faderift | open | jeaaaaalousy

Entry tags:

open | jeaaaaalousy

WHO: Anyone.
WHAT: Ferreting out imposters.
WHEN: Drakonis 9:50
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: This is a catch-all for anyone who needs a place to put logs related to the envy demon plot. Use CWs in your subject lines.

art

Some number of Riftwatch's members are, presently, envy demons in disguise. Better find them.

RECAP
Previously, all these things happened on one day actually:

Julius was poisoned and Flint, Yseult, and Marcus killed the culprit.
Marcus ordered the Gallows on lock-down. No one's allowed to leave, but Riftwatch members outside the Gallows at the time are required to return.
Yseult announced the possible presence of shape-changing imposters.
Byerly encouraged identifying people who might be affected.
Templars had a huddle.

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He's been circling the courtyard the better few hours now, a winding route interspersed with convenient pauses to listen to a crystal, murmur back a response -

(Duck his head into the sparring courts, the spare rooms, the storage closets,)

It stopped a short time ago, as his patrol peeled off from the smithy toward the yard. He returned on quieter feet: Cedric steps around the doorway, lifts a finger from the hilt of his blade and over the corner of his mouth. He's in gambeson alone.

It's trapped now - but there'll be precious little room to manuever inside. He or Barrow might flush the thing out, into the other's blade, and risk an escape.

Or they can both press in.

Cedric tips his chin in silent question. Who first?

Locking eyes with Cedric across the doorway, Barrow gives a terse nod, his mouth flattening into a line as he casts a glance within. He's never been the one to make these decisions, but seniority, and the open look on the young Templar's face, suggest that this might be his lot; better not fuck it up.

He points away from himself and gestures with his head, mouthing 'back door' to Cedric, readying his own sword to indicate he'll be ready to either catch out anyone trying to leave through this one, or to close in from behind if Orlov should engage.

Assuming it is Orlov in there. They'll probably check first.

He nods, cuts a glance to the shadowed entry. A short pivot around - a minute or two that seem to stretch longer -

Cedric steps inside.

"Orlov?" Soft. Something familiar in this act: The man who frets after Vanya at mealtime, who wouldn't raise his name about the other Templars. He sounds a little suspicious. He sounds a lot worried, "I think we need a plan."

The sword holds by his side. Drawn, but low. At rest.

Pressing himself against the wall by the doorframe in an effort to obscure himself, Barrow waits and listens.

Vanya hasn't been seen or heard from (well, mostly) since Gwenaëlle urgently told Yseult "it's not him" over sending crystal. The Gallows is a large place for the number of people living and working in it, after all. There are a lot of places to hide, and a lot of incentive to keep moving out of sight.

So the fact that Cedric gets an actual answer could mean a few things: This is a trap that the demon has set. This is a trap that the demon is in. Or it's a play for time.

Regardless, the answer is still a chillingly accurate mimic of Vanya Orlov's voice and cadence. Calm, a hint of resignation. "I don't think I believe very much in a we, at the moment. Unless that isn't me you're talking to."

Shit. Worth a shot.

The daylight at his back fades scant feet into the smithy, with windows shuttered, furnace cold. Despite careful steps, his boot scrapes a wall, slow as ever to the gloom.

(His mother over the bed, eyes shining,)

"Fine," Two can buy time - or let their mouth run on, unchecked. "Fuck we. But they think it’s both of us,"

The glint of metal on workbench. His free hand fumbles for the horseshoe: Tosses it experimentally forward. Ping.

The darkness may or may not give the-thing-that's-not-Vanya an advantage. But the smithy isn't large; speaking or moving will betray location almost immediately. The horseshoe catches the edge of the shadowed anvil and ping-ping-pings to where it settles on the floor.

The sound hasn't totally faded when the thing moves, faster than Vanya would, for all it hasn't yet given up Vanya's form. The attack is not meant to be lethal, however; the intention is a blunt strike to the head, to daze and to silence. Cedric has good instincts, and his attacker doesn't intend to waste the element of surprise, short-lived as it's likely to be.

His good ear's still ringing when it's on him.

A shout - involuntary - a reflex the decade hasn't smashed flat. Cedric pulls up sharp (not far enough) as something heavier than human meat smashes into his collarbone, sends boneless waves of shock down his arm. White light shivers forth - gone again from a falling grip -

The blade clatters to earth.

Edited (werd repetition) 2024-03-23 20:28 (UTC)

Without Cedric’s shout, they might have been lost.

Wasting no time, Barrow bursts in from behind the demon with a second, more enduring blast of light that emanates from his own sword.

He sees Carsus go down and rushes Vanya, hoping to, if not weaken him, at least draw his attention.

There's a moment before Barrow arrives that Cedric can catch something gut-churningly fluid about not-Vanya's features as he reaches to try to grab Cedric by the throat.

