(Closed) Deceuer Catch All

[mirshikar]

Who: Asura + Plotted CR
When: Deceuer
Where: Various locations in Aefenglom, the Outer City, and the Wilde.
What: Quest and event threads, along with a healthy dose of clowning. I'm always down for building new CR, so if you'd like a thread starter, feel free to hmu @ the Dec plotting post!
Warnings: Light violence.

Comments

SOKIE; Deceuer 2 - 4

[mirshikar]

[ Compared to Aefenglom, the city and its populace buffeted by the cold, the depths of the Wilde thrive as though suspended in the height of summer, the air heavy with humidity and the scent of overgrown, infected flora. And it is here, among the thick vegetation which reminds Asura so much of the Hedge and its thorns, that the King feels most at home—and of course, it sure helps that Asura's just sunk the blade of his evocation spear right down and through the skull of some creature blighted beyond recognition.

Asura and a certain necromancer both, they've been on the hunt for more than a day now, and while they've laid waste to a number of Cwyld-touched beasts (incinerating the remains, moving forward and on after they're done), the King is aware that their trip isn't solely for the thrill of the fight; the uphill battle to clear the forest. Where he'd first suggested the excursion as a d a t e ("I want to get lost with you, out in the Wilde", he'd said to her after she'd tried and partly succeeded in breaking his face), it had quickly evolved into a test of their partnership. Sokie, she'd allowed the King to aid her in casting the magic necessary to keep her body whole and hale beyond the reach of the Bright Wall, and in the midst of the spell, Asura had felt her (the twist and twine of her magic against his own; the scent and sharp taste of ozone) in a way he hadn't before.

Always, he'd sought to employ magic as a weapon, a tool easily called to hand and just as readily cast aside. Never had he bothered with attuning himself to its ebb and flow; how it could be perceived as an extension of a Witch instead of an armament. (And if it is, then damn, both Sokie and her magic are near untouchable and beautiful both.) ]

You doing all right, Sokie? [ —he calls out to her after the Cwyld-creature has crumpled before him, the spear of flame which had brought it down dispelled with a wave of hand. The kill had been clean, the fire-woven weapon cauterizing the lethal blow as it had been made, preventing infected gore from sullying its wielder. And yet... as Asura surveys the area surrounding, listening and watching for any other Cwyldtid which may have been drawn in by the commotion, fatigue marks his brow. Not from physical exertion (no, Asura can certainly keep moving; there is raw power evident in his bearing and frame), but from magic overuse. Sustaining a spellcrafted spear for a bit of training is one thing; employing it in constant, consistent combat is another. ] Think you dropped something.

[ He trusts her, then, to watch his back as he moves to retrieve...! A small satchel which has fallen a fair distance away (perhaps lost during the initial corralling of the Cwyld-beast), one he recalls Sokie wearing at her hip, its ties loosened just enough to reveal a flash of gold and fine metalwork. Is it a ring? ]

[weirdnecro]

[It was nice here; it didn't feel as if she was going to have her nose fall off from the cold, nor was she getting soaked by icy rain. It worked. Even if it meant that meant that they didn't have the excuse to laze, helping out with killing off the Cwyld-touched was useful. It made her feel less like a slug with all of the exercise and fresh air they were getting.

(Then again, she never really liked staying in one place for very long).

Things were good. She allowed him the bit of control by conducting the spell, they were fighting together beautifully- even if she was careful to shield them both a blend of shielding fire over their auras, they were getting slowly in sync with each other.

Realizing what she dropped though, none of the accomplishment stayed. It fled even, as she grimaced, realizing he would see, and she would have to explain and...

She hated feeling.]

You can leave that.

[Maybe it was a loose tie, or maybe it was simply torn away, as a lure could be. Still, should Asura go ahead, he would find there not quite one ring- but a gimmal ring, still shining and newly minted.]

You'll likely need to clean it anyway. Might be infected.

[Not QUITE how it works but she's. Well she's trying.]

DANTES;

[mirshikar]

[ "We'll meet at the barracks. Name an evening", an Anonymous Avenger had bid of the King, and "I'll be there to show you just how far I'm willing to go", they had vowed. And lo: Asura arrives at the training grounds bordered by the barracks with the setting of the cold Deceuer sun, shadows stretching long and black as pitch from the sheet metal tile of the rooftops surrounding. Though the terrain of the training grounds is as open as moorland (bereft of places to hide and constructed with as much in mind—no new cadets would ever be hidden from the eyes of a superior officer), the barracks themselves (fallen into disuse and disrepair, with the priorities of the Coven and Parliament both shifted elsewhere) offer an abundance of camouflage, especially for someone who Asura knows by scent, touch, and diction alone.

