The atmosphere has been tense in both cities ever since the new batch of refugees were shot down out of the sky. Natives and refugees alike will note that things are steadily growing worse and worse... until suddenly, the tension snaps. Chaos erupts on one seemingly ordinary night and will continue until early March, when it all comes to a head. The question is, as always... what will you do?
You may submit an AC-eligible thread set in either Olympia or Wyver for 1 OLYMPIA REP POINT OR 1 WYVER REP POINT respectively, HERE or HERE, so long as the thread involves your character complying with their faction of choice's goals and responsibilities.
As a note, faction compliance in this case refers to actions that benefit the faction in the long term. Meaning that while citizens might be revolting against one another temporarily, assisting their fellow people and business will be considered as faction compliance for the purposes of submitting REP. (For example, raiding the palace in Olympia would earn 1 Wyver REP, whereas helping put out the fires in the palace would earn 1 Olympia REP.)
You may write threads and prompts in both cities, but ICly, they should take place on different days.
Please also note that travel between factions is heavily scrutinized during the events of this log. If your character travels between cities, please report it here. EMBERS IN OUR BLOODLINES
CHAOS ERUPTS. The city hasn't been exactly peaceful for some time — discontented grumbles have been directed at anyone who exhibits even the slightest amount of pro-Wyver (anti-Olympian) sentiment — but now, the tensions have not simply worsened: they've outright snapped.
It wouldn't be unusual to start your day to the sound of breaking glass. Perhaps it's a neighbor's window, or if you're truly unlucky, it's your own. Regardless, it's clear that there are a number of people who decide that violence is the answer. Well-armed shops such as The Sharper are left alone, but The Silk Wyrms, The Wyvernest, and other smaller businesses aren't so lucky. Visit the tailor, and you'll find that someone has broken in and slashed many of the in-progress custom orders; at the dragon cafe, someone has set many of the miniature dragons loose in a bid to purge the city of anything tainted by Wyver's influence. Many shopkeeps are fearful that the culprits might return. They're offering good silver for anyone who will retrieve stolen goods, round up the missing dragons, or find proof of who the culprits were — and for protection in case the culprits return. Linger, and you'll be in a position to potentially stop a repeat attack when the rioters come back with torches and bricks.
Members of the Royal Guard have their hands full with the fights breaking out to attend to every instance of violence against the businesses. Shouting in the squares escalates into bloody brawls — and if you spend any time outside, you'll soon see why. There's a strange mist in the most populated parts of the city, which you may recognize as having similar effects to the waters of Flona Cove that lower one's inhibitions. It spurs those who would usually agree to disagree into shouting matches, and influences people who would normally shout into throwing punches. Members of the Guard, usually a mediating force, are joining the fray themselves.
Even you aren't immune to the mist's effects. Whether you're protecting your home or place of employment, chasing down vandals, rounding up escaped dragons from the dragon cafes, or even just observing what's going on with someone else, you're likely doing it much more aggressively than you typically would... but then, this level of aggression seems to be becoming Olympia's new normal.
SINNERS TO PLAY AS SAINTS. The theaters are miraculously untouched, but The Life and Death of Nithor the Exalted is no longer being put on. Instead, passers-by are being pulled onstage to play out other scenes from Olympia's glorious history. Those who don't want to play along don't have much of a choice; those orchestrating the scenes have people out in the crowds to bring people up by force if necessary.
The base scenario is simple enough: the noble Olympian puts the pathetic Wyvern in their place. Perhaps it's a fight scene: the Olympian comes out on top, of course, and the crowd roars for blood. Wyver weapons are only props, however, but the Olympian weapons? They're very, very real. Or perhaps it's a callback to when the Olympian people marked captured Wyverns with brands to assert their dominance — there is real fire, and real brands, on stage.
If you pass as Olympian, you may be pressed to perform. If you don't want to really hurt someone, you'd best learn how to fake it — refuse to play your part, and the crowd will very quickly turn against you. If you're too obviously not Olympian, or if they recognize you as someone who went off-script last time (and they have very good memory), you'll likely be pressed into the role of an unfortunate Wyvern. Hopefully your co-star is gentle...
