it's a bad, bad ritual [ open ]

[respired]

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. ]

Comments

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

[strictdiscipline]

[ 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?

[respired]

[ 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.

groans so tiredly

[strictdiscipline]

[ 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. ]

[respired]

[ 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'. ]