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spellgrinders2017-09-23 07:53 pm
spellbindmods) wrote in spellgrinders2017-09-23 07:53 pm
Entry tags:
( TDM | #4 )
You blink and that's all it takes. At first the picture doesn't come in clear, like you're waiting for a screen to fully load -- more aptly, it's like you're waiting for a camera to focus so you can find image clarity. Before you happened to rapidly close your eyes and open them, your life was normal...well, normal for you, anyway. Fighting an alien, making a quesadilla, dying. And then that blurry picture suddenly takes over. There's a lot to take in here -- you feel weird, your surroundings are weird. Everything is just weird. For starters, there's that new piece of jewelry inserted in the space above your chest. That certainly wasn't there before you opened your eyes.
If this new little signet catches their interest, fiddling with it will result in a bit of a neural vibration in everyone else with telepathy. Nothing painful; it's actually quite pleasant. But if they do decide to play with this new jewelry, they're likely to find some seasoned telepaths (aka old coven members) in their brain space, wondering that's up. A2 ▢ Alternatively, new coven members are notorious for being bad at telepathy from the jump. Their panicked reation to this journey or confused mental state may send out some network messages that maybe they didn't realize they were sending out. Or, maybe what's pushing them over the edge are all the other voices already doing exactly that in their brain. B ▢ Unlike the previous coven members who found themselves on the hub, new recruits won't find as many supplies randomly in the forest they're suddenly in. However, like old coven members, they will come across some wild boars that aren't too happy to see the humans have returned to their stomping ground. Your character may also come across a boar with babies in tow, which means that they're even more likely to be aggressive. If your character has useful magic within them somewhere, now may be a good time to discover how to use it...? C ▢ Whether you've braved a boar encounter or avoided one entirely, there's a lot to do and see in the forest, as well as other areas of the hub! Well, "do" is debatable. But! Coven members before them have discovered some pretty nifty locations that can be stumbled upon, from a phallic fertility shrine to tree homes and passageways. |
If you eventually make it out of the forest and aren't devoured by a boar, you'll eventually come upon your new base camp. Someone (Genette) will be there with your introductory letter and a brief description of magic you now have. If you didn't discover it earlier...surprise! One thing of comfort might be that you aren't alone in this journey. There are other coven members here, fresh back from a journey to another world. If your character wants to get the lay of the land or understand what's going on a little better, they may want to hit up some of these folk for information. There's a large, gold, floating caravan hanging around next to a bonfire, and there's a back gate open that reveals something of a space pocket containing lots of different things. Luckily for new characters, the Palai from the previous world didn't want them to go hungry...which also means they'll be inundated with shrimp to eat. Hopefully they like shellfish!
E ▢ This will also be the place where they're given their first provisions. In a woven knapsack, they'll find a bag of cooked shrimp, a set of clothes (you pick the style) that may not fit, a toothbrush, and three other random objects -- dealer's choice! It's very likely that your character got something useful in there, but it's also likely you got something that your character would never use in a million years, or that doesn't fit. Time to start trading! F ▢ Finally, there's always the chance for your character to explore the big mansion next to the beach area. Actually, they may be asked to lend a hand. Everyone is tasked with unloading supplies from the caravan to the front foyer of the mansion, and there are quite a few trips to be mad. Or, alternatively, your character can slack off and play in the game room that they have. How good is your character at pool? |
If you're much more of a loner and don't want to follow the flow of things, there are of course other locations that you should probably check out. Travel to your heart's content and find something new...but there are two other points of interest you may want to discover.
H ▢ Your character may want to claim a beach house while they're at it. Some characters have disappeared from the coven over time, and some of these few may have left their belongings before departing. This makes it hard to tell what huts are free and which need to be cleared out. Might as well play roulette and see if you picked one that doesn't have an owner or not. (For the sake of the prompt, you might want to choose the former, just saying). I ▢ Wildcard prompt. Go nuts and utilize your own creativity within the setting. This can mean striking out on your own or utilizing a certain location in a different way. The world is your oyster! |
bb (i'm howlin for you)
Something has made use of the animal's previous distraction via Gaelio. While thrashing with the boar's body for a minute or two longer, sounds of the violent clash carry louder and echo through the growth, ending with the awful squelch of teeth tearing through flesh and the crunch of bone. More rustling, a creature in its death throes gone quiet, panting, then quiet again.
It only lasts for a split-second, for all survivors have an innate understanding that remaining threats are not to be ignored.
Quickly emerging from the leaves and into the clearance: a large, striking looking predator. A wolf, which appears almost double in size of one, with snow-white fur and a red-stained snout. Its ears prick high upon finding Gaelio, slanted forward, its body freezing into place.
A single paw lifts. There's a human-like quality to the body language, as if the animal is surprised to see this human in particular and caught unawares.
Pupils dilate. Bright and narrow green eyes flash comprehension.
Mouth licked once, stopping blood from dripping to the ground, it nearly takes a step back. For the moment, its focus remains locked entirely on Gaelio, yet its energy is distinctly indecisive.
Of course, this man is here...
With how he is presenting, he must be new. McGillis himself is as well. Ever fastidious, the mastery of his skill, once uncomfortably grasped, became an immediate priority. He feels it fraying at his mind after this unexpected encounter, as he struggles to keep to this form --
There's much work to do.]
(there's something wrong with this plot)
The beginning ease of his muscles, the steadying of his breaths; both reroute. Tension a cord strung through him and pulled tighter. The size of the beast and it demeanor had made it formidable, but there's no mistaking the cacophony. Something crueler made quick work of it, vicious and sharp. Gaelio hasn't any practical experience with this. With the clash of teen and claw in the wild. Yet, all men have the primal rooted within their blood, and adrenaline spikes with instinctive warning.
He has taken a single step back, knowing to flee, when white breaks through the still disturbed green.
No experience with wolves, either, outside a zoo. But he thinks they should not be so large. They together freeze as if synchronized in it, as if practiced. Instinct should make it fear, but there's a grandeur to this beast that permits awe to overtake. Helped, no doubt, by his reduced capacity for fear.
It is beautiful. Even the terrible blood, highlighting the brilliance of its fur. And those eyes -- a color too familiar, and yet, as it is beyond his comprehension to take the association to reality's end, he interprets it thus: of course, it must be the dreams.
