[PRP] Sabotage (Muerte x Zeffer)

[kamileunaire]

Where: The forest around the Four Fronds.

When: Early evening.

What: A hunting party of highbloods is interfered with by Zeffer. Muerte follows along to see what can be salvaged.

It had only been a week or two since he'd returned from what had initially seemed to be a grand adventure. Parts of it had been good, yes. He'd made some new friends, and solidified old friendships, grown a little stronger with the training he'd received...but some things still haunted him. They scratched at the back of his head, bothered him whenever he happened to have a quiet moment to think. In the end the entire journey had felt like a lie, like they'd been baited into doing something they hadn't really agreed to.

Lately he found that he could not keep his mind off the topic of hemo-equality, the forgotten cause of the adventure, and the fact that trolls were being culled on a daily basis. For bad reasons? He couldn't really tell. Snakedad wouldn't talk about it. At the very bottom line, however, and very unknown to him, he was still just angry as ******** over the semi-disastrous outcome of the desert mission, and the unnecessary death of the mysterious jadeblood. Anger, confusion, guilt. It was heavy s**t, stuff he didn't quite know how to deal with yet. It wasn't the first time he'd contributed to another troll's death, but somehow seeing it first hand had caused something to snap.

Of course, that anger was going to be funneled right into destructive activities. A long bout of fair weather had hit the Fronds. It was almost summer time, and the only clouds to be seen were the gentle fluffy ones, the kind that didn't have a drop of rain or an ounce of lightning to spare. The boring kind. It sent Zeffer's agitation levels into overdrive, and he found his attention zeroing in on the violent spectacle that happened right in his hometown, on a regular basis; lowblood hunts. Hunting was hugely popular amongst the higher castes, and on some nights the chilling screams could be heard echoing out from deep within the forest. It had always rather bothered him, the whole aspect of it, but in the past he'd managed to put it out of his thoughts.

It was easy when he spent so much of his time traveling between the cities, chasing what bad weather he could...but with the lack of storms, and the residual bad feelings caused by his 'adventure', he'd been mulling about town more often, wandering through the resorts in an attempt to seek out entertainment. In the end he'd decided to do what he always did; ******** around with the highbloods. This time though, he was going to step it up a notch. If those ******** wanted to go after lowbloods, maybe they wouldn't mind if he leveled the playing field a little bit. Maybe they wouldn't mind going after someone who'd fight back. He'd show them hemo-equality...

Of course his logic was horribly flawed...but he was pissed, and the gross gossip of the trolls in the resorts never failed to get his blood boiling. They were always so proud of themselves, and for what? Hunting down and brutally murdering members of their own species? Lowbloods, who had blood the same color of so many of his friends. What a stupid thing to kill for...and yet, he felt himself yearning for the same thing. He could not ignore his own violent urges. Why not direct them towards something that seemed honorable? The hunted were never left with more than the clothes on their backs, or so he'd heard. Hardly seemed fair. Maybe he'd even be able to help one or two of them.

So, Zeffer had slowly developed a plan of sorts. As dim as he could be, even he knew he couldn't rush into such a risky endeavor with too much haste and unprepared gusto. He'd done the first thing that had come to mind, which was to observe and get to know the forest. It was a place he'd never really bothered spending much time in, because it was dark, useless for observing weather. Full of trigger happy, blood thirsty, a*****e highbloods. He'd been barked at once or twice, and had quickly realized that he'd need a good disguise. His horns were like beacons, so he began to wrap them in black cloth. He used product to slick back his mohawk, and on the nights he went out, he purposely colored his stripes to blend in with the rest of his hair, inky black. He made sure to wear his hood up, and keep his jacket zipped...on his forays into the forest, he was a proper little anon.

The next step was to find a target. That part was harder...but after a little over a week he'd been lucky enough to discover a group who frequented the forest quite regularly. Two purple bloods, and one blue blood. They were all friends, it seemed, and they were wilier than some who came out to play. While some trolls hunted in a random, helter skelter sort of way, the three he'd found actually bothered to set up traps, and coordinate their hunts. It was impressive, and he'd managed to locate several of these. Zeffer made it a habit to set them off or destroy them, and he'd hidden in a tree once to see their reaction, which had been fairly hilarious. Everything slowly fell together.

Tonight was the night. Tonight, he knew they were going to hunt, and he knew exactly where the traps they'd laid earlier were located. Except this time, he felt confident enough to actually attempt a confrontation of some sort. Hopefully, to directly interfere with their hunting. He hid amongst the trees in his usual disguise, though tonight he'd smeared black across his face. War paint. He watched, and waited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You know that weirdo has been following us back there since we got to the woods, right? I swear, if he tries to interfere..."

"Ehh, cool your jets, Cid. I've seen the guy around...if anything, he'll help."

"As if we need help from someone like him..."

The trio chatted amongst themselves openly as they made their way into the woods. As far as Four Fronds patrons (or residents, in this case) went, they were pretty average. Two purplebloods, one male, one female, and a rather beefy blueblood, who was grumping about a certain greenblooded someone who seemed to be trailing them. What nerve he had, but, if Vitarr said not to worry, there was nothing much he could say to disagree. The one dubbed 'Cid' shouldered his hammer and trudged along, clearing away underbrush for the other two. Their traps were set, and word was out that a fresh set of 'prey' had been let loose. Serana had insisted upon setting fewer this time around. How were they going to hone their skills if they were just gonna rely on pits and nets to keep their quarry still? She let out an obnoxious laugh at a joke made by her male counterpart, and reached up to pat the blueblood's arm.

