gillian. (chiburui) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-10 14:59:00 |
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Traveling from the Company’s offices, Gillian stood on the roof of a building, scouting from the highpoint and allowing herself a glimpse of the neighborhood beyond. Some of her armor was damaged now from battle, covered in dark splotches of dried blood and caked grit, her helmet set down beside her on the stone railing as she gazed down. Decent vantage for an archer, she thought, if not for all the Mist. There were signs of movement of things further out, fires scattered like warning beacons, no doubt roused from the violence and chaos, and the distant, echoing sounds of the footfall of those who still ran about the streets, attempting to find some manner of sanctuary. Reminded less of a city she herself was deeply rooted in, and more of some fell ruins, those ancient necrohols of civilizations long dead--perhaps from an area which echoed similar circumstances, laid to ruin by Faram, or fate, or whatever higher forces seemed eager to punish the city. It was not a thought she much enjoyed, and perhaps it was the determination to see Emillion not succumb to such similar ends that quieted other thoughts, words rolling around in her mind about good sense and survival. She wasn’t looking to find herself killed on these streets, after all--but she reasoned that the EKP couldn’t be left to handle everything, or even that supposed taskforce (concern pricked her skin at that particular thought, and Gillian was forced to quickly swat it aside). So it was that the mercenary found herself back on the hunt, donning her helmet once again and taking the metal stairs down to the alley below. Somewhere in the Mist, shapes moved. There was another animal haunting the alley with no intention but escape and getting out of the way, skittering through the shadows. Another citizen who might have cause to outright avoid the Knights of the Peace (an instinctive aversion, doled out to her by her mother). But Ofelia came to an abrupt halt as soon as she saw the helmeted mercenary. Armoured as they were, it wasn’t one she might have recognised, ordinarily—but she saw the black-maned crest on the woman’s shoulder, a glimpse of blonde hair tied back, a familiar katana that she’d seen decapitating men at the docks. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said, but that was an unmistakable note of strain in the woman’s voice: trying to seem light and breezy as if this were any other social engagement. A ball with formal invites sent through the mail, and not a cataclysm that had swept them all up into it uninvited, unannounced. It reminded Ofelia too much of the wreckage at the docks but extended to the entire city, ripples and waves spreading and catching them all in its wake. “Out for a jaunt, are you?” Nothing was clear as to Gillian’s expression, safely shrouded as it now was behind her helmet’s snarling faceplate. Behind the weapon and the damaged armor and the unfailing gait toward the other woman however (as seemingly natural to her now as the pull and rush of the tide), she felt herself tense at once. No pleasant surprise was this, for once, and immediately she had cause to regret the sight. Or, perhaps not—a bodyguard’s instinct was quick to take over. Hammering down her thoughts to those iron-wrought barriers of work and duty, a safe structure to grasp in lieu of being pulled under, Gillian took careful stock of the situation she now found herself in. Carving a path through monsters assailing the city, now that had been something to expect—finding Ofelia Zhou still wandering through the alleyways at a time as this had most definitely been not. “Neighborhood like this, it’s better not to wander out alone.” She shrugged her shoulders, attempting to ease out the sudden tension, but the offer extended was clear enough. “You say it like a chaperone warning off a teenaged daughter from the tenements district.” Ofelia was still making light, but the relief was evident in the way she drifted closer to Gillian, taking shelter in the other woman’s presence. She’d been trying to make her way to a thieves guild safehouse, only to find roads barred by debris and snarling monsters in the gloom; she’d reconfigured her path again and again, like a rat turning corners in a maze. Concern painted itself across the gambler’s face, her poker face shattered for once. “The few big, strapping fighters I know all seem to be indisposed,” Fee said, almost sounding apologetic. “I’d appreciate some company.” Gillian rested her hand on the handle of her katana, resisting any possible urges she might’ve had to place a hand on Ofelia’s shoulder. Not as useful a gesture to sweep aside one’s concerns in a situation as this than to take the principal out of the path of danger (and how best that might be done here was anyone’s guess). “This way,” she offered, without a shade of hesitation, a nod of her head to the other end of the alley, “and be sure to keep