❪ event ❫ hour of ruin

[natha]

HOUR OF RUIN     Sometime after midnight, after preparations have been put aside in favor of drinks and rest, a thunderous beating of wings shatters the air — the High Dragon Ysverai, once again risen. The sound echoes high off Namarak Mountain, but travels easily to both Wyver and Olympia: scream after scream rends the still night, as though a creature were dying rather than being born again. Having only had days to plan their defense against the creature, Olympia and Wyver snatch up their arms. The Royal Guard and the Knightryders can be seen on their steeds hurrying through the cities, because Ysverai doesn't remain isolated at the mountain's peak for long. There are pictures of Ysverai in abundance throughout both cities, but the creature that circles in the sky looks nothing like the majestic creature spoken of in history books. Even from far below, wounds and lacerations can be seen marring what should be smooth scales, and blood falls with every beat of the dragon's wings. The damage becomes more clear when moonlight illuminates Ysverai, revealing the rotting dragon for all to see. The sight of flesh peeling away and thick blood where it oozes from his cracked, greyish hide is as frightening as the power he possesses. REASON'S TRANSCENDENCE     Mad from the anguish of his forced revival, Ysverai will show none of his renowned wisdom or compassion, mindless and seeking to inflict his pain onto whatever emerges in his path. His very presence creates chaos: animals (Olympia | Wyver) domesticated and wild, flee from the merest hint of his approach, panicked and stampeding in wild droves. The reason is obvious: organic matter exposed too long to his presence begins to rot and decay. A field he lands in rots and lies fallow. Buildings crack and crumble, their supports pitted and corroded as though they've been left in disrepair for years. Even the ground that Ysverai walks upon is tainted; a corrosive sludge bubbles up in his massive, clawed footsteps, the ground beneath him putrefied and toxic, oozing corruption. This sludge can be tar-like, poisonous and sucking people in like quicksand; panic, and you'll only sink faster. Prolonged exposure to Ysverai takes a mental toll on anyone in his proximity as well. Effects similar to those from being near his heart — selfish desires and lowered inhibitions — will begin to fester in those around him. Every time Ysverai roars, pain will run through all those that hear him — a pain not just physical, but of true, anguished heartbreak. Those who hear Ysverai will feel (to a degree of your choosing) a sharing of his pain, the agony of flesh rotting from their bodies, blood oozing from under their skin, and a terrible, incandescent fury — and beneath that, a gut-wrenching sadness. This effect is further enhanced by any exposure to Ysverai's blood, and being drenched in greater quantities will cause one to become more in sync with the dragon. Finally, Ysverai is aggressive, attacking anyone and anything that approaches. He starts by breathing out a smog, acidic and putrefying — characters caught directly by this attack will find that medicine and healing magic of any kind hurts them for hours after exposure. The dragon will ignite the smog to breathe fire, if sparingly. IN WYVER     Ysverai's shadow falls over the near reaches of Wyver first. Upon hearing Ysverai's cry, the dragons in Wyver become completely frenzied, turning against their partners among the Knightryders without the slightest resistance. Those familiar with dragons might deduce that they're in pain, though they don't show any sign of injury. The dragons knock their riders off their backs in midair and dive at citizens, jaws wide. Any attempts to soothe them will be long fought, achieved with great difficulty, and will see them retreat into a cowering state. It's not just the airborne Knightryders taking to the defense of the city however, and people on the ground are mobilizing as well. On rooftops across the city are cannons set to fire harpoons. And if the spearheads alone aren't enough to injure the beast, they're coated with a paralyzing poison as well. Unfortunately, the soldiers stationed on the rooftops are prime targets to the frenzied dragons populating Wyver's skies, leaving the cannons open for ordinary citizens to use should they choose. Left alone too long, and cannons may fall under the control of the few remaining radicals that had opted not to flee the cities to join up with their leader Raysc, choosing instead to wait for an opportune moment to unleash their anger on the people of Wyver. These radicals will need to be dealt with before they can turn the cannons upon Wyver's