But Barrow's attack can't be ignored. The demon snarls when the light hits it, turning to see the new aggressor. Its foot rests on Cedric's blade, but now its attention is, at least, split. The thing no longer looks perfectly like Vanya, a hint of something else blended into its features while it's not concentrating. Sandwiched between the two men, however, there's a bare moment of hesitation before it decides to double down on trying to grapple Cedric.

Cedric struggles half-against the wall, a leg kicking out to topple the bench. From somewhere far behind his eyes comes the distant thought that teeth aren't meant to ripple -

It turns, grip shifted, and he gasps for air. Nerves struggle to reassert control of his slack arm, the other reaching to rip the demon's free. A sharp twist, angling to snap the fine bones of a human wrist,

This isn't a human wrist. He doesn't wait to see if it's worked as he dives for a fallen hammer.

Toe to tip, that’s a demon.

The only benefit of it turning on Cedric again is that its back is to Barrow once more, giving him a wide open target to run it through from behind.
He plunges his sword into its back with all his strength as the blade erupts into holy fire, aware only peripherally that Cedric has slipped free.

While neither Cedric nor Barrow harbors any doubt at this point, the noise the thing makes when Barrow stabs it is a shockingly inhuman sound, a furious screech. There's a flash of green light around its eyes as it instinctively lets Cedric go; the fluid seeping out of the wound looks red while it's on the demon's clothes but, as Barrow pulls his sword back and out of the illusion, it reveals a sickly, dark ichor.

Barrow has now done sufficient damage to get the demon's fuller attention as it rounds on him. It draws a sword that is probably Vanya's, and is certainly not an illusion of any kind. While it's hard to be sure, it also seems that the creature may have extended its legs. It's not tall enough to be fully inhuman, but certainly taller than Vanya's roughly six feet (and with an increased reach to match). The demon advances on Barrow, trying to force him back through the door he entered.

A steady stream of fuck fuck fuck takes the tone of Nevarran Chant -

The sword's freed of the demon's step, but his hand's already around the hammer, and no time to spare. Cedric lunges, lyrium flaring along vein and into the head of the maul. He leaps onto its back, bashing wherever there's purchase.

(Strange, how the flesh seems to shift under hand. Even Barrow's stab - so perfectly practiced - ought to have done more, might have for a lesser spirit.)

“Shit—-“

Barrow manages to parry the opposing blade, but recognizes as he shuffles backwards that the creature’s movement is far quicker than he’ll be able to match.
His breaths come quick and shallow, his eyes darting, seeking any opportunity to land another strike that’ll matter, a prospect that seems less likely the farther back they get toward the door.

Should’ve brought a shield.

The thing grunts in pain when Cedric connects. The crunch of shoulder is less bone than cartilage, the odd give Cedric had noticed accentuated as the thing slowly loses hold of a human form. It doesn't all happen at once. The limbs are elongated, as if someone had taken hold of Vanya and stretched particularly hard, and the eyes have begun to go opaque, now more the suggestion of human eyes than a true imitation of them. Even so, the demon gives the impression of continuing to focus on Barrow.

Barrow would be forgiven if he didn't immediately register the sound of someone running toward the smithy from behind him, under the circumstances; even if he does, it's still going to take a few moments for that person to arrive. In the meantime, the demon is swinging on Barrow with more insistence, a sweeping downward motion.

The guise drips like putty, and whatever he’s been clinging to with it.

They’re dead, He’s told half a dozen of them, in so many words. They’re gone.

(Benedict, the first welcoming face; Gela, a breath of home. Vanya, five years lost already, and only another name on the rolls of dead -)

The hammer falls. Cartilage cracks. An arm lengthens, Barrow staggers, parries -

"Get back," Cedric decides, on impulse. Better that it find the courtyard than another corpse. Maker only knows if it could take another body now. "Behind the doorway,"

It’s taller now. Not so tall that it can’t pass, but unwieldy. Architecture could serve for a moment’s shield. He struggles his limp arm around its neck, sluggish nerves firing in protest. Cedric swings the hammer around, prying at its face with the point of the maul.

Barrow needs room to move. He’ll slow it so long as he can.

Edited 2024-03-24 04:21 (UTC)

In some ways, Barrow is a coward: he’s too agreeable, he shies away from saying his true opinions, he’d rather let a conflict go than lose his temper over it or have someone else do the same. But he is not going to let a brand new recruit, visibly several decades his junior, take on this fucking thing solo while he runs for his life.
He’s halfway to getting another sword thrust in when the demon’s claws rake down the front of him, shredding the tight leather and, in a ridiculous irony, allowing more freedom of movement even as the gashes it leaves sear with pain.

He swears, but persists, with a bark of “call for backup!” to Cedric as he continues backwards toward the door, slashing with his blade.

The thing shrieks again, in frustration as much as pain. It twists to try to dislodge Cedric, the maul more immediately concerning than Barrow's blade. While Cedric's grip isn't strong, the smithy's roof is low enough the demon can't simply reach overhead and grab him. Instead, it thrusts upward, its frame expanding; if Cedric doesn't let go, he's likely to have the wind knocked out of him against the ceiling.

