Alternatively: Gute Tangas können aus den Häuten anderer Leute geschnitten werden Follows: Mirror
“How close was it to here, the crystal thing—think there’s still pieces of your rock candy sleeper left? Or did it all just ********’ melt like sugar in the rain…” Albite snorted some soft sound as he waived absently at the staticy air, heaved in the staleness, the crisp ozone that dry lightning left behind, the tang of roaming youma and something that reminded him of warm glass. He smiled as he looked back at his Husband, his *King*, god ******** him but did it feel good to think that – to see him – to be in the Rift n feel Faustites aura unfurl over his skin like a heatwave in the desert.
The pass through the hall was breezy, the exit out into all the wilds a ******** skip through the worlds sunniest most wonderful park!!! He was the happiest man alive, should’ve been at least, would’ve been – save for the small bits of jagged reminders that wormed around in his hindbrain. They whispered about failures, responsibilities, the whole entire nine! The whispers had names attached to them and he wanted to claw them out so he could just, for five whole seconds, be a body that lived unbothered! Time healed everything, right? That was the golden rule! The only ******** problem with time healing anything? Was that it took TIME for Time to heal; seconds, minutes, hours, days had to goddamned pass and in the passing of them a person just had to keep on keeping on. Albite swallowed against something scratchy, something sharp, dug a heel through gathered dust n ash. Tripped backwards into practiced steps down the stairs – the kind that would let him walk n watch Faustite at the same time.
He wasn’t here to think about anything, to worry bout anybody, boy, girl, etc. He was here to be with Faustite n try the kingshit out and that was exactly what he was going to do! The rest—the rest would still be there waiting when they got back, he’d face it, grin at it, chew it up and spit it out. Nothing that needed his attention was going ******** today, that was for damn sure.
It never ends, does it? But I like my eternity, don’t I? S’what I’m supposed to be built for, ten thousand more turns around the sun through ten thousand more forms until the heat death of the etcetera and the vacuum of the blah eats Jupiter n all it’s sister moons whole, including Praxidike…
Albite wondered if his ancestors had ever looked forward to that, if the Praxidicae that had birthed a Senshi from the flickering core of a split moon’s fragmented pieces with the aid of some ancient Mau—- If they, scarred, scaled, scattered across dying sands had in all their bloodyminded wisdom thought the price paid worth it? If they’d even cared about the cost as they were buying an eternity's worth of power.
Probably not…
That was fine too, though.
Their uncaring scrabble for an ageless star-systems energy encompassed in a single, extinguishable body gave him time, however slowly. Metered it out more n enough so he could enjoy leering at his Sovereign King, from mismatched boots to the deadly bit of ignored black sharp that hung off Faustites hilt like some hated shadow. Least the sword didn’t ******** speak! That s**t with Headache? That was taking more getting used to than he would’ve ever imagined! Jarring as ******** to walk in and see that and hear words—
“Ahwell, even if it’s gone? S’not what we’re here for – right your majesty? Oh, no, no, hot stuff – ******** – I wanna find some kinda, not a new nickname? But like, something appropriate to hit on you in public with. Does–does the Rift count as public? It isn't, right? Cause the Youma don’t care how I address you, or if I undress you, and did I mention how badly I wanna undress you with more’n just my eyes, Firebrand? Everyday! But especially today, s’latent pent up energy kinda bullshit that comes with being back out here..…” his words unnecessary, endless, begging to be silenced. For all that Albites' tone was far away, and his movements languid. His eyes remained fixed on Faustite, everything under his skin that was Senshi *itched*; more of that sharp scratchiness that built until he could no longer ignore it, until he had to move, fight, ********, something!
Definitely something.
Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 5:22 pm
"What the ******** are you talking about?" Faustite squinted at Albite as they were on their way. Rock candy sleeper meant nothing to him, and it took him an inordinate amount of time before he tried to decode what the ******** that meant. It wasn't anything to do with the Rift missions, he thought, for only the first one involved any kind of sleeping and he spent that period awake. There was no 'rock candy sleeper' to speak of for him. And the second Rift mission had only involved a machine that used him like a battery, and Albite knew full well that it was still in operation. So, did he mean the various makeshift spots he'd napped in to keep himself safe when he was living in the Rift? Or did he —
Oh. He meant the crystalline holding cell that was part of the process for promoting him. That took Faustite a pretty minute to decode.
"No. Shouldn't be anything left. If there was, we'd have walked through it, soon as we reached the Rift." That had happened on the outcropping above the steppes, if he remembered correctly. Right in front of the Hall of Shadows. Presiding over the remains of the ruined city. A ******** up sort of coronation ceremony for all the denizens of the Rift to behold. That must've been why Albite was fixating on it.
He was careful in descending the steppes this time, despite Albite's eyes on him. He didn't trust that one knee was packaged in the leather of his boot while the other knee remained free to bend. Maybe there was a purpose to it, maybe in having a weapon, he needed that extra flexibility with one leg and support with the other leg, but Faustite had never spent a damn minute training with a weapon of his own. Had he been taught how to foil certain weapons? Yes. Had he been shown how to disarm? Yes. But did he know how to use a sword that looked like it was trying to be a circle? Absolutely not. He didn't even have a name for the damn thing.
As he made his way down, half-following and half-leading Albite to the nearby Colosseum, a cloud of fireflies buzzed up past his boy and joined him in his descent. They joined him as a perfect image of himself, and spent just as long negotiating stairs without breaking the illusion. "Hello, Faustite," it said in a bored voice. It did not acknowledge the senshi with him.
"Guess you'll be our referee, then." Faustite hadn't spared it a look.
Albite kept flapping his jaw, polluting the Rift with useless words, and Faustite decided that he'd rather pretend he never heard any of it than entertain the thought of being hit on in public with some new nickname that Albite coined. He didn't know what was wrong with Firebrand, anyway; he rather liked that one. But Albite worked in mysterious was — that was to say, in ways that make no sense.
"Colosseum," he declared, pointing to the great arch not more than fifty feet from Albite's back. "Three minutes to each round. Best three of five. Match win's decided when the opponent's pinned to the ground with a weapon or a boot to a lifeline. Lifelines are chest," he pointed right over his own starseed, "and neck." Another gesture to his jugular. "Anything else is a draw. Draw matches are a point for both of us. Bounds are fit to the colosseum's fighting area; going out of bounds is a disqualification win for the one still in the arena."
