there is no god in heaven; you need to run for cover

[respired]

CHARACTERS: Koltira + a lot of you I am very sorry
DATE: Oct 10 - onwards
WARNINGS: violence; blood; gore; general depraved thoughts i can't believe y'all are threading this with me
SUMMARY: FRENZY.



[ CLOSED STARTERS BELOW.

QUICK NOTES FOR ALL THREADS (EXCEPT AFTERMATH, WHERE ONLY THE FIRST THING IS TRUE):

KOLTIRA IS: COVERED IN CHAINS AND INJURIES

LARGELY INCOHERENT

DEFINITELY GOING TO FIGHT YOU ]

Comments

ACHILLES

[respired]

[ Koltira staggers away from the clump of bodies, dragging his gore-caked sword behind him with one hand. Broken chains swing from his wrists, from his ankles and throat; his tattoos are warped with acid burns. Blood, crimson and brackish, drips from his abdomen and legs—the wounds are deep and piercing, as from an arrow. He wears no armor, nor much of anything else aside from a pair of ragged pants, stained dark with more blood and eaten away by searing alchemy. Nearly a week has passed since he disappeared from Perdition's Rest—but for him, the time was closer to four years. Each one worse than the last. He spent them in the meticulous hands of Sylvanas Windrunner, in the daily care of her Forsaken scientists.

The Apothecarium was full of innovative people. Over time, Koltira became familiar with nearly all of them.

He grits his teeth as he walks. Behind him, he can still hear some of the men struggling for breath. They will not last long. Not with the state they're in.

But it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

He squints ahead of him, out over the flat scrublands. Images waver in the distance: tall mountains dotted thinly with trees, the wide mouth of a canyon not far beyond that, and in another direction he can see the pinprick shapes of buildings.

As he turns towards the town, his mind buzzing with painful static, someone approaches from a cloud of midday dust.

Koltira recognizes him. Hatred flares up in his maddened heart. He spits the nane, his voice dry and cracked, made more terrible from disuse. For many nights, he has only opened his mouth to scream.

Now he speaks in a brittle, venomous whisper. ]

Achilles.

[heelies]

[He is unmistakable with his golden hair wreathed in the light cast by the sun from its perch in the sky, with his god-forged shield of gold slung across his back and burnished to a radiant shine such that cuts through the dust like a beacon. The threat of the bandits who lurk in the shadows of the rocky outcroppings jutting forth from the desert concerns Achilles little when already he has felled so many of their numbers: should the scoundrels be drawn to the rich glinting of his shield, they shall have a hard time of prying it from him while his fleet feet elude their rain of bullets and his sword thirsts for their blood. While he holds fast to these precautions of shield and sword, his splendid armor and his spear he has left behind in his cramped quarters at the inn, for it is not with battle howling in his heart that he ventures into the vasty wilds of the desert. He seeks instead plants from which medicines might be made: such is the request of bright-eyed Sieglinde, and he too has interest in building his store of salves.

Yet his course is interrupted by the louring form of one so familiar, whose grim visage stokes in his breast the flames of ire. He had shared no words nor cast his gaze upon Koltira since that day in the castle when Kida had stepped between the two of them to bridle their tempers. At that time the elf had promised to deliver swift death unto him should they again cross paths: this warning Achilles does not forget, yet nevertheless he diverts not the fall of his footsteps. He hears the hatred which drips from Koltira's lips in the way that dark blood flows from the pitiless head of a spear to redden the earth, and he returns this greeting with winged words of his own.]

All this while I have not allowed you to lay eyes upon me - not for fear of your threats, for a coward I am not, but for the simple truth that I myself am loathe to lay eyes upon you in return. Shall you now make good on your promise, Koltira? Shall you glut yourself on revenge for the transgressions of a bygone season?

[While he assesses the strangeness of the man's appearance, darkened with scars and bound with chains as he is, he finds assurance in the sword girded at his waist and the heft of the shield there upon his back. Already his muscles are ready to reach for these and flow into battle, but he shall wait to see what the other does first. It will not be he who provokes this duel, but readily shall he accept the challenge.]

SIEGLINDE

[respired]

[ While imprisoned, Koltira was rarely left alone. Sylvanas kept him in a remote corner of the Apothecarium, but she ensured that he had little time to his own devices. On days when she did not visit him personally, he was left to the tender mercies of the Royal Apothecaries. Mad scientists, really. They fed him potions that twisted his guts, that poisoned him slowly, that slid like fire down his throat and turned his still blood to molten sludge. To them, he was no more than a particularly resilient test subject. The humans they captured—whom Koltira sometimes observed, when he was taken out to one of the main areas—never lasted very long.

The evidence of their work remains on his body still. He is burned and bloody, and not merely from his other encounters in the desert. His wounds ooze as he stalks through the badlands, leaving a trail to find, perhaps to follow. If you're curious. If you're unwise.

If you're a scientist. ]

[grunehexe]

[They say that the larger the risk the bigger the reward, but Sieglinde had not left the relative safety of her room, (more like her makeshift lab), intending on taking one quite so daunting. In fact, she had no plans at all to engage a blood-frenzied undead- she wasn't that foolish or suicidal, (not anymore).

But she couldn't count on the others on the team to bring her back the samples she needed. People were emotional, not that she could blame them- only her upbringing, years and years of being taught to push aside such distractions and focus on her work, keeps her from dwelling on the pain in Koltira's voice she'd heard on the broadcast, the fact that he had used perhaps all of his remaining faculties to warn people of the dangers he himself presented.

She had to do something, help somehow, but few would wish to think about gathering blood and tissue samples in a time like this.

The Green Witch may have unbound her feet before Zeta-12, but she still couldn't move fast- not with nerves deadened by years of breaking, twisting pressure, leaving her without the ability most had to adjust her weight and how she walked and placed her feet using feedback from senses on soles and heel, so she called Isengrim to her, pulling her tiny frame to straddle the hulking, skull-faced canine's shoulders, putting all the things she'd need in a saddlebag. Vials, needles, gloves, tweezers, gauze.

Isengrim knew the scent of everyone who had spent any amount of time in Sieglinde's company, and he finds the trail of destruction soon enough. There was no way to tell definitively at each scene whether the blood on weapons is Koltira's or his victims, whether the viscera splashed on the ground is, but she takes samples at each location she can find anyway, eventually pulling a leather mask stuffed with sweet smelling herbs out of her satchel and fastening it on her face.

