aionlogs | EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE (PT 2)

EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE (PT 2)

The Empty Throne Pt 2

ESCAPE

As more and more of the prisoners awaken to the Pleroma's power, it soon becomes clear that conflict is inevitable. Strength that was locked away blossoms once again, and simply waiting is no longer an option; those that remain in the cavern have made their choice, and they will not be kept there so easily.

By means that may not be immediately apparent, the Pleroma have found themselves able to cast a spell that will ensure their freedom... but only if they can last the half hour it may take to complete. Whatever this power, Xishen, the Aion orchestrator of the Kenoma's ritual, seems able to sense it. As it begins, she will appear at each of the Kenoma's sides.

"The Pleroma has taken hold of them," she says. "Stop them now, or when you see them again, it will be as your mortal enemies. If you believe in the Kenoma's promise, take a stand. The Regent is watching."

For those that heed her, it will not be hard to find the congregation of Pleroma, the first seeds of their teleportation magic taking form. What's more, the fires of their hope have been stoked by this new chance at survival, granted them a surge of energy born of the Pleroma, compensating for the poor state of their bodies. The tension comes to a head, between those that would follow the Regent's path towards a better universe, and those that would seize the wild power of the Pleroma to escape.

Whatever violence ensues, eventually it will come to an end. Despite the Kenoma's efforts, the teleportation spell will come to fruition, enveloping the Pleroma in a sea of light and warmth. The Kenoma can only watch as fractals of blinding color whisk the Pleroma away.

VALLEY OF INNOCENCE

You will find yourself at the Shrine of the Innocent, surrounded by a valley of flourishing wildflowers. As you step from the shade of the monument, you will find your arrived here just in time to enjoy a warm spring spring morning, the sound of birds and gentle breezes tickling your ears. The sun slowly drifts past the horizon, its rays reaching out to you, as if in comfort. The air itself is alight with a strange aura of peace, as if committing violence here would be a sacrilege. There are no man made structures as far as your eyes can see.

Flowers of all shapes and sizes can be found here, and so can fresh water and various fruits and berries. All of them are safe to eat, and seemingly grow in abundance. There are animals here as well, all the common types one would expect from a place like Earth, with the occasional odd addition. While you can try to hunt them, you will find yourself unable to follow through on any attempts to hurt the creatures here. In turn, they regard you as familiar, and will fearlessly wander close as they inspect these new arrivals. In the distance, you may even catch sight of what appears to be a unicorn, only for its ephemeral shape to disappear from sight just as quickly.

The Pleroma will find safety and comfort here for a time, before they recover enough to travel onward. At some point during the afternoon of the first day, they may spot the occasional humanoid figure moving in the distance; when attempting to move in their direction, they will find an assortment of clothing set out across the grass as if in offering. It will come in many sizes but in mostly plain colors, fitting a general aesthetic of 'things a fantasy peasant might wear'. There will also be some blankets, wrapped cheese, jams, jerky, and bread left alongside them.

While there are trees and brush enough to find shelter, the Pleroma will find they hardly need to while resting here. The weather will be picturesque, a comfortable temperature even at night, and there will be no disruptive rain or aggressive wind. Of course, nothing lasts forever, and even though there could stay here for days, what if the Regent's forces are on their way? Once again, they must find the strength to carry on.

THE TRIWATER

As the Pleroma vanish, those claimed by the Kenoma are left in the darkness of the throne room. The Hylician soldiers are clearly agitated by the fighting, but Xishen herself seems unflustered. She will only sigh before quietly coming to the aid of any Kenoma that still need it, providing some light healing magics and explaining that their work here is over. With the Pleroma gone, all that's left to do is to return to Achamoth.

Things move quickly from there. The camp grounds are packed up, and soon enough the Kenoma will be ushered towards the river at the edge of the forest, to board a particularly large river vessel. As the Hylician soldiers prepare to go their separate ways, you will be told that you are to take the Triwater river to the capital city of Achamoth, where you will finally meet your new master, the Regent. The vessel is big enough for all of you, and it will set off the moment everyone is boarded. Suddenly, the world of entrapment and ruins you've been living in since your arrival will be left behind, leaving you to ponder the nature of your future.