"Yeah, he lives somewhere around here. I've heard some weird rumors, but I don't know if any of them are true..." the girl glanced back, trying to sneak a quick peak at their wanna-be stalker. Rumor had it that he liked to take the bodies, for whatever reason. If it was true, he was lucky, because neither of the three were in it for trophies. It was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. They'd been unlucky lately, however. Someone or something kept wrecking their carefully laid traps. It was really getting to Cid, who was undoubtedly the most outwardly aggressive of their little team. The dumb muscle, the tank. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement as Serana backed up Vit's reassurance, eyes narrowed, quiet now that they were getting deeper in. The other two hushed up as well, and kept their eyes peeled. The general plan of action was to spread out and try to flush the prey from its hiding place. Then they would work as a team to either injure and run it down, or herd it into a trap. Usually the lowbloods fled into the forest as deep as they could manage. Sometimes they had to back track.

"Alright. Spread out, look alive. Let's see what we can find tonight. Communicators on." Serana gave the others a smug grin before they each departed in a different direction. The trio was still a good distance from any of their traps...as well as the 'danger' lurking ahead.  

[Melancholies]

And what a horrendously grand adventure it was. More like a waste of time; he hadn't gained anything from the whole quest to find the jadeblood, and so here he was again, back in this trivial overly extravagant hellhole: Four Fronds.

His slightly off-white saw was hanging in his hand as the greenblood traversed the forest, one priority in mind: the hunt. The scientist was itching to get back on track, wanted to get back to doing productive things and not nothing like he had been. No, tonight he was going to get a body, and nothing was going to stand in his way. He was sick and tired of things coming up or distractions blossoming when he least expected it; alert now, on guard, ambitious.

So he goes along in stride, walking by the enormous white bark trees, walking with purpose through the fresh pink petals and stalks of grass. He'd lived in the forest for quite some time now; since he was a wriggle, and for as secretive and private as he was, Muerte had a good grasp on the familiar faces that came in and out of the forest, the ones who frequently hunted, the ones that always managed to be successful in their endeavors. Muerte quite enjoyed success, and lately he had found quite the triumvirate; two indigobloods, one blueblood. They didn't charge in like beastly neanderthals, waving their weapons around, blinding tearing into any lowblood they saw-- no, no. They had strategy, they had planning things out, and as such they almost always succeeded.

Or from the few times he'd observed, anyway. From such observations, he also found out they surprisingly weren't the kind of fools that took the corpses for trophies; more for him, he loved it that way. Muerte himself didn't have any qualms with killing on his own, but it was much easier this way.

There were no sounds. Everything was quiet in the dark light of the night; no birds chirped, the wind was holding its breath. The hunts had begun; no troll stirred, terrified of being caught, terrified of being spotted, terrified of having their cover blown. No clouds move; the canopy blocks them anyway. Only the muffled noise of dirt underfoot, only the quiet qualms of greenery smashed under his stoic boots. Muerte stops, head up, posture straight, cravat tucked in; he adjusts his glasses, and then carries on.

He knows nothing else about the trio, and he doesn't care to know any more about them. They were nothing but pawns to him, and in all sense of reality, he was the one watching it all. Thus, he hoped that the pawns would not fail him, for he was going to get a body out of this excursion either way, by whatever means necessary. He absolutely refused the notion that he would go back to his hive empty handed; nope, wasn't going to happen. He was going to get his way, and that was fact.

Muerte Perist got whatever hell he wanted.

Listening closely, he can hear the distant murmurs of the group, but can't really make them out. It doesn't matter, he doesn't care about their trivial gossip or whatever the hell they were going on about. Sneaking around the trees, he doesn't really care if they see him either, but he still makes a minor effort to stay out of the way. He wouldn't want to be a distraction here, now wouldn't he?

But then he see's them go to split up. Interesting, watching the pack of animals hunt for their prey; a smirk plays around on his face a little bit, watching the trio scatter... so very interesting. The blueblood staggers off one way, the indigo's flock off to opposite directions. The scientist has a choice here; obviously he couldn't keep up with more than one of them, so now he has a choose. It would be funny to watch that hulking blueblood fumble around, but he also might cause some trouble. That left the two purplebloods... what lovely choices.

The bonesaw light in his hand, he grips the handle. The fun was just beginning, and it would be so entertaining to see how it played out. Playing through a deliriously quick game of Eeny, meeny, miny, moe in his head, smirk still ever present, he takes off after the male purpleblood he saw only moments before.  

[kamileunaire]

As they went their separate ways, Vitarr had smiled at his female companion, unshouldered his bow, and reached up to flick on the earpiece that all of them wore. The range of the device wasn't huge, but it enabled them to keep tabs on one another while allowing them to remain quiet in the forest, and they worked like little walkie-talkies. It had taken a long time to attain the coordination that the three of them used, but it was well worth it; they almost never failed to make a kill on the nights they decided to pursue their sport, and it was keenly satisfying. It was all practice, of course, and not just fun. They were preparing themselves for the future, sharpening their senses and abilities for serving their planet in adulthood. Vitarr could practice on targets back at his hive on the lake as much as he pleased, but where else would he be able to hunt live prey than the forest? It was a lovely setup.

