
Achréiøs cocked his head to the side and smiled wryly at Dragos as he reaffixed him in his red-eyed gaze. ”Next you’ll disagree and say you both would have been fine without my intervention. That I’m wrong. But remember how long I have survived. Remember what I have seen, and realize I have watched beings just like you two wither and die time and again for the same reasons. Realize since the inception of magic itself, more creatures than you can fathom have walked very close to the same path you have, and their footprints have blazed a clear trail with a very definite endpoint. And then realize that my knowledge can give you both the foresight and the necessary tools to circumvent that path and blaze your own, a path a hell of a lot longer than any of your predecessors. And then, if you can wrap your little brain around all of that, also realize how your success benefits me as well as you, and you might have finally grasped why it is that you are here.”
The Mage chuckled at the end of his little speech, watching Fureya rise to her feet and wondering if Dragos would decide to do the same. The Assassin chose that time to interrupt, and as she spoke, she would notice that Achréiøs was suddenly gazing upward in the exact direction she sensed Viers from, though no black haze had covered his eyes. The Mage grinned.
”He had been doing a good job of keeping himself hidden, until now. He must be bleeding, which means he is doing one of two things.”
The implication was let to hang because the Mage assumed neither Fureya nor Dragos would need clarification. Achréiøs fixed his eyes again on Dragos.
”You wanted some fresh air: it might be time for a little field trip. That is, if you’ve settled down enough to ride along and not create problems for me.”
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Aug 13, 2014 10:41:52 GMT -5
That his full attention rested on the Mage intently was clear. Outwardly, he had been expecting an answer to the question he posed, and inwardly, a sign--any sign--of response to what was, in retrospect, a dangerous gamble. In regard to the latter, the passing moment's of Achreios's conversational retort to any point Dragos might have been hoping to make carried a distinct lack of any indicator that the elder man was aware of his thoughts. Granted, it wouldn't have been a great stretch to think after what had occurred that the Son might want to kill his tormentor, but his every ounce of effort he could spare while still participating in conversation had gone toward concealing the potency of that thought in his outward expression. He had meant it, or forced himself to believe it, if only for that moment so that, if the Mage could indeed read his mind with any degree of clarity, there would be no mistake. Letting the echo fade from his mind as his focus directed itself on picking up even the slightest cues, he was arguably smart enough--or at least aware--that the lack thereof was no clear indicator, even if the Mage had clarified explicitly that he would waste no more time. The mystery would linger, then, along with his own sincerity in the thought, until another time. Right now he couldn't waste time dwelling on a topic that gave no immediately clear answer. The mentality must be contagious, he pondered.
His brow furrowed slightly in response the Mage's most immediate answer, but at most it was an involuntary reflex of frustration, not anger. Trust that to a man so angry as himself, there was a very distinct difference. Still, he listened, and when given the time to respond, he would. Even while his lips parted, he knew the futility of any argument that he might muster, but Achreios himself seemed to want some degree of given involvement from him, and even if he were to draw the words given to him inward, the Mage might just take it as more angry brooding.
"You are correct." If he had even the slightest presence of humor in him, he'd have let that statement linger if only for how uncommon it was. "What I sought was information. While I am at least somewhat aware of how...highly you regard my ability to process it, I would hope that you believe that I am aware of every source of information as not only that, but also as a perspective on that information by its author, speaker, or otherwise." With every passing word, he felt that his effort to make Achreios understand him was akin to trying to break through a brick wall by bashing it with his forehead. Well, a normal person trying to do so, at least. He was confident, if Achreios was even more confident, he could do that perfectly well. Still, it was time to listen, and in turn, address the progressing conversation. Odd that, despite how inept he was, he seemed to be at least trying to use the particular tool of communication as best he could.
Sitting more upright, he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in yet more frustration, but even as he let a silent sigh exhale through flaring nostrils, he tried to put these distractions to the side. Several responses came to mind, and all of them arguably summarized were equal to the argument that he was different. Unique. A special butterfly. Conversationally useless, potentially dangerous to invest any serious amount of belief, and a gallon of fuel's worth for more Mage-crafted insults. He considered it, then, and after a moment, the slightest dip of his chin was just a reflex of his decision to let the matter sink in. After all, Achreios was--beyond apparently fond of reminding him of it--effectively timeless; perhaps more so than his own father. No matter how coated in barbed-wire insults they may be, he couldn't reject that there was wisdom to be found in his words, even if through experience alone, if Dragos were to apply the argument the Mage had just used.
