( OPEN )

[miscreant]

CHARACTERS: Seviilia and you
WHERE: The Station
WHEN: D049
SUMMARY: Downtiiiime
WARNINGS: We've entered "perpetually hungry" mode. Escalating Seviilia's negative emotions could incite violence. PM me if you want a choking thread! (Seviilia will coma before she can do any real damage)

( WARM )

Being at least half of a magical construct, the concept of 'conditioning' was more of a 'warming up' process for Seviilia. Her muscles fed on the magic that kept her walking among the living long after her expiration date. There was nothing to tone when the simple act of feeding was what kept her in fighting form. All of that said, there was nothing to stop the itch in the Station -- nothing but other hosts, which she had already learned twice over were a poor substitute.

Slowly but surely, she is starving.

She's taken a pair of practice swords, as her own runeblades would likely tarnish communal training equipment. Its not very helpful -- they're much lighter than what she is used to. But just hitting something might take her mind of the urge to hunt the heartbeats echoing in the honeycomb chambers of the Station. The succession of the clacks of contact can be heard echoing through the hall --she's not being particularly gentle.

Seviilia doesn't sweat, doesn't tire. Occasionally, ice on her blades cushions her blows to keep from shattering them with her brute force, leaving shards and small melted spatters around the floor. She appears focused, but she does pause after someone stops long enough to make it clear that they are watching her.

"You could make yourself useful and pick up another weapon."

( NEST )

There is no necropolis to watch over, no soldiers to guide, so she continues to find solstice in the silence of the Nesting Pods. The sides of it are frosted, much like everything she touches. In her hands is a journal of sorts, accompanied by an inkwell on the outside of the pod and the quill of a strange alien bird between black fingertips. A few droplets of red run down the side of the pod from where it has dripped on its way back to her.

On the pages is a series of scribbles, notes, and small sketches, all in the same red ink. Some of birds, some of bone constructs, some of faces she remembers -- all are in a hyper realistic style, easily recognizable even from a distance. Occasionally, she pauses to think, her fingers pinching her quill just a bit tighter than she ought to be until--

Snap.

Her sigh echoes off the walls, head lolling back until it hits the wall with a clunk.

[Feel free to wildcard!]

Comments

NEST

[greentech]

The nesting pods aren't exactly Pidge's favorite place on the ship. Really, she thinks they're a little creepy, but... there's also something soothing about the place and she's still trying to learn about this place. She's been banging her head against the metaphorical walls and she needs to find a place where she breath. Where she can let her mind stretch out. The nesting pods aren't really that place, but it's sort of out of the way, so it's the next best thing. And maybe someone she knows will wake up one day. Maybe her brother or her father. As much as she'd prefer to have them home, knowing that they're safe would do a lot to ease the ache in her heart.

There's something else there. A gnawing sense of hunger and frustration that starts out as a muted tug at the back of her head and gets louder as she gets closer. She enters the pods just as the quill snaps and she starts, laptop tucked under one arm, and she stares at Seviilia with a slightly confused blink. She remembers their last conversation and now she places the strange sense that's been crawling through the link.

"Uh. Are you doing OK down here?"

Probably not, but she's going to ask.

[miscreant]

Seviilia turns her attention from grabbing another writing instrument to instead glance over at Pidge. The journal is left to rest against her knees, and her now empty hand comes up to rest on the side of her pod. An illusion of calm, given the stirring, the mental sense of being stalked so very clearly coming from her pod.

"Never better," she lies, as if she almost believed it herself. "What brings you down here?" Had someone fallen to slumber and she not realized? That seemed to be the only thing that brought other Hosts down.

While she waits for an answer, she reaches over to grab the inkwell, covering it so that nothing accidentally tips it over.

[greentech]

"Getting out of the way," Pidge replies with a hint of wariness. For all that Seviilia says she's fine, it doesn't really feel fine. At least not to Pidge. She tucks her computer a bit tighter under her arm. Brow furrowed as she turns and runs a hand over a pod. She still doesn't really know how to deal with all of this. Or how it all fits together. It's frustrating.

"And I want to figure out how this all connects," She admits after a moment, trying to ignore the prickly feeling at the back of her skull. Something nervous and on edge.

"How does this tie into the rest of the Station?"

