( backdated to before this )
It was dark.
He wasn’t sure what time it was, nor did he care. The sky above his head was a mottled blue black, only a few stars visible, dim and lackluster in the fog that seemed to creep steadily across the space, shrouding the city in a layer of filmy gray mist. Mechanical yellowish light was visible through the fog, distorted and watery looking from the windows of various buildings, and a chill was persistent in the evening air, turning breath visible and causing cars to gain a layer of thin white frost across their windshields.
Celsus took no notice of any of this, and continued walking. His hair, longer than ever at present, was past his shoulders and twisted back into a loose braid that had strands falling out across his face, sticking damply to the back of his neck. The mist was causing his glasses to fog annoyingly, but at least he could still see, his gaze sharp-eyed in spite of the surrounding dreariness of the weather.
There were no power signatures around. It irritated him, to be reminded of this, yet again. Three days Celsus had been combing the streets for some sort of excitement, only to be found trudging home in the early hours of the morning, empty handed and frustrated. It was mounting, the frustration - he felt like a wire wrapped too tightly, as though it were about to snap at any moment; as though just a single tug would have him breaking.
It would not have surprised him. He half expected to be broken already by now as it was.
Celsus turned a corner, his green-eyed gaze sweeping over the deserted street, a disgruntled expression on his freckled face. Out here, in the open, he should have been clear beacon, shining bright for all to see, power signature strong and so very obviously Order oriented - and yet the lure was not seeming to work. He was casting his line, waiting for the hook, line, and sinker, only to come up with absolutely nothing.
His hands had curled into fists at his sides. Celsus kept walking. He would find someone, eventually, that he could vent everything out to - that he could sink his agonizing despair into, because it clawed at him, ate away at him until there was nothing left but raw bones that would crumble to dust eventually, if he let them.
(And he would, soon, but not yet, not quite yet.)
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Jarosite spent most of his time trying to be a good boyfriend for Albireo. Which, in the past few weeks, meant going to a corrupt meeting she probably should have been to herself, being asked to purify with her, and generally questioning his place in the world as it was. Oh, and standing up to a upstart general who thought himself a general sovereign already. Most of this left a sour taste in his mouth, if he was going to be quite honest.
His entire existence was being questioned, and the voice in the back of his head told him to give up on the thing he cared for the most to solidify himself in the Negaverse. Embrace it, feed on it, and become one with it. Who needed love when you had the power of Chaos in your veins, after all. Besides, there was a future to make happen, and it didn’t include love or a family.
It irritated him. It made him frustrated and angry and wanting to make someone hurt. After all if he just turned his anger to the White Moon, and their corrosive magic, maybe Albireo wouldn’t be in the depression she was. Maybe she wouldn’t want to purify back into that hell hole. Maybe… maybe he wouldn’t want to join her.
He teleported to a little patrolled area, on the other side of town from his apartment to cool his head. What assaulted him was the sickly sweet putrid feeling of a transcendant. He snarled and sprinted towards the source of it, not a block from him. Finally, something to turn his aggression and confusion on. Something to solidify his purpose and place. He was General Jarosite of the Negaverse. He wielded twin cutlasses. He killed for his purpose.
Jarosite all but vaulted the building next to him and landed in front of the knight, his swords thirsting for blood. He didn’t bother with some witty comment; he only lunged, letting the weapons speak for him.
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He had gone only a few more paces when he felt it - the surge of a power signature close by, within range of himself. Strong, like his own, and powerful - but unlike his own blazing white, clean aura, this one was darker, blacker - a Chaos signature, one that, by the feel of it, was equally ranked to that of a knight.
Celsus felt the corners of his lips twist up in a slight smile.
General.
Exactly what he’d been looking for. There were no footsteps, but Celsus felt the aura growing closer and closer, and when it was nearly on top of him, he pulled his own weapon out, the whip held steadily in his hand. There was a clatter of boots on the pavement in front of him, a flash of blue, and then something was swinging forward towards him.
Celsus hardly had time to react at all. He felt the blade cut a clean line across the sleeve of the arm he’d just flung up instinctively to block, and a thin streak of blood began to appear across the pale fabric. Shallow, nothing more than a paper cut - but those blades of this particular Nega were long and sharp looking, nothing to be trifled at.
His heart was hammering in his chest. Celsus smiled, and it was not his usual cheeky, relaxed grin, but something more twisted, something less controlled.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked mockingly, and lunged forward, sweeping his leg out in a roundhouse kick towards the general.
“Or just too stupid to speak?”
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He’d missed.
The general snarled, an expression that almost mimicked Celsus in a much darker way crossing his face. Lovely. He was going to taunt him, the man with the swords. Did he have a deathwish? Jarosite was fully willing to do the deed for him, if he was going to continue to talk like that. His arm came up to block the kick, and his elbow flared in pain as it was forced in a direction it didn’t usually go. Eh, it would heal. The knight once his swords were through his chest, not so much.
“Do you usually have a deathwish, knight? I’m happy to oblige.” Jarosite spun, aiming the pummel of one cutlass towards Celsus’ face. His other sword followed close behind, to slice diagonally across the knight’s chest.
This is what he was supposed to do. Fight them. Kill them. End their sickening existence. He was Negaverse, he was full of Chaos, and he was sworn to snuff out the light. That was how it was going to be, and how it would always be.
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Celsus did not have a death wish, not really. Or did he?
He didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that he wanted this, wanted the rush of adrenaline that came from doing something reckless and stupid, wanted the hiss of the air against his face as he ran, the snarl on the general’s face when he realized that Celsus had managed to parry part of his original swing of the blade.
