Mercymorn the First (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
acidjail) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
deercountry2022-09-08 11:17 am
acidjail) wrote in deercountry2022-09-08 11:17 am
in the woods somewhere | kaworu nagisa and izuku "deku" midoriya
terriblepurpose
2022-09-08 05:21 pm (UTC)(link)
The first week of the month had been challenging, but a challenge that Paul could compensate for. Losing his sense of taste had made eating more difficult than he’d wanted it to be, his inability to sift food for contamination a buzzing anxiety - but he’d had the food he’d made himself, the cans and jars and dried stocks, and he had Kaworu and Deku to sit with in alternation or together while he ate. It had been bearable.
Losing his ability to hear is another thing. It isn’t that he can’t adapt, between House Sign and his other senses, but it’s a blow to his equilibrium. Relearning how to navigate the world without it, even temporarily, is a struggle - and while there is a definite selfish appeal to the way Kaworu and Izuku have kept him cloistered and cosseted, he has never been good at staying inside and doing nothing.
Negotiating an excursion out to the edge of the woods took all of his wiles, from pleading looks to fervent assurances to yearning sighs, but they were finally able to strike terms. Full daylight, with two chaperones, and an ironclad handclasped vow to stay within reach of at least one of them at all times.
So here they are, dappled in the light of the harvest sun, and Paul has only made them stop seven times so far so he can look at an interesting natural occurrence, which he thinks is a fair compromise.
The inside of these puffballs looks like brain tissue, did you know that? he signs, happily, from where he’s crouched next to a log dotted with fist-sized off-white fungal pods. More parallels. Here -
He readies his specimen collecting knife to slit into the side of one of them, positively glowing with ecological excitement.
Losing his ability to hear is another thing. It isn’t that he can’t adapt, between House Sign and his other senses, but it’s a blow to his equilibrium. Relearning how to navigate the world without it, even temporarily, is a struggle - and while there is a definite selfish appeal to the way Kaworu and Izuku have kept him cloistered and cosseted, he has never been good at staying inside and doing nothing.
Negotiating an excursion out to the edge of the woods took all of his wiles, from pleading looks to fervent assurances to yearning sighs, but they were finally able to strike terms. Full daylight, with two chaperones, and an ironclad handclasped vow to stay within reach of at least one of them at all times.
So here they are, dappled in the light of the harvest sun, and Paul has only made them stop seven times so far so he can look at an interesting natural occurrence, which he thinks is a fair compromise.
The inside of these puffballs looks like brain tissue, did you know that? he signs, happily, from where he’s crouched next to a log dotted with fist-sized off-white fungal pods. More parallels. Here -
He readies his specimen collecting knife to slit into the side of one of them, positively glowing with ecological excitement.
Paul treads deeper into the shadowed forest on the lightest of feet, kitted for stealth. A dun-colored cloak obscures his form as he slips between the trees, all of the gear he carries with him bundled and secured so as not to clatter. Even the spear strapped to his back is muffled by wrapped cloth.
It’s more caution than even he would usually take on a hunt, but he also isn’t usually wearing a tightly fitted black blindfold over his unseeing eyes.
He knows that it is a mistake to be out here alone, that it goes against what he’s promised to the people who care for him, but tucked in a velvet lined bag is a promise he made before those promises to someone that he has done as much harm to as any of them, if not more. Someone whose name he’s never heard and face he’s never seen, but who he owes a debt he can only begin to repay if he finds them first, before the vision that drew him to these woods comes to pass.
This time, he won’t fail.
The sea medallion under his leather breastplate crackles with potency as his eyes glow silver, bleeding around the edges of his blindfold despite his best effort to conceal it. The future rolls in waves before him, every step picked out in invisible light as he sifts through them for direction - but now that he’s found the trail, he would hardly even need that. The Bugge has left a broad streak through the forest of trampled earth and broken branches, tufts of its matted fur dangling from the catching crooks of trees. He can smell it, the ancient reek of a forest thing, mingled with the musty spice of pine needles. He is on the right path, the closest one, spiraling closer and closer to its end.
And he is not alone.
Paul stills in place as soon as he senses the other presence, all but vanishing as soon as he does so, a trick of survivalism he learned in these very woods. He turns his head in the direction of whoever it is and breathes, slowly, as he probes the limits of his awareness.
“Oh,” he says, shoulders falling, “It’s y-”
Ahead of them, something trills, high and fluting and terrified, and Paul snaps towards it like a magnet.
“If you’re here for the Bugge,” he says, with chill iron in his voice, and when he looks back to Bakugou his jaw is set in a tensed line as he unshoulders the spear on his back and jerks his chin to the sound, “There it -”
A roar crashes through the branches, from a creature much larger and more furious than the source of the first noise, and Paul spits something untranslatable but plainly vulgar.
“Don’t hurt the little one,” he says, and with that obscure instruction, he takes off along the broken trail.
It’s more caution than even he would usually take on a hunt, but he also isn’t usually wearing a tightly fitted black blindfold over his unseeing eyes.
He knows that it is a mistake to be out here alone, that it goes against what he’s promised to the people who care for him, but tucked in a velvet lined bag is a promise he made before those promises to someone that he has done as much harm to as any of them, if not more. Someone whose name he’s never heard and face he’s never seen, but who he owes a debt he can only begin to repay if he finds them first, before the vision that drew him to these woods comes to pass.
This time, he won’t fail.
