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 Posted: Fri Nov 13, 2015 3:21 pm
Fear was an instinctive response, he reminded himself, not always a learned one. Fear grew over many generations to include the snake and the spider, heights, leaving home, dying, objects passing under the skin. Fear did not, so far as he knew, include recognition and reaction for generals. There hadn't been generals but perhaps within the last thousand years, or so was implied through the repeated reminder of a presence of war. But a thousand years is a blink in the timeline of men, who were a blink in the timeline of the world, which was a blink in the timeline of the universe. What time was there to develop a stimulus response for generals in that thousand years.
There wasn't time, he reminded himself. evolution spared none of its precious moments for a development that only a small collective of men and women could comprehend and react to. No, that stimulus response was either endemic to knights as a whole or more likely inherited. He hadn't asked Blaine if he feared generals, but the man reacted with confusion when he first laid eyes on Ashanite. He apparently didn't know what to think - or that's what Scholomance saw of his ancestor if he were to take such a reaction at face value. He considered that Blaine ran far deeper than he was willing to show, but Scholomance wasn't about to get into that.
The squire mentally recited his own slim experience with the Negaverse and found nothing hateful or loathsome about it. He knew, logically, what the Negaverse was trying to accomplish - what, apparently, 'Metallia' wanted. He felt he was neither here nor there about it, that her will simply existed as a force in the world that needed to be recognized and reacted to accordingly. He was not of the mind that the Negaverse needed extermination, even if their success possibly eliminated the human race.
Humans could do with some exterminating, he thought without bitterness.
So, he reasoned, as he stood upon the second story parapet that faced an old store front, he had no personal experience to reflect the fear he felt for a general's signature in the area. Isaiah's Scholomance knew no reason to react with such bodily aversion for a member of their ranks. Did Blaine's Scholomance feel the same? Did the Scholomance before him? Was this wretched, stomach-curling trepidation indicate a loathing for Chaos in general? Was he, then, doomed to hate the Negaverse despite his very human sensibilities?
Perhaps, he thought while he looked at the vague reflections in the storefront glass.
But he remained still despite those fears, for his experiences encompassed but two very individuals belonging to the same organization. Cinnabar's threats and attempts affected him, surely, but he related them on a personal level. This man, or woman, or genderfluid organism as recent developments in human sexuality suggested, may not react the same. This person may crown the concrete parapet next to him, crack a joke or two about standing on top of a strip mall, and engage in a very human conversation. This person may display the same fear that he felt and avoid the squire's auric energy that he projected out into the night like searching fingers. This person may also want to beat his face in.
But an answer to this longstanding question outweighed the threats. He had, so far in the game of powered life, survived every encounter. That may not be so later, but the odds were in his favor.
So remained he did, even as the general's aura closed in on him. Even as it spread its darkness over the carefully manicured trees lining the business district street. Even as he felt that choking miasma threatening to drive him from his place on the rooftop, witless and desperate.
[quote="Nuxaz"hope this works! let me know if anything needs changed!
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Posted: Sat Nov 14, 2015 2:24 pm
Fear was a concept that General Labyrinthite was familiar with, in the sense that he understood what the word meant and the type of reaction it was supposed bring. As an emotion, well the general hadn't experienced it I some time, unless fearing himself, or what he could become, counted. In which case, well, he understood it terribly.
Of course, the idea of being afraid of himself was a novel one that had worn off as time passed and his dreams lessened. As he became more aware of the being that he was turning into.
It seemed that memories of a disastrous future, one that ended with blood, gore, and his own death, were not enough to keep the quiet beat that rested in the heart of one Chase Black locked away. Instead, while the human tried to resist the inevitable, the beast grew and warped, pulled to the surface by bitter enemies.
On the day order lost a strong, eternal senshi a fire had awoken in the heart of General Labyrinthite and his dark passenger had come to a head. Ever a victim of circumstance and a product of his environment, the hooded soldier had taken to embracing the darkness that coiled around his heart.
It was easier than he had expected.
Chase and Labyrinthite were one in the same, the general’s goals were the man’s goals. They wore the same face, hidden by the magic of glamour from the enemy, and they wanted the same things.
Mostly.
But the wants of Labyrinthite demanded more presently than the wants of Chase and that was how he had found his way onto the moonlit streets of Destiny City. The want to be the good, loyal soldier Laurelite demanded of him took priority and he walked the streets with his head held high and his hands curled into fists.
His cloak billowed behind him as he moved with slow, deliberate steps. His golden eyes swept across his surroundings as civilians looked at him horrified, skittering into buildings the minute his head even turned their way.
