station72 | ( OPEN )

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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Anything I can do to help?" comes the response, even, plain. Simple, revealing Noctis' innate want to do something if he can. Even if it is a problem that he cannot quite grasp, that sharp, grating kind of hunger that he cannot hope to relate to. So much that his hesitation to provide himself as a sparring partner is quickly wiped clean, as if this inclination of his was a wave washing over sand.

Tentatively, he walks over to where a set of wooden swords are being kept. He looks at them, wondering how they may balance in his hands. Wondering, but not picking one up just yet. A turn to look over his shoulder, at Seviilia and the way she's "handling" it, his eyes flickering over her features.

"A distraction, maybe?"

An offer, when instead he should perhaps ask instead what's causing said hunger. Much like Noctis, to skip over a step or two and jump straight to the solution.

There's a pause of hesitation, as Seviilia wonders on his own offer. Enough people had so readily offered aid to a problem they didn't understand that she has begun to take notice. Sure, she believed enough in the idea that the more focused they all were, the healthier the rest of them would be -- but she had perhaps been under the incorrect assumption that few others felt similarly.

Most of her opinion had been taken from Murphy's initial reaction to discovering her as a broodmate and her first-hand experience of Azeroth's tumultuous history between the undead and the living. His resistance to form a bond. She had come to expect that the only aid she would ever receive was from that of her own kind. Noctis had not come looking for a fight.

So...

"Why?" she asks, ears laying back slightly. It was a silly question -- she could answer it herself, as there was a practical and tangible reason for it. But curiosity encourages her. Was it practical? Or was it empathy?

Noctis shifts around to face her properly, unsure if he's caused her any offense at his offer. He crosses his arms, tilting his head a little.

"Well..." he starts, not really sure what to say, other than to give the plainest explanation. "Wouldn't a distraction be for the best? Something to keep your mind off whatever it is that's bothering you." Maybe it sounds silly, what with him not truly understanding what ails her. And yet, he figures that she's more than welcome to decline if she finds his assistance useless or otherwise invasive.

"When I fight, I forget about everything else. It's just myself and my opponent, lost in the moment. I don't know if it's like that with you or not, but-- I don't know, maybe it'll help until it passes?"

Against monsters, against MTs, against the Usurper himself, his mind was nothing more than razor sharp focus during battle. No time to think of whatever else may be bothering him, no time to breathe. An escape, for good or ill. He can offer that, if briefly. It's the least he can do.

There's no hiding the suspicious sort of stare she offers him for just a moment longer. She does eventually dismiss her own curiosity, deciding she doesn't need to know -- knowing won't fix the clawing hunger in her belly. Instead, she switches her stance and takes better hold of the two swords she holds.

She supposes she should warn him -- he did the courtesy of offering, not to mention the fact that they had worked together well before. He might not be a friend yet and she doesn't know very much about his fighting skill, but he's proven at least somewhat reliable. That's work acknowledging.

"It will help. But you may get hurt." The monster crawling in her skin promises it in the back of their minds.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he responds with a wry intonation. And with an air of finality, of someone who's made a decision, Noctis grasps at the hilt of a wooden sword. He should be more wary, and something in the back of his mind recoils a little at whatever claws at hers; but this will be fine, surely. An exertion, a distraction, something to quiet whatever it is that's bothering her.

Noctis hasn't used a wooden practice sword in years. The weight feels laughable in his hands, like a toy rather than a weapon. Still, he shifts into stance, still preferring to wield only one sword even his opponent has two.

"I doubt it'd be the last either."

He's been given his warning, and the rest is up to him.

She doesn't hide her attack, pushing off her back foot to meet him with a swift swing to his head to test his reflexes. Unlike some of the others on the Station, it was obvious that Noctis had some experience with a sword before. But how much, how strong, how fast -- those questions could only be answered by testing him.

And she only holds back enough to keep from splitting the weapons on the first swing. That would render the entire exercise pointless after all. But maybe, just maybe, she'll feel something a bit more solid than the training weapons when she connects. Its a poorly concealed hope swimming in the back of her mind.

She's hungry, this is a farce. Its not enough.

Noctis leans back slightly as he raises his sword up to meet hers, a loud crack ringing through the air upon contact. It feels as if it shakes the tiny bones in his wrist, but she's right -- he's had enough experience with all manner of weapons, and the force of the hit doesn't jar him. He sets his jaw, expression settling into a frown, pushing back. He's stronger than he looks, having the advantage of being imbued by the magic of a Crystal for ten years, and with any luck the gesture is enough to buy him a bit of breathing room.

And even as he steps backwards, regardless of the effect, Noctis feels it. That gnawing thing again, brimming under the surface of her thoughts. An itch, a hunger, a frustration, all of the above. Choked with restraint, and he can feel it in everything that makes up her movements.

"Don't gotta hold back for my sake," he hisses breathlessly, followed by a lunge forward and a horizontal swing.

Seviilia allows him his retreat, pacing a small line back and forth as she sizes him up, as she draws her hunger in, in, in, again. She heaves it like the weight that it is, turns over the weightless weapons in her hands to continue playing at distraction.

She spins to parry the horizontal swing, the last bit of elven grace she possesses on display. Seviilia catches her weight with the unnatural grind of her foot, her other swing coming overhead to bring down at the top of his head.

"It is not entirely by choice," she admits, a facsimile of a smile crossing her expression. The symbiote writhes and wars with her need to cause him pain, even as it understands the necessity of said pain. "I assure you."

"What do you mean-"

The parry catches, and he swears he sees a splinter spring away from the wooden sword. It's of little consequence, though, and his focus isn't rattled enough to not fininsh his question, which seems to take priority over him choosing to take the offense again. Instead, he almost lifts a brow in her direction. He stance shifts to defensive, blade askew.

"-it isn't by choice?"

If she wanted to unleash her wrath upon him, what's keeping her from doing so? Noctis can only assume it isn't completely because she thinks he's some delicate flower that might wither at the smallest bruise.

( OPEN )

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damn autocorrect wrecking my tags

no worries, and so sorry for the wait!!

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