zenderael_rl | [EVENT]

[Closed to Ezra/Nadir... for now.]

The battle had gone on for an hour, but Rhys and Roman were still at it. Fury may have been the only thing driving them past their exhaustion. Mal's offering of mail had done a lot to protect Rhys, but an icicle was still wedged into the Ahura's shoulder. Fury let him ignore that, too, and the trail of blood he left behind with his motions.

Kharveryos was equally relentless. No matter how many times he fell, he reformed back on all four feet. Undeath would outlast a berserker's battle lust.

Zale had been removed from the fight after taking a blow to the left leg from Kharveryos' tail. It didn't support his weight anymore, and he had been forced to flee to a fort he had built out of tables. The food was too frozen to eat, but that wasn't as much of a disappointment as his inevitable death. He picked up one of the small, cinammon honey balls. He forgot what they were called already. Maybe he could use them as projectiles. ~~(Noelle may or may not have been resorting to kebabs as arrows.)~~

Ezra would find his hiding place in the kitchen gave him a clear view of the battle through the windows. The door had been frozen half open rather than closed, by anyone wanting in or out would have to be willing to run under Kharyveros to do it. At the very least, he was protected from stray frost breath, but not the cold itself.

Edited 2012-07-11 21:11 (UTC)

It was humiliating, and frightning, and a million other things, to be one of the ones hiding away and shivering like mad, able to watch but not act. Nadir didn't remember the raids, he remembered, and he'd forgotten himself that necessary deathblow by cleric or paladin. And as the group of them got tossed around like ragdolls, Ezra could only feel guilt at being so totally unable to help. Rhys must have gone off the deep end with fury now, there was no way he could have kept it together for so long. He tried to ignore what looked like an icicle stuck in his back. Sometimes bad eyesight was an excuse he could fall back on.

Rogue out, hunter maybe bolted, he didn't see her anywhere. Nadir had taken a good slap aside by one of the wings and held an arm awkwardly, having gotten grazed by the vicious teeth at an inopportune moment (though what moment was ever good to get nearly bit by an undead dragon?) The spellsword wasn't looking any better than the rest of them, anyway.

The kitchen seemed eerily quiet, even with the noise outside. Everything had already been knocked over, everyone out the supply doors when he'd first run in. No one else had come in, making for the exits. Was everyone else okay? He didn't dare move to check.

Nadir's sword fizzled. Panting, ill- hopefully not due to the undead effect but that was wishful thinking, Nadir knew poisoning when he had it- he cursed, trying to pull up more energy, anything, but knew it was useless. He glanced aside, fell back, saw the door and staggered in to the kitchen. Ezra caught his shoulder and they knelt together, Ezra amazed at how hot Nadir's skin must be beneath the shirt, or how cold he must be to feel it that way.

"This isn't working," Ezra said, teeth chattering.

"No shit," slurred Nadir unhelpfully. Ezra had put someone else's jacket on. He took it off and ripped the sleeve off, trying to tie it around Nadir's arm. "Now what?"

When Ezra looked over Nadir's shoulder from the make-shift first aid efforts, he would notice abruptly that he wasn't alone.

Lying against the cabinets was an elderly man, hair streaked grey and skin ashen with age. His eyes were closed as if in slumber, head slumped forehead, and a bloodied hand resting over his chest. Blood was dripping over his chain mail, and his white pauldrons were cracked from the wear of battle. His other hand was limp at his side, open, but hilt of his longsword still resting against his palm.

It bore the symbol of Bastan, and still had a lingering holy energy on the blade that Nadir would be able to see.

It took a second glance, having looked up to see something entirely different, to notice the old man. Nadir snapped at him when he pulled the makeshift bandage too tight. "What- hey, hey!" he called out, hand on Nadir's shoulder, first for assurance and second for stability as he pushed back up to his feet, sneakers slipping on the icy floor. Nadir turned as well, confused at the suddenness of Ezra's move.

"Hey, old man- oh God," he muttered, hands hovering over the man's shoulders. Blood first, but as his hands reached out he noticed what they lingered over. Pauldrons? "H-hey," he mumbled, not sure of what he was seeing.

"What is it?" Nadir struggled to say. He crouched down next to Ezra, then swore sharply.

"Don't say that."

"His sword-"

"I said don't say that!" Ezra snapped, pressing his lips together. He didn't want to look at it. He already knew what it was.