Gaelio finds himself smiling hollow, his heartbeat quieting, expectant. ]
Here is the nightmare. You've kept me waiting.
[ A strange dream, no doubt, but it would go like this: a moment's reprieve from one monster, only for the worst to come. A wolf with his eyes. As if anything could or ever did kill him in his dreams, but him.
So convinced is he, that the evidence of surprise in the wolf fails to reach him. ]
no subject
Haunted, haunting, every sense of the word, each applicable tense, interpretation.
He may never get a better chance. Once revealed to Gaelio, the upper hand lost. Once removing Gaelio, then only needing to return to Bael, and finding his path to the future he had mapped out clearer than it previously was.
He sets paw back to the ground. His eyes are studying the man in purple, an intensity to them that pings thoughtful over predatory. That empty smile and those empty words; his ears flick again, then pin to the back of his skull. Something about the response has disturbed him. A low sound rumbles in his throat, pooling out to support the tension in the air. It's not quite a growl, only something close to it.
The wolf's shoulders slant lower as he begins to creep closer to Gaelio.
The totality of his presence frustrates: that he believes this to be a nightmare, that he trusts it to be a dream, that he would stand there dumbly accepting of his fate, that he might not even try to run. That he is here. That McGillis cannot stir his wolf's body to leap at him as he as it had leapt at the boar, and that considering it only fractures him further away from his hold on the spell.
Closer, closer, until his steps stumble, until the not quite growling sound edges past threat into distress.
A strange yelp before he stumbles out of it entirely and rejoins humanity. Painful, apparently, to lose his grasp on the power without meaning to. The wolf's form begins to change in front of his friend turned enemy, flashing upright, emitting a strange sort of ethereal light that envelops and fades, before the man appears. Before McGillis's form appears before Gaelio.
He stands slouched, clutching at his arm across his torso as if to keep himself together. Yet, he's wholly uninjured. The splash of red keeps across his mouth and jaw. Decked in the uniform of a Gjallarhorn councilman, they are a sight straight out of their old environment, but there's little question about the fact that they are somewhere very different now.
McGillis narrows eyes on Gaelio, now only about ten feet away. Beyond mild signs of discomfort, his expression holds no hint of anger that would trickle across the surface. ]
You'll be kept waiting, I'm afraid.
still figuring out...power feely mechanics...
Despite that, he would scan the area for anything of use, a long and thick branch, something with weight and potential. He would, if he could wrench his eyes from that color which so drenched his every nightmare. Less the blood than the iced green of the eyes above it. Now he can recognize the intelligence in those eyes, the comprehension. As though to know the wolf's displeasure, he needn't have seen the ears slanted back, nor heard the sound which so kept low in his gut, stirring the biochemical flooding which only partially permeates the shredding of his mind. Only those eyes.
His body burns, a roar of run, but his mind keeps pulling from it. Denying, still denying the baffling, unwieldy truth at the heart of this. The truth of the dirt on his white knees and elbows, of the different fire in his chest and skull, the throbbing of it. A mounting, released with haphazard, oddly reflexive projection against the boar of hide, hidden, unseen--.
It will be a painful death, whether he runs or not, whether he fights or not, but no agony ever matches the first. Certainty in that stays him until the wolf staggers, and light. Light. More familiarity, but less well known: the last notes of that distorting shout.
Light brighter than ivory fur, and pain, and Gaelio stares through a squint as McGillis Fareed stands before him. Not upright, but whole, but a disarming, disconnecting, appropriate sight with the red now slashed over human lips.
It must be the nightmare. McGillis Fareed could shift his shape, that Gaelio knew well. He exchanged expressions with the ease of paper masks, unwilling, no, unable, to show his true face to light or intimacy. For nothing true laid beneath the paper. Nothing soft, nothing but brutality, but hunger, and the rage he'd proclaimed. (Which tells Gaelio that he wears another mask, even now). That McGillis could do, but not transform his whole body.
Impossible. A nightmare. A nightmare, even as his body aches with the strain clenching through it, as the pounding in his skull threatens to rupture through. ]
Oh? You won't kill me again? Though...
[ Gaelio takes a step forward, toward him, and another, continuing. ]
If it is a nightmare, I've never been able to decide: is it worse as it was, when I can't see you killing me, though the methods change? Or is it worse when you hold the blade in your hands as it pierces heart, or your hands grip my throat?
[ A pause in his step, a lift of his left shoulder, noncomittal, a casual shift at odds with the taut pull of his face. ]
Or it didn't matter. Regardless, you never look at me.
[ At his side, his hand begins to shake, a clutching tremor in each finger that shivers up his wrist, strangled before the elbow. The memory is never far, but the more it overtakes his mind, the more he can feel it, why can he feel it so acutely, except that it must be the dream, the nightmare, the crush of the cockpit, scalding and crumpling metal, the tears choking him, crushing desolation in his heart, devastation in a dimming then cut gaze toward indifferent red. As his face erupts in pain, searing down front and back in patchwork patterns, his next step falters, legs beginning to yield to the numb death he'd known --
and he throws it, yielding to the same mounting in head and chest, thrusting it out of his head, at McGillis.
The sensations linger, but abate enough for him to steady, catch himself. Now five feet between them and his breathing, having gone labored, slow to recover. The more he intended to say lost by the debilitating intensity of his mind's own trick. Nightmare -- or what else? ]
hot hot hot
He steels himself against taking a step back that suffocating presence, against shuffling away as if frightened by something that cannot be clearly seen. He hardens himself to meet the challenge, to the hear descriptions of nightmares Gaelio must have had over the years, not wholly unlike ones of his own, with a face that remains impassive above distressed.
There is a hint of distress to be found in the slight crease of his brow, but little else, as he straightens and moves his arms to his sides. Those words alone will not cause him to falter. Chin lifting, he swipes at the bloodstains caked across his face with the back of his sleeve in a defiant gesture.
Steeling himself to evade or counter an oncoming blow, what happens instead is far worse than he could have predicted.
Maybe he should have predicted it, or at least given thought to something like it, given the strange otherworldliness of his own new abilities.
