diarmad

[diarmad]

[diarmad]

[diarmad]

"Can I?" That remained to be seen, Theon had taken it for a jest and Diarmad had no interest in bursting the killer's proverbial bubble. He might have been joking, though the slight turn at the corner of his lips did not manage to confirm or deny either way.

Appealing, but incorrect. The assassin would have made for a halfway decent warlock, though his cursed nature implied difficulty in fulfilling pacts and things of that nature. At least, where the genasi was concerned, Theon never ceased to come through. It did beg the question of what it was that the other might have turned away from; given the bag, he'd deposited in front of Diarmad, it stood to reason that the ask had to be a sinister one indeed.

"No." Regents secured, Diarmad tied them loosely to his waist. "I'll arrange payment at the usual location." A soul coin for the demon's troubles, another year free of the Abyss. "You should take your leave," Diarmad's eyes flit about for a moment as the trees began to groan and the murky waters took to shifting. "It gets restless after dark."

There's a long pause as Diarmad gets rather grim about Theon being long past his expiration date, but Theon's expression slowly forms into a grin. This would be the part where he claps Diarmad on the shoulder, but he refrains, simply stating, "See, I knew you could be funny," the mounting joke had written itself, after all. Theon learned to be quick, especially when stood before Diarmad, he was as ominous as he was mysterious and sometimes such energy bordered on threatening.

"Channeling the magic in them, corrupting it..." he's spit balling out loud, rolling off ideas as if Diarmad even genuinely cared what an incubus thought of the insidious magic and rituals he practiced here within the sanctuary of the deep woods. Theon concerned himself little with elvhen kind, they were not high on his list of people to bother nor cull, save for a faimen or silver that cropped up on occasion.

[diarmad]

"Sounds as though the stones already have, they granted you your vision - now you feel compelled to question the Guardian on Sakkara's behalf." It remained unclear if it was the Cult or the magi that were behind it but Diarmad was aligned with neither and their fates were inconsequential. "Acting as you wish has all the convenience of how the wheel weaves." Deimos had said as much already, while Sakkara entertained herself with her pet bird, he was free to do as he wished. But who was he to remark on a Keeper's priorities? "It wasn't you I was doubting, little brother. Should you awaken them, I'll be among the first to step through." The Lysarans were fond of abusing the highway as was, Haven to Eterna to Lorien'dal and back again. It'd be convenient to measure the distance from the Silverlands to the cold North in a matter of minutes rather than months.

"Do you doubt me that much? I would, if given the opportunity. The Cult found me before I was able to get to the stones in the Feywilds. I consider myself lucky that those who could hear me responded when they did." Deimos, despite his avoidance and his desire to remain far from Lysara and the surrounding areas, had become no stranger to violence. Yet still, he side stepped it when he could. The Cult had put a knife to his throat before he decided to rid him of the bother that they'd become. This was Diarmad speaking, however, as the genasi he'd become. Deimos would not take Sakkara's place, not at the stones by the Cove. They were last remaining, and while she may be approaching her final destiny, he wouldn't assume. "Perhaps there are stones that require me to be a Keeper elsewhere. Would you visit me in the blistering tundra of Iskaldrik?"

[diarmad]

Fate had as many interpretations as there were stars in the sky, their mother had taught them how to read them once upon a time. How to map them and interpret their machinations, it was about as accurate as one could assume and this destiny the druids clung to was just as vague. Diarmad enjoyed burning himself from the pattern, now there was nothing between him and his desires, certainly nothing as ambivalent as morality. "What's stopping you from awakening the stones yourself?" Diarmad couldn't help but ask, "If she needs you to show her the path there's nothing that says fate doesn't wish you to walk it yourself. Perhaps the stones have called you to take her place." The Keeper was older than most and likely on her last life, it was a new age, and perhaps they were overdue for a new Keeper.

The compliment was unexpected, but Deimos wasn't going to say anything otherwise. He would do what he could, for the Stones, for the Feywilds and the creatures within. He didn't wish to protect anyone else. For Diarmad, however, there was always a twinge within the druid's chest. Would he be able to keep his neutrality in the face of a threat against his own? While the genasi had carved his own path, Deimos remained a stagnant and steadfast figure. He was there if Diarmad ever needed him, and he didn't need to say that. His smirk was instant, and while he appreciated his friend, she was....a wandering soul. "Sakkara? A few months ago she saved a friend of mine, an old Dracodile, yet still – I think she is interested in finding a haven for the cryophoenix that follows her around. While she does that, I can do what I wish."

[diarmad]

It was as Diarmad had suspected then, the only thing that'd motivate his brother was to follow what he believed to be his destiny. Diarmad had assumed that if Brigid had appeared in his own dream someone or something manifested among others, whether they were unique and called upon for great consequence remained to be seen. Druids loved their purposes though, and loved to believe that what they did mattered. It seemed the stones had been busy, he wondered who else had received a similar summon but would return to the thought later. "They're fortunate to have you." It was about as close to a pat on the back that Diarmad could manage for a path he no longer walked. He'd spare his brother the speech, another tired argument, one Deimos refused to listen to. "Why doesn't Sakkara ask?"