Break a leg. Literally, as the case may be.
CRITICAL CONDITION. With all the chaos, it's only a matter of time before people start to seek medical attention. However, along the way to The Sanctuary, they'll be faced with an almost insurmountable barricade. It isn't immediately obvious who put it up, but it's clear that nobody will be getting through it without significant effort.
Approach, and a voice will ring out warning you to keep back. It's one of the employees at the clinic; she has a crossbow in her shaking hands, and if pressed, she'll admit that they put up the barricade to keep out rioters. She understands that there are people who need their help, but the decision was made to keep themselves and their supplies safe so that when the dust settles, they can set out en masse and help more people than they could if they were raided.
If you're accompanied by someone with grievous injuries, or if you're terribly injured yourself, you may be able to convince her to let you in for a quick patch-up, but they're not giving any medicines out. If you need more supplies, you'll have to figure out another way of getting it — either by overpowering the woman on watch and raiding the clinic yourself, or distracting her so that other members of your group can sneak in and take what they need.
Making matters worse is the gigantic vulture-like creature, much larger than the birds in Murkwell Hollow... and much meaner. This beast doesn't wait for eye contact before it attacks: it swoops down out of the sky when people are gathered at the barricade, snatching up anyone it can grab in its talons, fixing on whoever's closest. However, if someone who killed a vulture is present, it pursues them with relentless determination. If not dealt with, it will attempt to eat the dead and the injured without discrimination. It can be driven off with high difficulty using weapons, magical abilities (except fire, which doesn't affect it), and the terrain to your advantage. It will retreat before it can be killed, presumably so that it can regroup and harry the next batch of people to get close to the barricade.
As it retreats it will drop feathers that can be sold to the Institute for study for 100 silver; one feather per character, please. Sales can be reported here.
PALACE BURNS. Chaos reigns for the better part of a week, and toward the end, it escalates past the point of rioting in the streets — the violence reaches Empress Simwe's palace. In the gardens where Olympians and refugees alike had lit lanterns in unity and remembrance mere weeks before, one careless (or perhaps not so careless) flame catches, spreading to the rest of the grounds and to one of the palace walls. The members of the Royal Guard, already stretched thin, are too preoccupied with trying to contain the blaze to stop anyone from pouring in through the breach.
It's an opportunity that looters and dissidents do not pass up.
Follow them in, and you'll find the elegant surroundings being torn apart. Many of the rioters are those who have it out for Simwe and are hunting for her. As she's nowhere to be found, they settle for the next best thing: setting torch to her portraits. Portraits of the late emperor, on the other hand, are left untouched. The vandals are incredibly vocal in their displeasure with Simwe's policies, and almost fanatical in their opinion that life in Olympia would be much better if Simwe had perished in her husband's place. They turn to violence when the frightened maids and other servants don't have the answers they want as they leave a trail of fire in their wake. Will you use them as a smokescreen for your own venture, or will you intervene?
Further inside, the sticky-fingered will find furnishings, clothing, jewelry — anything that isn't bolted down is fair game. In the library, the gilded titles of priceless books glitter on the shelves; in the wine cellar, Simwe's personal collection of extremely fine vintages waits to be sampled; a mirrored room furnished entirely with pillows is draped in lacy underthings; fragrant salts and bottles of perfume sit in a steam-filled bathing room; in the treasury, looters are hard at work squirrelling away silver and carrying off golden baubles. Nobody looks too closely at anyone's face unless given a reason to, but in the morning, heads will certainly roll. You could make off with your own treasure from the palace with none the wiser, or you could stop one of the looters — maybe it's even a fellow refugee — and turn them in to the guard to help restore some order to this night of chaos.