Regardless, once Gaelio begins to wrestle with some sort of internal demon that cannot be clearly identified, McGillis feels the line of his shoulders go taut with tension. He waits on the development, poised to fight or flee, but he eyes widen when he sees the injuries that had caused such scarring begin to erupt to life as if dealt moments earlier instead of two years ago. The smell of fresh blood, once again, but now Gaelio's blood. The sight of flesh mangling, mangled.
Having avoided it for a reason, not wanting to look or make certain that his act was complete, to see it manifest in front of him and to be forced to grapple it with such proximity and precision, that alone --
Now he is taking those steps back, although too late.
That alone, his mind shouts at him to reject it, but then quite suddenly and quite impossibly, it is on him. It belongs to him, the pain flaring up and searing in a way that lights every nerve on fire. Concentrated to one side, he clutches at one side of his face, feeling sticky, hot blood, and muscle --
His body is being crushed by an invisible force. Outside of a Gundam, outside of anything. Gaelio has a power greater than his own, it seems. He's found the way to pay it back.
Well done.
McGillis falls to his knees. He hears a sound, unpleasantly loud, and it takes a second to understand that it is own voice warping, torn from him beyond control. A scream that has found its way to the outside instead of squirreling back in with the others. It sounds strange, even to his own ears. With this sort of pain, it's not wholly unusual, but he'd rather take hold of it, would rather hold it inside. He reins it in through teeth clenched so tight that it intensifies the aching all over, breath rasping out from the effort.
Will he die here, like this? After everything? Why did he let Gaelio live, allowing any amount of hesitation to break the spell?
But he knows. With his mind in a panic, convincing him that his body is failing and potentially dying after an attack that would match his own, it surprises him that the answer comes to him with such clarity.
Should he try to speak to him, or see him? But his vision has gone black and spotty.
He curls in on himself, still shaky on his knees. It takes every ounce of effort not to collapse to the ground. Through that, can he speak? ]
Gaelio --
[ Only that name tumbles out, as strange and warped as the scream he had to bite down. Not a plea, not afraid, not furious; what he seeks from him is unclear, but with its strange inflection, it might be a question. ]
1/2 s..orry
How awful the irony will be, as he comes to it, as he grasps it, as yet again, Gaelio struggles with comprehension and ignorance of reality. As the stability of his mind is so tenuous, and the discongruence between space and forest so severe, with the first manifestation something he could feel, but not see -- his own disappearance to a boar's confused eyes -- and with a memory he has relived constantly these last two years, again striking when confronted with the phantom or impossible figure of this man, how could he understand? How could it be anything but a dream?
In this dream, the scent of his own blood fades as that of another intensifies. Gaelio stares with widening, confounded eyes as the flesh of McGillis's face begins to rip and ooze. McGillis's grasps at the garish tearing as Gaelio had been unable to until clawing out of the med tank, voice raw with sobs. McGillis's voice howls out as raw, more shocking, preventing the next step he may have taken with a moment's paralysis. This warped mirroring of his death by this man's hands flares low in him, then higher, but it
but
it doesn't feel like it should. What has etched on his face, slotting open his mouth for protest, exposing more of the white of his eyes, furrowing deep in his brow: not satisfaction, not a thrill, but horror. His ugly slaughter he would not give back to McGillis.
That was not his purpose. This is not how.
Not like this.
When his own name reaches him, wretched and so distorted as to no longer sound like the voice he knew better than any other, Gaelio shakes his head, beginning to deny it. ]
It's not --
[ me. Only, before he can finish it, he understands the lie of it, and the truth beneath. He can feel it. Just as it began to waver, his confused concentration on his own pain then projected, as his rejection surged. As impossible as a massive wolf becoming the most wicked of men, Gaelio had actualized and weaponized his dying. ]
no subject
[ A pitched, cracking thing, to himself or to the dream, he's not yet sure, doesn't want to be sure. Why not -- would it not fit, following his unmasking and declaration to McGillis? Thereafter to not dream of his murder, but of the realization of his much prolonged resolve? But, he can feel this answer, too. And whether dream or real, not like this.
His fingers clench, one by one, into his fist and he feels a sensation akin to a cord snapping, a thickness in the air beginning to dissipate. Abruptly, McGillis's face clears, unmarked but for the remnant streak of boar's blood. Again, Gaelio shakes his head. Little has cleared, but he cannot forsake this, cannot keep still and wait for McGillis to collect himself.
Swallowing his confusion, he strides forward, slinging his arm down to take a fistful of McGillis's collar and wrench him to his feet. To ensure his gaze, his other hand seizes chin, forcing up his face. Though he cannot move those eyes. ]
Is it my turn? Do my dreams now change? McGillis!
[ Wildly, but the blood still fresh on his mouth and chin distract. McGillis had wiped at it, but the volume made the gesture ineffective. It stinks, past the dispersing of whatever he'd done. Gaelio shifts his fingers, middle and index digging beneath chin as his thumb swipes over McGillis's bottom lip. The white fabric seeps vibrant red, and he just as swiftly tugs back his hand, licks at the spot. Copper, foul, but too mad to gag. Just as roughly, too, he lets go entirely, with a hard shove.
It can't be his turn. Not like this. It wouldn't mean what it should. His dreams should know. It isn't a dream. Confusion spits back up. ]
What is this...?!
no subject
If he survives to learn them.
To his understanding, and because it would follow with utmost clarity, Gaelio has done this purposefully and with conviction. As a man who respects power, uniquely so when wielded with justice and righteousness against the deserving, he finds that all he can muster for it and towards it is respect for the act that he could not counter and which has felled him so. Despite the agony of his flesh tearing and his bones constricting, cracking, there is respect for Gaelio and for his achievement, along with fear and despair.
An incredible feat, so quick and so complete without any tangible weapons used, and incredibly poignant. It has beauty to it. It has rhythm, the fall, the rise, the fall, synchronizing across the beating heart of history.
If he has to die, far before he'd ever planned to and without accomplishing the dreams he'd devoted his life to, at least it was by this man's hand, in this way. He would have preferred to say more first, perhaps. For their confrontation prior to have been longer, perhaps. And for it to have happened somewhere more familiar to them.
