untended

i have this like pining to consume all halflight lore and then scream into tumblr until it makes me a blog, except that i’m a heathen creature and i make things way more complicated than they need to be, so, consider--

halflight sometimes and someone else just as often. different name different face and the same soul ticking away deep inside, all of them loyal to their core. cycling through a hundred spears in the span of a breath and settling on whatever fits best; a great hammer and sharp eyes for combat, a pair of slender swords and a silver tongue for the intricacies of conversation. a constant pattern of summoning.

i mean, it’s halflight at its heart, but everything gets very tangled up when the judicator calls

THIS MAKES ME SO HAPPY…… tbh when i made this blog i was so worried that people were going to look at the Gaping Chasm that lies between the champion and the iudex and judge me for that so knowing that you actually like it is , i am dead now, really

“Don’t need a lecture from a failure,” he spat out bitterly. Mishka had no use for compassion. He’d never known any in his life, wouldn’t know what to do with it if he was offered. As a consequence he had very little for others and no incentive to try. Indignance flared through him, white-hot and boiling over. But the sharp Claw on his left hand was exchanged for the Caestus, a subtle indicator that Mishka wasn’t going to fight much on this point.. He was not willing to go unarmed but wanted the freedom of being able to grab her and haul her to her feet. She let out a startled whimper as he pulled her up by the fabric at her shoulder.  “And stupid little bitches lost in the dark aren’t deserving of it anyway.

“No mercy for those who fall for the blind idiocy of a church,” Mishka had no idea if she was allied with whatever religion these lands had. Her outfit simply reminded him so very much of the white attire of the Healing Church, and his hatred and dismissal of that group had ensured his ire landed on her just for sharing a few similarities.

                'FAILURE'. he is the iudex more than anything else, now, too much time alone in the dark warping him away from what he once was, but there is still enough of the champion in him to make him seethe. failure. this, from him. this, from the supposed unkindled, who needed a warrior by his side to make it past half the crawling undead in this gods-forsaken little village. they had brushed past the warrior from carim earlier, stationed outside, and the unkindled had nearly ended up a smear of ash on the broad side of the warrior's hammer. the iudex is of half a mind to finish the job. but instead--the hand he places on the woman's arm is gentle, reassuring, a stark contrast to the unkindled's brutality.

                "YOU may prefer to stay at the shrine. there are, at least, no cells there." sympathy is not in his nature, nor compassion, nor this sort of kindness, but someone has to tidy up the unkindled's messes, soothe over the wounds left any time the unkindled brushes up against someone with enough of a mind left to take offence. this is his penance. "no mercy for anyone, if you had your way." this, turning his head to stare the unkindled down, hateful. "how childish. you are no god, ashen one. it does not fall to you to determine who is deserving. it never will."

Msihka’s hands felt like they were going numb. Every attack seemed to reverberate up his arm. He wasn’t used to fighting things in armor, not really. The toughest armor of anything he’d fought was probably the obnoxious spiders with the strange bone faceplate he’d come to associate with Rom. This was similar – each time he hit he could feel the way his axe came to a jarring halt before rebounding slightly. The other was weakening, but the strangeness had Mishka backing off more quickly than he’d have liked. More defensive than he was usually but it seemed to be working.

Until there was an explosion of something black and slimy, making his already huge opponent positively monstrous. Mishka hadn’t seen its like, and he didn’t bother to hide his surprise as the shockwave from the.change sent him flying back. With a steady stream of curses he got back up, gathering himself as quickly as he could to avoid any attack that may follow. Oh, it looked like the man was more of a beast than Mishka had thought. Being able to sink the axe into writhing flesh instead of hard armor had him on much more familiar ground.

                OH, oh, oh, how it aches to have the parasite blossom between his vertebrae. how it feels like the iudex is being torn in two, armor splitting open and black ink surging through the break. it hurts like none of the trespasser's strikes ever have, and it is only the abyss asserting itself that keeps him from crying out. rest, iudex. let the parasite play this out. like it always does. like, when the stranger falls, it always will.

                THE abyss is less measured in its attacks than the iudex, less controlled. teeth and claws and writhing black lashing out at any sign of movement from the interloper, slamming uselessly into the stone more often than not, only finding purchase in broad sweeps of its head that encompass nearly the whole arena. and the iudex moves under it, half-blind, half-deaf, possessed.