The sea medallion under his leather breastplate crackles with potency as his eyes glow silver, bleeding around the edges of his blindfold despite his best effort to conceal it. The future rolls in waves before him, every step picked out in invisible light as he sifts through them for direction - but now that he’s found the trail, he would hardly even need that. The Bugge has left a broad streak through the forest of trampled earth and broken branches, tufts of its matted fur dangling from the catching crooks of trees. He can smell it, the ancient reek of a forest thing, mingled with the musty spice of pine needles. He is on the right path, the closest one, spiraling closer and closer to its end.
And he is not alone.
Paul stills in place as soon as he senses the other presence, all but vanishing as soon as he does so, a trick of survivalism he learned in these very woods. He turns his head in the direction of whoever it is and breathes, slowly, as he probes the limits of his awareness.
“Oh,” he says, shoulders falling, “It’s y-”
Ahead of them, something trills, high and fluting and terrified, and Paul snaps towards it like a magnet.
“If you’re here for the Bugge,” he says, with chill iron in his voice, and when he looks back to Bakugou his jaw is set in a tensed line as he unshoulders the spear on his back and jerks his chin to the sound, “There it -”
A roar crashes through the branches, from a creature much larger and more furious than the source of the first noise, and Paul spits something untranslatable but plainly vulgar.
“Don’t hurt the little one,” he says, and with that obscure instruction, he takes off along the broken trail.
In the roiling fog that blankets the other city, the shattered husks of buildings punctuate the murk like jutting broken teeth. Their roofs are caved in, their walls tumbled down, and the wreckage of devastation moulders in the seething humidity.
Except for here, which may be anywhere in the city - a huddled half-demolished apothecary in the Lumenwood, or a ruined covered market in Willful Machine, or a slumped warehouse in the Docks, or any other place and structure that might be briefly claimed - where one of the remaining mostly standing structures is webbed over with a fibrous, dark-colored membrane in the open gaps, one shot through with curved ribs to give it shape.
If approached, nothing stirs from inside of it, but resistance will be found in the form of a crackling ward set meters from the building, one that temporarily withers anything living that crosses it and renders to greasy dust anything unliving. If the hand or foot or limb that crosses the boundary is withdrawn, it will be as good as it was when it crossed, but the memory of the burning agony will surely linger.
When the ward is breached, or if a wanderer calls out in greeting, a cloth strung across a window twitches. Within a minute, three cloaked figures emerge from the mysterious dwelling, two of them (one tall and broad, one less so) armed with rather business-like looking knives, and one of them, the evident leader and the smallest of the three by far, empty-handed.
The leader pushes back her hood and looks over the newcomer, her mouth pursed in a bloodless scissor-slash line. Her pale, peach-colored hair floats around her oval face in a rough-cut bob, bangs blunt above her stormy bloodclot eyes as she props a fist on her hip and evaluates the newest deposit on her doorstep.
"Well," she says, without preamble, "Aren't you a sorry sight?"
Except for here, which may be anywhere in the city - a huddled half-demolished apothecary in the Lumenwood, or a ruined covered market in Willful Machine, or a slumped warehouse in the Docks, or any other place and structure that might be briefly claimed - where one of the remaining mostly standing structures is webbed over with a fibrous, dark-colored membrane in the open gaps, one shot through with curved ribs to give it shape.
If approached, nothing stirs from inside of it, but resistance will be found in the form of a crackling ward set meters from the building, one that temporarily withers anything living that crosses it and renders to greasy dust anything unliving. If the hand or foot or limb that crosses the boundary is withdrawn, it will be as good as it was when it crossed, but the memory of the burning agony will surely linger.
When the ward is breached, or if a wanderer calls out in greeting, a cloth strung across a window twitches. Within a minute, three cloaked figures emerge from the mysterious dwelling, two of them (one tall and broad, one less so) armed with rather business-like looking knives, and one of them, the evident leader and the smallest of the three by far, empty-handed.
The leader pushes back her hood and looks over the newcomer, her mouth pursed in a bloodless scissor-slash line. Her pale, peach-colored hair floats around her oval face in a rough-cut bob, bangs blunt above her stormy bloodclot eyes as she props a fist on her hip and evaluates the newest deposit on her doorstep.
"Well," she says, without preamble, "Aren't you a sorry sight?"
Edited 2022-09-08 18:00 (UTC)
The streets of the other world are stalked by nightmares.
It may be a towering column of eyes and teeth, grinding in a pulpy mass as it pursues you - or a chitinous admixture of wolf and stag and insect, its armor plates shivering around it as it lopes after its prey - or a swooping, cadaverous chiropteran abomination with poison-dripping jaws - or something even stranger and more hideous, but whatever form it takes, it is a Beast of hunger and purpose hot on your feet.
And it has caught you in a corner, one formed by the collapse of a broad tower that has blocked the path forward. There's no choice but to face it, to attempt to escape past the Beast - or perhaps this is exactly where you intended to be, and the Beast has fallen into your trap. Either way, it closes on you, terrible maw wide and slavering -
- and from one side, a pale lance shoots from a broken window, almost faster than the eye can see, pinning the Beast's mouth (or equivalent) shut with a massive splinter of bone.
"Contact!" Someone calls, loud and clear and ringing, and from the other side of the street a shower of smaller projectiles rains down - roughly fashioned spears, hunks of masonry, jars of some caustic substance that bursts and steams on the Beast's exterior.
