epidemiology | it's a bad, bad ritual [ open ]

Entry tags:

it's a bad, bad ritual [ open ]

CHARACTERS: Koltira, perhaps you
DATE: Anytime during the Oska stay
WARNINGS: blood'n'guts
SUMMARY: FRENZY, for the very last time

i. the woods - frenzy;

[ Last year, a desert. An endless, barren expanse, broken only with patches of scrub and unfortunate bandit camps. Now: trees, rivers, shadows. Some wildlife, but hardly enough to satisfy. Koltira ranges here and there, cutting a rotted path through the underbrush: trees smoke and decay in his wake, their bark melting into a surreal, acidic syrup. The forest is not well populated, but what he finds he does not leave intact. A gutted deer, a wingless bird. Blood smears the grass, darkens the moss, though most of it his own--the result of clawing, frantically, at his own body, an effort to satisfy the curse with some kind of violence, even if only against himself.

He is both hypervigilant and completely unreachable in this state. If he senses movement, he attacks swiftly, without prejudice or hesitation. Sword drawn, jaw clenched, rage unending. ]

ii. aftermath - lake;

[ Eventually, whether through time or some other, more efficient intervention, Koltira collapses by the edge of the lake. He presses his cheek to the banks, heaving, his nerves still shot through with pain. But he's got his mind back. His wounds ooze, turning the sand to sludge. He stares ahead, dull-eyed, and he knows one thing with stark clarity: this cannot go on.

And, no matter what he has to do, it won't. ]

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[From a distance, he'd watched as much as he could through Destiny. He knew the time was coming, and as soon as they returned to Oska he kept his distance. Maybe it was an assumption or an observation, but Twisted Fate felt like it was the right thing to do. Anything else would have just made it worse for Koltira.

When he heard his voice, strained as it was, on the network... well. That cemented it. So he watched, waiting anxiously for it to be done.

It's about all he could do.

When it is over, or at least it looks like it is, he doesn't waste anytime. Ignoring his pounding headache -- something he can remedy quickly enough anyway -- he transports himself all but a few feet from Koltira. The air pops, the pressure increasing before he appears, and he lets out an uneasy sigh.

For a moment, he doesn't feel like Twisted Fate. It's Tobias Foxtrot, standing there, hoping, holding out his hand.]

Hey. Sweetheart.

[ Koltira lifts his head, with effort. His last visitor hadn't skimped on the punishment, and he's got blood all over his face, his chest and arms. He's slick with it, gore-caked, crusted over. He groans, pressing his forehead to the sand. ]

Don't look at me.

Too bad. I've been lookin', anyway.

[Normally, the grime would bother him to the point of keeping him away, being the dandy that he is. Instead, he doesn't think much of it, shrugging off his coat and placing it over Koltira's shoulders.]

I don't want to be away any longer than I got to, Tira. Let me see you.

[ He struggles to sit up, but he gets there eventually. His armor's cracked, his hair in disarray, and he's thrown Byfrost off to the side. It's half-submerged in lake water, its runes dimming and brightening as the tide licks at the blade.

Koltira meets Fate's eye, but his lips are swollen, his cheek scored with black lacerations. He looks--accurately so--beat straight to hell. ]

It is worse than usual.

[ To look at him, he means. ]

[Gently, Twisted Fate reaches out, his fingers moving through blood-encrusted, tangled hair, his palm moving down to lightly press against Koltira's cheek.

Then, he summons his healing magic that he has finally mastered.]

I can see that.

But you're still beautiful in my eyes. That won't change.

[ Koltira winces in pain as the magic does its work--no matter the origin, his body abhors healing. But the spell is effective, nevertheless. His flesh grows, his bones mend, his tissues crawl, agonizingly, back into one piece.

He mutters. ]

You're a true romantic, Tobias.

Yeah, well. You bring it out of me.

[Not that he's wrong.

His other hand smooths down to cup Koltira's other cheek.]

But I ain't kissin' you til we get you a bath. Just so we're clear.

[ He rumbles, shaking his head. ]

I would expect no less.