“Dunno,” he said lightly, with a shrug, and twisted, the whip still held in hand. “Are you as stupid as you look?”
The first of the swords missed as he pivoted, but the second did not. Celsus felt the blade slice a line from shoulder to ribs, pain erupting across his torso like a sudden brushfire. He staggered a few steps back, gasping, scarlet beginning to seep through the pale colors of his uniform, which jangled and clinked as he moved.
But he didn’t stop, nor run away. Celsus drew in a sharp breath and lunged forward again, ignoring the way his chest felt as though breathing was suddenly difficult and snapped the whip in the direction of the general’s leg.
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An eyebrow twitched at the jab and Jarosite locked his jaw. One cutlass found purchase, and the red stain seeping through the knight’s tunic made his blood sing. This… this is what he was meant to do. To make Order bleed and be it's executioner.
The whip caught him around the leg and knocked him off balance. The general snarled as he lost his balance and fell to a knee. “Dunno ‘bout stupid, but… I am resourceful,” he said with a twisted grin. The general snapped his opposite leg out towards Celsus’ knee, with aim to break it.
Steel toed boots, man. He’d spent almost his entire existence fighting with them, and he wasn't about to stop now.
“You certainly are bloodthirsty for an Order slive,” he said casually. All the better to rile him up with.
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There was a satisfied smirk that crept across Celsus’ face as the general went down, the whip snapping back as he yanked at it. He curled the tails of it across the palm of his other hand, ignoring the way that every breath seemed to send shivers of pain through his chest, the sting of the blade making him rasp out the words.
“Resourceful, stupid, same thing,” he said airily, and then let out a roar of pain as the toe of the general’s boot collided with his leg. The bone did not break, but there was a shriek of agony that indicated he’d done something, and Celsus dropped, a stream of swears and obscenities escaping his throat.
“Perhaps,” he snarled out, and the smile had gone from his face, replaced by a very ugly look as he struggled back up to his knees again, a coldness in his eyes. “But if it means spilling your blood, well…I think I’m all right with that.”
And Celsus lunged suddenly, arms thrown out, the whip held securely between his hands as he attempted to wrap it around the general’s throat.
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Damn, that usually worked. Knights must be more resilient than their lesser ranks; then again, that was the same for the Negaverse. The Negaverse just got bladed or deadly weaponry. Which did you no good when a very angry Transcendent who was about your height and - probably heavier with all that clothing - was lunging for your throat with intent to kill.
Jarosite pulled both hands up as fast as possible to block the lunge and whip. His intent was to catch the weapon and roll, using Celsus’ momentum to essentially throw him over his head. In practice, he more or less caught Celsus’ full weight with his forearms, and didn’t have the leverage to hoist the man the rest of the way. He sputtered, arms pinned to his chest and whip dangerously close to his throat.
“Oh I could, but where would the fun be in that?” He resummoned his swords , sharpening them against one another. After all, Celsus was asking for it, and if he wanted a beating, oh he was going to get a beating.
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He let out a snarl that was half a feral growl, half a noise of annoyance. But Celsus did not have time to contemplate the benefits of strangling the general with his own whip before there was a hand twisting in the front of his shirt - and then, with a blink, they were gone.
And then they were back, and Celsus felt his breath leave entirely, back crashing against the wall, pain ricocheting up and down his spine, his entire body. He made a choking noise, and then coughed, blood spattering the ground around him, and almost collapsed right then and there.
But his eyes were burning with rage. Celsus straightened, blinking away the stars in his vision and smirked, blood around his lips.
“Rude,” he croaked out. “Very rude.”
The whip cracked, aimed at the general’s side.
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The knight was slowing down. The whip cracked out at Jarosite, who caught it with his sword and jerked it towards him. Jarosite liked rage in the knight’s eyes; he’d had that same look once upon a time (and still tried to have now) and he speculated what might drive it. What would drive a knight to bloodshed and rage? Was Order so terrible that everyone went mad? Or was it just his presence that tormented him so?
He hoped it was the latter, for good measure.
“I usually am.” With that, he aimed the pummel of his free cutlass towards the back of Celsus’ head.
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His head was spinning unpleasantly, and Celsus could feel the energy starting to drain out of him, could feel the blackness begin to encroach in his vision, spots dancing across his eyes. His snap of the whip had done little to help him; the tails were now wrapped around the blade of the sword, and Celsus’ arm jerked forward with the momentum, his shoulder screeching in pain.
The world slowed; and then stars exploded in his line of vision as agony erupted in his head. Celsus staggered and then collapsed, legs giving way, landing with an ungraceful thump and a crash on the ground. He grappled desperately for consciousness, fading in and out, and looked up at the general. The fire had not yet left his eyes.
His throat felt dry, but blood was starkly red against his mouth.
“Gonna kill me?” Celsus rasped, heart thumping against his chest. “Gonna rip out my starseed?”
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Jarosite stood, flicking the whip from his blade and away from Celsus. He looked down at the still fighting knight, and couldn’t help but admire his fire. Or stupidity. He leveled a sword with the knight’s neck, tip a hair’s breath from the man’s skin. He considered ending his life, right here, right now. One less transcendent, one less thorn in the Negaverse’s side. A good swing and he’d part the man’s head from his shoulders.
Seemed too easy of a death though, as if Celsus wanted to be killed.
“Naw…” he said, face splitting into a grin as he shouldered the cutlass. “I think you should suffer alive instead.”
Jarosite chuckled and walked off, leaving Celsus to his thoughts and his broken body.
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