His vision remains dark, darker still as he begins to lose consciousness. He begins to sway in his low crouch. Only then -- he hears the voice he knows best, a command, but directed towards whom? Sharp confusion, followed by the clearing of the wounds and still more confusion. McGillis gasps, fighting to keep himself upright, but before long he has been hoisted back to standing by a violent hand, the other yanking at his chin.
That shade of blue, the essence of a dark and stormy sky. The wild flame in them, whether he is crazed with hurt and fury or, as in the past, giddy with enthusiasm, lit with bright emotion, has always served as a direct contrast to the calming color. Warm, warming, heating all his surfaces, none safe to touch.
Below the surface of McGillis's eyes, movement. His features warped from dregs of phantom pain, still shaken from it, he allows gloved fingers to handle him as roughly, to swipe at and taste the blood that was not his own or Gaelio's. The drag of a thumb straight over his lip quickens his pulse. Blood --
The boar, then the failed encounter, then Gaelio's attack. Which, cottoning on, he is starting to understand was some sort of illusory effect. Gaelio seems as perturbed about its origins and effectiveness both.
He did not know? He didn't intend it?
Shoved back, McGillis staggers into straightening and continues to step back. He catches his breath, fingertips wiping at his mouth in an unconsciously mimicking gesture. ]
Ah, I'd wager it is your new power, and not a dream.
[ With a safe distance achieved, facing Gaelio, he stops. A smirk, slightly unhinged, twitches at corner of his mouth -- the back of his hand swipes at his face again, and with that, not as much blood left except as scarce, haphazard patches. The expression abates. One final trembling exhale escapes, before the steady calm of his low voice recovers in full and returns. ]
It's quite the impressive one.
no subject
He gazes, eyes fierce and bright, intent on the smooth porcelain of the skin just beats before a bleeding, lacerated mess. Gazing as McGillis sees to distance and speaks power.
As if McGillis knew any other word.
His lips purse, muscles flexing in his jaw, tight down his neck. The more pronounced against that maddening curve of that mouth, as though McGillis appreciated the illusory wreckage. But he would, wouldn't he, after all -- Power. Gaelio feels his teeth grind, his jaw aching. ]
Impressive?
[ Echoed acidic, though he does not truly inquire, despite the inflection. Disbelieving and rhetorical. Impressive, though it did not true damage, though he could not manage it, could not help but catch himself in the netting of it. Impressive, though McGillis had screamed in such a way, though to see him bleeding and crumpling, amidst all the chaos of impulse, the cacophony of thought and furious feeling, vindictive feeling, aghast feeling, there had been another, something softer and buried and that must stay buried. He cannot look even indirectly at it.
He would, easily, lapse into reactive criticism of McGillis's deviant mind, but he must push past his disgust. The efforts of two years had seemed to remove, finally, one of their lives' constants: the informational disparity, the fact more than suspicion that McGillis had greater knowledge, ever and always seven steps ahead. Two years, stepping past the brink of confrontation, and he is upended to where it again reeks true.
McGillis speaks of new power as though he knows, maybe beyond what he must have gleaned through the obvious and difficult to deny: his transformation into a wolf. The thought of needing to rely on McGillis for elucidation would be unbearable, but for the moment's necessity.
Yet, to compromise, he begins to walk again toward him. If McGillis had moved for safety, Gaelio will eliminate it. If a shred of opportunity has been presented to cause this man discomfort, he will seize it. The thought that he might be capable of discomfiting him a ludicrous one, but appealing.
Provokingly so. ]
What do you know of it?
[ Is it foolish to ask, as though even if McGillis knew, he would speak true? Too trusting still. ]
Or, do you know only your foaming wolf? If Vidar is to thrust his sword full to Fenrir's heart, he should have instead been given shoes.
no subject
Refusing to show weakness, beyond the carnal and the physical, to the man intent upon his death would do the trick.
The acrimony in the word parroted back settles in him with an odd kind of heat, an oddly energetic spike of defensiveness. It must be the outward recovery that rattles Gaelio. He must remain, as he has always been and always will be, unaware of the internal mechanisms within McGillis. Although he calls himself Vidar, he is a dog of Gjallarhorn. The rotted version keeps the foulest sort of canine in its infantry.
However.
The haunt is already evolving. It sits at the back of his mind and whispers promises of later mental torment.
Gaelio takes steps to corner him again, and it flickers in McGillis again. A defensive spark. To compensate for feeling discomfited, because Gaelio has always been capable of the exact thing he thinks himself incapable of, he prompts himself to give over that peculiar, secretive smile in return, the one that deadens his eyes. He glues himself to the spot and refuses to step away further.
In truth, he does not know very much beyond his wolf. The allusion to mythology, to poetry and characters inserted as symbols into the reality of their situation, is surprisingly appealing to receive, smile twitching wider. ]
Or wings to fly.
[ When Gaelio is little more than arm's length away, that's when he seeks his first form: stronger to him than the newly named Fenrir, easier to control. His body compacts into another ball of light, shrinking up off the ground and into the air, and seconds later, a brown hawk flies over Gaelio's head.
He twirls up into the sky and settles on a low branch. Hopping to the outer edge, chirping a signal of his placement at the enemy below.
He may be hit with another illusion now. It might be safer to keep moving -- so he takes off again and returns to the ground, landing behind Gaelio, creating again that space between them. Achieved in an overly elaborate fashion, to be sure.
Returning to himself, to the man, he speaks once more. ]
This is all I know of it. You're the first I've seen here.
[ Fancy that. ]
1/2 obnoxiously for icons
The fix of his eyes keeps, boring for McGillis's own, for the subtleties of a visage most subtle. Masks so compelling, so effective, because of the fastidious care given to the finest of details. Even with these feet between them, Gaelio has not observed McGillis so closely for over two years. Two years of fervent, unrelenting study of footage and photographs, and in Bael's hangar, great height and distance between them. Throughout his declaration, he had not looked at McGillis. Only for a few minutes at the close, before Mikazuki Augus's interruption.
This face he knows better than any other, even his own. This face to which he had turned, as though heliotropic, for sixteen years. It must only be loathing, if adulterated, that festers and cinders in his heart. The ferocity of this more intimate study makes it impossible for even his eyes to mistake it -- that smile he knows well.