[ With some effort, he manages to sit up. He leans back, putting his weight on his elbows, his expression still a horrible grimace. ]

Tobias ... I have something for you.

[ The pouches on his waist are still intact. He's still intact. It's not exactly a romantic atmosphere, but he's only ever been someone who stumbles into that kind of thing accidentally. He reaches into one of the pouches, rummages for a moment, and then withdraws a small, gold and silver ring. ]

If you'd give me your hand.

[While Twisted Fate is a true sucker for the overly romantic, somehow he knows that if anyone would present him with this one of them would be covered in blood. And even then, he's all right with that.

Because the fact it happens at all is enough.

It's a rare moment Fate is quiet, his brows raised and a little startled. He did ask for this, but he wasn't really sure when...]

Here.

[His hand, carefully offered to Koltira.]

I've had this finished for a while.

[ He takes Fate's hand, holding it just for a second, entwining their fingers. ]

I was waiting for a good time.

[ He looks 'round, then down at himself, recognizing the deep irony the situation. When he looks up, he's got the ring with him, he's slipping it onto Fate's finger. ]

But I'm tired of waiting.

[There's a surge of emotions, and normally Twisted Fate can stifle them down without any real issue. He's not a particularly impulsive man, and he'd rather take a seat back and plan his actions.

It's downright impossible here. Fate places a free hand over his mouth, quiet a moment, but he's smiling to himself hard enough that it hurts.

He knows what he said earlier, mostly jovial about it, that he wouldn't kiss him because Koltira's a mess, but he completely forgets about it. The hand with the ring on it takes Koltira's, squeezing tight before Fate cups the other man's cheek with his free palm. Leaning in, he kisses Koltira, unflustered.]

[ Koltira sighs against the kiss, lifting his blood-and-sand smeared hand to Fate's cheek. He's filthy, undeniably so, and he regrets that, regrets everything about the past twenty-four hours and most of this moment, too. But not the ring. Not the kiss. Not the look on Fate's face.

He mutters. ]

Does this mean you like it?

[That makes Fate laugh quietly, pressing his forehead against Koltira's.]

Whatever gave you that idea?

[He rubs his thumb across Koltira's jawline.]

I love it, sweetheart. Hell, I love you.

I love you, too, Tobias.

[ He squeezes Fate's hand, brings Fate's open palm up to his cool, dry lips. Presses a kiss there; soft, but earnest. ]

Thank you. For everything.

Goes both ways, I promise.

[He lets out a sigh, content, despite everything. Then, he smiles wryly, brushing hair back from Koltira's face.]

Let's get you in a bath, all right?

[ Koltira manages a weak smile. ]

Planning to carry me back to the castle?

I can damn well try. [Fate chuckles.]

C'mon, I'm not all skin an' bones.

I'll believe it when I see it.

[ He brushes Fate's hair back from his face. ]

But no need to try it now. I'll get blood all over your fine clothes.

My clothes are arguably disposable. You aren't.

[He closes his eyes and leans into the brief cool touch from Koltira.]

But I guess I can wait when you got your footing again.

[ He tries on Fate's accent. It sounds weird, but look, he's tired. ]

Much obliged.

[That makes him laugh, reaching up to gently tweak at Koltira's cheek.]

That's almost cute, all that blood aside.

[More warmly, he adds:] I'm glad to have you back for awhile.

[ He's glad, too, for as much as the old guilt will come down on him later. No need to talk about that now, though. Instead, he just draws Fate in, holding him close and tight--no longer mindful of his mess. If Fate says he doesn't care, then Koltira's just going to take him at his word.

It's been a long couple of years. ]

Perhaps you can have me back for much longer than that. If you'd like to accompany me home.

[He would normally loathe the filth, but more than that he's just glad to have Koltira back. No amount of personal effects could be more important than him right now.]

Hm? Well. I don't reckon I've got much reason to go back to Runeterra. So it's not like it's a hard choice.

[Fate smiles wryly.] If you think you can put up with me for the rest of our lives.

