middaeg | [Feb Catchall][OTA]

[Enkidu has always seen bonding as a serious thing. A thing they should thread carefully with, where they should not open their heart to just anyone. But at this point it has become survival.

Their body isn't able to handle the influx of Gil's magic anymore and the fact that they're sitting in front of Red Wine with a tired look on their face says enough.

So they keep it short and sort of business-like.]

I think we should make our bond permanent. [There is a bit of a frown on their face.] I am bonded to another witch and I can promise you there will be enough magic flowing through you to keep feral problems at bay.

[He had a feeling something like this was coming, though he didn't expect it would be quite so soon. Still, it certainly couldn't hurt and he'd found Enkidu to be a steady enough person as far as a temporary bond was concerned.

The idea of the whole process still doesn't sit easily with him, and he's still slow to come to the point of trusting anyone with that kind of 'access' to him as a person. The assurances that they give him aren't really the ones at the forefront of his mind.]

Mm. [Red Wine says, and that's all he says at first. Enkidu looks tired, and despite somewhat unsettled beginnings he would say he has come to care about them.

He huffs out a soft breath through his nose.]

Alright. The sooner the better, by how tired you look.

[That feeling is mutual. The entire concept of bonding is still a difficult thing for them, yet they are getting used to it as well. But they aren't able to process all of Gil's magic well, instead of being able to let it flow into the bonds they do have, there still is too much left.]

Mm?

[Enkidu waits for him to respond. If he would decline their offer they would just move on and try to find someone else. But still, when he agrees they feel a bit of relief. Red Wine seems to be a steady being.]

I am quite tired. [They move to stand.] Then lets head to the Coven and perform the ritual.

[Something so familiar already...]

[The idea of bonding has become something that, while he still doesn't like at all, doesn't sit quite so heavily on him. It's a necessity that he resents and he doesn't think that will ever change, but he views his previous levels of resistance to it with something of a private embarrassment.]

Alright.

[No need to stand on ceremony. He just hopes that Enkidu doesn't expect him to say a great deal.]

There ought to be a less demonstrative way to go about this.

It seems the ritual is a part of it. But I do not wish to make it a big event either. This is more to ensure survival.

[Really, they don't want to make this big either.]

I do not wish to exchange big words about this. But our connection will make our lives easier. [And then finally...after a big sigh.] I do not like bonding.

[He nods in agreement, both to the comment about it being little more than a means to survive, and to what they say about their opinion on bonds.]

Nor do I. [Red Wine says, letting out a soft sigh of his own - barely more than a puff of air through his nose.]

It's grown more tolerable, but the necessity of it still grates on me. I'm sure you understand how long it takes to build that kind of trust when you're not as short-lived as a human.

( it is late in the evening and despite that, Steak looks rather awake as he leans on the doorframe of Red Wine's room. )

You realise we could make good money if you delivered roses this Valentine's Day?

( well. Aefenglom's version of it, anyway. )

[Red Wine hasn't been awake too long, but long enough to be able to look appropriately irritated at both the intrusion and the suggestion.]

Absolutely not.

[He turns back to the mirror, brushing a few straying strands of hair out of his face and behind his ears.]

I don't know where you got such a ridiculous idea.

( well, he was the only one to suffer the humiliation of playing The Great Prince. so it's time for some turnabout is fair play. )

I have the outfit hanging in my wardrobe.

( ur turn, RW. )

[His fingers hesitate over his ear, and then move quickly to arrange his hair into position before he pivots on his seat, turning to face Steak.]

If you want to make a fool of yourself, that's really your prerogative. [He points out tartly, resting one knee over the other and bracing both forearms against his leg.]

But I don't see why you need to drag me into it. I'm not wearing that suit.

( hey!!! what's that supposed to mean!!! )

Who said I'd make a fool of myself?!

( he survived last time okay? )

Are you afraid you can't do it?

[He barks a quick laugh.]

Afraid? I could run rings around you if I had a mind to.

[Appealing to Red Wine's pride - or, in Steak's case, hitting it with a large stick - is something that rarely fails to work. He stands up and crosses to the door, using his extra inch in height to effectively look down his nose at Steak.]

You should be more concerned that I'd outdo you if I tried.

( you're not that much taller than him, Red Wine, and Steak finally straightens up and pushes himself off the doorframe to prove it. )

Tch, you wish. How many orders of roses did we get last time?