Nadir made a sound, then a sign, falling silent. For a moment neither of them heard what was going on outside. Then Nadir shifted, taking his knife out of his boot. Every physical effort was dragging him down now, but he forced himself through the sluggishness.

"What are you doing?" Ezra hissed. Nadir ignored him. "Take his mail off. We need to cut in."

"Wha- no, no, fuck you!"

"What other answer have you got, Amos?" the spellsword said angrily. "Mail off. Before someone else finds him! X-Dav already has agents here."

Stunned, Ezra moved to comply. He watched in surreal slow motion as Nadir took his gloves off with visible effort, before pressing his hand to the man's abdomen. "...sorry about this," he murmured, then dug in.

It took a moment. Finally, Ezra took over himself, numb to what he was doing. "What am I looking for?" he asked.

"Colon."

"Right. Of course." Part of him was at least glad the man was so warm on the inside. He found himself giggling when he thought suddenly of Star Wars.

The corpse hadn't lost its body heat from the outside yet, either. This kill was fresh, but removing his mail revealed that neither of his stab wounds should have been fatal. It didn't matter. A corpse couldn't protect a god-organ. Only a new host could.

The kitchen shook with a tremor, something Kharveryos liked to do every so often when his tail or wings smacked into a wall. Someone called out, but it was drowned away in the dragon's roar.

Nadir wasn't doing well. As he dug around, trying to use the noise from outside to mask the noises from, well, inside, Ezra could see him beginning to waver, even crouched. Kharveryos had a poison bite that took a lot of damage off over time if it weren't looked to immediately.

"Are you sure."

"What?" Nadir asked, wincing, pressing his hand on the floor.

"Are you sure this is him??" Ezra demanded, voice raised, digging in through the flesh. There was a pause, and he stopped, looking back to Nadir, trying to keep his expression from turning into some sort of ghastly grimace. "I'm not just chopping up some dude-"

"No, no," Nadir said, shaking his head. "It's... it's him. No plate. Mauled badly. But it's the Spenta. That sword- it's definitely his."

Ezra moaned through clenched teeth. Colon, colon. Where was it? Everything looked different when it was in someone and not on a graph. He hesitated a little. Had someone before him tried to find it? It explained the state the body was in. Ezra glanced around again, as though expecting to see something drop down on him. Greycloaks? Well, he didn't need the Spenta to think that would happen.

Ah, but when he took it out...

"I can't do this," he said, a whine in his voice. A legitimate whine. Even as he said it, though, he was cutting through organs, using his free hand to dig deeper. What was he even doing? Had Rhys felt this way?

Right. Rhys had done this.

When he expected a rejoinder, he didn't get one. He looked back to Nadir. "...hey. Hey, old man-"

"Don't call me that," Nadir said, irritable, but barely audible. Ezra swallowed. His stomach rolled when he looked back to the Spenta. God, what a mess, what a fucking mess.

"Tell me when. Hey! Stay awake! Tell me when!"

He reached in and pulled, pulled, pulled. "There. That's it."

How did Nadir even know that?? No, he didn't want to know. He used the knife to cut the colon loose. Maybe he could see something Ezra couldn't? Spellswords could do that, right? (Sometimes he felt Nadir could see his thoughts, too, but that was just because Ezra was too obvious sometimes.) "I can't do this," he said, staring at the lump of flesh. It looked like a slug. A big, bloody slug.

"Ezra."

"I can't- you do it-"

"Just... put it. In your mouth. And chew."

Nadir was dying in front of him. There was no rezzing here. Ezra knew that. Nadir knew that. Rhys was out there, bleeding like a stuck pig. The hunter, the berserker, the rogue, even if they were with X-DAV, and everyone else trapped in the building, wouldn't be able to keep up with either the dragon or the cold for very much longer.

"Fuck you," he muttered, the organ trying to slip through his bloody hands. Ezra shut his eyes.

It was not long after the last bite.

With the god-organ came the blessing of the gods-- or some other higher power-- waiting to be commanded. It promised to defend, to heal, to protect. With the Spenta's power, the feel of undeath and the Dark taint were so much more crisp and clear. And, perhaps, so much more repulsive to his sharpened senses for it.

Outside, Kharveryos had recently reformed from falling another time, roaring with renewed vigor, lashing out a the persistent berserkers.

[Fight is now reopened. \o/]

Rhys was still under fury. Even after Kharveryos had fallen, too much of him knew the battle wasn't over, that it wouldn't ever be over.