Behind Barrow a voice that sounds remarkably familiar, if raw and dry, shouts "Get it out in the courtyard if you can." They'd be forgiven for wondering if demons can throw their voices, but the thing they're fighting seems as if its focus is fully on the physical dimensions of the fight.

Barrow slashes again - stubborn - and the flare of frustration fades as quickly as the sight of his blood on that stupid little jerkin. Cedric wants to protest, jamming the hammer into its open mouth, but call for backup is a good plan,

One he can’t argue as the demon stretches up, and cracks him into the roof. Breath goes, and his vision with it, skull knocked against a beam. His fingers loose again, and this time he goes slumping with them to the ground. The room spins. There’s bile on his tongue.

So he’s got to be imagining it: That voice.

"Don’t," Wheezed - at a volume likely only the demon can hear. Cedric claws for his abandoned sword, struggling up. The ground lurches, his feet clumsy. (What was the plan? Crystal? Door?) "Stop,"

Hasn’t it done enough?

Priority number one is keeping the demon’s attention, a task at which Barrow has already partially failed considering how it’s tossing Carsus around—- but priority two arises when he hears a voice behind him, turning just in time to do a double-take at what appears to be… Orlov, albeit a little thinner and a lot angrier.

He doesn’t have much time to react, but does step rapidly backward and out the door, momentarily allowing the creature (and himself) some range of motion in the effort to draw it out.

“Carsus,” he calls hoarsely, “you dead?”

One can only hope that this is the real Vanya, or they’re proper cooked.

Whether or not the demon thinks Cedric is dead, it certainly seems to think he is no immediate threat. As it follows Barrow outside, it grows to its full height, making a disdainful hiss as it sees what is, presumably, the real Vanya. The man looks like the survivor of a shipwreck, but the hands holding the borrowed blade are steady. The demon, grotesquely, still retains hint of Vanya, a thing maybe 80 percent in its true form: the long vertical lines of his face, an old scar along the right forearm only partly visible on the actual Vanya through the rags that were once a shirt.

Vanya's voice is worse for wear but it, like his arms, remains steady. "Flank it. You don't want it to be able to hit us both with the same swing." Trusting Barrow to position himself (and maybe take a moment to catch his breath), he goes on the offense without a pause, taking a heavy swing at the demon's knee from where he's positioned himself to one side of the doorway.

(He'll have time later to wonder how long Cedric has been here, or whether he's still alive; this is an enemy that will take all their focus.)

The demon reaches out to strike its erstwhile target, but Vanya manages to feint and dodge, finding himself unexpectedly light without any armor.

An answering groan. He's alive. He is - some healer will find later - very concussed. The demon's still speaking, words that don't make sense,

(Flank it. Is there another? More than two, shit, backup. Call for,)

Cedric leans on his blade, eyes pressed shut against the shifting ground. He'll be there in a moment. Stars dance behind the lids. Alright. One shambling step, two. His ears are ringing, the doorway's bright,

He pukes.

Yeah, this one might be on Barrow and Vanya.

Well, that's a relief?

The groan and the puking sound means Cedric is still present in some capacity, which Barrow is choosing to categorize as Good, sight unseen, until they're able to manage the intricacies of the situation. In the meantime, he's pleased (sort of) to see the demon turning its attention once more to a target on its other side: he's tired, depleted, only has enough mana left for maybe one more good strike, so this is going to have to do it.

He takes a breath, his sword glowing white in the instant before he hacks at the creature from behind, bringing the blade down with enough force to sever a thick spine-- assuming demons have any kind of sensible anatomy, spines to be severed, and all that. He's going to have to hope, because he's starting to get lightheaded himself, and the real Vanya looks a walking corpse.

Edited 2024-03-26 00:11 (UTC)

Whether or not the demon has a spine in the way they understand it, the blow is powerful enough to make it scream in pain and rage. Hauntingly, its voice still has just a hint of Vanya's timbre, somehow. The attack also drives the demon to its knees, whether from losing some of its motor function or just the agony of the injury. The thing lashes out with a long arm in Barrow's direction, a blow meant to throw him backward.

The combination of getting the demon down and turning its head away from Vanya is, however, just enough. Vanya knows as well as Barrow does that time is not on their side in this fight. His feet planted, Vanya brings the sword down two-handed on the demon's neck, with power boosted by rage and fear and whatever was in the potion Gwenaëlle had handed him earlier. The cut could be called clean, as neatly as it divides the head from the body, except for the sickly black ichor that flows from both. It's the wrong viscosity for blood and carrying its own particularly vile smell.

Vanya nods once and seems like he might be about to say something when he, too, collapses to the grass. (He does, at least, drop the sword without landing on it.)

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thereneverwas - 2024-03-26 03:26 (UTC) - Expand

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