The boat itself is well equipped and comfortable for what it is. A variety of colorful hammocks are hung in the lower decks and are open to be claimed for the journey back, which will take a day or two. The Kenoma will be offered a change of clothes of a similar style to what they already have if necessary, and there are plenty of blankets and cushions available to make life in the hold more comfortable. There are dice available for games of chance as well as some mystifying decks of cards that seems to have twelve suits with five cards each, themed around the Legacies. The twelfth suit is for the Regent.

Though the sailors controlling the vessel will mostly keep to themselves and leave the Kenoma alone, one of them will occasionally play harp music on the deck. Though they probably don't actually need help running the ship, they will let the Kenoma help them with chores and ship running tasks if they are so inclined; generally speaking, these sailors just seem like normal people, albeit a bit shy of their passengers. If you're polite to them, they may even gives you a river tour of Horos. On this ride alone, you'll get to see several magnificent bridges spanning the Triwater's width. At night, you are treated to a clear spring sky filled with stars.

As you make it closer to Achamoth, you'll notice the landscape shift, becoming mountainous and dotted with more and more military watch posts. The land becomes increasingly lifeless in a way that's hard to put your finger on, nature giving way to man-made creations of impressive architectural prowess. Soon, you will meet the person behind it all.

QUESTIONS

Can my Kenoma character fight against other Kenoma and/or help the Pleroma?
Yes, though if you do this you must describe what your character has done in a reply to the "Committed Actions" top-level below. This way, the mods can be aware of what happened and have your character treated accordingly. They are unlikely to receive immediate consequences if they don't hurt their fellow Kenoma, but their choices will follow them into Achamoth. If a Kenoma vs Kenoma conflict escalates into serious violence (attempted or successful) committed by the Kenoma rebel, Xishen will intervene and consequences will happen immediately which may restrict their actions until the next event post.

Can our characters leave the valley?
They can, yes, but really this event is just meant to cover the day or two they spend recovering before finding a more permanent place to go. You are free to have your character investigate the valley and probe the spaces beyond it, but please save any plans for large scale travel to the next event, which will be happening on April 2nd. The game will move into a 1:1 time ratio as of then.

Can our characters leave the boat?
Technically yes, but any Kenoma who wander too far will get in trouble. You are expected to report to the Regent, and behaving as if you are considering doing otherwise will not make an good impression.

Does the hope-based Pleroma boost last into the valley?
The boost to Pleroma characters will fade shortly after arriving in the valley, like coming down from a high. They'll have to recover the normal way from there.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He sees the blood at Hiccup's throat, and that itself is an unforgivable insult, after all they've endured. While the young man seems to be pleading for the others to go on without him, Estinien can't see that as a viable option - what torment would that result in, if this was only a taste of the Kenoma's malice?

He's better off making a move, he thinks, better off pressing Ciel's bluff - if it even is one. Yet, whatever intellectual analysis he was approaching this with is cast to the side as the sight of that dagger being moved from Hiccup's throat. As far as he's concerned, Ciel has opened the way for him.

He snarls and leaps towards her at speed, wielding his claws in the absence of a proper weapon. Theres no room for explosive blasts of energy with a hostage present - just the speed offered to him by a lifetime of training. His first strike is aimed for her weapon hand.]

Edited 2022-03-24 02:42 (UTC)

[Having spent years training and fighting against a physically superior race that routinely made mockeries of humanity, she is at least used to measuring up against opponents naturally stronger and faster than her. The elven man's agility wasn't quite on par with that of the True Ancestor's, but it's obvious she won't be able to fend him off as she were.

And there lies the crux of her "dilemma": make any attempt at all at using her "hostage" as an actual meat shield she was posturing about, or leave the young man out of this entirely? The dagger had been removed from his throat, but he's still in her range, it would be excessively easy to pull him between them or duck behind him. It would force her opponent to hesitate, while putting the other man in direct line of danger.

...So she doesn't do it. This is to buy time, anyway; she's no good at preaching, and did not intend to put her "hostage" under real risk either. If this man who more than merely smelled of blood already put her "coworkers" through their paces, then just keeping him occupied for a while ought to be enough. She can handle a few injuries or several anyway, and now's as good a time as any to check for sure just how much of her own 'power' she's managed to keep in Horos.