close.” Moving across the assailed landscape of the city proved a difficult effort. Whatever paths hadn’t been blocked by strings of monsters, others were clotted with fire and debris. Keeping threats to a minimum wasn’t an easy task, not even for the commander of the Black Lions—take a wrong turn and fighting was inevitable. Gillian sheathed her sword again, feeling at once the ache of a battered sword-arm, a sting that went singing along her nerves and upward toward her shoulder. The ruins of a Babil laid strewn about behind the pair in a clutter of rubble, but she could still feel the monster’s spells ghosting across her skin, a pain that continued to linger regardless of her attempts to shrug it aside. With a gauntleted fist she adjusted her faceplate, moving it aside so she could better see, perhaps, how her charge was faring. “Pharmaceutical shop nearby,” she said, allowing a glimpse to the hume underneath the battered armor. “Wouldn’t hurt to scour for supplies.” The samurai had already pulled Ofelia out of the fire more times than she could count, stepping herself into harm’s way in return, leaving her principal mostly uninjured even as the long, long day dragged on. But Ofelia’s limp had grown more pronounced (Riyeko’s knee-brace worked wonders, but even that had a limit), and the gambler felt the slow-boil frustration rising in her throat. I’m slowing you down, she’d been on the verge of saying more than once. Leave me. I’ll find my own way. But every time she considered it, every time she weighed the words on her tongue, they fell back for reasons she couldn’t identify. “We are running low. And no one’s using them at the moment,” Ofelia remarked. Peering down the street, she could see that the door of the shop was intact, but the front window had shattered at some point while the ground bucked and rolled beneath the street, the wall now gaping open for anyone to enter if they had a mind to. “It’s not looting if it’s needed, is my philosophy.” “Advice well taken,” Gillian agreed with a sharp chuckle, apparently unwilling to gamble their lives on the notions of higher ideals. She led the way over toward the shop then, carefully keeping an eye out for whatever might seek to hinder their way next and maneuvering a path through the glass and rubble. A quick look around the shop determined that the pair of women hadn’t been the first to take survival as priority. The shop was more of a mess on the inside, with shelves broken and potion bottles scattered along the floor. Not everything had been looted, but Gillian suspected finding supplies intact wouldn’t be as easy as preferred. “Here’s hoping not every shop’s seen similar fate,” she said, leaning for a moment against the check-out counter. Gillian took off her helmet and a mass of blonde hair cascaded out, some of it stained with the hints of dried blood—provided by a cut near her temple, one that had mostly finished bleeding. Her eyes were on the scattered and shattered bottles, but eventually they strayed to Ofelia (her principal, her client, as if the mantra made the predicament somehow simpler, even as the hours at her side continued to pass). Ofelia caught the look and paused as well, examining the dirt and grime and blood streaked across her companion’s face (and friend, perhaps, though she hadn’t examined that definition too closely). Her hand hovered near the other woman’s temple as if to ghost across the cut, then withdrew back to a safe distance, tucked into her pockets. “If this is too draining,” she started, hesitant. “I know it’s harder when there’s just the one of you, and that this is asking quite a bit. If you need to attend to your Lions instead...” Gillian Goodwin was a lone wolf but with an entire pack chasing her heels, looking to and obeying their alpha; Ofelia Zhou, to contrast, slipped along alone in the shadows. “Grown tired of your company already, have I?” Gillian sounded as if she was making light, but this wolf had no intention on straying from her current path and eventually (hesitations from earlier now wearing thin) her hand moved up to rest on Ofelia’s shoulder. No familiar protocol was there for this, she realized, nothing that seemed to suit the situation in a way she found adequate. And so she said nothing about it, merely allowing for the momentary contact, a single, steady tether between them, before pushing herself tiredly from the counter. “Can’t stay here too long, if there’s looters about,” she said, attempting to sound professional (a gentle inflection curving along her voice regardless). “Let’s find what’s usable and keep moving.” Planning, strategy, goals—all tools by which to construct themselves around, lest they forsake the blueprint. That non-answer was answer enough, and Ofelia felt herself soften into a smile. “Alright.” She’d paused for a moment to rest her weight against the gutted shelves, but now settled herself back on her feet, picking her way through the scattered goods and broken glass to sift for unbroken merchandise, potions, ethers, bandages, anything