In the depths of the treasury, there is a group trying to get past a sealed door. They're an unpleasant, volatile lot, and they make a lot of noise about how if they can just get their hands on the heart of the legendary dragon, they'll be able to wipe Wyver from the map once and for all and put someone competent on the throne. After multiple failed attempts, they start offering a reward of 50 silver to anyone who makes an attempt at opening the door.
ABOUT THE DOOR: The inner treasury door is enchanted to stand up to all manner of assaults, both magical and physical. Any attempts to dispel the enchantment will fail, but characters are welcome to make attempts in exchange for cash. While minor force will be harmlessly absorbed by the shields on the door, anything of great strength will be reflected back at its point of origin — so be ready to dodge!
Whether you help the Guard put out the fire, steal from the palace, try and get past the enchanted door, or make attempts to stop the looters, your actions may have consequences later. Please report any significant actions you take here.
NOTE: Characters are welcome to steal a single minor, setting-appropriate item from the palace. Mod approval is not required. Any items of greater import in the palace are locked in a vault and inaccessible.
BLOOD ON MY HANDS LIKE THE BLOOD IN YOU
FOR GLORY. Meanwhile, in Wyver, the holiday celebrating Nithor's death may have finished, but the spirit is still high. The citizens, eagerly awaiting the results of the contest from earlier in the month, congregate at a large stadium in the East End on the morning of the 21st and encourage refugees to join them — not only will the contest winner be announced, but there will be a series of physical trials to select Wyver's best and brightest.
This yearly event is considered the true end to the holiday. They honor those who excel at the arts — whether they be standard arts or the art of combat — and with these trials, they will honor those who excel on the battlefield. King Shanrian himself speaks to kick off the festivities, holding a distinctly human skull in his hands the entire time he's in view.
 Everyone, join me in praising the winners of our citywide contest! I was, heh... quite delighted with the meat jelly dish submitted by citizens Clair and Frederick. Such creativity! Meanwhile, dear Shenya loved hearing the beautiful music provided by Diva and Tani Umenosuke. And as you all well know, his vote is my vote.
Now I speak to you on a more serious note: I encourage all of you to join the legacy of those who helped bring down the mad and oppressive Nithor. I ask you all to join the trials. Show the world that we are a people of honor. For we do not seek glory, but fairness, liberty, and truth. Citizens, do you have what it takes to represent your home?
Signing up is simple. Interested parties are to submit their name at the registration desk, and by high noon, the festivities will kick off in full.
First up is a tournament — to thin the numbers down and ensure that only the best of the best make it to the end, participants are matched to a fight until one side is incapacitated. The air is thick with excitement, and bouts continue all day and through the night. Vendors have set up temporary stalls to sell food, toiletries, pillows, and blankets for those who don't wish to miss even a moment of the action.
If you're participating, you will take part in three fights before the finalists are determined; if you are not, you will be free to watch from the audience or, if you're acquainted with people who are fighting, to go behind the scenes to assist them by bringing them water or medicine between matches or even just give them moral support. Either way, you'll notice a slight shift in the air as time goes by.
Midway through the preliminary matches, the atmosphere changes from enthusiastic to outright bloodthirsty. Observers who were content to see a knock out will call for blood. People will start to clamor for the losers to lose their lives, and audience members will find themselves itching for a fight. One wrong look and the fighting might not just be constrained to the ring.
Make it through to the finals, and your trial will be more focused on teamwork: after all, the assassins who took down Nithor had to work together to get their job done. Finalists are paired off to face a variety of beasts, some from Wyver, some from Olympia, and some from other, far-flung parts of the isles. There is no set number of winners — anyone who performs well will be honored with a prize of silver at the end — but the beasts are ferocious, and it will take coordination and exceptional skill to make it out unscathed.
Either way, it's sure to be a spectacle.
HEARTY DIETS. The city's atmosphere does not become peaceful with the conclusion of the trials. Wherever you turn, the people around you seem to be more combative than usual - and in this city, that can be quite the feat.
