![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
- !event,
- arknights: gavial,
- baroque: koriel xii (dextera),
- bastard!!: dark schneider,
- boy's abyss: gen minegishi,
- expanse (the): amos burton,
- fire emblem: byleth eisner,
- fire emblem: claude von riegan,
- fire emblem: dimitri a. blaiddyd,
- fire emblem: yuri leclerc,
- granblue fantasy: eustace,
- jinba: hayame,
- legend of zelda (the): midna,
- locked tomb (the): john gaius,
- oc: liem talbott,
- star wars: cassian andor,
- star wars: jyn erso,
- vampire hunter d: d
Toxic Love: The Exalt Oracle
NOTHING GOES OFF WITHOUT A HITCH
You feel it, the moment that the Exalt oracle opens its eyes, like something that rips through your body from head to toe, something that feel like fire, wild. It sears into your veins, like acid and fire, something that triggers something that makes you want to run, or perhaps turn and face something head on. Before you can find what sets you off – if you could find it. Bearers know what this sensation is, it is different but the same at its core. The emotions, the feelings it sparks are different – but in the end, you know it for what it is: An Oracle.
Kenos groans from the awakening, like a part of a whole sparks to life, and though you do not know what it is that they want yet, you understand and know their existence down to your core. That feeling to attack or defend, perhaps even flee, does not leave you, but instead it fills your veins, you feel it thrumming, pulsing, like the beat of a heart – if one has one. With the sense of awakening, bearers know the shape of what comes next, they will be asked to act, to do. You do not know how it will happen, or what the Exalt will ask of you, but the knowledge that it will happen is borne from experience, not from the Oracle itself.
As you begin to move, to… look, you are not long for this day, it clouds your mind, a hazy, drowsy feeling takes over, the encroaching dark that threatens to swarm, crowding from the sides, taking over your vision – until… it fully takes over, and Bearers are put into a deep slumber.
When bearers awaken, it’s difficult to make sense of what your sleepy eyes see. Structures begin to swim into view, and they like tall figures looking down upon you. It’s difficult to tell what they are at first, but as you wake up, you begin to see, they are not people, or creatures, but long spore-like stalks. Some have ribbed overgrowths that you can see, and some end in growths that ripple and hang over, but have no “cap”. They tower over the bearers, like towering spires and buildings, on all sides, as if they were trapped in a ring of them. As bearers look around them they will notice tall green spires around them as well, and it takes a moment for things to really settle in. Mushrooms. Blades of grass. The springy moss about them is almost as tall as they are, low to the ground. There are pebbles that appear as boulders, and the thunderous steps nearby indicate an insect or arachnid walking by, far larger than you. There is a stillness to this space, like a held breath, and as the bearers awake, and regard one another, and then to the center of the circle is – a small effigy in the center.
It is here, the Exalt Oracle, and you feel compelled to regard it, before you are given a pang down to your core. It compels you – pleads, asks, begs, and demands, all in one – for what it wishes for. Precious mementos and precious items that they are missing. They have been lost, and they are somewhere within the Liosachán. It beseeches the bearers to return its items, and begs they be returned here to the circle. There are no words, but there is a pleading sensation, a feeling that these items are treasured by this Oracle.
You feel at your sides, your pockets, and find one item on your person, a weapon, a companion, whatever it is you would bring with you to the conflict, shrunk down to a tiny size with you.
Stay steadfast, bearers, and capture theflag Oracle!
Kenos groans from the awakening, like a part of a whole sparks to life, and though you do not know what it is that they want yet, you understand and know their existence down to your core. That feeling to attack or defend, perhaps even flee, does not leave you, but instead it fills your veins, you feel it thrumming, pulsing, like the beat of a heart – if one has one. With the sense of awakening, bearers know the shape of what comes next, they will be asked to act, to do. You do not know how it will happen, or what the Exalt will ask of you, but the knowledge that it will happen is borne from experience, not from the Oracle itself.
As you begin to move, to… look, you are not long for this day, it clouds your mind, a hazy, drowsy feeling takes over, the encroaching dark that threatens to swarm, crowding from the sides, taking over your vision – until… it fully takes over, and Bearers are put into a deep slumber.