Footfalls slowing to a stop at the center of the training grounds, the yard flanked on all sides by darkened dormitories marked by numbers, Asura...! Slips into a over-head stretch, languid and slow, rolling his shoulders as he calls out into the burgeoning dark— ]

You out there, Avenger? [ Because damn, if he's been stood up after all that bluster, it'll be a disappointing night. Whoever Mr. Anonymous is, they remind Asura of the Darklings he knows: Mirrorskins and Moonborn who favor shrouds and smokescreens in battle, preferring them to all other battle tactics and strategem. And that thought? Well, it sure as hell makes Asura excited (as is evident in the sharp grin he wears, full of dragon's teeth). While he doesn't care to employ artifice in fights himself (Asura, he's all brute force and physicality, he doesn't concern himself with anything else), that only means he should hone his skill in contending with it. In besting it, and its wielders.

Though it is a cold night, and Asura wears only a (largely unbuttoned) button-down shirt, trousers, and boots, he does not shiver, nor does he seem noticeably cold when he calls out again— ]

Where's that show of yours which you promised?

[ Because hey, s o m e t h i n g needs to kick off this game of hide and seek. Avenger? It's your move. ]

[ressusciter]

[he's there, tucked into the shadows as is his habit, and he has been there for an hour before waiting. patience is a virtue of his, despite how his soul burns. Dantes lived for the big reveal, for that moment that tossed aside all pretense and left the truth in the light, and the idea of this match was something that catered to it. dressed fully in black, the shadows accept him as one of their own, and he sees the very moment that Asura arrives.

he promised no hints, could wait for the King to get frustrated. he would have had the mental strength. still, from where he is, he'd be kind enough to offer one thing out.

bringing the cigarette he's been covertly smoking to his lips again, he turns his head just so and breathes out the smoke in the direction of Asura. the breeze will disperse the smoke, make it less obvious as to the source, but it is scent - the same type that clung to that blue suit, something that will drift to the observant and say without words that he is here.

the show hasn't even begun yet. it'll start when Asura finds him, or demands him to reveal himself.]

[mirshikar]

[ No, it isn't quite how it works, but Asura humors Sokie all the same, emptying the contents of the satchel into the palm of his taloned hand for 'cleaning' and inspection both. And if the King is at all surprised by the discovery that the jewelry piece is a gimmal band (two links joined together as one, a mark of betrothal more than it would ever be of fashion), it doesn't show on his face. Instead: he is only mischievous as he ducks his head, puffing out a warm breath (fogging the metal over with condensation) before...! Seeing the ring polished with the hem of his shirt.

What he does not do is ask, demanding explanation for a trinket so largely out of place amidst the (harmonious) violence which he and Sokie have wrought together. He'd glimpsed it, of course, the pained look which she'd worn (like a child, working up to a confession of sorts), and while Asura is openly curious (there is no denying as much), he knows full well where he can press Sokie and where he cannot.

So he only grins, nodding his head in satisfaction with his completed cleaning job, before pronouncing— ]

Well, it's definitely safe now. [ He'd been thorough, after all. ] Besides, if you bothered to carry it with you all this way, leaving it here would be a shame.

[ He stalls, then, before returning the ring to its satchel, the weight of the gimmal band gone heavy in his palm as the after-effects of magic catch up with him. And though he's employed fire spells aplenty over the course of their time in the Wilde, during his watch at night, he'd called upon divination in the hopes of garnering something (a vision, some knowledge of the Cwyldtid which they hunt) from the dying forest. But rather than reveal any truths of Geargadas, what his magic unearths is....

An unbidden impression from gimmal ring, sealed there by emotion and buried by time.

(A man, jawline for days, with tousled flaxen hair and eyes the color of steel.)

Realizing he'd lapsed into silence uncharacteristic to him, Asura recovers by seeing the ring airborne with a gentle toss, and effortlessly catching it with the satchel. It's an easy thing, after that, to see the parcel returned to its owner, the tips of his talons pressing it into Sokie's hands. ]

...something tells me it traveled a long way to see you, too. [ Green eyes lowering to meet with Sokie's own, Asura's lips quirk up into a wry smile. ] Through time and space and those damn one-way gateway mirrors.

It may be more useful thank you think. [ Or at least, more of an asset than the Gilded Torc which he himself had received. Drawing back and away, there's an easy laugh on his lips as he shakes his head, trying to rid the residual impression from his mind's eye (to no avail). ] Hell, it could even be an inter-dimensional key.