It made him grin, long and wide, with his teeth exposed and his canines glistening in the streetlights.
And then he felt it, the warm prickle of energy that swept across the nape of his neck and down his spine. He wasn't as familiar with distinguishing the auras of knights and their ranks as he was with senshi but he knew what it meant.
And so he pursued it, boots carrying him until he was forced to climb. It was with a practiced ease, which came from endless nights spent perched upon rooftops, that he scaled the wall, gloved hand hoisting him up onto the roof. He took a brief look around his surrounding, head cocking before he spotted the waiting figure. He moved with sure steps, pausing as one roof ended to assess the distance and then he jumped, landing smooth.
“My, my,” he cooed, voice gravely like he hadn’t spoken in too long. “What do we have here?” He asked as he closed the distance between them. He would start slow, casually, to determine the nature of the squire and then.
Then he would strike.
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Posted: Sun Nov 15, 2015 2:28 am
He knew the approach from the stifled choke that settled in his throat. He wondered, then, if there was an affliction called aura sensitivity. He wondered, secondly, if all of the White Moon and Knighthood faced the same challenges in parsing their way past this eyewatering, suppressive darkness to even function in a fight with chaos. Yet the man still approached, and while he no longer suspected he might faint in the stranger's presence as he did with the broken creature, he wondered if he could successfully get a thought out edgewise.
So he glanced to his left, where the figure approached, and noted the pearly response that reflected the garishness in Scholomance's mask. He did not think that such a wide grin could be replicated with the human body, and yet he was proven wrong.
It did not please him to know.
Beyond the gleaming white he noted a pink and either midnight blue or black (he couldn't tell in the muted darkness of sodium lighting backwash). A hood, and a frayed billowing cape added the bombastic drama of the reaper. In that sense, they looked much the same - he with his cape of death, and Scholomance with his risus sardonicus. It felt a chilling comparison, made on a cold November night, and passed off as ambience of the evening. He did not want to think, in those moments, that they had much in common - not for the paradigm opposition of order and chaos, but for the obviously off-kilter manner in which the stranger operated. No, Scholomance did not want to wind up in a similar vein of existence.
The squire finally turned to face the man in full. It felt worse than standing to the side, as if he exposed to the stranger his carotid arteries, his aorta, and a relatively unhindered opening for the vena cava.
He remembered Hvergelmir then, and the oath that promised her own death. He had no such protection here.
"Scholomance," he answered willingly. The squire tried to smile, though it did not reach his eyes - he felt the material of his half-mask shift over his lips. Bony fingers steepled and formed a downward-facing triangle before his waist. He hoped, perhaps irrationally, that the position looked inviting, but not altogether powerless. However, the moon was not visible that night, and Saturn bared its hardest seething glare down upon him. "You are?"
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Posted: Mon Nov 16, 2015 10:07 am
Labyrinthite took in the dark colors, the purple of Scholomance’s uniform and his stomach flipped at the sight of the gold saturn emblem, but his demeanor remained composed, unflinching. He ignored the memory flashes of a battle from another night, ignored the way his bowels twisted and his mouth dried up. He cocked his head, pushing all away all thoughts that were not focused upon the Squire and the general.
“Hello Scholomance,” the general greeted, halting steps when there were only a few yards between them. His tone was cheerful, a strong contrast to his foreboding appearance. Perhaps that was the biggest clue given, that the night would twist and end poorly. “I am General Labyrinthite.”
The man thought of continuing the conversation, finding out what ideals the Saturn squire held, and what sides he favored, but there was an uncomfortable buzzing beneath his skin. An itch that ached to be scratched bubbling to the surface, impossible to ignore brought forth by the after effects of adrenaline coursing through his veins. A lifeless, dull starseed nestled in the pockets of his pants urging him to move forward, to strike the unexpecting.
A call to shed blood and bruise fists.
And so, the general extended his left arms, scythe materializing into his open hand, fingers wrapping around the bone staff handle. “And I’m afraid,” he said, in mock disappointment, “death comes knocking.”
His foot slid forward and blade swung, closing what distance had been between them.
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Posted: Wed Nov 18, 2015 10:00 am
"Charmed," he responded. While he could.
He knew, within their first words, that the general's stilted demeanor indicated some part of him remained off-kilter. He could not determine what, exactly, but he remained sharply aware that General Labyrinthite was not well, and likely did not respond to reason in the same manner that Scholomance might. So even if he wanted to invite the good general to sit down and discuss inclement weather conditions, politics, or other facets of daily existence, he imagined that that, too, would go poorly.
