lazybox | [voicetest] it's this guy

She is drenched in blood mostly her own; thick crimson pouring from her chest not in a flood, but a pulsating wave. There is a downside to being a Summoner — a trade-off. In return for the ability to channel more aether through one's skin, one first must leave that skin exposed. Like a cannon made of glass, ready to shatter at a moment's notice should one small thing go awry.

And go awry it did, leaving Era to all but drag herself back to her place of respite, one hand pressed uselessly over the gaping wound. Healing aether flares weakly between her fingers as she does her utmost to shove it into her skin, lacking all the delicate refinement of her usual healing touch. It helps to slow the tide, but not to halt it. Even were her magic currently stable and she at full strength there is only so much it can do, and knitting skin back together that has been torn so asunder is not one of them.

At least there is comfort in knowing she will not die from this. The Echo had not triggered a vision (yet, comes a traitorous little voice from within), and thus she is spared that fate for now. Still, that means nothing if she doesn't continue onward.

Her vision fizzes, twinkling spots dancing in front of heavy eyelids; the corners go dark, which even half-delirious from blood loss is a relief. Darkness is more welcome to her than Light. Light is love and life and home, and Light is stagnation and corruption and the loss of self.

A cough, deep and painful, wracks her chest. Lifeblood bubbles from between her lips. She tastes the metallic weight of it on her tongue and chokes it back down. Suddenly as the flick of a switch, as though an invisible threshold has been reached, she feels so very ravenous, her body crying out in want of the living aether it needs to survive. Era's tottering pace slows to a stop as she coughs again, stumbling to her knees. Her focus has suddenly shifted from finding safety to keeping her mortal form. She licks one hand clean of blood, then the other. Uses her tail to wipe more red from her skin that she might consume. Like water spilling between one's fingers, it is an ultimately futile effort — she will never be full again until the wound closes and the bleeding stops.

But still she sits in a daze upon the ground, feasting upon her own blood as it oozes from a wound she has no way of mending.

Edited 2019-07-28 23:22 (UTC)

Normally, he would only observe. That's what he does, what he has always done - a gentle push here or there, and see what happens.

But what is happening here is curious enough without his prodding, and more to the point, all but requires him to step in. It wouldn't do to lose her now, this mortal he has invested so much time and energy in.

(Not that he truly believes that she would die without his interference. If he did, he would be unable to lend a hand, forced to put his god's priorities above his own as all the tempered are. No, the hero would survive, it's just a matter of how much she would suffer doing so, and suffering for the sake of suffering doesn't sit well even in an enemy.)

Aether-rich as he is by nature, in her state, Era will likely sense him before he properly appears, from one of those tears into the rift that Ascians are all collectively so fond of. And so he doesn't bother with a greeting as he approaches, instead just coming to her side as the red bleeds from her.

The orb of aether he offers her is shaped almost like a fruit, swirling dark with a bitter shell and a sweet, juicy inside. She is not gone, not on the edge of turning, but the touch of the Light remains. And if the hand that should contain that aether is showing a bit of claw beneath his gloves, that is a problem for another time.

"Here. This should be enough to sustain you until you can stem the flow."

Era has never been overly aware of aether in the way that someone like Y'shtola, Minfilia, or the Emet-Selch himself are, but over time she's grown more sensitive to it, and right now he is a beacon of it. And even were she not always at least partially aware of his presence she would most certainly have sensed his impending arrival; thick with a dark, heavy aether that counterbalanced her own.

She is already staring up at him as he steps out of the rift, pupils blown wide enough to make her eyes dark as the fruit of aether he creates for her, and the eclipse of light around them grows all the more prominent for it. Her hand is give one last, long lick (it wouldn't do to let it go to waste); slow and languid as she stares at his offering with clear hunger.

The thought of consuming another's aether should repulse her, and it does — just not when it is Hades'. It is a dark temptation. A forbidden fruit.

Reaching out, Era offers nary a word of thanks as she takes what is freely given. She takes one small bite (cautious even now, while her mind frays at the edges with primal instinct), teeth sinking into the shell to the rich innards that burst upon her tongue. It is a flood of sensation and flavour she cannot describe; thick, heavy, and rich. Light, and yet dense. Denser than anything she has ever felt before.

It is enough that she promptly tears into the rest of it with savage abandon, eager for more of the sweet, aetherial juices contained within.