Focusing all of her attention towards the elven warrior whom she's successfully monopolized for herself the entirety of his enmity, Hiccup is left aside as she maneuvers to parry Estinien's claws with the very dagger he seeks to disarm. She doesn't try reinforcing the ordinary weapon, half-expecting it to shatter at his inhuman swipe, but whether or not that comes to pass, they are now within melee range of each other. Thus she twists her own body to duck beneath his arm, taking advantage of her shorter height and the force of his strike to sidestep behind him and retaliate with a jab at his shoulder. It's enough to shatter bones in a regular human, would even leave a Dead Apostle winded. But this man...? She was aiming to dislocate his shoulder, but maybe she'll be lucky if it just numbs the arm he just struck with for a bit.]

[Though he's lacking the defense his armour would have offered him, the warriors of Etheirys are trained to endure far worse than the average man. As she parries with the dagger, instead of shifting to avoid damage, he instead channels the destructive power of Ala Morn into his hand. Against a normal weapon, it is enough to shatter the blade and to risk rending the hand gripping it as well.

Though she successfully steps around him, he is fluid enough to accommodate it enough that it doesn't dislocate his shoulder - instead her fist his shoulder and sends a flash of pain down his arm. As the dagger crumbles in his hand, he manages to disengage, tossing what residue remains with him aside as he squares up on her again.

Hiccup is out of the way. Good.

Such close range is not his strong suit, and claws are not the weapon he is used to wielding - yet at the same time, something about it feels instinctual. He comes back at her with his other hand, channeling another Ala Morn, a draconic attack of pure destructive energy.]

[Magic. It's not exactly mana as she knows it, but similar enough that she can instantly identify what's happening. She can feel the ripple of undoing beginning to course through her hand, and while she manages to counter the ruinous flow of magical energy with her own, it's a little too late by the time they've disengaged and she's got her hand back to herself once more.

The dagger is gone, would have become beyond useless even if she still possessed it. Her hand feels simultaneously charred and numb, the pain only manifesting as a quiet "tch" muttered under her breath and a deepening of her frown. So this is what he's capable of, and it's a lesson learned: she shouldn't let herself take a direct hit on her person, not if she can help it.

His movements are telltale of someone unused to melee combat, and as one well versed in it, she ought to take advantage. This means sticking close to him as much as possible, even if that may seem contradictory to needing to avoid the magical blasts he can generate and apply through the palm of his hand. The stark difference in their size is both boon and hindrance: she could turn his superior size and strength against him, but he'll definitely not make it easy for her to seize those opportunities, as he's rushing for her headfirst now.

...Then standing her ground it is. Backstepping too far would be completely letting go of Hiccup too, which she isn't willing to do quite just yet; from where they are now, she could still easily reach him within an eyeblink if she wanted. Another dagger is raised with her good hand to meet his charge, but this time, it's infused and strengthened with more mana that the weapon can handle - it'll only be good for one hit, but it should be ~~flashy~~ good enough to meet his offensive. Giving off a crackling violet light growing with peaking intensity, roman numbers briefly flash by in a blink before purely concentrated lightning magic condensed to a singular point darts forth to meet his strike, seeking to clash against the draconic energies if not shock and pierce his palm whole.

Meanwhile, her own injured hand had already begun 'healing'. The pain is fading, but the slower process of the unwinding is not lost on her. How...?]

[Despite his lack of experience with hand to hand combat, his reflexes are no less keen. Her move to draw a dagger and cast takes long enough that he can react, swinging to one side to strike at the side of her weapon arm instead. The lightning flares and he can feel the burn in his arm - in the next moment he flips backwards, putting distance between the two of them.

As effective as Ala Morn can be, he can't keep risking getting that close. With one shoulder still jolted and the other hand stinging from a freshly acquired electrical burn, he instead resorts to a release of pure energy. The weight behind the red glow of his glare suddenly becomes heavy, in time for a blast of raw destructive energy to roll forth.

Following the blast by only a moment, he leaps up and hangs in the air, only to suddenly change trajectory and dive at her. Whether or not he hits, he'll be flipping out of range again just as quickly.]

[Committed to her move, she can't do much to shield the armed hand other than fortify it with more mana to mitigate some of the damage. As crippling as suffering a debilitating injury to that arm may become, she can speed up the natural recovery of her other wounded hand with her own healing. It's also feasible to continue trading one arm for the next as they take turns getting injured and recovering; it wouldn't be ideal, but--

--No, she doesn't need to make concessions, continue thinking about this in terms of what she has to lose to keep it going. His powers are as ruinous as they are flashy, she has no choice but to resort to thaumaturgy too for the sole purpose of matching him. But at least her main objective is being met: whoever's watching is certainly getting a show, hopefully one chaotic and dangerous enough to detract from the inaction of other Kenomas while time continues ticking away for everyone present.