To mark the end of another successful set of trials, the shamans of the Altar of Volkkra make dragon's blood, which they partake in for one of their rituals, more widely available to the public. Most drink it straight, although there are some who take it mixed in with other drinks. Either way, the effects are the same:
Drinking dragon's blood will feel like drinking liquid fire. It will burn the entirety of its way down and leave you with a presence in your chest that you will carry with you for three days before wearing off. It is a warmth that seems to imbue you with the strength and confidence of the dead dragon. The adrenaline will minimize any great pains, and you will have the sense that the path you choose is right.
Unfortunately, there is a downside. The dragon blood will keep you restless until the effects wear off. Confidence will turn into mindless arrogance. If you and your companion both drink the blood, you will butt heads because you will believe the other is wrong. Additionally, you may experience the need to hoard. The shamans say it is a trial you must endure to learn not to overindulge, but to someone who has never drank before, the feeling will be overwhelming.
Dragon's blood isn't the only variety to partake in. This time of year, the blood of a variety of monsters can be found to drink; it's said that consuming a creature's blood will imbue you with that creature's power. Whether this is true or not remains to be seen — some insist it's a rumor, while others swear its veracity — but fueled by the confidence the dragon's blood has drawn out of them, the natives are very insistent that you try it out, and some may even challenge you to a blood-drinking contest.
There are some who say that they've managed to procure the blood of Olympians, and that ingesting it will sap the strength of the Olympian people and bestow it upon Wyver instead. Some Wyvern natives aren't willing to allow the blood of their most hated enemies past their lips and would instead use Olympian blood to paint out scenes of their destruction, either on the walls like the murals or on charms from the Altar of Volkkra, as it is said to have the same effect. If you're offered some of this "paint," it's probably better to accept. After all, refusal would be very un-Wyvernlike, and you wouldn't want to be marked as the next target for someone hoping to procure Olympian blood, would you?
FANNING FLAMES. Since the trials, natives have lit bonfires throughout the city as a way of showing support for their favorite contenders; the belief is that as long as the flames continue to be fed, the contender will continue to fight well. Even now that the trials are over, the flames burn bright. These contenders are Wyver's hope of victory over Olympia, after all; isn't it better to keep the fires ablaze until they've brought the Olympians to their knees?
But it isn't just wood that they're using for kindling. This time they want a more personal offering. Many of the natives will shed their own blood to throw into the fire, and still more roam the streets in search of people to feed to the flames. You might find yourself one of their targets if you've been too noticeably traveling between the cities on a regular basis, or if you've made the mistake of donning the Olympian colors of white and gold even in a subtle way. Perhaps you come off as a loyal citizen of Wyver, and they've tapped you to assist them with feeding a person to the flames — If you refuse, you might face scrutiny yourself.
Chaos is on the rise. It's a bastardization of celebration that has long since gotten out of hand, although few seem inclined to try and contain it. Those who do are mainly shouted down or silenced by other means, and if you're looking to assist them in quelling the unrest, you'll have to be subtle lest you wind up facing the citizens' ire.
Luckily, there is something to provide a distraction: a gigantic vulture-like creature, much larger than the birds from Murkwell Hollow, has come to hunt . When it descends, it makes to grab anyone with its talons, with one exception — if anyone who killed a vulture in Murkwell is nearby, it will ignore the others and focus its attempts on tearing them apart with a relentless, single-minded determination. If not driven off, the dead and the injured will become its next meal, and it has no qualms about diving into the flames to snatch up bodies, as it's unharmed by fire. It can be driven off with high difficulty using weapons, magical abilities (other than fire), and the terrain to your advantage, but will retreat before it can be killed so that it can regroup and make another attempt at snatching up bodies later.
As it retreats it will drop feathers that can be sold to the Altar of Volkkra for experimentation for 100 silver; one feather per character, please. Sales can be reported here.
BEASTLY EXHIBITS.The shamans of Volkkra, perhaps under the influence of dragon's blood, have their own way of dealing with the unrest. Throughout the week, those protesting the chaos start to vanish, and either from rumors or direct observation it will soon become obvious why: they're being brought to the main Altar of Volkkra, all the way up on Namarak Summit. If you have been attempting to calm people down, you might just find yourselves taken; otherwise, you can tail the shamans to the summit to find what's going on for yourself.