Other matters, however, could not rest. "Fine. Let me be clear, however, in trying to reflect that my apparent obsession over Mesiphidon is now something you create, and not I." He was surprisingly calm, if not intent, as he sat now with legs crossed before him. "As you point out, while he is potentially an exceptional Magi-user, that is the highest degree of investment I give him; his only distinguishing characteristic among other Magi-users that I reference to gauge my own abilities." There were other adjectives, sure, and while he wasn't fond of the man's general behavior or decision-making process, he no longer carried the same resentment he used to, and had no functional relationship with his father on which to base anything else. Effectively, it was almost entirely a non-issue, and he'd prefer if the Mage move beyond using it against him. His focus held, however, since he wasn't done. "What path, fate, or destiny I might have had is altogether too linear an ideal to hold any great deal of meaning to me, and ultimately irrelevant. I suppose...what matters is that I am here, now." That must be lived with, and if he was to continue living, he had better learn to do so. Then he could worry about hoping to advance himself toward his own ends and whatever ambiguous ones Achreios might hint at.
His attention deviated, however, upon Fureya's interruption. Oh, she was still here. Quiet now, and ultimately a better representation of the calm acceptance he felt for at least the present moment than whatever words he used to surely make himself sound like an idiot to Achreios, his chin lifted again in a slight acknowledgement. While it was true that Fureya was probably familiar with the individual she had detected, that she had done so at all was actually quite remarkable. Even he, and his familiarity with Magi, had to put a great deal of effort into sensing others at a great distance, let alone with any clear distinction among the masses. Perhaps if she carried herself with more of that remarkableness, instead of approaching him like a feeble, mewling kitten both desperate for sustenance and fearful of being lashed out at, he might not regard her as lesser.
Glancing back to Achreios as he responded, his expression soured somewhat at the man's implication. And people thought it odd that he regarded the act as altogether too emphasized in the everyday life of others. With the Mage's attention lingering on him now, it was as if he was only just aware of his appearance. He glanced down to his torso, then back up to the Mage, making to stand after doing so. "It is what I wanted." He squashed the desire to freshen up first; while it certainly wasn't something that came to mind often, that he looked like he'd been involved in a pit-brawl of fighters afflicted with horrendous, bloody retching did occur to him. He did note that his wounds had closed, at least, during the passing of time that their conversation had occupied. The missing patches of hair went without real opinion. Still, this sort of thing--as with most things, in general--tended to happen jarringly in the present and now when the Mage was involved, and not after a ten-minute recess.
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Post by Fureya on Aug 15, 2014 10:05:15 GMT -5
The former Assassin forced some of the tension to bleed away from her frame, shaking her head as if trying to clear it at the same time. She already knew what Viers tasted like and the fact that she detested him so thoroughly had somehow managed to sour any satisfaction she might get out of unleashing the Leviathan on him from afar. That other source of energy, however, was a different story. That smelled like addiction waiting to happen. . .
The tightened grip on the Leviathan was unwelcome to her feral Other and it took some focus and real restraint―especially given her period of starvation― to not devour everything she could sense: backing off to simple observation of Viers made her incredibly aware of the hundreds of thousands of pinpoints of energy between their location in the Cache and the top floor of the tower she monitored. Her fingers flexed involuntarily as the Mage responded, offering her something else to fixate on. One brow jerked up as he gave her the distraction she needed to relax a bit more.
”Bleeding?”
Good. Perhaps he'd been stabbed or lost one or more limbs. Fureya could very easily come to the conclusion that he was injured, and most likely through combat, but the second option eluded her. Why else would he be bleeding if not from sustained injury? She just barely caught the shift in Dragos' expression and wondered briefly if he was as confused as she was: if their eyes met, Fureya's would narrow before returning to Achréiøs, making it unclear why her expression hardened.
The Mage couldn't be serious.
Our 'Sanctuary' will be getting more crowded.
Why that specific phrase from the Mage came to her mind now was probably because it was the absolute worst reasoning she could entertain as to why Achréiøs would want to leave the Cache right now. Surely she could consider that they would be approaching Viers to finish whatever that enticing energy source had started― obviously Fureya left no room for theories not involving Viers being maimed― but Achréiøs hadn't reacted unfavorably to the information that Viers was searching for him. Then again, he wasn't inclined to tell her his thoughts: she and Dragos could very well be reinforcements if Achréiøs meant to destroy that patronizing waste of Mageblood. Still, Fureya couldn't help but harbor misgivings about leaving the Cache right now, though perhaps the Mage had only meant to bring Dragos with him. The former Assassin eyed Achréiøs sidelong, her arms rising to cross in front of her as she stood in silence. If he didn't direct her to go she would not be volunteering.
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Post by Achréiøs on Sept 26, 2014 22:05:49 GMT -5
The Mage decided to join Dragos in his student’s sojourn into self-examination, letting eyes that were larger than Michael Bay’s narcissism track over the bloodstained, shirtless, pajama-clad body of the Son, only to have them glance toward his own physical form, forcing him to suddenly realize that he himself was still blissfully, tranquilly, Dr. Manhattan-naked. Why? It likely had something to do with the lesson he had been teaching a few moments earlier taking conscious priority away from trivial things; like clothing, and feelings of empathy. In the heat of the moment, it’s easy to forget recreating your vestments in favor of more important concerns, such as deciding on just the right spot in which to stab your student through the back in order to cause the most agonizing sensations. Now that the action had momentarily subsided, the Mage supposed it was the appropriate time to start caring about what he was wearing, though while his logic dictated he should do something about it, Achréiøs honestly couldn’t give too shits less if he were naked or not. However, the Mage did hazard a glance in Fureya’s direction, cementing the realization that all three of them had ended up garbed like recent escapees from a max-security loony-bin, a fact that might not have mattered to the Mage in most situations, but considering that it would attract attention in the super-crowded city above, Achréiøs forced himself to give a crap. Truthfully, in normal situations it would have been an advantage that both he and Fureya were so devoid of fabric covering, but as much as the thought of gallivanting through a recitation of the Psychopaths Compendium of Sexual Debauchery might have appealed to the Mage’s baser instincts at that particular moment, the three amigos were on a timetable.