[miscreant]

"I'm afraid I don't have those answers for you," Seviilia admits with half of a sigh. Pidge probably didn't expect her to know but -- well, she likes to think she's more important than she really is at times. With that in mind, she sits up a little further, contemplating for a moment before she slides downward, onto the ladder and out of the pod in order to address Pidge a little more openly.

She takes her seat at the top of it, setting her supplies inside the cubby hole, paying no mind to the fact that she must look like some sort of gargoyle with the way she props up her knee. Its the most comfortable position for her at the present, so she doesn't plan on overthinking it.

Something in her stomach rolls unpleasantly.

"Have you tried reattaching yourself since waking?"

[greentech]

"Well, it was worth asking," Pidge actually manages a semi-amused laugh and then eyeballs "her" pod, which she hasn't touched since she first arrived. Figures that Seviilia would ask her about that. She just hasn't really thought about it that much - hasn't wanted to, honestly. She frowns and glances away.

"No. I haven't really thought about doing that. It's... why would I?"

There are definitely reasons, of course. Pidge just doesn't like any of them. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

warm

[hymnals]

Adra has occasionally wondered what it would be like to know his brother's mind. To feel the pain a death knight must feel, to know that clawing, desperate hunger. Though he isn't part of her brood, Seviilia's cold presence is with him nevertheless, offering him a taste of what he foolishly sought. Even a sliver of it is enough for him to realize that he doesn't want much more.

But here he is, anyway. Observing her, arms folded over his chest, eyes bright and focused. Here is an opportunity for empathy. Understanding. He won't waste it, no matter the danger.

"I'm not one much for the melee," he says, shaking his head.

[miscreant]

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Seviilia continues, almost as if Adra weren't watching her -- as if his heart weren't drumming loudly in her skull. He'd made a point to request some distance, and yet -- here he was, observing studiously. Surely he must sense the edge she's sitting on. The hunger shaking in her wrists, clawing at her stomach. But then, he couldn't know how poorly she resisted the entire sensation to start with. They'd only just met.

"Then do not melee," she says simply, the following chuckle just a touch off pitch. Her magic hadn't been quite so easy to call since arriving in the Station, but a bolt or three wouldn't hurt her. Seviilia turns toward him, adjusting the grip on the swords while ignoring the itch to grab her runeblades.

A man of her realm should know the danger better than anyone. It would not be her problem if he overstayed his welcome. "We do not know where the Station will emerge next. Best not waste the opportunity."

[hymnals]

"Let me clarify," Adra says, coming just a few steps closer. "I'm not one for fighting, in general."

He lifts his Light-limned hand. "I'm much better suited to fixing, not breaking."

[miscreant]

She pauses after the next swing to glance over at the other elf more readily, eyeballing his hand as he approaches. A scoff comes from her, and she unceremoniously drops her weapons. After all, if he wasn't going to fight her with a weapon of his own, her fists would do just as well.

"Fixing, yes. I'm sure that's true for most priests," is her reply. Carefully, she weighs her options -- if there was ever a deterrent for unsportsmanlike behavior, it was the Light. Seviilia had never enjoyed its burn very much, especially since it was used more often in righteous fury than for mending anything of her's.

"But then, you are Sin'dorei. Surely there is still some spring in your step--"

She lunges without any other warning, and will throw a punch to his sternum. Just one -- she just needs a taste of something. Anything.

"--and there's no better time than the present."

WARM

[redheadcarrier]

Asuka understands the need to vent frustration or anger or other emotions when there's no other way to do it. She's been doing it herself, throwing herself into her owh conditioning and training regimen because she has nothing else to do and if she stops and thinks too long she'll start sliding back into the hole she only just managed to drag herself out of. So seeing Seviilia going at it isn't too much of a surprise, even if the emotions she can pick out aren't completely familiar. A gnawing need for something that she can't place as she pauses to watch. Weird. Unsettling.

And maybe Asuka feels a touch of guilt or sympathy or something. That gets shoved away the moment Seviilia speaks to her. It's a challenge and an invitation and so many other things and Asuka is willing to indulge in it if it lets her build up a sweat. Or vent the simmering, low-level resentment and anger that seems to follow her like a cloud.

"Sure-" There's something almost joyful in her tone, but it's not really happiness. More like enthusiasm. Seviilia has almost a foot on her, but that doesn't really seem to slow Asuka down or make her pause. Instead she grabs a weapon from the rack. And instead of a sword, it's more of a polearm or a battle-axe, light in her hands.