He paused, thought about it, then added, "Can't be like old times, can it? Be a damn pox on the Negaverse to get you promoted again, though…" He paused again, considering their options. He could summon some youma to fight alongside Albite, certainly, but they would heed his commands in a second and Albite's commands only when that boy ascended. It would wind up being Faustite's opportunistic advantage instead. So what else did that leave?
"Here." Faustite unclasped the band that held the strange sword to his side, then held it out by the hilt with the blade hanging towards the earth. "There's your handicap. Call it even now.
"Winner gets the usual. Got all that, Headache?" His attention fixed on the mischievous cloud of bugs.
"Yes."
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 5:37 pm
It wouldn’t ever not be jarring, that uncanny valley middle ground that set Waru’s hackles back n raised the hairs on his arms. The act of watching Headache mimic someone like a mirror, hearing it *speak* in his husband's voice! Oh, how the belligerent swarm of lightning bugs had grown so much from flashing incandescent blinders in morse—- to the powerful piece of shitheel it was now, intelligent, loyal, sassy as ********. He wasn’t sure if he should be proud, terrified, or pissed that he didn’t get so much as a side eye from Headache! Suchah rude bit of rift bugs. He supposed there were more important things to pay attention to though, like Fauatites rules for their newest ‘game’; the way Waru knew better than to call it a game out loud. It felt like more than that—like the air was charged with something ugly; a static mess of nastiness needing to be purged — or ******** ground into the stone beneath them, leached into it with blood, sweat, and tears till it’d seeped out of the tight line in Faustites spine. Til tasting the edge of it was far less appealing than it should’ve been.
N’ it was oh so very appealing right then, probably for all the wrong reasons, but Albite missed being tired in his body instead of in his mind. He hated feeling mentally exhausted, mostly because he didn’t have the cells to spare for it – if one went down? The whole house went down with. So he was extra grateful that the rules for their tryst were laid out nice n simple for his sake. Now whether or not he trusted Headache to play the role of an honest ref was the question! Ultimately it was a negligible one, because he trusted the swarm to obey Faustite even if he didn’t trust his partners paired youma to be fair.
He trailed between the pair, a shepherded thing neither ahead nor behind, practically skipped through cracked arches, down broken steps. Marveling as he always did at the desolation time had wrought on everything looming above them – around them – the way the bowl and field in the center of it all could’ve held some grand tournaments. All of the Earth Kingdoms' remains made Albite feel small in such a good way – he could imagine the stands filled with cheering ghosts, watching whatever the ******** people would’ve done for entertainment in the past. Reimagined them as they were now, brackish, but still standing and filled with an audience in the way of Headache — maybe soon with whichever other denizens of the Rift saw fit to come trailing in their lazily distant amble of a way. If their auras would’ve attracted or repelled? Albite couldn’t say, he could grin for the idea that Metallia herself was, kinda, sorta, attending in her own way!
Her claim on the place was undeniable at this point, n so far? He was digging her style.
“Kay, m’game,” quick bite of amusement, and Albite didn’t eye the spaces Faustite had indicated as ‘wins’, so much as he leered at the man as a whole. Started at the tips of the insanely mismatched footwear, ever curious for the ways it’d changed Faustites gait, dragged his eyes up to the stunning spikes of lava-lit crown atop his boys head; though his chest and neck only earned extra seconds of looking, a slower beat of a blink, because Faustites precious neck was still so damn protected – such a shame it couldn’t’ve gotten the same treatment as those wonderful boots.
“Yanno something Ei—I gotta say that Mars ain’t got s**t on the Rift,” the handicap got an appreciative grin, gentle handling, reverence for how obscenely sharp and strange it was to hold! It felt nothing at all like Jet’s beast of a weapon, it was far warmer for its closeness to Faustites body, far sleeker, and balanced in an entirely different way. Albite still had that ridiculous desire to run his tongue over it – his fingers – the oddest little impulses as he measured the lengthy bit of death out in his palm.
“Did I mention I’d been recently? First place in space I’ve seen since picnicking up on Swan-songs grassy gnoll. The two places were so damn different…” he left the words to linger like a first blow, like he could feign unawareness of the reveal even as he was clearly begging for even more of Faustites attention.
All of it—he wanted every last bit of it today and ******** would he have it, bleeding and burning he’d have it.
“Or—no—there were those space-wells with one of those rainbow Knights? Ida’s friend I think. Place had these huge pillars, still waters — he was a real cute blond,” the space between the wrapped hilt and the beginning of the sickles edge was long, but not long enough to give him a body's worth of space like Jet’s did. It reminded him more of a fish hook, the way the end barbed up nastily; the sort of thing that would pierce n rend a gaping wound as it came back through.
“Soft thing, that one, for all that the other Knight I met with not too long ago ain’t—he’s a little more like me. I think you’ll like him…” Albite snickered as he stole steps away, five paces, ten, slashed at the air and made the most excited noise to follow for the way the thing whistled through all the stillness around them, a gorgeous piece of death all done up in his boys colors! “Actually? I know you’ll like him. Whatd’ya think about that Ei? Me bringing you a little piece of Mars as Retribution for its people's harms against you? Seems all kinda like something Haru could write a poem about, yeah?”
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 5:49 pm
"You fraternize so. Much." Faustite enunciated with a tut at the end. That he went frolicking on ******** planet didn't surprise him in the slightest. He was always going on about space and how neat it was to visit, like any world out there wasn't as yet a dead one. But Faustite never saw what those starstruck world-owners saw in their own dead hunks of rock — there was no magic to it, for him. No desire to cultivate whatever plants they could get out of its dead soil, or waste time up there building effigies or whatever the ******** they did. These were dead places, all. Gravesites. And what was the point of disturbing the dead? What did they gain from it?
Nothing, Faustite thought. And from the sound of it, Albite hadn't gleaned any more than a few conversations. If he had to guess, the boy was motivated because they were places he hadn't seen before, and food was being offered to him. That was half of his daily diet, right there: food and flapping his gums.
While Albite rattled his teeth loose with all that talking, Faustite watched the way his boy tried to hold the weapon. He felt it out, turning his wrist this way and that, aiming a few slashes into the air to see how it cut through the atmosphere. Looked like he was starting to understand the weight of the thing, how strangely light it felt with its virgin volcanic glass blade. The design was a cruel one; Faustite remembered reading that they were used to circumvent shields and stab the person trying to block. Useful for knights, certainly, but against him? Or against senshi? They would find out if it was of any worth.