( Gingerbread was running back and forth scrounging up more roses for half the day thanks to his performance as The Great Prince. )

[He tips his head slightly, visibly thinking about it.]

I suppose you're right. You're obviously far more suited to it than I am. You should do it.

[Besides, that suit won't fit him.

(Excuses, excuses.)]

( wait what

this isn't what he planned! )

That's not wh—!! ( fINE! ) Red Wine, I challenge you to a contest of who can sell the most roses!

[His eyebrows raise. Appealing to his pride, now? Or his sense of competition? Or both, perhaps.

It almost works.]

Don't be ridiculous. Making it a competition wouldn't be fair on you.

On me?

( fight him, you undead bastard. )

You know I'm in the lead, right?

( by like 1 but it totally counts. )

Edited 2021-02-20 13:16 (UTC)

I know you like to imagine yourself to be in the lead, and I graciously allow you your fantasy.

[Maybe he is in the lead, but it isn't as if Red Wine is going to admit it.]

It's not a fantasy! ( hmph. why would he need to fantasise about that when he is clearly the better of the two? )

You do understand the meaning of 'fantasy', yes?

[Steak can dream he's the better of the two. Red Wine is sure they are both aware that just isn't the case.]

Why, you—!

( if there is any greater sign of all being well than Steak growling out those words and grabbing Red Wine by the collar, we don't know it. )

[Red Wine responds instantly with a wild grin and a strong hand gripping tightly around Steak's wrist. He chuckles lowly, a giddy light sparking up behind his eyes.]

What? Is that a 'no'?

( oh, you think it's that easy, Red Wine? Steak's beginning to study, you know. )

I'll show you my fantasy!

( ... questionable word choice aside, he presses magic into his fingers, murmuring an unintelligible spell which

uh

dyes Red Wine's collar a gaudy shade of turquoise.

and judging by the way Steak looks down and blinks, that wasn't his fantasy at all. )

[It could be what he says, or what he does, or a combination of the two, but Red Wine doesn't react quite how Steak might expect him to. He doesn't yell or raise a fist to punch him, but he follows his gaze down and yanks his own collar enough to be able to see what happened to it.]

What...

[His lips press together, his jaw working slightly, and-- is he angry? It's hard to tell.

At least, it's hard to tell until he starts laughing.]

What was that?

( how red can beef go? well he may just outshine his hair at this rate, because not only was that embarrassing, Red Wine is infuriating, and Steak promptly, and roughly, lets go of his collar, shoving him backwards with the motion. )

You-- shut up.

( huff. )

[He's so used to being shoved by Steak like that that he barely loses his footing at all, but he sits down abruptly on the edge of his bed all the same as he keeps laughing.

It isn't even that funny, but at the same time... It's so funny.]

What-- What were you trying to do?

( the grumbling Steak makes in response is almost certainly only decipherable to dogs. )

I was trying to shut you up.

( and if the spell had worked, Red Wine would have had a mouthful of fabric to muffle his nonsense. )

Well that didn't bloody work did it.

[It's tickled him in a way he can't quite explain, even though he's going to have to change his shirt now because that colour just clashes with everything about him.]

You really are ridiculous.

( says the guy who dresses like that.

but Steak decides that it is much easier to answer that barb with a simple flick of his middle finger towards Red Wine.

bastard. )

[ It's close to the outskirts of the Wilde itself, edging along the outskirts of farmlands, that the sound of a voice rings shrill and loud enough to hear from all around. A cross between rabid snarls and screams, it could be a beast—but it could be a Monster, and it could be someone in danger. But it's obviously feral, distressed, evidence enough tread carefully. Wherever it's coming from, it's unrelenting, nonstop and crazed

Upon getting too close, however, the voice silences, stills, the moment the source detects any approach. A Puca, even mad, possesses a sense for impending danger, and as soon as anyone even hears him, he feels dread strike his heart and switches from agony to fierce, bitter defense.

Regardless, there's something wrong, and it's hard to say if this is a threat or a person in pain. It could warrant further investigation, and should Red Wine pursue it, he'll follow the stillness of the air to what appears to be a small, subterranian ditch with a wide mouth—and the sound of snarling, the stench of Cwyld—and the worrisome smell of spilled blood.

It'll take a bit of cautious approach to lure the Puca from his haphazard den, but the air is thick with tension, madness, fear—and sick, sick Cwyld. Whatever resides within the shallow ditch growls deep and bestial, but he vacillates between guarded, fierce vocalizations and softer noises of pain, barely audible.]