That flatness of those vivid eyes. Smile and eyes he'd watched McGillis direct to their classmates and colleagues, but he had once believed, never him. Though it demonstrates that certain masks were painted with more truth than others, he'd simply misunderstood which, it does jolt something old and tattered in him. Something, too, in his own features, flinching. His steps slow, pause, and timely -- McGillis speaks, Gaelio without the time for bewilderment before again the light.
He would brace for an attack, but the light shrinks into a narrow focus. Startled, Gaelio's head throws back to follow the hawk, that intolerable chirp to ensure his eyes stay on it, then spins with the rest of him to witness another transformation.
A flaunting, irritating display. Gaelio's eyes narrow, the recoil preceding this demonstration forgotten. Again, the clench of his teeth, a torment in his jaw. Futile then, to move. He should be shocked that McGillis had not chosen the wolf and to tear out his throat. ]
no subject
Quite impressive. Have you been working hard?
[ Another echo, now mocking. Working hard, or already, or naturally excellent. Either and all suited McGillis. In that, at least, nothing hard and angry stirs in him.
Only.
Only them? ]
"Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost..."
If it is us alone, then the old religions may have been correct in Hell. Yet...
[ Not calm, incapable of it near this man, he has cooled enough from the initial disturbance to evaluate again the idiosyncrasies. The forest, the signet, the power. It is too elaborate for two. As haphazard and careless seems the scattered forest awakening, there feels a system to this. ]
I doubt it.
[ Then, a thin smile, more a grimace. ]
Besides, you would torment me, but I mean nothing to you. [ A considering cock of his head, and less grimace now, more hard incline. ] Perhaps taking you from Bael, just as you set your hands upon it.
no subject
Spared that word, spared that thought. Such conditions had barely ever existed for McGillis, with little comfort to be found in his ascension to the Fareed family as chosen heir. Declarations of love and friendship as if the environment had been one to foster both into bloom, and Gaelio's talk of allegiance to respectable feelings, a reality constructed for him, as if only his word mattered and made it so for McGillis.
The blind man accusing him of never seeing. When, in truth, he'd seen, and seeing had --
Well, none of that matters anymore.
He is content to remain a symbol of loathing for Gaelio, a truer representation of their opposing natures clashing. Destiny.
Whatever Gaelio believes of him -- not without reason that gave way to justification, of course -- of false investment and McGillis's purely vile nature and those consciously constructed masks he'd spoken of during their last meeting, he'll use it as fuel for his purpose. Far better for them both, to keep the festering wound between them clean and angry.
His latest maneuver stays Gaelio, which was the intention. Staying Gaelio brings the calm needed to steady the internal turmoil roiling through him. It is difficult, with this person, to keep hold of himself, sometimes. Still singed and shaken from the earlier assault, he's more likely to become careless because of it.
Distance helps. They stand facing each other without moving. He lets his heart settle, the faint smile pressed on his lips growing fainter. The shroud of his expression flutters when Gaelio begins to speak again.
Another allusion. If it is their Inferno, he will climb up and out -- working hard towards that already, as suggested, before he has taken the time to wander further. Their new environment hums danger at every turn and he refuses to become the casualty of a boar.
McGillis closes his eyes for a moment when Gaelio voices doubt about his own theory, signaling silent agreement. It must be only their good fortune that they would stumble upon each other first and foremost. Eyes flicker open to half-lids, catching that mirthless expression paired with Gaelio's deductions, McGillis giving room to the darker frown that wants to replace chillier exteriors.
It has settled before the reminder of the loss of Bael. ]
Don't underestimate yourself, Gaelio.
[ Cryptic, and he moves on. ]
Wherever we are, Hell or somewhere else, for whatever purpose, I will find the way back to mine. You could see this as an opportunity to fulfill yours, I suppose. Only...
[ A considering tch. ]
In that case, withdrawing your attacks won't do.
no subject
A muscle jumps in his jaw, then keeps throbbing. In his eyes a blazing, and bashing against the grit of his teeth, a hundred words, As you always have? but he had been right to, the fool that Gaelio was, and yes, blind to see the mask of friend and believe it, I won't hear it from you, but who else, and unbearably, what does McGillis address but Gaelio's assertion of meaning, being nothing? Don't flatter me, don't lie to me, we must be past that--
But as he wrestles with definition, this vexatious reminder of the breach between them that he has never crossed, this absence of understanding, McGillis continues.
And Gaelio thinks he understands, or understands enough.
Their incompatible ends. McGillis at least regards him as an impediment, if more pest than true threat, as Gaelio doubts McGillis could believe him capable of stopping him, beating him. Of denying him. A man who, to move forward, to take the throne, cannot admit the possibility of his dream denied.
The fire in his eyes abates, though his tone keeps rigid. ]
I could. In that case, neither will withdrawing yours, if you mean to ascend once more. Or can't you do it without a tool to cut the throat for you, whether boy or machine? Can't you do it without looking away?
[ As if daring the wolf, then, he turns from him. A quarter-turn, exposing most of his back. ]
I must deny you.
[ Abrupt, then, a dip in his voice, scraping into gravel. Fingers clenching, fisting. Then smoothing. ]
But, though it is not greater, there is something more to this than us.
[ Not like this. Leaving or dragging his corpse here -- not like this. Carta, Ein... More working in his jaw, then Gaelio begins to walk. ]
Neither of us have the answers. The sooner we learn, the sooner I can kill you.
[ Another step, and another, before his heel drags and his chin tilts, directing a slated look over his shoulder. By no means will he work with this man, to any end, and yet... ]
It would cover better ground if you moved opposite, but I'd rather not let you go.
[ It may not be a dream, but the exoticism of this situation makes him feel as though if he allowed McGillis to slip away, McGillis would disappear, leaving Gaelio behind once more.
And he must deny him. ]
no subject
It's a fair point. Cold logic always disappears at an alarming rate whenever his proximity to Gaelio increases. Throughout their childhood, throughout their adulthood, even now. Since it's a retort that has merit, he finds that he is unwilling to fashion another counter. But to be spoken to in that manner, and for Gaelio to nearly turn his back following it, calling the bluff that McGillis hangs in the air...