[ He presses his (blood-caked, grime-smeared) forehead to Fate's. They can take a bath together later. ]

The rest of mine, certainly.

[ Which means, of course: forever. ]

[ Despite the bustle of Oska and the veritable sea of people they'd called in from all corners of the multiverse, every now and then Riza catches sight of a familiar face. Some are joyful, an easygoing event hampered only by the loud din of the kitchens or the bodies moving in and out of the library.

Others are not.

Koltira looks—to say the least—unwell, though the low bent of his head and the lines running through the muscles of his arms carry a familiar weight to them, even from her place far from the shore, one hand resting on a steady tree trunk. She's seen it before, not once but twice, and now a third time.

Sorrow pulls her lips down in an unhappy twist, muting whatever fleeting burst of joy had blossomed at the sight of another old friend. It's no time for a reunion, but her feet move forward regardless. ]

She never did find a cure, did she?

[ Koltira rolls onto his back. There's blood in his mouth--his own, he's pretty sure. He swallows thickly, digging his fingers into the sand. He's sluggish, his limbs heavy, his bones aching. But he's lucid.

He rasps, eyes shut. ]

No.

[ Her chin tips down, sorrowful. It's not a surprising answer, not so much, but even she'd held onto the smallest shred of hope all this time.

But hope will get her nowhere right now, and so she pushes forward. She'd been too self-absorbed the first time, more concerned with her own safety at the time than that of her attacker, and too cautious the second time the frenzy had rolled around to do much but stay away, but surely there's something she can do now. ]

Can I get you something then? A change of clothes? A drink?

[ Even company she can do, even if she's never been the most talkative of conversation partners. ]

[ Both very generous offers. He struggles to sit up, shaking his head, 'no'. ]

You don't need to do anything for me, Riza.

[ He hangs his head, exhaling frost. He's not tired, precisely, but he is weary. Aching and bloody all over. ]

But if you would sit a while, I would not turn it away.

[ The closest he can get to 'please stay'. ]

[In the week since returning from the drifting depths of space, Connor has carved for himself certain patterns into which to settle for the sake of something resembling familiarity. Here is Stockholm Syndrome at its finest: the castle he had once hated, the castle in which he felt so small and helpless during his first weeks with ALASTAIR, is now a welcome bastion after the trials and tribulations of first the labyrinth and then the Zymandis mothership.

One such pattern is his daily run, sometimes alone, sometimes with the surprisingly steady company of Asher, a friend whom he only half recognizes from home, but always long and circuitous. The rule is no talking. He uses running as a tool by which to declutter, to untangle. There is the music pulsing from his magitek and outside of that only the pounding of their feet on the path and the give and take of their breath.

Yet it is this subtle disturbance in the usual soft undercurrent of forest sounds that may draw the sanity-starved elf their way.]

[ If Koltira had his right mind, he'd be angry at the sight of them. Had he not given warning? Had he not done what he was told to do? It doesn't occur to him that not everyone is particularly attentive to the jewelcomm at all times. Or, at least, it wouldn't, had he the faculties to even think about his own situation.

As it stands, he only knows this: there are two fresh, thrumming hearts nearby, and neither of them have any idea about how their lives are about to change.

He lumbers through the trees, sword drawn and dragging against the moss, his face already smeared with spatters of dark red, smears of something thicker than the blood. He heaves, his eyes wild, his teeth clenched.

He has one last warning in him. ]

Run.

[Keith has always told himself to avoid Koltira during times like this. He never wanted Koltira to be responsible for whatever he might do to him. But it's been building, and the fact of the matter is that Koltira needs to fight something or someone—and that someone has to be breathing. They have to be sentient. They at least have to put up a fight.

Maybe it's stupid to head out here like he can survive, but he thinks he can. He wants to give Koltira an outlet, or else this period won't fade. He'll be trapped in this state of himself with no means of curing it, of stopping it. If Keith knows Koltira—and frankly, he can't know him as well as anyone else, because he's not great at people—he knows he'll want to be stable for their next mission. For what lies ahead. He believes in their cause. Now, it's a matter of fighting for it.