defenders. IN OLYMPIA     In Olympia, the gryphon partners of the Royal Guard react with immediate hostility to anyone showing signs of Ysverai's influence. Their keen senses allow them to pick up the smell of Ysverai's blood and they attack anyone with so much as a drop of tainted blood on them. Those who bear lingering effects of Ysverai's mental attack and who remain in sync with the dragon after hearing Ysverai's cry are also targeted and must face the gryphons' wrath without mercy or restraint. The gryphons must be disabled, for Olympia will not look upon any injury to their prized steeds lightly. However, the gryphons also show some resistance to Ysverai's cry, which is a great boon in battle against the dragon — gryphons that have lost their riders will be available for use, able to carry two passengers at a time. The people of Olympia aren't planning to restrict their offense to pure brute force, and the mages of the city can be seen across Olympia wielding enchanted chains, using telekinesis in the hopes of restraining Ysverai and assisting in the airborne troops. But like the decaying buildings and wildlife, Ysverai is warping the magic around him, the chains faltering as they approach him, whipping back toward the city instead to cage whoever happens to be closest. It's not just the enchanted chains either, but other magic might behave erratically in his presence, as if the very essence of the spells have been corrupted. VIRTUOUS VERSE     Both cities realize they need to seek survival rather than victory against Ysverai, switching gears to carry out diversion efforts and evacuation plans. It falls to refugees to continue the offensive while the Royal Guard and the Knightryders devote their attention to ensuring the safety of the citizens as they flee. With official forces stretched thin, civilians and refugees alike will also need to step up to help herd citizens toward safety among a maze of collapsing buildings. Others will need to see to gathering resources for the evacuation, and while gathering non perishables is easy enough, it's considerably harder to wrangle livestock into cooperating amidst such chaos. Those fighting may be asked to act as bait for Ysverai. Chatter through official troops speaks of a switch in strategy: the objective now is capture the dragon's attention and draw him away from the populous cities and towards the South Outpost. Whether or not it's possible to defeat the dragon remains uncertain, but there's no question that it will be easier to battle him without worrying about civilians. THE RAGE     Luckily, the dragon is indiscriminate in his rage, and easily lured so long as a suitably infuriating target is before him. It doesn't take long to draw him to the South Outpost, but the trail of destruction he leaves in his wake is vast. Once there, the combined forces are greeted not just by Ysverai, but also by the appearance of Ysverai's master. How bravely you've all come to meet your doom! Great heroes, one and all, ha! I welcome you, bring your best. Show me the power that's protected Olympia and Wyver, all that you have to offer me, whatever pitiful excuse for valor you seek to cling to when the fear has you cowering in your beds. All will be for naught in the face of Ysverai's might! Let history witness the day the glory of war is reignited — the day that Wyver remembers its fangs once more! Come, Ysverai, last and greatest of the High Dragons! Come, and restore Wyver to its rightful place! Come, fulfill the promise as our protector that you could not in life! Raysc lifts a gleaming device as he issues his command. Red lights blink and blood, the same oozing liquid that drips from Ysverai's many wounds, runs in clear tubes through the device. Ysverai rears back as Raysc makes adjustments to a control panel — and then lunges forward, mouth agape. With a single swallow, Raysc meets his end. Raysc's attempt to control the dragon has only enraged him further, spurring Ysverai on to new heights of fury. It's become more vital than ever to face the dragon and take him down here and now. A few effective strategies are learned from research efforts and observed while defending Olympia and Wyver: goading the dragon into breathing fire will hurt him, burning him from the inside out, and attacks to his joints, eyes, wings, and exposed bone are effective. Ice is a natural repellent to dragons and can be used defensively or to weaken the dragon's hide. Healing spells will also react unnaturally to Ysverai's flesh, hastening his decay. However, while concentrated efforts will lock him down, Ysverai cannot be permanently killed in this state — his flesh constantly rots and spawns anew. Attacking him here is to