He lunged at Kharveryos, ignoring the ice breath launched his way. Another icicle shot itself into Rhys' thigh, ignored. Kharveryos snapped its jaws forward, but Rhys grabbed onto its fangs, unblinking, and swung Kharveryos' head into the ground.

The crack he gave the skull meant nothing to the skeletal dragon, and with another bellowing roar, a point blank frost blast of frost breath sent Rhys smashing against the back wall.

The revulsion of what he'd done hit him first, and he wasted precious moments throwing up, his body purging itself of everything except the one thing he wanted to be rid of. No, it'd taken like a fish to water, that colon, and when he managed to stop gagging, when the sounds of the battle hit his ears again, it was the sudden wave of wrong hitting him that made him want to puke again.

Kharveryos.

The sickness was quickly taken over by anger, anger that such a thing could even exist, nevermind that it should be here where it didn't belong. He could smell it, feel it, like the darkness was trying to sink into his skin and every ounce of him rejected it with nothing short than utter disdain and hatred for its very existence.

Okay. Yeah, he could see why paladins were called uppity sometimes.

He breathed in. His stomach wasn't settled, but he could ignore it now, could move. He grabbed the rest of the jacket, ignoring how bad he was shaking (demi-godhood didn't do much for the cold), and roughly wiped his face clean before tossing it aside. He crouched in front of Nadir, taking both of his shoulders, though the man was slumped over now. "This better work, or I swear I will find a way to res you and kill you again," he muttered. What- what was he supposed to do? He could feel it, something that seemed to stay steady inside him. He shut his eyes again, focussing on it. What was he supposed to do? What did he want done?

And then the answer was there. He called it up, a cleansing spell that washed away the taint of poison from Nadir's body, that healed the wounds and gave him back some energy in the process. Nadir breathed in, coughed, kept coughing, and Ezra gave him a shake. The spellsword looked up, and Ezra grinned, shakily.

"This thing's got armour, right?"

Rhys hadn't even hit the ground before there were hands on him, guiding him to the floor. "Distract it!" he yelled at Nadir. Rhys was bleeding like nobody's business. Crouched beside him in spirit-woven armour, Ezra slapped his face (as though that might help, way to go) before he called up a healing spell, a light that wound its way through Rhys' body, sealing up every cut, erasing every bruise. At best for a normal paladin, it would have had the same effect as a mid-level heal from a cleric. Being the Spenta had some perks from being a regular paladin.

"Get up, get up," he muttered, picking up the longsword again that he'd dropped when he'd clutched at Rhys' shoulders. "I need you, man!"

Roman was still on the task of distracting it. Fury had set in long term, leaving him fighting past several broken ribs, a lot of open gashes, and a huge slew of bruises. He was going to hate waking up in the morning, if he lived long enough to.

But having Nadir to help instead of having Kharveryos's attention focused solely on him would be nice.

Just as the wing was coming back to bat Roman away again, a strong rush of air deflected it, Nadir having sliced through the air like a batter at plate, sending a shockwave upwards, causing the dragon to stumble a little, knocking its skeletal frame slightly off balance.

He hadn't felt this good since- since before he'd come here, since before the greycloaks had attacked him. Had it been that long? Having been with a cleric for so long, he realized he'd taken for granted how terrible life could be without one. He'd learned better here, of course, and was that much more grateful for having had the chance to be healed again.

Kharveryos made a noise like grinding bones, whipping the triangular head around to see what had distracted it from the berserker. His sword suddenly came to life with blazing fire, and he used an earth shield to deflect the teeth that came after him, dropping it immediately in order to smack it in the face, sending its head into the ground with the force of the hit.

"Amos! Hurry up!"

Fury had faded, but clarity didn't come with it. Rhys' mind swam in darkness, and pain radiated in a blur across his body. He couldn't see, though he was sure he was blinking his eyes. (He wasn't.) I've had worse. Thinking that didn't make his limbs obey him. Move. He didn't. Jordan was going to kill him.

Something warm washed over him, like a fire inside. No, gentler. The pain was fading. Rhys' body jerked awake with a sharp breath, eyes wide and on Ezra. His hand went to his shoulder where he knew he had been struck (he wouldn't have known about the thigh) to find his flesh mended, then fell to Ezra' sword.

Rhys stared again at Ezra, then almost grinned, then laughed in silence and pulled himself to his feet. His head was still light and dizzy, but Rhys had fight left in him yet. He held his hand up to grip Ezra's in a comradely gesture to show he was still with him, then with a nod, clenched his fist and headed back into battle.

