middaeg | Ragged they come and the ragged they kill [OPEN]

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Ragged they come and the ragged they kill [OPEN]

Who: Berserker and you!
When: Through the month of June
Where: Various places
What: June Catch-all and quests
Warnings: Nothing right now but violence is likely because Berserkers.

[ 1. Talk Travels - Your ~~friendly~~ mail carrier ]
[ Berserker is out and about delivering mail. It suits him because it's mostly a solitary experience and he doesn't need to rely on anyone for help. He's just interested in delivering the letters and moving on. Some places have mailboxes, others don't, so some mail just ends up abandoned on the doorstep.

He's so involved in his work that he's not paying attention to where he's going, or rather he is and simply doesn't care if someone's in his way. The poor sap in his path gets plowed into and he barely pauses for a moment. ]

Name? I'll see if I have something for you.

[ Yes, he only cares about the task at hand right now. Sorry about that. ]

[ 2. Out of the City ]
[ Of course he's interested in a quest where he can fight and kill things. It may just be small vermin, but it's at least something he's good at. The efficiency of his killing is disturbing, much like the lack of interest on his face. It's cold, efficient, and emotionless, like it's nothing more than a chore to be done. He only pauses in his work because he feels as though he's being watched. Spearing a final rat, he leaves his weapon in the ground for the moment. ]

What is it? Are you bothered by something I'm doing?

[ 3. Walking Armor ]
[ A duel is a duel is a duel, even if the enemy in question is a suit of walking armor. His normal instincts in a duel are to destroy until nothing is left, but the person who made the request wants it back in one piece. The fight is not quiet, Berserker practically roaring as he meets the strikes of the enchanted armor. Sword clashing against his barbed, red spear, the sound ringing out clearly. He's not exactly struggling, but he doesn't seem to be making any headway. Though he's loathe to ask for help, he turns to someone he hears nearby. ]

Distract it and I can bring it down.

[ 4. Wildcard ]
[ Drop me a starter and I'll roll with it! PM me or shoot me a message on Discord glitzkrieg#0673 if you want to work out something specific! ]

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[ The joy may be gone, but the skill remains. His methods lack finesse, but the sheer brutal efficiency makes up for it. He keeps an eye on his ally for a moment, looking for his opening. There's a moment when he's sure Diarmuid will fail, but the actual outcome is a pleasant surprise.

With the armor down, he rushes forward, Gae Bolg piercing the gap between its gorget and helmet. A single nudge upward and off comes the helmet, rolling to a stop against a tree.

With that, it stops its assault, staying down on one knee for a moment before it rises up again. Sheathing its sword, it goes to retrieve the helmet and starts to walk its way back into the city.

Berserker stands up, keeping Gae Bolg at his side now. His face is as apathetic as ever as he looks to Diarmuid. ]

You did well. I was worried you'd disappoint me, but you did better than I could've imagined.

[ Genuine praise once again. It's not pointless flattery, but words to encourage this kind of performance in the future. ]

[It's over. Just like that, it's over. It was probably foolish to expect a more dramatic ending- the armour clattering to the ground in pieces, a breath of magic released, something wyrd- but the matter of fact way it gathers itself back up and trundles off into the trees is disorientating. Probably not a spirit or a wild creature then, but a confused enchanted antique in need of redirection. As Diarmuid straightens up again, all he can do is shake his head in disbelief.

Still, he doesn't get long to dwell on it. Berserker's voice cuts through his bewilderment as sharply as the armour's blade nearly had his arm, stopping him mid-motion. More praise. Earned praise, mind, and expressed without unnecessary pomp or sycophancy. It's- well, frankly, it's nice. And yet while there's a quiet desire within him to wallow in his words like a hot bath, to let them soothe wounds he's too proud to admit he has, he doesn't. Instead, Diarmuid exhales slowly, softly, and turns to face him with a wary look.]

... you must have a poor imagination. But thank you. [The damage has already been done but he can at least try and cover it.] Aren't you going to chase after it?

[He's putting off asking the inevitable for as long as he can.]

Edited 2019-06-05 22:51 (UTC)

[ A little bit anticlimactic, yes, but it's about what he expected -- the posting mentioned that it was an accidental enchantment, after all. Berserker really hoped it would've at least collapsed into a heap instead of just picking up its head and leaving. Maybe he would feel something then, even if it was just short-lived satisfaction.

