open | jeaaaaalousy

[cozen]

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.

Comments

[dissolving]

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.

[thereneverwas]

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.

[wearyallalone]

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.

[dissolving]

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?

[thereneverwas]

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.

[wearyallalone]

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.

[dissolving]

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.

[thereneverwas]

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.

[wearyallalone]

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.)

[thereneverwas]

It’s at least thirty seconds or so before Barrow, who was thrown aside, realizes he’s still alive. And that it’s quiet, and that the fighting has stopped, and Orlov—- the real one—- is lying motionless on the ground across the lake of ichor.

Hauling himself to his feet, Barrow inventories his wounds: he’s sore, might’ve broken a rib, is bleeding profusely from the scores down his front, but is otherwise intact. He thinks to pick up his crystal, mutters something into it, then goes about the process of shuffling from one fallen ex-Templar to the other, hauling them up under his arms like the sacks of grain he used to carry on his family farm.