to help them get through the rest of this interminable day. The company was pleasant; the circumstances less so. The sun had finally sunk past the horizon, and with it, the city became even more ominous—the Mist kept its tendrils locked tight around the streets and visibility became near-impossible, a shroud of darkness draping itself over the chaos. They couldn’t keep moving. They would have to throw in the towel and hole up for the night. Ofelia was no battlefield strategician (her expertise came in the form of clandestine operations, a single hand lifting documents from a locked safe, surveillance bugs whispering state secrets into her ears), but even she knew that. She noted Gillian’s movements slowing and flagging, quietly monitored the other woman’s fatigue, and understood that they couldn’t continue. Right after they’d dodged the attentions of another earth elemental and hurried down yet another street in the gloom, Ofelia found herself staring at a hanging placard, surprisingly unbroken though it tilted askew, a stylised portrait of a plumed helmet. The Kranky Knight. These taverns with their silly names always drew dry amusement from her and were a standard of Fee’s late-night dinner foraging. This one was more empty than she’d ever seen it, however—without the stoves running and hot food to offer, it hadn’t drawn much attention as an outpost. “You know, I’d offer you a cup of coffee at my place,” she said thoughtfully, “but getting there has been quite the pain.” The jokes had been a constant undercurrent to their time together, a way to maintain morale even as she watched the samurai taking hit after hit in her stead and concern settled leaden in her chest. She wasn’t paying Gillian for this; it wasn’t her job to bodyguard and possibly risk her life for some foolishly vulnerable gambler. “We’re closer, though. We could probably make it there tomorrow morning, if we stopped to rest now.” “As payment, it’s a start,” Gillian said, but the casual humor had been leaden with exhaustion the further and the further the two had traveled. “But I’d easily settle for a drink along the way.” She dropped her helmet on a heavy wooden table nearby and looked around the room in her usual way—not accustomed to visiting this particular tavern, there were a number of details she tried to account for, even in her current state. Stubbornly locking jaws around her current goal, the mercenary had no apparent intentions of relenting yet. With some hesitation she decided to slip out of her gauntlets too, attempt to inspect her wounds and wash away the blood and grime of battle, and with every expanse of skin revealed, so too were the multitude of scrapes and bruises. Badges of victory at other times, now they served only to make her feel wild, brutal. Blood on her face and grit on her armor, Gillian might have appreciated to appear as otherwise, if the situation would have allowed for it (a sliver of samurai dignity needling its way up her spine). She looked down at the seats, wondering if, in the case she allowed herself to sit, her odds at getting back up to her feet. Not confident in her luck as yet, Gillian rested her palms against the edge of the table and leaned forward, stretching (and slightly regretting it). “Holding up yet, are you?” An attempt to distract herself from her own ailments, she glanced up. "In a manner of speaking." While Gillian focused on cataloguing injuries, Ofelia tended to her own situation (Shall I at least set my lands in order?). She'd sunk onto a low and rickety chair, stretching her sore leg out in front of her, rolling up the loose trouser cuffs in order to get at the knee-brace. Her fingertips flickered across it, readjusting and loosening the hinges where they'd become too tight, leather biting into her skin. Pain flared up and down her leg like lightning rippling in the veins. She sighed. Leaned back into the chair. Then finally dared to sneak a glance at the other woman, her expression deceptively placid. "You're hurt," Ofelia said simply. The comment appeared to serve some sort of effect, as Gillian set herself down in the chair opposite not long after, attempting to mask the degree of her injuries to the other party. If they were going to nestle themselves here for the evening, she quickly decided (pain splintering up from all directions), she would be wise to attempt more healing on herself—Chakra perhaps, if she could muster the energy. With furtive plans looping around in her thoughts on an endless track, the mercenary leaned forward on the table, resting her chin on her palm and giving Ofelia a mild look. “A few of the usual scratches,” she offered, and it would’ve been a highly more successful bluff without all the traces of blood. Or the eyewitness accounts of being batted along the streets by monsters, too, she supposed. I can still protect you is what she absolutely didn’t say, regardless. And if there had been any moments in the day to inspect the nature and scope of her determination to stay at the woman’s side