「hell or glory.」

“The only baby I’m seeing around here is you. But if you wanted me to donate to your ‘get the baby a shirt’ fund all you had to do was ask.”

Maybe the real baby was the gremlin we found along the way.

“Suck it up, baby.”

“Fuck off.”

＞　Zaveid is searching through his contacts looking for familiar names, tying them to faces and experiences - trying to reacquaint himself with someone who might... pay attention to him. He hovers hesitantly over a name he remembers, humming thoughtfully to himself before opening a new message.

To: Zelos W. From: Zaveid

Eizen narrowly avoids Edna smacking him with her umbrella for daring to ask if she’d missed him. Her grip tightens on her umbrella, but he seems distracted by the key so she doesn’t hit him. Yet. After all, it was only fair to do it when he was paying attention, it wasn’t like he was Meebo. And then he dares to say that Shirt deserves better than him, and Edna stiffens. 

Is that what he thinks? That she deserves better than him? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Does he even fucking realize what he sounds like right now? Is that why he–why Eizen–?

“Shut up.” It comes out sharper than she intended, and it’s clear Zaveid’s hit a nerve. “I’m not just going to foist her off on someone else. I can take care of her, I’m not irresponsible. I have Chal and Pants, anyway. And she loves you–you should see the way she’s always sitting and watching out the window expecting to see you any day–”

Was that about Edna or Shirt? She manages to cut herself off, taking a deep breath as she struggles to control her emotions. What was it about Zaveid that he managed to dredge up every possible unhappy memory and emotion at once and combine them into the worst cocktail she’d dealt with in her life? Fuck him.

Zaveid’s lucky Edna’s distracted enough with those pesky things called emotions to not notice his slight fumble. She makes sure her eyes are dry when she turns back to Zaveid, giving him one of her signature death glares.

“Follow me. Maybe if you didn’t run off so often you’d remember…” 

But that thought gives Edna pause. It’s a long walk back to her house…but they could just take her car. In the meantime, though…

“What do you remember? Mostly about…the last time you were here.” Because holy shit the last time she’d seen him she’d said some Things. And also because…she still had some questions about Eizen.

＞　If it hadn’t been for just how she’s said it, Zaveid would think she’s joking about the cat. He blinks in surprise, letting his grin drop for a few seconds. “She was? She does that?” Aw, fuck.

  Shaking his head and placing a smile back on his face, he pretends he doesn’t notice when she does what she usually does when she’s having ‘emotions’ and doesn’t want anyone to see. He throws his arms wide, raised in surrender. 

     “After you, Princess! And hey, it ain’t like I’m doin’ it on purpose.” This time. “I ain’t gonna pretend to know why this keeps happenin’, either. I’ll try to stay put this time, though, ‘kay?”

  Meaningless, and he’s careful with his wording, but a promise nonetheless. He’s fucked up with her enough for a couple lifetimes, at this point. 

@whxrlwxnd

  He’s gotten a handle on things, he thinks. He’s human enough, at least in appearance, to pass unnoticed by most – so much so even he forgets what he is, sometimes. Until he runs his tongue across his teeth and slices it against their sharp edges. Until he steps a little too far into the blazing sun and feels the pain, like fire, race up his exposed arms. But he’s been in far stranger situations than this, and those things alone don’t bother him.

 It’s the thirst that bothers him. If it can be called that, for it’s far worse than any thirst he’s ever had. The constant burning in his throat and pain in his stomach, as though he’s gone a year without food or drink. He knows what he’s expected to do to satisfy it. They had such beings back home – possessed by demons of Hunger… but he’s not a beast blinded by his gluttony. He’s still himself. He hopes.  Even still, it’s the scent of blood – strong copper and iron – that draws him unconsciously forward. He doesn’t even register that his feet are moving, really, until he comes face to face with another man.  ( he pushes down that burning and the nausea that comes with it )

“Hey,” not loud enough to startle, only loud enough to draw the other’s attention. Even if he could not smell the blood, he can tell the other is hurt. And he just so happens to be able to heal. A small virtue of this new world, giving him back some of the magic he used to have.

 “Here, let me help…” He edges forward, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Don’t look at the blood, don’t look at the –

＞　He doesn’t know where he is, or who he’s pissed off, or why he’s pissed them off, but it seems to track for exactly how his time on this island has been: confusing, irritating, and not the least bit sexy. 

  Zaveid slouches against a tree, hand pressed firmly to his shoulder as blood seeps through his jacket. An arrow lays next to him, having been pulled out with a little too much force, snapped in half, most of it stained red. The only healing arte he knows seems to be mostly ineffective; he’s not sure if it’s because the wound is too big, or if it’s his own depleted stamina. 

  This was the last place he thought he’d end up, even after what turned out to be quite a thrilling chase sequence through a lovely forest came to such an abrupt end. He hadn’t expected the crossbow, for some reason - he wasn’t even sure where the guardsman had pulled it from, if he was being perfectly honest. 

  He looks up in surprise, instinctively reaching to pull his weapons out, only to remember too late that he’s bleeding out—he winces, and his hand flies back up to put pressure on the wound again.

BASIC -

NAME: Zaveid

AGE: 600

SPECIES: Malak - unchanged. An elemental spirit is fanciful enough, isn’t it?

ALLEGIANCE: None. Wanders between the kingdoms, on the outskirts, and tires not to get to close. 

On paper, though, the world seems to have decided he’s aligned with the Opalarian Empire. 

CAN BE LOCATED: Almost anywhere that’s not directly in any town. Heavily forested areas and close to the ocean are some favorites.

ABILITIES - 

RETAINED: His unlocked abilities - the traversal ability Wind Rush, the healing arte Concentrate, and basic wind manipulation.

EVENT MAGIC: None. 

Passion took a moment to collect herself while on the ground, curling her legs in to avoid any further attempts at holding on to her. Her opponent didn’t seem capable without time for recovery, but she’d already underestimated him once. Lala had said something like this: her attacks weren’t working, even if her transformation was. Now Passion had confirmed the same applied to her, as startling as it was.

Standing quickly, turned behind her with the help of a hand against the ground, she moved to pick up Linkrun. It was undamaged and hadn’t been taken by anyone, so she could call everything fairly good.

“Yes, I’m fine. Are you?” She smiled over at him, even if the concerned thoughts over how to end this made it a little weak. Finding a distraction, she watched the final exchange between him and his opponent. The green somehow looked too pleasant to worry her.

“What was that?” From the timing she could guess it was related to physical healing, but it would be nice if he could take up the heart healing end that she’d failed on.

＞　Zaveid gives the guy a big slap on the back and stands up, finishing his cast. He’d be fine, as long as he didn’t go picking fights like that again. 

     “Just a little healing arte,” he says, dusting off his hands as he turns to look back at the young girl. He doesn’t mention that it’s the only one he can do, even without the island having taken his other artes. Maybe he’d pick some up later. “Nothin’ big. Dudes may be bastards but I ain’t about to commit a murder, yeah?”

  The malak shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a look around, his gaze lingering on the fallen bodies of their opponents. Unless he’s miscounting—and he could be, in 600 years he’s never been very good at it—they’re out of people to punch.