Those taken to the main altar are blindfolded and thrust into the labyrinthine halls without a flame to guide their way. Shamans guard the entrances and exits; inside, all light but that of the Eternal Flame have been extinguished. Other shamans, who take part in the rumored experiments, roam the halls with wicked-looking knives in search of new test subjects. If they come across you, you'll need to either fight or run.
It is possible to escape this, either by overpowering them or by using your wits. It's even possible to find your way to the entrance and fight your way past the shamans guarding it — but the when the first person sets foot out of the halls, the shamans call for backup. Menacing shrieks and roars sound from inside the mazelike halls, and strange, mishmashed creatures emerge from the darkness.
They're angry, and they're willing to lash out at both refugee and shaman alike.
ABOUT THE MONSTERS: They are amalgamations of people and creatures from all over the isles, and each one is different. One might have the head of a Duldrum, the torso and arms of a man, and the lower half of a Glowing Snake; another might look like a Wispurr with a second head of an Unlucky Cat grafted onto it, and the abilities to match. The shamans seem to have been mixing and matching the features and abilities of both named and unnamed creatures as they see fit, and they've whipped them up into a frenzy — these chimeras crave blood, and will not stop until their targets are dead, or they are.
They can be killed with medium difficulty using your own weapons, supplies from the Altar, and any abilities you might possess; survive, and the shamans will let you go with 200 silver as compensation, having decided that you've proven your worth and that your strength may be an asset to Wyver in the future. If your character successfully kills a chimera, please report it here.
An AC-eligible thread in which your character complies with their faction's goals for 1 REP POINT FOR EITHER OLYMPIA OR WYVER may be submitted from this log. SUBMIT THE THREAD FOR OLYMPIA OR WYVER HERE OR HERE RESPECTIVELY BY MARCH 14th 11:59 PM EST.
We will no longer be providing overflow posts. In an event where the post hits CAPTCHA, players are advised to move threads to an overflow post on their character journals or create their own catch-all post. These threads remain eligible for AC, AC Rewards, and REP.
1 SILVER = 1 US DOLLAR.
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fires;
Of course, that's what everyone thinks, isn't it? Not me, it won't happen to me, I don't want to die, but the universe (as she'd once wryly pointed out) doesn't offer credit for intent. Just wanting isn't enough, and there are millions who died when they didn't deserve to nor want to. She is no exception. She is mortal, and thus trapped in the same vulnerabilities as everyone else. She might very well die, because she is no more that immortal, wonderfully free being she'd once been.
But it isn't a matter of can she, but will she. And she will not. She refuses to allow herself to end this way, no matter that she's being yanked forward, that there's a tight grip on her arms, that the flames are high and hot against her face and she is very much mortal right now. She will not die, because she can't do that to Robert, she can't possibly--
(but she'd been so confident of that before, hadn't she? I can't die, as her machine had thrummed and hummed and roared to life, and she'd stared in horror, I can't die but she had anyway, torn apart in a flash of light and fire, and it had only been by the slightest of chances she'd been reborn)
--no. No, she won't, if for no other reason than it would kill Robert to find his Rosalind dead before he'd woken. She digs her heels in, dropping down, trying and failing to stop the inevitable march forward.
A reprieve: blood first, one of the men says, because why not draw out her suffering? Blood offered to the fire and then her body, thrown on like so much kindling. Unwillingly, her arm is drawn forward, and Rosalind glances around, looking from face to face, until she sees--
Oh. Him.
He drawls out that statement, and Rosalind's fingers curl.]
Are you going to help or not?
[She pitches it low enough that only he'll hear. And she wants her voice to be intent and careless, but there's an urgency there she can't deny.]
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Rosalind should find herself fortunate that she's been given a chance to face her death. And acknowledge it.