He had flinched at the mere mention of Mars, and already he was reminded of the panic he'd felt upon leaving that day. How he'd drowned Almadel's calling card in a pool of his own blood and the cute boy had the nerve to remark on it afterward. That day was a constant reminder for how his shoulder pinched at the right angle or his muscles seized if he breathed too quickly. But Albite had clearly made it back no worse for wear, so his side of Mars must have been different from the one governed by ex-Cinnabar. ******** lucky for him.
But as Albite wound long on his little ditty, Faustite grew impatient. He began to pace, antsy to start their fight, while smoke flared behind him in a twisting tail. "Is there a ******** point to this?" He asked, soon after Albite remarked on the rainbow Knight. He was ready to develop an eye twitch.
And then — there it was. The point that Faustite could've had fifteen minutes ago. Albite met a knight he thought was worth corrupting. This one, by the sound of it, wasn't terribly different from Albite himself. Faustite breathed a sigh through his nose.
"Rather kill the ******** Knight who skewered me. Doubt she even gives a ******** about other Mars knights…" He grumbled softly. "We'll meet him, at least. Measure what he's worth. Let Haru sort out his poem ideas, Albite; stay in your ******** lane."
It was something, though. And if knights actually had camaraderie with each other? Then having a Mars knight that ex-Cinnabar may have known would be useful in drawing her out. And if he could find her again, then he could leverage all this extra power to completely ******** obliterate her, take her starseed, and ensure that there were no Cinnabars to come, of the Mars persuasion or otherwise. It might be useful, then, to meet this Mars boy he went on about. The one he would supposedly like.
He'd give Albite another minute to exercise his vocal cords, then he'd sprint for him, dodge to the side, kick at his knee with a boot that he wasn't fully accustomed to yet. The kick itself threw his balance a margin, but that was something easily overcome with some practice.
That's what this was, he told himself. Nothing with stakes attached. Just practice.
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:19 pm
“I bake all my pies with honey, Firebrand.” He had his reasons for it, and sometimes? He had no reason at all, it was in his nature and purest impulse and the desire to see, touch, taste, hold everything that anyone ever said was denied to him! Can’t touch the man on fire? The ******** he can’t. Can’t go to space?! Even if he never saw Nembus again, the first thing he was going to do when he did – the thing he did in his head while looking in the mirror some tired nights – was tell her that *yes* even Senshi like them, so far removed from the vastness of it all, could still go to space. Could touch the purple, blue grasses of a foreign world, and marvel at the lack of wind, and weep at what a loss it was to have a place — and for there to be nothing on it. Like the universe's most well protected national parks, beauty to be hold, but eventually you left the park and you went the ******** home.
Because today’s people weren’t built to live in the parks amongst any of its creatures, not for any real length of time—The past was gone, dead, buried, the present had risen up and built over it; paved over it and it’s ghosts mercilessly, without thought for how such a time would ever be reclaimed. Albite loved all Senshi being in all their spaces! And if someday they renewed them to their full glory? He’d applaud them, throw them parades! Because s**t would get real exciting then– It’d be, just, the most fun time he could imagine. A real war, with real armies, with real enemies hissing in his ear about the threat of rebirth.
He would’ve made Praxidike proud, then, no matter what colors he wore.
“You bake all yours straight in the fire–not even a pan to hold ‘em. I’ll never begrudge you that–n’fact? I love you even more for it. Doing things the way I can’t, I promise not to trod all over your lane!“ Even if he was never sure he could really find his own. Things he was sure of? Was that sometimes in his own bumbling way, he caught snippets of information that was worth trying to pass on, and some other times? He caught whole entire people, worth their weight in information, worth even more in that they were willing bodies who wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon! People worth giving homes to, loving and being loved by, and that was a win enough for him.
“Now—before we pull his mind outta his c**k n you sear your brand into his soul, we maybe ask him a few questions about her, yanno? Real amicable like–real friendly n such–we don’t phrase it like we’re going to find her n gut her on her own planet until *after* he’s stepped across the finish line and into our arms.....” trailing off as his eyes flashed for a moment, mirth become murder, his sigh all eager and heavy, because he absolutely ******** did want that other Knight.
He wanted all the Knights – every last one of them – however many there were to have in palm or under heel.
Thinking so much of heels and the things beneath them that the sight of Faustite rushing up on him came as a surprise; it took him a split second to realize – to feel the graze of pain over cloth and thigh-highs – if not for Faustites awkwardness? His fawnish tilt in an attempt to learn his new boots – Albite knew his knee would’ve buckled beneath the strength of reinforced concrete striking slightly softer concrete.
As it was? He knew he’d bruise – would be familiar with the shape of it as he was with his reaction to such surprises. The urge to lash out magically ever present: Binding Retribution, his most basic of lifelines, an easy swipe of tangled black magic uncoiling out from the fingertips that weren’t tightly grasping a blade’s hilt. The bind was weak, useless, a play of a thing – but Albite had been thinking so much of those boots lately! Better to waste his magic on teasing at snaring them up – nipping like a teething dog at his master's heels.
“Firebrand! You ********!! Not even a countdown!!”
So rude! But Albite was loving it~
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:25 pm
Why the ******** did Albite do this? He knew the purpose of coming down to the Rift was to use the Colosseum to blow off some steam. Burn up some restless energy, beat the feelings out, and have their fun afterward. But despite knowing this, the boy insisted on talking. Just ran his ******** mouth, nonstop, with the expectation that they were going to plan on what to do with this Mars knight he found, maybe enact a plan to take down Tanais, and Faustite was burning up for it. Of all the ******** times he could've brought up this Mars knight, he uses the exact moment that Faustite was expecting to fight.
It was so ruthlessly irksome that Faustite stumbled and staggered when caught mid-motion by Albite's bullshit basic magic. The tattoos were tenuous enough that firm force would break them easily, but the humiliation of it chafed him. Snarling, Faustite ripped himself out of the ribbons.
But by the time he was free? Faustite tripped and barely caught himself from hitting the dust-stricken floor. "Would you have heard a ******** countdown over your ******** yammering?" Faustite's eyes were lit with irritation. "Headache, was that a ******** foul?" He craned his head to look back at the youma.
"No," Headache responded from its perch in one of the arches. It yet wore Faustite's appearance in a crouch with arms folded over its lap. Its expression, ever neutral, looked on at the pair.
"See? Call me a ******** again and I'll break your ******** jaw."
As Faustite hissed out his threat, some of the hibernating denizens of the Rift came out of their blank torpors and slithered, skittered or crawled their way toward the ruined city. Seldom did they feel the auras that they felt that day, and when they did, there was oft something to see about it. Sometimes a starseed came of an altercation, offered out to them in exchange for their silence and their doing away with the evidence.