Hopefully that will hold her for long enough to start binding her injuries; with how erratic creation magic has been, he's not exactly willing to experiment with the possibility of healing. Better to stick to the tried-and-true and the mostly-raw aether that has her so distracted at the moment.

He can feel, as the energy sips from his control into hers, sliding down her throat, and hopefully it will be enough for now. He steps closer and kneels down, actually coming to her level in order to inspect the wound. A bit of gauze - very well, a lot of gauze - is easy enough to create. Rather than pressing it into her wounds directly, he pushes it into her fingers.

"Here. Don't expect me to do everything for you."

He will, if he must, but he doesn't intend to create the expectation.

Speaking is all but impossible with how her throat is coated with blood and aether. Not that she is coherent enough to form coherent responses at the moment even if it hadn't been. It takes her a moment of watching Emet-Selch move, tilting her head curiously as he kneels next to her. He stares at skin all but bare save for token bit of cloth wrapped around her breasts, an armlet, and a pair of denim shorts; all accented by blood both fresh and coagulated.

She licks every last trace of blood and aether from her lips as he pushes gauze into her fingers.
With her fingers occupied she can't heal herself, which leaves her at a momentary loss for how to proceed.

"Hades," Era garbles thickly, tail curling in greeting. Though still hungry, she is feeling relatively sated now — sleepy rather than starving.

"Wounds, my dear," he says, tone relative gentle but still with a bit of a clip of sarcasm to it. "Stay focused just a little longer."

Attempting to magically heal herself further would clearly be a bad idea in her condition, even leaving aside the matter of her aether. Too many things that can go wrong when she's not exactly in her right mind. He spends a bit more of his own on something to wrap around her shoulders, a short cape with soft fur inside and black wool on the outside. With a whoosh, he settles it neatly around her.

If at that point she's still not entirely sure what to do with the gauze, he'll start on actually doing the work himself, but breaking that barrier of not-touching too suddenly isn't something he's exactly keen on doing. What must be done must be done, however. For the meantime, bandages, another more proper blanket, and a bottle of fluid with enough salts and sugars to help her recover from the bloodloss. Likely it will taste a bit foul, but in her current state of mind, it seems likely she'd drink sewage if he suffused it with enough of his aether, so that's exactly what he does.

Edited 2019-07-29 01:46 (UTC)

Any chance of her retaining focus is lost the moment her shoulders are cloaked with the soft warmth of the cape he crafts for her. Immediately she drops the gauze in favour of stroking the soft fur lining. It is a dark comfort; dense and weighty. Whether merely because of the form it took, or because of the Ascian's aether itself is an unknown, even if she had the presence of mind to ponder it.

She barely takes any note of him tending to her wounds, as she is far too distracted by how suffused everything in her immediate vicinity is suffused with aether. Of course, when he pushes a drink into her hand her focus hones in on it. Era begins drinking without hesitation, nearly choking in her eagerness to do so. A splutter and cough, but the taste is sinfully divine; smooth and warm as it settles heavy in her stomach. It does much to clear both her throat and her mind.

"Why do I hunger so?"

Once the drink is in her hand enough to keep her elbows out of the way, he takes up the fall gauze and sets to work, quickly and efficiently, seemingly heedless of both the blood that stains his gloves and how steadily more monstrous his hands have become. At least it would have made the ripping of cloth easy if she had enough clothing over the injury to need it.

He makes bandage as he goes, wrapping the wound at exactly the right tension, and as he does, his form steadily continue to slip. The shape of something dark and bulky over his shoulders, not quite full-formed enough to tell yet whether it's hands or wings, with a mask hovering over each shoulder. In a way, it should be familiar to her.

when he does finally deign to glance up at her, the bags around his eyes have nearly faded to black, while his eyes themselves have faded away to almost pure white, lit from within. The faintly glowing outline of his other form's secondary eyes rests on his cheekbones, not quite manifested but near to it.

"You did not fall," he says, voice a touch unsettling, not quite his usual tone, "but you did stumble. And marks on the soul are not so easily removed - "

He lifts one now thoroughly clawed hand up where she can see it clearly, wiggling his fingers slightly to emphasize it.

"- as you can see."

A hiss escapes from between her teeth as he tightens the bandage around her wound. It does not hurt, per se, but it is a jolt of discomfort that drags her out of the heady comfort his aether has been providing her. Reality is unkind, and she would much prefer to stay as she was.

He lifts his hand, shows off the clawed fingers there. Era notes the way his two forms are overlaying each other. Without thinking, she reaches out and wraps her fingers around two of his.