[ Whatever Sokie does or does not tell him, he'll run with it. It's her story, her ring. ]

[weirdnecro]

[Was he being helpful? He was not being helpful. He was being a deviant, with his buffing the ring and looking at it, and...did he just...no, he might be learning divination, but he wouldn't get visions, right? No.

Because then she'd really have to get angry at him. Though it wasn't as if he wasn't used to her yelling at him. Usually he made her yell for various reasons other then anger, but anyway.

She crushes the bundle in her hand, and she is tempted to huck it right into the bushes.]

A wedding ring, being an inter-dimensional key? The only thing it is is a shackle.

[She's joking about it, but she's bitter too, even as she moves to tie it back onto her belt loop. Angrily too.]

Especially when it's as new was the day it was locked together. It must have been just cleaned up, right before we connected them together.

[She reaches up to honk his nose, before walking a step beyond him, and another, to survey that they were really out of danger.]

You can make up whatever stories about it that you like Asura. I don't care. But it's not useful. I'm just looking for a reason to destroy it at first opportunity.

[mirshikar]

...very well.

[ When the scent of cigarette smoke greets the King in place of words, he is absent of the frustration which might seize upon another: instead, he is only pleased. Thrilled, that this evening will host the hunt he's been spoiling for all this while. Asura is, after all, the Mir Shikar—the Lord of the Hunt—and though he often makes excursions to track and to slay the Cwyld-touched beasts beyond the Bright Wall, the infected are mindless and propelled forward only by hunger. And so, to contend with an opponent like Avenger is a treat, one which Asura would never lay waste to by demanding that all be revealed to him so very quickly.

Game? Set and announced as underway with the rhythmic cadence of Asura's voice, its intonations masking none of his delight: ] I will pursue, then, with pleasure.

[ The smell of the smoke is acrid (fresh, airborne) rather than stale (a ground scent, or a perfume affixed to clothes), and if Avenger's nursing a cigarette, they're doing so from a location which would trap or conceal any rising plumes of vapor.

Flanking the barracks, there are a slew of equipment sheds (dilapidated, many with holes in the roofing), a large residential culvert (carrying away water from the city's relentless rains), and—at a greater distance—the chimney atop the roof of the mess hall. Smoke wafts into the brisk, evening air from the twin stacks (sizable enough to shield the silhouette of another from view), the beginnings of a meal perhaps underway for the handful of Mirrorbound who chose to dwell within the barracks themselves, and Asura...?

Rather than be fooled by the breeze, he makes for the rooftop of the mess hall at his leisure (there is precious little reason to rush). Even if Avenger should not be present there, the location provides a solid view of the sheds and culvert down below. Height and a full scope of the playing field (for the hunter and hidden both) means advantage, after all. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Sokie, she's playing defense, isn't she? Despite presently occupying the vast expanse of the Wilde, it's like she's got her back to a wall, and all over something so small as a ring. Asura, he's never seen her in precisely this light (felt her anger coil about her in cold, virulent wreaths instead of being directed outward), but he'll take all of it (all of her) without question. He knows it well, that shackles can manifest in any form (a gimmal band, a diadem, a memory), and he isn't about to go and dredge up the past (ugly, as Asura imagines it must be, to elicit such a response from Sokie) on account of some vision which he didn't ask to receive. Whoever that man had been (what they had meant to her), the King does not doubt that they are little more than dust now, kept alive if only by Sokie's own anger.

(Just as Asura keeps the memory of that creature alive, their Title embedded in his flesh and blood. And in this way, the Changeling and Necromancer both are more similar than not. ) ]

Much as I like telling tales of Summer's triumphs over the things which go bump in the dark, I'm not in the business of making up fables concerning the people I care about. [ —casual and cool where Sokie burns, Asura makes a show of wrinkling his nose (that honk had been something, not quite the usual pulling of hair) as he follows Sokie's line of sight with his own.

He hears the pair of Cwyld-touched creatures before he sees them, footfalls and rustles of foliage circling the ground upon which he and Sokie stand. With a shift of stance, he sees Sokie and himself positioned back to back, nearly touching as Asura once again summons his spear of flame to hand. ]

The only story I'm concerned with is the one where we carve a path forward together.

[ Against anyone and anything which would seek to keep them bound, Geardagas itself included. ]

Tell you what. [ —he starts, eyes falling closed as he tilts his head back, listening for the Cwyld-beast and gauging their size to be e x t r a large from the sound of their gait; the way bushes and brambles snap and break from their movements. ] When we can catch a breather, how about you give the ring to me, and I'll ensure you never have to see it again? I'll see it cast into the forge at the magitech shop once we get back to the city proper.

