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 Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 2:42 pm
They arrived in his apartment and Chalcanthite laid the General on the couch before going to turn on the light. Desiree hid far away from the new person that was in her home, she did not like him one bit and hissed at him. It was then that he realized the General had in fact changed on a serious scale. There were wings, somewhat like the ones he had seen during the events of the evening he had just escaped from. They were in the wrong place though and also seemed like a mix of crow and bat in design. With delicate movements, he lifted the unconscious man's hand and examined the claws then opened Bischofite's eyes to see if the pupils had been dilated or not. After decided that he was just unconscious and not dead, Chalcanthite thought of his options while he sketched up a picture of what was Bischofite not long ago. If the General was a Youma he could either feed him a starseed or bring him to the Rift to repair. Perhaps he could get Bazzite to assist since he had to know more about this right now. He decided on the latter option and leaned Bischofite against him with the man's arm over his shoulder so he was standing for the most part. The vast crystaline landscape of the Rift came to mind as he readied himself for the trip, he was weary after the effects from whatever magic that caused his starseed to burn in his chest. But he had to get the general out of his house, he could feel the aura and he did not want anyone to come pokign around his humble abode uninvited. With that he teleported to the landscape he had sketched before when he had visited out of curiosity. When they arrived in the rift, he laid Bischofite down carefully so that he leaned up against one of the crystals that made up the landscape. Kneeling in front of Bischofite, he watched him closely before nudging the General slightly to see if he would wake. Last time he had been near when the General had come to had left him almost sliced by a chakram. After that he sat in front of him with a sketchbook and began to draw, patiently waiting and listening for other youma to come near. If any came by he was not completely sure what to do about them other than fighting them off. As he sketched, he took down notes from memory before he would lose any small details. Ranging from appearances for those he had seen to the appearance and possible effects of the magic that some of the senshi had used. Humming quietly the whole time as he worked.
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Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 3:59 pm
An embodiment of pain.
Veritable agony coursed through Bischofite's veins, festering in every forgotten nerve ending lining his body. To draw breath alone wrought a wet, sickening sucking sound through the hole that still stood gaping in his chest. It echoed through his throat, even in shallow respiration. To move plagued his bones with such taxing miseries that he found no shred of will within himself to afford those endeavors. Instead the warped general lay still against the crystal, its faint humming against his back long lost in a mottled sea of exhaustion.
Bischofite stirred, though he never opened his eyes. No cacophony roiled around him, no hands pressed to wounds either to hurt or heal, no screeching hubris from the youma he once called his. He felt few auric energies in his surroundings, none of which marked the deathly sweet sensation of senshi among them. Only a faint scratch of pen against paper attracted his attention, staccato strokes transitioned to legato in feats somewhat seamless.
Slowly Bischofite whet cracked lips, tasting steel on his tongue. Cold, black steel. "Quenton?" He managed softly. His voice cracked beneath the strain of use as wounds wrought from betrayal rent his throat.
Can you remember anything beyond the pain? Focus. Where are you? Open your eyes. A soft groan issued from the broken general. Then listen. This place... It's not Quenton's apartment. The chatter of unearthly creatures in the distance... It hurts too much to think. To move. To speak. Lie down and die, Bischofite. Your days are done.
A soft shudder emanated from the pair of wings, a myriad of voices ghosting a chorus akin to wind. They stirred as he stirred, breathed as he breathed, scathed as he scathed. Even as Bischofite shifted against the rock, bracing his damaged back against the crystal to mitigate breath lost through the pair of holes, the mouths groaned alongside him. For a time, he never quite registered their existence as anything more than background noise. Chaff better left to the desolate wastelands of the Rift.
Help, he mouthed without intonation. His throat seized slightly in effort toward vocalization, but none came in the first, second, third attempt. With one whistling breath drawn, he forced voice from the tattered remains of his throat. "I need help."
Three simple words, never dreamed among anathema or blessing.
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Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 5:07 pm
Chalcanthite could tell the general was in pain still and put his drawing instruments down before leaning forward over Bischofite with a small bit of medical supplies that he had grabbed while in the apartment. "I am Captain Chalcanthite, I can do my best to assist you if you tell me where it hurts. I am going to move you a bit now, I will be careful. I am sorry I did not make it down sooner to get you out, the effects of one of their spells made it difficult for everyone on our side." At this point he carefully began to wrap a bandage around the General's torso to help with the bleeding from his back. He was slow and careful so that the general would not suffer from much more pain than he was currently in. It was a bit difficult to go around the wings but he tried his best while applying extra gauze to the direct location of the holes which the traitor's blade had made. He pained at the sight of the mangled General that groaned and gasped as he tried to mend the damage done. He would try offering up the last starseed he had in his pocket if the treatment did not work as planned since Bischofite was not completely human anymore. That or he could try other methods to repair the fallen general.