He wasn’t prepared for the solid blow as the fist slammed into him, knocking him several feet away and flat on his back. Luckily Mishka was … some sort of undead thing and nothing was actually too damaged. The bitter taste of ash filled his mouth, a poor and displeasing substitute for the blood he craved, and was summarily spat out. Anticipating another blow Mishka was quick to get up, Manikin Claws – yet another poor and displeasing substitute to his own Beast Claw – at the ready. “What the fuck are you doing, asshole? Defending the sad and pathetic?”

A brief gesture at the cowering woman clothed in white, who had only asked to be touched. Mishka had planned on doing much more than just touching her, points of his weapons ready to pierce tender flesh.

                THE look he gives the unkindled is flat and cold, a grave-still glare perfected over the span of an age. going to waste somewhat, invisible under the helmet, but the sentiment is razor-sharp. the iudex flexes his fingers, feels old knuckles crack under metal. no real damage to either of them. but oh, by the still-burning flame, it was satisfying.

i think you have ours yet!

IS

  Fingers entangled with his, eyes scanning rugged features for any evidence of his thoughts. What lurked behind those irises? Had the act been a mere force of will that surpassed intelligent choices? One did not so frivolously place such acts against the soft skin of a princess. It could lead to bad outcomes for those who deem themselves worthy of such an act…Yet altogether had it been welcomed. Something she herself had been curious if he’d ever find the courage to do.

  Gentle came the laugh at his words, tittering against lips as fingertips brushed to hide the act. Dainty! “ Oh indeed! Perhaps my choice to keep you about was not entirely wrong? ” Words accompanied with a flirtatious wink, fingers leaving his behind as she moved back to sit upon the couch. Legs crossing as hands came to her lap.

      “ Your lips against my own are something I rather welcome, Gundyr. ”

                OH! and there it is--a reassurance and an admission that has him weak with relief, a thankful sigh slipping out unbidden. the champion had been--nervous, terribly fearful, agitating himself into anguish over daydreams of his hands in her hair, his lips on her skin, worshiping every inch, because who is he to invite himself so close to divinity? him, a man shrouded in guilt and masquerading as someone triumphant, resplendent, and her, her, her. a princess. all royal and radiant sunlight and an angel straight down from the heavens.

                (AND she enjoyed that kiss--!)

  It would not be long now. She’d hear the crackling of the bonfire from within the sanctuary, indicating her brother’s return. So few did the pair separate — twins seemingly inseparable for all these horrid reasons. But a soul could take but so much before it crumbled beneath the weight of even an aura. And Kia could no longer prevail beneath Carlin’s toxic attitude. So he’d gone on his own ( spitting about how useless she was anyway ).

  With mumbled words coming from her lips, Saskia traversed the crumbling tombstones outside the shrine. Fingertips blindly feeling out the inscriptions — nothing. No names. Pitiful, truly. To be forced into such a task with not even a name. How she once wished to provide them ASSISTANCE she now gave her empathy instead. Sighing, the sorceress rose to her feet, hands clasped before her as thumbs twiddled.

  Silence had hung in the air; abruptly dispersed by heavy metal clambering towards her. The shock jolted through the petit girl, her small frame collapsing to the ground as she attempted to crawl along the gnarled roots. Oh there HAD to be a hiding spot here! Somewhere! Death was a permanent fixture for she — not a thing she wished to greet just yet.

@iudexes

                SIMMER, dear iudex. feel the fire stoked to life again and let it send radiant spears up through a body kept cold as the grave for years unending. the coiled sword has left its mark on you, dear iudex, twisted up and intertwined with those dying embers, so every bonfire set ablaze sears you to the bone. even the one settled, now, in the graves--especially that. it is what drives him out, away from ash-stained stone, away from familiar undead piecing themselves together after the unkindled ran them through. out and away. seek the shrine.

                AND at first he is as blind as the stranger, his own death and resurrection too recent to remember how everything works. the iudex stumbles and staggers and picks himself up before his armor can pin him to the dirt. how shameful, such inelegance, and on the heels of such a sound defeat. too soon yet to forgive himself the weakness. but--he sees her, soon enough, a slight little thing scratching around between the graves, folding in on herself like a frightened animal, and--the iudex stoops, crouches with some effort near her hiding place, watches with dulled-down eyes.

  Weak creatures were those who allowed corruption to become their calling. Venomous, enrapturing words that snared the defeated will of man. Luring them to the sinful state that this sorry sod found himself in. Beneath the boot of the Darkmoon Blade, estoc puncturing the throat as bright eyes shone down.