But above the roar of the flame, cutting through the jeers of the men holding her, Takasugi hears a pang of concern.
The stalwart woman's calloused heart has some give to it.
Low like her voice, Takasugi hunches, drawing closer.]
Aa.
I'll help.
[He draws his sword, wrenching one of her arms away from her captors. The metal doesn't gleam in the fire, flickering of flame and fluidity of motion too rapid to be seen. The gash he gives her isn't shallow.
Blood will pool and flow, and with control wrested from the small mob that possessed her, Takasugi does nothing to belay their ritual. He pulls her forward, arm over flame, so blood can drip - slow and thickened - into the pyre.]
no subject
Teleport, but she can't, not here, not like this. Even if she stopped caring about how she appears to this mob, she's simply out of energy. For better or worse, she's in his hands now, and that bruises her pride as much as it affronts her. She hates being at someone else's mercy. To be helpless . . . oh, she can't stand it. Far better to always be in control, on top, able to make things go how she likes it.
He thrusts her arm forward, over the pyre. The blood hisses as it spills into the flames, and Rosalind curls her fingers into a fist. It makes the blood flow faster, but it stops her arm from trembling in his grasp, which is all that matters.]
Tani--
[It's hissed as the flames start to lick at her arm. Her teeth dig deep into her bottom lip, because she won't scream. She refuses. But her skin is getting hotter, the flames are getting higher, and pretty soon she'll be burned if he won't let her pull away.]
no subject
Only when Takasugi finally feels the prickling of cracked skin does he finally lift her away - he's unwilling to surrender even a second of the twisted expression of pain on her face. The need in her voice that clashes brilliantly with the confidence she's always worn.
Despite her pathetic display, Takasugi expects her to recover quickly.
Situating the woman with her back to the flame, so close that her clothes may catch and singe, he retains his grip.]
It'd be a waste to throw her in so soon.
[Death may have been more comfortable than the looks he's solicited from the men who had captured her. With flame licking their faces, spreading shadow over features, they appear near frenzied to approach and lay a different kind of waste.
Takasugi stops the first who tries.]
This one's mine.
Go find yourself another.
[Grumbles, but it seems as if this particular group would rather prey on wayward outsiders than pick a real fight - they back off and soon disperse.
He doesn't release her.]
no subject
[Is it any surprise that that's the first thing she says? With her arm freely dripping and the flames licking at her back, Rosalind wrenches her arm in his grip. Any fear is long suppressed (though not gone, oh, not at all, not after those looks those men had given her, not after that threat that Tani may or may not have meant). It's anger that fills her eyes, as heated as the pyre behind her, and she glares up at him.
It's an order, not a plea.
They're pressed very close together, and Rosalind shifts, pressing herself even closer. It's nothing to do with intimacy, or even a desperation for comfort. But her arm is blistered, her skin throbbing from the heat of the flame, and she can feel it at her back. She can so perfectly imagine what it would be like to feel that flame against her skin, igniting her clothes, melting them to her body, breaking open skin and leaving her screaming--
(and she'd screamed, hadn't she, when she'd died? she thinks so. she thinks she remembers that; blinding white light and Robert's arms around her, and then pain unlike any she'd ever experienced, pain that burned her, tore her apart, split her down to her very atoms and then threw her back together)
Her teeth clench, as though she can ward off the memory through sheer stubbornness alone.]
Now.
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What sort of kindling would coax those flames higher, into a wild fire?
He tightens his hold. The closeness she's brought them isn't the warmth of chests pressed flush, but the conflict of lungs stealing what little breathable air lingers below the smoke of bodies burning to ash.
Takasugi leans down, lips to her ear as if he's come to whisper a secret, a plan.
But all he offers is defiance.] Make me.
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What would happen, exactly, if she and Tani were alone together? Who would win? Because god knows there'd be a fight of some kind. They're both competitive to a fault; who would end up on top, if the two of them ended up going at it without anyone else to intervene?