through the city’s current turmoil (weren’t mercenaries supposed to adhere to stricter standards?), Gillian had budged them all cleanly aside. “Worried?” For herself, for her companion, even for the city—details were left conveniently up in the air. "I'd be foolish not to be. I make a habit of analysing the stakes, and the stakes for Emillion aren't quite the best at the moment." Ofelia reached for a bowl of pretzels that had been left unattended on the table, and nibbled at one despite its being stale, unsatisfactory. "If there were bookies taking bets on Emillion and monster attacks..." But simply sitting down and catching their breath was already making a difference, and Ofelia felt her wary guard dropping slightly in the calm of the abandoned tavern. She started rummaging in the inner pocket of her coat, located what she was looking for—a tiny Potion, similar to the miniature bottles one might find in hotel refrigerators—and tossed it to Gillian with a loose underarm swing. “Fortune has a habit of turning when you least expect it,” Gillian offered, with potion bottle now in hand. She offered Ofelia a look that was, or had meant to be, something to the effect of incredulity, but amusement softened its edges, smoothed its surface until she found herself toying around absently with the bottlecap. “I wouldn’t count the city out just yet.” Not that she was in the habit of entertaining blind optimism—but with so many important things at stake, the mercenary wasn’t predisposed to leaving it all up to chance. Gillian twisted the cap and opened the bottle, offering a loose gesture of cheers (“Not quite what I had in mind”) before downing its contents. Bitter and chalky on the palate, she took a moment for the taste to subside before speaking. Now that the two were, for a short while or so it seemed, allowed a brief respite from the dangers outside, she found herself slowly begin to relax. Or just enough, at least, to reach out across the table, palm up. “Your turn now, Ofelia,” she said, gesturing with a slight nod for her to take it. Tit for tat. Gillian had used the name, finally, and that more than anything else led to the sudden grin which bloomed on the gambler’s face. She presented her hand like a student subjecting herself to the school nurse, wrist now turned into the other woman’s grip as the familiar warming heat of Chakra started thrumming along into her pulse, their energies linked, for now. The second day had not brought with it an end to the plague of violence cast upon the city, much to the continued dismay of the two women. Again they attempted to forge on through the hazardous streets, and again they found themselves challenged by the invasion of monsters, Gillian ever at the front to absorb as much of the damage as she could. An evening’s respite had only done so much to alleviate her wounds and exhaustion, but the mercenary displayed no intent of relenting, of giving up her charge and finding her own way through the breadth of this calamity. They moved along together through the hazards of ruptured streets, around the burnt and shattered wreckage of vehicles, and across the confined dangers of each narrow alley, a trail of spilt blood left behind to mark the way they had traveled. However long the distance now between them and their destination, Gillian couldn’t say, but at the sight of yet another monster (no method of evasion afforded without trailing back through a maze of dead-ends) she moved forward to face it down, creating a barrier between it and the woman behind her. Armor damaged, her sword tested with every battle, she once again called upon the spirits of the katana’s blade—Masamune spread around the two in a protective wave of Regen and Haste, an effort to keep them both alive. Gillian moved slower now, more deliberate, even as she felt her wounds begin to mend. She looked back over her shoulder to Ofelia, once, before charging forward. The gambler watched the movement as Gillian disappeared into battle—a fleeting glimpse of armour against the Babil, a giant tower with swinging brick limbs—and felt her lungs tighten. Too much blood spilled, too much uselessness. As before, she stayed behind, a long-range combatant sending cards winging across the street: they were small but explosive, finding nooks and crevices in the exposed machinery, slipping into the glowing blue chestplate and striking whatever mysterious workings kept these monsters moving. But it wasn’t enough. Never enough. She darted through the wreckage of the street, scaling a teetering pile of rubble (her balance was still excellent even with that injury), climbing something which had once been a truck in order to fling yet more attack cards. She watched the lone samurai weaving backwards and forwards on the street below, Regen pulsing strong in their veins. And so as the gambler struck from above, alighting the air with a volley of explosive force and inhibiting the enemy’s movements, the samurai pressed forward from the ground, biting and relentless, her sword