[As soon as they hear the noises, they're on high alert. They're sure Red Wine's already heard them, so he doesn't need them pointed out to him, but... They still ask if he wants to check him out. It's their first real venture out in the wilds together, and Bailey will admit that they're nervous. They've... Trained, but there's a difference between training to use a sword and actually getting use out of it.

They were supposed to start small, but... This doesn't seem small.

Still, Bailey insists, because it sounds like someone's in pain and Bailey's not one to leave people to suffer. (They're sure Red knows this, which might be why he agrees.) They're not expecting what they see, and they turn to hiss at Red Wine.]

Is that... A Mirrorbound?

[He certainly doesn't look like a native, and that's... Even more worrisome.]

[He had never intended for this to be a difficult outing. Red Wine has spent enough time out here to know which areas are safer than others, though 'safe' is certainly a very relative term and he had warned Bailey of that before they set out.

His companion is quite right in thinking that he hears the sound long before they find the source. More than that, though, he smells the Cwyld, and he smells the blood. It's enough to get a small, sick, slightly peckish part of him excited at the prospect of what they might come across, but he forces it down.]

Something's very wrong. [He murmurs quietly in response. Hard to tell from here if it's a Mirrorbound or not, but from the sounds of things they may already be long past saving.] Stay behind me. [Red Wine says softly, and there's the soft snick of his sword being freed from the sheath, but not yet drawn.

A little louder, he speaks towards the ditch.]

You there, can you understand me?

[Bailey and Red Wine both are treated to only the scantest impression of Mettaton emerging from his makeshift burrow at the sound of their approach. But before even that, approaching it would indicate something lies within: torn bits of blackened fur decorate the mouth of the ditch. It's like a bread crumb trail that leads to a pair of darkened rabbit ears, tall and leaning back in agitation—as much as they can, anyway, for Red Wine's assessment is correct. There is something very wrong.

First things first: Mettaton rises from his shallow in the ground, tall and imposing, even with his shambling, erratic posture. Cwyld, thick and leathery, swallows up the side of his face covered by bangs, and his once silvery ears are practically scabbed over in it at their base, near the robot's scalp.

A once resplendent robot emerges, hunkered down, a posture defensive and provoked: the pink of his torso's blackened with infection, and the rest of his face is smeared in dark, Cwyld-infected blood, thick and oily. Hell, blood drips from his fingers, his face, his chest... He's an absolute mess of dirt, infection, torn fur and blood. Being addressed at all, Mettaton bares his rabbit-like teeth in a snarl, curling his fingers to show off his thick, dark claws.

He growls low and bestial. It's a disturbing sound coming from the idol, but it would be disturbing coming from any formerly-sentient being.

The Puca stations himself firmly at the edge of his ditch, blocking its contents with a terrified, fearsome madness. Almost as though protecting something—and it wouldn't be a hard conclusion to draw, given that Mettaton's a robot. Where is the blood coming from? For now, all he does is answer Red Wine in low rumbles from his throat, a response from behind sharpened teeth.

And yet, he's not yet a Cwyldtid. But he's close, the evidence is stacking up: the glowing gaze, the dark miasma, the hunger that evidences itself in cascading drool. It was a certain fate of death, one way or another, even though the Monster doesn't seem to realize he's a dead man walking. His golden eye darts between Red Wine and Bailey, incapable of recognizing either of them as anything but a threat. With a deepening snarl, Mettaton's fur stands on end, warning them away from his territory.]

[Bailey doesn't need to be told twice - they're still nearly a head taller than Red Wine, so there's nothing to block their view of Mettaton and when they see the Puca they wish there was. He looks... Sick, and like he's barely hanging on by a thread. The smell of the Cwyld is intense and wrong in a way Bailey can't quite put a finger on, but it makes the Faun want to turn tail and run.

They reach forward for Red Wine, before they stop themself. Before seeing the extent of the infection, they would have hoped they could talk down whatever was in pain, whatever was suffering, but... Bailey isn't so naïve as to believe there's any way out of this that doesn't end in a fight, and holding Red Wine back or clinging onto him isn't going to help anyone. So instead, they pull their hand back, covering their nose and mouth with both.

They're sure if the infection can spread through the air that it's already too late, but maybe it can at least block out the smell.]

...Red.