The heat was beginning to bring out the foul smell of blood, and... Other tissue. She hardens her gaze, doesn't let it affect her, doesn't focus on the disgusting things she might see, only on her work.

Crouched over a splash of blood, taking a sample and wondering if it is his, she doesn't consider that Isengrim's strong stride might have caught them up already.

Not until the beast began to growl, a low, rumbling warning as its hackles raised.]

TWISTED FATE

[respired]

[ Throughout his time beneath the Undercity, Koltira endured. He survived. Though he had no memories of Audentes or of any the people who cared for him here, he did have some small hope to cling to. The Ebon Blade. He knew, somehow, that they would come for him. He did not know when, or how—only that, eventually, he would be freed. His brothers and sisters would not let him languish forever. He was not alone, and if he waited long enough, someone would reach him.

It feels like a fool's errand, now. He is free, but agony courses through him; he is wracked with spasm after spasm. He can hardly see for the pain. He is reduced to the elemental parts of his curse: blind rage, gnawing hunger, and an endless, desperate need clawing in his belly.

A group of bandits comes roaring down the path, and Koltira runs his tongue over his teeth. They are mounted, temporarily; Koltira swings his sword and ice bursts from the ground, locking the five mechanical horses in place. The spell is so abrupt and stops them so completely that several of the bandits fall, landing hard in the dirt. Two manage to hold on to their horses' necks, and all of them are shouting, guns drawn.

Koltira reaches out, palm open, and shadowy tendrils whip forth, grabbing the two mounted bandits by their necks and yanking them down to earth. He scowls at them, baring his red-stained teeth.

A bullet tears through his shoulder, but the bandits stop when they realize it has no apparent effect. The two in his grip begin to beg. ]

[fateality]

[There were two tasks for today: one, primarily, was to work on stealing one of the horses from the bandits, which went exceptionally well. The other, on the other hand, went a little less smoothly when he spotted a nice large purse of money.

And, well. Twisted Fate is a fan of money, regardless of the world's currency.

The escape went well enough, and it'd be easier if he didn't have to worry about a damned mechanical horse in the meanwhile. What he does not anticipate is the ice breaking through the ground, keeping the bandits stuck where they are.

His brows raise, and he sees, quickly, who the cause is.

Koltira.

Immediately, he knows, he needs to leave. He should leave. He knows nothing will get through to Koltira, and he remembers he'd given his word--

But he sees the elf as he is now, a damned mess, chains dragging along the ground, shackled to his limbs. Twisted Fate's heart pounds.

He should run, and he pulls out a card, preparing his escape.

That's all you ever do, he remembers Graves sneering.]

GENJI

[respired]

[ The Qorral have adventurous youth. This particular group—about four kids in their late teens—went into the scrublands to search for buried treasure. One of them has a map that is definitely not fake and definitely not the product of a card shark's swindling hand. This map lies in the dirt, torn and forgotten. The Qorral teenagers are suspended above it, clawing at their throats and kicking their legs desperately. Koltira stands before them, his arms raised like a conductor. The broken chains hanging from his wrists sway in the cool, late afternoon wind. His eyes are half-shut, his fingers tremble. He listens to the Qorral gasp and struggle for breath. The sound is all he can hear, and it thrums in him like something tangible, something sweet and tranquilizing.

But the Qorral don't have long.

He waits, and the shaking in his wrists grows worse. ]

[backthatup]

Stop!

[ The sound of his voice is accented by the swing of his blade. It's meant to clash against the chains. He does not know what has happened to Koltira. He didn't have a real chance to talk to him since he saw him as a teenager, but he can comprehend that something has been done. That doesn't mean that the elf should kill others, however.

The strike of the blade isn't meant to dismember, to slice the hand off that is holding the teens up. No, it's meant to strike against the chains to have some of them fall, to attempt to break Koltira out of whatever state that he is in. Genji swings back around -- a shimmer of green from the various lights on his body and visor -- as he stands between Koltira and the teens. ]

Koltira! It's me! [ Ah, isn't this the first time -- ] It's Genji!

KEATS

[respired]

[ He's drawing closer to the town. The buildings are no longer mere pinpricks; the people no longer distant silhouettes. His eyes—keen when not clouded with a fresh volley of pain—make out details, his ears catch indistinct shouts and chatter. He is not quite to the limits yet, but he isn't far. The chains dangling from his wrists and throat clank together as he walks forward; the chains on his ankles drag in the dirt, leaving blood in their wake. He's beaten, but by no means defeated. By no means satisfied.

Koltira hears footsteps. Long strides—someone tall. A heartbeat rushes into his ears, strong as a riptide.

He stops, hyperalert. Pain twists and spikes in his muscles, sharp enough that he can't speak. He can only stare ahead, sword raised, knuckles pale on the hilt. Waiting for whoever it is to come and see what they've found. ]

[headlining]

Koltira?

[He recognizes the elf right away - how could he not? He sticks out so well that even a man half blind would be able to identify him from far off. Keats approaches and stands in place a few feet in front of the other, hands buried in his coat pockets, and stares him down. He doesn't know exactly what he's seeing - what's with the chains? The blood? (And how concerning, especially since he knows just what that blood can do.)]

[He wouldn't consider himself Koltira's friend, not by a long shot, but he hardly wishes him to be in any pain. What he's seeing isw orrisome, for sure, so Keats raises his voice, glasses shining in the low light.]

What's going on with you?

NATASHA

[respired]

[ He kneels on the ground, sagging against Byfrost, his forehead pressed against the runeblade's hilt.

It hurts – it hurts – it hurts –

He grits his teeth, grinds his jaw. Blood seeps up Byfrost's blade; he has the weapon buried in a corpse that only just stopped moving. The man—a brigand, masked, dirt-smeared skin pale and growing paler, had reached up to him. His fingers were splayed out. He tried to speak behind the kerchief over his mouth, but it was garbled; incoherent. Regardless, Koltira can hardly process his own thoughts, much less someone else's.

He turns Byfrost slightly, sighs at the squelch of viscera, the crack of bone. More blood flows upwards, through the grooves of Byfrost's blade, up over the hilt. Koltira exhales, and for a few moments, he feels warmth.

But the pain does not abate. His thoughts cannot coalesce. He groans, biting in his lower lip.