He presses his hand over the wound on his arm, expression unchanged despite the pain. ]

No need to thank me, you did earn it. [ He won't press it further right now. He certainly could and in another situation he would, but there's no point in it. The Lancer is well aware of his flaws and failures of the past, no need to bring them up until he fails again. ] The battle is over, I have no need to chase after it. I'll collect the reward later.

[ Ah, yes, the other matter. No way to avoid it now. ]

Do you have something to ask me, Lancer?

[ He decides to refrain from using his True Name for now as a courtesy. ]

Edited 2019-06-05 22:57 (UTC)

[Ah. Reward. That clarifies things a little: he stumbled in on a mission, not a true fight. One question answered. But it isn't the blanks in his knowledge of Berserker's existence that make him so unsettling; it's everything that he does know, the cold, hard, apathetic reality of a darkened spirit. Diarmuid rests his spear back up across his shoulders, the heft of it comforting in spite of his unease.]

I... [He shrugs loosely.] It's not something that needs answering. You're the same man from before. From the lake.

[The place was a dream but the figure who occupied it was real and here he stands before him. Only now he's adorned with beast-like armour instead of the scales and wings from before and comes with the additional tragedy of existing within the same space as Caster. Two sides of one man. What must it be like to look upon yourself like that? More importantly, do either of them know yet? Does-

At some point, he must have started twisting that loose curl of his around his finger because suddenly he's pulling it almost taut.]

... do you need me to look at your arm? My magecraft [A bad habit. He still can't stop calling it that.] has improved since we last met.

I am. Is that why you fought so hard -- that conversation weighing on you?

[ That's the meanest he'll get right now. His cruelty usually has a purpose behind it and there's no sense in harping on a point he'd already made. A point that seems to have gotten though, for that matter. He studies Diarmuid for a moment, noting that nervous habit -- did he always do that? Hm, what a funny little tell...

His attention goes back to his injury. Hand sticky with blood, he looks down at it for a moment. Berserker's content to let the wound scab over and heal on its own. He can wait to clean it up until they're back in the city. Despite knowing he's no longer a Servant, his lack of self-preservation and disinterest in caring for himself is still strong. ]

I won't stop you if you want to try.

[ It would let him practice and maybe prove further usefulness. If things went wrong, so be it. It would heal on its own eventually. ]

[Diarmuid bristles.]

I always fight hard.

[The tone he takes is almost as cool and pointed as the look he gives in him response. For his pride, for the excitement of it, for glory. Berserker might have had those things torn away from him by Medb's wish but they're still so tightly woven into Diarmuid's spirit that the mere suggestion that he'd treat a battle halfheartedly is a little insulting.

But it doesn't do to be hostile. Not when they've already established that they have no reason to make enemies of each other. After a moment or two, he heads over to take a better look at the wound. He's no healer; any other time, he'd probably take the same approach as Berserker with the addition of a bandaged slapped over the top if he had one. But now he can actually do something- and what a perfect way to test himself? No pressure, nothing life-threatening, just a simple spell that even he should be able to perform.]

Hold still.

[With that, he takes his arm in one hand and reaches into his pack with the other to retrieve the conduit: a slip of parchment inscribed with a simple magic command. The writing is careful and considered but even someone as new to this world as Berserker will probably be able to sense that the enchantment isn't particularly powerful.]

[ Ah ha. Of course that would set him off -- challenge the honor and pride of a warrior, get blowback. Berserker just gives a brief, twisted smile in response. Without that spark, there would be no fire, and that would be disappointing. The moment that fire is extinguished, the interest he has in Diarmuid would be, as well. A broken warrior is no good to him unless he's the one doing the breaking...

That thought's pushed aside as he extends his arm for the Lancer to inspect. It's not a bad wound, or at least no as bad as it could be. Deep, but clean and more painful than he lets on. ]

Alright.

[ He does as he's asked and remains still, glancing over at the parchment. Though his normal attunement to magic is certainly deadened to nearly nonexistent here, there's still a slight sense that remains. A frown crosses his face for just a moment. ]

Do they not trust you with anything more potent?

[Another sharp look but, this time, he doesn't let it creep into his voice. As indignant as he wants to be, there's a degree of truth in his accusation; he's been adhering closely to the recommendations for witches of his ability for the most part, though not because he's been actively told to. There is no "they" here. The one who doesn't trust him with more potent magic is himself.]