From the first window, the Saint of Woe steps forth, slicing towards the ground below without a cry. She trails something slick from her feet that seems to slow her descent, landing lightly on the cobblestones and glaring up at the Beast like it owes her a groveling apology, a large sum of money, and a chat with its manager.
"If you're going to do anything useful, you should start!" She snaps in your direction, flicking her wrist to form a wad of undifferentiated tissue in her palm she works like dough between her fingers as a pink butterfly the size of a kite swoops down behind her. "Or don't!! Take your time! Honestly - second barrage on my mark, and if I see you waste another jar I will be terribly cross -"
It may be a towering column of eyes and teeth, grinding in a pulpy mass as it pursues you - or a chitinous admixture of wolf and stag and insect, its armor plates shivering around it as it lopes after its prey - or a swooping, cadaverous chiropteran abomination with poison-dripping jaws - or something even stranger and more hideous, but whatever form it takes, it is a Beast of hunger and purpose hot on your feet.
And it has caught you in a corner, one formed by the collapse of a broad tower that has blocked the path forward. There's no choice but to face it, to attempt to escape past the Beast - or perhaps this is exactly where you intended to be, and the Beast has fallen into your trap. Either way, it closes on you, terrible maw wide and slavering -
- and from one side, a pale lance shoots from a broken window, almost faster than the eye can see, pinning the Beast's mouth (or equivalent) shut with a massive splinter of bone.
"Contact!" Someone calls, loud and clear and ringing, and from the other side of the street a shower of smaller projectiles rains down - roughly fashioned spears, hunks of masonry, jars of some caustic substance that bursts and steams on the Beast's exterior.
From the first window, the Saint of Woe steps forth, slicing towards the ground below without a cry. She trails something slick from her feet that seems to slow her descent, landing lightly on the cobblestones and glaring up at the Beast like it owes her a groveling apology, a large sum of money, and a chat with its manager.
"If you're going to do anything useful, you should start!" She snaps in your direction, flicking her wrist to form a wad of undifferentiated tissue in her palm she works like dough between her fingers as a pink butterfly the size of a kite swoops down behind her. "Or don't!! Take your time! Honestly - second barrage on my mark, and if I see you waste another jar I will be terribly cross -"
It has been a trying series of days, and that in and of itself is an unwelcome thing - for her trials to be measured once more in days, not years and decades. That she is abjected so stings, as does her own restlessness, hands ever too idle.
(She is not afraid at night. She long since passed by fear. She is something worse when she flinches at shadows, huddled like a discarded doll in someone else's bed.)
So she frets. She picks. She is wholly and eternally dissatisfied, and makes no pains to conceal it. She doesn't care what anyone has to think about it, not even her chance host - and she does not care, as she trails a nail down the spine of a slender green volume, about what might be inside the pages of this particular book she came across in her intermittent forays outside for information.
(She could ask him - the thing that is not human, or undead, but some secret, third thing - but she discarded asking the instant she put her hand on the book, and that was that. She never commits to a thing without the intent to see it through.)
Mercymorn opens the book, and begins to read.
(She is not afraid at night. She long since passed by fear. She is something worse when she flinches at shadows, huddled like a discarded doll in someone else's bed.)
So she frets. She picks. She is wholly and eternally dissatisfied, and makes no pains to conceal it. She doesn't care what anyone has to think about it, not even her chance host - and she does not care, as she trails a nail down the spine of a slender green volume, about what might be inside the pages of this particular book she came across in her intermittent forays outside for information.
(She could ask him - the thing that is not human, or undead, but some secret, third thing - but she discarded asking the instant she put her hand on the book, and that was that. She never commits to a thing without the intent to see it through.)
Mercymorn opens the book, and begins to read.
Edited 2022-09-20 01:00 (UTC)
It is as quiet a night as they come in this fallen world, or it is at least so here, under the aegis of a Saint. The ragged followers of the woman they know only as Woe are largely engaged in quiet work around the low light and warmth of lunar orbs, soft murmurs exchanged between them as they toil. The broken furniture that dotted this half-fallen manor house has been used to bar the doors and windows, the gaps between them plugged with solid bone, and there may be no fortification safer than this outside of the strongholds of Riteoir.
Let the storm rage, the sky roil. The youngest of their band still may sit on heaped cushions and listen, enraptured, to the story she is being told by their third oldest as he brushes out her hair and weaves it into a sturdy braid.
The oldest of them stands apart, as she almost always does, preoccupied with thoughts they know better than to trouble her for. She watches the weaving of hair through half-lowered eyelashes, working her lower lip between her teeth, before she addresses their second oldest, perfectly poised at her side.
"You're certain you checked the wards as I instructed?" The Saint of Woe asks Our Lady of Blades, with a querulous note of fretful exhaustion. "To my exact specifications?"
Let the storm rage, the sky roil. The youngest of their band still may sit on heaped cushions and listen, enraptured, to the story she is being told by their third oldest as he brushes out her hair and weaves it into a sturdy braid.
The oldest of them stands apart, as she almost always does, preoccupied with thoughts they know better than to trouble her for. She watches the weaving of hair through half-lowered eyelashes, working her lower lip between her teeth, before she addresses their second oldest, perfectly poised at her side.
"You're certain you checked the wards as I instructed?" The Saint of Woe asks Our Lady of Blades, with a querulous note of fretful exhaustion. "To my exact specifications?"