There's someone behind him. ]

No—closer.

[expatriates]

[ It's not the first time she has approached a teammate she'd rather avoid, rather turn around and run from; at this point, she's beginning to feel like it's Black Widow's schtick. When she sees Koltira, instead of turning and passing a warning amongst the people (or, more likely, reiterating his), she checks her for her sidearm and approaches with slow, deliberate steps.

She can't help but feel, like with Hulk, it's important to announce herself. Sneaking up on a rabid dog is generally regarded as a poor plan.

He's heaving, shoulders sagging with the weight on them as he leaned over the bandit he'd decimated. She wondered how much worse it was to die by Byfrost than to wield it. Probably better, actually. ]

You need to let that thing go.

[ Maybe it will make a difference. Maybe not. But regardless, she can't just walk away. That's not what an Avenger does, and even if they don't exist anymore, that still has to mean something to her. ]

JASPER

[respired]

[ Koltira was not exactly gentle with the bandit camps last time he visited them, but at least then he was focused. He was fast, if not clean, and he made an effort not to linger too long over any one individual.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he's keeping them alive.

The earth churns black and smoky beneath his feet as he walks into the bandit camp. He drags Byfrost's blade across one side of a tent, and the fabric decays as it splits open, curling into itself and crumbling. The bandits inside scramble out, and stumble directly into a miasma of choking red mist. They cough violently; fall to their knees. Koltira stands over a group of five, his expression like a jack-o-lantern, ghoulish and fixed. His eyes blaze wild as he drives Byfrost into the earth. The sword's runes turn sickly green, and plague magic spills forth in waves.

As the bandits breathe in the miasma, their skin hardens, sloughs off. Plague steals into the exposed meat of their arms, their thighs and stomachs. The red muscle turns gray, melting; it drips onto the ground and sizzles like fat in a pan.

The bandits spit blood as they scream, as they claw at the dead soil for mercy. Koltira grabs one by the throat, digging his sharp nails in, and each man begins to tremble violently in place.

Koltira scowls. Agony burns relentless in his veins. ]

Beg.

[ He's too in the moment to notice, just yet, if anyone's joined him. ]

[hardnosed]

[ [[MUFFLED ENNIO MORRICONE PLAYING IN THE DISTANCE]]

Physically, he's recognizable as the same person she saw slaughtering the bandits, but emotionally he seems very much changed — which isn't something Jasper can actually tell from observing him, but rather from his victims. This is overkill on a grand scale. He's losing himself, if not his form. Maybe something like this was the initial stage for all those worthless beasts she's been subduing, still self-aware enough to recognize something's wrong, capable of speech, but already incontrovertibly twisted. She has no idea how close she is to knowing this firsthand, which is a blessing for everyone here because it would just make her melodramatically angry, and the sight of this feral creature covered in chains is bringing up more than enough.

Which shouldn't unsettle her. Jasper won that battle. She broke her chains — their chains — and they emerged more powerful than ever before, because she was strong enough to throw the forces restraining her. Deathweaver hasn't, and that's because he's weak. This has nothing in common with Malachite, except that she'll win here too. ]

This again?

[ She speaks with no particular mercy, no particular venom, as she summons her helmet and closes in on the camp, her voice designed to carry regardless. The Qorral miscreants are nothing. Making them writhe is an idle expenditure of power which would be better spent against her.

Because of course she came here for a fight. She'd dared to hope that a change in scenery would make this reassignment more interesting, but after about a week she was almost back where she started, with nothing but insufferable babble on the Magitek and the occasional marauding scorpion to keep her from thinking about what's waiting for her back on earth. This could actually be a challenge. Jasper's disregarding any subconscious disease, pushing it back in favor of embracing the excitement of this situation. The drama in her voice isn't really for his sake as much as hers. ]

I said it before — you're wasting your time.

[ He's obviously more dangerous than the average corrupted gem, making up for what he lacks in size with whatever magic it is he's using now, but she's not organic. How could any of it affect her? It'll be a close call, maybe, but in the end her self-imposed directive is still simple. She'll do what she's done at least 25 times now, with wild monstrous things that used to look just like everybody else.

You take them on. You take them down. And you end them. ]

SHIZUO + RAMIR

[respired]

[ The town stretches out before him, its main drag a bright ribbon of activity and life. He stands just a few feet outside the fences, his eyes wide, his body a wreck of wounds, his mind crackling with painful static. The rush of blood, of heat and heartbeats, presses on him like a physical weight. Anguished, he stumbles forward, wanting that vitalty in his mouth, wanting to hold it in his hands and feel it seep through his fingers.

But at the same time, some part of him knows he shouldn't be here. The last vestiges of his reason struggle, trying to hobble his movements, to drive him back.

The town must be kept safe.

The town must be kept safe.

The town must be--

He digs his nails into his cheek with one hand. With the other, his grip on Byfrost's hilt tightens. Someone's coming. ]

[longtempered]

[There's a few bounties up on the network, including one for moving things around at Boneyard Junction--and that's the last thing Shizuo's checked on the network at all, lately, or maybe he might have been just a little more wary about the figure hovering at the outskirts of town. Preoccupied as he is with heading out to the bounty in question, he almost misses it, honestly...but it's the odd movement that catches the corner of his eye, the staggering and halting motions just outside the fence line.

It looks painful, like somebody hurt, and that forms just enough of a twinge of concern that Shizuo can't help but shift his path a little, to look over and approach. At first he figures it might be a local, a vague impression of dark skin and pale hair registering at a distance, but the closer he gets the more evident it becomes that this is...probably not the case. The eyes are too bright, and--what, are those chains? Is that a sword? What the hell...

Several yards shrink to just a few. Shizuo frowns around his cigarette, and eventually plucks it from between his lips, squinting over his shades.]

Hey, you--you alright? [It's still a bit of distance away as he speaks up with his voice raised, working on coming up to the fence. Closer now, and...there's something familiar, almost. Has he seen this face before? He feels like he has...but there's one assessment he can make for sure now, with the closing distance.] I mean, I'm no doctor, but uh. You kind of look like shit over there...?

AANG

[respired]

[ Death knights do not tire. Sometimes, Koltira wishes it were otherwise. He longs for exhaustion, then the restorative peace of sleep. But though he's battered and beaten down, he is not tired. If anything, he feels more awake and lucid than ever—a terrible, harsh awareness that has him replaying the events of the last week over and over in his mind.