Achréiøs drew his mouth into a line, seemingly still not able to conjure up enough shits to give about the fact that he looked like he was preparing to audition for Magic Mike 2 in order to address his nudity. The Mage knew that Viers wasn’t likely to stay in one place for too long, despite whatever activities he was currently engaged in, and that put a short timeline on their actions; meaning that, by all accounts, they should enter the city immediately if they wanted the best chance of locating the wayward Arc playboy. But, Vascxious Sigma was not a place Achréiøs wanted to risk being found, especially by the spies of the Tower, and that meant going incognito was the best course of action.
The Mage decided to ponder the problem for a brief moment before issuing any directives to his students. Should they even bother, given the risk? Viers was unlikely to come seek Achréiøs out of his own accord, at least without being in some kind of position of power: that explained the Arc’s presence in the Sigma City in the first place. This was a rare opportunity, one in which Viers had made a key mistake that begged to be capitalized on for the purpose of gaining leverage. Unbalanced, Viers would submit to Achréiøs’ designs, but given enough time to amass a power structure, implementing the same level of control over the man without resorting to actual force would be difficult, and the Mage needed Viers to be in a place of mutual advantage. If Viers got what he had come to the Sigma City for, whatever that happened to be, he would be much less willing to negotiate and go along with the Mage’s designs, simply because he would have less need.
That wasn’t a position Achréiøs intended to put himself in. This opportunity needed to be taken. However, just because the trio needed to rush in didn’t mean that they had to do so stupidly. It was to their advantage that the Tower could not yet locate them, and any direct, eye-catching action they decided to take would lower that advantage substantially. After all, Alpha wasn’t stupid, and his resources currently far outstripped the Mage’s own, meaning that mobility and anonymity were some of the few tactical advantages that Achréiøs possessed in relation to his current enemy. The Mage wasn’t about to jeopardize those advantages just to snag Viers.
”Make yourselves presentable. Quickly. Then return here.”
Achréiøs seemingly gave no never-mind to the fact that he was standing in the middle of the room Dragos considered his own – he wasn’t about to vacate his current position to give the Son the privacy to change comfortably. The Grand Dragon of Clan FuckClothes had to do some changing of his own, but his alterations in presentation didn’t require the physical application of different garments. Therefore, he was going to stay put and concentrate: it’s not like he was going to be paying any attention to what Dragos was doing.
Achréiøs glanced between the Dragos and Fureya before they scurried off to their respective changing tasks and left them with one last specific instruction.
”The city is an enemy to us now. I intend to keep my presence in it hidden – prepare accordingly.”
With that, the Mage stopped paying attention to the pair, letting his eyes drift close and his head drop. He had to consider carefully how he would choose to disguise himself from the city at large: while Fureya and Dragos could operate within Vascxious Sigma somewhat without drawing notice (though only somewhat, considering that they were both becoming fairly high-profile targets lately), the Mage himself could not. Too many creatures on or about the Council would recognize Achréiøs too readily, and with Alpha’s Watchdog acting as his eyes and ears, the redhead knew that the second he set foot in the city limits he could potentially be discovered. Considering that his Arcanum was, by nature, undetectable unless put to specific use, that meant that Achréiøs needed to modify his physical appearance to be something related, but apart from his true identity. Normally in these situations the Mage would use one of his generic mage energetic forms, but Alpha would see through that kind of disguise too readily. He needed something more complete: Achréiøs needed it to be believed he was someone entirely other than himself. To do that, the Mage had to think bigger.
Achréiøs let out a low exhalation as he began the work of constructing integral humanoid body processes within the Arcanum shell that comprised his physical body. While the Mage might have looked like a real boy from the outside, his internal structure was just as homogenous as the wooden Pinocchio, which meant that the redhead amounted to no more than a skin-bound blood-sac with semi-solidified Arcanum forming a skeletal structure in place of real bone. Muscle motion was a product of energetic fluctuations in the liquid Arcanum beneath the skin, which gave Achréiøs a real lack of physical limitations - it also meant that he didn’t even begin to read as a human, even to normal human senses. That had to change first.