When he shows up in the woods, he's in full paladin armor with his black bayard in his hand. His shield appears in his right hand, and he waits for any sound, any sign of life. Koltira first shows up on the radar through his mask, and Keith doesn't hesitate. He lunges in the direction of Koltira, shield first, ready to strike.

He'll never be strong enough to win this. But surviving is his goal, not victory. The Galra have that wrong. Sometimes, it's about living to see another day, to fight another day.]

[ Even while lost to madness, Koltira retains a few vestiges of himself. Enough to issue garbled pleas, at least for a short while. Enough to run, usually. When he spots Keith, that's certainly his primal inclination, and it's purely because he knows the man, because they've developed something like a friendship. But any instinct towards mercy dissipates when Keith races for him, replaced instead by a much more powerful primal response--rage, and retaliation. He slams Byfrost against that shield with all the enraged force he can muster, though it is not a blind strike: ice pours from the blade's runes, traveling along the shield, racing to crystallize up Keith's arm. ]

Flee.

[All this time, Koltira's been holding himself back. Keith feels the ice prickle up his arm to hold it in place, and he stumbles back, trying to slam his arm into a tree to free it from the very cold attack. He's grunting all the while, his breathing audible as he tries to set himself straight.

He decides to realign his motivation here. Give Koltira something to chase, but he knows that he can't risk being hit by Byfrost. He might die if that happens. He just has to hope he's quick enough to manage it.]

I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to help. [And he wants to help the best way he knows how.]

[ You can't help. That's what he'd say, if he even could. But he's reached the limit of his coherence, and instead of replying, he simply attacks again. This time it's a lunge, an effort both to slice at Keith's side and to tackle him to the forest floor. Koltira's fast, his body glowing sickly green, but his movements are not steady. Is it the madness of frenzy? Some remnant of self trying to pull on the reins? Either way, he is not inescapable. Not yet. ]

[At least he came out here fully armored and ready. Keith refuses to let Koltira harm him too much. And it's with a swift movement that he manages to call upon the jets at his back so he can propel upward. He's smart enough in moments like this to play tag, so to speak, but he still feels Koltira collide with his legs naturally as he moves to escape. With the jets propelling him but not necessarily able to throw him up into the air or anything, he tries his best to kick off of Koltira, rather than be dragged down.]

[ Koltira staggers back, clearly surprised by Keith's sudden propulsion--but undaunted. As Keith creates distance, Koltira throws out a whip of shadowy energy, aimed to wrap around Keith's throat and yank him right on back. He has very little conscious attachment to what he's doing right now; as far as he's concerned, Keith is a moving sack of warm blood, and that movement has to stop. ]

[Did he even know that Koltira could do that? His brain tries to connect this experience with the knowledge provided by the action, but it doesn't get very far. Once the tendril is around his throat, he can only do so much to yank away, trying his best to twist, turn, and eventually swing his bayard down on the shadow itself.]

[ This does not accomplish much: the shadow is only tangible insofar as it's clutching Keith's neck, slicing it just causes it to immediately reform. As Koltira yanks on the tether, icy winds kick up around his body, such that if Keith is pulled in close, he'll feel an immediate, paralyzing chill. ]

Run fast.

[ It's all he can heave out. ]

[The stubborn (and self-sacrificing, never forget) side of Keith wants to stay. He wants to be the punching bag for Koltira. He'd promise him afterward that he wouldn't matter, even if he'd be down with broken legs. Someone could heal him. He's sure of it. But that same part wages a war with the crippling terror running through him thanks to the icy winds. What else is bound to come?

He can't promise he's fine with some injuries if he can't even live. That much is apparent to him.

Keith's feet slam into the ground as the jets on his back begin to power up so he can begin to drag himself away. He doesn't know if it'll work. But he's trying—Koltira's words seem like an attempt at a warning.

Or to play with him. It could be both.]

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it's a bad, bad ritual [ open ]

ii.

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ii, first frenzy to last frenzy, let's do this

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groans so tiredly

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i. ft. a-milly

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i

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