When bearers awaken, it’s difficult to make sense of what your sleepy eyes see. Structures begin to swim into view, and they like tall figures looking down upon you. It’s difficult to tell what they are at first, but as you wake up, you begin to see, they are not people, or creatures, but long spore-like stalks. Some have ribbed overgrowths that you can see, and some end in growths that ripple and hang over, but have no “cap”. They tower over the bearers, like towering spires and buildings, on all sides, as if they were trapped in a ring of them. As bearers look around them they will notice tall green spires around them as well, and it takes a moment for things to really settle in. Mushrooms. Blades of grass. The springy moss about them is almost as tall as they are, low to the ground. There are pebbles that appear as boulders, and the thunderous steps nearby indicate an insect or arachnid walking by, far larger than you. There is a stillness to this space, like a held breath, and as the bearers awake, and regard one another, and then to the center of the circle is – a small effigy in the center.
It is here, the Exalt Oracle, and you feel compelled to regard it, before you are given a pang down to your core. It compels you – pleads, asks, begs, and demands, all in one – for what it wishes for. Precious mementos and precious items that they are missing. They have been lost, and they are somewhere within the Liosachán. It beseeches the bearers to return its items, and begs they be returned here to the circle. There are no words, but there is a pleading sensation, a feeling that these items are treasured by this Oracle.
You feel at your sides, your pockets, and find one item on your person, a weapon, a companion, whatever it is you would bring with you to the conflict, shrunk down to a tiny size with you.
Stay steadfast, bearers, and capture the
SURVIVAL OF THE SMALLEST ( DAYS 1 - 5 )
Unlike the still, stale apocalypse that had been the setting of the Iconoclast Oracle, the greenhouse is lush and vibrant with activity.
The Effigy present within yearns to be reunited with what belongs to it, fixated upon the five items lost within the greenhouse. The swell of its longing fills all Shardbearers, urging them to take action, claim the items and present all five to it to attain victory for that Faction.
Over a period of ten days, Shardbearers of both factions will have to navigate environmental dangers, and the normal procession of time, as the greenhouse is going about its daily routine. Workers plod around like towering goliaths, weeding and watering and pruning the greenhouse's contents. The Liosachán's native population of fae begin to take notice of the newcomers in their midst, emerging from grassy mounds hidden in the natural landscape to spy and pry about the newness surrounding them.
For Shardbearers demonstrating particular selflessness, favoring the protection and defense of another, the Effigy responds warmly from the third day onward — rewarding them with a sign of their dutiful nature towards others in the form of fairy wings, the form of which are unique to the Shardbearer themselves.
DAY FOUR. The sudden thunderous sound of a storm begins. No, not a storm, the tumble and crash of water pouring down upon the greenhouse — the workers of the Liosachán perform their routines faithfully, after all. In watering the garden, the danger of the environment threatens to overtake Shardbearers and their work alike. Drops of water fall, their size equal or larger than even the tallest of characters, and trickles of water muddy the ground in the form of raging rapids.
The security of Meridian and Zenith's camps is even called into question, because as simple as the act of watering a garden is, it is a nightmarish situation for such itty bitty Bearers to be in!
DAY FIVE. By day five, the fae of the Liosachán no longer lurk and linger in the corner of one's eye. They make themselves known, having prepared a banquet below one of the mushrooms, within sight of the Effigy. A table draped in spider-silk lace awaits any Bearer who comes near enough, the sagging piece of driftwood polished to a gleam with golden sap, leaving it waterproofed and pretty to behold. A handful of corks serve as seating, with most of the fae draping themselves across scraps of cotton as though they are simply at a picnic.
They invitingly wave to Shardbearers, chattering brightly in their foreign, lilting tongue, waving tiny sandwiches and little clay pots full of jams and honeys, brandishing sugared berries that they bite into with gusto, staining their arms and faces in swathes of blue and red. They clearly are welcoming to whomever comes upon them, urging them to avail themselves to the bounty they have prepared. Perhaps some characters know better than to eat the food of the fae, recalling legends and lore about the mystical properties and implicit bargains made in becoming a guest. Perhaps some have no idea, and are simply hungry enough to dig in!
The Effigy present within yearns to be reunited with what belongs to it, fixated upon the five items lost within the greenhouse. The swell of its longing fills all Shardbearers, urging them to take action, claim the items and present all five to it to attain victory for that Faction.