"You're right." It was unlike Deimos, so far removed to the Isles, ensuring that everything remained unharmed from those on the mainland. Yet still, here he was, a druid of the Wild, with his unfortunate timing of being stuck in the middle of conflict that wasn't his to be bothered with. "Fortunately, when it comes to the stones and the Dúnedain, that is my calling." What he'd seen in the arches, it remained with him, in the back of his mind, "So that's what changed. They decided to call upon me, so I answered. I had a dream that these stones were once again alive."

[diarmad]

The message had been clear enough, the druids loved their rebirth, their champions, and their riddles. It made Diarmad's path clear. "It's unlike you to take such action," Diarmad observed, the brother he knew was content to the resignation of his island, with his sea life and stray visitors. If the two had any similarities the comparison could be drawn there: they kept to themselves and didn't bother with much beyond that. He'd always thought it would take something significant to motivate Deimos to become involved with the world beyond the Queenset. The stones had been dormant for thousands of years, this Cult wasn't the first to spring up and likely wouldn't be the last. "What changed?"

A tired argument, or one that Diarmad continued to ignore. Dimitrios' soul was either lost or stuck, it had been over three centuries now, and Deimos wasn't going to entertain false hope when it came to his only surviving brother. Genasi he may be, but Deimos knew that was Diarmad's path – it was not his to follow or change. Yet still, he'd done his part in relaying a message, in ensuring these stones remained safe. The Cult had found him as well, but it had been nothing that he couldn't deal with on his own. "There are stones missing their guardian. This one must've been dormant, or hidden, so I will ask how to find the one hidden from Sakkara."

[diarmad]

They were brothers but estranged, Deimos mulling about the same rituals the druids had been fulfilling for thousands of years. Withered stones and dying bloodlines, Diarmad had done it their way for long enough, in this life and the last, Deimos may have been a slow learner but he'd get to the same conclusion eventually. So long as the wheel kept turning people were born, they suffered, they died, and then thousands of years later the process repeated over. Again and again, round and around. "A tired argument." Face your fears or be consumed by them, destiny had no use for anything less. "What will you ask when you stand before them?"

They both knew who'd ran head first towards their destiny, and Deimos hummed even as Diarmad began to walk in his normal dramatic fashion. It was like the whole buzzcut situation, the druid had to sit and watch as Diarmad hacked at his hair with a knife. He was a good brother, so he never said anything. "And you'll know what I'll tell you," he sighed, though he followed after the genasi despite himself. "Don't you think that if he was meant to walk out of there, he would have? We've been over this. You're attempting to go down a path that perhaps Dimitrios doesn't wish for you to follow."

[diarmad]

"It's bad form for the elder to linger, I had to leave you so you could grow into your destiny." Druids loved their fate. He'd spent centuries at the question already, if a Guardian had awoken then there was a clearer path to getting the answers that he was looking for. Diarmad had turned to the dark and found power and means - were Dimitrios's soul within his grasp then their brother would be returned from them. If any knew how to retrieve a soul that had been lost in the Mist centuries prior, then it'd be a Guardian. Diarmad pressed forward, inviting the other to follow if he could keep up. "You know what I'll ask."

"Still upset you'd cause too much attention out on my isles? I think it's better. I couldn't have my kid brother forever holding on to my coattails, now could I?" Deimos couldn't help his hum, but in truth – he found it all too silly that his brother hadn't aged a day in the same amount of years. All in all, Diarmad would continue on for much longer than Deimos did, and the druid had washed his hands of the other's choices long ago. As long as his sibling was still breathing, that was enough for Deimos. "Yes, you're correct. A guardian. The Feywild stones were under attack." He leaned against his staff now, giving Diarmad a quick grin, "What would you like to know?"

[diarmad]

Naturally, Diarmad had been watching.

Doctor Blythe's struggle had been noted a few days prior as the witch relentlessly pushed through the mud. The flesh sentinels that the man had put together were inevitably torn apart by the wilds and at every turn Diarmad expected the man to turn back. Tenacious as he was, that never seemed to happen - so instead, the genasi prepared to receive the guest. In most cases, these preparations would've been done in the form of murky pitfalls, designed to encase the other in the wet earth so Diarmad could gradually leach the natural arcana coming off of the witch.

This one had... Something, though. Tenacity aside he'd taken Diarmad up on his challenge and come to greet him on the other end of it. While it was entirely possible to keep the witch wandering until his boots wore down to the sole and fatigue eventually claimed him, he'd decided almost a full day prior that Doctor Blythe had more use alive than dead.

"Why keep going." Diarmad commented idly as he manifested in front of the other, a necrotic cloud that took physical form and stood with intent upon a rotted, fallen tree. Half claimed by the swamp, he'd mentally congratulate Doctor Blythe for making it this far. "You look tired from your travels, isn't the water warm?" Diarmad asked as the swamp churned idly beneath the good Doctor, "Doesn't it feel inviting?" With a gesture, the ground seemed to lift beneath the witch, elevating him from the nearly knee-deep swamp he'd been trudging through. What felt like the earth was a network of flesh, flora, and mycelial webs amalgamated together as the cleaned but preserved bone of one of the many inhabitants of the swamp protruded idly from it.