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Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 8:49 pm
"Everywhere." No other answer spoke to the sheer volume of pain pervading his form, especially given the residual pulse of a starseed sieged not hours ago. Cooler hands touched his skin, half-exposed through tattered clothes. Each wrap of cloth drew a strained groan from Bischofite, though he offered no overt resistance. Once the gauze peeled around his shoulders, encircling wings, he loosed a choked scream from the tenderness mixed with agony. They throbbed with a hurt far deeper than the surface.
With the gauze secured around his most prominent wound, breathing came marginally easier. The cloth sucked inward in a concave fashion as he sought to reclaim lost breath, which lent to speech. "Why?" He managed through blood-flecked lips. Still he claimed no will to open eyes to his savior.
Executioner?
For a moment, he caught the faint whisper of a word - die. With it came a host of breath, of wind caked with the soft crackle of consonants. If he honed his concentration, he deduced flecks of words within the breeze. Seethe. Hate. Long. Die. Raze. Where were they coming from? It doesn't matter. Somehow my curiosity still bleeds through when the rest of me is naught but chaff tooling through the wind. What am I now, but Negaverse garbage? Avalon made clear I have no allies now. Even this... Chalcanthite.
I know that name.
I remember... Watching from the alley. Watching as Natron, ever useless Natron, tried to feed his trite stories to a lieutenant. Yes, he was a lieutenant then... One wielding a violin bow. He echoed the name, nothing more than a breath. "Chal..." He returned my starseed. He... Showed so little emotion, didn't he? Natron only acted at my threat, he wanted to protect this boy, his lieutenant... "Chalcansite." The word spoke of shrapnel against the worn passages of his throat. "Leaf' me here."
These youma will reclaim what's left. Malicious... Someone must've dusted her. It's so hard to think... Head pounds, chest aches. I don't know how I'm still alive. Even my will can't trump a sword twisted through my core. Everything hurts... A low groan escaped the general, punctuated with flecks of blood and spit. The crackle of breath reminded him of times past when Thraen very nearly ended his life.
I'll never know why you let go.
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Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 9:47 pm
"I see, I can not believe that that officer did what she did. I hope she meets a fitting punishment for her treachery. Take this starseed though, it may help even a little in your current state." There was hatred dripping in his voice as well as regret at his inability to protect his ally. He pulled out the starseed and held it to the General, unsure if he would accept in this time of pain or if he would even open his eyes to see it. At least the general was breathing it seemed, which was good.
"Why you ask? Because I worry and you have peeked my interest since we met that night. You have an effect on people which amuses me but also leaves me wondering." At this point he shifted his position as he heard faint whispers, he looked around for a moment before returning his gaze to Bischofite. "Did... you say something Bischofite or is there someone else here? We may have to move if that vile woman tries to follow."As Bischofite spoke, Chalcanthite frowned slightly. The general had yet to open his eyes and still seemed in really bad shape. "I will not leave you here until I am sure you are out of immediate danger. If you know of anything specific I can do to treat your injuries let me know and I will try do my best. I do apologize though for hurting you while wrapping your wounds though." There was a seriousness in his voice, he was not going to leave unless things drastically changed for better or for worse.
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Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 10:11 pm
Slits of gold punctuated deep grey facepaint as the general finally opened his eyes. An ache throbbed behind his optics, dull and dreary to the vibrant agony so keenly burrowed into his chest. The seed... It looked brilliant, yet his limbs felt so impossibly heavy. Even the slight brush of his arm in attempted movement contorted his features into a wince. Even basic tasks lingered beyond his abilities now.
Useless as I am to the Negaverse. Have I always been this ineffectual? Were my aims truly so skewed that not even those claimed as my allies would support me in my endeavors? Am I the fool whose aspirations are muddied, rather than those who seek death for the sake of family? I... can't even take a starseed now. He'll offer me a meager reprieve from this condition, but... Could I muster the strength to chew?