From the center of his chest, the Mage set to work creating the precursors to basic mammalian anatomy: bone structure, a central nervous system, and a few key internal organs all began to form in the primordial soup of his Arcanum as he figured out his next step. The Mage needed more than a generic human shell to remain unknown, he needed a specific identity that would be believable. One related to him, that could be in-step with Fureya and Dragos, but one that would be assumed to be a new player on the game board, leaving the Mage himself within an unknown position, at least as far as the Tower was concerned. Further, a form that would be persuasive to Viers without making the Mage’s true identity immediately known would be best.
A small smirk spread across the Mage’s lips as he felt his overlarge-heart start beating. The organ started pulling Arcanum into the newly-created channels of his circulatory system, which were expanding and snaking their way through his limbs like growing ivy with each new pulse. At the ends of those vessels muscles were beginning to develop, spreading out over an skeletal system that was humanoid in construction, but nearly ten times as dense. Achréiøs knew exactly who he had to choose – the one other Arc who could, theoretically, still be living. An old ally of his that Alpha was aware of, who knew Viers, and who could believably be another recruit of his. The choice prompted a picture of the figure in question to enter the Mage’s mind, and that picture quickly began to change the development and arrangement of physical constructions, causing rapid external changes that, were either Fureya or Dragos around to look, would be somewhat unsettling.
Achréiøs began shrinking physically, his body becoming more compact, the musculature on it likewise becoming more pronounced. Generally, the Mage stood above six feet in height, but as muscle began to layer on bone beneath his epidermis, the redhead quickly shrank himself down to a height far closer to 5’8”, shorter than both Fureya and Dragos. Each of his limbs proportioned themselves appropriately in scale to this new size, and once they had, the somewhat-spindly, dense-but-thin-looking musculature normally seen on the Mage began to expand, thicken, and round, drawing into the distinct definition and hardness of a very well built form. As muscle changes began to solidify, the color of the skin covering them began to darken in tone, reaching a deep olive color that was significantly removed from the clear, nearly-transparent paleness normally inherent to the Mage.
The most startling changes for observers would undoubtedly be that the secondary characteristics of the Mage’s body and facial features began inverting from the prototypical masculine design they had always possessed. Achréiøs’ jaw softened and narrowed, his mouth growing smaller and more proportional to normal human standards. The set of his eyes and nose reduced proportionally and relationally as well, with his eyes narrowing into a half-squinted shape commonly seen in natives of Southern Azaleth and Akrathi deserts. His hair changed color, darkening to a blue-black and straightening to reach his chin at the front, but shorting to the base of his skull at the back, creating a swooping, jagged line far more sculpted and precise than had ever been seen on his head. Even as the Mage’s shoulders were widening and rounding, his waist was narrowing and tightening, creating a pinch-point between upper and lower body, the latter of which was also widening and thickening, his hips and upper legs swelling in size even as the finished decreasing in length. In both body and features, the Mage transitioned from appearing decidedly masculine to that of a more androgynous figure, and despite the level of development Achréiøs new musculature possessed, his facial features slowly developed a feminine cast that was difficult to ignore.
The strange disconnect in gender features only got worse as Achréiøs opened his now dark emerald eyes; it would be clear to onlookers that the Mage now inhabited a female form, if one that was built with more physical strength ability than most males could even hope to possess. The slight change in pelvic tilt and the sudden absence of a key biological appendage would seal any suspicions - that was if anyone happened to be looking right there for the few seconds that feature was changing before clothes began to appear, weaving themselves over the Mage’s newly-morphed form.
Achréiøs flexed and stretched as the changes were wrapping themselves up. Tactical, military-style black and grey pants and high, dense (and possibly armored) boots grew and stitched together from seeming nothingness on his (her?) legs, with a black, sleeveless vest of similar armored design to the boots (made out of textured scales in specific patterns) formed over her dense, not-very-femininely-endowed chest. Her arms were left bare, but the darkened skin that stretched over the peaks and valleys of her musculature was interwoven with dark ink that crept over her flesh like a rapidly-spreading infection, weaving black, snaking lines that writhed and converged into the shape of creeping, choking thorns. Fingerless gloves appeared over her hands, apparently the last piece of accouterment to be created.
The Mage smiled as she felt her internal viscera (that which mattered, for a digestive system had been entirely skipped) begin to function in earnest, the last of the liquid Arcanum shifting into either formed tissue or flowing through a well-defined bloodstream. Her heartbeat would echo through the room at first as it locked into slow, repetitive rhythm: with each beat, a low cast of energy would be released, filling the small space of the cache with small, tingling waves. In all respects, Achréiøs was gone: the form standing in that room did not look, sound, smell, or even feel like the Mage who had been there only moments before. Achréiøs smirked, a glowing emerald light flashing behind her eyes as she looked over her handiwork. It was a perfect recreation of a real, living person who had once followed the Mage into battle, and Achréiøs knew that there was nothing to give her true identity away.
The form would undoubtedly startle both of the Mage’s students, but when they looked upon this very unfamiliar body, they would be seeing one of the Mage’s most ancient students, the operative leader who had worked in contention to Viers himself long, long ago. This was the body of Es Kauvrian, a being lost by most of history, but still thought to be alive by most who could remember her.