"But this is you," she states, an undercurrent of confusion lacing her tone. "How is it a mark?"

"Surely you realize by now that we were not always bereft of bodies," he says, clawed fingers curling slightly over hers. Even more so than usual, his hand dwarfs hers. "At that time, our true natures were not so inhuman as they are now. We three escaped the Sundering that claimed the rest by hurling ourselves from our bodies into the rift, and such an act has consequences, much like those experienced by that companion of yours with a fondness for forbidden teleportation magicks."

Only equally more extreme, to match to the difference in power and severity of what they did, in comparison to throwing themselves upon the mercy of the planet. With the world itself coming apart at the seams, a magic such as Flow would have done nothing but saved someone from the pain of the Sundering.

"The three of us had remained at the rear as the others went to help what people they could - I to construct a shelter, Lahabrea to call the people, and Elidibus for his connection to our god was and still is the deepest. And it is only for that last fact that there were any survivors at all, for when Elidibus felt what had happened to Him, he pulled the only ones he could reach along with him to the rift."

His voice has taken on another shift as he speaks, and if she's paying attention enough, she'll hear the change into the tongue of Amaurot. Not only is it somehow improper, to him, to speak of that day on a mortal tongue, but the Amaurotine language is far more efficient at the communication of ideas, and enables him to tell the difficult facts all the more quickly.

"How long we were there, there is no telling. Long enough for the dust to settle, and our natures to change, and our people to be only a half-memory even upon the Source when we returned."

Era listens with as much attentiveness as she can muster, which is not nearly as much as she would like. She makes no move to retrieve her hand from his claws as she nestles herself deeper into the warmth of the blanket and short cloak he wrapped her in. She had wondered why any were spared the Sundering, and that would certainly explain it.

She blinks up at him, slow and sleepy; lashes feeling too heavy for her eyes. The unearthly, unique shade of blue has made a reappearance, looking far too bright in a face gone pallid from blood loss.

There is much she could say to what he told her, if only the words would stop spinning. It is hard to fully grasp them, though she understands their meaning and intent. She hasn't ever paused to apply what she learned on the First to Elidibus and Lahabrea, and if she's honest it's not something she is in any rush to do. Their actions were not nearly so sympathetic to her as Emet-Selch's, regardless of why they did them.

"Ever the architect, as always."

"...Best get you home, hero," is what he says in reply, switching back to the common tongue. He frees his hand from her grip gently, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders. There's a sense of further weight to it, the long hanging sleeve of Hades not manifested in a visual way but the aether hanging down from his wrist and forearm.

(Other benefits to the cloak: his claws aren't going to poke any further holes in her as he does.)

"Fortunately, we don't have to walk," he says, as the darkness opens up around them for the space of a blink. pity he can't snap his fingers when they're clawed like this. They reappear on Era's bed, her seated against the head and pillows, him leaning against the edge of it, neither quite on nor off the mattress.

And when they reappear, he sighs briefly, as apparently that's enough further expenditure of aether to increase the manifestation of Hades form enough that the long, mask-bearing wings are more than vague outlines, adding weight and feathers to them, though only a few of the masks as yet. She'd better appreciate him for this later.

"Era," she reminds him, only noting the change in language now that she is missing it. Were he not distracting her so thoroughly by scooping her up without preamble Era would have request he it again. Instead she's left disoriented and confused; being wrapped up wholly in darkness, then unceremoniously placed upon her bed and left without the weight of his arm around her.

Her tail curls with displeasure. She barely notices the way his form shifts more solidly to Eldritch than Garlean.

"The other tongue feels better," Era offers up eventually, tugging the blankets of her bed up around her as well. A poor attempt to replicate that comfortably unsettling weight against her form.

Once suitably tangled up in her comforter she makes another query, expression shamelessly inquisitive.

"Do you dislike this form of yours?"

"I dislike the lack of control over it," he says. And it's such a little thing, but if she prefers the tongue of Amaurot, he's willing enough to comply. It is good, to speak it again, even if he knows the slow cost of the aether involved in impressing the meaning will continue to result in the twisting of his form.

A fine enough cost, now that they're securely enough in private.

"And I dislike it being revealed for all to see," he continues. "Imagine if each bit of magic you worked caused your clothes to steadily vanish and it's much the same feeling. Like my name, it is something I would prefer to keep to those to whom I give some measure of trust."