She stabbed me. Avalon thrust her sword through my back. She knew of Malicious' betrayal, yet she buried her blade in my chest without thought, without consequence. "Iscariot," he mumbled in a murderous whisper. Tell me, who pays your thirty silver? Your own petty inclinations, or has Zinkenite found reason to employ you as my murderer? I elected Thraen as my own, yet he supersedes me frivolously yet again... I tire so greatly of these petulant antics. I just want to sleep... "Her name... Is Iscariot."
Sucking in another breath, a wet crackle left pooling stains on the gauze. "If I die here... You must kill her in kind." Let her know the noose wrought of another's hand. She will perish, surely, with avarice as her headstone. "If she is here... Let her follow. Let her die among youma wis' me."
Slowly his eyes closed once more, grateful for the reprieve. "Zere is... A hole. In my chest. Chalcansite... Zere is no treatment. No salvation." Words rippled over breath wrought in wheezes. "Only ruin... Martyrdom. My crucifixion... In a blade. I'm.. so tired." The words kill her ghosted across his lips in form absent voice. Slowly he found his mind drifting to pale mornings when consciousness came with the blonde's profile at the desk. Ever studying, he remembered thinking. Ever driven. Never once would you rest were it not for the body's tithes.
He found it so much easier to lose himself to memories.
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Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 11:12 pm
Chalcanthite laughed slightly to himself at Bischofite's mention of her name. "In one hand thirty pieces, in the other a blade it seems. She will get what is coming to her soon enough." He paused for a moment as he noticed that Bischofite was to weak to grasp the starseed or even move for that matter. It pained him slightly to watch the General, though his own face was calm and cool. The way he felt reflected in his icy blue eyes as it always would no matter how well he controlled his face. "If there was no treatment or salvation, how pray tell are you still among this world? You are different now General and I believe you will pull through in time. You may rest after this, I will watch for you as I work on my sketches. Once you are well, revenge can be plotted if you wish. I will deal with her in time on my own if not. But I digress, time to eat up." At this point he moved the starseed to Bischofite's lips and pushed it into his mouth lightly. He was carefully as to not bring him anymore pain but only so little could be done that would not harm him when he was like this.
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Posted: Fri May 23, 2014 12:10 am
While he doubted the captain manifested power enough to strike down one of his peers, his sentiments provided superficial solace. Too tired he felt to dismantle all quiet tidings exchanged between the two, to forsake the man's affirmations in the name of skepticism. His current state afforded no spoils for such trifles - if he intended to lay into Chalcanthite for empty promises, his woeful lack of energy stymied his rage.
Twice he caught himself nodding into false remembrances, into the scent of sandalwood and clean skin. His only ties to consciousness came in the constant sharp tugs from the sucking wound piercing his chest. He drew breath yet, but each at a cost.
A tithe soon too tall for his meager allowances.
Chalcanthite's pointed question met with a shuddered sigh. "Dregs of a will too stubborn to let go." The words rolled from his tongue on palls of blood. Even that answer felt too... hollow. Too short, too stunted, too empty to harbor reasoning for his continued existence. In truth he never knew, he never grasped why fate lent him life on that day. It stung as surely as his myriad of wounds, but he found no efforts left to lament. "I'm in too much pain to die." Or death demanded a price of energy far beyond his reserves.
Oh, how irony tasted of metal.
One peculiar phrase perked the general's interest enough to warrant a slit of gold to examine his subordinate. "Different?" I'm too tired for riddles. The events of the night placed through his mind in quick succession, and never once had he conjured memory for an instance altering his person, not beyond the nigh-lethal blow struck by Iscariot herself. However, before he sought further answer, a starseed met his lips. It tasted like cold skin against his tongue, and there it lay for a few stray moments before he sought to pin it between molars.
When teeth cracked through its surface, a brilliant rush pervaded his bones with exhilaration enough to warrant possible standing. His injuries ached terribly, yet lacked the searing sharpness from moments before. While his aches ensued, they lacked their edge. He never questioned it.
The rush of adrenaline bought time enough for the twisted general to attempt hoisting himself up with the assistance of the crystal. His body groaned beneath the unbwarable burden, but Bischofite sat upright nonetheless.