[ And that sentiment? It's languid and easy, like they were talking about dinner plans in the comfort of their shared home rather than being stalked by a pair of blighted creatures out in the Wilde after Asura had only just discovered that Sokie had been engaged and married once upon a time.

But then, life's just like that, and sometimes, you've got to roll with it instead of against it, yeah?]

[ressusciter]

[it would be too simple to hide on the roof at the moment. too easy, and now that he's given away his presence, the rest must be done through observation. even absent the gifts that being his type of existence would give him, he knows the joys of pushing himself to the limit, of making someone work for it. he goes still and listens, trying to judge where Asura might be going, when he's settled down, and it's then that he takes the stub from between his lips and flicks it off into a direction - a tiny ember moving through the shadows, light and scent that swiftly moves - to cover darkness moving in the opposite direction.

he can't stay idle in one spot. that hardly makes a hunt. he'll cling to the shadows for a while longer, moving a few sheds down, trying to step lightly. still, there are hints - movement and soft sounds, the setting sun slowly sinking. he's not accustomed to being hunted - it's all unfamiliar territory, and a game that in the end he'll lose, if he wants this fight at all. but it doesn't mean he can't enjoy it while it happens.]

[weirdnecro]

[Her anger is smoldering, cold, bitter. She normally doesn't get angry, but this is something directed to herself, at the foolishness that she did as a younger woman. She supposed that she needed this to grow, but it's still...she can still remember his face with unbelievable clarity, the way that it felt when he slipped the ring onto her finger, the names he called her, how he had tamed her, bit by bit, like another would a feral animal.

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. But now she knows better.]

I'd certainly hope not. It's only cute sometimes.

[Ah. Shades. The battle that's to come calms her, and she traces the rune for shields over their skin, for flames to come to her fingers. Killing something will make her feel better for certain, and...that offer...she knew he had been going to the magitech shop for pittance (really everyone paid a pittance unless it involved magic), but the idea of him taking it for the forge...she exhaled through her nose.]

You can take it to the forge. If you want to sell it for raw materials, it's all the better. Use it to buy yourself nice.

[Sokie isn't exactly greedy, but it sounds like she doesn't want even to profit off of it. Guess it wasn't a happy marriage if she didn't want to even keep it. It's fine, they can talk after they're done killing Shades.]

PALOMA;

[mirshikar]

[ Winter is one hell of an asshole, isn't it, encroaching upon Autumn long before the solstice is due. And to think that—in a different time and different realm, in the world where Asura so rightfully belongs—the King of Summer once held power enough to bring the slats between the seasons to heel, obliging them to remember his authority as Imperator. Cycles are sacred, they are inexorable, and the seams at their intervals were not to be infringed upon by Winter and its hunger for sorrow, and yet... y e t, Asura holds no sovereignty in Geargadas. He'd been unable to tell the blizzard which beset the city to step right the fuck off, because this world? It's infected, deaf, and dumb, and it's up to them (the Mirrorbound and all those willing to help) to save it. And if that happened to involve the Wrathful King himself shoveling away three times his own weight in heavy, wet snow, so be it then (Winter be damned!!), he'd see it done.

So yeah, Winter's one hell of an asshole, but as its onset continues its treacherous work, at least it has given Asura this: the early hours of the morning with Paloma settled atop him after a night of battling rooftop collapses, clearing thoroughfares, and keeping the night's watch while the day-shift rested. And now, now it's their turn to claim a few hours of recuperation (duly earned and much needed, with the snowstorm planted well and fast over the city). The mattress is soft, the bedding is warm (heated through by the fire which burns in the marrow of Asura's crystalline skeleton), and while sleep does not immediately claim the King (it's strange, attempting to find rest at this hour), he is undeniably relaxed as his fingers comb through the billowing curls of Paloma's hair, the weight of her curled against him perfectly tranquilizing. ]

You asleep, Palomabella? [ The lack of response confirms his suspicion that yes, she'd gone and dozed off before him, leaving him as the one to follow after.

And follow Asura does, waking some time later only to find he hasn't woken at all. That around him, a dreamscape has formed though he'd drawn no runic circles and cast no spell, and its architect is his Bonded; the fledgeling Kindred who should have no command over magic at all.

(But then, he remembers: the dreams of Kindred can only be entered upon crafting a suitable pledge and an exchange of vows. And what have he and Paloma done, if not make an indelible promise, linking their souls?) ]

[mirshikar]

[ So they are of similar mind, then: this game where Avenger's footsteps fall as softly as ash, their movements as liquid and as deft as they had been upon the ballroom floor, is something to be savored and enjoyed like the slow burn of a whiskey neat in a smoke-laden bar. And it is precisely that notion which leaves the King unhurried as Avenger takes new cover, darting to some unseen hideaway in the training yard. Asura knows: shadow is something always besieged (such is its nature, always in retreat, returning from hidden places only in the slats between light and dark), and as he seats himself upon the edge of the mess hall's rooftop, legs dangling down, it is the last embers of Avenger's cigarette that give him inspiration for a hunter's trap.