Over a period of ten days, Shardbearers of both factions will have to navigate environmental dangers, and the normal procession of time, as the greenhouse is going about its daily routine. Workers plod around like towering goliaths, weeding and watering and pruning the greenhouse's contents. The Liosachán's native population of fae begin to take notice of the newcomers in their midst, emerging from grassy mounds hidden in the natural landscape to spy and pry about the newness surrounding them.
Naturally curious, and equally dangerous, the fae of the Liosachán are Highstorm natives. They range in cool coloration, from soft violet-greys to deep stormy blues, and wear clothes fashioned from of goods pilfered from the pockets of workers, dropped on the ground or handcrafted from the environment itself. Wielding bits of copper tightly wound into blades and spears, they are a ferocious and cunning little people who seek to trick, trap and toy with Shardbearers. Direct violence is anathema to them, but violence that happens as a result of falling to one of their ploys is a badge of honor.DAY ONE - THREE. The Effigy initially urges Shardbearers to build bases of operation for defense and practicality, as surviving ten days without supporting one another is a surefire way to meet a grisly, tiny little end. Resources must be gathered: gather food and water, prepare shelter, establish unity and organization and prepare to set off into the wilds soon.
For Shardbearers demonstrating particular selflessness, favoring the protection and defense of another, the Effigy responds warmly from the third day onward — rewarding them with a sign of their dutiful nature towards others in the form of fairy wings, the form of which are unique to the Shardbearer themselves.
DAY FOUR. The sudden thunderous sound of a storm begins. No, not a storm, the tumble and crash of water pouring down upon the greenhouse — the workers of the Liosachán perform their routines faithfully, after all. In watering the garden, the danger of the environment threatens to overtake Shardbearers and their work alike. Drops of water fall, their size equal or larger than even the tallest of characters, and trickles of water muddy the ground in the form of raging rapids.
The security of Meridian and Zenith's camps is even called into question, because as simple as the act of watering a garden is, it is a nightmarish situation for such itty bitty Bearers to be in!
DAY FIVE. By day five, the fae of the Liosachán no longer lurk and linger in the corner of one's eye. They make themselves known, having prepared a banquet below one of the mushrooms, within sight of the Effigy. A table draped in spider-silk lace awaits any Bearer who comes near enough, the sagging piece of driftwood polished to a gleam with golden sap, leaving it waterproofed and pretty to behold. A handful of corks serve as seating, with most of the fae draping themselves across scraps of cotton as though they are simply at a picnic.
They invitingly wave to Shardbearers, chattering brightly in their foreign, lilting tongue, waving tiny sandwiches and little clay pots full of jams and honeys, brandishing sugared berries that they bite into with gusto, staining their arms and faces in swathes of blue and red. They clearly are welcoming to whomever comes upon them, urging them to avail themselves to the bounty they have prepared. Perhaps some characters know better than to eat the food of the fae, recalling legends and lore about the mystical properties and implicit bargains made in becoming a guest. Perhaps some have no idea, and are simply hungry enough to dig in!
UNWILLING TEN-ANTS ( DAYS SIX - EIGHT )
The scuttling, scrabbling feet of ants crawling over surfaces, winding their way through this grassy playground, has become normal. Their feet thunder as they go about their business, and it seems to be a normal cadence to life here in the underbrush, in the greenhouse. It is normal, and it is has become nothing to really concern oneself with. They are ants, after all, what do they do, but work? Endlessly, continuously.
That is, until the heavy, loud sounds of their feet draw closer to whatever place that the bearers have found to camp in. Whether solitary or as a group, these workers are no longer content to simply ignore the bearers, but they are a curiosity, perhaps even a bother. You have disrupted their lifestyle. The sleepy pattern of obtain food, return ot the hive, and back out again now has obstacles. Now there are not simply the fairies, who live their own lives and existences, a part of the ecosystem, but now there are these tiny bearers. Fighting, working together, arguing and disagreeing.
You are disruptive to their way of life.
The ants have come to collect on this due, and some bearers that are vulnerable, or perhaps merely caught, are taken away, your weight so light compared to the rest of their burdens that they carry. The strength of these ants is overwhelming, incredible at this size, and try as you might, if you are caught in their strong mandibles, you cannot escape. An ant, after all, carries 1000 times their weight with those powerful jaws. You, bearer, are nothing to them.
