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spellgrinders2017-09-23 07:53 pm
spellbindmods) wrote in spellgrinders2017-09-23 07:53 pm
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( 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! |
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
That words so calm, so evenly strung, could crack so like a whip. He can feel the tear of flesh with it, stripped raw. Gaelio halts, cold and struck, and reels in bout of self-castigation.
How foolish. How intolerably foolish. How, after all, could his tongue still betray him, could he feel something that cannot be but feels too like hurt creasing around his eyes, shallowing his breath, compressing his ribcage.
Even as he debated and wondered, scouring every possible and impossible answer to McGillis, that had seemed clear enough. Only Gaelio's stupidity had seen friendship between them and believed it. McGillis saw enemy. Had only ever seen enemy. Always. How stupid, how foolish, that it still cuts through him. There is a hurricane in his heartbeat, the second's deluge of thousands of memories redefined, constantly redefining, and through it, Gaelio notes that he stares yet again at McGillis's retreating back.
He had no longer wanted that, doesn't want that. The juvenile speed to catch up -- to never again follow.
It isn't following.
Funny, that this does it.
The fire snuffed, doused by ice water, though no shock in the chill. Though it should flare again for Ein, for Carta, who died with McGillis's name on her lips, who loved him. The woman who loved him, seen only as enemy. The man who, standing beside him, no --
He takes a meticulously drawn breath, staring first at the broad line of achingly familiar shoulders, then lifting his face, peering into blue sky and thinly spread leaves.
I withdraw my acceptance. There can be no truce.
What he should say. Closing his eyes against sky and shoulders both, he pushes one foot forward, then drags the other. Nothing has changed, either between them or in the situation. He must still reach the smoke. There may still be hostility.
But McGillis will never hear his words, and he's tired now, as if now feeling the exertion of expending so much after years of reticence. Jaw rusted, relearning use.
So he says nothing. ]