Irrelevant. That's a thought for when she's time to luxuriate and think about the future; right now, Rosalind needs to stay focused. Make me, he murmurs against her ear, his breath hot and his grip on her arm tight, and Rosalind glares over his shoulder.
It's instinctive to repeat her demand, but Rosalind ignores that. There's no sense in acting like a child. Instead, she jerks back, pulling far enough way that she can glare up at him.
Without warning, her fist flies.
It's not a bad punch, considering it comes from a total amateur. Left-handed, clumsy in execution but absolutely certain in intent, because Rosalind has no qualms at hitting her savior. She aims to break his nose, or at least give him a hell of a bruise. But mostly, she intends for him to startle, just for a moment, so his grip will go lax and she can tug her arm away. Already she's yanking back, pulling at him, her blue eyes lit up with quiet anger.
It isn't the fury he's after, not yet. There's nothing wild in her gaze, but rather a controlled anger, deadly and quiet. But it won't be long before it becomes something unstable-- or perhaps something more fearful. Because though that threat had worked wonders for dismissing those other men, it still rings in the back of her mind, leaving her throat thick with fear. She doesn't think he's eager to drag her into an alleyway, but at the same time . . . it's not as if her terror has faded. Not really.]
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She lashes out, a cornered, wounded beast; Takasugi wants to see what her desperate rage can pound into him.
A crack - firewood, or his bone. His head wrenches away, twisting with the blow. There's throbbing between his eyes, and iron bites at his throat. If his nose isn't broken, it's close.
But he isn't a timid creature, thrashing for survival. When he's threatened, his maw clenches shut over his capture.
Takasugi's grip doesn't lighten, growing harsher as fingers dig into soft flesh beneath. A terse hold is easier to twist away from, should the captive find a good angle, but anger in recourse doesn't consider those details.
And, after the flare of rage diminishes, he knows his intentions were something akin to caustic mercy.
Turning back to the woman, he pivots on his feet, putting her completely between the fire and himself.
He takes a step, embers lapping at his toes.] Better hurry...
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And all around them, that mob. They've dispersed for the time being, but that doesn't mean they're gone. More than one set of eyes is on them, because even if Tani won't share, they can at least get a good show.
What does she do?
Beg him? Oh, he'd like that, wouldn't he . . . beg him for mercy, beg him to release her, beg him so he can be so smug as he grants her release, no. Perhaps it would work and perhaps it wouldn't, but she refuses. If she ever begs him, it won't be like this, where she's cornered and desperate and pleading for her life, no, she refuses.
Violence won't work. She's already tried that, and it only made things worse. Make me . . . she bites the inside of her cheek, her eyes darting about his face. He steps closer and so does she, edging away from the fire, pressing herself up tight against him. It might be a lover's embrace, intimate and longing, except for the fury in her gaze as she stares up at him.]
And what is it you want?
[She murmurs it, tipping her head to breathe it against his ear, just as she'd done with him.]
You're obviously waiting for something. Tell me what, so we can stop this stupid little charade and part ways.
no subject
That's about the only thing gentle about her.
Takasugi can feel her arm twist in his grip, tentative and on the cusp of seizing in pain. She won't be able to wrench away. Strength spent but pride unbroken, he knows from how she presses herself into him not in an offering (certainly, not to beg) but in revolt.
There's not much more to do than to leave this to simmer in her chest.
He keens his head into her lips, sweat-heavy hair brushing her face as he hums so quietly she's more likely to feel than hear it.
From the start, he'd intended to explain himself in some way.] I want to watch the fight in you burn like these pyres, raging for days until you're nothing but ash under charred bone.
[Lowered to her ear, he would have laughed had it not been choked from him by the smog in his throat.] But that's not going to happen. [Not today.]
Come with me. Fight all you want, I won't let go. [A slight nod towards a nearby alley, filled with smoke hanging low to the ground.
He doesn't give any response consideration before he's jerking her along, away from the fire and between narrow walls that spread shadow among soot.]
no subject
He's right: she really doesn't have a choice in it. But she doesn't fight him, not when going off to the alley means that they're heading away from the pyre. No matter what he plans, it's better than burning. It's better than feeling all those gazes on her, leering and lecherous, trailing after her even as they head into that alley.