He can feel irritation flaring up when there should be none. Quite unable to prevent it, but with Gaelio's back nearly turned it makes little difference -- he does turn his head, looking away from the challenge, the better to dull his gaze.
Only he can't quite manage it to the extent he would like to. His disposition settles into general moodiness over apathy. A hand brackets his hip.
Something more to this, no question. Not greater than what they must do, it cannot be, although maybe so for Gaelio, who sculpts his path from the influence of single individuals to the exclusion of all else. What gives him pause is -- "the sooner we learn"? He's beginning to move on -- is Gaelio truly suggesting they go exploring together?
He is.
If he were still a bird, he feels that his feathers might ruffle at this point in time, surprised irritation flaring up a second time. He narrows his gaze on the unfurling pattern of the distant tree trunk he has chosen to focus on. The stubborn voice of the loner enters his mind almost at once. I'll do better on my own.
He has done better on his own.
And who is Gaelio, to make the decision for the both of them?
Although McGillis does understand, past the consternation that he can put aside if he takes the effort to box it away. Gaelio cannot ask, and McGillis cannot ask. In this uncertain new territory, for better or for worse, the only thing they recognize in it thus far is each other. They have to move silently into this new step without addressing it much. Hesitation, any amount of it, will do him no favors.
He sweeps into a walk to match their new direction, slowly catching up to Gaelio. No hurry in his step, no hesitation either. ]
As unpredictable as this development is, I did not expect that you would need more answers in order to kill me. I thought you had firmed your resolve. Does the setting make a difference?
[ Spoken as casually as they walk on, it would be a strange conversation to overhear. ]
no subject
The surprise of the inevitable becoming less so: an attack, invited and pragmatic, does not come. No claws hooked to shoulder blades, no maw snapping easy and bloody his neck. Gaelio walks, having again turned away, the leaves crisp underfoot, his back a line of expectant tension. Disappointed tension. He won't cede relief.
The surprise, greater still, of a different sound. Not the wolf's rapid paws, but the heavier matching of boots against the soil and undergrowth. The inexplicable surprise of McGillis following, listening. An old, stupid coursing through him for it. An old emotion that he will not name, will urge to fade quick. Having followed that man all his life, typically one or more steps behind, to give direction and have it met, it would curve in his mouth, but the permissible emotion must contend with that which has not faded, not quick. Allowable: vicious and cold satisfaction, if hollow.
Forbidden: undefined, but around it, it does.
It does rather feel like a dream.
This moment with only their footfalls, with the uncanny knowledge that it is McGillis behind him. The heady scent of leaves and wood. The sun that dapples and spots. Tempting, to feel a haze in this, a dream. As though if he looked back for confirmation, McGillis would disappear after all. A ghost before felling, though he cannot decide whether he would dread or hope for the haunting's end, the dream's close. This dream like the worst of them these last two years. Those that were less explicit nightmares of betrayal, of murder. As recurring.
Those of McGillis's eyes meeting his, regret and unbearable sorrow drenching them, him. Those of hands clasped, truth on his tongue. Yet, nothing audible. His lips move, beseeching, explaining, but Gaelio never able to hear it. If only he could, he would understand, and could it be salvaged, what then would be his resolve, what the answer, who should he become?
No, nothing could be salvaged. Carta's blood and last rasps of love, Ein's obliteration but for what Gaelio carries -- they guaranteed it.
McGillis speaks, disrupting the scattering of his focus, and reminding of resolve and answer both. ]
I spoke of different answers.
[ Clipped, flat, his face stoutly ahead. He will not look. ]
The difference the setting may make does not affect my resolve, only the timing. You have demonstrated your nature sevenfold, again and again coring out doubt.
[ A pause, sidestepping a low branch, more substantial than most. Then swiping another smaller extension from his path.
Flatness goes dull, duller. ]
I believed you as a friend, and as a fool. It seems it was hard for me to shake. I kept -- I wanted --
[ Gaelio, his vision having sunk into reflection, toward the forest floor, now jerks up his chin, as if jolting himself from it, like tearing a needle from vein. Silence follows his truncated, then abandoned thought. Until, this declaration, firm and final: ]
We cannot understand each other through words.
no subject
Dreamlike, except that the cool air is crisp in his lungs, the tree-laden landscape has an absurd amount of detail, and he can still taste that animal's blood in his mouth. It must be real, unable to recall dreams with as much clarity.
Even stranger than these sudden new abilities in an unfamiliar world -- when he lifts his eyes to focus forward, the display of Gaelio's back, unprotected, greets him. They're close enough that he can see the shift of his shoulder-blades with each stride. He can pinpoint muscular definition underneath the fitted material of a long jacket. It's difficult to wrap his mind around following this man now, but he would rather follow than be followed at the current juncture.
Gaelio is still more trusting than he ought to be. He never turns to look, to check even once or twice on the dangerous man trailing behind him. There is tension in him, surely. It can be read in him from this distance, but tension wouldn't be enough to save him, if at any point McGillis decided on a whim that working with him on these specific answers is more trouble than it's worth.
A fool, as he readily accepts. A friend, McGillis accepts with more ease than he suspects the other would be able to predict.
Only, it surprises him to hear that there had been doubt, any amount of it, any amount that might've survived past that violent act, in regards to McGillis's own nature.
He struggles to understand that part.
Unable to see the expression while receiving the response that surprises, but in a way, it's fitting. Gaelio will demand to be seen, but will never see. Instead, McGillis watches the shuffle of leaves scattering around the other man's footsteps as he listens to him speak. He can allow his features to lapse into pensive unhappiness, with no need to guard against it. ]
We cannot understand each other; that's the sum of it.
[ A mournful note, in an otherwise ruthless conclusion. ]
I won't allow you to succeed, but if you did, if I failed in that, you would not achieve that sort of satisfaction. Not through words or through any other means. You would be wise to devote your understanding only to that end, to keep your revenge simple.
ok i resisted making this joke again too long: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cOy6hqzfsAs 1/2
The words ring, briefly deafening, and so uproot him, that he cannot make sense of their inflection. The sound of them at jarring odds with the content. Gaelio opens his mouth, cracked open, his jaw aching, moving, but before he can choke out a protest, McGillis proceeds. The next less shocking, less destabilizing, only unsurprising aggravation in the certainty and implicit denial within them. McGillis would believe he could forbid it, would advise him even now.
