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

[ 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. ]

[ Koltira turns, scowling. He has precious little reason still; to his eye, Lancer is a wavering pillar, aglow with the magic that makes up his body. The threads feel thinner than Koltira remembers, but that was so long ago, and he can't focus on it. Can't focus on anything but that taunt in his ears, but the taste of blood and gore in his mouth. Not enough. Never enough.

He does know this: he's already had enough of that mouth.

In response, he swings Byfrost, sending an arc of frozen energy Lancer's way, a strike meant to bowl him over and keep in place. It's easily dodged, though--a weak opener meant to serve as a warning shot.

Leave, or we'll see who ends up miserable. ]

[ It's a strike meant to be read, a warning to be heeded; he leaps aside, blast clearing him and freezing an innocent log bystander instead. Maybe this means Koltira has the presence of mind to scare and ward him off, but Lancer's still got his spear summoned as he lands on his toes. He holds his ground. ]

Oh, c'mon—! You can do better than that.

[ No telling if anyone could actually beat some sense into Koltira, but there's not many who could try besides him. So, here goes. He twirls his lance to rest on his shoulder with a crooked, jeering smile. ]

Or were you holding back because we're friends...? [ He'd consider them as such, anyway. Not that his words hold a shred of kindness now. ] I didn't take you for a monster and a moron.

[ Fight him. ]

[ This cheeky fuck.

Koltira can barely comprehend the taunts, though it's clear that Lancer won't leave well enough alone. Fine.

He's right, anyway: Koltira can do better.

An icy whirlwind kicks up around Koltira's body, enveloping him in biting, frozen winds. The runes on his sword shift, glowing pale blue as icicles form along its blade. He's channeling a spell, drawing heat and moisture from the ground, the air, from anywhere his magic can touch.

As that spell charges, he lunges forward. This time it's not a warning: he's fast, even more so than before, given than he's unencumbered by armor. He leaps and comes down with all the force and speed of a bullet, aiming to stab Lancer directly in his smarmy gut. ]

[ Much better.

He greets him with a full-throated laugh, short and coarse and mean, spear held at the ready to shield him. The wind howls past. The impact has him digging his heels into the ground. Leaves, freshly wilted, crunch underfoot as he forces out of the deadlock with a lunge.

It's a good start, and Lancer skips past the civil, glancing blows to try and disable him. Even with his magical resistances, the cold tries to eat through his skin—this range leaves no time for bullshit. He steps in, lashing out in an arc towards Koltira's neck. His spear aims for the tender join of his jaw and throat. Friend or not, always shoot to kill. ]

[ Koltira howls as the spear bites into skin; the only thing that saves him, ironically, is the enchanted collar locked around his throat. It deflects some of the strike, albeit not all of it--Lancer's weapon still takes enough of a bite that the sharp point will come away drenched in black blood.

Searing pain shoots up from the wound, throbbing almost as badly as the pain of frenzy itself. Koltira howls like a demon, an ethereal wail that echoes with the voice of a graveyard one thousand strong. His sword glows pale green, its rune shifting, as meanwhile the air grows colder and colder.

He counter strikes, lunging for Lancer's side with the great blade. Byfrost's cutting edge flashes as it rends skin, as it tastes blood. There's plague magic in Koltira's attack, a spell that will seep past flesh and bone and sink, debilitating, into Lancer's veins. The plague pulses every few seconds; it is the agony of decay, of a fever that won't break until it's finished its work. ]

[ Even the birds at the far edges of the forest take flight now, all life abandoning them to their fight as Koltira's howling echoes across the trees. It rings in his ears, the glare of light in his eyes, the sting of magic across every exposed pore. And most vividly—pain. His expression wrinkles with a snarl as the blade bites into his side, magecraft poisoning the wound. It's gangrenous. For a living thing, the pain of rot would be crippling, and even as a spirit his blood feels hot with pain.

But two can play at that. He strings a thread of magic through his spear, mana flickering off it in red sparks. The old stories say when pierced, Gae Bolg expands into needles, barbs that coursed along veins like causeways. The reality is less literal, less messy—but that didn't mean the stories were wrong. It's a good approximation for how it feels.