Edited 2022-09-09 02:21 (UTC)
Mercymorn the First blows a feckless strand of pink-stained hair from her face (she must remember to trim that one; she never does) as she observes the working of the ward laid out in front of her. She cocks her head to one side, then the other, arms folded tightly across her chest as she scowls down at the spirals of her own painted blood, drawn out of her veins only minutes before.
"This would be much simpler," she says, after a heaved exhale of dissatisfaction, "If you didn't insist on having that dreadful, dusty excuse of a blood type, infant. I don't suppose you do it to spite me - and yet!"
She turns her boiling gaze to the slip of a nunlet at her left hand side, deeply expressive of that and yet - that she would surely have done it on purpose, if she could, and perhaps even now refrains from correcting the situation out of pure stubborn wilfulness.
"Adequate," Mercy pronounces, like a grim diagnosis, "Under the circumstances."
"This would be much simpler," she says, after a heaved exhale of dissatisfaction, "If you didn't insist on having that dreadful, dusty excuse of a blood type, infant. I don't suppose you do it to spite me - and yet!"
She turns her boiling gaze to the slip of a nunlet at her left hand side, deeply expressive of that and yet - that she would surely have done it on purpose, if she could, and perhaps even now refrains from correcting the situation out of pure stubborn wilfulness.
"Adequate," Mercy pronounces, like a grim diagnosis, "Under the circumstances."
Edited 2022-09-09 03:12 (UTC)
On the outskirts of the ruin that was once Sleepytown, in some other, kinder world, there are a series of cairns. There are not many, and those that exists are destroyed by the devout of Riteoir whenever they come across them, but those left intact are a carefully laid enclosure of charred bricks around a curiously shimmering stasis field outlined in a painted border of saliva and marrow.
The contents of this field are all that's needed to enact the ritual to carry you back to the Trench you came from, down to the preserved rose as fresh as if just cut from the cult's garden. Beside them lies a note written in a precise, elegant hand.
Most of the time, these cairns are unattended, with no obvious sign of who placed them there, but if you are lucky enough (or, perhaps, unlucky) you may come across a small huddle of two cloaked figures building one anew or repairing one that has been toppled. The smallest of the figures straightens up at your approach, raising her bare palm in your direction like a ward.
"What do you want?" She asks, sharply, as her assistant continues their work unabated.
The contents of this field are all that's needed to enact the ritual to carry you back to the Trench you came from, down to the preserved rose as fresh as if just cut from the cult's garden. Beside them lies a note written in a precise, elegant hand.
HOW TO MAKE THE CROSSING BACK TO THE OTHER TRENCH
1. Proceed into the wasteland before you with the provided items (claw, rubble, bowl, rose, knife), attempting not to die
2. Once a minimum of ten metres inside the boundary, grind down the claw inside the silver bowl with the rubble provided; set aside the rubble
3. Pluck the rose petals (carefully!! do not tear them) and lay them on top of the powdered claw
4. Use the knife provided to cut yourself and mingle your blood with the rose petals, claw, and the blood of a Sleeper with a different blood type than your own - if you didn't bother to read even this far, and are therefore devoid of an appropriate partner, let that be a lesson to you about reading the full instructions before starting a project
5. Wait for the mixture to achieve a slippery aqueous consistency (slime, for the uneducated)
6. Dip your hands into the bowl and apply the mixture above the heart (or equivalent organ) of your partner
7. Proceed immediately through the portal that appears - do not waste time gawping
8. And stay out!
Most of the time, these cairns are unattended, with no obvious sign of who placed them there, but if you are lucky enough (or, perhaps, unlucky) you may come across a small huddle of two cloaked figures building one anew or repairing one that has been toppled. The smallest of the figures straightens up at your approach, raising her bare palm in your direction like a ward.
"What do you want?" She asks, sharply, as her assistant continues their work unabated.
Edited 2022-09-08 20:30 (UTC)
I'm gonna let you lead the scene for at least the next tag, but I promise ya won't have to carry all
detonating
2022-09-09 12:35 am (UTC)(link)
Paul isn't the only one who knows better but has done the opposite regardless of that fact. If his friends knew that Katsuki was out here by himself with every intention of taking a notorious beast out by himself, they would probably be livid with him. But he has no intentions of falling victim to that motherfucker, nor does he have the desire to drag any of them into more bloodshed after everything that's gone on in the last couple of months. And if he's being honest with himself? He doesn't want to risk them trying to talk him out of this. He needs it. Needs to do something good, to try to fucking... balance the scales of his own destruction or whatever. This isn't just going to save lives in the immediate sense and yeah, it's more killing to avoid more death. Not exactly logical, but nothing is fucking black and white when it comes down to it. Not here, not anywhere. And according to the locals, this helps the increase the fruits of their harvests. While Katsuki a year ago back home might not've bought into that kind of bullshit without seeing it first... he does here and now. He's seen them be right about plenty enough to be willing to believe it. He's also struggled with finding food and knows first hand how goddamn important that is.
Stealth isn't exactly Katsuki's forte. Not only does his quirk offer him absolutely no favor in that regard, it's just never been his style. It's ingrained in him by his own design to be a fearless and noticeable presence to enemies and audience alike, so when a situation calls for something more covert... well. Can't do everything flawlessly, as much as he likes to fucking think that he can.