They squirrel away the bearers within their hill, a complicated network of tunnels, junctions, and large spaces. Down within, where the air becomes stifling, and stale. The ants guard their pray, and you get the distinct sense that they see you not as people, not even as enemies, but as prey. You will be food – perhaps to the eggs that are gathered within this room, where you can see the stirring of new life, just beneath the surface. You may not have very long to live, if these little larvae get their mouths on you.
Or perhaps, your friends will save you? Once it is discovered that bearers are missing, the trail of ant prints on the ground is apparent – they are not stealthy creatures – and the feet lead from the locations of several kidnapped bearers toward the grainy ant hill that lies not far away. The hill itself swarms with life, with worker ants all over the surface, scuttling about, looking for the next meal for te colony. Or perhaps for more bearers to bring back for their young.
It will be dangerous, bearers, to save your friends. Should you choose to do so, you will be kicking the anthill, and the ants will protect what is theirs. Even if they just took it. Those bearers belong to them, now! Rescuers will find not only your average worker ant, ready to defend, but winged male ants will attack from above, and deeper, within the nest, near where the bearers are kept, lies the strongest ant in the colony: The Queen. Staggeringly large, strong, and vicious, when her subjects begin dying. She will do everything in her power to protect her colony, and that includes killing bearers, if need be. Or trying, at least.
Good luck rescuing your friends, bearers!
That is, until the heavy, loud sounds of their feet draw closer to whatever place that the bearers have found to camp in. Whether solitary or as a group, these workers are no longer content to simply ignore the bearers, but they are a curiosity, perhaps even a bother. You have disrupted their lifestyle. The sleepy pattern of obtain food, return ot the hive, and back out again now has obstacles. Now there are not simply the fairies, who live their own lives and existences, a part of the ecosystem, but now there are these tiny bearers. Fighting, working together, arguing and disagreeing.
You are disruptive to their way of life.
The ants have come to collect on this due, and some bearers that are vulnerable, or perhaps merely caught, are taken away, your weight so light compared to the rest of their burdens that they carry. The strength of these ants is overwhelming, incredible at this size, and try as you might, if you are caught in their strong mandibles, you cannot escape. An ant, after all, carries 1000 times their weight with those powerful jaws. You, bearer, are nothing to them.
They squirrel away the bearers within their hill, a complicated network of tunnels, junctions, and large spaces. Down within, where the air becomes stifling, and stale. The ants guard their pray, and you get the distinct sense that they see you not as people, not even as enemies, but as prey. You will be food – perhaps to the eggs that are gathered within this room, where you can see the stirring of new life, just beneath the surface. You may not have very long to live, if these little larvae get their mouths on you.
Or perhaps, your friends will save you? Once it is discovered that bearers are missing, the trail of ant prints on the ground is apparent – they are not stealthy creatures – and the feet lead from the locations of several kidnapped bearers toward the grainy ant hill that lies not far away. The hill itself swarms with life, with worker ants all over the surface, scuttling about, looking for the next meal for te colony. Or perhaps for more bearers to bring back for their young.
It will be dangerous, bearers, to save your friends. Should you choose to do so, you will be kicking the anthill, and the ants will protect what is theirs. Even if they just took it. Those bearers belong to them, now! Rescuers will find not only your average worker ant, ready to defend, but winged male ants will attack from above, and deeper, within the nest, near where the bearers are kept, lies the strongest ant in the colony: The Queen. Staggeringly large, strong, and vicious, when her subjects begin dying. She will do everything in her power to protect her colony, and that includes killing bearers, if need be. Or trying, at least.
Good luck rescuing your friends, bearers!
IN SMALL PACKAGES ( DAYS NINE - TEN )
The day after the ant-pocalypse brings with it the brush of recognition — the Effigy has foreseen the likely victors, and calls to them to approach it once they have suitably recovered. It judges them the ones whom are most devoted to what binds them, loyal to memory and remembrance, and begins to clamor for them to restore to it what belongs rightfully. Thus begins a full day of resting, locating last-minute items, shoring up defenses and preparing for the sprint to the finish line.