protect civilians, keeping him busy to avoid mass destruction elsewhere. Therefore, the battle is one of attrition, a matter of a race against time. You must destroy his flesh faster than it is able to regenerate to have any hope of victory. Finally, when Ysverai is weakening, little more than bones with a few last vestiges of rotten meat hanging from a skeleton, the pathetic remnants of the last High Dragon takes to the skies. His wings are barely intact enough to carry him, yet desperation lifts him, higher and higher, until he lets out one great, earth-shaking roar. A roar that carries across the battlefield, sending all who hear it to their knees. A roar that shatters the swords in soldiers' hands, that rends apart the very air itself — Ysverai's last act, a great curse upon El Nysa, to bring down the sky. AND THE WORLD STOOD STILL     The terror of Ysverai's destruction hangs overhead — a tear in the sky, darkness pouring through, tendrils reaching down towards El Nysa to swallow up the planet in the dragon's final act of revenge. And yet nothing moves. A halo of brilliant light surrounds the rift in the sky, holding the grasping, hungry tendrils in check. And on the planet, not a creature moves. Not a blade of grass stirs. You're not able to even draw a breath. No matter where you are, not even the heart in your chest is beating. Everything has stopped — time has come to a standstill. In a wash of light, an aurora of transport, you find yourself delivered to Thesa Station. Darma stands before you, her expression solemn, perhaps even grim, though that may just be a trick of the station's harsh lighting. She explains what has happened in short order: planetside, time has been completely frozen. We have seen the birth and end of worlds. The rise and fall of civilizations infinite times over. We have seen all threads of possibilities that could have lead to this very moment... Or should have. Perhaps you might doubt our sincerity when we say this comes as a surprise to us, as well... Special technology has been used to blind us. To this day, we only know of one region capable of creating and utilizing such technology... you will find this technology in a city known as Nadril. We understand that you have created a life down in Wyver and Olympia, but now we must ask that you put that life on pause. We ask you to travel to Nadril and find the original Refugee, and with him, answers. As you will discover, he does not wish to speak to us. It is no matter. By now it is too late to keep the Nysan public unaware of our existence. We commend the efforts of those who wish to protect their comrades on the battlefield below, but a creature like poor Ysverai, twisted and warped, given unnatural life with terrible magic and technology, does not simply go down with manpower. Please, leave Ysverai to us. Time on the planet will remain stopped while we determine how to deal with the dragon. For now, rest and recover your strength. We have returned, and soon, there will be new refugees awakening. Perhaps you might like to prepare yourselves to greet them? I'm sorry that I can't answer more questions, but for now, all our attention must turn to finding a way to stop what Ysverai has wrought. A bank of monitors behind Darma displays the battlefield below: Ysverai's frozen, looming figure and the breach in the sky, and the Natha's halo, holding the destruction back. Though time passes normally on Thesa Station, El Nysa remains frozen, and all Refugees are unable to return to the planet until Ysverai's menace is dealt with. Luckily, with the Natha's return, full functionality has also returned to the station. The lights and environmentals are back to full power, access to all areas has been restored, the cafeteria is serving its normal offerings, and there's no evidence of any glitching or malfunctions. Doubtless, the period of rest is much needed after the hard-fought battle. For now, with time on El Nysa at a standstill, there's little else to be done but enjoy the reprieve aboard Thesa Station. FINAL OOC NOTE     Characters that reach an AC length action thread in this event will receive 2 rep for all factions, including Natha. Note that while these are split up for ease of processing, players may submit for all three. OLYMPIA | WYVER | NATHA Players can expect this event to run three days ICly before everyone is teleported to Thesa Station! From thereon, all characters will be grounded at the Station until the Test Drive Meme later this month. QUICK NAV premise ● faq ● lore ● map ● npcs ● bestiary taken ● atp/emp ● application ● rep/acp ● quest bulletin calendar ● hiatus/drops ● modbox [ FULL NAVIGATION ] elnysa nysalogs nysaisles nysaooc elnyan