Thus did their audience begin to build. First it was the most agile of the youma — the darting cats, the packs of wolf-like creatures with their bare skull faces, the fliers that perched and cawed their attendance out over all the others. Then came the slower, more plodding beasts that took up far more space than the humans of old when they finally came to a bench. They came in small clusters with the forerunners being curious over what this altercation meant for them, whereas the remainder trickling in were more curious about the youma they followed. While it was nowhere near the capacity of the Colosseum in its prime, some of the lowermost benches would be filled over the course of their fight.
There was little else worth seeing in the Rift, after all.
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:30 pm
Albite didn’t bother to hide his smile, knowing the look on his face. Faustite was right, he wouldn't've heard ******** or all, but that wasn’t the point.
The principle of the thing mattered far more than the point, in that none of it really mattered at all; the point was ten thousand fathoms further away than could ever be reached by any man, and Waru went after it, heedless of whether or not it’d ever be reached.
Life was all about the journey anyways, right? Points were just depressing little red light stops and periods to punctuate an end. It was the journey of getting to it that mattered! Albite proudly considered himself a marathoner-–a master of that particular skill. Knowing he could multitask in only the one way especially well - running his mouth endlessly while doing any number of other things: ********, fighting, filtering his thoughts out of his overfull head and into the air as if it would ease the buildup of pressure behind his eyelids. A samesort of exhaustion with equal amounts of satisfaction when compared to spending all of his magic, or moving till he dropped into bed like a stone.
Sharks had to keep swimming – and Waru? Waru had to keep running his mouth, even if it was to his own detriment. He felt, now more than before, like he was in danger, and that? That was what woke him up—what made his blood sing and his senses open–to Headache's bland watchfulness while wearing his husband's face – to the arena filled by half with creatures he admired far too much for his own damn good. He wondered, briefly, if Faustite would offer him up roman style? A thumbs up or down at the behest of the crowd, if they’d clamor for – not even his body, they didn’t care about that – but his soul? How nice it was to know that it was what was inside that really counted at the end of all things!! All those fancy little ‘hang in there kitten’ calendars and their motivational sayings had never been ********> laughed, with a raised eyebrow, a one shouldered shrug, Albite licked at his teeth and welcomed the audience with splayed arms and an open heart. Tightened his grip on the ‘Handicap’ until he could feel the grooves of leather dig into his palm, till his knuckles went white for it. “******** headache’ll side with you! Huh, buzzy-bugs? As if something that can’t even disobey you can be an honest judge. S’fine though–I like my handicaps t’come in pairs–” words flared, flamed, made into needles, made to pierce and poke at the roaring fire before him. To further stoke the blazing ire he saw in his boys eyes while surrounded by Faustite in his element until it burned over while he dared Faustite to try him.
Always he wanted Faustite to try him! In this? Right now?! Waru wanted it like a two-fold purpose, so he could abject all his responsibilities—No, so he could become Faustites *sole* responsibility! Unburden him from everything else, even that ******** crown. He could be the excuse that would let his husband spend next month feeding him strawberry & starseed smoothies, energy balls through a straw, delegating to the gaggle of eternals and generals that now lay under his heel.
Let someone in all the world, please, for the love of ********, shut me up.
Albite felt for Faustite so damn deeply, winced internally at the very idea of all the strain and stress his boy must’ve been under now; figured Faustite just kept taking things on, people, partners, missions. Endlessly swallowing all of his responsibilities the way his body was made to swallow everything else– till it killed him —till he overflowed with them and they all spilled out in rivers of black.
“Now don’t just lounge there n tease me, Firebrand.”
He felt he could fix that though, twist the valve till it snapped off and everything came free in rivulets of fire instead of floods of tears—they’d be each others only responsibility for awhile, as together as they were in this moment, under a see of hungry eyes and mangled, fractious faces.
And if he burned a little for it?
All the ******** better for how he could say he earned it this time, that it was deserved, that it was only right considering how very Senshi he was. Staking unreasonable claims and making insane demands and going after a King with a handicap to hold in his hands – the name of it lived in his head now. Handicap, to go with Headache, becasue what the ******** did a Half-Youma king even need a sword for? To hand to his Senshi, that was what he needed it for - such a fitting piece of steel.
“Come break my ******** jaw,” hissed in return with mirth-mingled-malice on his lips. Hissed with love. He loved Faustite, loved himself, and his magic loved him too! Loved them both, he knew, for how it responded, whip quick, another Bind of Retribution in its most basic form – burning through two in a span of minutes – but now? Wrapped around the blade clenched in his fist; the clench he’d held tight enough to feel the ache of it in his bones when he finally released his hold on it; giving the blade an extra three feet of length to let fly on — either he’d catch Faustite or he’d catch air –
They were training afterall! Albite would learn help his boy learn the hard way, or not at all—
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:31 pm
Headache had nothing to say to Albite for all his little taunts. It had made its stance on Albite quite clear to the agent it served — this one was better off a snack than a soldier, and yet its master kept this one alive. It assumed that such a nonsensical choice had to do with Faustite's humanity above all else, for no youma saw worth in the likes of a senshi like this one. That he was even allowed to be so bold and boisterous in a place so completely not his own had galled the youma.
But it was not here to complain to deaf ears, for Faustite would never hear it. The rest of the youma gathered could do nothing more but agree.
It understood that it must watch, but that said nothing for all the youma that had gathered. No orders went out to them. Surely it would not be long before their curiosity was overcome by hunger or hatred. And when that happened, Headache knew that Faustite could not — would not — fault them for what was in their nature.
"Wrong ******** place to throw insults," Faustite seethed back. "Your ******** people deserve all the hell they catch!" Smoke poured from his nose and mouth with every breath as he sprinted toward the goading boy. His heart hammered merciless in his chest, beating against his bones for the feeling of Albite's face breaking under his fist or the boy's ribs caving in under a boot. He wanted — needed — to hurt something, to feel blood run over his knuckles and to feel flesh cook under his grasp.
He'd needed it for months now. He'd needed it since he first became a General-King and started to crack under the weight of the changes, the new duties, the new expectations. There was much to learn and more to do that was so estranged from what he was used to that he struggled to acclimate to it. He'd never before been in a meeting with so many others that wasn't concerning an imminent mission. He'd never had the ability to set Eternals and Generals to task, let alone rely on them to manage a team. And he had never needed to learn how to use a weapon.
