Myrobalan Shivana (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faithlikeaseed) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
middaeg2019-10-14 08:46 pm
faithlikeaseed) wrote in middaeg2019-10-14 08:46 pm
[closed] yes, turn the knob and switch that gear
Who: The SQUIP, L Lawliet, Connor, and Justine vs Rich Goranski, Michael Mell, Myr Shivana, and Niles, with Jeremy Heere in the middle like a rugby ball.
When: The 14th, before the mist recedes.
Where: waves hands vaguely, somewhere near where the SQUIP’s hiding its people-hoard
What: A little spot of aggravated assault against an AI gone rogue. The SQUIP’s number is up.
Warnings: v i o l e n c e, body horror, blood, traumatic brain injury; more as needed.
Three days of mist and chaos hadn’t been kind to Aefenglom. Despite the Coven’s best efforts, the city resembled a war zone more than a thriving metropolis, with Monsters and Witches alike running rampant. Some were feral--some were simply making best use of a crisis--but regardless of motive, many, too many, were going unopposed and unnoticed.
Among the rioting and looting, the SQUIP’s quiet personal effort to grow its social network might’ve gone entirely unnoticed. It was almost commendable, in a sick way, in stashing the people it collected out of harm’s way. It could have very well gone on doing so until the mist receded with no one but its new acquisitions the wiser--
But then it made the mistake of grabbing the wrong person, and all hell broke loose.
When: The 14th, before the mist recedes.
Where: waves hands vaguely, somewhere near where the SQUIP’s hiding its people-hoard
What: A little spot of aggravated assault against an AI gone rogue. The SQUIP’s number is up.
Warnings: v i o l e n c e, body horror, blood, traumatic brain injury; more as needed.
Three days of mist and chaos hadn’t been kind to Aefenglom. Despite the Coven’s best efforts, the city resembled a war zone more than a thriving metropolis, with Monsters and Witches alike running rampant. Some were feral--some were simply making best use of a crisis--but regardless of motive, many, too many, were going unopposed and unnoticed.
Among the rioting and looting, the SQUIP’s quiet personal effort to grow its social network might’ve gone entirely unnoticed. It was almost commendable, in a sick way, in stashing the people it collected out of harm’s way. It could have very well gone on doing so until the mist receded with no one but its new acquisitions the wiser--
But then it made the mistake of grabbing the wrong person, and all hell broke loose.
no subject
It could not hurt more than being reminded of their friendship, even now.
He does not move away as Linden approaches, lifting his head with ears laid flat to his neck. Those eyes not left scorched, blinded, bleeding by the shocks paint a fractured picture of the Witch: Painfully thin, hollow-eyed, bloodied (oh, no; not you as well, Linden, though it's thought with resignation and no surprise)--the very image of frail ill health.
Every instinct of chivalry drilled into Myr's head named it wrong to fight an opponent like that; the Maker wept to see the strong crush the weak. Magic may be the equalizer between them but that mere fact makes Myr no more ready to bring physical force against someone who looks (is) deserving of his protection instead.
But needs must. What little he can perceive of the rest of the battle would go all the worse if he fails to stop Linden.]
Expected isn't deserved. [You shouldn't have to believe the world is always and only this way. ]
Forgive me.
[The actinic light of the chain reflects wetly in his eyes. Myr draws back from it, tossing his antlers and showing teeth. It's half-feigned; he lets instinct guide him in the retreat to make it appear real--up until some battlefield distraction (a flutter of dark wings overhead, a shout, a spray of razor shards spalled from the ice-wall) gives him cover to charge.
A feint toward Linden's left, not meant to connect but to test his opponent's intentions with the spell.]
no subject
Because Myr's intentions are so good. Even noble. What isn't deserved is the strangely high opinion the faun seems to have of "Linden," who is, of course, a fiction and a lie.
It's not a lie, though, the way L braces and then flinches, engaging Myr in a dance that is half stagger and half a proficient fighter's footwork as he avoids rather than engages the stag's charge. Myr's strength and speed are far greater than his, to the level where he couldn't hope to compete on a physical level, but it helps that Myr wasn't actually intending to connect.
That makes two of them, doesn't it? The chain is closer to L's own chest than to Myr.]
No. You're doing what you believe is right, and that doesn't warrant forgiveness, because your intentions aren't wrong.
[A foot slides back in a tense defensive stance. He has means to act, but no real desire, even as the SQUIP rages against other attackers at his back.]
Please stop trying to take it from me. Its intentions aren't wrong, either.
no subject
Except when the arguments adjourned there was always the promise of another to look forward to; this time--Myr won't delude himself into thinking there's a comfortable return to the status quo after this. He's been here before; it remains only to be seen what he'll lose this time, besides a brother of the heart.
Even if Linden can forgive him his intentions, the act is a different matter.
Myr wheels away from their uneasy dance with his antlers held high, the incongruous eyes affording him glimpses of the fight overhead and behind him.]
Not wrong. But harm-- [He coughs, a great rattling noise; it stops him in his tracks a long dangerous moment before he's circling Linden once more.] --still comes of it. What would you do, lawman, with the incorrigible?
[He already knows the answer, of course; it's there in stop trying to take it from me and that doesn't warrant forgiveness. Starvation takes many forms and no one would give up anything that kept them from it. It's sheer cruelty to pry not one but two vouchsafes against loneliness from Linden's grip.
And in his heart of hearts Myr knows himself ruthless enough to do it.
If he can delay, though--if he can hold off--
Movement catches his eyes, the hideous sound of someone strangulating in his ears--he freezes, looking away from Linden toward Niles and Connor and Justine. Distracted, horribly, by the sight of three people trying to kill each other in a way that wouldn't have happened, had a demon never become involved...