With a twist and twine of magic, Asura sees several small spheres of flame summoned to his hand, the evocation spell burning brightly in the dark. Many a time, he had employed a similar trick out in the Wilde to light the way back to camp after night had fallen, but in the here and now, he casts the magic out, the glowing orbs dispersed to each and every one of the sheds occupying the training grounds, the culvert, and the hollows which might house the one he's searching for. ]

Let's see how quickly you can move. [ —is the only warning he'll give before, two at time (in opposing directions), the spheres combust, their flames dispersing harmlessly, though...! Not before illuminating the whole of the area they occupy. In tandem, from east to west, the bursts of light will continue until they converge at the northernmost part of the field below, and by the time they do, Asura hopes to have corralled his opponent there as well.

Unless, of course, Avenger chooses to abandon the notion of avoiding the light and opts to seek out Asura instead. But even that outcome is uncertain, however...

One thing is: now, a faster pace has been set into motion, one which will beget action in the end. ]

[mirshikar]

Something nice? [ —Asura drawls with a bark of a laugh, poised to defend both Sokie and himself at a moment's notice as he continues on, mirthful and candid when he asks: ] But what could compare to this?

[ The feel of Sokie's power against his skin, the crackle and spit of the flames comprising his spear, and the sparks of fire (his element, his heraldry) at Sokie's own fingertips resonates in the very core of his being, as powerful as the wardrum beat of his heart and its yearning for battle. That she has given him this is enough; it is his turn, now, to help her in kind, starting with laying waste to the first of the Shades which lunges forward with such speed and savage abandon that even Asura can appreciate its ferocity.

Asura knows: the rhythms of violence which he and Sokie had learned to move to together will be of comfort to her (as they would be to him, were his own wrath not already tempered). And though the immediate impact of felling a Shade, seeing its shell of infection part from the host within, is no true victory, it will still serve as vehicle to move forward, past the memory of a marriage gone sour. ]

How about we donate the proceeds, instead? [ Bantering, still, even as he plunges his weapon into the ravenous maw of the Shade which would have liked to devour the 'prey' it presumed both Changeling and necromancer to be, Asura does not falter in saying: ] Let something good come out of the weeds, as it were.

[ The darkly reverberating shriek of pain the creature releases, after that, is more than enough to call its backup into the fray. And when the second, larger creature surges out of the treeline, intent upon bringing Asura down, the King—locked in contention with the Shade he'd wounded—is open to attack.

Or, at least, he might have been, were he bereft of a partner. ]

ENKIDU;

[mirshikar]

[ It is between dispatching the Shades that have come to infest the Outer City that Asura takes to search and rescue: evacuating those that should have long since taken shelter from the blizzard behind the safety of the Bright Wall. But not all make it beyond the checkpoints marking entrance to the city (there are the infected, and those unwilling to leave them behind), and it is for these civilians that Asura remains ever on the hunt—they'd not be forgotten, left to fall either to the ravages of the storm or to the ravenous maws of the Shades which could not be brought down by the long-distance weaponry of Aefenglom's defenses. No, Asura—the King of Summer—would stand as a bulwark against Winter (as is his edict, serving as the counterweight which would forestall storms of ice and snow from sowing so much sorrow), the heat of his season imbued in his flesh even when his Witch's magic wanes, dwindling into nothing.

During one such instance, he carries a common spear at his back while scouring the outskirts of the Slums for those most in need of aid. It is slow, ponderous work with visibility so very low, but even the wind which bites at the skin and eyes, whipping snow into lashes of ice, does not prevent Asura from taking notice of a shock of green hair, belonging to someone succumbed to the cold. And Asura? He doesn't think twice before gathering the stranger into his arms, seeing them lifted clean from the snow and held flush against his person because—

Asura, as always, is warm. And for it being so very frigid, he is donning surprisingly little by way of clothes (no thick layers, no Wintertime accessories), the fire crystal of his bones churning out enough heat to assist him in remaining outdoors for longer periods then most. It'll help his newfound companion, too. Prevent their internal their body temperature from sinking too low. ]

Hey. [ He jostles the person in his arms gently, assessing how alert they are; if they're able to give him a response. But... even as Asura looks over the other Mirrorbound (has he glimpsed their face somewhere before?), his attention seems to drift elsewhere as he becomes aware of something (a Shade), its shadowed silhouette just visible at a distance through the thick of the snowfall. ] You going to be all right if we hang out here for a little while longer?