Maybe it's the light crunch of leaves beneath his boot that catches Paul's attention, he doesn't know or give a shit because it's actually Katsuki who has been caught surprised here. Paul is apparently more skilled in this aspect of the hunt than he is, because his focus was pinned more to the destructive trail the creature has left, and didn't even realize that the other teen was crossing into his vicinity until he was practically on him. Even the shadow that the hood of his own cloak casts over his face doesn't hide the fact that he's caught off guard by the sudden voice, crimson eyes are wide and alarmed for a second there. But before he has the chance to try to express his displeasure with being obviously unaware? They're interrupted by the high pitched trill up ahead and his attention, fiercely focused and ready, diverts in that direction instead until he's addressed again. There's only time to spare Paul a glance as he reaches up to pull his hood down--that way he can see the the slight affirming nod of his head without the cloth getting in the way. The Bugge is why he is here.
The bone rattling roar of his mark cracks through the air like thunder, booming and menacing. It's got the blond's expression cracking open wide into a toothy, thrilled grin as his gaze searches ahead of them. Reading the path like a book and analyzing quickly, every step he will take as soon as he takes off, exactly what move will be made first and what the potential follow ups may be. Paul's voice is there again, Katsuki's head cocks so he can watch him sidelong for as long as it takes for him to say what he needs to. Obscure as it may seem, it's not hard to put together. One of these shitheads screeching in the woods ain't like the other, right?
The signs are there, that Paul's about to take off. Katsuki breaks into a sprint at the exact same time as him, rough voice calling out as they move in sync together across the forest floor. "Do what you gotta do, Pretty Boy! I'll get started on the big one!"
Stealth isn't exactly Katsuki's forte. Not only does his quirk offer him absolutely no favor in that regard, it's just never been his style. It's ingrained in him by his own design to be a fearless and noticeable presence to enemies and audience alike, so when a situation calls for something more covert... well. Can't do everything flawlessly, as much as he likes to fucking think that he can.
Maybe it's the light crunch of leaves beneath his boot that catches Paul's attention, he doesn't know or give a shit because it's actually Katsuki who has been caught surprised here. Paul is apparently more skilled in this aspect of the hunt than he is, because his focus was pinned more to the destructive trail the creature has left, and didn't even realize that the other teen was crossing into his vicinity until he was practically on him. Even the shadow that the hood of his own cloak casts over his face doesn't hide the fact that he's caught off guard by the sudden voice, crimson eyes are wide and alarmed for a second there. But before he has the chance to try to express his displeasure with being obviously unaware? They're interrupted by the high pitched trill up ahead and his attention, fiercely focused and ready, diverts in that direction instead until he's addressed again. There's only time to spare Paul a glance as he reaches up to pull his hood down--that way he can see the the slight affirming nod of his head without the cloth getting in the way. The Bugge is why he is here.
The bone rattling roar of his mark cracks through the air like thunder, booming and menacing. It's got the blond's expression cracking open wide into a toothy, thrilled grin as his gaze searches ahead of them. Reading the path like a book and analyzing quickly, every step he will take as soon as he takes off, exactly what move will be made first and what the potential follow ups may be. Paul's voice is there again, Katsuki's head cocks so he can watch him sidelong for as long as it takes for him to say what he needs to. Obscure as it may seem, it's not hard to put together. One of these shitheads screeching in the woods ain't like the other, right?
The signs are there, that Paul's about to take off. Katsuki breaks into a sprint at the exact same time as him, rough voice calling out as they move in sync together across the forest floor. "Do what you gotta do, Pretty Boy! I'll get started on the big one!"
In her ten thousand years of existence, Woe has born witness to more walks of shame than she could hope to count, in varying degrees of tragic, embarrassing, and outright bizarre. She still shudders to recall the particular waddle of a certain overripe cavalier and necromancer pair out of a greenhouse - but that was a very long time ago, and she had never gone in for such things herself.
So this cannot be a walk of shame, as she combs out her hair with her fingers and clasps her cloak tightly at her throat, as she slips out a side door of this ridiculous training facility with her boots in hand so she does not cause the floors to creak before she dons them in the alley. She is simply - avoiding discovery by a specific array of parties she does not wish to speak to.
It is going very smoothly, all factors considered, until a slightly familiar, yet truly odd thrumming hum of life intrudes on her awareness, and she is already gritting her teeth when she looks up to behold a recent and perplexing acquaintance.
"Go away," she hisses, sharp but quiet, "Begone - scat!"
So this cannot be a walk of shame, as she combs out her hair with her fingers and clasps her cloak tightly at her throat, as she slips out a side door of this ridiculous training facility with her boots in hand so she does not cause the floors to creak before she dons them in the alley. She is simply - avoiding discovery by a specific array of parties she does not wish to speak to.
It is going very smoothly, all factors considered, until a slightly familiar, yet truly odd thrumming hum of life intrudes on her awareness, and she is already gritting her teeth when she looks up to behold a recent and perplexing acquaintance.
"Go away," she hisses, sharp but quiet, "Begone - scat!"
Edited 2022-09-09 03:17 (UTC)
Kaworu isn't paying attention. He only tends to pay attention to Paul when he gets like this for a few seconds before letting his mind wander. Even now, as Paul signs away, the angel's attention is drawn to excited flurry of long-fingered hands and an upward curve of the mouth that can't be held back. That's beautiful. That's a specimen.
He watches Paul, but not what he's doing, as he goes full ecological otaku, with gentle expression of his own. Slowly, he comes to rest his head against Paul as the other works like a cat settling near a lap. Eventually, he has to turn away to yawn and blow his nose on a handkerchief because he's nothing but sluggish and snotty lately.
Then he blows air softly at Paul's cheek to alert him to the bored angel's presence. He's still here and fungus is fungus!