Fortunately for Achréiøs and his designs, that was not the case.
Assuming the two had reassembled, having taken care of their own clothing malfunctions, the Mage would draw her green-lit gaze across both of them and smirk lightly, twisting her full lips into a mockingly-mirthful expression only slightly reminiscent of the real consciousness that had directed it. She spoke in a Southern Azalethian accent, her words deep but clipped, the decidedly-female vocal timbre not dissimilar to a lower, more-heavily-accented version of Fureya’s own vocal mannerisms.
”Meet Es Kauvrian. I’ll be your guest while we are in the city limits. Now, shall we?”
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Post by Dragos Syrkhan on Nov 6, 2014 13:52:22 GMT -5
Fureya's small inquisition indicative of confusion and--by extension--the following glance in his direction if it had existed, were ignored entirely by the Son. While he was doing well to play the part of resentful but adequately punished child, he'd be damned if he could simply snuff out every ounce of anger from its many sources, the Assassin's childish attack standing out largely among them. The best option then, for the both of them, was for him simply to act as if she wasn't there beyond her functionality in this sudden, new momentum their cozy little trio seemed to be taking. After all, too much lingering attention would only frustrate him more, and while it may have been the arrogance in his blood--questionably a genetic trait--that left little doubt of any resulting clash between them beyond this point, he wasn't exactly keen on doing so at the expense of yet another direct Arcanum attack by the Mage. Not that he'd receive another, generous warning that it was.
Turquoise eyes stilly upon the Mage and uniquely expressive of the melancholic calmness he succeeded rather well at maintaining for the moment, considering the otherwise chaotic climatic points of the interaction thus far, he listened, and waited through the Mage's momentary silence. That the elder being might have spent a second on reflection didn't readily occur to the Son, but the point was trivial. What mattered was the followed order, short and crisp. They were leaving, then. Both of them, and he could deal with that. Instead of pausing to consider the odd disconnect in his mind occurring in his mind at that very moment--that is, Fureya as a dysfunctional roommate versus Fureya as a functional teammate in a cohesive unit--he instead dwelled upon their destination and apparent purpose, lacking in explicit detail as it was. Eyes lifted again upon Achreios's minimal expansion on the topic, but his processing remained the same.
They were, it seemed, destined for Vascxious Sigma in pursuit of an individual named Viers, with which both Mage and Assassin seemed to share familiarity. Having no immediate recollection of the name himself, he pondered inquiring for further detail, but thought better of it. Presuming that Fureya had scampered off like an eager pup to follow commands and noting the Mage's attention to be vaguely withdrawn for the moment, he instead focused on what he had to work with. 'Viers,' whomever he may be, was unlikely to come willingly, given that it seemed he was in apparent hiding. Not to mention that someone jumping at the opportunity for a stroll outside their day's regular schedule in favor of the Mage's company, quite frankly, couldn't realistically exist. Being prepared for resistance was a top priority, then, and he spared only a second's glance to the table of the various bits and bobbles he'd been toying with upon Fureya's entry.
The second consideration: Vascxious Sigma. He'd been to the city, once, and only two things came to mind. That it was very cold beyond what the steam tunnels below it--in which the Cache itself seemed to be neatly tucked away in its integration--could heat, and served as an apparent hub of commerce despite this. There were a great many individuals in such a city, and that would work favorably for maintaining some degree of anonymity. A second more of consideration, and he'd decided on the appropriate choices to facilitate this as well. The only thing left was to clean up. He wasn't quite sure of why he then happened to glance up and in the Mage's direction, but he immediately wished he hadn't. Lingering long enough to witness a thoroughness of change that, while fundamentally none too absurd on paper, was all too nightmarish to shrug off without even the slightest of mental gags, he busied himself most hurriedly in direction his attention somewhere--anywhere--else.
Closing his eyes, Dragos let a slow breath calmly press itself from his lungs as he too brought his focus inward. Fortunately, though he scarcely spared a thought of it, the Mage likely wouldn’t throw a tizzy about this particular shift of attention, given its purpose. Leaning forward, his legs shifted beneath him so that he postured his rigid frame in a half-kneeling, half-crouching position. Already he could feel the burn within, and not the sort that his pseudo-sibling Arcanum bond with the Assassin would respond to. Instead, Active Magi within his core stirred into life with the direct purpose of increasing its corporeal temperature. Within the center of his chest a furnace of fleshly walls burned into life, but the Son’s response was not to mimic the agony of the pain he’d experienced moments ago. A notion he could not express with the limitations of language transitioned from thought to command, mirrored in the duality of his subtle and tangible bodies. His bond with an element that had evolved to be more than symbolic flexed in its newly kindled existence, and the heat at his core, appropriately fed and contained to reach white-hot temperatures, radiated outward slowly, and calmly. Mentally, he focused on his Arcanum, if only for the fact that it was a point that he could idealistically focus on, as it moved throughout his circulatory system. Rather than his blood boiling, however, Magi worked in harmonious concert with his will to see that the heat was fed only by his Magi--not his flesh--and moved throughout him rather than consumed him. As his skin began to glow red, slowly alternating to white, only then would the crisp scent of burning enter the air to burden the senses. The impurities both on the surface of his flesh and within the confines of his mouth sizzled and boiled before slowly evaporating into black vapor. In the case of his mouth, the stuff fumed from both parted lips and nostrils, contaminants escaping by whatever channels proved most convenient by his respiratory system. (One begs to ask, can a mixture of saliva, mucus, and Arcanum truly burn?)