smashing against the Babil’s limbs as she continued to draw its attention. With every swipe and scrape, every near-miss and narrow avoidance, Gillian felt her body strain to keep up the effort. Underneath the bestial faceplate of her helmet where the iron-forged mouth hung in continuous snarl, so too did she grin—bloodied and shredded and wild, and nearing the edge of her breaking point. The explosions of Ofelia’s cards, breaking against the Babil’s stone form like an endless battering of waves, only served as a reminder to the samurai of why she was fighting, on why she could not afford to retreat or surrender. Gillian’s determination, however, proved greater than the will of her body, as no force of healing magic could make even the samurai invincible. The Babil attacked once again, and the warrior knew, with sudden surety, that her all too hume weakness had been exploited at last. The monster struck and she fell. And just like that, Ofelia sensed the battle shift. Watching Gillian Goodwin fight was like a symphony—many notes all strung together, pleasing harmonies, endless grace under pressure (the sort that produced diamonds). But then something jarred, a false note struck falsely, a stumble of the foot from exhaustion, her balance thrown, and the pillar-sized leg collided with the blonde. Ofelia’s breath caught in her throat, a gasp half-strangled beneath her tongue, a sickening nausea as she automatically dropped off the truck, landing in pain on the cobblestones, and immediately started limping across the street. She’d always hung back from close range combat, Gillian standing as that perpetual barrier—but the barrier was gone, the wall had fallen. Crumbled down to one knee, the samurai kept her sword in her hands. Blood oozed from underneath the wreckage of her armor, showing how fragile the hume was underneath—battered down at last, brick by brick, blow after blow. Pain rushed over her and drowned out the rest of the city, the ruins of the street, and any sounds of Ofelia struggling from behind her. Regen was a weak pulse keeping in poor time with her own, attempting to close wounds, mend flesh, align bones—but it was too much, Gillian thought, struggling and failing to stand. Her concentration narrowed to the Babil, the adversary, the only item in her swimming vision that mattered any longer (a samurai could have their head struck off, and still they would seek to strike down their sword at the enemy). The Babil swung its leg and she raised her weapon one more time. A final counter-strike, the katana glowed an unearthly hue and gathered power to unleash the destructive vengeance of Bonecrusher—but it was too late, too much strain on the blade. The katana shattered in half. Gillian grit her teeth, preparing for what would come next, her body too ruined to pull away. But then some shape appeared above her, blocking her view of the monster, all long legs and silhouette—it was Ofelia, staring up at the beast towering above them. The gambler could feel her heartbeat in her head, a percussion accompanying each step and pounding in her chest. She leaned over the fallen samurai, enough for her hand to come away red, sticky and warm as it shouldn’t be. She fumbled for the tuck case at her belt (her movements clumsy, which they never were), alighting on a random card from the middle of the specialised Slots deck. Ofelia pulled it out, then recognised its distinctive markings, the delicate numbers, the powerful magicite Ophion had embedded in it. Percent. There was only one of these cards in the entire deck. It worked as many times as it backfired; it had a fifty-percent chance of lashing out and hitting her instead, likely killing her. There was no guarantee. It was a literal throw of the proverbial dice. Ofelia assessed the variables. The outlook wasn’t good, but she didn’t hesitate. She saw no other choice. She gripped the card between her first three fingers, held it tight, kissed it for luck—and then flung the card, a tiny little projectile flying up and up and up into the air, towards the Babil. She held her breath. Unlike the other cards, this one did not simply explode when it collided. A gigantic well of energy suddenly expanded from the strike, warping the very air, turning the Babil into shimmering lines and rippling edges—sucking away its health, winnowing it down to near-zero, a deep booming sound resonating throughout the street, air pressure changing and popping her ears. Ofelia was forced to blink, her eyes watering in the waves of magic that came roiling back to them from the tower as it tilted, creaked, and teetered. The ground shuddered as it fell. Somewhere along the way, she’d dropped to her knees beside the samurai, her bloodstained hand splayed against the other woman’s armour. One little card had done all that. She couldn’t think of how it might have gone wrong—refused to stop and think about it. Still struggling to steady her hand, Ofelia pried open the wolf’s snarling jaws and unbuckled it from the woman’s neck, freeing Gillian from the