Truly, the resounding death knell to that supposition came when a scythe came of thin air, resting balanced in the man's palm. Garish it was, much like the rest of him, and stylized well after the iconic grim reaper. He imagined that, if looks composed a person in the Negaverse, they would've been two of a kind if he accepted Cinnabar's invitation.
And he realized that this encounter mirrored much of that confrontation, albeit lacking the conditional question that sparked the fight.
This one needed nothing to launch into a furious frenzy.
The scythe, he realized in remarkably quick thinking, as his heart seized to his throat and his mind urged his legs to move through their molasses slow reaction, is and always has been a farming tool. He cannot slice me unless he catches me on the inside, where the blade is. Otherwise it's puncture wounds.
Like that makes this any better.
Scholomance felt a push when the weapon slid by, and stumbled backward accordingly. A burning, bristling, crippling pain followed it, rearing in the front of his hip within the inguinal region. He staggered and pressed hand to wound instinctively, and knew that retreat would find little success here. Leaning over and continuing to attempt distance, if only for a moment to think, if only for one single second to react in the span of a battle that may well end in his death, Scholomance brought to mind the weapon he was bequeathed.
And a cane, of bone it was, returned to his free hand without qualm. It stood meager and pointless in comparison to the great scythe wielded by his enemy, but Scholomance prepared to use it and catch the shears that his enemy swept out.
With the blood on his fingers, a desperate idea formed.
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Posted: Wed Nov 18, 2015 11:47 am
Blood stained the tip of this blade as it's intended victim slid just out of reach for it's killing blow. Amusement flashed across the general's face, expression only half visible between the dim lighting and the hood shadowing his face.
"You'll have to be faster than that," Labyrinthite stated, cocking his head and looking over the thin male like he was making an assessment. "If you want to keep all your limbs that is," he chirped, tone much too light for how dark a threat that was. But then the general was spinning on his heels and seeming to hop forward to remove the distance Scholomance had put between them.
He pulled his scythe off the ground with a shiiink! reverberating from where the metal pulled off the stone. He used his momentum from his twirl to lift the too-heavy weapon, aiming this time to slash across horizontally where Scholomance was already wounded. It collided with the bone cane, a harsh thudding as his move was halted.
Labyrinthite's eyes narrowed and his wide, toothy grin twisted downward sharply and his teeth grit together. He wasn't going to be stopped by that measly thing of a weapon, and so he threw his weight into pushing past the cane even as gravity tugged the skull head of his weapon down.
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Posted: Sat Nov 21, 2015 6:21 am
Faster than that was for certain, he noted, when the weapon struck his cane heavily. The impact alone forced him to stagger toward the side, and out came a thin groan betraying his pain. So think faster than that or die. What can I do. He staggered further; this man, this general, was overpowering him. Labyrinthite would win without contest in a straight fight, he knew. "I have no reason to fight you," he tried, and it was true - he knew no purpose to harm Labyrinthite beyond self-defense. Inwardly he started to reason that he was doomed to be assaulted by any allied presence in this war, and any chaos presence. He started to think that, perhaps, 'Scholomance' was a name to loathe among all parties.
And every second he spent thinking about it wasted precious time.
"I'm not allied with the White Moon," he spat through the pain. "Nor am I at odds with the Negaverse. I have no reason for either." All truths. He kept moving. The pressure against his cane started to drag it off the floor; the weapon notched heavily into the bone. It told of what would come of him should it reach his leg, where it angled. He wished desperately, then, for a uniform made of anything but cloth. Anything beyond leather that could stand against such weapons.
Cinnabar left him but one option if he valued life. Would it be the same for him? Could Scholomance pry beyond the lunatic exterior for an appeal to logic? He doubted it; from what he could see beyond the hood, the general looked well gone with glee.
His posture shifted as he was tripped, and Scholomance struck the floor despite efforts to catch himself. Tarmac bit into his cheek. The bone cane clattered, splintered in half. He tried to stand and found his leg would not cooperate in bearing the weight. Then he spared that quarter of a second to glance to it, and the numb recognition of the attack immediately faded, and he felt with surety a pain so great that he thought he might collapse of it in an instant. Walking looked impossible now, between a mangled thigh and hip. If he ever intended escape, it was either through corruption or providence - and if, at that, he had no further choice over the matter, he would agree to the corruption. It was, however, against his ideals to restart a life that he worked so tirelessly for.
But, he had to wonder - would he receive a weapon far more suited to combat than a cane?