Rising from his lowered position, his one article of frail clothing finally reached its flashpoint and, as if shattered by his movement, crackled apart in a glowing mess of ember and ash. Standing now, he blinked and spared his only outward observation of his body beyond its core in noting that the Arcanum was forced to do little to compensate for the heat that wafted off of him in waves, now; an improvement over when he’d last used his Magi in such a way, in facing the Amazonian Primoris. Granted, his mind wasn’t exactly distracted with the necessities of combat at this moment, either. Impurities burned away, it was with another breath that he allowed the effect to slowly fade, lessening to fuel to the furnace at his core’s incorporeal mechanism, and allowing it and by extension himself to cool. The degree of the heat that had actually escaped his immediate proximity was minimal by relative terms considering that within it, but there was no doubt some increase; he didn’t stop to consider that the Mage would mind his upping the thermostat, nor did he think such a minimal thing intrusive to the Mage’s own undertaking, disturbing as it was. He didn’t need to glance back to see the development, after all. He could swear that he heard it, and felt it as it happened behind him, and it was to his benefit that he had some idea of just how disturbing the image would be if he turned around that he resisted the instinct to protect his back from such a nightmarish terror.
Instead, finally cooled and stark naked, he stepped forth from the remnants of rising smoke and toward a small dresser located at the room’s far side, opening it to fetch its treasures within. In moments he stood in full once more to pull tight the last fastening of the harness strapped to his torso, its pair of bindings stretching tautly across his chest and abdomen. Leather, its key purpose seemed to revolve around a distinctly empty cylindrical holster at his back, its opening downward facing and angled toward his right side. Beneath this was a shirt of dark blue, thick enough in the density of its fibers to convince any curious enough to give it a second glance that it would warm flesh that otherwise had no use for it. Pants of gray and black boots with armored shins mimicking the functionality of the unknown being’s behind him if not the design rounded off the set, with the accessories being fingerless gloves connected to forearm guards of a tarnished, though solid plate of metal ending just below his rolled up sleeves. Reaching within the confines of the dresser once again, he fetched two objects, the latter of which he tossed aside for the time being. The first was a mixture of leather and plate resembling the exact--his own--design of his forearm and shin guards which he placed upon the front of his torso, hooking it neatly to otherwise redundant half-fastenings of the harness he‘d donned before. Small enough to stray far away from the pivotal portions of his shoulders and segmented to allow for free movement in his chest and abdomen, it emphasized flexibility rather than overall coverage, but his vitals were well and thickly protected. Mostly.
Turning now toward the table with his collection of gizmos, he concentrated rather heavily upon it, blocking out what he could of his peripheral as a no-doubt disturbing show continued to play out, made more so by a slowly setting heartbeat that Dragos was uncomfortably too aware of. As he neared the table, he reached out to wrap strong fingers around a short cylinder, barely more than a foot and a half long, that he lifted with a weight suggestive of a heavy, perhaps wince-inducing heft. Dull in color as it may be, its surface was complex with engraved ringlets encircling it at several points and, given its creator, these likely had little to do with design. The mystery remaining just that, he bent ever so slightly to reach behind him and secure the no-doubt weapon of blunt intent neatly and snugly into its holster at his back. Ah, that’s what that was for. Next, the mass of material loosely held in the grip of his left hand unfurled to reveal a dark cloak, which he lifted to wrap over broad shoulders and bind at the forward-most point of his collarbone, leaving its cowl collected around his neck and draping down the beginning of his back. Finally, pausing to collect himself before did so, he turned toward the Mage.
He blinked. That a change was occurring to achieve a difference in appearance was something that he had presumed, but the exact thoroughness of such a change was...disturbing, even for the Mage. Turquoise eyes looked over the mostly-complete form of what was formerly Achreios as the last of its attire collected itself into defined shape, narrowing at a face clearly unrecognizable to him. He spared only a slight thought at whether the face had been invented or belonged to another, but would put neither past Achreios. Es, rather, it would seem. Taking a step forward in boots that thumped slightly against the stone of the floor beneath them in comparison to the light tap of bare footfalls that he was accustomed to, he approached just enough to be within arms reach, and was only more put off by the fact that he now directed his eyes to look down upon the figure that stood before him. Yes, he got it. Achreios (Es) was taking lengths to establish an actual identity as this person, and not as the Mage in disguise. He gambled that if discovered, this form and identity would likely sought to be maintained, and he was informing the two of them of this. The question that put him off, however, was whether he was going to such lengths for the sake of the individual they sought, or to avoid eyes in Vascxious Sigma, and exactly what sort of eyes they may be to effect such a change.