There's also a dagger. But she doesn't think trying to fight like she would've with the prog-knife would help. Instead she lowers the point until it's aimed at Seviilia, eyes glinting with a steely determination. There's anger and a tangled ball of emotions behind her eyes, but she's going to try and enjoy this.

"Ready or not-!" ASuka charges. She's not large, but she's quick and she has a certain recklessness to her, a disdain for any sort of counter. The fact that Seviilia is a creepy zombie elf doesn't seem to slow her down one wit.

[miscreant]

There's a momentary pause when Asuka accepts her challenge, but she supposes she isn't surprised as she crosses over to collect her own weapon. Studiously, she observes as she reaches for the polearm -- a wise choice, given the height advantage she has. She has to admire some of her bravado.

But only some.

Seviilia stays where she is when Asuka charges, point forward. She shifts her stance, pulling one sword under her opposite arm and raising the other to parry her sideways. She closes the distance only enough to make it difficult to use the edge of her spear at its maximum range.

She is not gentle when she strikes, aiming for the arm of the polearm with the intent of forcing a disarm with sheer strength alone.

[redheadcarrier]

Bravado and anger. It's what Asuka has the most of. She's not unskilled, of course, but it's all a vague sort of half-remembered idea implanted into her muscles. She only started doing this herself when she arrived here. And even she can't learn quite that fast. She feels the blade slide against her thrust and turn it aside and she starts to dig her feet in for a leap that will take her past Seviilia and position her for another strike.

Then there's a jarring blow to the haft of the weapon and she feels the vibration run all the way into her hands where it rattles painfully into her bones. She grits her teeth through the pain and tries to disengage. She can't let her get close, right?

[miscreant]

To this, Seviilia grins, spinning both swords to a more comfortable grip. She doesn't stop her approach, in spite of Asuka's attempted retreat. "You held fast -- impressive, for a human child."

She presses her attack, a series of strikes that wouldn't be particularly difficult to block. Hitting another weapon in the hands of another was more satisfying than striking a training dummy, particularly when the other's hands were not conditioned for the sort of beating she offers. Like gentle hands rubbing nursing a bruise, she can feel the way Asuka braces herself for each hit she offers.

Its tempting, to push past and really strike her. The rumble deep in her gut demands it -- but she resists, hard enough for the tips of her ears to twitch unnaturally.

WARM

[somnifacient]

"Is that what you're looking for? A sparring partner?"

The skepticism in his tone, however distant his body language may be (back straight, arms crossed, though head tilted in mild curiosity) is clear. He knows what brought him here -- a feeling of lancing hunger, gnawing and prevalent. And the irritation that grew from it wrenched curiosity out of Noctis, though perhaps common sense should have informed him better than to follow it here.

Still, he isn't the sort of man to jump in at a moment's notice; he may have worked with Seviilia briefly during their stint on Shril, but he has no illusions of actually knowing if he's welcome here. There's frustration in those sword swipes, each sharp crack ringing in his ears, ice fragmenting in tiny pieces and catching light off of the floor.

"You seem to be doing... fine on your own."

[miscreant]

"I was not looking for anything," she replies with a small sniff, returning to her strikes when it is clear that Noctis isn't going to indulge her. Some of that was probably a lie. She had come down to the training area looking to keep herself occupied, after all. The urge to hit something is too strong -- if she stops to chat, she'll simply snap. Of that, she is certain.

She pauses intermittently to acknowledge him more readily -- after all, they'd worked well enough together on the trials presented to them. No reason to chase an ally away just because she wasn't feeling well.

But her hunger is gnawing, ever present. She's consciously aware of how her hands begin to shake when she changes her stance. "I would not expect indulgence, even if I were. There are not many who measure up to my physical strength--"

CRACK. She feels the weapon vibrate enough in her hand that she knows she must find another, or at least pause enough to turn her frustration down enough that she isn't hitting quite so hard.

A cloud of frost exhales its way out of her nose.

"--in my previous experience."

[somnifacient]

"It isn't-"

That CRACK is almost enough to startle Noctis, despite being aware of the noise prior. He doesn't quite jump (what a laughable sight that would have been), though he sets his jaw, his shoulders tensing briefly. An exhale and they relax slightly again.