That ******** weapon that sat in his office, gathering dust. That albatross that reminded him that Jet would want to spar, but the man was being patient with him. And with that patience came expectation, which clawed down Faustite's self-confidence in a slow, insidious manner for each passing day that he failed to meet those expectations. It wasn't just Jet, either — it was Heliodor, who was still railing against him and everything he did, even though he should have a better handle on the situation by now. It was the paperwork that he struggled to focus on, and the fact that the house still wasn't finished after so long of him and Albite renovating it, and all the youma he failed to protect in recent months, and his inability to recorrupt Cybele to remove her as a threat.
It was failed missions. It was physical weakness. It was personal ineptitude.
Albite swung the blade outward and he leapt, only afterward recognizing that Albite kept the damned thing bound to him. Little to do for it now but twist and keep his focus on that boy's yammering face.
The bladed side of the weapon struck him in the hip, chopping through the heavy fabric of his pants easily. It buried down to the bone and tore a keening, strangled sound from its owner, who was quick to push the blade away from him by the tied hilt. In retrospect, he could've summoned it. Could've avoided damage altogether. But, as heat rippled down his arm and collected in his palm, he recognized that that wasn't what this was about.
Faustite stumbled into his own inertia, grit his teeth against the flash of pain for every step. His fist felt seething hot, like his core was now at the palm of his hand, and it was around this heat that he curled his fingers and reeled back to strike Albite in the jaw as hard as he could.
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:33 pm
Then exact your retribution, let me catch Hell for it—
It was only fair and right that if he was going to be merciless with his beloved? Then he deserved that same treatment reflected back, needed it shared and doubled tenfold in his favor. Having Faustites actual anger ricochet out at him, feeling it vibrate in his bones. It was exhilaration on the inhale tinged with shock on the the exhale–
Because he hadn’t expected the blade to strike true, marveling for how clean it caught; all while realizing that the blade wasn’t something of simple steel or some other light and refined metal. That the obsidian half-moon wave of it’s blade was in fact glass—obsidian—something of fire and void and he should’ve clued into it ******** sooner, shouldn’t he? The thing was Faustites after all, what else would it have been save tailor made for him. Something strong enough to be lava-touched and keep its form, unbent, unbroken, deadly as a youmas claws – deadlier, maybe. Not that he had time to reflect on it while watching the gush of ichor flower beneath the split of a wound he’d made with the b*****d blade; Jet had warned him, hadn’t he? Had he really figured even a Sovereign could take a hit from their own magic-filled weapons and come away unscathed?
Had he hoped one couldn’t? That chinks existed, built in faults, human-like flaws of the body no matter how great the flow of power poured into it; cracked clay cups, hollowed out, repaired with gold. Absolutely one and all of them equal in that way even if they were equal in no other ways at all.
The feeling was ******** thrilling as his thoughts were macabre.
That’s one way to get him out of those tight-a** pants—
He’d find a better way next time. Maybe while finding a dentist? Tasks to delegate out at a later date while his attempts to track Faustite’s quick, hotflash steps failed. His boy was a ******** blurr and then a blind of sunfire; like the overhead lamp turned on middle of the night–fast, fast, fast ********. Even wounded he was quick! Fueled by all that pain twisted into purposeful anger and faster than Albites reflexes would allow him to flinch for; he hadn’t dragged the anchor of that tethered blade more than an inch before the bind on the thing was snapping – the sword hooked into the dirt – dripping into the gouge it dug.
His everything snapped back with an echoing crack as he skidded on his a** into the pile of his own locs, he couldn’tve dodged even if he’d wanted to, and maybe on his own turf he could’ve fled better, but down ******** often did that slip his mind? The rules of the space around him looser in his head than the bleeding line of molars he tongued, and sharper than the pain and heat he knew better than to touch. Either he still had the left side of his face or he didn’t, he’d b***h about it later, all good-natured-like. After he figured out whether to keep open or closed the eye that only saw sunspots and white haze. Same way he’d b***h about all the ******** rules of every space they inhabited—He should’ve asked Faustite to sear ‘em into his flesh along with the imprints of his ice-pick knuckles along his jaw line.
Next time—nexttime-nxtime—
The s**t he could ignore as his body found a way up, rag-doll-like and trembling with an adrenaline high. Gurgling up a wheeze of a laugh for how bodies were such funny ******** things, and the mind even funnier for how different some pains were than others. He could ignore the grate of gravel and where it tore, could ignore the sear of heat that *lingered*. A loose tooth though? A thing that felt cracked through to the nerve beneath it, he couldn’t ******** stand for it. Dug the worst of the offenders free–let a molar loll into the drug up, hard packed, ashen floor of the place in a lazy spill of saliva-tinged blood. Maybe Faustite would make him an earring out of it? Scriven it into something prettier than he deserved, a half moon? A bit of fire? A rose? Maybe one of the surrounding beasts would lap it up and bay for more than just scraps of Senshi—
Maybe they wouldn’t wait—cause his full a** self wasn’t done disrespecting their King yet. Not that Albite moved much as he breathed wet and twisted his head just enough to let the hair fall out of his good eye; caught sight of the only target he cared for, and let his magic seek out its own ends against his precious, perfect, husband. He hoped Faustite felt his love, that it wrapped round that pretty collared throat n held tight so he could drag him close and kiss all the fire he’d faced right back into his boys body.
All of Albites tattoos appear to tear from his skin, lashing him to his three nearest enemies. They weigh like chains, and can squeeze to the point of bruising. The magic in the tattoos creates the feeling of being choked and beaten by a heavy hand; giving an opponent the sensation of being driven down and short of breath. Albites opponents can still move/fight, but remain bound to Albite until the magic is ended, or the bonds severed. The tattoo tethers are still magical and so can draw no blood. No physical or lasting damage is done, unless the target’s player wishes it. The illusion ends after 25 seconds. In which the bindings vanish along with the sensations. Range: 15 Feet Duration: 25 seconds Number of uses: 1 Number of targets: 3 )
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:34 pm
Knocking a ******** down felt better than it should have, knowing who that ******** was, but Faustite still shook his hand out after landing the blow. Steam rose off his fingers for the residual impact, and his knuckles throbbed in protest. Worse than that, though, was his wrist for how acute pain shot down through the middle of it whenever he rotated it just so.
He wouldn't have traded that moment for all the Princesses in the White Moon, however. Watching his smug ******** boy crumple under the strike, watching his skin ripple back and his wall of a form go toppling into the dirt was far more satisfying than Faustite had expected it to be. Would that he could've taped it, but beyond lacking a phone, the Rift tolerated no electrical activity and constantly drained any battery-powered sources dry. Thus, he would only have the pain in his hand as a reminder. And Albite would have extra holes in his mouth.
