sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-05 00:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, aspel cassul, magnolia paget, rictor cassul |
and i'll wait to tell what's wrong or right, and no fear of dying keeps me alive.
Who: Aspel Cassul, Magnolia Paget, Rictor Cassul, and a Babil.
What: The outing of her fell abilities to the one person who should never have found out.
Where: In the battle.
When: Day two of the attack (backdated).
Rating: Violence.
Status: Complete.
The truth about her death, and subsequent reviving hadn't set in more than a surface scratch at this point, though at the same time, it lingered, like a deep wound. An internal infection that she knew not of, could not comprehend in the least other than in this moment the tickling in the back of her mind, the feeling of not being quite right didn't matter for now. She could deal with it later, if she chose to deal with it at all. With a huff of air, and a clanging of the blood soaked jet black armor, Aspel hoisted herself up over a hunk of debris that blocked her and Mag's path. While the other woman may be able to leap over it without a thought, even the minor jump it required from Aspel - while doable - was still quite the chore. She landed with a grunt, going down to one knee from the amount of strained movement, and weight of the armor - clearly sturdier than anything she had worn before - was dented, and dug in uncomfortably, but comfort, in this moment needed to be the last of her concerns especially with the scene that unfolded before her eyes once their previous obstacle had been cleared. There stood Rictor, all hard lines and stern features, raging against the throes of battle, fighting on the best he could and... seeming not to do so well against the mammoth tower that stood over him. "Faram." Right now her own exhaustion, her own mental break, her own pain, and suffering could not, would not matter, not with Rictor facing off against a beast like this - seemingly - alone. Scrambling to her feet, the hammer was instantly drawn as she sprinted up to her brother, hair soaked and sticking to her face in places from a mixture of sweat and blood. "Rictor!" She called out to help assure that he could know that assistance had arrived as she slid to a halt next to him. "What works?" The words came out gasped, and a glance over her would easily reveal that earlier on she must have been much the worse for wear, but that didn't matter, for right now she was here, where he needed her to be, and there she would remain. He looked back over his shoulder, immediately taking in the fortunate arrival of the two women —his sister and a flash of recognisable red hair. What worried Mag was not Rictor, or the Babil; it was Aspel, who less than an hour ago had been dead--and this time, Ari was not around to revive her if something went awry. It would be up to her to keep her alive, no matter what. She used Armor Break on the beast to weaken it (the sooner it was dispatched, the lower the odds of something going south) and said, "They're weak to the Dark," unable to keep her eyes from flickering to Rictor, dreading the look that would no doubt appear on his face when he saw his sister unleashing Fell abilities on the beast. He was oblivious for now, however, simply delivering a low and cracked curse under his breath. "Well, that fucking explains a lot," he said, readjusting his grip on the blood-slick handle of his gunblade. "My holy magic hasn't been doing shit, so I've just been hacking at it and using bullets." The man looked like hell: weary, bleeding, his armour dented, exhausted from slowly whittling down this towering titan, a war of attrition rather than Ric's usual speed approach. But even so, Aspel looked worse. There was no time to ask about it—no time to check in on each other, all three of them knew and understood the practicalities—and so Rictor immediately followed Mag's lead instead, another Armor Break to chip away at the Babil's defenses. The explanation of defenses, and weaknesses, along with how poorly Rictor seemed to be fair caused her heart to leap into her throat, and stomach to churn. Aspel had the perfect weapon to devastate this monster, and - another glance ar Rictor - clearly there was only one option of what to do with the abilities at her command. She could not let him fall as she had before. He deserved a better life and fate than she herself had ever had. A murmured incantation and a flick of her wrist sent a Cure spell sailing in Rictor's direction - which she hoped would hit, his aim was likely better than her, especially in her shaken state - and then her attention was turned upon the beast at hand. Hefting the hammer up in both hands, and locking her jaw, a look of pure apology was shot to the man she'd been working so hard to rebuild a life with here in Emillion. "Rictor, forgive me." With a swallow, Aspel shifted. "Mag, clear him back!" With only an instant lost the smith charged in, a blow smashed against her side in the process of movement which was recovered from well enough. Pushing forward Aspel found herself in range finally, and with a growl summoned up the bluish purple light - her bones cracking, and blood leaking through to coat her own armor more - to overtake the section of ground the Babil had occupied as Unholy Sacrifice ripped through the beast like nothing that had been tried before. If there was anything that may have been said to soften the blow for Rictor, Mag did not know what it was, and did not have time to search for it. "Stay back while she's attacking and heal," she said simply, and began to weave Dragonmend around the three of them. The healing energy of both curative spells sank into Rictor, easing his physical pain and exhaustion, buoying him where he stood, but the sight had struck him dumb and motionless. “What?” he asked, the single word thick on his tongue with shock. “What the fuck’s happening to her?” Rictor knew. He knew the look of that spell—had practiced enough with Divina, had seen what Scarlet could do in battle, had felt the acrid roiling sickness of the Dark in the sewers beneath the city—but the facts simply didn’t line up here. The information failed to parse, refused to sink in. It suddenly explained all the blood on her armour, dried and caked in the cracks far more than ought to have been