Certainly your rivals will not allow you to simply walk to the Effigy unassailed and unchallenged.
Eat, rest, ensure your fellows are close and bolstered, for tomorrow begins the final rally.
On the morning of the tenth day, Meridian Shardbearers approach the Effigy with its five items in hand. In the midst of the mushroom ring, the Effigy stands as it had in the beginning — arms outstretched and back bowed skyward, gnarled fingers seeking contact with that which has been lost to it. It awaits, it strains, and even as it does, it requires one last test of ability. From the shadows of the towering mushrooms, the rasp of scale and soft hiss of a great beast descends upon the fae ring.
A gleaming garden snake, with glossy black and green stripes, blocks the way between approaching Shardbearers and the Effigy.
Between its bright eyes, pressed upon its brow is a scattering of brighter scales that appear to be in the shape of a delicate, three-leafed plant with spiraling patterns for leaves. It braces itself against the approach, and there is no doubt that to claim victory, the serpent must be subdued. Though Meridian approaches with victory in hand, they have not yet attained it — their rival faction and this beast remain in their way.
Certainly your rivals will not allow you to simply walk to the Effigy unassailed and unchallenged.
Eat, rest, ensure your fellows are close and bolstered, for tomorrow begins the final rally.
On the morning of the tenth day, Meridian Shardbearers approach the Effigy with its five items in hand. In the midst of the mushroom ring, the Effigy stands as it had in the beginning — arms outstretched and back bowed skyward, gnarled fingers seeking contact with that which has been lost to it. It awaits, it strains, and even as it does, it requires one last test of ability. From the shadows of the towering mushrooms, the rasp of scale and soft hiss of a great beast descends upon the fae ring.
A gleaming garden snake, with glossy black and green stripes, blocks the way between approaching Shardbearers and the Effigy.
Between its bright eyes, pressed upon its brow is a scattering of brighter scales that appear to be in the shape of a delicate, three-leafed plant with spiraling patterns for leaves. It braces itself against the approach, and there is no doubt that to claim victory, the serpent must be subdued. Though Meridian approaches with victory in hand, they have not yet attained it — their rival faction and this beast remain in their way.
MISSING LINKS ( THROUGHOUT )
As the Effigy desires to be reunited with what belongs to it, the swell of its longing stirs something more within all present Shardbearers.
With that foreign longing arrives knowledge: beyond the five items prized by the Effigy itself, there are other lost things within the greenhouse. Like a compass, each Shardbearer's mind points them in direction after direction, urging them to seek and explore. Implicitly, the thrum of comprehension fills your mind: these are things that do not belong to you, per se, but seek to have your hands ferry them home.
Amidst tangled brush, hidden under doffed acorn cap, tucked away in the belly of a fae's glittering den, lost in the depths of a puddle of spilled water that seems an insurmountable lake now, folded secretly into the petals of a towering, skyscraper-like flower, there are three additional items hidden within the tumultuous landscape that each Shardbearer feels a draw towards. Things that belong to someone else, eager to be reunited with them, but subject to whim.
Upon locating and retrieving one, the Shardbearer is filled with a sense of information — they know who this item belongs to, and they will know that they have a choice. Bonds are fragile things after all, and they exist to be enforced or abused, in order to advance a goal or to deepen a connection. How will you treat someone's precious bond? How will they treat yours?
With that foreign longing arrives knowledge: beyond the five items prized by the Effigy itself, there are other lost things within the greenhouse. Like a compass, each Shardbearer's mind points them in direction after direction, urging them to seek and explore. Implicitly, the thrum of comprehension fills your mind: these are things that do not belong to you, per se, but seek to have your hands ferry them home.
Amidst tangled brush, hidden under doffed acorn cap, tucked away in the belly of a fae's glittering den, lost in the depths of a puddle of spilled water that seems an insurmountable lake now, folded secretly into the petals of a towering, skyscraper-like flower, there are three additional items hidden within the tumultuous landscape that each Shardbearer feels a draw towards. Things that belong to someone else, eager to be reunited with them, but subject to whim.
Upon locating and retrieving one, the Shardbearer is filled with a sense of information — they know who this item belongs to, and they will know that they have a choice. Bonds are fragile things after all, and they exist to be enforced or abused, in order to advance a goal or to deepen a connection. How will you treat someone's precious bond? How will they treat yours?