He reached back to remove an arrow from his quiver. It had been over a week since he'd last been out, and he was itching for a bit of action. Their hunts were different every time, and sometimes it only took one out of their three to dispatch a target. Almost always though, they tried to work together to take lowbloods down, and the task of slowing down or disabling their quarry often fell upon him, because he had the weapon with the longest range. Vitarr enjoyed his versatility and took pride in his marksmanship, and hoped that he'd be able to use it that night. He slowly made his way through the brush after they had forked off in three directions, going toward one of the net traps they'd set up. All three highbloods knew where and what kind of traps were set, as it helped in knowing where one or the other was, location wise.

There was still the question of who had been wrecking their traps lately, but it didn't bother the indogoblood that badly. Just about anyone could be doing that, whether it was other trolls or animals. It wasn't as if anyone was really following any rules in the forest, even if it was incredibly annoying to have to repair a ******** up net. He hadn't paid the greenblood behind him any mind either, even though he knew he was there. The other troll was staying out of the way, and that was enough for Vitarr. He was focused on the task at hand now though, and quickly coming on the clearing in which the net trap was situated.

It was one of those rare spots where the trees did not grow so close together, allowing one to see a tiny patch of sky overhead. A good spot to set up a trap, they had decided. Immediately though, he saw that something was wrong. <********>. Trashed again. The net portion of it lay shredded at the far end of the clearing, draped over some bushes with only a few of its securing lines reaching up into the tree where it was affixed. He sneered as he took a moment to observe before entering the clearing, the moonlight streaking down.

The sudden thrashing of the bush made him loose the first arrow of the night. It disappeared into the leaves, but no sound came, and the hunter was tense as he watched and listened, another arrow already notched on his bow. He dared not call out yet. Was there an animal in there, or a troll? His boots hardly made a sound as he crept forth....

If Muerte was still watching as closely as he had, he would be witness to a rather eerie sight. Just as Vitarr stepped up to his ruined net, down came Zeffer, having concealed himself in the cover of the darkened branches above. He was like a shadow in the moonlight, and he crashed down on the unsuspecting highblood in one fell movement. What Zeffer hadn't expected was Vitarr's seemingly lightning-quick reflexes. The hunter-turned prey had twisted back a split second before in order to loose his second arrow at his attacker. All of it had happened in moments and there was an explosion of movement and sound as the scuffle ensued.

Zeffer slammed down onto his opponent mere seconds after the arrow had embedded itself into his person. His infuriated shriek tore through the darkness, shattering the previous silence and opening the door for further noise to follow. Vitarr snarled as he was downed, and made to fight back as the other began to rain blows upon him. He was too proud to admit so, but the fact that he was ill-suited for close combat was painfully obvious. His hand shot up to use his communicator, but he was cut off as Zeffer struck him violently.

The attacking blueblood bashed a baton against the side of the highblood's head and the hand that had reached up for the communication gadget, dislodging it altogether. He'd left the electricity on his batons off, for fear of being tracked down later. They were just as heavy, just as dangerous as the blunt weapons they were, and he aimed to use them that way. Vitarr's wrist had snapped with that blow. The purpleblood had barely managed to disengage and climb to his feet before his pursuer was after him again, and he screamed at him angrily as he stumbled away, taking a vicious swing with his bow. All he needed to do was stay alive long enough for Serana and Ciddeo to get there. Unfortunately for him, things weren't going to play out that way.

After shoving in close, a debilitating hit to his jaw had sent the highblood stumbling back. He tripped and fell backwards into the bushes and everything afterwards was darkness. If anything, the bloodthirsty blueblood's killing method was quick. Vitarr was knocked out cold long before he would perish of a cracked skull, and it had happened fast, after the initial struggle.

Zeffer stood over the body, panting heavily. A purple-fletched arrow was protruding out of the front of the right side of his chest, blessedly further up, more toward his shoulder than the lung on that side. His brilliant orange eyes were glazed over with the haze of the fight, the adrenaline(or alternian equivalent) pounding through him so hard that the shot was little more than a pin p***k to him at the moment. He took a moment to catch his breath, and scanned the forest around them, listening for any movement at all as the blood seeped slowly from where the arrow had pierced him. He wondered if anyone had heard their screams.  

[Melancholies]

He had a good feeling about tonight.

The purpleblood he pursued after seemed reliable enough; the most competent, anyway. The other two would probably fair well enough on their own, Muerte knew, since he had been watching the group for some time now; scoping out their talents and weighing the pros and the cons. Lately someone seemed to be messing with their traps, which meant that he may be out a body, but at least he was competent and was completely without morals.

In the dark, a serrated edge to the back of the neck would be most unfortunate.

And while he hoped it wouldn't come to that, he wasn't going to go home tonight empty handed.

Still, he hoped they would preform their task with ease tonight. It was interesting to him that he found a group so intent on hunting, and yet not taking the body, their prize. It was a disgusting notion to use them merely for trophies, but to kill for spilled blood made them nothing more than inane animals. A whole pack of intelligent killing machines, and yet they slaughter for the sport. He had a much more thoughtful use for the deceased; he made these nameless, unfortunate things into glorious fountains of knowledge. Things to be tested and used; but it was for the grater good, was it not?

Yes, it was so far better. It was a shame that such 'noble highbloods' would be on the same level as mere mindless animals. They were a pack who sought the hunt and thirsted for blood, but even the animal killed for purpose; animals did not kill for fun. Such was invented when brain and thought evolved— the trollian race, a wasteful legion. If there was anything any of them were good at, it was slaughter.