[Their voice is soft, still, and their gaze moves to the burrow behind Mettaton, and. Oh, god. They're almost more afraid of finding out whatever the Puca is protecting than the Puca itself.]

Robots can't bleed.

[It feels stupid to point out the obvious, but they can't think of anything else to say right now. The look in Mettaton's eyes makes them feel like negotiations are beyond them, and they feel guilty for thinking that in the first place.]

[Red Wine has always been very aware of what the Cwyld can do if it gets into you - how it twists you up into something you should never have been. He's seen Shades, fought them, but he's never seen anything quite like this.

Honestly, he could have done without seeing it at all. The metallic smell of blood mixed in with the sharp, sour smell of the Cwyld infection is almost enough to have him reeling, and he doesn't doubt that even at this distance Bailey can smell it as well.]

No, they don't. [He mutters in reply. Never taking his eyes off Mettaton for a moment he carefully draws his sword, the steel softly sliding against the top of the sheath.]

You get one chance to show us you're still sane. [Red Wine says, tightening his grip on his weapon. It's more chance that he'd usually give under such conditions, but he would prefer to avoid a fight here if he can.] We can take you back with us.

[The glint of metal is met with the luminous gold of Mettaton's widening gaze, terror washing over. It didn't matter what kind of metal this could be: instinct tells him it could be cold iron, and the Puca's set off in a heartbeat.

It could almost be comical, that steel would set off this Puca's fight or flight senses so badly, given that he's made of metal. he even has an enchanted earring to ward against it! Not that he has the mental faculties to recall this: there's no sanity or logic in his world anymore, only defense and offense and protection and instinct, and anything beyond his burrow is a danger. This is proof of it: Red Wine's sword is the nail in the coffin as Mettaton rises from his burrow in a maddened jerk of lank limbs, hunched over and frothing at the mouth with clear spit tinged by blackish crimson blood. His stare is both unseeing and fixed on the slightest movement: he's not thinking. It's clear.

Mettaton knows only one thing: he's starving. When was the last time he ate?

(The truth is that he ate far too recently. Disturbingly recent. It wasn't a very pleasant dinner date.)

At the first sight of steel, Mettaton lunges on the tips of his furred toes. He sails into the air, pouncing for Red Wine on powerful legs. Mettaton's relying first on his speed in hopes of catching the Vampire, and then on his weight and his momentum to tackle him down so he can pin him. He'd pin him down, then, then—

(He's not thinking a thing, but he's starving. This is an opportunity for food, and opportunity for survival; he could take some of his prey back to his Bonded in the burrow he'd made! But he's mostly thinking about the hollow of his body, and how these two are both threats to eradicate (they might be trying to kidnap them again) and food to consume (he's hungry. he's always been starving).)]

[Oh, hell.

There’s no reasoning, it seems, which. Looking at the Puca, it’s obvious they wouldn’t be able to get through to him. It’s- It’s terrifying, honestly, that something like this could happen. They knew it was possible, they weren’t completely ignorant to all the dangers in and around Aefenglom, including the Cwyld.

Seeing it, though, and not knowing what they can do to help -

When the Puca leaps, the Faun stumbles back. Their instincts are yelling at them to turn tail and run, and they know that they don’t know enough about fighting to actually help Red Wine. What ends up happening is they freeze in place, wanting to run away but too afraid to. This... Is going to end up with dying. There’s nothing else that can be done, huh?]

[He should have seen that one coming. Should have been able to see it, to move close enough to dodge, to disappear in a puff of mist, but doing so would have put Bailey directly into the path of the attack and he wouldn't risk that.

So, the puca leaps up and he does the only thing that he can do.

Red Wine lifts his weapon and drives it upwards into Mettaton's body as the Cwyld-ridden creature hits him, sending the both of them smacking hard into the ground. It's only the lack of needing to breathe that keeps him from being winded.]

Shit-- [He grunts, not daring to let go of the hilt of his sword. Did it even strike true?] Damn it--.

[Mettaton has never been much of a fighter. Even when he was built into a "human eradication device," he never knew how to fight. He knew how to deploy weaponry; he knew how to make judgement calls. But in a state like this, none of that matters at all.

And when he's already sailing for Red Wine, he's pitifully easy to strike down. There was no premeditation to his attack. There wasn't any thought given to the potential for Red Wine to fight back, only toward his hunger and safety. Red Wine's blade moans against the steel of Mettaton's body, sparks of metal against metal lighting up the small clearing in an explosive flash.