NOTES
Here are some prompts to set the scene and foundation of the Exalt Oracle!
— The theme of this Oracle is a loose edition of capture the flag, where the Effigy's items can pass through multiple hands within the ten day allotment.
— For additional ideas and fun, it is known that several Shardbearers have concluded their efforts to fulfill the Greenwood Yards' sidequest request.
— All details of the Exalt Oracle can be found here, and questions for the mods can be submitted here.
— For additional ideas and fun, it is known that several Shardbearers have concluded their efforts to fulfill the Greenwood Yards' sidequest request.
— All details of the Exalt Oracle can be found here, and questions for the mods can be submitted here.
no subject
He wants to reject it. He stares up at the centipede, because he has no choice to wait.
Shuts his eyes against Gen's pain hitting his senses, because he just wants good things for the kid. He really does. If he could just do something to help, if they had a way out of this—
Amos' eyes snap open as Gen's rage floods in, and his first thought is, That's bad, not because of its foreboding signal of what he might do, but because Amos knows what it is to feel like that, helpless and lashing out for it. Beyond the rage of a berserker, it's something that's all too familiar to him — a poison he does not want Gen to carry with him.
And then everything goes sideways, and Amos' heart lurches as he is dragged away amidst the rocks and debris and grass, his wings instinctively fluttering as he tries to get away from the chaos, get the higher ground, get himself into position to attack Set from above—
Set smashes something across Gen's face, and for a second, his heart stops again.
And then he roars, aiming to divebomb Set, wrench the weapon from his hands. That is his gun. He has lost track of the last time he held that gun in his hands; it has to be something like two years by now. That is his gun, in Set's hands. That is his gun, with Gen's blood on it. Amos does not believe himself capable of loving people, but he loves Gen; Amos does not hate people, but he hates Set. ]
What the fuck!
[ It's too personal an attack. Immobilizing him was one thing, and that had the potential to be its own nightmare, but this— This—
He crashes into the spot where Set previously stood, claws barrelling into the grass and soil and sand where he's supposed to be. The vibrations from the impact rattle up his arms, fur doing little to absorb something so direct; he ignores it, grasping for every bit of sand he can, tearing up the ground beneath his feet as though that'll bring Set back, snarl and spittle from his lips as he digs and punches and claws and blunts himself in the process. ]
You fucking coward! [ These are not things he normally yells. ] Get the fuck back here! [ He would have done almost the exact same thing as Set, would he share his abilities. ] You piece of fucking shit! [ He is as angry as he's ever been without blacking out — and seeing the red creeping in on the edges of his vision, he knows he has to stop.
Because it's just Gen here now. And he can't lose it. His shoulders slump uselessly. His fur is matted and covered in dust now. A lone rivulet of blood runs down a claw where he probably broke something.
He takes a deep breath before turning to Gen, previously wild gaze holding a cold fury. But even that fades as he looks at Gen's face — at what his gun did to it, and thank fuck that Set apparently only knows how to use it as a blunt weapon — and his voice softens. ]
You okay?
[ Outside of, you know. The obvious. ]
no subject
Gen's reflexes are good, and he should have stood a decent chance at dodging that first brutal swing of the shotgun. But when Set swirled into view, Gen had already been frozen like a rat caught before a snake, gaze barely seeing the threatening silhouette of that gun cocked back for the swing -- unable to look away from the ferocious sincerity gleaming bright in Set's eyes. In that moment, how could he possibly doubt what Set was saying? That Set really would have fought for his sake without a threat hanging above his head?
-- then the impact of the shotgun's stock against his skull rattles all coherent thought out to his brains. Gen crumples like a house of cards, those two additional blows mostly adding insult to injury, given he's already well incapacitated. The stroke of fingers against his face is barely felt in his half-conscious haze, his thoughts flickering wildly in and out of coherency past a blanket of pain.
Even when Amos' voice speaks up from somewhere close by, there's a significant moment's delay before Gen can bring himself to respond. ]
... Amos. [ His voice emerges wet and guttural, each noise coughed miserably between shallow rasps; the inside of his mouth's been torn to ribbons, and everything tastes like blood. ] You're 'kay ... ?