Thus she edges back slightly as she feels the air shift once more, instinctively aware of the looming danger before the stifling pressure of the crimson glare weights down fully. It's almost akin to weaponized mystic eyes applied offensively, potentially powerful enough to immobilize a target before crushing the very space they occupy. Only experience accrued from years of fighting against the supernatural gave her the vaguest sense of the blast radius judging purely by how the space around them continues twisting, and she ends up drawing the same conclusion as him: up, into the air and out of the way of whatever's coming, exploding. She's got one good hand and one not-so-good one, but neither have any bearing over her ability to make a swift leap back that easily triples her own height. Troublesome nevertheless, as she's beginning to fully grasp just how much destruction this opponent holds for the sole purpose of eradicating his enemies. He can easily compensate for his lack of familiarity with melee combat through his generation and application of those magical energies, she needs to find a means to deal with that if she wants to have any hope for victory.

Convenient then, that she's not fighting to win. She doesn't get a chance to retaliate this time, it's all she could do to try dodging, and while she's not significantly weakened from what she couldn't escape, her clothes have charred here and there in the crossfire. She's darting forth for him again like a bullet the moment her feet touch the ground, not intending to afford him breather room and further opportunity to wind up something else. Energy is cackling in her half-healed hand that's taken some aftershock from Ala Morn earlier, but the bolt of lightning flung from it towards his face is a feint. She drops low onto the ground once she's right in front of him, the real strike a twirling upward kick launched like a rocket to his abdomen. It'd send something closer to her build and weight upwards right into the air, but with his constitution, maybe she'll be lucky if he staggers from the shock or internal injury.]

[Unfortunately, the lightning provides little incentive to stay put - his natural reaction to the attack is to dodge rather than stay put, and his dragoon ability to leap provides an easier escape than moving to the side. He sees her rocket into position just as he's leaving the ground, narrowly missing the kick and skimming the curst of electricity, landing in the space behind her not long after. He doesn't pause for long, though. He knows a speedy fighter like this won't allow it.

As soon as he lands, he's already preparing to leap again, turning to face her as another surge of draconic energy floods from him. This time, though, it's signaled by the formation of an arcane circle around her feet, as if marking her as his intended target. He spirals into the air, his trajectory defying any sense of gravity, almost as if carried by invisible wings - and as he reaches his apex, he hangs for only a moment, lining up his prey.

Around him, swirls of energy are beginning to form circles of light, set to propel his path towards her. The implies offensive power of the move is even greater than any of those that came before it.]

[The enclosed space and not having access to her preferred weapon of choice is limiting, but it's glaringly obvious that this is even more the case for him. These techniques aren't anti-unit, designed primarily to combat against human-sized individuals; anti-army or against something of far greater size at the very least, used in conjunction with a large and sweeping weapon that would more adequately fit the towering warrior's size. A large two-handed broadsword or a lance, perhaps? It's difficult to hazard a better guess from the way he's been fighting so far, but she would lean towards the latter personally.

The small daggers offered by the Hylician soldiers will not be enough, even as catalysts for more complex spells. She didn't plan to use those seriously when she was first offered, but she's not one to shy away from "unpopular" methods either when push comes to shove. Thus it happens within the next eyeblink: the blur darts out before his next attack could begin wholly manifesting, a whip of the exact same kind that the soldiers employed to force obedience out of all of them since the moment they've been discovered at their respective shrine. Lashing out and coiling around his elbow with a dry snapping sound, she's using it as a traditional whip to both drag him down and pull her up, intending to follow it up with a crushing blow at his solar plexus. She has no explicit intention of exerting her will upon another's body the same way the soldiers have, but unbeknownst to her, how much focus this fight demands has her do exactly so on an unconscious level. The need to keep a certain measure of control on the flow of this battle and have him less mobile seep into his muscles like a slow acting poison, albeit one he'll find himself amply capable of resisting unlike before. The Pleroma-attuned group have been bolstered by its power, the specific brand of submission these whips are capable of administering has become inversely proportional to how strong and unbending the target's willpower is. She only seeks to close the distance between them once more, before he unleashes something else she won't readily be able to extricate herself from. Scars old and fresh littering his body, some caused by something binding, are not lost on her, but she doesn't give them much thought. What else is there to glean from them, other than further testament to how much time he must've spent on various battlefields?]