The Puca flinches in pain. The glass of his waist container is intact, miraculously enough... but Red Wine's blade has pierced a hole right through the intricate metal bands that surround it, apparently just soft enough for his sword to sink through. He struck true.

Except Mettaton rears his head back, snarling dangerously. Blood drips off his face, a smattering of spit and blood belonging to a Cwyld-infected Witch now a constellation upon the man beneath him. MTT's not dead. But there's a clue that Red Wine's onto something.

The life in Mettaton's eye flickers dimly. The edge of Red Wine's blade has tapped the core in his waist, and its pink, steady glow even blanks out as another hint. All he would have to do is jostle his blade, all he'd have to do is let it slide toward his center, and perhaps he'd emerge victorious.

Mettaton himself is all claws and teeth. He slashes at Red Wine's shoulder, hoping to tear away at clothes so he could bare flesh for his consumption. Bailey is completely off his radar now that Mettaton recognizes that he has prey readily available beneath him—and Cwyld-infected as he is, it's not likely that he'll care that Red Wine's a Vampire without blood, either. He'll eat anything to sate his hunger. His gaze is empty, and he drools like a maddened, frothing beast.]

Why are you trying to stab a robot?

[They don't raise their voice often - and, really, yelling at Red Wine isn't going to do much - but to say that they're distressed would be an understatement. Generally, when they were in danger, it was something they could reason through. They were just dealing with someone who was hurting and lashing out and just needed someone to listen to them.

This, though, isn't like that. Mettaton isn't a ghost in need of peace after death. Mettaton is someone who's been infected, and who needs to be put down for his own safety.

God.

They're going to start hyperventilating, soon.

They do, at least, notice the slow blinking of Mettaton's core, and - it makes sense, doesn't it? It must be some sort of power source, and breaking it.]

The glowy thing, the glowy thing- Break it!

[endless internal screaming very close to becoming external screaming]

I don't have many other options, Bailey!

[Look, this is a difficult situation for him as well. The only thing he can count on is his ability to use a sword and use it well, and the fact that a robot requires the stability of its moving parts to function. Who knew what the transformations of this place might have done to Mettaton?

He can't vanish into mist, because he can't let go of his sword and he can't let the puca regain any kind of footing. As long as they're locked together like this, it's a stalemate until one of them gives ground.

But then Bailey shouts out again, and Red Wine knows what they're referring to. With a low grunt he jerks his wrists, twisting the blade of the sword around in the metal body and moving it just enough to shove the point of the blade up into the flashing core.

Please, by the God of Beginnings, let it work.]

[Glowing, dead gaze firmly on Red Wine, there's no joy Mettaton's getting out of this dynamic. His manner is wild and fearful, that of the husk of an animal as he trembles to overpower Red Wine. He starves for sustenance he's never needed, and the blood all over his face is proof that he's already landed at least one kill. He could take the whole city and it'd never be enough.

But then a ring of crystal pierces the air in a glassy collision of stone and metal. The feral Puca's eye goes wide in fierce terror and the haunts of excruciating pain (which feel like so much, sensation having left him hours ago). Along with it, the light goes out of his eye so uncomfortably fast that it would be impossible to mistaken this for anything else: that was the kill shot, and the one that properly ends Mettaton's life.

All of the Puca's weight slumps forward on Red Wine's blade without a single utterance from his mouth, without protest of body. It's an unceremonious death, one Mettaton would turn up his nose at for its lack of grace or drama. It felt so sudden and so grisly, as clear, ozone-smelling liquid drips down Red Wine's blade, tinged with the scent of the Cwyld. All of this is unpleasant.

But Mettaton's dead, and that's what counts.

...Should the two inspect the burrow Mettaton guarded so fiercely as though protecting a home, they'll find in the shallow, fur-lined hole the mangled corpse of another Mirrorbound: Emet-Selch, a Witch. It's hard to tell what's happened to him past the glossy, thick black blood, but it's clear he, too, was infected by Cwyld. His clothes on his torso and chest have been torn away at, deep gouges left in his chest, arms, and shoulders: the unfortunate prey of a hungry animal. Though his blood remains only just drying, it's indicative that it's a recent death: an hour or two at best.]

[Feb Catchall][OTA]

Bonding time? Bonding time!

Bonding time!

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objective: kill the almost-cwyldtid robot (dated to after kidnappings resolve)

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cw death, description of dead body (i tried to keep it vague...)