“Anything else?” Clear instructions not to crush first, and ask questions later? A plan of attack, or priorities on tailing over that? Silently he waited, doing poorly in concealing the entirety of his disturbed state as he looked upon the ‘woman’ with a definitively quirked brow.
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Post by Fureya on Nov 6, 2014 23:21:31 GMT -5
The former Assassin's stance stiffened when the Mage issued his command: that quicksilver stare slid past him as her features settled into a hard neutrality. Perhaps neutrality was an inaccurate descriptor: she was incredibly unhappy with the turn of events and really wished that she'd just kept her little discovery to herself. Even as she mentally articulated it she knew how useless the desire was: she couldn't keep that kind of information from the Mage. Besides, Viers would have shown up at some point either way─ better now when she could take a limited amount of time to steel herself for the reunion than later when he might catch them all off guard. The Mage's follow-up was met with a barely-perceptible sneer as Fureya's stare cut swiftly to the floor. It was a highly unusual expression for the former Assassin─ not that she had many in her repertoire but anything resembling disgust or contempt was always expertly masked by decades of an existence where her survival was solely dependent on a highly restrictive emotional range. Really, her capacity to freely express herself was about as wide as Dragos' ability to smile, laugh, or do anything that didn't involve being consumed by rage─ in a word: nonexistent. What did it mean then, that Fureya was either unable or unwilling to veil her thoughts?
It was less like a scampering puppy and more like a skulking cat that Fureya departed their company, uncrossing both arms and turning on one bare heel fast enough to send the wealth of lengthy prematurely-greyed hair whipping 'round her shoulders in the closest mockery of a toddler's tantrum she'd ever come to─ viciously attacking Dragos aside because, let's be fair, he deserved it and more when she got a half a chance and slightly more privacy.
Once she was out of their collective sight the former Assassin moved silently and very quickly to where she knew there would be relevant armor and clothing packed away: there was a room several doors and a turn down the hallway from where the Mage kept his quarters. There was a blurriness to the edges of her vision that had nothing to do with the pervasive darkness of the Cache and, by the time Fureya had closed the door behind her, the first sob was already streaming out of her. The long, lean line of her body pressed flush to the solid weight of the frame before her legs gave out and wouldn't support her. It was with shaking hands that Fureya grasped the bend of each knee and buried her face against the thick of her thighs, letting each quiet sob rack her form violently. Fluid coursed down her face in a steady stream and, before long, her hands moved to cup her cheeks with fingertips forcefully raking through loose silvered strands. Her eyes squeezed shut as every muscle tensed and she stopped breathing. The seconds passed as her jaw clenched and it was only when her body started screaming for air and a release of tension that she finally allowed herself to slowly inhale, all of her going limp as the tears slowed. Both legs stretched their full length out in front as the back of her head met the heft of the frame less than gently. She needed to pull herself together. Achréiøs wanted her to venture out into the City.
She couldn't let her control of the Leviathan be compromised by that white-haired, condescending whelp of Celesin or by her own stupidity in presuming a bond stronger than base same-time, same-place dynamics between them. They were weapons in the Mage's War, aimed at whatever he marched against. Achréiøs' leashed monsters, and nothing more─ not to each other.
The heels of her palms dug against her eye sockets before Fureya shook her head and forced herself to rise.
A few grinding strikes sounded and a long match was lit─ a tiny flame in the very oppressive darkness of the expansive chamber she'd chosen─ and used to bring several sconces lining the walls to life. The contents of the room immediately caught the light and it was clear she'd marked her destination well: there was storage enough to outfit a small army. The former Assassin immediately stripped the light camisole from her upper body and balled it up, using it to wipe her face dry. If Achréiøs wanted them unrecognizable, that was fine by her. The City was the enemy to Fureya, Marked and Consort to Achréiøs, not Fureya of Tamryn. She, more than anyone, knew she couldn't chance being recognized anyway: Vascxious Sigma was very firm in their neutral stance in global politics, but that didn't mean all of its visitors observed the same standards. It would be just her luck that someone with a working knowledge of international bounties ran into them and realized who she was. There was also the fact that Virianus Devinian had personally met with her in Tamryn and, truthfully, he'd given her real reason to pause. She didn't want to be found in his City with no announcement of her arrival either. She had the distinct feeling the Magistrate would be sorely disappointed in her lack of courtesy. . . Really, what was she supposed to do? Let him know she was crashing for an indeterminate amount of time with a murderous figure from ancient History that may or may not be considering wreaking havoc in his City?