"It isn't just about strength," he responds, and while the words might be taken as a challenge, there's something about the way Noctis says it that betrays nothing more than idle commentary. "Sometimes it's just about being more agile. Smarter than whatever or whoever it is you're fighting, too."

The sentence trails off into nothingness. Noctis continues to watch her movements, feeling that gnawing hunger and noting the way her hands shake.

"Hey, are you all right?"

[miscreant]

"Sometimes," she agrees, dropping the sword that had begun to split and walking to retrieve another from the weapon rack. She turns it in her hands a few times before finishing her thought. "The rules often change, when your opponent is tireless."

She takes his intent for what it is, rather than a challenge. Noctis at least seemed to understand what it meant to be a foot soldier, even if he claimed to be a prince. Her hands shake less when she clenches around the hilts of her weapons, but the weight of her hunger continues to hang heavy. Is she alright? No, of course not.

But she couldn't very well admit that directly. She'd spent enough time with the Nest to imagine his reaction. It wasn't exactly difficult to infer -- but she didn't have to lay it out either.

"I am handling it," is all she says. Poorly -- but she is handling it.

warm / wildcard

[deployed]

[ Angel's gift to Bellamy had turned out to be better than ribbons woven in his hair or the clutch of her hand in his own. It's the ability to block out the majority of the noise generated by the clash of minds with walls. Once flimsy, Bellamy's learned to make them strong. Or stronger. Strong enough to keep most things at bay, but apparently not the rising tide of Seviilia's hunger. Dozing, wrist bound up in the little lizard creature's clutches, the sensation creeps in and obliterates the memory of the fruit Ilde gave them both. He's hungry again. It reminds him of the Ark, of growing pains and the gnawing emptiness of too little rations because he and his mother had always halved there to give Octavia a full share. It's painful to remember, and harder to excise once it's taken root.

His mind finds her, nudging at her between the impact of blows and the scattering clatter of ice. ]

( How do you make it stop? )

[ Maybe Murphy would know. But Bellamy's mind had hooked directly into the source, and it's too late to step back from this now. ]

[miscreant]

[There's a momentary turn of attention in her head as she hears Bellamy, almost mechanical the way a dog is trained to listen for its master's call. He is almost immediately dismissed, a sort of twitch in another direction rather than a true dismissal. Instead, her focus sticks to her strikes, the rhythm she's managed.

There's a hesitation in her next swing. Talking takes focus.

She knows Bellamy, mostly through her connection to Murphy. She remembers the feeling of his hands around his throat most keenly, out of everything else. Somewhere in the gym, Seviilia is biting her tongue.]

( It doesn't stop. It slows when others bleed. )

[deployed]

[ Her attention turns, and Bellamy soaks it in, hooks and pulls without thinking. There's an apologetic undercurrent a moment later; he's being distracting, and he knows it. ]

( Us? )

[ The objective is very clear: would it help if it were members of the Nest? And not far behind that is the simple, transparent urge to volunteer. ]

[miscreant]

( So long as you suffer. )

[A touch of bitterness. It was not as if anyone else in the Nest was undead. And yet, here she was faced with a conundrum. She could pay Murphy's death in return for Bellamy's suffering -- but all the same, she hardly understood their relationship and the nature of what had happened.

She senses that desire to volunteer.]

( Why? )

warm

[blooded]

( damon isn't searching anyone out on purpose. he doesn't have the presence of mind for that, is too far in his own head to even really be aware of the presence of any others. the station has a mind of its own, though, regardless of damon's own intentions, and when he ends up at the training rooms, he's unsurprised. sam brings him here, sometimes, when damon is too angry to think and all he wants to do is break things until he can breathe again. figures the sentient space station would switch itself around to get him here no matter where his feet were actually leading him.

just as damon wasn't specifically seeking seviilia out, he wasn't watching her, either. he'd stopped in the doorway to be annoyed at the station, and she'd taken his pause to indicate she was watching, which, you know, fine. he's not one for combat, really, not in this way, but he likes getting to hurt people. thinking about why that might be — control issues, fear of being the one in pain — is all it takes to get damon to step into the room after seviilia invites him in. he shrugs out of his jacket, tossing the leather into a tidy pile in the corner of the room, and stands across from the other host. he has no weapons in hand, and clearly doesn't particularly think he'll need them. whether that's arrogance or bravado, or entirely deserved — that remains to be seen.

for a moment he simply stands there, watching seviilia —

and then he is a burst of action, moving so quickly he blurs, too quickly for normal eyes to track. damon crosses the distance between the two of them in less than a second, fist coming up to punch the solar plexus, aiming to shatter bone. if he hurts himself while doing it, fine. so much the better. )

[miscreant]

[Seviilia herself has already engaged in one or two fights today, and it shows bloody on her face when she turns to glance at Damon on the other end of the room. But the dead did not tire, and so she expects him to meet her without any trepidation.