twisted metal. “You’re alive?” the gambler asked breathlessly, heart still pounding a tattoo in her skull, terror making her voice higher than usual. Gillian’s head was bowed, her body swaying forward slightly without the strength left for her to steady herself. The world swam around her, stripped of its once clear definitions as she struggled to cling to a shaky consciousness and fought weakly against her own exhaustion. There had been a shadow in front of her, she had thought, an explosion, the ground shaking under the weight of their fallen enemy. And now— The broken sword had fallen from her hands (and she noticed this only absently). Ofelia was knelt in front of her, but this vision too seemed less than certain, even as the world now wholly defined itself by her voice in Gillian’s ears, and the weight of her hand resting on the samurai’s shoulder. All hopes for which she had struggled were made manifest before her, and so she could do little else but to reach out in kind and to make certain it was real. Her own hand moved up slowly, finding purchase against Ofelia’s cheek—for what did anything else matter now, but to determine the success of her sacrifice and to know that she was, that they both, continued to survive. Alive, she thought, the single word echoing in her mind. Confirmation of success, followed by the subtle warmth of relief. She coughed something out as a reply, took a shaky breath and tried again. “Just a scratch,” Gillian said at last, raising her head enough so the two could meet eye-to-eye. Her hand fell away, sliding down to rest tiredly on Ofelia’s shoulder, a single tether keeping her bound to the conscious world. There was too much pain to try and laugh, but she added in further consideration, “Maybe a few.” “‘Tis merely a flesh wound?” Ofelia echoed wanly, a reminder of some comedic skit she’d caught somewhere, on some stage. Where the wooden boards weren’t soaked in blood and creaking beneath the weight of monsters. But she let out a breath upon hearing the other woman speak and joke, even if it was bare and weak and a wheeze from her mouth—it still meant Gillian was alive, alive, alive. “I think we’re in the clear for now.” The gambler sat down in the middle of the dust and dirt, dropping from her haunches with an ignoble thump, as if all her energy had been sapped. Their hands still braced against each others’ shoulders, a bridge. “You’re sure you’re...” The words tapered off. “Not dead yet,” Gillian breathed out, although her body was not entirely in agreement. Her hand remained as it was, an instinctive urge to steady herself and keep upright, when most of her likely would’ve preferred the much less dignified action of simply falling back into the dirt. The stubborn determination of a fighter had not been extinguished yet and would not allow for it, let alone in a circumstance as this—and so she remained barely upright, feeling the remnants of white magic continue to battle against her innumerable amount of wounds. Her expression had softened, somewhere in the midst of this, the hard look of the commander discarded along with her battered helmet, and it hinted to a surprising amount of sincerity as she spoke. “But I might need your help in getting back up.” “You know, I wish I’d gone for the spring-loaded jumping boots after all. Turn myself into a mechanical woman, a clockwork half-automaton.” With a small groan, Ofelia wobbled back to her feet—but the knee brace held steady, holding some of the pain at bay. She wondered, briefly, where the machinist was; if her awareness of the schedule was right, they were supposed to be meeting today. Fee gave a bleak little laugh. But then she was back on her feet, looking down at the samurai (a doll folded in on itself), extending a hand to pull her back to her feet in all her heavy armour. Gillian took it gratefully and, with a sigh as she braced herself against the pain that was certain to follow, went about the excruciating and regretful action of getting herself back up. Slow and heavy in the battered remnants of her armor and clearly unsteady on her feet, she leaned against the gambler’s side, moving her hand to the other woman’s back. If she had been capable of going about as she had been before, taking that willful plunge to the fore once again, she might have preferred it to this perhaps—but there were worse things, she reminded herself, than the necessity of having to rely on another (on Ofelia). Gillian kept her eyes forward to the path ahead, considering the distance they had yet to travel. “Wouldn’t have minded a pair myself,” she said, growling out something almost akin to a chuckle at the thought. “Perhaps we’ll commission some. My first act as your consultant.” Ofelia’s grip tightened around the other woman as they started walking; they settled against each other like two leaning buildings, foundations settling into each other. And they wobbled off down the street like so, their balance cobbled together and silhouettes blurring into one, to face the rest of the day. |