middaeg | [Feb Catchall][OTA]

[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]

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