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Posted: Fri May 23, 2014 12:31 am
"Stubbornness only gets you so far dear General. I wish I could do something about the pain but I am lacking any abilities to mend such damage." He watched carefully as Bischofite finally accepted the starseed. "Riddles are useful euphemisms Bischofite. If I told you plainly, you may not like my answer. You need only look at any reflective surface to see what has become of you and of your youma. Her screams would give even the bravest men nightmares. But please do not push yourself too hard or you may not be able to completely heal in time." He watched carefully as the General sat upright, the pain must have been a little less harsh to allow for such movements. Or he really was just that stubborn in this situation. His appearance was quite interesting so Chalcanthite picked up his drawing implements and began to sketch the new appearance of the general who had caused Natron to pull out a starseed in front of him. In a way he wondered if this new form suited the man's personality better than what he had previously looked like. The masks and wings were beautiful in their own way yet macabre in design. He would add color to his sketch later of course but for now he took to shading lightly to give it contrast. Perhaps he would not notice what he was drawing, if he was not so motivated by Bischofite's appearance to draw right now he would have done so in private.
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Posted: Fri May 23, 2014 9:16 pm
For a moment, Bischofite considered contacting Astrophyllite for a test to her first aid abilities. Had she honed her knack for administering care as he intended? Such monitoring duties were beyond the scope of his condition right now; Bischofite brushed the thought from mind. Scraps of gauze may yet render mending of appreciable value - especially within the charged atmosphere of the Rift.
A heavy weight pulled against his shoulder blades, beckoning for his return to the surface of the crystal. The pressure pooled within the bones, within the partially shredded sinew surrounding the gaping hole in his back. "Circumlocutions are half-measures, Captain. If you cannot afford me ze trus', zen hold your tongue." Inwardly he considered his warning of no greater value, but even with the presence of the starseed coursing through his body, to exact further action induced a demand unbearable on his weakened state. Gold eyes lit on Chalcanthite in a feverish condition akin to his passions earlier in the night. He studied the man's face, how blue eyes continually darted between paper and subject, how the pencil in his grasp twitched furiously across the page.
His mouth twitched into a sneer.
"Reflectif' surface? Don't sound so pretentious. If such sings existed here, we'd haf' ze Dark Mirror infesting zis place wis'in seconds. We need not tolerate zeir continued existence - not when zey proof' no more useful zan tees' in my a*****e." Afterward he snorted, clearly displeased with Chalcanthite's approach to the situation. If you told me plainly, I wouldn't be running circles in conversation for one damnable answer. To act as though you know what's best for me... Bombastic snob. He grates worse than Benitoite on his most petulant days.
Finally the creature leaned forward despite the weight anchoring him toward the crystal, a clawed hand outstretched toward the notebook. He faltered; his gaze fixated on the twisted visage extended before him in abject confusion. Only when he spread fingers did he realize the strange appendage belonged to him, and his stomach wholly dissolved away in the acid of dreaded realization. Eyes dilated, lips peeled away from teeth in revolted dread, and at last Bischofite forcibly snatched the notebook to view the rendering of his new horrific form.
The rendered image stopped his heart, crumbled all resolve left in his broken form. His passion burnt away with the ash of buildings left razed from the night, and for some time afterward, the general managed nothing more than a shuddered gasp. He blanched from the sight, the notebook clattering to the ground as Bischofite physically retreated from the twisted reflection of his visage. It mattered little; the crystal pressed to the wounds in his back and coaxed a strangled, strained yelp from the misanthrope. And as he looked just beyond his shoulder, the presence of black feathers in his peripheral confirmed the truth behind the drawing.
Dread grew to flay his mind with its insipid whispers. This is Death. No measure of close calls ever bought clarification to its purpose, to knowing it in some meaningful capacity. I died in that warehouse. Alois died. My world died. All hope, all happiness, all passion, all worth died in that ******** hellfire. Everything's gone now. Everything... to ash. Asche um Asche, Staub um Staub. Am I nothing now? Am I some horrid specter donning a borrowed visage, and for what purpose? How am I supposed to exist like this? How can I? Why?
And Quenton...
The world skewed to blurs and the youmafied general tore his throat once more with a bloodied, bubbling scream. Clawed hands reached for the point of wings fused to flesh, where they caught hold of skin far too sore to the touch, gripped until nails dug through the surface and wrenched with what meager might still pervaded his bones. Fresh pain bolted through his body, rendering him immobile from the act, despite his desperate will to rend all monstrous appendages from his body. Again he tried, assuming the mantle of Sisyphus in his endless, wretched attempts. Soon thick, black tar trickled down from fingertips to feathers in a coating that nearly cemented the pair together.
Bischofite found no strength within himself to suppress wracking lament. Even with teeth gritted, a stunted, keening cry peeled over drying flecks of blood. No matter the attempt, no matter the intent, he found no freedom from this atrocious new existence.