[ressusciter]

[his body can only move so fast, bound by gravity and the rules of physics, but he makes it move to a degree. his height is an asset, for it means longer limbs to take bigger leaps, the light practically breathing down his neck.

black fabric moves enough to keep his appearance still an unknown, but he's forced to move by the lights, seeing what their radius is for how much they reveal. it's only a matter of time, at this rate, but he wants to drag it out and make Asura come down - he'll be ready to strike then, the moment the King decides to come near enough for him to leap forward. caught in the northern point of the field, he can feel his heartbeat picking up, the adrenaline already starting to take hold.

come then. there would be no premature victory. he'll show himself with that first blow.]

[gehennawind]

[ Laboring more, eating less. More work and less play makes a Fledgling a tired girl. So much to do and only twelve hours of the day in which to do it. Home being where the heart is, and any rest stolen with Asura a dozen times more restorative than sleeping alone in her empty apartment, she doesn’t resist it when he picks her up and places her overtop himself. Perfect safety; perfect and smoldering contentment.

Is the background ache of dull hunger shaping her dream, then, if everything else is tiring but wonderful? Is it the Beast? Or is it because she never goes a day without awareness of how little of other Kindred she’s learned?

Paloma is in that night class again and doesn’t look up or notice Asura’s presence in it. Life Drawing, a part-time position as TA, and it’s late summer in SoCal. The building’s too old for proper AC, so they’ve got a couple larger fans blowing, though she’s sweaty and sticky in her spaghetti strap sundress. A model is nude while charcoal-using students look enviously on, with the exception of a tall, ghostly pale red-haired man dressed expensively.

He shines. Not literally, but every time Paloma’s head moves in his direction from behind her little desk, his eerie handsomeness swallows the light around him and enhances itself. Her throat, damp and reflecting the bright ceiling lights, subtly bobs as she avoids his eyes, avoids everyone’s eyes in a bid to take minimal space in this classroom. The man frowns delicately at his developing sketch, utterly free of fault, and waits until the teacher’s already assisting another student to lean back in his chair and call softly for: ]

Paloma?

[ Goosebumps. Everywhere. Everywhere. She’s completely locked in behind her desk, not equipped to fight what his void-black eyes do to her, but somehow Paloma breaks off to creep to his side, still without noticing Asura. ]

What d’you need, Carlos? [ They’re whispering, naturally. It’s Life Drawing. She thanks God when he looks at the canvas and tries not to think about the curve of his smile or what she might do if he doesn’t... stop. ]

Just your hand. [ At her startled, nervous glance, he raises his sickly white hands. Several of his long fingers are smudged. ] A hand, I meant. English is not my first, sorry.

[enkidoh]

[Enkidu realizes it now more than ever. Truly, this must be it, the absolute pinnacle of incompetence. Once they were a weapon created by the gods and now nothing else but a some lost soul without a purpose, a bond, their magic or a healthy skin condition. And they are awake the entire time, leeching of the warmth that comes from the person who picked them up.]

I am fine. [The tone of their voice is completely neutral and so is the look on their face. Nothing really shows how frustrated they truly are with this entire situation.] I will hold on a little tighter. [And that is what they do, carefully curling their arms around the larger person's neck.]

Normally creatures like these would not have been a problem for me. [They sigh and brace themselves for the fight that is at hand. They have been too weak to handle these creatures alone. Really, it is preposterous.]

[mirshikar]

[ Truth be told, Asura is largely unconcerned with determining a victor of the night: he is invested only in Avenger; in learning how those who hail from other worlds might carry themselves in a fight. And Avenger? They're fast, more nimble than the King can claim to be. Though they are of similar height, Avenger boasts a wiry build (from what little Asura is able to make out between flashes of firelight) where the King himself is heavy with corded muscle through the shoulders and back, equipped with armored scale to absorb the impact of sudden strikes—

—much like the one he greets (heedless, without a care) after abandoning his rooftop perch, pitching himself forward with a surge of momentum (Asura's haste belying his languid demeanor) to meet with the downswing of Avenger's first foray into the light. It will connect, that opening move, and Asura will be given a better idea of his opponent's strength for it as he recovers with a grin that speaks to his love for combat, every facet of it. From the sting of injury to the thrill which swells in its wake.