Edited 2022-03-26 03:06 (UTC)

[In the moment he feels the whip snap around his arm, his heart stops in his chest. He'd considered the possibility earlier, but it slipped his mind as the battle progressed and none of the soldiers came to lend their strength... he hadn't expected to see another Aion using the very same whips that had been used to bind and torment him all this time.

He can't help but feel the fear of it - a deeply instilled terror of the helplessness these weapons had forced upon him, and the abuse that had been heaped upon him with no way for him to find satisfaction. Will it end the fight here? Would he find himself locked inside his own body again, like he had after being captured, like he had all those years ago? It shakes him enough that he cannot maneuver himself away quickly enough. The whip pulls him from the air, the force of her will through it stymying his effort to summon the power of the Stardiver.

The next thing he knows is that a punishing blow is being delivered against his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs and sending him plummeting to the ground.

It's all he can do to cushion his head as he hits the ground, the whip still cinched around his arm. Yet, as the pain radiates through him, his anger only grows. After all they suffered, after how far they've come... she would take up the weapons of their tormentors? She would seek to control him, to bind the others as hostages and bait. He won't stand for it. He cannot.

Though the heat of fury turns inside his belly, on the outside he seems to be staggered. He claws against the stone, trying to pick himself up, the blood from old and new wounds smearing across his skin. The rags of what was once his robe hangs off of him in pieces.]

[If she didn't start this with the objectively shallow goal of putting up a show, maybe she would've taken keener notice. If he didn't crash her well-crafted little stage like a storm, maybe she would've paid better attention. The telltale signs of struggle on his already battered body whispered of more than just combat experience, not dissimilar to how the look on his face as it all happens turns extremely human in fear.

She doesn't see it, because she didn't remotely expect it. He's fought fiercely without yielding a single inch up until now, she had no reason to think a change in weaponry would also change him any. A tool is a tool, a weapon is a weapon. She immediately offered her assistance with camp chores to the soldiers after leaving the ritual site through the same reasoning, treating them as utterly ordinary people as if they didn't drag them around like slaves across the continent for the better of two weeks. The last time was so much worse; walking is a breeze, next to the time spent on that table drenched in the smell of sulphur, iron, and worse.

So it's very much with surprise that she registers the lack of resistance or retaliation from his part, allowing her blow to land far cleaner than she was anticipating. Yet as concerning as that genuinely is, she's fought him long enough to understand with crystal clear clarity that he may very well be among the most dangerous fighters the other side possesses. Any opening he shows is one no experienced opponent would waste: he's too threatening to leave alone. She's lost her rights to any claim of kindness or decency far before opening her eyes in this world, anyhow.

It only takes a beat, never lingering quite long enough to qualify for 'hesitation'. She's closed in onto his fallen figure the next moment, logically knowing she should attempt to restrain him yet not being certain if the whip alone would hold. The subconscious will to neutralize him eroded by her own doubt, the whip loosens around his arm like the ordinary tool she thought she treated it as all along. Can she even magically reinforce the unknown material? It's definitely not leather or anything else she knew, she could only tell that much. --No matter; she ought to be quick about it and at least attempt binding both his arms as she's done Hiccup, while he's still dazed before he recovers. Even if he looks quite awful and could really use a healer right now.]

[His spirit thirsts to strike back, to tear her apart, but his body lags behind. Even with the burst of the Pleroma's power, the fights before this one have tired him, as have the weeks before them. He's still trying to breathe after that strike to his chest, and have ever intensely he fixates on the imminent need to kill, his claws won't quite cooperate.

Maybe he's just now feeling the effects of the lightning that surged up his arm, at the dagger shrapnel embedded in his palm, at the slashes left by the blades of his recent foes. In its own way, though, it forces his hand. He can feel the walls closing around him, and as she hauls up his arms to try to bind them, something snaps.

Imprisonment is a breath away, his instincts tell him, and the draconic energies that still swirl within him roar and gnash their fangs in response. He will not be broken, he will not be enslaved, and he will not suffer those that would bind him to live. In a fresh surge of strength, he breaks free.

And she's close enough that she will not escape his claws again.

All at once he lashes out, moving like a striking serpent. His arms coil around her, his claws digging in deep, in the same moment his fangs latch on to the flesh of her throat. They sink in, blood erupting into his mouth and down his front, intent on crushing tighter and tighter until she no longer breathes.]