He watches Paul, but not what he's doing, as he goes full ecological otaku, with gentle expression of his own. Slowly, he comes to rest his head against Paul as the other works like a cat settling near a lap. Eventually, he has to turn away to yawn and blow his nose on a handkerchief because he's nothing but sluggish and snotty lately.
Then he blows air softly at Paul's cheek to alert him to the bored angel's presence. He's still here and fungus is fungus!
Kaworu is also doing a walk of shame. Except it's more like a walk of sulk. There's no shame in sleeping over at your boyfriend's apartment and doing what you like there.
There is shame in your other boyfriend being so distracted by some moss on the ground that he forgets he promised to cook you food when you get home. How can someone care about moss when he, their beautiful angel boyfriend, is right there and hungry?
A bad boyfriend, that's who. On serious review from the Bone Lesbian Squad. Which is the shirt that Kaworu has. It's the shirt of Terrible Boyfriend(TM) who has not even noticed that his shirt has been stolen.
So instead, Kaworu sulks his way back home. Hands in his pockets, walking deliberately slow to make it clear how unfairly put out he's been over the whole thing. It would be nice if someone took notice so he could explain how cruelly he's been treated but he encounters someone and the immediate response is anything but.
"Me? You're in my way!"
There is shame in your other boyfriend being so distracted by some moss on the ground that he forgets he promised to cook you food when you get home. How can someone care about moss when he, their beautiful angel boyfriend, is right there and hungry?
A bad boyfriend, that's who. On serious review from the Bone Lesbian Squad. Which is the shirt that Kaworu has. It's the shirt of Terrible Boyfriend(TM) who has not even noticed that his shirt has been stolen.
So instead, Kaworu sulks his way back home. Hands in his pockets, walking deliberately slow to make it clear how unfairly put out he's been over the whole thing. It would be nice if someone took notice so he could explain how cruelly he's been treated but he encounters someone and the immediate response is anything but.
"Me? You're in my way!"
Paul takes Bakugou's momentary pause to listen to him as sign enough of agreement, even before he joins Paul in heated pursuit. Paul can trust in his competency as much as he trusts in Midoriya's, even with the briefness of their acquaintance - it's really Midoriya's trust that he adopts, a token of respect for both of them.
And this is what necessity demands of him, anyway, because there is no chance in this or any other universe that Paul will waste time on hesitation today. His cloak sheds behind him, sloughed off to reveal close-fitted blackened leather and cloth, a mask hanging around his neck not unlike a variation of Deku's own hero gear. The blindfold comes into sight, as does the gleam that ekes out around its edges, but it doesn't seem to affect his ability to dart across the uneven terrain to the clearing ahead.
"Understood!" Paul calls back, crisply tactical, when they're on the verge of contact with the hulking Beast that can already be glimpsed through the trees ahead by anyone with eyes to see it - and then they burst into the open space, and the situation clarifies itself.
The Bugge of legend towers above them, a solid wall of muscle under matted fur, slavering gobs of dark saliva from a maw pulled back in a rictus of hunger. In front of it, trilling frantically, quivering in every limb, is a much smaller Beast, barely larger than either of the two boys. It's a silver furred thing itself, a radial arrangement of overly jointed humanoid arms around a knuckle of a torso, with a head that is almost human in shape, except for the pair of hands that sprout from its sides and fold over its features to conceal them. On one wrist, a charred, dull band of metal sits, with a cracked stone in its setting. It cowers under the dread gaze of the Bugge, with old wounds raked across its limbs that match the thing's claws.
Next to the Bugge, Paul is a slip of shadow, his spear no more than a splinter. He skids to a halt at the periphery, levelling it at the titan, and draws his lips back in a snarl of his own.
"Alala!" His voice lashes out like a heavy chain, shockingly forceful from such a slender frame - a voice made for command, for the rallying cry. "Come here, if you want it!"
The words themselves don't matter. They mean nothing to the Beasts. But they do catch the Bugge's attention, and its baleful stare twists towards them in a wash of icy, unnatural terror.
"Come on," Paul says, with quiet, bitten off intensity, "Come on, come on -"
The Bugge snorts. It rears back, pivoting its bulk to face them, and lowers its mighty head - and then it charges.
And this is what necessity demands of him, anyway, because there is no chance in this or any other universe that Paul will waste time on hesitation today. His cloak sheds behind him, sloughed off to reveal close-fitted blackened leather and cloth, a mask hanging around his neck not unlike a variation of Deku's own hero gear. The blindfold comes into sight, as does the gleam that ekes out around its edges, but it doesn't seem to affect his ability to dart across the uneven terrain to the clearing ahead.
"Understood!" Paul calls back, crisply tactical, when they're on the verge of contact with the hulking Beast that can already be glimpsed through the trees ahead by anyone with eyes to see it - and then they burst into the open space, and the situation clarifies itself.
The Bugge of legend towers above them, a solid wall of muscle under matted fur, slavering gobs of dark saliva from a maw pulled back in a rictus of hunger. In front of it, trilling frantically, quivering in every limb, is a much smaller Beast, barely larger than either of the two boys. It's a silver furred thing itself, a radial arrangement of overly jointed humanoid arms around a knuckle of a torso, with a head that is almost human in shape, except for the pair of hands that sprout from its sides and fold over its features to conceal them. On one wrist, a charred, dull band of metal sits, with a cracked stone in its setting. It cowers under the dread gaze of the Bugge, with old wounds raked across its limbs that match the thing's claws.