Comments

that sounds like a good fanfic title

[semblant]

[Blood's palpable in the air -- not his own. There isn't much of it, but it's palpable all the same. The source of it smears his face and he turns into it, enticed with zero effort, following with his nose -- it's a paltry pursuit. Tongue bypasses knifelike teeth to indulge in the remnants; it's hardly worth the effort. Takasugi may've just tried to tear his human body to ribbons for the sake of doing so, and he may have been behaving like a rampaging elephant to start with, but here and now is most comparable to the Hulk, Widow and her calming lullaby. His body's still heaving in a way indicative of him just winning a marathon -- or like someone idling in a fighter game.

Right up until Takasugi decides to shove his fingers inside of a no entrar, propiedad privada. There's another guttural noise and he's whipping his head from side to side, like a horse trying to get flies off its ass except the fly feels more like a heated cattle prod being stuck where it shouldn't stick. It isn't quite as bad as being stabbed, but it's a sensitive spot. Doubly, considering its state of mutilation.

That compliment's likely lost in his protest; he's gonna bite ya fuckin arm if u don't move it in three seconds.]

hes got such a hardon for this thing

[shikomizue]

[His fingers aren't deft enough to weave along the heat of Solomon's tongue. It's frustrating, to only be able to feel that warmth and do nothing in response. Already, his craving for this beast returns. To weave his touch freely over its carapace, either to calm heaving breaths or watch it thrash.

One is more easily sated than the other.

Battered, his hand doesn't retain its grip when the monster begins its thrall. He's dislodged almost immediately, arm falling lifelessly to the ground. Blood flicks onto his chest, his face; the writhing above him scatters red all around.

It soaks into the ground. It disappears in the deep crimson already smeared on the both of them.

They're a pathetic display, but Takasugi can't capture enough air to laugh. He falls back, head grinding into the dirt as the pain from his gut finally reaches his senses.]

i hope he has an erection, the weirdo

[semblant]

[There's a moment of respite, and it's just that. No attempt to flay or rend, he's quiet -- breathing raggedly, he may have aspirated? Sounds are happening and even in his disgusting skele-bat form, Solomon's looking rough. His body won't repair itself so deftly without flesh to aid such a feat, and with things being thrown out of whack, it's difficult enough to remain upright.

Ultimately, he backs off. Off and away -- not out of view; he'll stagger past a line of brush, seek out an earlier Just For Fun execution. His elongated mouth delves into the fallen animal's chest without any deliberation whatsoever, feasting on what he can, growing more desperate with each mouthful. He's chosen the halfway rotten thing over the injured man, filling his tummy with it enough to satiate rather than encumber.

Takasugi who???]

bitch he might

[shikomizue]

[All at once, everything stops. Takasugi's breath hangs suspended, mouth agape as his focus swims. Blood loss finally culminating in dizziness, trees that dance around in the darkening forest. They sway, as if to enclose the pair.

Takasugi can't move until the weight on his gut vanishes. He notices it after a delay, after his chest shudders and his throat wrings another breath from him. He rolls onto his side, face inches from the bloodied dirt before he drags himself to his feet.

Standing, he knows each step will be a risk - nothing is in his favor anymore. Still, he moves, staggering and uneven pace bringing him towards the beast in its retreat. Groping hands find a tree trunk and he falls against it.

Wounded shoulder crashing into the bark, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as he watches the wretched thing gorge itself.

Seeing viscera hanging from elongated, terrifying teeth, Takasugi feels a tinge of sickness in his gut. Not from disgust - maybe from anemia - but he interprets it as some form of... jealousy.

A desire to be strung out so carelessly.

An obsession with putting that blood there himself, drawn from the beast's own flesh.

He doesn't speak, stare dimming as he watches and fights against his body's weakening state.]

pics

[semblant]

[This is like that scene in evangelion when the mass produced evas start eating Asuka's unit. By the time he's finished, he's not feeling any better -- perhaps slightly? But it's hardly anything worth acknowledging in comparison to the usual. He looks up at the ambiguous figure -- it's just outside his line of vision, but his attention jolts toward Takasugi anyway, other senses ever-accentuated by his form. His ears appear to have taken a bony, horn-like form atop his head, but he's hardly been deafened.

Permanently bared, his teeth are stained with varying shades of crimson, bits of flesh and meat are strewn from there to his snout (and thensome still) in what is easily the sloppiest he's been after dinner. He only watches for a moment, like Blue trying to decide whether or not Chris Pratt was her dad or a lackey for low budget Seaworld with Dino$aurs.

There's no hunger met with his studies. He'll spare his fallen prey a glance before starting in a half-moon path around Takasugi. He's anticipating something in spite of his weakened state, possibly not quite understanding....]

https://i.imgur.com/eL9sd4g.jpg

[shikomizue]

[His body is ready.

Mouth hanging open, Takasugi's breaths come tentatively. As the creature circles, the pain in his shoulder fades. His balance is precariously reliant on the tree trunk he's plastered against, but should the beast attack.

He can't afford to be so vulnerable.

Teeth meet, air filtered through them sticking in his throat as he slides from the bark. One arm against the natural bulwark, he stands straight.]

There's no stopping it. [That hunger. That urge to tear everything to shreds.