Which was alright, he had to suppose. While he did not mind getting his hands coated in a wash of blood, he also wasn't the most physically fit troll. His more slender frame and deteriorating eyesight led for someone who was not very well fit for combat; he made due. He was intelligent and smart and worth much more than the brawler. It was true that others held strength; the entire race did, but did they have strength and his competence? He'd think not. He was truly above them all, even if they didn't realize it yet.

His boots crunched into the soft earth as he stopped mid-step. Something seemed off. He had been following the indigoblooded individual with a strict calmness, but for a night of intended murder... the air was quiet. The air too was calm; he, as a doctor of death, was not one to be rattled by the eerie atmosphere, and yet something seemed to undeniably wrong.

He hadn't heard the footsteps of the purpleblood for a small while now.

Interest piqued, the scientist hurries along to see what just might of happened, saw gripped tightly in his gloved hand. Something about the cool night air seemed more heavy and hazy now, more of a distraction than something that should of been refreshing. The wind refrained.

Ah, but the silence never lasted. Muerte knew this, the silence never lasted. The quick whip-whistling sound of an arrow piercing the air caught his attention (he always did rely more on sound than sight) and as he approached the source he was met with an unexpected scuffle. The thick underbrush granted him an element of surprise and cover, and as such he hung back.

It was funny; he was more... amused than anything. The sight made his heart race, his eyes widen; adrenaline flowing— even though he wasn't involved with the fight, it was always wonderful to watch to animals brawl to the death. It was like a dance almost; a deadly dance, but also an exhilaration performance. He might of applauded if not for the circumstances.

Of course it's over almost as soon as it began. The purpleblood he had been so confident in before now lay on the ground, battered and presumably dead. The other troll was wounded with the mark of an arrow, lodged close to his shoulder. It was a tragedy the arrow had not struck true; how entertaining would it of been if the prey turned dead, too? A tale of interlopers, body on body, dead on dead with blood mingling in the filthy dirt where it belonged.

Well, there was something pretty about blood. Perhaps it didn't belong on the ground.

But the glazed splatter was intoxicating enough. His senses were intensified by the adrenaline, and as he gripped the saw— light as a feather now— he tentatively stepped into the open, showing his presence to the (presumably lowblooded) individual. He was confident that he could take the winner down if he decided to strike; he was already wounded, and Muerte had the blissful clarity of thought. He didn't have any intetions of fighting, anyway. All he wanted was the priceless body; a highblood, to boot. Truly the night had turned out to be much more splendid than he thought.

He stopped a few yards away, although he didn't have plans to wait for long. The only problem was there was still an angry, probably blood-crazed forest dweller standing over his prize. He'd dealt with forest-trolls before though, and he would deal with this one too if it came to that.

"Bravo," he congratulated with a certain arrogance only natural to a pretentious picture like himself, "That was truly spectacular."  

[kamileunaire]

How Zeffer had failed to notice Muerte earlier, or on any of the other occasions on which he had been watching the hunting trio, was a mystery. Perhaps it was just coincidence, or his heavy preoccupation with destroying the traps and going unnoticed. For whatever reason, he had never caught sight of the greenblood, had never given him the chance to take the prize of the trio's hunt, once his meddling had been under way. As he stood gazing down at the body he felt hyper aware of everything, the pounding of his blood-pusher almost loud enough to drown out any other sound. He was a churning mix of emotions, horror and euphoria and a horrifically sadistic sense of victorious satisfaction. He was so distracted that, when the unfamiliar voice called out through the dark, it startled him. He was snarling before he could think to do anything else, head jerking to the source, eyes locking on the figure standing a ways off. His black-streaked face was splattered with purple blood, barely visible in the dim light.

"Who are you!? Are you with them!?" The grip he had on his batons tightened and he panted softly, only then seeming to register exactly what the newcomer had said. Well, that made his question a stupid one to ask, but if that wasn't the case, who the ******** was he? Zeffer swallowed, still trying to catch his breath as he gave Muerte a once-over, taking quick note of the saw in his hand. Was he going to have to fight him, too? Despite the arrow sticking out of his shoulder, he still felt energized by the vicious act he had committed moments ago. His first deliberate kill. But, Muerte's presence made him feel vulnerable as well, and unease began to grip him. Someone had witnessed what he had just done, and who knew what his relation to the whole situation was? They wouldn't have all night to loiter; no doubt the highblood's friends would come poking around eventually.

"No." He whispered gruffly, answering his own question. The pride that dripped from the greenblood's speech did not sit well with Zeffer, and after a moment he posed a hopefully more fruitful inquiry. "What the hell do you want? Are you a hunter? Don't think for a second that I won't do the same thing..." He turned to face Muerte, putting himself between the greenblood and the corpse, standing tall, arms spread slightly, a manic grin spreading across his face. He was ready to fight, but as he started to come down from his adrenaline high, the ache and sting of the projectile lodged in his person became more and more noticeable with each passing second. It was in there pretty damn deep. His teeth remained bared as he waited for answers, tense and ready to move if the stranger tried to pull any fast ones on him. He hadn't done all that work just to be picked off by a shrimpy buzzard like the greenblood, who was praising him as if he'd done him a favor. A soft growl left him, subconsciously urging Muerte to answer his questions as he gritted his teeth against the pain.  

[Melancholies]

Ah, now that was an enjoyable sight. Seeing the other with such a manic grin, gripped so tightly by his own bloodlust. All of these goddamn animals, and here was Muerte, above the, all. It was grand— glorious even— to watch mortals lose themselves to such mindless violence, to watch these craven creatures blossom and retaliate and suddenly turn to their fists and their weapons and the mere rush of blood through their own veins; he could relate, yes, but he had control over the initial rush. It was a powerful thing to harness, especially in the right hands.