In a last attempt, Scholomance touched fingers to the bloodied gouge in his leg. Fingers worked quickly in scraping out four letters, all lowercase, all succinct in their message: 'help'.Nuxaz scholomance is hoping that by sending the message, it will give laby pause. the recipient has no way of knowing where he's at, though, unless he could get a chance to send a second message. it will be to gehenna; do you mind if i quote fel so she's aware he would receive it icly? he would not be a part of the fight, however
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Posted: Sun Nov 22, 2015 11:14 am
“But you do have reason to fight me,” the general replied grin slipping as his scythe created a notch in the cane. “Survival.” In his opinion, Survival was the best reason to fight, not affiliation, not for beliefs, but to survive. “Besides, what is the point of you being here if you have no affiliation?”
As far as Labyrinthite was concerned, neutral wasn’t something that could exist in a war.
The bone broke, Scholomance fell to the ground with blade bearing into flesh, and Labyrinthite stepped forward, head cocked and amber eyes examining the wound. His first instinct was finish this but he hesitated, shifting his gaze from the wound to Scholomance’s face. It was then that he noticed the frantic scraping and he dropped his scythe back to the ground with a thud. Labyrinthite watched curiously, wondering what frantic hope the squire had of that achieving anything.
“Have you grown desperate Scholomance?” he asked, voice sounding like he’d swallowed gravel.
He glided forward, fingers finding the front of the man’s uniform just as he finished writing. “Do you wish for dead, salvation, or mercy?”
Idly, Labyrinthite toyed with the idea of reaching into subspace, wrapping his fingers around Scholomance’s starseed and squeezing until the squire begged for death, or corruption. He thought of wrapping his hands around the soft skin of the neck and squeezing until all the air in his lungs had run out. He thought of tossing the squire across the roof, letting him hang from the rooftop as the blood drained from his legs and he fell, collapsing from blood loss.
Instead, he stood there with his fingers digging into cloth with a dark look on his face, daring the knight to answer in a way he didn’t like.
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Posted: Mon Nov 23, 2015 2:45 am
Scholomance loosed a slow, shaken sigh against the tarmac. Beaded sweat transferred from forehead to the bitter flecks of tar. He considered getting up, he considered attempting to stab the general with the remains of his splintered weapon, and he considered finishing the note to send it to Gehenna. But, even the thought of standing was perceived by Labyrinthite, for he felt a firm hand at his back.
First he groaned, then he started to laugh. It strained beneath the weight of his pain, but it was still honest. You could kill me however you want right now, Labyrinthite. But something about me keeps me interesting enough to live. I could say you were expecting me to beg, but... I think you're more piqued by my lack of it. "Would you believe," he started, then paused to swallow back more raw pain, "that I power up for profiteering? It's... almost laughable. People get desperate when they're scared. War causes destructions that are paid for by the insurance companies, and with that money, people rush to replace what they lost. They look for protection. Anything that could..." He paused, coughed beneath the pain. "Anything that could buy them a little more time is suddenly a need. Just like how... You're standing over me with your weapon in hand. Poised to kill. Suddenly anything I could use to break your ankle is a need."
While he spoke, he scrawled the recipient's name along the tarmac. He spared no glance to ensure the four letters under it were legible; it wouldn't matter, he wagered, for he could not tell Gehenna his location with such a small window for the sendoff. Labyrinthite would see. He would see, and he would have every reason to kill Scholomance and prevent the unknown. One blood-soaked gloved hand reached for the laceration at his hip, as if to hold its torn and engorged halves back together, but it only passed over the wound. And with the blood fresh on his signet ring, Scholomance pressed it to the top of the message.
A whole section of tarmac disappeared beneath him. He would've considered it a curiosity, but pain forced his priorities.
As did Labyrinthite.
"Death, salvation, or mercy..." Even his teeth throbbed with the words. Would I die for Scholomance? Hardly. "I choose mercy." Bright hazel eyes peered up to his assailant, waiting for judgment to pass.Nuxaz feel free to beat on him more if you like~ he could draw a third laceration on his shoulder, or use the butt of his scythe to inflict blunt force trauma, or squeeze his starseed anything's good
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Posted: Mon Nov 23, 2015 11:02 am
“I met a man once, who made his living cleaning up crime scenes,” Labyrinthite replied, “but I fail to see how you’re profiting by standing, waiting for something to happen.” He looked contemplative, watching as the tarmac vanished. If it interested or bothered him, it didn’t show.