Next to the Bugge, Paul is a slip of shadow, his spear no more than a splinter. He skids to a halt at the periphery, levelling it at the titan, and draws his lips back in a snarl of his own.
"Alala!" His voice lashes out like a heavy chain, shockingly forceful from such a slender frame - a voice made for command, for the rallying cry. "Come here, if you want it!"
The words themselves don't matter. They mean nothing to the Beasts. But they do catch the Bugge's attention, and its baleful stare twists towards them in a wash of icy, unnatural terror.
"Come on," Paul says, with quiet, bitten off intensity, "Come on, come on -"
The Bugge snorts. It rears back, pivoting its bulk to face them, and lowers its mighty head - and then it charges.
Paul has kept up a running commentary with his free, ungloved hand as he worked open the puffball with the black gloved other, a litany of observations and asides about the science of the mycological. The details are imprecise in House Sign, a language never exactly meant for discussion of the world down to such detail, its focus much more on the human side of the environment. There are a dozen ways to denote a hidden enemy in the crook of fingers, but only one for fungus.
But he gets by, forming compounds and allusions that he doesn't stop himself to realize will mostly be lost on his companions even if they were paying close attention. He's talking to himself more than anyone as the coiled interior of the mushroom is revealed and he slits a slice cleanly away to decant into a specimen vial - which he almost fumbles at Kaworu's soft intrusion.
"Kaworu," he says aloud, fondly, a little louder than he usually would, and turns to kiss his sweet little angel forehead. "You aren't watching at all, are you?"
But he gets by, forming compounds and allusions that he doesn't stop himself to realize will mostly be lost on his companions even if they were paying close attention. He's talking to himself more than anyone as the coiled interior of the mushroom is revealed and he slits a slice cleanly away to decant into a specimen vial - which he almost fumbles at Kaworu's soft intrusion.
"Kaworu," he says aloud, fondly, a little louder than he usually would, and turns to kiss his sweet little angel forehead. "You aren't watching at all, are you?"
Ruby had been convinced that she had the beast right where she wanted it. Only for a completely different assault to be brought upon the creature. She takes a quick glance around and manages to catch sight of the Saint of Woe before she notices any of the others.
"Okay- Okay! Jeez. I was getting to it before I got distracted." Ruby manages to snap back at the distraction. Still. That was a good sign, more people around made it easier for her to do this.
She focused on the creature. Thought of the people who in danger and that they could be hurt if this thing got away. Focused on a desire to protect them. Her good eye shone bright for a second before it lit up the alley way with a bright flash of blue. Her powers from home had mixed with her cold blood here. Causing a quick flash freeze of the area around the beast.
It was too strong to kill out right like this. But it should slow it down for another assault.
"Okay- Okay! Jeez. I was getting to it before I got distracted." Ruby manages to snap back at the distraction. Still. That was a good sign, more people around made it easier for her to do this.
She focused on the creature. Thought of the people who in danger and that they could be hurt if this thing got away. Focused on a desire to protect them. Her good eye shone bright for a second before it lit up the alley way with a bright flash of blue. Her powers from home had mixed with her cold blood here. Causing a quick flash freeze of the area around the beast.
It was too strong to kill out right like this. But it should slow it down for another assault.
The leaves are turning, and Midoriya is a no-longer-camouflaged evergreen. Midoriya is in full Hero costume so that he has all the tools necessary to defend effectively: repaired jumpsuit stitched back together by an expert other than him, Air Force gauntlets, Iron Soles, waterproof (and bloodproof) cloak with its storm collar, and full stock of first aid supplies in his belt pouches. He also packed bento in his backpack, well-sealed so as not to attract creatures.
When Kaworu sneezes, he privately wishes he'd packed all his handkerchiefs. When they get home: ginger honey tea, definitely.
He knows this area, having inadvertently explored some of Trenchwood during his terrible March sojourn, but the seasonal flora has changed. This alone is a fascination. (Paul's happiness is another warm balm that draws a smile to his own face.) His fingers twitch as if they want to be holding a notebook and pencil for fungi notes, but he must remain hands-free. He never wanders more than a few feet away, preferring to keep the emanating point of Danger Sense centered on Paul, to remain standing, and to angle his feet to be ready to move at all times.
The Wayward Watcher, unofficial leader of the Hunters, cannot speak and uses ASL and writing instead. As a precaution early on, Midoriya brushed up on ways to communicate nonverbally within the scope of Hunter work even before he met Paul. Before conversation, he expects a tap on the shoulder or a wave to get attention. He knows eye contact and taking turns to communicate is both necessary and expected.
So, in his diligent habit of paying attention when he's addressed, Midoriya is looking at Paul attentively with occasional nods and no interruptions, even if, unseen, he keeps one mental finger on his Quirk, Danger Sense's door open and ready to detect anyone's ill will in the vicinity--
When he feels the stabbing sensation in his head, he jerks in a pivot, weight in the balls of his feet, and his Quirk's Full Cowl emerges with sparks around him. He signs for Quiet, and to indicate the direction of the unknown danger. It's not moving, he adds.
Maybe they can get by with remaining still and non-threatening, and whatever it is can decide to move on. Since March, his fighting stance has modified slightly from the proper forms, especially when out in nature. He crouches in a little more of an animalistic way, and the remembered scent of cherry blossoms--out of season now--plays tricks on his nose.