But as he looked at the crazed blueblood, he knew he was also playing with fire. It was dangerous to antagonize someone already so enraged, but it was also a guilty pleasure that the greenblood couldn't help. Fire burned, but fire could also be contained. He had an assuming stance, confident— perhaps too confident— but nevertheless assured; the saw in his hand felt less like a weapon and more like a plaything as the entire scenario unfolded more and more like some sort of sick game. A smug grin spread across his face like a disease born to infect and borne to kill; should he humor the questions? The blueblood had done him a favor, after all, and they didn't have all night. It would be better to hurry up this twisted merriment.

"I'd rather not associate with such barbarians," he said with a certain emphasis, stifling a snort as if to completely brush the blueblood off (not that he had), "Think a little harder, blueblood, I would of picked you off without any hesitation if I was 'with them'."

He began a slow stride, starting a wide circle around the assailant. He seemed to perk a little more at the second string of questions, at least they weren't as glaringly obvious and stupid. He had to admit that he was a bit curious himself; why would this blueblood attack the hunter? What reason? Bad blood? He could almost laugh; revenge was a hilarious thing if that were the case. At the very lease, the purpleblood had seemed smart while the blueblood remained an impulsive enigma. He wouldn't of been surprised in the least.

He pushed the rims of his glasses back up on his face, "Hunter? I prefer to be called opportunistic."

He halted his quiet stride, growing bored suddenly with the threat. He gave a lazy glance at the arrow still protruding from his shoulder, knowing that the longer he prolonged this the more tired the other would grow from the wound; but also the bigger chance that they'd get found. An already injured troll was no problem in his mind, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to handle the brute force of the other two. He held the saw up, the pale bone catching what little moonlight shone through the tree.

"What the hell do I want?" he echoed quietly, regarding the other with a certain contradicting (or perhaps complementing) poise, "Why, the body, of course."  

[kamileunaire]

Zeffer watched the grin spread over Muerte's face and his heart slowly began to pick up its rate again, wondering how battle-ready the greenblood was. He was still panting heavily, his teeth parting slightly as he tried to catch his breath while Muerte answered his initial quandry, the one he'd answered himself. Well, that much was true, he supposed. If Muerte had been lurking around back there the entire time, it would have been sickeningly easy for him to have snuck up from behind. The thought gave Zeffer goosebumps, and a quiet growl left him as Muerte began to move.

The circling path Muerte took caused Zeffer to renew his defensive stance. He hissed softly though, when he realized that it was becoming somewhat difficult to raise his right arm, for obvious reasons. His blood was beginning to drip out along the shaft of the arrow, and he cursed beneath his breath. It was getting really hard to ignore, and he realized suddenly, with embarrassment, that he was afraid to touch it, letalone try to pull it out. What if it had hit something important? What if he ******** up and made it worse? He swallowed hard and looked up again as Muerte continued to explain, thankful of the fact that he stopped his pacing. The movement had almost been enough to make the blueblood charge, but as douchebaggish as the greenblood's demeanor seemed, he didn't seem as if he was after a fight.

"The body?" Zeffer echoed him in turn, his nose scrunched as he glanced back. He'd planned on leaving it there, no sense in doing anything with it, afterall. "What the ******** for? You didn't kill him." Zeffer relaxed somewhat, letting the arm of his injured side hang down for a moment. His thought process was stuck somewhere along the lines of trophy collecting or...worse. Did this crazy b*****d want to eat the corpse? He sort of doubted it. The more he watched Muerte, the more he had to wonder; what was up with the coat and the gloves? He'd only ever seen anything vaguely similar worn by adults before, but he hadn't lingered long then to find out what such garb was for.

"To be honest I'm a bit of an opportunist myself." Zeffer couldn't help but sneer as an idea came to him, making no effort to hold back the sassy tone his voice had adopted. "If that's what you want it isn't gonna be for free. You gotta help me out, too." A short snort of a laugh escaped him as he raised his good arm, flipping the baton in his hand in a sort of subconscious fidgety way, always managing to catch the handle end.

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

The sight of blood was always a welcomed sight for the scientist; he regarded the flesh wound with a lazy look. He was more a man of science than a doctor, but the field of medicine still gave him a certain amount of interest— if only because it enabled him a certain amount of power— and he was very good with what he did. By no means was he perfect, but he still held himself to a certain degree of flawless; idly, he wondered if the arrow was tipped with poison— how long until infection would set it? It would be awful to see it go untreated, but then again, it wasn't his problem, now was it?

Ah, and what did he need the body for? It wasn't even day that the scientist got the chance to tamper with a highblood body; the majority of the bodies he managed to swipe were merely lowbloods that had been unlucky enough to be picked off in the hunts. His eyes gleamed as he turned his attention from the arrow wound to the corpse on the floor, bathed in a pool of rich purple that would soon he his. Forget trophies, he was doing this for the betterment of science.

He brought his eyes back up to make contact with the blueblood, of which was still as volatile as ever. He wouldn't bother trying to explain what it was he wanted with the body, as it was really none of his concern and it wasn't something so easily explained. The blueblood probably wouldn't even understand, let alone care; that was the problem, was how no one cared about the sciences and medicine and his affiliations. They were all savages— standing above bodies like animals at the kill— none of them caring about the things that actually made life work or tick like a clock because what was time to a beast?