[ He definitely shouldn't be moving with the level of concussed he probably is; it's wobbly and weak when Gen struggles to roll over onto his side, a hand groping blindly in search of Amos. With an eyelid split and the blood gushing over his face, he can't see worth shit. ]
Where ... the prism. [ A muffled groan. ] ... 't was ours. [ His hand grasps tight at whatever part of Amos he can find, and Gen slowly buckles, ducking his (bloodied, dripping) face against the ground. It muffles his voice further when he slurs, ] ... fucker. S'not fair. ...
[ But it's not really the prism he cares about. It is, indeed, indignity and anger and upset that roil off him in near-palpable waves, even past the heavy layer of raw pain. But stronger than any of those is a frothing, anxious confusion -- that, more than any frustration about the stolen prism, is what has Gen giving a low whimper as he curls up against Amos. His head hurts something awful. His temples are ringing, his pulse throbbing in his eyeballs. And the only thing echoing in his brain is Set's last words: Why didn't you let me be there for you when you needed someone on your side? ]
I wasn't wrong ... [ The way he clings to Amos is almost childlike, like he's trying to shy away from how much those injuries hurt. ] You're 'lright. I still have Reiji. ... 'm not wrong. I jus' did what I hafta. You get it, right?
no subject
He lets Gen grip at his shirt, bury himself in it, and cautiously he lifts his arms to hug him to his chest in a furred embrace. Always mindful of these stupid claws — they couldn't hurt Set, they still hold the potential to hurt Gen — and for a moment, he's quiet. ]
Yeah. [ His voice is a low rumble, sad and hurting as to how all of this has turned out — for the prism, yes, because they'll need to get it back, but this is much worse right now. ] You do what you have to for your people. I get it.
[ It's just that he doesn't have a Reiji, nobody from his home universe left to mourn — he'd left them behind more than a year ago. He doesn't have to fight for them. Everyone he has left to keep safe is...
... here, and instinctually, Amos hugs Gen that little bit tighter. He'd do anything he could to save any kid. Any other Zenite. But Gen is the person here he's known the longest now, and anything Amos might have to do for him, he would.
He knows cure wounds; while he can't do anything about the concussion, he can at least put a stop to the bleeding. There's a gentle prod from Amos as he seeks permission, Will you let me patch you up?, a little magical spark emanating from him, just waiting for confirmation.
And, out loud, still soft and quiet and as reassuring as he can be, ] I'm okay. We'll find a way to get the prism back, just might take longer than we thought. And then I'll kill him.
[ He'd never liked Set, something always off about the guy in a way that signalled danger — but now, after this? Whether he's working with Yima or not, he wants to bury him. ]
no subject
Those arms wind around him -- furrier than he's used to, but no less strong or reassuring -- and Gen permits himself to sink into them. The temptation to bury his face into Amos' shirt is resisted only because the prospect of having anything pressing directly into the open gashes across his face is ghastly; it feels like the rough edges of those wounds are throbbing with red-hot pain in time with his pulse.
Still, he does give a little nod in response to Amos' reassurances. Forces himself to try and control his breaths, his next exhale coming as a shuddering, uneven little sigh. And after a moment, he nods againt and sits up just a little straighter so he can gingerly rest his head into Amos’ palm, indicating acceptance of that offer of some healing.
Yeah. He wants to be patched up. The sooner he's better, the sooner he can try and get back into this fray.
(Even if his mind obviously still swirls with confusion and anxiety. Set's words poisoning him deep, even as he tries to bury the ring of his voice in his ears.) ]
... 'm glad you're okay.
[ Mumbled blearily before he sniffles, swallowing thickly and regretting it when he tastes blood. But still. It's true. Just because he wouldn't hesitate a second to give up Amos in exchange for keeping Reiji just a little safer, that doesn't mean he doesn't care about Amos, too. It's just ...
... it's all he knows to do. Clawing desperately to keep his one person safe, as he's always done. (Tried to do.) ]
'll fucking pulverize his stuff. He's never getting any of'em back. ... he shouldn't've fucked with us.