While the boy came back to reality, Faustite spent his earned seconds on looking over the wound from his weapon. It separated when he moved, and already it gushed strong rivulets of black down his thigh and into his boot. With Albite on the floor, he had the chance to shirk his pauldron and rip the cape out from beneath it. He limped toward his weapon, sticking up out of the dirt as it was, and held the corners of the cape taut as he brought the middle into the bladed, translucent edge. It sheered with utterly no difficulty, leaving Faustite with a cut as clean as his hands were steady.
Faustite wrapped the makeshift gauze about himself as many times as it would allow, knotting each strip when he reached the end of what he could wrest from it. The remainder of the cape had been wadded into a padding that he could shove into the wound, keeping it stuffed and trussed until they called off their game. Doubtless he'd need to get stitches, and that wouldn't be so fun for Albite when he had to do all the work later.
He hadn't finished tying off the last strip of cape before black satin tattoos caught him about the arms, the thighs, the throat, crushingly tight, as they dragged him bodily toward his aggressor. Winced for how the pull jostled his gouge, threatened to loosen up all the clots and spill fresh blood until he was woozy for it and unable to tell which Albite was the solid one. He realized, then, that if he was using his weapon, it would be of no consequence to slice through Albite's eternal attack and disable his magic. That was what the blade was for, wasn't it? Ensure any senshi was unable to threaten him henceforth, for the blade could outlast any magic.
As Albite drew him in, the air around him became superheated with the flickering roil of his flame. His hair rose in convective heat, dancing around his ears while his coat tails raised and the air rippled. Soon after, flame exploded outward in a baleful gale, but the sight of it immediately caught Faustite unaware — what gusted around them in violent gouts of flame was a black fire. What was stranger than that was Faustite felt no heat from it, and he was certain that Albite wouldn't either. It was akin to stuffing Albite into a shampoo commercial. It was infuriating for how it held no consequence to the boy who had him trussed up and dragged over.
"What the ********," Faustite spat with cinders. "What the ********." As if such words would yield an answer.
Beyond them, some of the youma in the stands had begun to encroach. Theirs were careful steps, knowing that they were intruding on a spat. Less apologetic for it than they were opportunistic, hoping to catch the senshi unaware and finish it off before an agent. There was ever a snack for something like that.
At a loss for what to do, Faustite tugged back on his tethers. He wrenched his right wrist close enough that he could reach the bind with his teeth and start chewing through what kept him so arrested for movement. It was a poor choice, but between delirious pain in his hip and an inexplicable shift in his own abilities, Faustite couldn't conceive of other options. His head already spun as he wondered if his abilities changed with his rank, if he could no longer damage others with his wall of fire if they wore the same allegiance as him. And what would that mean for hunting traitors who haven't yet turned coat?
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:36 pm
S’like getting hit in the face with a flashbang—a really big firecracker—ah—
Descriptors running like background text through Waru’s subconscious, cataloging quietly the way he’d explain all of this to whomever he saw next. The way he’d laugh at Faustite in the future for having hot hands, the sexiest hands, the way that sear of lava streaked through black until it overtook it was just ******** amazing. The sight of that wouldn’t be leaving his mind anytime soon.
Knowing more about the extent of what Faustite could do with his new self just gave him terrible ******** ideas—Made him light up for what malleable, ever shifting things youma were, moreso and in different ways than Maus. They all had weapons for bodies and bodies like putty, and Waru was jealous of them, one and all.
Jealous, enraged, horny—
Empty eyed and empty headed, until he felt the touch of *other*, pretty prey on the other end of his lines. Any thought behind his movements was secondary. His magic would do what it did without him being present, would starve and net-drag in by force what he anchored himself to. His body knew the motions, automatic, how he could stab a thick heel into the dragging tendrils of velvet, let them wrap round his ankle and step them back – how it was better to heft the binding chains up round a bicep, let them writhe and snap around his own thick forearm to leverage a better pull…
The blackness that rose up, he squinted against it with his good eye, flinched into a defensive pose, snarling a guttural response to all the uptick of blazing wind; because black was not blue and he feared for a moment that the heat of it all would be his end, a true and fresh new hell of one. Except there was no heat–
Eion’s cursed cries caught his attention as much as the towering vortex of deathly pitch, the way it touched him without hurting him; left him fascinated for a moment that he could palm through the cold-fire – and not burn – or maybe he was burning and he just couldn’t feel it anymore? His skull too cracked open n drained empty to even process that much—
Not nearly empty enough that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation before him. He threw his weight back into wrenching Eion forwards, and then he was throwing himself at his King; the movement feral as it was decisive. He didn’t know where he wanted his hands – whether he wanted his fingers dug in beneath the crown, fisted round Eion’s lovely hair till he could put him on his knees. On his boys throat—knowing Ei hated that the most—having anything there that wasn’t lips, tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth. All the ways he liked to test that line of tension to near breaking—
There was always his beloveds narrow ******** chest – because points were earnable things and Albite wanted every single last one of them. Wanted them pinned beneath his boot and wrapped up tight enough to feel the give of them when he pressed down, he almost wanted to ******** the rules and their maker, quite literally…
‘No Starseeds in the Rift you absolute a**, not even his. Awwh—-Yanno, you’re right Albrain! That’s a fair point, Albrain! Thank you Albrain for thinking—’
But he would– amidst black hellfire and squalling pillars of wind he would – to some degree – behave. He would reach for the wrist his husband gnawed upon like a fox caught in a trap; brutally shoving his fingers between the binds and those sharp little incisors. Maybe Faustite would remove them from his hand with a single bite? Ability number twelve of twelvethousand – Albite would laud it right up there with having no gag reflex – would praise Faustite for how deadly he’d become, mercilessly tell him how powerful, good, and beautiful he was. Especially like this. Always trying, always perfect, always his–
“Ooh, ******** quit— yv’brokn tha’ wrist too many times t’chew aht it, Ei.” the words ruined things, bleeding around the messiest ******** half smile Albite could manage. Utterly unable to ever keep quiet for long, even if every syllable spoken jarred him like tinfoil ground between his teeth. The words full of lie, for how he tightened his grip along with them – if anyone was undoing his handiwork here today? It was going to be him!
All for him, every hurt on his boy – exactly how it should’ve been.
“Nowgimmeyerthroat—” his reach for that slower even as the slur of words was fast, so focused on Eion and all the fire he could hardly see through, that he hadn’t noticed the further encroachment of the horde at his back. Slinking things, quiet over the roar in his ears, closer–closer–enough to put their noses into the trails his locs drug up; hefty, metal tipped ropes that he knew to cut, but never actually bothered to.