With a wave of his taloned hand, Asura gives life to a second bout of magic: a dozen spheres of flame, shaped anew and set into a ring encircling the both of them. It's no Crown of Clashing Fire (there are no thorns; no burning briar to truly bar either contender from escape), but it will do—and with its rise, perhaps the King will even be able to glimpse his partner's (first in dance, now in a spar) face for the very first time. ]

[mirshikar]

Pa-lo-ma. [ —Asura interjects, each syllable of Paloma's name drawled out and punctuated at a volume which is most definitely above whispering because...! Well, it just isn't in Asura's nature to sit idle and still at desk, much less one adorned with a blank canvas. He is aware: the dreamscape where he's been assigned the role of a student in a classroom which held as much heat and humidity as the Everglades in South Miami is less of a dream and more of a memory. Paloma, she doesn't seem lucid so much as she appears to be remembering how some unearthly-looking guy captured her attention on a night when she'd been human. Wonderfully, utterly, and beautifully human in the sundress which clung to her frame, wisps of her hair dampened with sweat and curling all the way toward heaven.

("And I'm not, really. Much of an artist. I study-- studied the history of it, before." So this is it, then. The 'before' which Paloma hadn't cared to elaborate upon when surrounded by the beauty of her rooftop garden and swathed in the affections Asura would so freely give to her.) ]

I could use a hand over here, too. [ Unceremoniously, he turns the canvas before him so it'll meet with Paloma's line of sight, revealing an altogether poor drawing (rife with stick-figure fault), consisting of three creatures: a fruit bat (with large squiggles denoting flailing wings) and a butterfly (wreathed by shorter and longer lines, evocative of the 'glow' of a halo), both resting atop a dragon (with horns similar to Asura's own). ] Could you tell me what these three things have in common?

[ Will Paloma take notice of him, blatant as he's being? Will she come back to herself and take the reins of the dream before her memory (her privacy is something which Asura holds in high regard) reveals more than Paloma would ever care to say herself? There's only one true way to know, and that's by pushing just a little bit more by leaaaaaniiiing precariously back in his chair, defying gravity as he plays charming with a wink of his eye: ]

Can't figure it out for the life of me.

[ C'mon, Paloma, don't stare right through him like he's a damn side-character or something. ]

[ressusciter]

[there's no doubt from the blow that he's strong - fitting for someone who spoke about learning different disciplines, who chose hand to hand as a method of combat. a strength cultivated through years of hard work, hidden beneath his taste for clothes that conceal, but it's too easily accepted for him to feel like it's so quick as to be anything but calculated.

enough of this, then, enough hiding, and the coat that had been so essential in keeping him in shadows, he discards, at the right time for the firelight to reveal him to the King. white hair and golden eyes, and a fierce smile to be engaged in combat such as this, against someone who might actually give him challenge so that he has to truly think during.

and now that it's all begun, he laughs before he dashes in again, coming from the opposite side as he did before and looking for a low opening to strike out at.]

[gehennawind]

[ Who's singing her name?

Most of the classroom slows and blurs into mixed watercolor, vague shapes and undefined light. Paloma stares, bewildered, at someone and something who should not exist in her mortal world. Halloween is at least a couple of months off, and while there's undeniably a lurch of instant attraction and longing that makes her breath hitch, he's wrong. Completely wrong, here, now. She studies his canvas while the memory of her sire continues to smile with one side of his mouth, faintly amused. ]

That- that's not the model, umm...

[ Blinking furiously, her heart stutters and almost remembers that it's already permanently stopped. She stands a little taller, moves her shoulders back just a bit, seeing Asura with a new alertness as her hands untwist from each other. On a certain level she comprehends what's happening; her dreams are never, ever so vivid to the last detail. This is magic, she thinks. ]

You didn't sign up for this class.

[ Her smile is tremulous and shaky, but she is looking at and not through Asura. ]

[weirdnecro]

I mean, you could get something on your horns, something from the blue district...

[She drawled, but her mind was already focused on what was to come. She could feel the heat of her blood, the tingle and tug of his magic as it surged and-

There was one shade, which she let him take without contest. While he has a nice idea, she made a face, and turned to take out the second, larger creature with a bolt of fire-and made a yanking motion to make the flame burn ever higher. Hotter, so the shade would stop and shriek in distraction and pain.

No one is going to touch her boy toy.]

Bad idea. We don't know if the money is actually going where we want it to go. For all we know, it could get pocketed by someone in the office or bullied out of their hands or whatever.

[mirshikar]

Yeah? [ I am fine, the other Mirrorbound has said, and Asura can't be sure if their current state of calm is the product of hypothermia and its onset (detachment and apathy, listlessness due to low energy) or the mark of a fierce will (one which has the stranger's arms curling fast about the King's neck and allows for the huff! of a sigh to fall from their lips). Either way, Asura makes it a point to n o t treat them as though they were invalid, declaring!: ] You owe me a spar, then, whenever you're back on top of your game.