Driving Byfrost back with a wild slash, he quickly jabs his spear back down, stabbing into Koltira's collar like a stinger. Not enough momentum to deeply wound, but the curse lands all the same. More magic gathers at his palms. ]

[ Koltira staggers back against an the trunk of a pine tree, blood gushing dark and corrosive from Gae Bolg's devastating cut. He gasps from the sudden flare of fresh, exquisite pain; this is suffering unlike anything he's known before--and Koltira's pretty much a connoisseur of agony at this point. It spikes through him like so many razor-edged knives, turning his blood into a weapon that drives in deep. Koltira grabs at the bark at his back, and it decays rapidly under his hand, steaming as it melts. Plague magic swirls rampant around him as he drives Byfrost into the ground. The soil turns black, desecrated, an effect that races out around Koltira in a thirty yard radius. Pale hands, thin but strong, reach up from the corrupted earth; they pull at Lancer's legs, stretch out unnaturally for his wrists.

All the while, the air in Koltira's immediate vicinity dries out, becoming heavy with ice. One rune on Byfrost shimmers cold blue, absorbing, absorbing.

Koltira spits his blood, acidic and hungry, into Lancer's face. Then, he leaps forward again, this time going for a wide slash across Lancer's abdomen. As he jumps, he hisses something incomprehensible, something in the language of the dead. The plague in Lancer's blood ruptures, sending a shock of terrible, paralyzing pain through his every muscle--along with the grasping hands, it's another tactic to keep him in place, to hold him so that Byfrost can take a chunk out of his stomach. ]

[ Just like that, the forest chokes and dies around them. No time to mourn it. Instead, Lancer narrows his eyes on Koltira, braced for another charge. What he's not ready for is way the ground beneath him shifts, like it's turned to soft peat. He nearly loses his balance when he's snagged by the groping arms, snapped back into place just before he can jump away.

Inconvenient, but it would be fine. Would be, if not for the way his muscles seize with pain, turned tense as a corpse. Even his jaw's clenched tight when he feels blood splatter on his cheek and Byfrost rip into his middle, a strangled, startled growl all that leaks past his teeth.

Some morbid, very Irish part of his brain notes distantly that this is how he died the first time. How apt, he thinks outside the grievous pain.

It's that sliver of sense that has him bite the inside of his cheek until he feels blood on his tongue, warrior's pride stifling a scream as he focuses. He slashes his free hand, runes scribbling out into the air behind it. The hands clutching his ankles and calves reduce to soot as they flash into white-hot flame, bones crumbling under fire, and he flips Gae Bolg upright as the vice on his wrist loosens. And despite the nauseating lurch of pressure in his gut, the pain it takes to just turn his palm—he finds his grip.

This time, it's not a passing blow. He rips his lance deep into Koltira's side with a furious roar. The spearpoint finds flesh and glides through it as easy as a fish through water, twisting aside with a flourish. But without a Master sustaining him, he needs to get some distance. His follow-up is mild ('mild'), launching Koltira away with a kick, one hand clutched to his wound to keep it from spilling any more. ]

[ Koltira (having no such warrior's pride in this state) screams as the spear tears into him, a hot knife slicing through flesh and bone and muscle like so much soft butter. Blood pours from the wound, a hissing spill that eats away at the already dead earth as it splashes, black and oily, on the wilted grass. The excruciating pain blinds him, turning the world temporarily dark; he can comprehend nothing but the enormity of it, the sensation of millions of cursed needles all stabbing into him at once. He has no defense for the kick that follows. The force of it knocks him back into another tree, and he slams against it so hard that the branches tremble, showering him with leaves.

He hisses through his teeth, groaning, clutching at his side also, feeling his hand dip into the new cavern that Lancer's created. He operates on instinct, first: the gathered frost energy releases, and its effects are manifold.