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:36 pm
No one had thrown their opponent on the ground, yet. No one put a boot on a chest to be awarded any sort of point. Headache was beginning to wonder how much longer these two would ******** around in front of all these youma before they got the idea that they shouldn't linger here longer than necessary. In truth, Headache did not understand their choice of venue. It assumed the Rift was the senshi's idea, as ludicrously obsessed with it as he was. And Faustite ever indulged that annoying thing, rather than feeding him to the youma that proved far better partners. The Colosseum seemed like a Faustite choice, then.
But, Headache thought, the Colosseum was a terrible choice if they both intended to walk out alive. Beaten sore, beaten bloody, did they think they would outrun the opportunistic youma? Or that Faustite could command them away if he got beaten unconscious? The whole affair reeked of a lack of planning. But Headache continued to muse on it from its perch, ever watchful, ever curious to see what was to come next.
It looked like a poor position for Faustite, who did not understand what changed about his magic. Headache spent so little time around the boy-king when he was in a fight, likely out of some sense of self-preservation. Perhaps that little mishap that left Albite unscathed was the work of his latest promotion. He seemed quite surprised by it.
And now, he was stuck in the clutches of his senshi's Eternal attack. All those bonds looked annoying, but senshi magic was anything but permanent. Ruthless to youma, true, but any dusting they suffered was almost always temporary. Sad for Faustite that he missed his opportunity to experience dusting and reforming in the Rift.
The thought crossed Faustite's mind to bite the hand that seized his wrist. Senshi magic was limited, and he could still turn their proximity to his advantage with other abilities that may not have been so severely compromised. But Albite reached for his neck, too, and his reaction was to uppercut the boy at the elbow, shatter the offending ******** arm, and take his point for all the bullshit that Albite put him through so happily. But more alarming than both those options were the small group of youma closing in behind the unsuspecting boy.
So the hand on his wrist went forgotten. The hand going for his throat was begrudgingly ignored. "<******** off!" He yelled to the encroaching opportunists, who heeded the command and began to reluctantly back away.
There would be more, he knew. "Headache, ******** watch for them!" He seethed as he craned his neck to look up at the youma, the hand around his throat be damned.
"Okay." Headache would watch them, certainly.
But Faustite still had himself a situation. His hip ached terribly, he was tangled up in Albite's bullshit, in his boy's hands. He couldn't turn into fire and escape, not with so much magic on him. And the dumbass was willing to brave burns to touch him without his cincher on. Apart from another fiery punch, what else could he do?
It took leveraging his weight to his abused hip, which drew a sizzling wince from the boy, but he balanced enough to lift a kick straight at Albite's scepter and jewels.
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2023 6:39 pm
Faustite wasn’t yelling at him?!? Then who-—Ooooooohhhhh, rrrrrright, the other youm-achk!!
The ground was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world, soft, compared to all the solid harshness of Faustites King-enforced-steel-toed-huevo-crusher. Softer n trying to break in his grasp the ******** rebar lined concrete of the man's wrist, for sure! Oh yeah, the nice, cushy, somewhat on fire ground that didn’t make him long for non-fried-nerve-endings in his fingertips; it was messy though, that ground. No, you dumb b***h, that’s just you.
It was the most helpful thought he’d had in a hot minute, realizing the vulnerable mess crumpled onto the Colosseum's floor, retching up everything it’d eaten the morning of, was him. He, himself, the most him he could be, existing exactly as he was and making a right bloody mess all over Faustites mismatched boots. He hoped it ******** stained-– He hoped he could remember how to stand a second time, and maybe once he learned how to breathe in more than bile slicked gasps and hissed sips of air between loose teeth? Maybe then he’d learn—
However ******** it was that he’d ever learn anything of any merit at all. Someday he’d learn, he promised himself that! Knowing today wasn’t going to be that day didn’t mean a day wouldn’t ever come where he did. It just meant that today, right now, in the moment? He had other things to focus on, like trying not to swipe at the wetness that ran freely from his eyes because it’d only get it muddy with youma dust n rift-s**t. Secondary to that was Waru trying his damndest to level Faustite with a weak glare for pulling *that* move out of his arsenal.
It was effective as ********, but ********> Albite coughed, wheezed, suddenly uncaring for points, not his own or Faustites. He was tapping out, ringing the bell-–-quite literally in fact! It was the one congruent tagalong thought he could sink his missing teeth into while he kicked himself over onto his side and heaved air; dug his fingers into dirt, into subspace that lay beyond that dirt. Hauling with a thought the first sleekly delicate item that wasn’t a broken dagger; or his pendant, or a ******** pearl! It was his thinking bell. Everything clear as a bell–that was a saying or something, right? And the bell was always so pretty; the way it sounded a hell of a lot better than his filthy, dirt-muffled laughter, because he had done absolutely everything to deserve that low ********> the words whined between shuddering squirms of motion, a body seeking comfort that wouldn’t come. Waru’s noises were mostly intelligible over the quickly hushed chime of metal that he slapped into the dirt. Even if he didn’t feel the well watched Youma encroaching like a hot wind trickling up his spine, he didn’t want to take anything to chance. Not when Headache’s barely caught answer sounded a whole hell of a lot to him like ‘Eat the Fool Senshi and Spare me the Pain’-- No, what he wanted in that moment was to be able to think about more than just his surroundings and the retreating creatures in them, to be able to float for a few seconds above the blinding pain.
‘I’ve lost the ******** plot, and I just wanna be able to think ******** neck tu’ched so damn badly?” There, the mutilated words were out of his head, out of his mouth. His attempts at glaring forfeit, because it was easier to close his eyes and lay there and spend the next few heaving seconds making sure all his parts were still where they belonged – on the outside, mostly.
Soothing Bell:
(-A small, round bell with a tiny metal charm dangling from it. The bell can be rung once per day and for one full hour the ringer will be overtaken by the sensation of a serene peace and will find that all of their worries seem to be gone and they are incredibly clear headed. If a powered character uses this item while in their respective place of power they will receive additional benefits; A Senshi or Knight using this on their Homeworld or Wonder they will find that restoration significantly improves while using the bell (allowing restoration akin to two visits), Negaverse characters will find that the Rift is easier to navigate and youma are more agreeable (and may even lose significant interest in Corrupted Senshi), Mirrorspace is easier to navigate and Mirrorscape Realms may flourish a bit more. Mauvians may have more past life memories while on their Bonded Senshi’s worlds and may also improve restoration somewhat, and Vanguardians may find that their Source Stones seem to naturally replenish energy and can provide a greater output towards their projects.)