Healing magic hasn't been a priority of mine here. [There's been little in the way of conflict, after all. He's been focusing his efforts on restoring his spear.] I'd rather not do more harm than good by overextending myself.

[As soon as he activates his spell, the parchment burns up, leaving the soothing, warmth of arcane energy coursing through his body, concentrating in his palm. Against his will, his fingers twitch- but all it takes is a little more concentration for Diarmuid to wrestle his nerves back into submission. Carefully, he brushes a hand over Berserker's wound to try and redirect the energy.

And, to his silent relief, it works. Slowly but surely, the wound begins to scab and close beneath his fingertips.]

[ The look doesn't go unnoticed, but Berserker decides not to comment on it. He just returns it with slightly narrowed eyes. Nothing to be said, there's no sense in creating conflict -- Diarmuid is doing him a favor, after all. It would be dumb to spit in the face of someone helping him out. ]

Hm...Erring on the side of caution, then.

[ He doesn't react to the touch on his wound; it's nothing he hasn't handled before. Pain is something he is extremely familiar with. While his Rune Magic healed the damage he did to himself hurling Gae Bolg, the pain was something that couldn't be mitigated. Every torn muscle, every broken bone, he felt the pain. Much like everything else about his killing, it became routine and expected, but it never dulled.

There is a small reaction to the wound actually healing -- now that he hadn't expected. Some small part of him expected the spell to fail and the wound to remain open. ]

You should have more confidence in yourself and what you're capable of.

[ Faint praise covered by judgement. ]

[Diarmuid glances back up, eyes clouded with a doubtfulness that ill suits him. Unlike Berserker, he was never brought up surrounded by magic, never made to sit and study runes whether he liked it or not. Living with the mark on his cheek was as close as he'd ever wanted to get to it until he was called upon by the Grail. So, in a way, he's right. It's a lack of confidence making him so tentative but there's something else there too: a fear of reawakening what he's been freed from since arriving here.

It's cowardice.

And admitting that? It makes him want to crawl into a hole out of shame.]

... perhaps. These things take time.

[With a soft sigh, he draws his hand back. Though they're both now stained with dark, sticky blood, it's superficial; the healing process has been vastly sped up, leaving Berserker with a thin, white line that will fade in a few days where the wound was.]

You're very tolerant of me. [Tolerance. Disinterest. Where do you draw the line? He wipes his hand on his mantle.] It's not a complaint; I meant it when I said I'd rather not have you for an enemy.

[What is he to Caster now that they're both here and not simply in a dream? As much as he wants to ask either one of them, he'll stay his tongue until they want to talk.]

Edited 2019-06-08 19:06 (UTC)

[ He runs his fingers over what used to be the wound. It shouldn't impress him and yet...It's good to know such enchantments exist. Without his Rune Magic, he's not helpless but he is much less durable. To have someone to rely on for even a small amount of healing is valuable.

Cold, red eyes flick over to the Lancer, studying him. How much does he want to reveal? Does he want to make himself vulnerable? There's no harm in either right now, but there's a want to maintain a position of power. Vulnerability may be too much to give him. ]

You're my ally. Tolerance is the least I can do. Your loyalty is important and until something changes that, I will continue to tolerate you.

[ "Tolerate" is probably the nicest thing you can get out of Berserker. There's no genuine affection left in him, just protecting what's valuable to him and destroying what isn't. Allies are valuable and worth ensuring their survival until they prove to be a liability. Diarmuid has yet to disappoint him, though a part of him wonders how long that will last. How long it will be until his fear or thoughts of his past render him unable to act in time? Who knows. Until then, he'll be tolerated. ]

[Loyalty? Diarmuid says nothing. Though aware that he's not the same man who fought beside him before, Berserker still appears to consider him a... subordinate of sorts. "Subject" would be the wrong word. There's nothing kingly about how he treats him, no airs or graces, just the simple acknowledgement that he was likely the more powerful Servant before this place put them on a level playing field. But, while Diarmuid can't claim to share their history, he doesn't find it disrespectful. In fact, the loose framework of a lord-and-vassal relationship that has somehow fallen over their meetings is comforting.

Diarmuid holds his stare with an unreadable expression, unperturbed by the ice in those crimson eyes.]