He sits by a stream in the forest, still shackled, still wearing only his torn pants. Most—albeit not all—of his wounds are healed, though some new burn scars persist. He runs his hand through the water, and the rusty, rime- and blood-slicked chain hanging from his wrist sinks into the stream, disappearing into the depths. He withdraws, sits back. Water sluices down his palm and arm, clear and clean, but all he can see is red.

Koltira shuts his eyes. A moment passes, and his ears prick forward—it's not footsteps he hears, but an abrupt, unnatural gust of wind. ]

You should not be here.

groans, this got long

[twinkle_toes]

[It would be a lie to say that Aang didn't try and follow Papyrus after dropping off the cushiest pillow he could find. (All the better for yelling into, you see.) He'd say it was entirely coincidental, two teammates heading in the same direction for entirely differing reasons, but the fact of the matter is he wants to make sure the pillow's taken and that Koltira really is okay.

He checks religiously the first few days. And every day the pillow remains exactly where it is, untouched except by the hands of nature, millimeters of desert sand rising higher and higher atop the now-tan surface with each passing day. About four days in he stops checking the pillow and instead sends off a few cautious messages, though he isn't surprised when none of them are returned. If Koltira really was screaming his head off somewhere in a cave, he probably wasn't in any sort of mood to talk to people. But Aang keeps true to his word, and though he does spend a bit more time in the desert than he usually would and he does ask around town for a list of the best caves nearby for sightseeing, he doesn't actively try and track down Koltira.

He finds Koltira anyway.

Not intentionally, he'd like to point out (it's awful hard to miss white and grey in a sea of otherwise dusty browns and greens) and way later than he would've liked (Koltira's become, at that point, nothing more than faint feeling of unease at the back of his mind) but it doesn't change the fact that Aang zips over as soon as he catches sight of that familiar pair of ears. Only, he stumbles in mid-air a few gusts of wind in, caught off-guard by Koltira's keen senses.

The words "How'd you know it was me" die quick on his lips once Koltira comes fully into view. Aang's eyes skim over the scars (both new and old) on Koltira's body and the chain that hangs from Koltira's wrists and languishes in heavy heap on the ground. Aang might not the brightest pentapus in the barrel but he's pretty sure guys who spend a week yelling in caves don't come out looking like that. Too much discomfort, too much pain.

Carefully, he alights down some feet away, eyes wide and watchful.]

Where'd you go?

[Please don't lie.]

MEALLAN

[respired]

[ While imprisoned, Koltira had no sense of time and place. Sylvanas kept him locked away in the dark, chained and caged. The apothecaries visited at irregular hours, likely on purpose; he could not mark the passage of days by their schedules when they seemingly had none. Sylvanas herself visited him intermittently, and at random. She always stayed for a long while, and he always knew less about himself—where he was, how long he'd been there, the very syllables of his name—after she was done.

He feels that same aimless dysphoria now as he wanders the scrublands, his body on fire with lancing pain, his mind lost to wave after wave of hot knives stuck in his gut. Rain's falling, spattering onto his bare chest, dripping off the edge of Byfrost's blade. The water runs black on the ground, washing away some of the filth that Koltira's acquired over the past few days. He'd be grateful if he could be.

As it stands, he has no head for anything but the creature in front of him: some heinous mix of scorpion and coyote, its jaws open and slavering, its tail a massive, poison-tipped scythe. The creature lunges for him, howling, and Koltira gives as good as he gets.

Moments later, the thing's whimpering on the ground, gutted. Koltira kneels beside it, plunging his hands into the viscera, digging his nails into the soft, bleeding meat. The creature, still alive, writhes. Koltira rips, tears, eats. Rain plasters his hair to his face, makes the blood run in dark sheets over his hands. He pays it no mind.

The creature howls, ragged and slow, before finally going still. ]

a+ icon choice

[strikingtwice]

[Meallan had seen the message Koltira had managed to get out to the network before he'd lost himself, knew what it likely meant and all the reasons he should stay away. He could remember being something similar himself, the pain and rage that had blotted out everything until he couldn't think of anything but causing as much pain to others in turn. He knew he should keep his distance, let this blow over and accept that Koltira might know better than he what to do.

But he's stubborn and worse, he feels frustrated and upset with his own choices, that he hasn't been doing enough for others and focusing too much on his own distractions. So while there's a distant thought that he shouldn't do this, that he should at the very least respect what Koltira had asked, he doesn't listen to it. Instead he grabs his staff and dashes out to try and find the other elf, convinced that somehow he might manage to help.

Even if it's only to offer a distraction and allow another to escape.

What he sees when he finally does find Koltira is shocking, even sickening as he watches those cold, blue hands sink into flesh warm enough still to be steaming in the rain, hears the last pained howl the beast makes as it finally dies. It gives him a vivid picture of what he might be in for, what might happen to any who cross the other elf's path like this, and Meallan shifts his grip on his staff, holding it carefully as he steps closer to the other man. He doesn't imagine words will make much of a difference, but he feels compelled to try anyway.]

Koltira... it's all right... it's just me...

[Meallan slowly moves closer, wondering if it might be possible to subdue Koltira if he's fast enough, shifts his weight in preparation to rush Koltira if necessary.]

Can you understand me?

FIONA

[respired]

[ Bandit camps dot the landscape of this world. The embers of their communal fires rise bright and crackling into the evening sky, making them easy targets for someone with the wherewithal to intrude. Koltira has paid personal calls to so many of them that, by this point, they start running on his approach.

It doesn't help them.

Two of these men already lie dead at his feet. Two more try to flee, shooting at him as they go. He deflects some of the bullets with Byfrost; a few more shots slip through, riddling his chest. Rivulets of blood trickle down his abdomen, growing thicker as he strides forward. But he does not stop. He does not even slow.

Koltira swings his sword, and ice spikes shoot up from the dry earth, impaling the bandits' legs, jutting up through their arms. Suspended, they struggle, hollering, crying out for mercy.

Koltira doesn't hear anything but noise.

He lifts his sword, and then he pauses. A different sound pricks at his ears. Someone behind him, breathing hard.

Deliberately, Byfrost still brandished, he turns. ]

[cachemoney]

[Bandit camps are a good way to get some easy cash, if you're quick about it. Fiona's lived her whole life stealing from people, and the bandits on Pandora are far more dangerous (insanity will do that to you) than the ones on this planet, so it's like stealing candy from well-armed babies. She is not, however, prepared to stumble upon a massacre.