Suddenly there's a shift in attitude. The blueblood has a cocky sort of grin; maybe he had some fight left in him? Muerte had to give his race credit at times. For the savages they were, at least they were built for it; damn hardy creatures that were built for brawn. Most of them anyway; he himself was not built for fight, but he was intelligent, and that was what got him through the majority of his trails— problem solving— something people of his race didn't stop to actually think about.

But here was this blueblood, flipping the situation around. Maybe if he was humble he would credit the crazed individual, but instead the greenblood just wears a distasteful frown, eyes settling into a narrow sort of glare. Muerte Perist wasn't one to extend himself for favors, nor was he one to help out others either.

At least, not without gain, and he did want that body.

The wall he suddenly threw up around himself was fairly obvious, distrust apparent now if it wasn't before, "Help you?" his grip tightened on his saws handle, "I'm afraid I can only do so much."

Which was true; his skills stopped short of science and medicine, "Unless you're talking about that unsightly protrusion in your shoulder," a pause; he did like a chance to practice what he studied, "In which case, perhaps there can be some sort of a... compromise here.

Regardless, it probably wasn't a good idea to stay here for much longer.  

[kamileunaire]

Zeffer watched Muerte as the greenblood seemed to mull over his offer. In his half-crazed state, even he hadn't been sure what he might have asked of the other troll in return. His smirk sharpened as the other troll looked up, the moon glinting off of his glasses eerily as he met the gaze undaunted. A subconscious show of dominance, he didn't break it for a moment, unwilling to 'back down', as it were. The unanswered question hung in the air like the stink that would soon accompany the body behind him, but Zeffer left it alone. There would be plenty of time to bother the greenblood about it later, because they couldn't risk hanging around long. It was probably a miracle the other two hadn't come. They had found other prey, perhaps, and Zeffer hoped it would hold them.

Muerte's change in demeanor after the situational flip garnered a snorting laugh from the blueblood, as he regarded the little glare that showed up on the other's face. He was about to make another sass-mouthed comment before his injury was being referred to. "You could help with this?" Zeffer asked, trying hard to mask the sudden hopefulness in his voice. It was sort of pathetic; he could deal with all manner of cuts and gashes, but this was the first time he'd ever had to deal with a ******** arrow sticking out of his shoulder. First time for everything, right? Anyone would be freaked out. "We should discuss terms somewhere else. I dunno where the others are." He mused, turning his head to look out into the forest. No sounds apart from the usual hum of the natural night life. Zeffer's gaze quickly shifted back to the corpse.

"Where are you planning on taking this?" He looked back up to Muerte as he tried to shift gears. The pain was getting real and all of the blueblood's jokes were starting to seep out of him along with his energy, it was time for business now. He was tempted to ask how a shrimp-a** like Muerte could haul a body out of the woods (assuming he did so on a regular basis), but as before, he held back, simply waiting for a response. He looked about ready to lift the body up himself.

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

He had him. It wasn't every day that someone came by with the knowledge of how to tend and care and heal. For a self proclaimed Doctor of Death, he was surprisingly good at saving such meager lives; it was simply that he did not usually care enough, or that there wasn't something in it for him. Muerte was not a generous being, and really he was one to spit at the dying rather than lend a hand. Manipulation ran thick in his blood; he only did things to better himself. That's what the basis was for this forsaken society, was it not? Fending for yourself and bending to the whim of people born better than you. It was a good thing the scientist was isolated so far away, and also a good thing that the highborn did not waste their time living and trifling in an overgrown forest. This place was no more than a novelty and a place for sport; even he had to admit he'd probably be culled rather quickly since he wasn't one to hold his tongue. Pity, but the point was he was alive and better and it was because he worked for what he had, not because he was born with it.

That wasn't to say he wasn't naturally gifted as well, of course, because he so obviously was.

Regardless, he knew the blueblood would have a hell of a time dealing with the arrow on his own, and while Muerte wasn't an expert in the field of arrow wounds... he was far more competent than most. The blueblood had a point though, and the silence hung heavy on his mind like a heavy weight; he wouldn't be able to deal with the brute force of the other two highbloods, and they were due at any moment. For a moment he considered simply leaving the blueblood to the mercy of the others, or should he get away then to the mercy of the inevitable infection. Getting away, only to be brought down by such an easy fix; how droll.

But the fact of the matter was that he was cutting a deal, and while the greenblood was a sly fellow, he was also honorable and held himself true to the things he said or offered. Adjusting his trademark blood-green cravat, he lowers his saw after a moment and looks around in a brief survey, "We've wasted a bit of time, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't suspicious by now." he remarks back, looking over the corpse. He was merely weak. Fend for yourself, it was live or die in these wretched games. At the very least, it was fun to be a front-row spectator to the lives and drama and bloody mischief that unfolded around him.

He cleared his throat, "Back to my hive, of course," he said matter-of-factly, pausing briefly "Now make yourself useful, you still have one good arm." he said with a certain... gleam in his eyes as he motioned to the body, almost in a bored manner. Usually he was one to haul the bodies back out of the forest, as he obviously was the only one... but it was true he was not so physically endowed, so while he usually had no problems with carrying the corpse, he didn't much feel like making himself out to be a weak fool struggling with a limp body.

"You can carry the body, can't you?" he asks in a way that leads on to mockery, but perhaps also in a way that part of it was actually genuine.