"Don't look so fuckin' smug," he said, grasping Rhys' hand before he let it go. He heard Nadir yelling at him and he looked to see where he was motioning.

Ah, fuck. The other berserker. And he still had to find the rogue. Where did he end up?...

He almost felt like holding his breath- the stench of undeath was almost overbearing. Letting Nadir and Rhys resume the attack, Ezra took a moment to gather himself, then took off running to the other side of the dragon. He checked to make sure he could clear it before he suddenly dropped, using the slipperiness of the floor to slide past the ribcage, forgoing running around the dragon and simply going underneath it, his sneakers having little to no traction on the floor. It brought him to the other side in record time, though he almost lost the sword when he banged his hand on the ground. Shit.

He managed to use his hands to slow himself, to get back up to his feet. The other berserker was easy to spot, and Ezra reached out. Even from a distance he could feel how he could transfer that healing light to another person. It was- it was a strange feeling, an amazing feeling, like he was tapping into something he wasn't sure he deserved to, something pure and awesome. If it was like this just as a paladin, how much moreso as a cleric?

"Where's the other one?" he yelled at Roman. No use killing it if he was dead. (Zale wouldn't get any experience from the mvp if he died first!)

What was that? Was that--healing?

Roman had a sudden burst of clarity, pausing right before rushing at the dragon to let the wave of magic wash over him. His fury faded along with his wounds.

He shook it off, like a dog throwing water off its head, and gave Ezra a confused stare. Was he--were those Spenta powers? Definitely a paladin, at the very least.

So that was the plan, huh?

"Uh..." The other one... Zale? Roman cast a glance around for him, found him, and then pointed. "Over there. Hey, listen, you gotta kill this thing for us the next time it falls apart."

Zale's hand shot up high in the air from behind a nearby table thrown sideways. "Yes! Me! Other guy! Present!" He had seen the heals happening and he wanted in on them because he was growing to miss having been able to walk.

He shrieked and ducked under a stray icicle flying in his direction. "But uh, you know, I'm not dying so if you want to go ahead and finish up, I can wait."

Uh. "Are... are you sure?" Ezra took a moment to ask. Kharveryos roared and Ezra snapped his head back to him. "...right, uh, sounds good to me," he called back. Probably best just to make sure nothing more hit him.

"How close you figure it is to falling?" he asked Roman. Asked- really, they were all kind of yelling at one another, the dragon making noise with every move it made. Ezra shifted his grip on the longsword like his palm was sweaty, but it was too cold for that. Instead he found himself trying to find an uncomfortable way to hold it. He really couldn't. It just fit.

That's not fair, he thought. I just looted a body for this thing.

"Amos!" came the call, and he nodded in Nadir's direction. "That one- third from the shoulderblades!"

Ezra nodded, trying to remember what he could of Nadir's teachings, trying to remember what skills a paladin could use. Heals, disenchants, buffs.... crowd control. Right. He struck his sword out, and something like white lightning whipped out, grabbing Kharveryos' head and jerking it towards him, lining him up for a perfect shot of holy enchanted sword to the face. The dragon screamed like ripping metal, jerking back again before turning its body to focus on this new pest.

This was scary. No lie. No fuckin' lie.

"Keep hittin' it!" he yelled at the other three. Kharveryos wound up and snapped at him- Ezra brought the sword back up, the clang of bone against metal resounding in his own ears. The sheer proximity of it was sickening. "Bad dragon!" he muttered, bringing the sword up again to fend off another potential attack.

Now that Kharveryos was more interested in Ezra-- partly surreal, but mainly impressive-- it gave Rhys an opportunity of attack. He made his way around the back, ducking under a swipe of Kharveryos' tail and latching onto the base to swing up onto its back.

His balance was precarious here, but he didn't wait to catch it before throwing all his strength into a downward punch at the vertebrae Nadir had called out. Between the wings and Kharveryos' thrashing, Rhys was thrown from his back, looking up from the ground to see its skeletal form shuddering from the blow.

Yeah, seriously, Ezra? Doing shit? Doing useful shit? It was hard to say who would be the last person to think he'd end up being one of the useful ones in all this, but Ezra himself was definitely on the list.