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Posted: Mon Sep 04, 2023 2:42 am
Albite was on the ground in an instant, spilling like a broken oil rig. Faustite felt bad about it, in hindsight, but at the time? It seemed like the only option. The only one that would effectively keep him safe, and he was sure it wasn't the first time it had ever happened to Albite. The boy could cook up some terrible trouble for himself.
But he was a piece of floor trash now, looking utterly pathetic and pitiable for how he rolled around. Faustite had to back up at once to avoid some of the spillage, of course some flecks of it still got on the fronts, but more than that, it was an impromptu kind of revenge. He had to twist his hip a margin and Faustite felt an intense pang that told him he was likely bleeding again. That made them quite the ******** pair for standing up to the encroaching youma crowd, even with Faustite's rank commanding a little more respect.
There were stairs to climb. There was — not a long walk, but any walk felt long when they were injured, before they came upon said stairs. And no one could teleport in such a volatile area as the Rift.
A bell sounded as Faustite was clutching the metal and cloth around his injured hip. Bracing it as if that would somehow mitigate some of the damage. "Damn," he hissed to himself. "Feels like it burns." But that couldn't be right, could it? The weapon never felt hot to his touch. If it felt hot to Albite, the boy would've said something about it, right? So how did Faustite get burned when he was the one who could do the burning? Did it have something to do with how his magic had changed? Did it backfire on him? But if that was the case, then why wasn't all of Faustite burnt?
The questions swirled and mounted until a clarion chime rang out, dispelling them and scattering them like cobwebs. Faustite blinked, feeling a little dumbstruck. Not completely, but enough that he certainly felt different.
It was like a hush fell over the Rift. He could hear Albite better as the boy growled out his ask from his new home on the ground. Faustite paused at this, and almost automatically, started to answer. "My mom —" Then sense took hold. "Not here. Get us both inside first." He huffed at the thought of it, but they had to quit while they were still somewhat able to walk; no one was going to descend into the Rift just to help their invalid asses crawl up the stairs and get back to where it was relatively safe.
Faustite limped around the squalling pain in his hip, thinking that was his only injury. But when he reached out to offer Albite a hand in getting up out of his puddle of sick, Faustite felt the familiar soreness of budding bruising around his wrist. If it was from the boy's grip or his Eternal magic, Faustite didn't know. He expected that, if it was the latter, the bruises for that would turn up later that night. "Up. Off the ground." They were commands, dispensed with calculated assurance.
"Headache. You can ******** off now." Spoken without any warmth, but without derision, either. Faustite didn't look up to see if the fireflies had taken off or not.
He was already busy with the next task — finding something tucked away in his subspace. Something that wasn't one of the many non-perishable snacks that Faustite stashed for emergency use. Something under them, around them, behind them? He wasn't sure where, but he'd know it when he felt it. And finally, in the farthest corner of his subspace pocket, he found it — and pulled out a small bone from an unidentifiable creature. It had a crack in it, as if ready to be snapped open at the barest tug. This, he offered to Albite.
"You'll need it," he warned. "You're carrying me."
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Posted: Mon Sep 04, 2023 10:16 am
What did inside even count for when they were all the way out here? Was there some secondary, hidden inside he could find: a cave, a hovel, a cage of ancient-ribs ten youma high?
The point being that Albite was paying attention now, vividly so, hearing all of Faustites words with crystal clarity. Seeing his hurts too, in full color view, and Waru was already gearing himself up to tend to them as he assured that ‘yes’ everything was still in place, and ‘double yes’, that included his face! He dared to skirt the left side of his jaw–cheek–the swollen tenderness round his eye that came away less full of tears and more wettly red than he’d expected. Ahh...he’d thought the spots he was seeing were just the afterimage of having fire thrown into it, but nah, it was pain too! Different sorts warring for position over another as his adrenaline ebbed, and Waru found one was not more distracting than the rest, didn’t drag his mind away from the order thrown at his feet, they were just little things to note—
How empty a socket felt when missing it’s friend tooth–how even the pads of his fingers felt bone-deep, blistered–if he pinched them together hard enough. Fascinating s**t, alluv that, distantly so. It remained distant backbrain-backwash as Albite lifted a hand, first to flip of Headache–wherever he may flutter-float-fizz about in the form of his *husband*, stealing his boys *voice*-- waved the bird perched atop his knuckles about in all the youmas direction with gusto, and then finally he took the bone.
No arguments brooked, barked, or begged, no endless asks about why Faustite wasn’t using it on himself instead. He saw his future full of gauze, disinfectant, the type of steel wire stitches that’d leave tiny little pin-holes but no worse marks in his boys hide. That science had learned to spin metal like fabric, turned hard and earthen things soft and malleable as spooled twine.
Waru let that image take hold as his stomach roiled for the rough vertigo he had to swallow back while taking Faustites help; kneeling up enough to first snatch the magical bit of cracked corpse — and snort the decrepit smoke from it like a fresh line of Faustites smog — god the s**t was nasty, but it worked!!
Knit and mended what was roughed the ******** over even as he hacked gravel into his fist. It was really ******** sweet of his boy, throwing a bone to his wounded pride, and he wasn’t about to spit on the gift of it by refusing.
“Alright, <******** you, yeah, but I want you to scriven me a ******** set of earrings as payment for my packmule services, my a** is heavy as my head is empty, yanno?” brushed a thumb over blackened fingers as he spoke. The smile on his face felt better, more human, less war-faring, easier to ask for nothing and leave any baited barb out of it even while on his knees—-“Choking Retribution—” because the blade had to come along too, didn’t it? Because he didn’t want his love to think his other question forgotten, no, just put on pause as he used Faustites strength, leveraged himself onto his feet and dragged the curved heft of death through the dirt noisily.
Killed his strangling magic once he could touch the hilt of the thing once more, its coolness startling when it’s maker and materials were taken into consideration—he wondered if it’d warm slowly–
“So–the ******** was that blackfire? Since *when* can you falcon punch a person! Also! M’naming your blade Handicap till we get a better handle on it—-though it’s a beautiful blade, Ei. You’re beautiful….” soft honesty, if Eion wanted the blade back he could take it, but Albite wanted it now, tied into his sashes along with the silvery bell before reaching for Faustite with all the ******** care in the world, with appologies on his lips, with thanks to the capelet for stopping the wound as well as it could’ve with all their jostling—becuase he was going to open it up all over again once they were home if not sooner.