Then I'll receive the same loyalty from you? [There's a pause and, in those few moments, the silence feels as fragile as crystal- which is why it might come as a surprise that his next words aren't particularly delicate. In fact, there's an almost playful quality to them, a lilt in his voice and a slight arch of his eyebrow that suggests he already knows what the answer will be.] Or is that presuming too much?

[A master and servant are rarely expected to operate on the same terms, after all. It doesn't particularly bother Diarmuid either way; he rarely hopes for anything like that and never expects it. And here? Here, it's all symbolic anyway.]

[ He has no want or need to be a "king" again, much less in a place like this. It's more or less that he knows, or pretends to know anyway, the best way to handle someone like Diarmuid. A position of servitude, even slightly, is what he seems to work best in. A knight is always a knight.

Berserker's expression changes slightly at that tone, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. ]

You're not. Unless you betray me, you will have my loyalty.

[ It's not that he expects to be betrayed by this one, but it's one of the only things that will sever his loyalty. Anything that causes an ally to become an enemy will break it. One of the few things Medb's wish couldn't corrupt was his loyalty. ]

[Just for a moment, his expression softens- but only a moment. There are some qualities, it seems, that can't be torn away from a man so easily and it's a pleasant surprise to find that it's faithfulness that Berserker has managed to keep tightly grasped in those claws.]

... then we have no reason to doubt each other.

[It goes without saying that the feeling is mutual.]

There's one more thing I'm curious about. Have the Coven told you of your fate yet?

[Will those sweeping wings from their first meeting translate into reality? Maybe he doesn't even know yet himself. Diarmuid wouldn't be surprised if Berserker hadn't even stuck around long enough for the witches there to perform their test but it's worth asking.]

[ Somethings couldn't be taken away from him and he would rather be broken and die than let his loyalty falter. It's almost as though it's a matter of pride rather than anything else. There is still some semblance of pride within him, too, but it's buried deeper than his loyalty.

Ah, that question...He's been asked it more than once and no one's been surprised by his answer. ]

No. I didn't stay for testing. I went about my business instead.

[ Because of course he didn't. Why would he waste his time? What a stupid, stubborn man. ]

I'll find out what I am sooner or later. I'll seek help when it becomes a problem.

I see.

[There's no judgement in his voice. Waver had been much the same, avoiding finding out what was to become of him just only recently, albeit for very different reasons. The opposite reasons, really. Regardless, he won't waste unwanted and likely unwarranted concern on Berserker if he can help it. Perhaps the next time he sees him, he'll have the ability to heal his own wounds. Or perhaps he'll have developed scales hard as plate mail to prevent them in the first place.

Either way, he remains almost surreal to Diarmuid: a corrupted vision with the potential to grow more corrupted still.]

You took the watch they gave you, though, right?

[And yet he can't look away.]

[ When compared to Caster, it's like looking into a broken mirror. A shattered reflection of the Heroic Spirit, the core still there, but twisted in form. The corrupting influence of Medb's wish did its work, now the corrupting influence of whatever magic was at work in this place would further ruin him. Perhaps the form seen in the dream was accurate, perhaps not -- time will tell.

He gives a short nod in response. ]

I did. There was no way to avoid taking it. They were extremely insistent that I do so...and it was easier to take it than fight them on that point.

[ The path of least resistance. How passive he'd become in this way. ]

[Why he's so determined to keep contact with this disturbing, fractured version of someone he admires so greatly is a mystery even to Diarmuid but here he is. Maybe it's just a misplaced sense of duty: to the memory of the man he was; to the man he supposedly served and can't bear to disappoint, even without the memories to prove it; from one Celtic Servant to another. It could just be that finding a spirit of Erin in another being here, no matter how warped, is a home comfort he can ill afford to reject.

Whatever the case, he's made up his mind.]

Then it would be prudent to exchange our numbers. [With that, he retrieves his own watch, finding his contact details and then holding out a hand so that he can take Berserker's.] If you would.

[ This is all strange to him -- these things don't confuse him, but he sees little use for them. No mater, it's a simple enough task. He fishes out his own watch and hands it over. It's anyone's guess as to where he was hiding that... ]

If you say so. I suppose if you need anything, seek me out.

[ It's like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to just say that. He doesn't like people relying on him, if only because it's more work, but a few are worth the effort. ]

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Ragged they come and the ragged they kill [OPEN]

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