Which, here, is her. Which presumably is why he flicks a hand at the blinds to close them before some of the tension seeps out of his shoulders and he allows those wings to stretch a bit more. Not as large as that day, of course - his full true form would not fit in this bedroom - but enough to fill the space over her bed quite well.

Perhaps she should feel guilty for causing him to use so much aether that his form began to unfurl itself from its mortal confines, but recalling the taste of it upon her tongue, and how it so thoroughly sated her hunger, Era cannot bring herself to. In fact, the thought of consuming more makes her crave it once again. There are many things she feels free to ask him, but she bites down on the request that comes to her lips.

A flood of iron fills her mouth, startling her — apparently she had bit down on that request more literally than she intended. But in the end it is serendipitous, for she can suck on her bleeding lip to take the edge off the craving that lingers.

Rolling her bottom lip briefly between her teeth to draw forth more blood, Era asks another question.

"Are you going to continue looming, or are you going to lay with me?"

The question is surprising enough, considering the way his hands curl into claws, nevermind the rest. Nevermind her injuries, though he supposes that it makes sense enough that she would want to remain close to the one source of aether she has, in such a state.

He knows what she means, of course. Era simply doesn't engage with things beyond the mildly sensual at best. But even knowing, he can hardly resist the opportunity he's been given. "Be careful who you say such things to, someone might take you up on it." Amaurotine was probably not meant to sound as wry as he makes it in that moment.

But he does concede, shoes and the outer heavy layers of his coat vanishing with a thought as he levers his weight up fully onto the bed. Turning to angle towards her is a bit more of a hassle, given wings, given the size of the room, not nearly large enough for his scale. He folds himself onto the bed and settles, letting her position herself where she will, one wing arching over them both. "Better?"

"Who else would I ask?"

There is no one else in this place Era trusts enough to leave herself so vulnerable around, and so his wry words of advice have no use. But he settles in with no further commentary, leaving Era to pull herself close to what she supposes must be his hip.

Moving around is painful enough that a whine slips out between tired gasps despite her remarkably high tolerance. The bandages remain firm, however — a testament to the skill with which Hades' wrapped them — and so Era doesn't dwell on it any more than necessary. Besides, pain is familiar. Consistent across all worlds. There is comfort to be found in that.

When she finally makes herself comfortable against him and he brings one of his wings to curl around them, Era settles even further until her full weight rests against her once-enemy. She basks in the aether that surrounds her; warm, dark, dense, and bitter. She swallows reflexively at the memory of its taste and texture as it slid down her throat.

"Yes," she hums. "My thanks, Hades."

He adjusts only slightly himself as she settles against him - one arm, now increasingly clearly trailing an aetherial, tattered robe sleeve, wraps around her shoulders.

They fit. They always fit, whatever form, whatever amalgamation of friendship and at each others' throats they are. Far better to be this, exposed to each other and both knowing that the other has no reason to strike, than the opposite.

He's quite comfortable, especially as, with a sensation like letting out a breath, he loosens the hold he normally keeps on his aether and lets it flow. There's too much to keep it contained to a mortal form without some degree of will, and if he's going to relax, then he will relax. "You're welcome."

The sudden rush of aether permeating every ilm of air around her is nigh unbearable. It jolts her out of the lazy haze she allowed herself to fall into, and she cannot help the odd noise that escapes her — something between a squeak of surprise and a disgruntled huff.

Era isn't... Well. Now that she can't help but think on it, she is still hungry. Not ravenous as she was before, but... hungry.

Unsure of what else to do, as she isn't so bestial as to take someone's aether without permission, Era shoves the meat of her palm to her mouth and bites, hard enough that the blood gushes out faster than she anticipated. She splutters, breathing it all in, keeping her mouth clamped down on her flesh. Given the severity of her wound and how much blood she has lost over the past bell alone, Era knows it likely isn't the best of choices, but the taste of her own aether is... satisfactory. Not as heady and rich as Hades', nor as filling, but it is living aether all the same, and something deep within her reluctantly accepts the paltry meal.

And if she thought that would go unnoticed, she's even more the fool.

"Really," is all he says at first, a disdainful huff. With all that blood loss already... "You choose the most damnable of times to abandon your practicality."

And with that he curls closer around her still, weaving his aether into another fruit for her. As he does, his face darkens completely, leaving only four eyes of glowing white and the outline of the rest of his features beneath a sharp crown. "If you still hunger, say something. Eating your own will do your recovery no favors."