Kamileunaire

 

[kamileunaire]

Zeffer had his reservations about the situation he was in, and he knew he was going to have to use caution. The greenblood was a complete stranger after all, and even though they were making an agreement, it wasn't going to make him lower his own guard. He wouldn't give a second thought to pummeling the little doctor-troll if he tried anything weird, but he rather hoped it wouldn't come to that. He was getting tired, he hated to admit, and a second fight would be taxing. As Muerte lowered his saw, he lowered his batons, and hooked them to his belt, already having to be careful with his injured side. Every movement he tried to make sent jolt of pain that radiated out from the wound, and he had to force himself to focus.

"I'm surprised they haven't gotten here already." He said offhandedly, and then paused at the greenblood's words. He couldn't help the laugh that escaped at the nerve the sassy ******** had, smirking like a shark and moving around the body as he took a second to decide how he was gonna haul it up. Zeffer certainly hadn't imagined he was going to have to touch it again, and suddenly, his throat tightened and nausea gripped him for a moment. He had killed this ********, hadn't he? Sucking in a deep breath, he scoffed and stooped to grab one of the purpleblood's wrists, draping it over his arm before standing back up. He'd deserved it, anyway, Zeffer reminded himself.

"Better than you probably could, shrimp-a**." He snarked in return, careful to hold the body in a way that wouldn't disturb his wounded side too much. Once he was confident that he had a secure hold, he began to move toward Muerte, his eyes fixated on the greenblood. Any sign of trouble, and he was poised to either drop the body and fight, or perhaps even use the body itself, whatever works. "Lead the way." Zeffer sneered a little as he got closer, able to see the greenblood more clearly now. The blueblood himself was still a sight to behold, with the black paint smeared across his face and the cloth draped over his curving horns. He readjusted his grip, shifting the body slightly and hoping that the other's hive wasn't too far away.

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

The greenblood was a bit too cocky for his own good. While caution was something he still had, it was more or less directed at the possibility of the other able-bodied trolls showing up. The blueblood was a concern, yes, but he was also injured with a corpse. Muerte had a certain assurance that the troll wouldn't try anything, knowing that the wound must feel taxing by now, working it's subtle magic that would soon leave the other drained and hurting. What a better motivation than pain?

He gave the injured blueblood a certain look at the laugh, not quite sure of what to make of it. While he wasn't above the occasional snort of laughter, it was almost always sarcastic or set as a sneer. He paid no mind to the smirk, watching as it suddenly melted off of his face when he turned to regard the corpse, wondering what exactly was going through the bluebloods mind at that time. Why the hesitation? He had killed the purpleblood, hadn't he? The tension dissipates when he finally stooped down to pick up the body, offering a snort about time before he gives the area a quick look around in an effort to gather his bearings.

Offering the forest a quiet whistle, it doesn't take too long before he catches sight of something white moving through the pink-petaled trees. While he wasn't graced with the gift of flight, his featherbeasts were, and anything was visible from the starry skies. He shoots the blueblood a narrow glare at the remark, but keeps his composure rather than devolving into mindless arguments. Still, the anger simmers and suddenly the saw feels heavy in his hand again, but he chokes the urge to swing or let out a remark of his own. Still, he lacked patience and wouldn't hesitate to talk back if it happened again.

He remains eerily quiet, even as Zeffer tells him to lead them off. His eyes are still poised at the treetops, watching as the flash of white appears again before subtly taking off. His featherbeasts always knew how to get back home, which was helpful when he didn't feel like taking the time to map out this forsaken forest. Additionally, such lofty small creatures were commonplace and didn't arouse suspicion; if anything, it was for the small feathered creatures that he even felt an ounce of what might me remotely considered love.

But there was a certain amount of adoration there. He started walking in that same silence as before, occasionally glancing up to make sure he was still following the tiny bird, wondering how far out he was this time. He didn't bother to look back at the blueblood, only settling for the sound of his footsteps to know he was still following, wondering if the troll would reach his breaking point and give into the pain and exhaustion. Thankfully, the trees start to clear after so long, and he stops to stare at the derelict hive before him, crumbling and cracking and looking relatively uninhabited. The featherbeast escort that he had the pleasure of following hops and glides from the trees, returning to some place within the hive thanks to the many dreary holes in the building from time and age.

"We're here." he announces, rather unenthusiastic. He doesn't care if the blueblood ran off now; he couldn't get very far with the body as it were.

Still, he carefully walks up to the doorway, ignoring all the clutter inside and the chorus of chirps from the newly-awoken featherbeasts. Files and cabinets made a labyrinth inside of his hive, but it was such a familiar sight that he paid it no mind. The stairs were his priority, since they led to his laboratory, and idly he wondered if the blueblood was capable of the flight. Surely if he had made it this far, he could bear to go a little further. No words of encouragement here, the scientist merely ascends, assuming the blueblood will follow him.

Kamileunaire

 

[kamileunaire]

Zeffer's eyes roved over the greenblood's form when he was close enough. So short, so neatly dressed, so very strange to meet someone like him out in the woods. Neither of them could have known of the other's caution, but the blueblood was reassured as his saw-wielding acquaintance turned to lead them away, making no other effort to speak, though the comment about having 'one good arm' lingered in his mind. It made him grin dimly as the greenblood lead them away, and he began to wonder how far it would be, how well the greenblood knew the place.

He didn't have to wonder for long. Zeffer blinked at the whistle, and it took him a while to glance up himself, squinting as he caught sight of the fleeting white shapes above them. Birds? Oh, how badly he wanted to speak then, and ask questions, but his throat was dry, and the silence of the forest had settled over them so quickly that he thought better of it. He chewed absently on the inside of his lip, trying to force his thoughts onto what was happening rather than the pain in his shoulder, which was getting progressively worse the further they went. He could feel the blood seeping out still, thankfully slowed by the bolt that was still lodged into his flesh. He listened to the hum of the forest, and the soft crunch of their boots on the forest floor, sucking in deep breaths.