Blood and gore are not strangers to her, but this is something else; she's desensitized to violence, she's Pandoran, but the agony that the bandits are going through hits her hard. Their cries make her flinch, bile rising in her throat, and she ducks behind a pile of rocks to get her bearings.

He's distracted, probably; distantly, she recognizes him as one of her teammates, and a ton of questions swirl around in her head at that, but it's not time to focus on them. She peeks out from her barrier in spectacularly poor timing, just as he turns around. Shit.]

Stay the fuck over there.

LANCER

[respired]

[ He's come to a forest. It's been nearly a week, and he's still burning. Pain dogs his steps as he staggers forward, a curse yet unsatisifed, a biting hunger yet unsated. These moments are the worst, stuck as he is between the hissing demands in his head and a creeping sense of awful clarity about what he's done. Every time he pauses to think it through, another agonizing jolt shreds his nerves, silences his reason. He can't get a grasp on anything yet—his fingers keep brushing against a door he can't open.

But he knows that he must get away. Away from the camps and the corpses, the populated areas. Not that the forest is silent. The hearts here are small and quick, rabbits and birds thrumming fast as they rush from place to place, hiding in the trees or burrowing below ground. Animals have always known him for what he was. They've always been wise enough to stay away.

Koltira leans against a tree, palm flat on the rough bark. He listens to the warm strains of life all around him, all escaping from him. But he senses something else, too. A familiar taste of old magic in his mouth, sweet and potent. He narrows his eyes, trying to remember, to categorize.

Ah. ]

Don't.

[riastraid]

[ Koltira's request had been crystal: don't look for me. His agony was plain. Lancer respects both and minds his own damn business, but trouble always finds a way. And trouble today is a bloodied elf stumbling into his cache of trees, dragging the threat of death and rot in after him. He'd been raised to understand forests are sacred things, wise in their own way—it reacts to Koltira's presence viscerally. He should respond in like, but something keeps him sitting on a fallen log. It isn't curiosity, they aren't strangers this time. Obligation, likely. Not much time to think on it.

Once he's noticed, he lifts his hands with a helpless shrug. ]

Hey now, you're the intruder. I haven't done anything yet.

[ That said, his armor takes place of his silly Western threads in a jolt of magic. He can guess how this'll go, it's not like this has been a subtle, low-key week of frenzying, and they've thrown down before. ]

But maybe I should go ahead and put you out of your misery.

[ Lancer's definitely trying to provoke him, though it may as well be an honest suggestion. You're a hot mess, friend. ]

PAPYRUS

[respired]

[ His days go like this: bursts of intense violence, seconds of terrible relief, and then long, long hours of cutting, jabbing, wracking pain. He moves erratically, following the noise of life, whether it's a bandit camp or a giant lizard snuffling in the dirt. What he finds, he takes. He destroys.

In between, he wanders. He avoids the town, ripe as it is; after being quite literally tossed away from it the first time, something in him braces against any thoughts of returning. Instead, he keeps to the outskirts, searching. For rest, or peace, for something to chase and catch and break. For an end to this pain.

He has come across nothing useful in nearly half a day. Night's coming on. His nerves spit and hiss, demanding what he can't give, sparking with agony. Koltira drives Byfrost into the dirt and leans on the hilt, heaving. He screams in time with his muscles: a jagged, discordant wail that sounds like rocks scraping together in a canyon, like a fire and brimstone demon straight out of hell. ]

[boneafide]

[Papyrus had made it a goal to make sure no one else would get hurt by Koltira during this time. A goal he, sadly, could not accomplish. He isn't aware of how many people slip through the cracks, between times when he's fallen asleep propped up against a rock. It's both a disgust and a relief that the only corpses he's seen were that of bandits.

It's honestly a little impressive, that he manages to not throw up upon seeing the gross mess that once were some Qorral bodies. He totally cries though. It's a little awful, and he doesn't know how humans take care of their dead, let alone the Qorral, but it feels wrong to leave them just... out there like this. He knows they were bandits- not great people, really- but it's not in monster culture to just allow someone's dust to sit there on the ground. He makes a note, to ask others how it would be best to do that.

But another thing he'd promised- he told Aang he'd bring the pillow to Koltira. He... needed to at least put it out in the desert, like he said he would. It's during this time, between getting the pillow from Aang and walking back out into the desert, that he loses track of Koltira. He'll catch up to him, he's sure! He just needs to go back, retrace his steps, surely Koltira couldn't have gotten far, and so much of this place is big and flat! He can't avoid seeing Koltira for too long, he's sure!

And yeah, he's right. Because without noticing, he's certainly drifted closer than those five hundred feet radius he's said he would be keeping. When he hears that scream, and how unfortunately close it is, Papyrus peers around the corner of a large rock formation and sure enough, Koltira's only twenty feet away now, sounding full of pain and tortured. He looks the part too- something he hadn't noticed before with his distance. There's literal chains on him, and deep scars. It's... beyond words, really.]

Koltira...

[He says outloud, dropping the pillow. He shouldn't have said anything, but often times, Papyrus' emotions get the better of him.]

DIPPER

[respired]

[ Koltira stops the stagecoach in its tracks easily. Ice crystals form rapidly on its wheels and axles; the horses, inhaling the sickly sweet poison of plague magic, crash wetly onto their sides. When the driver leaps out to investigate what happened, he finds both horses with rapidly decaying chest cavities—the flesh blackens, turning sticky like tar, and then eats away at the exposed ribs beneath. The horses scream in panic, and as the driver stands over them—panicking too, at this grisly sight—Koltira grabs him by the throat. Before he can do anything, a family spills out from the coach: a man, a woman. Two little girls.

Koltira stares at them, his fiery eyes turned to glass, unseeing and uncomprehending. Pain lances through him, over and over again. He squeezes the man's throat like a child manhandling a puppet.

And then—his ears flick back. A noise, a disturbance in the brush. He turns his head slightly. The family makes to run, but he lifts his hand, and ice comes for them, too—entombing all four, rooting them to the spot.