The former Assassin surveyed the room as she twisted her hair once, twice at the base of her skull and deftly braided the metallic lengths. There was a table nearby that drew her attention, one that happened to contain a few needle-sharp pins that could probably be used to maim if not kill. With the braid wrapped tightly a few times she pushed a couple of the pins into the mass of hair, securing it away from her face and making the striking color much easier to mask. The loose-fitting trousers fell to the floor with little persuasion and Fureya stepped out of them, her features settling into true neutrality as she regarded the mildly 'organized' piles of vesture and armaments. The Trade City was freezing on the surface and, although she wasn't affected by temperature, she would need to look like she was. After careful rummaging Fureya pulled a few dark-toned items with a few reflects of silver and set them on the table, peering over them for sizing and function. Once decided, there was no time wasted. The former Assassin pulled on what looked like two parts of a bodysuit─ both in black─ that could have been generic undergarments from any military or special operations unit in the history of Azaleth. The top was long-sleeved and tight enough to be considered compression gear: it definitively did her newly defined lean musculature some measure of justice. Next, a fairly well-fitted sleeveless vest in darkest grey slipped over her shoulders and a critical eye was given to the closing mechanism. It was a zipper, though Fureya didn't know the name for it. It took a bit of trial and error but she soon had it functioning, noting with a slight furrow to her brow that it might not have fit her very well about six months prior. She stepped over to a tarnished, but operational, mirror a few feet away to do a fit check, rounding her back and crossing her arms with a light swing first in front and then behind. There was a good amount of armor where she needed it as well as so many pockets and little details about the thing that she found appealing. The way it cut across her shoulders made it something she'd want to wear in warmer weather without the suit beneath it. Most of all, she appreciated the wide, tall, and circular collar that did much to hide the lower half of her face: it was the reason she'd chosen the piece. Circling back to the table she picked up a layering skirt in a slightly lighter grey that offered full range of motion in the way of dual splits on either side and a length that wouldn't be a hindrance and catch in her stride: when she put it on the length fell to just past the bend of her knees. Black leather gloves that covered to her upper arms were pulled on top of the sleeves. There was a design etched into them that sprawled the length of them that Fureya didn't recognize. Hopefully that meant no one else would be able to either. Another moment was spent searching and a pair of thick, light grey socks were coaxed up to her knees. A dark, woven belt was wrapped around her waist and cinched. Fureya went back to the mirror to examine her reflection carefully, taking the opportunity to wrap a charcoal-colored scarf fairly close around the lower half of her face, covering from just under those unnaturally hued eyes down to her neck, insuring a second layer of protection beyond the vest's collar. She wound the ends of the scarf upward, using the extra fabric to conceal her hair almost as an afterthought: her eyes were impossible to change and unforgettable by nature, but without the combination of silver hair perhaps they wouldn't raise any eyebrows. She turned immediately from her reflection, stopping at the table to pick up the pair of worked silver bracers she'd chosen in the original batch. They were beautiful, really, and─if she had to guess─ made for the forearm of a woman. The workmanship was delicate yet reinforced incredibly well. Later she'd probably wonder at their story. It took a moment or two to slip them on: her handspan was larger than whoever they'd belonged to though they ultimately fit quite well. Both hands flexed experimentally before she removed the last item she'd deposited on the table: a worn, but high quality duster that was utilitarian and vaguely militaristic in nature. It was all in shades of dark grey and black, which was partly why it had caught the former Assassin's attention in the first place. Fureya wasted no time putting it on, walking back toward the mirror as she did so. The garment was slightly larger in the shoulders than she wanted it to be, but the overall sizing was suitable. The wide cuffs at the sleeves and that the lower portion was split down the center back as well as down the sides definitely reinforced her confidence in the choice. Best of all, the coat had a sizable hood she could make use of.
Those unnervingly metallic eyes stared back at her as Fureya took one last long look in that mirror. The corners of her eyes were still red, but fading to normality as time went on. Otherwise there was no trace of any spent emotion on her features. The former Assassin stepped toward the large pane, watching her own movements closely, focusing on the liquid tension that smoothed every motion. Those eyes. . . They were empty, not just of the pinpricks of black that would mark them as human, but they were void of anything else. Alien. Unnatural. Without warning her right fist shot forward, punching hard enough to create an irreparable crater in that mirror. Those eyes watched as the cracks splintered outward, radiating from her clenched hand and distorting her reflection so that it was many empty eyes that regarded her.
The mirror hadn't softened her truth: she was hollow.
The Assassin stepped back, allowing the Leviathan to devour the tiny output of energy until the flames in the sconces died, leaving her in total darkness once more.
Fureya closed the door behind her, moving back toward the Mage and the other Marked. She stopped only once at the Mage's room to retrieve her boots and a pair of daggers that she then attached to the belt around her waist. On the way, she focused in on that haunting energy signature that still had her salivating, realizing that somewhere along the way Viers had found a way to silence his energetic beacon. Her teeth clenched until she realized the energy source had split into two: one very large and not suppressed at all, and another that was much smaller but very steady─ and moving further away by the second. Damn it.
By the time Fureya crossed the frame where Dragos and the Ma- The Assassin stopped dead in her tracks as “Es” introduced herself.
”Who the fuck are you?” Fureya's normally softly lilting accent was noticeably harsher.
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