A confirmation of their mutual battered state, and what he hopes is a shared understanding that staying their hands now is only an interlude in their fight.

To be resumed another day.]

i cant believe this

[semblant]

[The circles become smaller; he's pacing, inching closer to Takasugi, but not striking. He's watching with a single unblinking eye -- the other remains damaged, dark and imbued with blood that leaks from there to his jaw in stringy lines. On the other hand, his wing seems to be in well enough shape compared to having it lopped off earlier on -- his arm, that is.

Arm-wing. Wing-wing now.

His words fall flat; they're comprehensible, even like this, vague but unhostile. They don't inspire much but a closer pass...



And then, all at once, he's airborne. The act sends debris here and there and the location -- goddamn trees everywhere, pose something of a challenge, but he's outta here.

Just, not without Takasugi. To whatever end is a mystery, but he's moving to pick him up the way a pterodactyl would in Jurassic Park III. Clawed turkey feet seize him by the shoulder and I'm gonna stop here in case Takasugi cuts his legs off.]

[shikomizue]

[An injured animal in the woods, cornered and encircled. Takasugi's position is unarguably one of prey. Surrounded by the creature's course, flight isn't an option.

Not that he'd ever chose to run, even if he could.

His arm hanging uselessly at his side, his sword in shards on the forest floor, Takasugi has nothing left but instinct. A fervor to break even the jaws of death should they clamp around him.

Nothing so dramatic arises.

Only Solomon, beating his wings to lift his body into the air. Like a mosquito?

That's just the concussion Takasugi probably has, buzzing in his ear.

He anticipates the beast leaving, acknowledging their stalled exchange, but he doesn't expect to be snatched along with that retreat.

Initially, all Takasugi registers is pain. His shoulder gushes blood he frankly can't afford to lose. In the time it takes him to wince, he's already too high above the ground, droplets of red disappearing from sight before they hit the dirt.

He'd cut the creature's legs off, if he had the means. Unarmed as he is, Takasugi can only reach up and attempt to pry the talon embedded in his shoulder away. Not by overpowering the monster, but by clawing away at his own flesh until the beast's hold weakens.

Hopefully enough for him to plummet back to the forest.

Because that's a good plan.]

what if this turns into a h/c thread

[semblant]

[This is like the carpet ride in Aladdin except fucked up. He's not even sure where he's heading when it occurs to him that Takasugi isn't complying as well as he ought to be and second: he's falling. Falling in the midst of Solomon trying to adjust him, work him around so he can be carried by his middle.

If he weren't already concussed, this would absolutely do it. Lucky? For Takasugi? He's fast, even as a bulky skeletal (contradicting???) bat monster. He'll dive to retrieve him, snaring him by the middle -- kind of. His talons aren't big enough to wrap around his middle, but he's clenching him hard enough to pierce...clothing, with enough initial force to knock the wind out of him.

go the HECK to sleep.]

disgusting. do it.

[shikomizue]

[Wind rips over him; Takasugi's too exhausted to attempt any acrobatics. He hasn't completely lost a sense of self-preservation, watering eye searching the treetops below for a sturdy branch.

It'll break his other arm, and he'll still crash to the ground, but he'll live.

Unconscious, likely, but that's inevitable.

Blood winds through the air behind him, a trail for Solomon to follow as he dips and wrestles the man into his clutches once more.

Whiplash, more than a lack of air, makes Takasugi's eye roll white. His neck snaps, the last definitive thing he hears before his body begins to twist. The sensation of churning thrusts him into darkness.

Limp, but for a hand he'd wedged between his ribs and the monster's talons, fighting the grip more driving an instinct than breathing.]

i'll try

[semblant]

[See Takasugi....if u just shut the fuck up and dealt with being manhandled by a giant cryptid that may or may not end up tearing him limb from limb, he wouldnd't be fighting to remain conscious, something like that...

As long as he's complicit enough, Solomon's en route -- not to a hospital, but to his home. Being airborne helps with clarity in a few different ways, while it does take him a moment to orient himself. The ride lasts feels much longer than it is in actuality, and when they arrive he hasn't a hand to spare for a doorknob. Poor planning.

Because he has no hands. It's fine, the option to crash through a window exists; he'll clip his wings in the process, wreck the panel, leave it splintered and fucked up entirely -- something he can fret about later on. Takasugi likely won't be unscathed from the entry, but he's taken deliberate action to keep him tucked closer. Being further from the dragon's reach, his brain hasn't totally rectified itself...but he is operating with more cognizability.