The driver struggles, and Koltira's nails tear into his throat.]

i'm not late you're late

[twinpeak]

[ The disturbance in the brush comes from none other than Dipper, who freezes in place—and not because of the ice. He's emerged from the narrow alleyway between two buildings—both businesses closed for the afternoon—a shortcut to get to this road. Being along the outskirts of town, this particular area doesn't tend to be busy during this time of the day, and so the scene he finds himself upon was a wholly unexpected one.

Well, it would be regardless of the circumstances.

Dipper sucks in a gasp, eyes rising from the rapidly deteriorating horses, to the family trapped in ice, to the neck of the man Koltira's vice like grip pierces into.

It's as if he's a completely different person; this isn't the Koltira that Dipper knew at all. It's no wonder, he realizes after only seeing what's transpiring before him, he was told to run.

Unfortunately, Dipper is bad at listening sometimes, and so with a shaky breath he didn't realize he was holding in, he calls out: ]

K— Koltira, stop!!

[ He couldn't just run and do nothing. There were people in danger. Dipper would never forgive himself if he simply abandoned them. ]

OLIVIA

[respired]

[ Koltira's stretched out against a flat rock, staring up into the heavy, fragrant branches of a pine tree. A stream murmurs nearby, and he has a thought to crawl over and clean himself off, but sitting up feels like a task of Herculean proportions right about now. Instead, he stays right where he is, one arm dangling off the side of the rock, his chains dragging in the grass. The last week is a blur of gore, of pained voices both familiar and strange, and most acutely, of suffocating, paralyzing guilt.

He has done worse by these people than ever before. They won't forgive him. They should not forgive him.

He should have let Lancer kill him.

Koltira touches his side, fingers ghosting over the wound left by Lancer's spear. It hurts nearly as bad as his own wracking spasms; the seared flesh feels like a curse in and of itself, pulsing and living. He groans as he sits up, his vision unsteady. ]

Bal'a dash.

[ Someone's there, inching slowly forward. Blurry as the world is, he knows that silhouette anywhere. ]

[winces]

[ when olivia had answered koltira's call with a message of her own, she had never expected her services to be used on someone so close to home. she hadn't even given herself the chance to change — her clothes soaked in dirt and blood and tears, but her gait is surprisingly steady when she approaches him, her voice oddly tender where they float in the wind. ]

It's quieter than I expected in there...

[ there, she says, just as she draws close enough to touch him — one hand to his brow, the other to ghost over his chest. he is wounded all over, at least from what she can tell in the faint moonlight, but for once she does not rush to heal, focusing instead on that other power of hers, seeking out the emotions she has only recently begun to welcome.

perhaps, she thinks, if she heals his heart first, his body will feel more inclined to follow along.

"quiet" is subjective, of course. the last time she'd heard him in her mind, he had been rage and death and fury. a screaming storm that easily swept her away as much as it beat her down, forcing her on her knees. now there brews a different storm, the eye of it where things have gone muted and deceptively still. in her heart there burns an echo of his sorrow, of his guilt, but they are emotions she has nurtured herself before, and so they fall much more easily in her arms.

carefully she drops to her knees at his side, looking over him with a somber expression of her own. exhaustion creeps from her bones, but she knows it is not nearly as heavy as his own. ]

SHIRO

[respired]

[ Koltira kneels beside a creek, scooping water into his cupped hands. He splashes his face, trying to rinse off the grime and streaks of dried blood. It's a trial, and one he's not well-suited for. Open wounds ooze on his side, on his legs and abdomen. He's far worse off than he was at the outset of the week, and he was already bleeding then. Now he's scored and cut all over, and the stinging, throbbing pain makes his movements stiff, unreliable.

At length, he gives up. He presses both palms flat against the bank of the creek, watches as his chains sink into the mud. He doesn't lift his head til he catches footfalls approaching, at which point his long ears flick back. He groans. ]

If you've come to kill me, it won't take much to finish the job.

[racking]

[ There's a trail of blood to follow. Shiro might be encroaching, but better him than any of the others. He's still not completely clear on what Koltira is capable of, but he knows his own abilities. He can handle whatever might be waiting for him.

But he doesn't find danger. Shiro assesses the the smears of blood staining the flow of the river red as well as the fresh-made wounds on Koltira's skin. There's no aggression in the slope of his back. Shiro keeps his distance, but it's out of respect rather than wariness. ]

I haven't come to kill you.

[ Though Shiro couldn't deny that it had been an option when Shiro had first set out. He's relieved to find it unnecessary. ]

Do you remember what happened?

[ The question's posed quietly. It's a difficult subject for Shiro to skirt around in light of his own memory issues, but it needs to be asked. He needs to understand how this works before he can proceed. ]

CHIHIRO

[respired]

[ It's late afternoon, somewhere in the middle of this awful week. Koltira's caught a few roaming brigands and put them down, not easy, not fast, but they are down. He yanks his sword out of the second one's belly as the man collapses onto the ground with a wet, heavy thud. Blood spatters the pale sand, and other bits and pieces besides.

Koltira dips his fingers in the mess, kneeling down like a predator about to feed. He brushes his fingers against his mouth, smearing his chin and cheeks.

Ah, but wait.

A new heartbeat. Small, quick. Close by.

He looks up, his lichfire eyes coldly luminous in the fading afternoon light. ]

[onethousen]

[ She holds still where she is, the skies overhead painted in the beginnings of what will eventually lead into a breathtaking sunset. It's the dull thump and wet slick sounds that drew her attention; the click of metal on metal. Cresting the low hill, her eyes flit over the remains of a dangerous scene.

Blood stands out, leaving her breathing in sharply: death has become recognisable in the moment she twitches forward, falling back into stillness. She can see the men on the ground. The injuries and blood streaked on Koltira's face. The bright glow of his eyes are reminders of spirits and gods and shadows in the belly of a great bath house's darkness. It's an unsettling feeling, keeping her voice small even as she tenses to run.

Those people are dead. This man is injured. It's just as likely her running into the dead men while they lived would have gone poorly, but she'd been tracking down herbs, skirting the fringe of the badlands.

What a truly terrible idea. ]

Do you need help?

[ Her voice stays small and quiet, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. With little more than her uniform, purchased cowboy hat, and purchased hunting knife at her side, there's little she can offer in assistance... other than to run or call for help. For the people who can. If she even thinks of that in the moment. ]

WIDOWMAKER

[respired]

[ Koltira's near the mountains, dragging a half-dead bandit behind him in one hand. His sword's on his back for the present, but judging by the man's gored stomach, that is only recently the case. The bandit groans, struggling weakly, and Koltira tightens his grip. At the same time, he pauses. Shoves the man face-down in the dirt, muffling the resulting scream.