He could see it- well, see it in a metaphorical sense. (It was a wonder his glasses were still on, really.) The vertebrae was going to bring everything crashing down. He let himself get distracted by Rhys punching it in the back (man how cool was that OH WAIT shit shit dragon) and almost ended up getting flung aside. Arms up to form an X in front of his face, he only managed to get knocked back, as though the light within him refused to be moved any further by such an abherration. He growled, elbowing it in the snout, and the dragon cried out, angry.

But it was too late. The punch had reverberated through every joint and every bone, and the main reason it didn't lift its head again was because every bone fell seperately to the ground, the wings like tattered sails on the floor. He knew the pattern by now. Only a few seconds. He ran through the mess, to the center of it all, feeling out for that one piece- it practically screamed in his head, the source of darkness that kept this form moving.

Ezra grunted and brought the sword up, only to bring it down. As the sword dug itself in through the bone and the ice and the tile floor beneath it, the familiar white sigil of a disenchantment flared out around it, creating a pillar of light that shot through the ceiling, lifting several of the bones with it. Then it seemed to shatter like glass, and the "pieces" fell away and faded, harmless.

He waited, sword still stuck in the ground. And waited.

"...this... this is a good sign," he murmured, flexing his fingers around the hilt of the sword.

Was that it?

Roman waited for the dragon to make a comeback, but the fog faded, the temperature began climbing back up from its frigid current state, and the scattered bones vanished.

It was over.

He straightened, letting out a long, slow, heavy sigh.

He picked his way through the debris the fight had scattered to stand beside Ezra. He folded his arms and looked the kid over. "Spenta, right?" And then he threw a glance over his shoulder toward Rhys. "And he's the Ahura."

Ezra sighed too, taking a moment to relax before he yanked the longsword out of the ground, not as easy to do as it had been to drive it in. Adrenaline maybe. He rolled his shoulder, glancing aside as Nadir took out his phone with a curious look.

Roman said something, and Ezra looked back to him, eyes skimming over Rhys for just a second. Suddenly he recalled the whole of the situation and stiffened, not bothering to mask his distrust. Maybe a good thing he hadn't healed the rogue right away.

"...yeah," he said. Couldn't deny it with spirit armour on, could he? "Unless you want the old one. He's in the kitchen."

Despite the bravado, there was a green tinge to his face and he glanced aside. Nadir was texting something, an annoyed look on his face as he looked up to check something, but he could tell the spellsword's attention was on them also. "Okay, my turn. Two questions, right? Who are you, and what do you want?"

Rhys got himself up to join Ezra, but when he saw the X-DAV berserker, his pace quickened and his expression hardened into anger. He stopped beside Ezra and clenched his fits, falling back into a battle ready stance. Healing magic didn't heal the exhaustion from the battle, but the other berserker would be tired too, and Rhys wasn't about to let X-DAV have their way now that Ezra was involved.

The only thing that stopped him from moving his threat beyond a basic challenge was Ezra's choice to question the berserker. Rhys wanted those answers, too.

Roman looked them both over with a bland expression, registering their obvious hostility and considering his next move.

"Name's Roman," he answered, gaze falling on Ezra. He watched Rhys out of the corner of his eye. "What I want is to give you two the chance to go end that siege on Bastan."

Ezra, without thinking, had put a hand aside in front of Rhys, making sure to keep him back. He waited, patient but not at all pleased, for Roman's answer.

He blinked, confusion briefly flitting across his face. "You," he asked, "or X-DAV? 'Cause I already been jumped by greycloaks once. I dunno if I wanna try that trick again."

To end the siege... was that possible? His eyes flickered to Rhys, but the look didn't linger.

"Not that it matters where we are now though, right?" he continued. "So you guys set up the siege. Why d'you want us to end it?"

Rhys was reluctant to stand down, but with a glance to Ezra, he did. His eyes locked on Roman, expression only snapping out of anger for a flicker of surprise, then faded into to thoughtful.

The siege. He'd thought about his responsibility as the Ahura since it started. It wasn't something that was going to solve itself, and with characters becoming real, real people were dying from it.

He was thankful Ezra was here to ask questions, finding his eyes wandering to the floor in contemplation.

Roman sighed and shook his head. "You guys are giving X-DAV way too much fucking credit."

He looked up, letting his arms fall. "Listen. I have friends back there who are throwing themselves against those walls because they want you." He gave Rhys a pointed look. "I'm not interested in killing anybody or destroying anything. I'm a problem solver. This is a problem. I'm solving it."

[9pm]

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