  Its presence began to evaporate; a thing vanquished from a JUST hand. Unbeknownst, she drew a breath ( had she held it for so long? ). Lightly did lungs ache at the motion. The battle had taken quite a toll apparently.

  Selfish thoughts diminished at the sound of plate metal — HEAVING its way towards her. Had it been one who wished her ill, they would have struck. Calmly Sirris turned to greet this new comer. A perplexed look crossing stoic features. “ Mm, greetings, traveler. There is but discourse within this city; it harbors no safe haven if that is what you seek. ”

@iudexes

                THE champion is not usually one given to thoughtful pause, to observation, to a contemplation of anything other than the strength in his hands and his heart. certainly he is not one to admire. but he had paused, all the same, heavy footfall on the stones that made up the high wall given over to silence, and watched the fight play out. a skilled fighter, the woman in white. deft and dextrous, making good use of that overgrown toothpick of a weapon (he tests the heft of his halberd, settles into its reassuring weight, secure in his own martial superiority).

                SO--when he approaches it is with no indication that he stopped to watch at all. merely an incline of the head, as much as he can before the cold iron of his gorget strikes against his breastplate. armor poorly designed for obeisance. not that a champion ever had any need for shows of respect. "no safe haven sought, fair lady," comes the rumbling reply. the champion turns to gaze contemplative across the city. "just a change of scenery."

Mishka had no time to protest or argue – it wasn’t his fault something had happened and he’d woken up wrong. Weak as those who hid inside their houses during a hunt, he wasn’t able dodge in time. He shrieked and thrashed, actually dropping his weapon to free himself from the sharp point of the halberd. Mishka couldn’t believe how incredibly fast the armored man had moved! Wrenching himself off took skin with it, and Mishka was incredibly disappointed at the quality of blood. Thin streaks that splattered and oozed. Not the fresh, hot blood of a living creature, no. Yet another thing that was wrong. Mishka scrambled for his axe – it’s all he had, after all. The next attack was avoided, and the next. Mishka hadn’t yet figured out what the bright yellow liquid  in the flask of his waist was, so the wound in his chest just dripped freely. 

“That the best you have? Dumb fuck.”

And then he sprung forward, hacking clumsily at the armor, trying to find a weak point. Mishka doubted he’d win this round, but he’d learn for the next.

                THERE is no weak point in the armor of a champion. cold iron welded into a solid mass save for the joints, covered by articulated plates and guarded jealously by the iudex. the boundary between him and his armor has blurred over time, a rigid carapace that keeps him pieced together after so many fights. he does not doubt that if it were to be removed he would fall to pieces, time claiming his frail mortality. and so any cracks and openings are kept secret, guarded and disguised any time the stranger strikes close through great lunges and powerful strikes.

                TOO few land. the other is nimble, dextrous, quick feet carrying him away from the sweep of the iudex's halberd. allowing him to land blow after blow on cast iron gauntlets, greaves, ringing out through his breastplate. despite himself, the iudex can feel himself begin to falter. this is not uncommon. not unheard of. a man can only endure so much. but--the abyss.

  Stupefied she remained within his grasp; eyes widening at the action he took. She’d not fathomed such BOLDNESS to occur from the Champion. He seemed ever so timid around her. More likely to spit sarcastic remakes than to show signs of fondness. All the same did she welcome the act as her own lips puckered to meet his.

  But a moment passed with the gesture before she pulled back. Tongue drawing across lips momentarily in thought ( to catch lingering taste ). “ I — apologies I do not recall what we were speaking on. ”

  A statement that came dry. Words uttered not with much thought placed behind them as a throat was cleared to regain composure. A wry smile creeping slowly upon lips as dark eyes sought information from the other’s eyes.

      “ I’d not expected such a thing from you! ”

                IF the blush rising in his cheeks is any indication, the champion is as shocked as she is! this is not the first time he has taken action to quell a panic, boldness engendered by nerves, but--usually it results in a brawl, not something as tender as this! at least they are on something of the same footing, now, lenore seeming as unsteady as he has felt since he first walked through the doors. since he first laid eyes on her. since the moment he dragged himself out of his grave, this moment laid out for him as part of the weft and weave of fate.

                (BUT he is still the one with his face ruby-red from embarrassment and the surprise of it all, turning to look anywhere other than her now that she's pulled away. hardly champion behaviour.)