[Her combat instincts prove correct. It's always been something she's been decent at throughout her life, judging by her senses rather than her feelings. Shame they don't always direct her to act accordingly, that also seems to end up happening more often than she cares to admit.

She feels the shift of hostility, savagery in the air prickle her skin before she sees anything. Did she have the chance to even try, in getting out of the way? Or is that too simply reaping what she's sown, paying for the price of her own ~~sins~~ actions? She drew his ire first, cast the original stone, took another captive for no other reason because she could. There are consequences to all things, so isn't this normal too, in the big picture?

It makes no difference, in the end. Something blurs at the edge of her periphery, and then, it all turns red.

She doesn't scream, doesn't make any loud noise in the least; her throat's been crushed, after all. There's just a faint gurgling sound as crimson blood gushes forth with wild abandon, flooding his maw with the taste of iron and drenching them both as her body turns still from shock.

...Yet for better or worse, there is no fear nor panic on her face. Just muted surprise and a faint grimace of pain, before the sharpness in blue eyes begin dulling while she somehow manages to shakily raise a hand to his shoulder. The seconds tick by, one after the next. Is he in any state of awareness to tell, that there's something unusual going on as time continues marching forward? Life is still pulsing beneath his fangs even as he clamps down harder, however weak and faint it's become. One with keen supernatural senses may also be able to discern that the body of this prey he's caught is humming with magical energies, flowing uninterrupted despite how still she's become in his clutches as the pool of dark red continues widening at their feet.]

...

--Estinien!!

[ the name cuts out through the chaotic din, harried and urgent; it comes from a voice that should be familiar to them both, though it's questionable if either party is present enough to grasp so inconsequential a detail.

in the next heartbeat, the priest is beside them; one hand finds Estinien's shoulder with a vice-like grip, though he doesn't dare attempt to wrench him away for fear of the further damage the elezen might do to his prey. his prey, a terribly familiar visage now painted a nauseatingly dark shade of red for the splash of blood between them with more dribbling, pattering from her throat at a far too rapid pace to be anything short of--

of... fatal.

the priest's expression is one of abject horror and incredulity; even though his face is a mottled mess of bruising and swelling and blood, it would be impossible to miss the terrible lurch of fear that twists his features. fear for Estinien, lost to the madness Abel had seen churning beneath the surface but a few days prior given new life-- and fear for ~~Ciel~~Elesia whose eyes have begun to grow hazy, clouded, complexion drained of vitality and color. --had he come too late...?

he prays it won't require violence to separate them-- that Estinien will snap from his state of feral frenzy, that it isn't too late to save her, or him from the depths of wherever he has been lost in himself. this... ]

--Release her! Please, you have to let go, now, i-it's--

[ it's gone far enough.

...being pit against one another; being turned against themselves-- it never should have come to this. it shouldn't have. ]

[The taste of blood is simultaneously vindicating and repulsive. On some level, he responds to it as a sign of his victory, but the purely human part of him recoils from the sensation of it filling his mouth and throat. It's terrifyingly foreign and familiar all at once... something a dragon might do, but not a man.

His intent has been to crush her until she died, but the longer it goes on the more unnatural it feels. Something in her has not yet been extinguished, and the darker part of him contemplates where he could strike to more confidently snuff her out. This part is all too familiar to him, from the days of the Dragonsong War. Ensuring the death of a dragon was not always easy, but he accomplished it all the same.

It's Abel's voice that summons him back, to focus on something other than the most efficient means of accomplishing a fatality. The conversation they'd had before comes flooding back, and with it the blood makes him choke. As Abel tried to demand her release, a contrary part of him wants to continue regardless. The rest is only made more aware of what is actually happening and of the visceral wrongness unfolding around him.

He gurgles on blood, a growl radiating through his throat on pure instinct, pushing back against the part of him that insists that his is his prey, rightfully claimed. Why should he care if she dies, after what she's done?

Ever will retribution's wheel turn.

He chokes, his grip finally loosening, allowing her body to fall. With a snarl still on his breath, he staggers, his fang stained and the remainder of his white gown turned crimson.]