When Kaworu sneezes, he privately wishes he'd packed all his handkerchiefs. When they get home: ginger honey tea, definitely.
He knows this area, having inadvertently explored some of Trenchwood during his terrible March sojourn, but the seasonal flora has changed. This alone is a fascination. (Paul's happiness is another warm balm that draws a smile to his own face.) His fingers twitch as if they want to be holding a notebook and pencil for fungi notes, but he must remain hands-free. He never wanders more than a few feet away, preferring to keep the emanating point of Danger Sense centered on Paul, to remain standing, and to angle his feet to be ready to move at all times.
The Wayward Watcher, unofficial leader of the Hunters, cannot speak and uses ASL and writing instead. As a precaution early on, Midoriya brushed up on ways to communicate nonverbally within the scope of Hunter work even before he met Paul. Before conversation, he expects a tap on the shoulder or a wave to get attention. He knows eye contact and taking turns to communicate is both necessary and expected.
So, in his diligent habit of paying attention when he's addressed, Midoriya is looking at Paul attentively with occasional nods and no interruptions, even if, unseen, he keeps one mental finger on his Quirk, Danger Sense's door open and ready to detect anyone's ill will in the vicinity--
When he feels the stabbing sensation in his head, he jerks in a pivot, weight in the balls of his feet, and his Quirk's Full Cowl emerges with sparks around him. He signs for Quiet, and to indicate the direction of the unknown danger. It's not moving, he adds.
Maybe they can get by with remaining still and non-threatening, and whatever it is can decide to move on. Since March, his fighting stance has modified slightly from the proper forms, especially when out in nature. He crouches in a little more of an animalistic way, and the remembered scent of cherry blossoms--out of season now--plays tricks on his nose.
"I was watching you."
He signs along with his words, most correct, but the form of some changed to better fit the flow of his fingers, putting them together like notes in a chord progression. But the catlike grin gives him away, giving more context to the slightly angled way he signed "you".
Then Midoriya signs and he glances towards him, reaching out to wrap his arms around Paul protectively. He can protect him. That's about all he can do.
He signs along with his words, most correct, but the form of some changed to better fit the flow of his fingers, putting them together like notes in a chord progression. But the catlike grin gives him away, giving more context to the slightly angled way he signed "you".
Then Midoriya signs and he glances towards him, reaching out to wrap his arms around Paul protectively. He can protect him. That's about all he can do.
The thing that fucking sucks the most about this is knowing that she's right.
When Anna had found herself falling into this weird, messed up alternate reality, it had felt familiar, almost. Like the steps she'd taken to enter the sixth layer so many years ago. Hostile and oppressive, the air made her acutely notice that this was a place in which she did not belong. She'd only felt like that one other time before, outside of her reality dives.
When she comes to the most important-looking building in the district, her blade is covered in the deep red blood of beasts. It's coating her hair and face in patches, too, a visage she's used to wearing but had hoped she could go a little longer without putting back on. They had attacked her, she insisted. And she knew that she would never raise her blade but in defense, so it had to be the right choice, what she'd done. It needed to be.
As she approached the webbed-up shop and reached her hand across some invisible line, she found herself crying out in pain and pulling her hand back as quickly as she could. One look down at what remained of her left hand showed a stub, a nothing slowly knitting itself back together into metal and bone and blood and wires. Each agonizing moment lived like an eternity in her head, and if anyone had told her to imagine being flayed and then unflayed, she never would have gotten the level of pain right. She wished, wishes, that she never had to learn how wrong she had been.
So—when she sees figures approaching and one of them lowers her hood, Anna does not seem very given to charity. She drops her hands to her sides now that they're both back in place, and there's still a sharp ache in the back of her mind that she can't shake off. "Cute trick. I know someone topside who pulled something similar."
She tries to say something more vicious, but it's possible that the people flanking the woman talking to her are doing a good job intimidating her. That, plus the hand thing. "But I bet he made the kid beg to get it sewn back together. What made you so charitable?"
When Anna had found herself falling into this weird, messed up alternate reality, it had felt familiar, almost. Like the steps she'd taken to enter the sixth layer so many years ago. Hostile and oppressive, the air made her acutely notice that this was a place in which she did not belong. She'd only felt like that one other time before, outside of her reality dives.
When she comes to the most important-looking building in the district, her blade is covered in the deep red blood of beasts. It's coating her hair and face in patches, too, a visage she's used to wearing but had hoped she could go a little longer without putting back on. They had attacked her, she insisted. And she knew that she would never raise her blade but in defense, so it had to be the right choice, what she'd done. It needed to be.
As she approached the webbed-up shop and reached her hand across some invisible line, she found herself crying out in pain and pulling her hand back as quickly as she could. One look down at what remained of her left hand showed a stub, a nothing slowly knitting itself back together into metal and bone and blood and wires. Each agonizing moment lived like an eternity in her head, and if anyone had told her to imagine being flayed and then unflayed, she never would have gotten the level of pain right. She wished, wishes, that she never had to learn how wrong she had been.
So—when she sees figures approaching and one of them lowers her hood, Anna does not seem very given to charity. She drops her hands to her sides now that they're both back in place, and there's still a sharp ache in the back of her mind that she can't shake off. "Cute trick. I know someone topside who pulled something similar."
She tries to say something more vicious, but it's possible that the people flanking the woman talking to her are doing a good job intimidating her. That, plus the hand thing. "But I bet he made the kid beg to get it sewn back together. What made you so charitable?"
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