Someone's here. He can't quite see them yet, but his mind—primal in this moment, responsive only to elemental concerns, to the slight shifts in wind and the almost inaudible shifting of sand and dirt—crackles with anxious static. He's being watched.

With difficulty, his tongue thick and pained, he spits. ]

Come out.

[araigneedusoir]

[What brought her out here was the desire to acquire more information then the paltry amount that had been offered to her so far in town. She'd found something to do, dared to wander; to become a thorn in the bandits' sides.

At first she thought what she was looking at was a bandit, but as the figure grew closer it was obvious that was not the case. Her eyes shift, watching through the scope of her rifle, finger barely ghosting the trigger.

She doesn't move when he speaks -- a good sniper never reveals themselves until they're ready -- instead continuing to observe. Though she draws her finger back, resting it against the trigger guard. She weighs her options and despite her better judgement decides.

Though she rises from her crouch, her rifle isn't lowered.

Not yet.]

ALICE

[respired]

[ Koltira keeps his things tucked away in a cavern that's just near the mouth of Darkstone Canyon. Not so deep in that it's particularly dangerous for visitors, but an unsettling shadow sits over it nevertheless. He's there now, taking inventory of his things—his armor, his uniforms, the fine clothes he'd bought in town. Potions and bandages and trinkets. He finds the mirror he uses to check on the others in Audentes and turns it over in his hands, running his fingers over the antique silver.

He's still glancing at it when he hears Alice come in. ]

Ah.

[ He mutters, tucking the mirror into his pocket. ]

You've come a long way.

[ He's dressed now, thank the Light. He's still wearing the chains, but they're mostly hidden by his long sleeves and high collar. ]

[digophelia]

Hello.

[ What else is there to say for her friend that she's hunted down? Alice is always how she is, modestly dressed in skirts, carefully walking in over rocks in the very little light that she's had. She stops when she considers it to be a wise distance for the both of them. She's soft-spoken as she awkwardly stands there with her hands neatly folded in front of her. ]

I suppose I have, but I don't mind at all.

[ She shuffles awkwardly as she stands there. ]

I was worried for you.

SAI

[respired]

[ This is one of the more impressive bandit camps. It's populous and organized, with a number of sturdy tents arranged in a loose circle. At the circle's center, about twenty men and women gather around a large bonfire, eating from tin cans and swilling moonshine. They swap stories about what they've done—raids carried out on rival groups, on travelers, on Deemers and citizens of Perdition's Rest alike. They play cards, putting up their stolen goods as collateral. They are, in short, oblivious.

Koltira stands on the edge of camp, his expression dull, his teeth bared. He lifts Byfrost into the air. Shadow energy pours from the blade, a million thin tendrils that dive beneath the earth like so many ethereal vines. The ground begins to shake. Startled, but thinking it a quake, the bandits pause their conversations to secure their belongings.

All thought for this flees when they realize what's really happening: ghouls, an army of them, clawing their way up from the desert sands.

Koltira glances behind him as the ghouls snarl and rise, thinking he saw a shadow flit just beyond his peripheral vision. ]

[daimeinashi]

[Originally, he was just going to heed the network warning, about Koltira. Sai wasn't the sort to go borrowing trouble. But then Sieglinde had put out that call, asking for samples of the man's blood in this state, and--well, Sai was good at that kind of thing. He could accomplish the task without getting himself killed, which was perhaps more than he might be able to say for some of the others here.

He doesn't generally mind being helpful, when it's not in conflict with any of his other goals, and he likes Sieglinde. She's straightforward and practical, and he appreciates that.

So he flies out into the desert on an ink bird in search of the rampaging elf, and once he starts hearing screams, it's easy to track the man down. He finds him attacking a bandit camp, with some manner of beasts...perhaps summoning creatures, like shinobi who held contracts could, in his world?

The bird is large enough that the boy isn't visible riding atop it, but Koltira will likely feel his beating heart there nonetheless. Strangely, though, the boy that seems to hop down initially doesn't have one. There's a trace of life force there, in that clone, a trace of Sai's own will, but it does not live the way a shadow clone does. It is merely a construct.

...And it is, merely, a distraction, as he himself leaps from the bird, kunai drawn to get a proper slice into the elf's shoulder--fresh blood for Sieglinde's project.]

LUCY

[respired]

[ Koltira's kneeling in a patch of farmland, though he's not particularly interested in the crops. Most of the field lies fallow, anyway. But along the western edge, facing the nearby town, there's a plot of carefully tended flowers. Big, bright blossoms, the color of a sunset. Koltira, feral with pain and hunger, still finds himself instinctively drawn to beauty.

He reaches for the flowers, his bloodstained hands trembling. Byfrost lies beside him on the ground, its dark light pulsing malevolently. Koltira feels whispers press on him like daggers, threatening and sharp, telling him to move, to find blood, to rend and feast.

Shuddering, Koltira chews his lower lip. As the cold blood coats his tongue, he touches the shimmering petals, still vibrant even in this cool season.

Ice crystals form over the flower, freezing it solid within seconds.

Koltira's eyes widen, and he scowls, yanking the flower free from the earth. It crumbles in his hands as he does so, falling to powder across his palms. Anger surges through him, and he looks up, his ears flicking back--someone's here. ]

[scarredhorns]

[Lucy had been in control ever since the most recent earthquake, and she remained awake to take the chance of familiarizing herself more with the town and its surroundings since she didn't share Nyuu's memories. More often than not, however, she would only spare a quick stroll through the main street of the town before making her way towards the areas that were less crowded. Being surrounded by so many people at once made her feel anxious and sick to her stomach.

She didn't think she'd find anyone else out here, doing the same thing she was, which was admiring the flowers.

After spending three years in a prison-like research institute--unable to move, unable to see anything but her pitch-black room when she was left alone--she'd almost forgotten what the sun looked and felt like, along with all the beautiful things that relied on it for nourishment.

Though Koltira rescued Nyuu on the arrival train, Lucy fails to recognize him even when he shows his face, and it wasn't because of the chains, wounds, blood, and lack of clothes. Just as her own memories were disconnected from Nyuu's, so too did it work the other way around. All Lucy saw was a stranger, albeit a non-human stranger with some unusual abilities, which was the sole reason she didn't turn on her heels and leave. In her world, there were only humans and Diclonii.