No, that shudders through him, as well. This instruction as to how he ought to conduct his revenge. ]
Shut up. I will understand you, I'll --
[ Snapped, and he whirls with such force on his heel, he staggers. His face tight and low before the turn, voice tearing with it, but --
Raising his eyes, they glower, burning and narrowed in the contortion of his face, but -- ]
no subject
[ but, what is that expression? The weight coloring and sanding the cold angles of McGillis's face. So soft as to resemble sorrow. But McGillis had spoken it and Gaelio remembered it well, such soft-hearted emotions unfortunately will not reach me, for I've lived my life in anger, and Gaelio understands, doesn't he, mustn't he, had Bael not confirmed it, brute force all that McGillis comprehended, and so through power, through brutality, Gaelio would force it upon him.
Then, his instinct should be to launch forward, swinging, to gauge whether fists could be enough, to abandon his caution and temperance and see it done now.
Instead, he recoils.
Turning as quickly, he surges away, as though any quicker, he would be running from it. Swallowing hard, then continuously, unable to free himself of the lump. The trees look more sparse ahead, and he thrusts himself toward that light, breaking out and into a field. Gaelio squints against the brightness, measuring his breath as he slows.
Plush grass unattended and little eaten, reaching for knees. A thick coating of yellow and pink flowers, stretching toward the sun in breezy waves. Lovely, really. Batting back memories, recent and wretched, older and doubted, he looks up to the sky.
Above the trees, at a farther distance still, winding in a small tendril: smoke. ]
no subject
He would've thought, in the wake of that evidence presented in Bael's hangar, that Gaelio's explanation of respectable feelings provided the fluff for his revenge. It must be the most important goal to him now. It would follow that it was the most important goal to him now. Understanding McGillis would prove a useless and unimportant distraction to that end, even as he continued to declare that it would be achieved one day. From the man who, even as a friend, had never seemed the type to question beyond the surface level of his reality, the anger does startle McGillis, such that he cannot properly prepare for his sudden stop.
Such that he is challenged with wiping away the melancholy brought on by the confusion of Gaelio's It seems it was hard for me to shake --
And is not able to do so, not cleanly, before Gaelio has whipped around to look at him. He does furrow eyebrows defensively, compensating with that, but the remnants of softer sadness remain while he attempts to drain the life out of his countenance.
That won't do them well. It will confuse Gaelio further, the evidence of that shown in his declarations clipped to nothing, in his quick turn away. The effect of attempting to understand each other will spiral and create more confusion for them both. Having his own goals to focus on, that won't do. This tenuous sort of situation, this lack of control -- it's precisely what he has avoided throughout his entire life. For every moment he was given a reprieve in control, hoarding it away in small spaces. With whatever he was able to build on, with whatever he was allowed.
The threat of Gaelio tears at that, even now -- with his quick, recoiling turn, away from McGillis, once he has slipped and shown a small amount of his true self.
Of course he would hasten away from that. That alone does not confuse McGillis, who has always suspected, always known, that Gaelio would have no use or want for the truth inside McGillis. What he doesn't understand are Gaelio's efforts towards what he has no use or want for, even in the moment, the contradiction of his aggressive assertion and his quickly retreating back. He doesn't understand why he makes it difficult for himself when it could be so simple.
Something inscrutable and impossible to hold rose during their brief interaction of honesty, but this cuts the bottom out from it. He walks on again, wordlessly, secure in the knowledge of being right.
Gaelio steps out into the beginning of a new clearance, where the sunlight pools ahead. His body disappears into that light. Briefly, McGillis considers turning around and retreating into the darkness of the forest.
Seconds later, he joins his side in the field. A good amount of distance is spaced between them still.
McGillis blankly observes their surroundings. The grass is thick, covering the bottoms of their legs, and the flowers are quite beautiful, but it's the smoke that catches his attention quicker than anything else. He turns his head, only to observe if Gaelio has seen it.
He has, from the trajectory of his gaze. ]
What should our terms be, if the situation turns perilous?
[ If they do continue to proceed together, that is. ]
A temporary truce would provide better odds.
1/2 sry i'm incorrigible
Without having to look, he knows McGillis maintained the distance. He feels it. He must then clamber past a blockage, a rooting resistance that frays where it does not dig, to turn his face toward McGillis, so to gauge the same, and more.
As expected, no traces remain of that which could not be born, his resolve newly made. Two years, and the days counted, pacing deeper furrows through his savaged mind with the tireless effort to understand and so become. To understand and so take hold of what must be done, without doubt. Finally without doubt. He has gone mad with doubt, and mad with doubt, and mad.
It may be another mask, or it may have always been so. McGillis's control has ever been superb, and the likelihood of something bleeding through feels more improbable the more his heart times the space from it. Instead, the mysticism of the forest and the power suffusing his mind had done it once more, without his realizing. Far more likely that by remembering those dreams, triggered by tone, upon turning, he'd tricked himself with another illusion.
But it -- to look at McGillis, those eyes pressed cool against his, without violent motion tearing toward him or tearing himself again to tatters -- the shaking in his hand intensifies.
When he flicks his gaze back to the smoke that spoke fire, readying a movement thus, McGillis speaks terms, and Gaelio keeps still.
Insanity, to finish with proposing that. A truce.
Gaelio's lip curls and he feels in it the snarl. He must unwire his jaw to grit out the words, but does not yet push back his eyes. ]
A truce? You really are...
no subject
[ Something in his voice he cannot permit, almost wet and almost laughing, despairing, and he takes it by the neck to strangle it back. ]
It will never be simple.
[ Knowing not McGillis's thoughts, but as though he had not disrupted the previous strain, that of revenge and how it ought to be conducted. ]
You would think otherwise. You, who compartmentalize what you pretend to feel, while feeling nothing. Should I be again too trusting, at your convenience, because I might be again useful to you? A dead man has no utility.
[ But to kill, to kill, to kill, and drag to the pyre and grave. Unable to stay his hand, he thrusts it into a gesture, hard into the air, toward the black spindling. ]
How temporary? If they are hostile, then I would -- I couldn't, I can't let anyone else kill you.