Edited 2019-07-30 01:25 (UTC)

Had she the blood to spare, her face would have flushed a deep pink with embarrassment. But as she does not, it instead is tinged by only the faintest bit of colour; just enough to chase away the unhealthy pallor of her skin.

"Blood loss," she quips half-heartedly, far too preoccupied with staring anywhere other than his face to notice how it changes. Far too preoccupied with how he curls around her more securely. "Less oxygen being fed to the brain."

There is something to be said for modern medical texts, at least.

Era makes a token effort to resist the fruit, but caves almost immediately. She hums her thanks as she takes it, promptly biting into it with more savagery than she did her own flesh. A sinful groan rises from her throat as she swallows down the aether given form, tail curling and uncurling against Hades' hip. Era scarcely pays attention to what her body is doing without her input, too engrossed in the delight that is rich, dark aether filling up all the empty, aching spaces inside of her.

As she digs in, he sighs fondly before wrapping his wing securely around her shoulders. One clawed hand lifts to help keep her hair clear while she gorges.

"Perhaps you should try thinking a bit less for a while," he says. "Rest and let someone else do the heavy thinking for tonight."<>

She hums an absentminded agreement, leaning into the casual, affectionate touch he gives. His form is of no consequence to her — he is still Hades. Emet-Selch. The Architect. Her... friend? Perhaps not quite a friend, but no longer an enemy. They had been friends once though, she knows. In a time before time that she cannot and will never recall, because she is not her — not wholly — and Era never will be.

Even if the Ascians' plan was to succeed, if the remaining shards of her sundered soul were rejoined she would no longer be herself.

But those are thoughts to consider another time (or perhaps never). Instead she continues humming absently as she savours the juices that spill from the aetherial fruit. By the time she's halfway finished she has slowed down considerably, no longer feeling that desperate need to consume after the first few bites. Now it is a lazy, languid enjoyment.

If her dear friends were to see her now, what would they think? Would they be disgusted with her, for having ravenous desire for living aether to rival a Sin Eater or Voidsent?

But Hades had suggested she try thinking less, so Era tries not to think on it further.

Thoughts to consider, perhaps always, every time he looks at her. The way that he has accepted Era, who both is and is not a piece of what he has lost in a way so much more literal than most anyone else...

In another world, perhaps it would be the beginning of accepting his grief and letting go. But he can't, no longer possesses the ability, one of the first sacrifices on the altar of his god. They chose to revive the lost, the old world and the old order of things.

If he were capable, he would muse on the contradiction, that so many creators wanted nothing more than to go back to the way of life they had.

What form would she have taken, pulled into the rift like them? Another dark thing, or is that the result of their god's touch, and she would have become likewise a vessel for Her light? That is a far more interesting thought to occupy his mind, especially as she consumes his aether like the monster she so nearly became.

(If she had - the voidsent are powerful, and even the strongest is but a fourteenth. The same was true of the Sin-Eaters, and he could have defeated Vauthry or even the origin point if he had had need. A soul at more than half restoration, under that kind of power? That, he is privately, secretly, less sure about.)

Her contented humming is not quite matched, the sensation more aetherial than aural, but the emotions that tinge his aether are similar enough. Satisfaction, security. The crisis is past, for the time being, and they can deal with the rest on the morrow. "If you're feeling a bit better, you should rest."

In some ways she is feeling a bit better, which is a great relief. The movement of her tail slows against his hip — or what she believes passes for one. The anatomy of this form of his is questionable, and though there is idle curiosity about it now that he isn't using it to attack her it isn't something she would ever inquire about.

Era hums in response; tired, content. There is still a great deal of pain, yet pain is such a fixture in her life she hardly spares it any thought beyond assuring it won't kill her. Breathing in the last of the fruit gifted to her, she licks her lips and fingers and permits herself to settle wholly against her companion. Her shoulders droop along with the lids of her eyes, body preparing to convalesce now that she has sufficient enough aether reserves to keep her alive while she sleeps.

"Apologies for..." For what? She cannot find the words with her tired mind, like trying to cup water with spread fingers.

{Inconviencenuisanceburden} her aether pulses weakly, having no such lingual limitations. It is still distinctly hers in feel, though it is tinged with darkness as Hades' is slowly absorbed and aetherially realigned.

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unsunderworld - 2019-07-31 06:03 (UTC) - Expand

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astralera - 2019-07-31 06:45 (UTC) - Expand

[voicetest] it's this guy

slams in here again because i'm not making a new post

I MEAN

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