Enough to lie him flat against the carpeted floor of what has to be his bedroom, several feet outside of the glass wreckage (supposedly; glass shards tend to get everywhere). Rather than weighing on him, his feet find a place at either side of Takasugi's body, straddling him upright. Monstrous whims suggest a tongue bath, but Takasusgi reaching into his eyeball is something fresh in his mind, even in his sorry state...

It requires more than a cat bath. All in all, he's triggered another about-face, sizing down to a humanoid form.]

[shikomizue]

[Last time Takasugi passed out from his injuries, he was in a coma for several months. When he'd woken, it had been on this shit planet - who knows how long he'd have slept without the Natha's intervention.

He's tired of sleeping.

Too bad being annoyed at the body's natural reaction to blood loss and shock means jack shit.

Takasugi doesn't stir, his breathing the only motion as Solomon diminishes in size and vanishes. Not until he's touched will he regain some semblance (ay) of consciousness.

Eyes roll open to motionless white - the ceiling and all its features a blur.

Despite disorientation, he sits up immediately. Tensing his muscles to do so brings blood pooling to the surface of the wounds across his abdomen. The pain doesn't register.

Neither does his company; Takasugi anchors himself with his good arm, silent in his delirium as he searches the room. Injured, alone, in an unfamiliar place-

Even before his thoughts coalesce into something coherent, he's prepared for a fight.]

[semblant]

[Solomon's feeling ragged, unusually so. His major injuries have mended -- not entirely; his arm seems to be fine for the moment, but he's still wounded where he'd been stabbed through, his eye remains questionable in questionable shape, closed for the moment. He's been laid bare due to that transformation of his, something he'll trouble himself with later on.

For now, he's busy nonsexually ;) pushing his yukata open, trying to assess his wounds...but the guy's strangely conscious, ready for something--]

Relax. [While leaning over him, not prepared to push that shoulder down. He's yet to ascertain his injuries there, so there won't be any mandhandling...yet.] It's fine now, don't make it difficult.

[He'll knock you out boy...he may still yet have to, if cauterization has to be a thing. He's borderline panting all the while, enduring a strange breadth of exhaustion -- thank you rot dragon from hell.]

[shikomizue]

[Takasugi doesn't react to a familiar, distant voice, but the awareness of proximity. Knuckles brush over his skin, dulled sensation prickling where they pass over clammy skin.

Tugging at his yukata could be what hampers his balance, but it's probably the blood rushing from his head to well up on his stomach, and flow from his injured arm. Dizzied, with a bitter, acrid taste sharp in the back of his throat-

He reaches to grab Solomon's wrist with his injured hand, smearing blood where he holds. With a solid grip, Takasugi doesn't toss the man's arm away, but neither does he release it to resume wandering him freely.]

...fine. [Wait. He didn't say that whole thing-]

I'm fine. [Vision blackening, he can't even convince himself of his claim - but that doesn't matter. The only one he needs to fool is the monster who looks stupid with a worried look on his face.]

[semblant]

[Oh hm, that checks out. Dude's covered in blood, stammering -- nearly. He's quick to seize Takasugi's forearm, like a game of BopIt with limbs.]

I won't allow you to do as you please.

[He'll move then, sweep a leg beneath Takasugi's to trip him up, only he also won't allow him to shatter on the ground. His opposite arm catches him across the shoulders -- muscles straining in a peculiar, unexpected way for it. Nevertheless, he should softly find his way to the ground, belly up.

Stability is still a questionable thing throughout the room. He's feeling a sense of exigency -- a pressing need to seal his wounds, while a separate part of himself thinks to lean over and start lapping at those apertures like something starved. It's the exhaustion, the beast separate from themselves compelling him to act so rashly, that's all.]

If you won't listen, I'll make it so you won't wake for a month.

[Like a proper mother, only psychotic and abusive.]

[shikomizue]

[Sword burying into flesh, his own torn apart by the monster's distorted body, is a distant memory. Everything feels far away; the hand that grips his arm registers late. When he jerks away, he's already held fast.

Then he's on the floor, a strange weight at his back.