First, the ice coats Koltira's body, temporarily sealing the wound and all his others, offering him some brief relief. The remaining energy rushes outward, turning the earth to glass, and threatening to lock Lancer in his place, too.

Koltira stares at the other man through a film of blood and pain, and in the next few moments--as the new wound pulses, as the new curse swells in his veins--he feels cold clarity settling in. ]

L--... Lancer.

[ He's ready to fight to the death; even if his reserves drains with every spell, he'll pull out a million runes and spear tricks if that's what it'd take. He's a relentless foe—but this isn't about being enemies. They meet eyes, a tense second passing as he repels the worst of the ice and squeezes his lance.

And then, finally, Koltira speaks.

Lancer keeps his spear out for now, cautious, but the veins contorting his face start to fade. All the rancor and fury burns itself out as quickly as it was lit, simmering. He swipes awkwardly at a blood droplet hanging at his chin with a sigh. ]

Yeah. [ that's him, gj ] Feeling better?

[ There's still a disingenuous edge to his words, but it's more grumpy than mocking. ]

[ Koltira arches his back against the tree, convulsing with the pain of the cursed wound. Light be damned, it hurts. He heaves, his fingers digging deep into the bark, his nails scraping off strips as he writhes.

When it passes enough for him to speak again, he growls. ]

No.

[ The blood on Byfrost's blade animates, running up along the length of the sword and over a series of red runes. As the runes absorb the blood, some of Koltira's injuries mend themselves--but the deep gouge in his side remains.

Koltira shuts his eyes, his grip on Byfrost's hilt relaxing. ]

Bloody hell.

[ The curse faithfully does its work. Lancer watches impassively as he kicks his feet free of ice. ]

Those'll take a while to clear up.

[ The wounds would haunt him indefinitely (or until Lancer's thinning reserves give out), but something about falling through a rift has taken the edge off. With that PSA over, Lancer squats, grumbling out a string of ow, shit, damns on the way down.

A moment of silence for their collective misery. Then his voice strains, but lilts upwards, like there's something funny to near-evisceration. ]

Or you could try and kill me. I'm ready for another round when you are. [ Byfrost had bit open enough flesh to expose a smooth stretch of stomach, blood rising again when he starts squeezing the gash shut with a thick cough. ] I'll, ah— [ Another sharp hiss as the split edges of skin touch. ] ...kick your ass for good this time.

Hmnh.

[ It takes another few moments for full clarity to dawn on him. The cursed wound throbs in the meantime, sending needles of shocking pain up his spine and down through the still river of his veins. It's a terrible pain, but edifying in its way; with each anguished pulse, he finds himself seeing more clearly, thinking more precisely.

He staggers forward a few steps, closing the distance somewhat. He drives Byfrost into the brittle earth, then leans on the hilt; his chains clink and clatter against the blade as he does so, ringing loud in the silence of the now desecrated forest. He glances 'round, guilt welling in his gut, though it's less for nature itself and more for the viscera spilling out of Lancer's wound. But there's something else, too. ]

You need a healer.

[ His ears flick forward, twitching. ]

Or ... something else.

[ Finding a healer was the plan, though Lancer's neither stupid nor optimistic. It's not the wound itself that'd kill him. What's fatal is the magic he's already spent, the rest draining out with his blood; he's likely already lost too much.

And... though Koltira's words suddenly hammer in the sensible solution, he still hasn't dispelled his spear. ]

Hang on.

[ He'd like to stick around. But more than that, he's not going to force a contract—too close to begging. Too similar to what'd been done to him, loyalty demanded rather than deserved. He watches Koltira with an even stare, but stays right where he is, perfectly still. ]

A little off the top isn't gonna cut it this time. You know that, right?

[ Koltira can feel Lancer's presence weakening. The threads that hold him together fraying. Koltira's reminded of Nalawi, when something similar happened to him--to all of those who lived and died by magic. A long, miserable death.

Koltira furrows his eyebrows. Yes, he knows.

He kneels down, one hand still on Byfrost's hilt, listing forward slightly. In undeath, he is unyielding, incapable of exhaustion. But he is weary all the same. ]

Tell me what you need.