[Flesh tears. Muscles rend. Tendons snap. Life spills. Yet her mind remains functional, despite all physical signs pointing to the contrary. She's been through this loop countless times before, the only quaint thing about it now is how the... recovery process, is much slower than what she was used to. It's her own body, so of course she can tell. She's not helping her own case by not struggling, no, can't unwind spaces her own cells used to be in when they're still occupied by something foreign, but... Hm.

This is convenient. This is deserved. So she waits, like someone who forgot to bring an umbrella waits for the storm to pass, and it's only at the ring of an oddly panicked yet familiar voice she vaguely recognizes that has some semblance of awareness blink back into previously dulling blue eyes. Hm...?

...Ah.

What a... funny look, that man has on his face. The sound he just made... Oh, so that's the name of her ~~foe~~ hunter, he and the (actual) "Father" know each other. But as they've only spoken once, isn't he grossly overreacting? Surely a monster would be familiar with a scene only made possible when fellow monsters meet. --Ah, right, but this one is a bleeding heart, a fool who bleats of optimism and faith even as he herds his flock in deafening irony against what he truly is at his core.

The more she remembers of this ~~shepherd savior intruder~~ meddler, the clearer her thoughts become. It's only once her body's fallen onto the ground like a puppet with its strings cut that everything snaps back into focus. She's inadvertently set something off in Estinien, and got her own throat ripped out in the process. It'd be a shameful outcome to any self-respecting vampire hunter, so it works out well that she's not a prideful one anyway. Deeper the irony still, remembering the circumstances that led to the last time she suffered a neck wound prior to this. In front of that boy, for no other reason than to prove a point.

Back to the newcomer who just snapped them both out of this, he's introduced himself to her despite the fact that she didn't care to learn his name. Struggling to prop herself up by an elbow while still wallowing in her own blood, she only manages to raise her head enough for blue mirroring blue to become possible. There's no mistaking recognition and intelligence in spite of the red backdrop, she is very much alive - and the gaping flow at her neck is slowing down. (...Huh, he's hurt too. The ugly bruises on his face seem awfully specific; the idiot really let himself get punched on purpose till kingdom come, didn't he. Was he hoping to make someone on her side "feel better"? She could imagine it now. Sheesh... At least she has a good ("good") excuse for this.)

Why is he even here?]

[ for a harrowing moment, the guttural noise that leaves Estinien's throat around the blood in his mouth has Abel's hand tensing, afraid that this man is so lost that the priest's voice won't be enough to reach him. but a mere second later, the iron grip of those jaws loosens, goes slack-- and ~~Ciel~~Elesia is released, her body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.

Estinien staggers backwards, and Abel keeps hold of him to ensure that he doesn't collapse as well-- trying to look into his eyes and determine if there is any cognizance, perception, there-- ]

Mr. Wyrmblood, can you hear me...?

[ ...the elezen isn't in good shape. there are new wounds atop the old, and his robe is little more than tatters barely holding itself together at this point; to say this is a mess is a sincere understatement. but there are those among them capable of magic, of healing-- and none of the injuries look fatal. if Abel can get Estinien pliant enough to retreat, to return to the ritual circle-- then it might not be too late to get him help.

and the woman whose blue eyes are glossy yet present despite the bloodied mess of her throat...

...is she... she is still somehow holding on--? the urgent glance he sends her way awards him with the sight of her staring right back at him, far too calm for someone who had sustained injuries as severe and life-threatening as hers. how she is still conscious despite the blood loss is beyond him, but-- that she is stubbornly persisting permits a tiny bloom of hope to begin in his chest. perhaps Estinien hadn't managed to take her life--? it seems impossible, and yet... suppose this is one of many impossibilities that have folded right before his eyes since coming to this strange world. (perhaps he will think about it in hindsight, the dots he can connect if he puts this 'impossibility' together with the pieces he had born involuntary witness to that night in the cavern.)

--focus; one thing at a time-- the present requires his full attention. Abel's grip on the dragoon might be slightly shaky from nerves, concern, but it is firm and supportive should the other man need it. they need to get Estinien out of here, away from her, as soon as is humanly possible. ]

[Estinien makes a wheezing sound, blood still dripping from his face and down the front of his body. Ciel last blow to his chest has left him winded and made breathing difficult, and his less than graceful landing on the stone has his legs shaking with exertion and weak at the joints. When the adrenaline is gone, he'll probably find it painful to walk.

As it is, though, he levels his gaze at Abel - the fierce red that has swallowed them while fighting is beginning to fade, returning to the cloudy gray he was born with. Oddly, though, the reptilian slits in them have remained, not that Estinien himself has any way of knowing.

