Welcome to Gaia! ::

They waited in the dark, chittering, skittering sideways. He could see their eyes, rows upon rows, all fixated upon him. Although the larger ones were bigger than his head, they ran rather than fought. But for the few brave souls among them, the Plague wielded his scalpel true. Praetor sliced deftly, catching the legs of one, sending its brothers back further. Mandibles clacked. The skittering grew fainter. He found himself disappointed that they ran. Such spiders were simply not good fencing partners, he supposed. But they were all he had and the Plague was nothing if not good at 'making do'.

His hand twinged as he gripped Praetor more tightly. The metal gleamed dully in the near-dark; his cut had broken open. He could feel the blood slide down the scalpel's shaft and, irritably, he switched hands. Reaching into a hidden pocket, he retrieved a tiny piece of gauze and proceeded to wrap it round his palm. As he attempted to tie the knot, something came barreling down at the Plague, knocking him flat and sending his scalpel flying. The fetid breath of a huge rat washed over his face. He bucked, fiercely trying to push the horrid vermin off.

"No!" he yelled, trying to scare the bulky thing with noise. "Get off of me!" The heavy rat smelled of unwashed privies and stale food. The Plague raked his hand down the rodent's face, the sharp tips of his fingers drawing a thin line of blood from the creature, but that only seemed to inflame it more. Its gnashing teeth nipped at his arm and he pressed his hand outwards, trying desperately to fend off the rat. He growled, face twisting into a frown. This was no longer sport.

The golden Plague wasn't entirely sure what happened. In one sudden movement, the rat heaved itself off of him, squealing loud enough to deafen even ancient kings. It had found a new target. He scrambled quickly to his feet, straightening his robes with a quick snap of fabric and a snort of disgust. He could feel the dust marring the deeply purple folds, dulling the gold bands of embroidery and he sighed. Over the rat's bulging shoulders, he saw another Plague, or what he supposed must be one, for it had eyes fair like his. It was dark and the blue eyes and chiming of bells were his only clues to discerning the plague. Although.... it acted as a courtly fool. And that fool had the effrontery to call him a maiden! His eyes narrowed into slits, but before he could speak, the offending jester had darted behind him, pressing Praetor into his open palm.

The weight of the scalpel was comforting; it inspired courage and a reckless kind of bloodlust. The Plague smiled thinly, his eyes glinting. As the rat loomed over them, angry and hurt, his smile grew sharper. Trickles of blood marred the vision in the rodent's glassy left eye, and the Plague feinted right, then struck to the left, slicing into the its meaty haunch. It squealed and paused, a considering fleeing. In this moment of hesitation, he struck again, his scalpel sharp and true. The rodent squealed one last time, and ran. The loss of it's left eye more than enough incentive to flee.

The Plague hmphed. "Coward." His voice was dry and dusty; he coughed. Turning towards the other plague, he looked him carefully up and down. Unfortunaterly, the lack of light impeded him, and was left staring into the other plague's shining eyes. It moved with a jingle of bells. How tacky, he thought; he supposed the Doctor was correct. He was superior. But, he admitted to himself, there was something... shiny about the other plague and he leaned in closely, too closely. He wanted to keep this other plague in some manner. It was an odd feeling. "I am no maiden." he said abruptly. "Who are you?"

At the other plague's words, he smiled wildly, adrenaline still coursing through him. He had technically won the encounter with the rat and was feeling pleased. Every success was proof of his substance. He blinked, staring at the other plague in strange, halting silence. Abruptly, he decided he would do this blue-eyed plague the honor of liking him, and forgive the hands that had tugged on the golden Plague's hem. It was the least he could do. Although his unsolicited help would have been unnecessary. The idea of a debt was.... annoying. He stepped closer to the other plague.

"A half-wit... or a full-wit that twists words? Hmm. Your answer is not really an answer. Very well, of what manner are you? A fool? What should you be called?" The laurel Plague circled the other plague slowly, not an easy feat in the dim light. His golden fingers reached blindly out. They slid over a bell, jingling it briefly: the lightest of touches, like an errant wind. He smiled again before once more facing the plague in question. "By the same version of an answer that you have given me, I am an old king, or maybe I was a scholar, will be an emperor, or simply something shiny. In short, I am better.You glimmer, you know. Do you know any games?" As he talked, he tapped his fingers along his leg, out of a dislike of being still.

The royal Plague was endlessly amused by the other plague's.... Claune's reactions. This could become a new game for him. "Claune, clown; you live up to it?" Briefly, he wondered what it was like to have a name. The laurels had found himself longing for one, but names were usually given, not chosen. And the Doctor did not wish to name him. He told himself he was fine without it... These mournful thoughts were shoved aside as Claune belched forth a series of crude comparisons, his voice gone high and a little squeaky, somehow like an instrument in odd weather.

"Hah." His laugh was barked out, not a kind laugh, but one of condescension. "Hardly! Try to guess some more if you wish, though I am loftier. I have been fashioned of finer things than you have seen before. You'll get no more hints from me." Just like that, the remnants of his indignation fizzled. Losing his temper would mean losing the game. His stern face relaxed. "What were you, before a fool?" His voice lowered a little. "And what's a fool f his bells do not sound?"