All he cherished perished in that blaze of hellfire.
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Posted: Sat Aug 02, 2014 11:23 am
Chalcanthite watched carefully as Bischofite spat out a warning. In any other situation it might have scared him but at this point in time his own circumlocutions were simply a test to see if Bischofite knew what had gone on exactly. Though it was also to keep him at least a little bit calmer as well although that seemed not to end up being the case. He did begin to wonder if anyone had followed them at this point in time. Attention would most likely be draw to them because of the General's aura or his own if anyone was looking specifically for either of them. "I do apologize General." He bowed his head as he retrieve his notebook and hid it within his breast pocket along with his pencil in one fluid movement. After that he quickly moved in closer and grabbed Bischofite's wrists to try and prevent him from doing further damage. "Stop!" His voice was strong and colder this time as he held on firmly. The pained scream and groans that came from Biscohfite tore at him, he wanted to do something to help but all he knew was to stop the general from doing more damage at this point. He saw the dread in Bischofite's eyes, Chalcanthite knew that there was very little he knew about the General but anyone who went through something like this would not be in the best state of mind.
"You need to stop this, you will not heal if you keep tearing at your wounds. Please, calm yourself and I will let go." He needed to re bandage the wounds on the General's back as well as clean the tar way if he could.
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Posted: Tue Aug 05, 2014 6:17 pm
Chalcanthite's interception proved more distressing than his current lot, as some insipid thread of thought urged him to continue pulling away the corruption before its roots flourished and he knew the garden of Gethsemane at his back. And yet, the captain spoke of healing wounds - that he must forego this purging ritual to recover.
To recover.
"I can't heal like zis!" The creature shrieked, absent mediation of panic. "Look at me! I'm half=infected wis' zat b***h, and you want me to stop? Chalcans'ite, zis may be my only chance to stay human, to know independence wis'out her grating voice clawing at ze back of my mind!" And in citing her name, the more foreign portions of him stirred at their own volition, offering whispers and sighs and twitches to indicate an alternate presence pulling the strings.
He knew not what unnerved him more.
Wrenching against the captain's restraints, Bischofite tried to free himself from grip, but only managed to further strain and rupture the gaping hole in his chest rather than win a modicum of freedom. His weakened body offered little fight, as all his energy channeled into tirades voiced so fervently that they drained him into nigh delirium.
"Zis can't be happening to me..." It felt trite, flat, utterly impossible, and yet... The creature felt a blackened ache coiling into his gut, wrenching at the last of his gritty emotions before he found voice to announce them. "Fix it, captain, tear her from me - even if you haf' to force your hand into my chest to collect every last fragment of her broken starseed. Do it!" Breathing exacerbated the wound, but shallow hyperventilation carried nonetheless.
He ached, and she knew it.
"Together forever," came the tones from the pair of feathered wings. "It's exactly as you wanted. Right, General?"
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Posted: Fri Oct 27, 2017 4:13 pm
Chalcanthite watched in quiet horror, unable to utter even a word for fear of what may come as a response. The realization of what had occurred to the mangled General was setting in harshly to say the least. With a slow and hesitant motion, he touched the open wound on Bischofite's chest. The aura of his starseed felt wrong in a way, sending a wave of tingles down Chal's spine. If Bischofite ad been looking, he may have seen something that had not occurred in years. A hopeless despair was etched into the Captain's face, the fact that there was nothing he could do to return the General to normal was too much. In the whole world, Chal was unsure if anything could assist what remained of the man the struggled before him. Weakness was all he felt as he could not muster the courage to do what the General had requested. The viscous tar stuck to his sleeves as he withdrew, returning to a sitting position across from Bischofite. How the mighty had fallen, leaving wreckage in its wake. There would be no revenge, at least at the hand of Chalcanthite. He would do as always and withdraw, keeping away from what may have happened. No matter what he did, he could never save anyone except himself. With a few feathers stuck to him, he looked up with tears in his eyes. Regret filled him for what he was about to do, he would remember this scene for the rest of his life and work to try and prevent such a tragedy in the future. With a quiet motion he flipped the sketch book and tore out the first sketch he had done of the general from the book and tucked it away before leaving the rest of the tar stained book on the ground next to the pencil. "I.... I am sorry General..." As more tears fell from his face, he focused on his quiet home away from this horrible event. Chalcanthite was gone now, having left Bischofite alone in the end.
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