( 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

[deployed]

[ The anger crackling between the pair of them sparks and heightens the adrenaline left over from the fight. Bellamy's pain might be fading, but it's harder to let go of the way his body had responded to the immediate threat Seviilia had provided.

He owes her an apology. That certainty crystallizes in Bellamy's mind even as she goes still and silent. There's a momentary, glancing contact as a tendril of awareness reaches for her and withdraws at the flare of her anger and the more complex sense of jealousy. The apology Bellamy's carrying is nothing in the face of that combination. ]

Murphy.

[ Bellamy repeats it, tone rising insistently. His voice raspy, still scraped raw, but swallowing doesn't dampen the effect. ]

That's enough.

[ At any other point, Bellamy would be irritated about it spoiling any future attempts. But there's been a shift between all three of them. Or between Bellamy and Murphy, and Seviilia has been dragged unfortunately along with them. ]

[wrackful]

[Her answer's there in her stillness, the withdrawal in her mind more than her physically moving off. It hurts. Murphy feels every second of her pain, and it's so much harder to hold against than her anger, but he doesn't relent, change his mind. She calls him incorrigible and she's right. Guilt still rises for it, what he's done to her, to them, but relief blooms larger, unfiltered, gratitude an almost cautious offering in its wake.

This isn't an easy acceptance. He knows Seviilia still doesn't understand. But staying to explain is just going to be pouring salt in her wounds. Pouring it in his own, slowly feeling raw at the edges from the fear for Bellamy, fighting against her, how totally exposed he is between the two of them and in what he's just done.

Anger's so much easier, and Bellamy's voice - Bellamy talking like he can tell him what to do - drops him back into the cling of it immediately.]

Get up.

[As he finally turns from Seviilia, looks at Bellamy on the floor, gaze hard. He doesn't offer a hand. Bellamy can get to his feet on his own.]

I'll take you to medical.

[deployed]

[ Regret sweeps through Bellamy as the pain fades. Murphy's relief is jarring, especially when he looks at Seviilia and knows that she doesn't share any of it. She's upset. She has a right to be. Looking past Murphy at her, he finds himself at a loss as to how to convey any of his regrets to her.

She should have had a meal. Bellamy should have kept his reactions to himself, but in retrospect he's unsure there was ever a way to keep this from Murphy. Murphy, who is now simmering with renewed anger. Bellamy's gaze shifts back to him, and he studies him for a long moment before he pushes himself laboriously up. ]

I don't need medical.

[ Because arguments are really going to smooth this over. ]

Let's go.

[ And leave Seviila to her own devices. There's no sense in trying her patience any further, or continuing to inflict his presence on her after the possibility of a meal has been revoked. ]

[wrackful]

Yeah, I wasn't asking.

[A large part of him doesn't trust Bellamy not to push the agreement Murphy's just made with Seviilia. Doesn't trust him to admit his own injuries, either. Taking him to medical is an easy answer to both, and there's structure - direction - offered by it that Murphy more than willingly grasps onto.

He holds Bellamy's gaze, makes it clear he expects him to go first. Still keeping himself between him and Seviilia even as they finally leave.]