Takasugi may not be able to recall why he'd stood up in the first place, but somehow Solomon's past occurs to him. A war doctor - these sorts of injuries are common.

Though, he's sure Solomon has seen men succumb to them more than he's reclaimed their health.] H-ah. [A strangled laugh, stifled by a cough that's wet with blood.

He swallows it.] You want... to drink some? [Despite already looking like shit, Takasugi appears absolutely haggard when he asks; there isn't much to spare. Unlike his usual attempts to goad bestial impulses from the blonde, this time...

He's banking on the hands of a doctor, rather than the hunger of a fiend.]

[semblant]

[He isn't so quick to leave Takasugi with that. There's a matter of making sure he'll stay put for a least a minute, minute thirty. Brows slant into a glare at the offer -- he's not so thoughtful as much as a hellion. It's a far more concerning sight than it is appetizing.]

Asinine.

[He'll draw back with that; first onto a knee, and then he's retreating. While he may have no use for personal first aid, he does keep a Just In Case kit of sorts. Something about old habits, latent interests. When he does return, he's got a pillow tucked under an arm along with a med box, vials in his opposite, a wet cloth. He's still ass fucking naked, but that's whatever.

The box clanks on the floor, the pillow's tucked beneath Takasugi's head. He'll begin divesting him with that to properly assess his wounds. Peeling the fabric from his arms takes longest of all...good thing he's swimming in his outfit, more or less. La La La La....]

[shikomizue]

[Relief takes the place of color on Takasugi's face. It's a glimmer, a thought that dissipates with his next shattered sigh of breath. Severity returns, then, eyebrows defaulting to a countenance of being perpetually annoyed.

There's hardly any weight to them. He doesn't feel pain so much as he feels numb - a sign of severe loss. If he needed to, Takasugi would stand again. And again, and again.

But he's in the hands of a doctor, now, not a monster.

And he can't manage to pinpoint how he feels about that.

Eye shut when Solomon returns, it only drifts open when his head is shifted to the pillow. Rolled back, consciousness ebbing in and out. He's aware enough of what's happening to him; his injuries are being assessed, treated. With practiced hands, rather than a monster's tongue lapping the wounds.

He can't gather enough breath to utter anything, but he does move his good arm. A slight shift, only enough to press his curled knuckles into Solomon's leg. To know when the man leaves him, should his eyelid fall heavy once again.]

[semblant]

[With the top half of his outfit peeled away, there's a visual assessment. Some wounds seem superficial, or not so deep that they require extra fussing beyond ointment and an adhesive. Others may require cauterization, stitches. Takasugi must be familiar with the former -- he's riddled with scars, from a period that predates his own.

The more severe of his wounds should be tended to before anything else. The deeper gauges at his shoulder are rinsed with a saline solution, but the incisions fill with red almost immediately.]

Shit.

[It isn't a concerning amount of blood, but stitches may not be an option. He'll move away for another moment, return and settle back in the same spot (unaware of his hand-to-leg process of discernment) with a matchbook. A scalpel's drawn from his kit -- and to make a long story short, it's heated appropriately and seared to the wound for precise closure.

Without warning, of course. He could have provided something to bite down on, but in his frenzy to ascertain his wounds, he made a mental note -- something about Takasugi being out of it and liable to choke on anything like that.]

[shikomizue]

[Takasugi remembers the scent of burning flesh, even the most curdling of screams dampened by the smell of seared skin coagulating together. He'd pressed heated iron into a few himself, desperate and untrained to assess an injury's need.

Maybe he'd saved a few that way, but they'd all met their ends in some other horrible contusion of blood and bone.

Pointless.

He thinks to wave Solomon away, but his arm is too heavy to lift. All he can to is flick fingers, almost lifelessly, against the bare thigh when it returns. A gesture that goes ignored, the suddenness of pain he does feel imbuing him life that isn't his own. Nerves that writhe and twitch.

He'll choke on nothing, too. After a gasp he coughs, biting down on his own lip to stifle the motion. All in all, he calms quickly, though a new layer of sweat has begun to coat his skin. Eye open, glossy, he looks at the man above him.

Caught between reverence an revulsion.]

[semblant]

[He's working with what he can, quickly running out of sterile cloth to wipe away grime and blood, trying to discern dirt from bruising, blood from the same. He's doing a decent job of locating wounds that require most attention; ideally, he'd have Takasugi propped up on something disinfected, with proper lighting.