He paused, one gold-tipped hand creeping up to tap the side of his face. "All games are at the expense of another: losers, victors, you know full well. Or, at least, I assume you have enough wit to realize that. As for your...glimmer - you, Claune, are interesting. I think I'd keep you around. You seem better company than the usual ilk here." He only barely resisted the urge to reach towards the blue of the other plague again. Instead, he gestured widely with Praetor, forgetting the smooth metal was slick with his own blood. It almost leapt from his hand and he gripped it more tightly, wincing as the cut on his hand throbbed. A hiss of sucked-in breath echoed around them.

His eyes flickered to the left, then right. "The dark is full of things other than rats. After all, haven't I met you here? Although, I think Praetor will not stab you." The Excito's voice was golden, but contained an odd tinge or harshness. It sounded like rust and silk. Stroking the blade one last time, he leaned the scalpel carefully against the wall. The scalpel was useful for now and he would keep it carefully until he found something better. He gave Claune a tight smile and unwound the failing gauze from his right hand. It fell to loop lazily around his thin wrist, it's white sadly stained.

"She cut rather deeply, I think. Unfortunately, I have not learned the correct dressing." This admission was, interestingly enough., an indication of just how much the cut ached. A bead of blood welled up and dripped down one slim finger. His voice rose slightly at the sight. It felt like something was draining out of him.

Deliberately shifting his eyes away, the Plague snorted rudely. "And a name is what you make of it, jester. You are exceedingly rude, crude, lowborn, for a something as sweet as a violin. Your paint seems to be peeling. Is your voice capable of such saccharine melody, I wonder...." He knew his words were rude, but the Plague had not yet learned the subtle charisma of charming others. He strained his eyes in the darkness, ignoring his palm, trying to make out Claune. A good king always looks for new subjects. Or, at least he thought so. He flinched.

The Excito studiously did not watch as Claune wound the bandage across his hand. The clown's fingers were cool and quick and helped relieve the nausea bubbling in him. Blood was so strange, or rather, his own blood. He did not mind others; the rat's streaming blood had only evoked a fierce glee. Distractedly, he stared into the darkness until Claune's question pierced it. He swiveled his head back to the violin, where he was still bent over the laurel's hand, blue eyes intent in the dim light.

"Not a Lady Rat, a General perhaps, as stern as a sword and twice as sharp. You must have one as well." And Jannisari was like a general, exacting of the king. She demanded and he gave. She owned him. The thought always made a small frown cross his face. He shook it off as a sharp knot was tied across the back of his hand. He flexed his golden fingers experimentally. "Fine work, Claune. If I am rude, it is because I know no other way." He spoke matter-of-factly; he was a ruler that needed to learn how to charm. He balled his fist, this time welcoming the odd pull of pain. "You are helpfully rude, and I think it is because you wish to be so."

He nodded his head regally, but could not bring himself to bow. The idea of a name... it appealed to him, and for a brief second, he wished Jannisari had cared to name him. "A name, a name. Claune," he said, and the name rolled off his tongue, syllables richly ripe as precious metals or rotting fruit. "Who chose your name, tuneless wonder? I do not have one. What is in a name? Must it be given?" The Plague sighed, and brushed some of the dust off of his robes. Perhaps a name was not for him. The nameless king.

The plague watched Claune fold himself up. The darkness was unforgiving to his eyes, movement cast only in the glows of gold and blue. The clown freed his bells, undramatically and with a small chime, his face more solemn than normal. The laurel wondered briefly what kind of Grimm a jester, a violin might have... which one is the instrument there? A jesters plays upon others, but a violin is played. "This hand," he flexed his fingers, then ran them slowly along the wall, demolishing a tiny cobweb. "Is the result of not having enough study with plague skin, I think. Too deeply cut for the bleeding. I will request for it to be elsewhere next time. The bandages, however.. I was told to dress my wounds and you saw how that turned out." He kicked the wall suddenly, once, twice, then abruptly leaned against it, as if to remove the temptation to kick it once more.

"Perhaps I should have said 'rudely helpful instead..."he muttered, golden mouth twisting at being called a windbag again. "Hmmm. Now, would you call me liege with no trace of sarcasm dripping from your harlequin mouth if I had a name? History likes to assign names to those without, or, if they go nameless too long, they are forgotten." The idea of someone calling him liege was widely appealing. He crossed his legs together, leaning more heavily on the dust-streaked wall. A thousand failed kingdoms flashed through his head, the unnamed heroes know only by deeds which morphed and changed as people forgot who did what. A name was a memory device, and he wanted everyone to remember him, to know who he was. This Plague was created to be greater. He chuckled a little, but it was an oddly sad, lonely sound, like an echo that never replied.

"I do not wish to be forgotten, like emperors before me. She said I was a monster, inhuman. She was right, of course. And that I needed no name."