At least it's cooler here. Rosalind exhales sharply, tugging at her arm again, less because she thinks he'll let go and more for the spirit of it.]
You're hardly the first one to want to see me angry. Do you really think I'll be inclined to show you after a stunt like this?
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Now that they're alone, he doesn't need to wrest her arm to keep her near.
Chiding is expected; her words are a result of what he's put into action, and Takasugi receives them hungrily.
He thinks she'll be quite inclined to show him her scorn.
He lowers himself to his haunches, forearms draped over knees, to avoid the more suffocating effects of the ash and smoke filling the alley.] I don't think you'll be inclined to be nice.
[After such a gratifying preview, Takasugi is resolved to succeed where those others who only wanted to see her angry have failed, and bring it to fruition.]
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I'll be inclined to be icy, you little brat.
[He's only a few years younger than her, but she snarls out the word, her temper more than frayed. but no, she won't give him what he wants . . . she glances up at him, mouth pursed.]
The very least you can do, Tani, is fix what you broke.
[She offers her arm. It isn't a request, and despite her best efforts, she glares as she says it. Her arm is trembling from pain, but she refuses to cry out.]
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Takasugi's laugh is unrestrained, a high-pitched, smug bark that shakes his shoulders and tears his upward gaze away from her.
If she grows icy, he'll just have to revisit the thought of flames, and melt her down.
When he looks back up, smile cocked lopsided on his lips, she thrusts her arm - shoddily bandaged - into his face. That could get infected, if she's not careful.
Takasugi stares, smile slowly fading, but otherwise unmoving.
Silence.
And then he spits on the slipshod dressing.
Take that as a 'no'.]
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See, it's a miracle Tani hadn't severed anything vital in her arm. She can still wiggle her fingers and twist her wrist, and she ought to be grateful for that. Never mind she'll need stitches; never mind the fact that blood is puddling on the ground between them. She knows better than anyone that she got off lucky. The sensible thing to do would be to rest her arm and avoid exertion.
And she would. She really would. But there's something about this man that flips every switch she has, and when he does such a filthy thing . . . well. She sees red.
Barely a second after he spits on her, her bloody hand flies. Her teeth grit, her fingers are held stiffly, and she strikes him across the cheek with everything she has. If she can knock his inner ear out of whack and leave him stumbling around, she'll be immensely satisfied. But if all she can do is turn his head, she'll take it.]
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Both is a pleasant sight. For the brief moment he's afforded a glimpse, he sees the anger contort her face. Thin lips, narrowed eyes wild with repulsion, and yet somehow she shakes less than she had when she'd been left licking her own wounds.
Anger rests well on her.
The slap connects because he allows it; Takasugi isn't a glutton for pain, but despite the ringing in his ear or the scrape up his arm as he steadies himself on the wall behind, he wants nothing more than to feel that connection.
Head turned, hair obscuring bandage and eye, he lets out a sigh before turning back to her. With his face splattered in blood, bridge of his nose darkening with bruises, he still smiles.]
You'll hurt yourself, doing that.
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[He's right, though: she has hurt herself. Her arm throbs violently in pain, her hand trembling from the exertion. She's not built for this kind of fighting normally, never mind when she's been cut up and put through the emotional wringer.]
And if you disrespect me like that again, I'll do more than slap you.
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Though he'd been less intent on appearing to care, his words of caution meant entirely in condescending fashion.
Takasugi offers a shrug, eyes falling back on her injury. Shaking again? Is it out of pain or anger?]
I bet you will. [The next blow he won't welcome so easily, but the thought of another attempt at recourse makes his blood run faster.] I'll make sure to be ready for it.
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If he'd been ready to head out, he's going to be delaying his departure now.
Silently, however, he concedes, sitting and watching how she proceeds in the face of the lack of something to argue with.]