humanly possible. Only one thing explained the wounds opening up on his sister’s body without visible cause, skin splitting and blood seeping out as if she were being beset by invisible weapons. Only one thing. “No.” Rictor was staying back, all right, and his sword suddenly felt too heavy and too loose in his hand, his unshakable grip on the verge of failing. Mag’s words hadn’t registered—she’d given him some sort of instruction but he hadn’t heard it, everything moving strange and slow as if underwater, a deafening roar in his ears. Another growl was released, words spit like venom rolling from Aspel’s lips. "Today, you meet your end!" Then a seeping opaque blackness began to gather at her fingers, starting to roll up and over her hand - much like any spell, but obviously oh so different - with a step back, and a sharp jerking of her arm Darkga went sailing through the air to smash into the monster before them. It was by no means an end, but the beast reacted just as poorly as she hoped, writhing under the force, and contents of the spell. The blow was substantial, ripping parts of stone away and sending them flying like shrapnel to the ground. It wouldn't take much more to beat this monster as long as Aspel continued to invoke the Dark. It seemed as though the thing might fall any second―a blessing, considering Rictor seemed to have frozen―but just as Aspel readied to attack again, Mag saw the monster twitch. Dragging strength out of nowhere, it charged in Aspel’s direction. Aspel, who was already sustaining more than enough damage thanks to her attack pattern. “Aspel, stay back!” Mag cried, and ran in front of her friend. The Babil’s massive strength pushed her back; she wondered if her legs would give way, but she remained standing. (And as long as she could stand, she would make sure Aspel was too.) The Babil relented, perhaps to ready its last attempt at taking down the humes in front of it; before any further assault could come their way, Mag muttered, “Stay down already,” and Jumped. As the dragoon disappeared, Rictor finally (finally) thawed and sprang into action: he leapt forward and took Mag’s place in front of his sister, claymore swinging up despite the heavy nausea in his gut, the prickling fire that had set into his limbs. He refused to look at Aspel, simply winnowing all of his attention down to the Babil, distracting it, covering for her. He’d already whittled away at the golem’s health by himself despite the damaging toll it took on him, and Aspel’s attacks (that familiar cloying cold in the air, sucking away at his soul, he knew it, oh, Faram, he knew that taste in the back of his throat) had brought it to near-death. So for now he held the monster at bay, stalling, delaying, just in time for— For Mag to come crashing down from the sky, landing on the Babil and driving it into the ground, knocking it off its feet. Before Aspel could channel any more Dark magic, Ric swung his gunblade and slammed into the monster, and it moved no more. And neither did the three of them. He stood there with breath heaving, blood dripping onto the ground, gaze still trapped on the fallen golem. It was immune to holy magic. Mind reeling, Rictor tried to remember what he’d learned of these beasts, studying Sauvage’s primer while in squirehood. What had it said? Priests of high enough rank to speak directly to the gods are alone allowed to communicate with these executors of divine will. Perhaps this was Faram’s judgment. For not noticing, for not knowing. Perhaps they deserved to have fallen here in its stead. It is thought the Babil’s numbers are growing, and some scholars warn that a great reckoning may soon be at hand. Rictor took a deep breath, struggling to fill his lungs. There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen, and he didn’t know if it was due to the situation, his rising emotions, or the lingering effects of the Dark nearby. “What was that,” he said flatly, into the air, more a statement than a question. The slick cool, the welcome of Dark, the force of its pressure, and tingle it left across Aspel’s skin, the darkened tint that settled into her eyes briefly with each moment of its use began to fade, and the head of her hammer fell to touch the ground. There was a brief notion of falling to her knees, joining the head of her hammer as Aspel’s body felt like giving out, laying on the ground and letting some grand beast trample her into it even more was tempting, but then, what would she have done all this fighting for? Rictor’s words echoed through her head, and Aspel instantly realized, today was not her day, she couldn’t fall yet. “A tool to save lives.” The words were breathy, difficult to speak but certain. There was no fear, or doubt in that one instance of her life. Metal clanked, and leather squeaked as Aspel moved to stand to her full height them, hammer being raised as she straightened up. Eyes scanned over what was in front of them, there was still a war on the horizon that they needed to fight. Raising the sledgehammer up, she started to step forward to find herself staggering in movement at best. Faram. How was she supposed to keep fighting like this? The certainty in his voice made Mag move again; this time she stood not between fighter and monster, but between siblings. Her feet moved on their own; the least battered of the three, her spear was still gripped in her hand instead of holstered, like a guardian standing vigil. “Something you don’t have time to dwell on, considering the situation.” From the neighboring streets, the sounds of crumbling brick and screaming that had become background noise over the past day seemed louder than ever; but no matter how many monsters remained, one thing had to come first. Moving to help Aspel learn on her, a practiced routine, Mag threw one last look at Rictor to gauge the timing of the explosion that would no doubt come in the near future, saw the fuse still burning, some measure of time in which to get to safety and, hopefully, gain some measure of perspective. “You should see a healer, Rictor,” she said, a wry smile that was a mere shadow of their usual banter. “You look like shit.” And placing her arm around Aspel’s waist, she began to lead her away, away from the dangers of other enemies and misconceptions, leaving those for others to face, some other time. |