Muerte's pondering would receive a negative answer; Zeffer would not succumb to his injury, and managed to make it all the way to the greenblood's hive. He did stumble once or twice, and readjustment of his hold on the corpse was required several times, but he kept up, hardly making a sound as they went along. It was an almost unnatural state for Zeffer, who was used to talking constantly himself, but the quiet fit the occasion, he supposed. It was a deep relief when the forest finally began to thin out, and he squinted against the moonlight as they stepped out into the clearing of Muerte's shaggy lawnring, brows raising as the decrepit structure came into view. Cool was the first word that popped into his mind, of course, and he only gave a short grunt of acknowledgement as the greenblood made his obvious announcement, more than ready to dump the body wherever he was asked to do so.

Zeffer's heart rate sped up just a little as the door was opened, and he tried to bite back the grin that threatened to spread across his face. Long time since he'd been inside a complete stranger's hive without having broken into it forcefully. He followed behind Muerte, his eyes darting this way and that as he tried to take in as much of his surroundings as he could. The place was almost as messy as his was, and his curiosity burned badly. The greenblood probably wouldn't take well to snooping, though, so he did nothing but follow behind, taking just a bit longer to climb the flight of stairs. Almost there, he told himself, and then he remembered the deal they had made and his heart leapt into his throat for a moment. Was it going to hurt to get the arrow removed?

"Where d'you want this damn thing?" He finally asked, panting as they ascended the stairs. Couldn't they have left it downstairs?

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

The laboratory was, at least compared to the rest of his hive, messy rather than a clutter. While the area generally seemed kept up (most of the work tables clean, anyway) papers and files still remained strewn about the premise, collecting piles like dust would. It wasn't so much as the fact that his work was thrown about, so much as the fact his lab was home to a number of featherbeasts, each one chirping or sleeping or preening, some hopping about. First thing first; the scientist pulls on a lever, the mechanism causing a small skylight on the ceiling—the only window in the room, actually—to open, allowing a majority of the noise creatures to flee into the night. How he loved his birds.

But there would be time to fawn over them each later. Glancing over his shoulder, he was pleased to see the injured blueblood had managed to haul the body up the stairs. While Muerte himself had done such an act many times before, it was exhausting, and he had to give the troll an ounce of credit for being able to accomplish the task through the blood loss and injuries, not that he would voice it (or if he did, it would be far more sarcastic and mocking). He wondered how well the troll would receive the pain when he removed the arrow, which probably was going to be far more painful than the actual wound itself.

The question was received silently as Muerte took his time scanning the lab, tutting quietly as he thought. Thankfully it doesn't take too long for him to approach a table, sweeping off some of the aforementioned files to the floor without so much of a second thought before pointing curtly to the newly cleared space, "Here."

Strictly business, the greenblood doesn't wait to see if he complies or not as he walks over to a cabinet, rummaging through the various (some questionable) paraphernalia, digging out scissors and gauze and disinfectants and various low-grade topical anesthetics, not that the latter would help much in the long run, but the scientist lacked anything stronger. There wasn't much point in having high strength anesthetics when you were mostly operating on the dead, anyway. At least he wasn't short on surgical sutures.

"I do hope you're not squeamish," he mused aloud. At least this troll had killed another, so he held a certain hope that the blueblood wasn't, but wounds placed on one's own person sometimes garnered different reactions than the blood spilled from others. Turning to the other as he changed his gloves out for another pair, the scientists voice is strangely accommodating, "Please, have a seat." there were plenty of chairs, anyway, for someone as solitary as himself.  

[kamileunaire]

Zeffer was panting pretty heavily when they finally reached the top of the stairs. Even though it had only been a flight or two, it almost felt as if he'd had to climb a mountain. If it weren't for the fact that the blueblood lead such an active lifestyle, he never would have been able to accomplish the task of dragging the corpse the distance to Muerte's hive. Arriving at the upstairs lab presented new and welcome distractions from the pain of his wound and the growing weariness of his mind. Zeffer couldn't help but wonder what all the papers were for, but the birds drew his attention the most; he turned his gaze uwardsp to watch the skylight open, grinning faintly as they fluttered up into the sky before disappearing in the night. Very interesting. Were they all the greenblood's pets?

It didn't take long for his mind to return to the situation, and to the weight that he was eager to rid himself of. When Muerte finally indicated a place for him to deposit the body, the blueblood moved over to the spot without a word, ignoring the other as he went to dig around in his cupboards. The stormchaser was too out of it by then to pay much attention to detail; the body went down on the table with a thud, and that was that. Zeffer didn't think or care to arrange the limbs so that they weren't splayed out or hanging over the edges, and once he was done he turned back to Muerte, a faint grin on his face.

Muerte's question garnered a snort, and he stepped over to sit heavily in the chair, glad to get off of his feet for a moment. He reached up to brush his hood back, and tugged the wrappings from his horns, eyeing the greenblood as he pulled his gloves on. "Nah. Not me. So uhh...how is this gonna work?" He asked, glancing down again at the bolt that he'd managed to ignore for so long. The sight of it sticking out still made his head swim a little, but it wasn't so bad. The greenblood was gonna fix it, wasn't he?

"By the way...name's Zeffer. What do I call you?"

melancholies