Wordlessly and with her usual cold expression, Lucy cants her head to the side as if waiting to see what Koltira will do next, unafraid.

Her black cowgirl hat kept her horns hidden.]

TSUKUYO

[respired]

[ He's in the middle of the desert when he finds this lone straggler, a thief running late back to his camp of degenerates.

"Please, please --" the bandit chokes out, squirming, trying to kick out at Koltira. Koltira holds him aloft, squeezes his neck slowly, thoughtfully. He stares up at the bandit, his tongue pressed against his vampire canines, his attention undivided. A chorus runs through his head--the man's begging for relief, and his own, mixed in along with it. Both of them crave release. An end to suffering. Peace.

But neither of them were going to get it. ]

[sekimorinashi]

[ Tsukuyo isn't looking for Koltira. She's keeping an eye out for him, but she doesn't know how and she doesn't know what that was about, so she intends to keep her hands off the matter if possible. But she's taken to traversing the desert, hoping to find clues to ... anything, really. It seems like the perfect place to hide things, to her.

And then she comes across this.

Honestly, she has no great qualms about bandits dying. They don't care for innocent people and are happy to kill anyone, so they can croak it for all she cares. But she does know this other man is part of Audentes, and he has never really ... come off as that violent, to her. Certainly not one who would slowly choke the life out of someone for ... what reason? ]

Oi! Whatcha doin'?

JIN

[respired]

[ It's late, the moon rising full over the farm, the evening air brisk and sharp with a biting chill. As Jin passes, the door to the house bursts open, and the farmer runs out.

"Wait! Please!" he calls, flagging Jin down, panting. "Please, you have to help us. Somethin' ... somethin' strange is lurkin' by the barn! Howling fierce and terrible. Got my poor kids too terrified to sleep. Please, you got to help us!"

The farmer gestures wildly to the barn. If Jin squints, he'll see unnatural shadows moving, slinking 'round the side. ]

[pummelling]

[In spite of Koltira's words, or because of them, perhaps, Jin'd gone out looking for him with a good amount of the rest of the team: beginning within the town of Perdition's Rest and radiating outwards, exploring anywhere someone hoping to be left alone would isolate himself in.

He'd been ready to turn in and concede failure for the night when the farmer had pulled him aside, panicked. With the sand worms certainly familiar to the locals by now and the night still, there's got to be something-- someone-- else lurking in the night.]

Stay inside. Lock your doors. I'll lead him away.

["Him? Boy, that don't sound like no person I've ever seen."

But the man listens. The civilian out of the way now, Jin takes off into the darkness; the moonlight and his bow, illuminated by a faint blue glow that emanates from the string, light the way dimly.

A figure passes around the corner. Jin aims his bow at it, feet planted firmly upon the ground.]

Come out!

KOJURO

[respired]

[ These brigands are fighting back. Three of them, all firing at once. Koltira advances towards them over the sand, in no apparent rush. They're terrified, and for the moment that's enough. Some of their bullets strike Byfrost and ricochet away. Some get through, piercing his chest, his legs and arms. One hits him in the neck. Blood flows, blood drips and trails and smokes on the ground, but Koltira does not stop. Finally, he grows weary of the slick burning running down his skin, this fresh pain layering on top of the spasms already wracking his nerves.

He hisses. ]

Enough.

[ A storm of ice and sleet swirls up around Koltira's body; the shrieking gale of frozen wind obscures him as he continues to move. The bandits don't let up, but the bullets don't even reach Koltira. The moment they pass into the storm, they freeze solid and drop, clattering uselessly by Koltira's bare feet. The hailstorm swells in power as Koltira walks forward. The bandits are out of bullets, now. They stumble and fall as the cold winds reach them, and Koltira is not far behind. ]

[sengetsu]

[Kojuro hadn't intended to find Koltira. There are people who's problems he'd intervene in despite their requests, but the undead elf is not one of them. It is perhaps unfortunate for both of them, then, that Kojuro has been attempting to track some of the bandits through the desert. From his vantage point, he doesn't see Koltira, just that the bandits have their attention elsewhere, and that's enough for him to draw his blade and charge.

It's only after he's cut the first two of this pack that he realizes what distracted them: watching their comrades being slaughtered by Koltira. Too late to back out now, though.]

starter combo breaker!!

[heritors]

[ With the initial frenzy of the earthquake over, Lucina realizes how quiet it is. It's not the quiet, subdued mood of a camp after a hard battle, but a falling into its usual patterns once again. Perhaps that's the difference; for her, the norm was preparing for the next battle. Here, there is no war to fight. It's a different setting operating under very different conditions, and it may take her a while before she really adapts to whatever this is.

So she goes to find the few things that remind her of home: namely, a forest. It may not be the same lush greenery of Ylisse, but it's much better than the dry landscapes and the strange machinery. Here, she allows herself to relax, straighten her shoulders out again and just breathe. She knows she's stronger than this, a little bit of homesickness won't break her so easily; but this is nice.

It's near the end of her walk down a nearby creek when she spots him. Battered, and bloody and still — she's seen this one too many times. Her heart leaps, terrified at the implications ( but what could have done this to a man? He needs help immediately — ). She rushes towards the man, a hand on the hilt of her sword in the event that the assailant is nearby. ] Are you alright?!

[ Her voices edges on a desperation that probably shouldn't exist for a stranger she's never seen before, but that's beside the point. ] Gods— how could this happen...

[respired]

[ Her voice isn't familiar. Someone new to the team, perhaps. He's stretched out in the rocky sand, staring up at the sun and looking for all the world like a corpse ready to be picked apart by carrion. When he hears her rush towards him, he doesn't even sit up straight away. It's not til he gets a good view of her face that he sits up, his chains clinking together as he slowly rises.

No, they have never met. But the planes of her face remind him of someone. Someone he loves.

He presses a hand to his dry, cool mouth. There's blood smeared across his chin; blood staining his palm.

Not how he wants to introduce himself to anyone, but it can't be helped.

He murmurs. His voice is smooth and lilting, incongruously so. An ethereal scratch underscores it; he sounds as though he's speaking from inside an echo chamber. ]

Worry not. It was all of my own maddened design.