[ Funny, though, how those words aren't exactly deceitful, but they're also oddly lacking in conviction. ]
no subject
So it's with a gentle touch that Amos takes Gen's head in his palm, that his claws lightly tap against him, stopping the bleeding from his face. Fixing up that eye. As careful and as gentle as he's ever been with anyone, because it really isn't all that often that it feels like he's holding someone's life in his hands that he wants to save. Protect. Keep going. ]
I'm okay. You don't gotta worry about me.
[ He means it, but even as he says it, he gets the sense that Gen's gonna ignore that second sentiment anyway. Amos has already been dealt the worst of what life has to offer; what more can hurt him? But people who care about him might just worry about him anyway, and maybe he should start accepting that. Gen doesn't have to worry about him, but if he's going to anyway, then Amos will be mindful of it. Maybe one day learn to appreciate it.
He pulls that gentle touch of his claws back, looking over Gen's face. He thinks he got it all, but with all the blood already spilled, it's a little tough to tell. ]
No, he shouldn't have fucked with us. [ He doesn't notice that lack of conviction; maybe Gen's exhaustion is seeping into his being, too. Destroying Set's stuff — whatever it is — is important, but it's not an immediate priority. ] It's okay. You can do that later. Thinking we can go back to camp now... wash up a bit along the way. Maybe take a nap... We still got time. We can get back at him tomorrow.
[ Because for as much as Amos wants to get back at him, to get this win for Zenith, and there's so much to do on all of those fronts...
Maybe he would rather spend his time now on making sure Gen's okay. ]
no subject
And one last tap of the claw -- gentle as the touch of any doctor's tool, despite the sharp edge of that claw and the terrifying power contained in Amos' arm -- earns a small grunt before Gen blinks heavily. It's still a little tentative and careful when he raises a hand to try and rub away the blood that's starting to dry sticking in his lashes, crusting over his eyes, but the fact that he can deal with the blood at all means Amos has done a fantastic job. ]
... mn.
[ That vague noise in assent is all he can manage at the moment. Especially now that Amos has floated the idea of resting for now, it's all he wants.
It's not that his anger has subsided at all. So much has been happening in this fight, and none of it has felt fair -- he hates Hayame and Dimitri, he hates John, he hates D, he hates the Meridian, and he fucking hates Liem, and he hates Set. But the one thing he'd thought secure amidst all this chaos was the belief he'd done the right thing in prioritizing Reiji's shard. Having that called into question, wondering if there'd been another way events could have conspired, has an achingly heavy feeling settling in his guts. (Maybe he could have done better. Maybe he wouldn't be hurting now. Maybe Amos wouldn't have been put in danger. Maybe things didn't have to end up this way. Maybe he'd been wrong --) ]
Amos. [ He'd briefly raised his head, and the bleeding's definitely stopped, but Gen still rests his head back against Amos' forearm; his canine ears are weakly canted back and his hands are still clutched into Amos' shirt when he mumbles, ] Help me get back to camp.
[ No 'please,' of course, prideful and ungrateful little shit that he is. But Amos is one of the very few that he'd make such a request of, in such frank fashion. 'Help me.' ]
'm too dizzy to walk.
no subject
There weren't any bullets. He'd seen that. And things would have turned out much worse if Set did know how to use it, but... still.
It's better to dwell on this, on his own simmering hatred of Set and concern for Gen's physical health than to pay close attention to the doubts whirling inside his companion's head. It's simple, and direct, and something he can actually do something about.
But it looks like he's taken care of all of Gen's outer wounds, no new blood flows springing up. So that's a relief—
He snaps to attention at the sound of his name. Feels Gen's weight against him again. And sighs, soft and sad, because this all just went... so wrong.
It's going to take more time yet to make it right, so he'll just focus on what he can do right now. ]
Yeah. Sure thing.
[ Since when has he needed a please? Amos shifts his arms so that his free one can scoop up Gen properly; leaves his other arm in place so Gen can use it as a pillow. He stabilizes his hold on him, resuming the princess carry he'd had before. (And maybe, over the course of the time that's passed, his arms have gotten that little bit fluffier? Maybe he's furrier than before in this moment.)
Amos looks skyward, debating if he should take off again; it'd get them back faster, but it also might rattle Gen's brains more, and... no. It's not worth it. If someone else attacks them he'll fly them away, but they don't have anything on them that's worth fighting for now.
With Gen nestled in his arms, he sets off on a slow, steady gait back towards Zenith's camp. ]