[ And with the other Mirrorbound hanging on for the ride, Asura deems them secure enough to support with one arm instead of two—after all, he'll need the spare to wield his spear in short suit.

A laugh!: ] Anyone who can contend with Cwyld-beasts on the regular is someone I'm interested in going hand-to-hand with.

But, for now... [ As the Shade nears (propelled forward by its hunger), and Asura falls back to terrain which is not flanked by massive drifts of snow (he can't afford for his movements to be hindered, not when he's carrying precious cargo), he asks: ] ...think you could be my second set of eyes?

[ By keeping a lookout for more of the Cwyldtid, Asura does not need to say. Where the King's own eyes are trained upon the threat which he can see (the Shade advancing quickly, now, through the snow), the other Mirrorbound may as well watch his back because...! The next moment sees Asura's weapon drawn, its bladed edge brought down upon the Shade which has caught up to them, thinking that it had finally secured itself a meal after knowing only the cold for so very long.

(It is wrong, of course, and all it is fed is the brunt of a spear, the raw physical force behind the weapon's thrust splintering the creature's shadowed carapace—rearing back, it howls in keening agony, and Asura falls back as well, putting distance between the Shade, himself, and his charge once again. Close-quartered combat when another so happens to be within reach of gnashing teeth and flesh-rending claws isn't high on Asura's list of priorities. But...

As the snow kicks up with a particularly fierce gust of wind... can the other Mirrorbound see where the creature might strike from next?) ]

[mirshikar]

[ And so she unfurls, the Paloma that he knows: the haze clears from her amberglass eyes, and once again they are alacritous and bright, full of her presence as the Gordian's knot formed by the twist and twine of her fingers comes undone. Then, of course, there's the matter of her smile—tenuous, thin, but so very much for him as his own grin (ticking up at the corners of his mouth, roguish and perfectly wry) is for her.

Paloma, she's here, and before she slips away again (no longer present as her truest self), Asura will make his play at steering her clear of the (vampire) ginger with the half-cocked smile that looms behind her. Whatever Carlos' significance in this dream-memory is, Asura doesn't wish to know it, not if it isn't Paloma herself who chooses to divulge the details out of her own volition.

That's why... with the clack! of Asura's chair hitting the ground, he pronounces: ] No, I didn't.

And you didn't, either. At least, not for the second time. [ Here, the air about the King softens, eyes lowered to half-mast and veiled by thick, ravendark lashes as he rises, no longer so sing-song when he says her True name with an intensity that can only be called ardent— ] So, Miss Paloma Cecilia Vasquez...

What do you say to playing hooky with me? [ —and bids her to ditch Life Drawing with him. ]

Let's leave this place— [ The past which she held cloistered in her chest. ] —in the dust.

[ By now, moving to reach out to her is second nature (it seems too much a crime, for the both of them to exist in the same space and not to touch), his taloned fingers seeking out her hand. ]

[mirshikar]

[ And there it is, the big reveal, arriving with the whir! and whish! of a coat swiftly discarded, the dark fabric falling as a curtain before its owner with a measure of flair that Asura can appreciate—vocally, a low whistle upon the King's lips as pale hair and acute, golden eyes flash, reflecting the firelight. So this is the person who'd been his dance partner at the masquerade, Avenger who wore a smile nearly befitting of Summer but so too chose to cling to the shadows like one of the Silent Arrow. What an unexpected surprise...! ]

So this is the face that you wanted to hide? [ Intense and fierce, nowhere near so restrained as Avenger's behavior had been at the gala. But then, Asura knows there's no soul alive who doesn't wear many masks, many faces for the world at large—the King himself is no exception, as forward and as brash as he is on any given day, especially when he's up against someone who can hit hard enough to r e a l l y make him feel it. ]

Think it suits you more than that mask and coat of yours.

[ This time, the King evades Avenger's strike (no, he won't be so easy to hit again), though he remains close, putting no distance between them because...! This is good, old-fashioned hand-to-hand, isn't it? No further magic will be employed on Asura's part, now that they're in the thick of things, and where he can grapple with Avenger, he will. That's why Asura will make to seize Avenger by the shirt-collar with one taloned hand, and take hold of the man's wrist with another if the maneuver is successful, twisting back the arm to lock the joint of the elbow.

It'll likely only hold the other man for a moment, but it's a break in the fight, one allowing for banter. And surely, Avenger's got something to say, hasn't he? ]