He tapped his fingers against Scholomance’s back, sliding across the expanse until they found the ridge of his spine, then they ran up and down along the done.
“Do you think that I am a merciful person Scholomance?” He asked, hand coming to rest in the middle of his back between his shoulder blades. He leaned close, mouth inches from his ear, “because I’m not.” He pushed his gloved hand forward, past his back and into the forbidden space, untouchable unless touched by someone tainted by chaos.
His reaching fingers touched the smooth planes of the squire’s starseed, curled around them and he squeezed gently, teasingly, torturingly. His grip was careful, as to not damage or shatter the starseed, but deliberate in his desire to cause pain. His fingers flexed around the gem, his mind flashing to a different battle, a more determined, vengeful Saturn knight and the starseed he’d pulled free.
His stomach churned, his mouth dried, and his grip slackened when he stumbled back, suddenly off-balance. His hand popped free and he clacked his teeth together irritably. Labyrinthite bent, wrapping both hands around his discarded blade, hefting it up over his shoulder before striking Scholomance with the bottom of the staff with all the force he could muster.
He loomed over the wounded man. “I will grant you mercy this time,” he growled, inhaling sharply to calm the sudden, rapid beating of his heart. “A penance granted by the loss of a different life.” He never intended on killing Mamoreal, but fate had dealt them both a nasty hand.
He banished his scythe back into the depths of subspace as he spoke. “If you ever cross my path again, there will be no offers of mercy,” he warned, expression school into something sharp and dark. “There will be only death or ‘salvation.” Be killed or corrupt, no alternatives, no choices. “And I will choose for you.”
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Posted: Tue Nov 24, 2015 8:11 am
Perhaps he would've defended himself if he thought the question wasn't rhetorical. Perhaps he would've explained the intricacies involved in working to perpetuate war i he thought Labyrinthite was interested. Perhaps he would've retaliated against him if he expected it might work. But his body cooled at a dramatic pace, breathing grew harder, and a shiver set in that disrupted him greatly. He felt frigid, and he knew that feeling many a day, but alarm laced it so iniquitously that he could not wrench his mind from it. He wondered if he would die of exposure before exsanguination. Or even if it mattered.
In an instant he knew touch to his back, and Scholomance found it gentle enough to warn of impending attack. Muscles relaxed where they should've braced, he knew, but he met those touches only in intimate circumstances. He would wonder, later, if such a reaction rendered the transition easier for Labyrinthite.
His feverish gaze leveled on the cold face of his attacker momentarily. Doing so ached terribly. "I think that you're merciful when it suits you," he cut back to him, "and that you murder when it pleases you." The rebuttal issued by the general was then received with gritted teeth. He expected a strike, or pressure to his back, or any attempt to slowly brush the breath from his lungs. He anticipated the general using his sheer strength to disrupt Scholomance's spine, to render him a paraplegic as the mercy given.
What he felt could not easily be characterized. Initially he thought Labyrinthite lifted his palm, or somehow shifted an open hand into a fist against his back without the fluid movement of the fingers perceived by him. He then felt a sharp knife in the very center of him and he drew breath in voiceless agony, and immediately he thought that Labyrinthite employed strange magic to bury his scythe into Scholomance's back, but the pain itself felt alive. It moved and coursed and paced methodically, as if entirely sentient. He began to realize that the general's hand had somehow passed through his skin and now gripped his very starseed - a painful act of dominance so basic to human hierarchy that it enacted a far different response than expected.
Desire, old friend, you have the worst timing. Scholomance's free hand curled into the tarmac while he tried to weather the abuse without sound. He released only short groans under the cover of breath, and his heart raced with a primal excitement. He is going to kill me. That is how this encounter will end. I may not even finish this thought.
And yet the pain slowed, dimmed in a way no different than an incandescent bulb losing the last of its light. He drew a shaken breath, pressed palms to the ground, and prepared to rise when the butt of the scythe struck his shoulder hard enough to procure a loud crack. His vision reddened immensely and he loosed a sharp cry.
By the time sensation returned, he heeded only portions of Labyrinthite's warning. A different life, death or salvation, a choice lost. Scholomance offered no response. He panted his wetted breath against the tarmac, counted the seconds, and waited for the oppressive energy to banish itself. "You will not find me twice." He muttered quietly enough that he did not expect Labyrinthite was able to hear.
He spared no further thought to future encounter, for its plausibility looked grim. Visiting a hospital proved imperative, and he knew of only one chance to reach it. He had to move.Nuxaz this can work as a fin unless you want to write laby's formal departure. thank you for the rp!
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