The coughing does draw him from his work; a longing stare confirms that he hasn't ingested something on top of everything else that's lead them to this point. It's a response to the pain, which is a good freaking thing. He'd hate it more if Takasugi were lying there emotionless through it all.

His brows slope sympathetically.

It's all he can offer ahead of peeling away more of his outfit to check more parts of him; tum tum, legs, forearms even. He's satisfied only once Takasugi's left in his very outdated undies, bigger gashes cauterized, the smaller ones...

The smaller ones, he's rinsed those with saline just as well, applied ointment, bandages. Enough attention to suit him overnight. He'll need to be bathed come morning. Solomon will spend the night hoping none of it ends up infected.

Once he's satisfied -- the back of him seems fine enough -- once he's satisfied with that, he slumps onto his ass and mops his forehead with his hand, smearing blood here and there, tainting pristine locks. It's like he's just emerged from 16hrs of surgery, rather than 25-ish minutes of emergency hole-patching. Still intense, but yanno.

The next step is to move him somewhere more comfortable, but he'll spare him a moment to recollect himself. Reignite all those wounds in a moment, once he's -- once they've both caught their breath.]

[shikomizue]

[Strained breaths sting, filling the capillaries in his lungs with blood and spit. His ribs shake, a few wet coughs broken by silences forced between pressed lips, until his body is calm.

Shock still mitigates most of the pain, he's aware. Focus swimming, Takasugi can't watch Solomon's work. He wouldn't understand the process even if the motion of the man's hand didn't make him dizzy. In this state, it's best to stay still.

Rest.

Takasugi gives in to that need finally, closing his eye and letting his head lull back while he feels the prick of fingers and gauze and the sting of disinfectant in his wounds.

Only once everything vanishes does he stir. If he didn't, he'd lose consciousness. Propping himself on the less battered arm, Takasugi regards Solomon's naked respite with little more than acknowledgement.] The bed.

[He's demanding.]

[semblant]

[He's happy to hear it.

For the most part. Worry hasn't fully dissipated, but it's still better than silence. The bed -- moving him. It's a trifling thing, but he did just fucking fly through the air with him while he bled out half dead, etc. Abandoning his tools for now, he shimmies closer, stretches an arm across his shoulders.]

..Of course.

[He's guided up further -- to sit up just a bit more, so he can reach the underside of his legs with his other hand, pick him up from there. Takasugi's a heavy weight in his arms, heavier than usual. A combination of their current states.

For a flash of a moment, he thinks to feed off him. He won't, obviously. It's a transitory consequence of harboring a monster. He could always depart, feast on some unsuspecting victim and return, but he'd rather not leave the man's side for now, lest something go awry. Thinking of retrieving some water for painkillers is a concern in and of itself.

The bed isn't so far away, and Takasugi's eventually, carefully settled upon it.]

What hurts?

[Less asinine than are you feeling alright, he thinks.]

[shikomizue]

[Without complain, Solomon lifts him gently. There's nothing left of the beast that had nearly torn him in two, the howling creature that looked at him with barely restrained hunger. It's almost disappointing, to be treated so gingerly after such a show.

But, it's necessary, so he accepts.

His functioning arm winds around the man's neck, supporting some of his weight as he's transferred from bloody, glass littered carpet to the bed.

Once he's released, Takasugi stretches as much as his wounds will allow. Deep breath, one that doesn't hurt, followed by a tentative roll of his head on the pillow. It's comfortable, all things considered. Better than the forest floor-

From his position, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile are visible only barely, beneath the blanket he's half-draped over himself.] Are you worried?

[semblant]

[To deny it would be outright bullshit, to admit it feels -- Takasugi's making a farce out of his situation. Softly, he's pursing his lips to that smile, and in a move hardly demonstrative of a good doctor, he's physically moving over him, climbing over him in an exaggerated way to not apply weight to any one limb. The idea was to put a robe on, at the very least...but here we have him sliding into the available space to his side, drawing the sheets up further, reeling him in in a way that's got him molded to his side offering whatever warmth he can.

A stark contrast to the chaos exchanged between them earlier, the chaos that endures outside.]

I am.

[His head bows forward, forehead finding a place high on his cheek.]

I'll listen for your pulse. Sleep.