He tries to take a step towards Abel, as if eager to simply walk it off and leave Ciel where she is, but he staggers and loses balance. It turns out he does need that support. He grasps Abel's shoulder with one clawed, burned hand, apparently too dazed to manage his grip strength. The lingering claws are still sharp.]

They'll not take us...

[He says it as if finishing a conversation that he only imagined, assuring Abel of something that wasn't asked. The desperate need for survival and freedom is in his eyes, all the same.]

[She really did put Estinien through the wringer, but how badly hurt he truly is is noted with clinical detachment and little more. She's not bloodthirsty enough to derive any enjoyment in how well she can trounce her foes, nor is she foolish enough to think this was purely because of her. He was already weakened, fought with techniques ill-suited for their environment that could easily have done her worse, and despite the still bleeding wound at her neck, she also understood that this is not something he's in habit of doing. She forced him beyond a certain edge, and she can't readily deny this awareness to be completely unrelated to how indifferent she also feels, towards someone who quite literally ripped out her throat.

...These two ridiculously tall men with long silver white hair. Is this some sort of cosmic joke? She finds herself oddly annoyed by that observation, for some reason.

Wobbling and staggering, she nevertheless manages to pull herself up to a sitting position, back hunched but eyes sharp and entirely focused on the two men in front of her. Her present and alert gaze shifts between both figures, skimming past the brightening of colors from behind them; seems like the Pleroma's spell is nearing completion. They need to leave, especially this pair of lanky inhuman God-knows-what. But it's not like she can simply tell them that, both as a Kenoma and as someone whose wind pipes are still damaged. So she conveys it the only way she can: with a magic circle beginning to glow through her own puddle of blood she's still sitting in, and raising a palm out to channel mana she still seems capable of mustering, in spite of everything.

One last bluff.

Go.]

[ the bite of a clawed hand into his shoulder is an afterthought; for now, the state Estinien is in is far more concerning a worry, and Abel gives a light noise of protest as the elezen wobbles, nearly loses his footing beside him. the priest is quick to sling an arm around Estinien's back, goading the taller man to lean into him for whatever equilibrium he might need to keep himself upright.

...it feels-- terrible. it feels genuinely terrible to think about leaving ~~Ciel~~Elesia in such a state, to think of departing without tending to her obviously grievous injuries, but-- when Abel casts a glance over his shoulder, preparing to call out for assistance from one of her allies...

he's met with the sight of ~~Ciel~~Elesia sat upright, a cold flame burning bright in her eyes despite the haze of blood loss and pain. she is, without a doubt, clinging to her life despite the wound that should - for all intents and purposes - be fatal. Abel does not know how, but in this moment, in this predicament they're in--

he will consider it a blessing, as cruel as that might be. if she truly possesses a life that cannot end, then... perhaps such a 'gift' might be considered a 'curse' by one who wields its power. all the same...

--it's enough, for now. he forces himself to swallow his uneasiness and concern for her; he has a feeling she would find those sentiments useless, regardless. she will live, even if he cannot explain the method of her vitality-- now, he has to give his attentions to the man whose wounds are rapidly threatening to steal his consciousness from him. so, with a gritting of his jaw... Abel makes the painful choice to leave her behind.

Estinien needs help. now.

he turns without any further hesitation, guiding the bloodied man toward the ritual circle and the hum of energies reaching their pinnacle, quietly imploring the dragoon to hold on. just a bit longer-- and this dark, miserable cavern will hopefully be long behind them.

and if there is a quiet shiver, some brief, momentary impression only one of his legacy might perceive - something grateful, some firm if harried plea to be alright, then... suppose that is all he can offer in farewell. ]

[It's for the best that Estinien doesn't see her readying another attack, whether or not it's a bluff. He'd be inclined to finish the job, or at the very least strike her until she stopped, unable to let go of the situation until the danger had fully passed.

In its own twist of fortune, though, his attention is more focused on Abel and the spell cirle ahead. The most vulnerable part of him doesn't want to look back, or to truly take in the aftermath of his work, and in the end, it's easier to follow Abel's guidance and reunite with Himeka and the others before it's too late. His vision is already clouding, his breath flatering, and what he wants more than revenge is freedom.

As for Ciel's fate... well, that'll be a surprise for later.]

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EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE (PT 2)

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