He's left himself open, and not entirely by accident.]
no subject
Everyone is entitled to due process. No matter how irrefutable the evidence, I can't condone this kind of "justice."
[But now that they're here, and he's in this, actively fighting to defend his Bonded, he's let both his attention and his barrier lapse while he's been focused on Myr. His own gaze whips toward the battle at roughly the same moment as the stag's, but returns to the encounter at hand far faster. He has an opportunity he'd be an idiot to waste, and his throat and expression are tense as he runs a hand over the chain he holds, altering its structure.
Take away the pain, anyway.
A carefully judged throw reveals that the thing has real weight to it, and it coils around Myr's front legs to bind them. It's tight, but the crackling, damaging electricity has been nullified.]
I'm sorry.
[L's apology is hurried as he turns back toward the battle.]
It needs me, and I have to go.
[If he can get close, he can cast his barrier again with his remaining strength, make it smaller, just enough to protect him and the SQUIP, perhaps. His steps quicken, turning into an uneven loping run.]
no subject
Myr's first presentiment of trouble is an instant too late; he lunges away--but the chain's already bound fast and he goes down flat-out. Teeth snap together on an epithet wrung from abused lungs.
He could stay down, stunned and winded; the temptation flits between his ears. Let this play out as it would without him--let Linden escape with his Bonded-- Let Rich and the others die, and it's fury at his own cowardice and the sheer monstrous unfairness of the situation that drives Myr back to his feet.
A real deer would be crippled to uselessness by the spellchain wrapped around its forelegs. Myr resembles one only in crude brushstrokes, the magic having left him somewhere awkwardly between quadruped and biped. He doesn't really think about what it is he'll do, letting sheer desperate urgency propel him into an ungainly crow-hop, a shambling leap--
That goes a hell of a lot further than he thought it would. He's the presence of mind--just--to jerk his head back and antlers out of the way before he collides with the fleeing Witch. Rolls aside quickly as he can to avoid crushing Linden in the fall--MakerforgivemeIdidn'tmeanit--but by then, the damage is already done.]
no subject
A single moment is all it takes. The collision and tangling fall would bowl larger and more physically powerful men over with ease, and as L strikes the ground, pinned and socking against pavement, there’s a faint sound not unlike a beetle’s shell crunched underfoot. A few broken ribs are nothing a skilled healer couldn’t fix in minutes, but a cursory glance is all it takes to know that the ribs are really the least of it.
He doesn’t shout, struggle, or attempt to free or right himself. Half-closed eyes don’t see the battle or the stag anymore, and an alarming patch of his dark hair is wet, warm, and tinged scarlet. If he’s pulled or raised from the pavement, a smear of scarlet remains. What’s certain is that, though he still breathes, he won’t be moving under his own power for some time.]
no subject
He scrambles to right himself, horror writ in the tension of his body where it can't show on his malformed muzzle. Spider-like awkward fingers reach for Linden's face, fumbling about as if Myr'd peel back an eyelid to check a pupil's dilation. But he doesn't, he can't, because these stupid fucking useless misbegotten hands would only cause more harm than good and what little vision he has left is fracturing around the edges. What an image to carry back with him into the dark, Linden lying in a concussion's slack repose, or worse--
More urgently, Myr drags his hand down to Linden's throat, frantic for a pulse; rests the other palm on Linden's chest to feel it rise and fall. Still alive, thank you, O Creating Glory, o Lady of Justice, but who knew how much would remain of that diamond-like mind when Linden woke up.
The enormity of what he's done catches in Myr's throat and he keens, an instant's horrible grief wrung out like a sob and gone again as quickly.
(He will remember that faint crunch in his nightmares.)]
no subject
The SQUIP lurches terribly in the air, and then sinks like a stone, dazed and wracked with shared agony-- for a long moment it can't even tell where the pain is coming from, what could have caused it.
And then its senses return, at least enough for it to realize what's happened... and that moment of realization is marked with a scream, a feral sound of rage and suffering.
It drops to the ground immediately, as if it's entirely forgotten Rich's presence, and rams its body into Myr, throwing him away from L's collapsed form; and it goes to him, bowing its long neck to look at him with its odd eyes, nudging him gently with its slim snout.
L...
... its dragon form dissolves, its feral nature snapped into perfect focus for a moment; it is bent over its Bonded, its lover, its forehead pressed gently to his, its hand resting at his damaged ribs. It's still and quiet, its eyes closed.
It's attempting to heal him-- to repair the damage done before it becomes irreversible.]
no subject
Which puts him in uneasy harmony with his erstwhile attacker, he quickly notes. This is an opportunity, a rare opening against an opponent he thought magic would make unassailable, and yet--
And yet. That's a damned hard sight to see and not be moved by. (There is more between them than demon and possessed, but he knew that. Just not how much more, nor how impossible the task of saving Linden might be.)
Is it grieving? Or trying to help him? If it's the latter, Myr's almost loathe to interrupt.
But this needs to end. Connor yells a warning and Myr wheels, running for his dropped bag of runes.]
no subject
He doesn't waste much time though. Even if the SQUIP is very clearly distracted, Rich knows he can't risk waiting this out and missing the chance. Still shirtless, he bolts towards the SQUIP, fist raised, aiming to just tackle it down. It pins it with a knee to the gut, an arm over its neck, and then it screams to Michael and Myr.]
Now! I need the bottle! Hurry!
[He chances a glimpse at L, praying the healing lasted long enough to fix any major damage. No one deserves to be hurt here except the one Rich is focusing on restraining now.]