[ He suspects that he already has the answer. But the situation must be made plain. ]

Edited 2016-10-22 02:59 (UTC)

[ Lancer considers leaving and taking his chances, nearly getting to his feet. But that's gambling on a random healer strolling through the dead woods, his luck is a steaming pile of hot garbage, and the odds are better here.

...Ah, fuck it. He waves his free hand like he's swatting a fly away. ]

I need you to get this—I don't mind dying.

[ He can think of few better ends than meeting a worthy friend in deadly combat and not having to survive them. Enjoying and clinging to life was never the point of being brought back.

The thought leaves him in lighter spirits, posture easing as his shoulders relax. His teasing has no bite to it. ]

...If you wanna contract up anyway, you're an idiot.

[ Koltira looks up at Lancer, scowling. ]

Only a coward or a fool rushes so quickly into death's arms. There is much yet for you to do.

[ And even if there weren't, Koltira will not simply let Lancer die. The brutality of their battle had saved Koltira from himself. As much as the wounds pain him, he does not begrudge Lancer for them in the least--on the contrary, he is grateful. How much longer would he have raged, if not for this encounter? How many more people would he have hurt, or killed?

Koltira's grip on Byfrost's hilt tightens. He gets to his feet, albeit with difficulty, and exhales frost. The wound in his side throbs, and he feels that needle pain stabbing at his veins, can see it writhing under his skin.

(He'll need to get this thing looked at, he thinks. Later.) ]

Let my magic sustain you.

[ He would call it recompense, but he knows the Servant system--or at least, he knows something of it, as explained by Gilgamesh. Stomach-churning, vile. But it is this, or Lancer's death--and he will not have the latter. ]

[ Taking a stab at Lancer's pride was a quick way to get perforated, though in this case it just means his smile turns more knifelike. Leave it to an undead man to tell him about living on. Nevermind that Koltira's quality of life would be much improved if Lancer died; being his Master wouldn't clear the curse festering in his wounds.

The chiding doesn't imbue him with any newfound spirit, but as resigned as he is—as he always is—he won't argue against more time. He laughs bitterly, ignoring the fresh aches it sets off down his side. ]

Fine, fine. I gotta live long enough to get you back anyway.

[ For the insult, of course. He's unruffled as he gets to his feet, swallowing down whatever blood rises with him. However complicated the implications of the bond, the 'ceremony' itself is quite simple; Lancer only has to send him a few lines. ]

There's your cue.

That you do--

[ Koltira grimaces as a new pain, stinging and distinct from the usual, blooms out from the center of his left hand. Shapes like complex runes form over the top of his palm, and his eyes widen as they coalesce into a bright red tattoo. Command seals--marks he recognizes from time spent with Rin.

Unease prickles down his spine. At the same time, his jewelry hums, and he reads the incantation that Lancer's sent over. It's done, then. The contract made. He has bound this man to his service, and even if he tells himself that he will never take advantage of that fact, his gut still twists in revulsion. He well recalls Gilgamesh's description of the Servant's lot in life--slaves. A deplorable system, or so Koltira had thought at the time.

He swallows thickly. ]

I do not wish to have any power over you, Lancer. I do this only so that you may go on as you are.

[ He shakes his head. ]

You belong to yourself. Not to me, nor anyone else. I will give no commands.

[ And there it is—contract set, match. The flow of mana is immediate and natural, like blood through a heart. But a Servant is no small leech; even after the initial rush, Lancer's presence is a constant, potent drain. He takes advantage of it immediately, scribbling a few regenerative runes over his side before dissipating, presumably off to lick his wounds for a while.

Still, his voice echoes nearby to brush off Koltira's disclaimer. ]

Relax, would you—? A weapon doesn't always mind being used.

[ It is what it is, and he's not embittered at being someone's Lancer. It's sounding like these labels—Master and Servant—might hurt Koltira more than him, and for that he should be grateful. Besides, those cuts he's got are price enough for this exchange. ]

Go try and patch yourself up. We'll talk later.

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

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