She only has a moment to realize that she hasn't really spoke to Damon, beyond sensing his mind as she sensed all minds. In spite of being what seems to be human, he is faster than her -- most typically fast races were faster than her, thanks to the bulk of her muscle mass slowing her down.

He shrugs off his jacket, and that's enough of a clue that he plans to indulge her -- though the rush catches her by surprise, enough that his hit connects and forces her to stumble. She holds fast to her weapons just long enough to show that his dirty little move didn't force a disarm, in spite of how magical bones rattle against the force of his punch.

No coughing occurs, though she does spit another glob of stale blood aside as more is forced to flow. Instead of swearing, she chuckles with some manic delight. Rotted ear tips flick upward with mirrored interest as she tosses the blunted weapons aside of her own free will. If that was how he wanted to play, she was fine with that. After all, what she lacked in speed, she more than made up for in strength.

To prove it, she grabs at the first piece of him she can find, sharp nails digging until they find blood, and aims to flip him over her shoulder and down to the ground with all the strength her unholy blood can muster.]

[blooded]

( the blood on seviilia's face doesn't entice damon as it usually might. if she were human, if she were alive, it would just feed into his bloodlust, make him stronger, hit harder, move faster — but she's not human, and the scent of her blood is uniquely repulsive. dead blood isn't poisonous to vampires, as some fiction might claim, and bloodsharing is a common practice among vampires in love, but there's something worse than undeath on her.

somehow, damon guesses she's closer to true death than even he is.

she stumbles but doesn't fall, and he doesn't move. when she tosses aside her weapons he similarly gives no reaction. for him, this isn't about having fun, or enjoying the fight — though he does, in a way — it's about running. running from his thoughts, from his memories, from things he can't control and doesn't want to look back on. it's all in the past, and he wants to leave it there, but he can't if he can't stop thinking. if he were in mystic falls, he'd lay in the road drinking until someone was stupid enough to stop for him, or he'd find someone to fuck, or he'd provoke his brother. there are no such options here, nothing he can do to get out of his own head... except for this. one way or another, he'll stop thinking after this fight.

seviilia is slower than him, but powerful. her hands reach and grasp at his arms, nails digging in and leaving bleeding holes, and damon only has that warning before she flips him over her shoulder — just enough to grab onto her and hold on tight, dragging her to the ground with him. they both hit the mat with a thud, impact rattling bone, but damon doesn't give himself even a moment to be dazed before he blurs again, pinning seviilia to the floor. the puncture wounds on his arms are already beginning to close, not even big enough to be an annoyance, but what blood was drawn drips down his arm and onto her chest as he holds her down with one hand and slams the other into her face as hard as he can. )

[miscreant]

[She is brought down, manic with a pleasant mixture of delight, adrenaline, and just a touch of primal hunger flooding her veins. His speed allows him the pin without much contest, but she is not in the business of having more of her teeth knocked out. The moment he pins her is the moment the light time on her skin hardens to an icy shell to repel the impact.

She wants to taste that blood at his arm, discover what makes this stranger tick. Even if she senses his frustration, even if she feels his desire to claw out of his own skull. Curious, interesting, not to mention the fact that he practically radiated magic. She might have lost her dependence on it since turning, but its presence was one of the few familiar clouded ideas in her head left from a life she couldn't remember living.

Rather than squirm or try and fight his blows, she grabs at the arm holding her down with both hands and pushes in an attempt to fracture it -- at the wrist or at its center. The symbiote writhes with a warning, but she aches and yearns to feel the break, a crumble, anything to feed the slow churning pit low in her stomach.]

Perhaps I misjudged you.

[It's practically a purr, if not for the horrible ethereal echo in her voice.]