[ Spoken like that, it close to mandates this, but his mind cannot preserve cohesion with a truce with this man. ]
But, if they aren't? What then and to what ends?
[ Though all hinges on the answers, Gaelio cannot stomach the notion of McGillis deciding it and setting their terms. Unable to trust, he doubts McGillis would keep to whatever he chose, should a better opportunity present itself. Impasse, but necessity in the unknown and in dual if opposing purposes. So the less noxious option.
Yet again, his body lurching into a severe turn, more fully away from McGillis, his difficult hand sweeping down his face and finally settling once more at his side. Then, more naturally angling, he begins to walk toward the smoke's direction, across the field. ]
Through that destination and whatever waits. Those are the terms. Then, we revisit.
no subject
In fact, he's already braced himself in case it inflames him. Simple -- it could be, or it could be pared down to something like it with the correct amount of effort, but as he anticipates that twist in his gut while the other man continues to speak, he begins to accept that Gaelio is correct in that. In at least that -- that it will never be simple. But, perhaps as close as he can get, maybe that was always the mark. He keeps his gaze steady on the smoke and absorbs the answer to his suggestion.
It's a long one.
It descends back into familiar territory: Gaelio explaining what McGillis is through sheer ignorance.
Gaelio wondering on his utility, factoring that in, then factoring in the risk of McGillis's death by any hand but his own. Gaelio coming to no real conclusion, except that they must wait.
Strangely, there's plenty that causes that uncomfortable twisting sensation to grow, but nothing bothers him as much as the first assumption.
You, who compartmentalize what you pretend to feel, while feeling nothing.
He slides his eyes over to watch Gaelio's lurch in the other direction, narrowing them to slits. Ridiculous, to allow himself to become seized by any of this man's speech. It shouldn't matter, and there are valid points to take away, after all. Only his utility should matter, his own and Gaelio's combined to make the most of each other's presence, only how they can best proceed in a situation neither of them expected to be in.
Yet it seizes something in him, it rings in him, and it causes him to dip into petty anger.
McGillis follows again --
This time, he overtakes Gaelio, walking faster to walk ahead of him. Purposely, he directs an exasperated glance at him in passing, boring it in until he can switch his focus to the smoke again. ]
I withdraw my suggestion. If I have to listen to you go on like that at each crossroad, I'd rather dive into harm's way.
[ It's childish. There's an air to it that suggests he doesn't truly mean it, that he has accepted Gaelio's quasi-acceptance, but refuses to speak acknowledgment of it.
Which only makes it more childish. ]
no subject
So immersed in the unrelenting torment of proximity without satisfaction, of his smaller betrayals by ceding to steadily, if incrementally augmenting cooperation (Carta, Ein--), in holding himself together through it and reining himself in, into a whole and not the stitching. So concentrated on that, McGillis's speed and back he lags in processing until startled by that glance.
Moreso by the criticism, and the thrust of it does thrust, severing him more neatly than should have been possible from the storm. Gaelio blinks, steps slowed with the second lag in connecting the audacity of it with its phrasing, the resigned inflection.
Some legitimacy in it. Here especially, isolated and close to McGillis, he seems incapable of stoppering the acid, spitting blistering censure. As though his silence of two years had collected reservoirs of his once typical, flowing chatter, but gone rotten, infected by betrayal and doubt. Now to burst and spew. Yet, he cannot allow McGillis that legitimacy. He has the right. He ought to take hold of him and shout it, and drive it into him.
It ought to surge and bristle through him, this ceaseless fury, and it has been unceasing, does not cease. Yet, cut a moment from it by that look, word, jolt, he bobs detached, and what first pulls across his face does bear teeth, does crook mouth, but might more closely resemble -- no.
As he fumbles to retie the string, he moves with incited alacrity, close to a jog to reach McGillis's side, though as far apart. Even with his delay, it is a quick thing. His legs are longer, only just. Fury boils, but lidded now, and he glances sidelong, a similar gesture, if much different emotion in the hard cast of his eyes. ]
By all means.
[ Dry, tongue scraping like sandpaper. ]
Before you go, advice. If you find it difficult to hear complaints, then you have two options.
[ Demonstrative, he raises his hand, lowering first thumb, then index finger as he counts off. ]
First: do not kill your ally, then expect to renew that accord. Two: kill him properly.
[ Wait. There dips the ring finger. If McGillis will not hear his words, regardless, then for the duration of truce... ]
No, three. Earplugs. Try the dirt.
no subject
Even as he attempts to indulge himself mentally, adding justification to his behaviour, he feels the air seeping out from those tires. It's a ridiculous overreaction to the circumstances at hand. Still -- he doesn't need to travel with this person, to listen to this person, to indulge this person's very specific conditions for killing him, which is what it comes down to, isn't it? Isn't he mad to walk alongside with Gaelio, who wants to murder him in return for what he has done, who wants to "understand" him, a man who desires exacting and correct conditions before he can carry out his act?
He treats revenge like the set-up of a brand new aquarium. Prepare the pH balance, then let loose the piranhas.
McGillis feels his brow creasing at the sounds of Gaelio's footsteps approaching, though knowing him as well as he does, he predicted as much. At the corner of his mouth, with all this madness volleyed back and forth, he finds himself fighting to tamp down the strange smirk that wants to lift it. Barely there, and only for a second. They must be a stupid sight, shuffling in a disgruntled manner through the grass with an abnormally huge gap between them.
He avoids Gaelio's heated look and picks up his stride.
Though, he cannot close his ears to those retorts, frowning in turn. ]
You --
[ A sudden desire to shout overtakes him as well. He wants to blow through Gaelio's refusal to understand that he is not Gjallarhorn, has never been, and that betraying his own would require him to be in a position that would breed loyalty towards them in the first place. As things are, he has never truly entered that society. Tekkadan are his allies, and his allies had been under attack by Gaelio, Carta and Ein, all.
McGillis clips himself before launching into any of that. He finds calm. ]
I've not killed my allies, or even attempted to. Only my enemies. Not properly, I will give you that.
[ He should simply fly away and leave Gaelio to deal with things on his own. ]
In response to your third point, I welcome you to try.
(no subject)