Another gesture and a pathway made itself clear for Blythe, forming a clear direction through the swamp. "My cabin is close, you can take your rest and tell me about your travels before we discuss business." Diarmad dropped from his elevated place above and landed on the pathway, waiting expectantly for the Doctor to join him.

Any Raider worth their salt was a compulsive gambler. One couldn't rise above the tides without that quality. However, even Kian wouldn't take a risk for risk's sake and one thing was made abundantly clear to him by Diarmad's rejection: the druid didn't care about Kian one bit, and why would he? However that wasn't the issue. Whether Diarmad realized it or not, his terms meant Kian would assume all of the risk which is why he took measures to protect himself. He didn't blame Diarmad for walking away, but he did watch the druid's back silently as his flesh elemental wetly pulled itself back beneath The Dreadnought's robes and into his body. They didn't agree tonight, but he was a hunter by trade. He'd do what it took to acquire new knowledge and see the other in the Feywild swamps soon enough.

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Ten people of moderate prominence on the island went missing over the next few weeks. With Valdís becoming more certain about her desire to go to the Tower despite The Dreadnought's warning, he knew he'd have to leave Ran's Armada and occupy himself in the meantime. The unfinished agreement he made with the druid seemed worthy, however, as his murderous activity increased, Kian knew he had to be especially careful not to raise suspicions that Lady Aetos was still alive. Ten people gone, their bodies emptied of their organs and drained of their blood, all placed within one of the conjuration circles inscribed within The Dreadnought's bag. No one could trace the disappearances back to him, and Diarmad would receive more than he had bargained for. Surely, now, they could come to terms so Kian could learn something new.

He entered the Feywilds of the Silverlands with two freshly birthed babies in tow. They were large, beautiful amalgamations of the various creature samples he had on hand, and he lovingly stroked their wombs as Queen Belial gestated them to perfection. It was a rough birth, they were much larger than normal, but Kian designed them this way with intention. Even though he wore The Dreadnought's coverings, the Feywilds still remembered who he was and what crimes he inflicted upon the mystic wood. The creatures and the trees themselves seemed to fight against him, and eventually, his babies met their demise there, too, but there was a reason he felt confident returning even after his crimes against nature. With Miss Basquias out, he had massive stores of blood to wield. His vicious lashes and blades made from blood along with the elemental's ruthless retractable stinger able to drain the blood from the fey creatures who got in his way made for an excellent offense, but Kian had to heal himself more times than he could count thanks to the Feywilds acting against him. By the time he arrived in the northeastern swamp days after entering the wilds in the first place, his clothing was ripped and tattered, leaving mostly his mask remaining.

"Where are you druid? I have what you asked for and more," he shouts out to the mushy environment, still creating a second set of vocal cords to modulate his voice as if anyone out here was attempting to reveal his true identity. "I've trudged through vines and muck for days now, and I'll keep going. Why? Because this pain and discomfort is nothing compared to the joy I'll have by gleaning the knowledge contained within your chest. If you thought I would give up or you could promise me a second chance I wouldn't take, you were wrong. I know your spores must be close, show yourself to me so you can see all I've brought you." With a small, rodent like fey creature dead in his hands, The Dreadnought pulls it's blood from its body and places it over some scratches over his arm, healing himself as he continued to push through the swamp. He wasn't leaving until he became acquainted with the inner workings of the druid's unique body.

[diarmad]

The sleek approach was familiar, Diarmad bristled for a moment as the spores felt the presence of movement and communicated the shifting notion of life. Diarmad would have recognized his brother in any form, in any life, so when he stood after dismissing the fungal bed he'd been using for a camp, it was to greet the druid. "Spoken like someone who prefers his isles." His brother had remained in the Queenset, removed from the troubles of the rest of the world. "I heard a Guardian had awoken deeper into the Feywilds." Diarmad wished to see this creature for himself, "I have questions for them." Curiously, he cocked his head to the side, "Was it fate that brought our paths together again, little brother?"

@diarmad Location: Silverlands

His brother was always...mildly dramatic, but perhaps they deserved to be after a few hundred years. The genasi was unapproachable to most, things that were mildly interesting to Deimos seemed to be much more interesting to Diarmad, but as a druid, Deimos never bothered himself by thinking too critically upon it. They'd all gotten the dream, he was certain of it. And the fear he'd felt over the Feywild Standing Stones had been rooted so deep in his chest, he'd been unable to ignore it.

Luckily, finding the spore genasi was easy enough – follow the fungus, and the person eating flora that looked like it would reach out and grab you before you could do anything more than gasp. Deimos prowled forward, his shape that of a black leopard that wove its way through the trees, dark as the night he always used as cover. It took but a moment for him to shift, Diarmad's form not too far off, "I thought I'd find you closer to the Feywilds by now. Camping out under the stars for a change of scenery, little brother?"

[diarmad]

"And yet." Disturb him he had; Diarmad didn't have any use for sketches or whatever meddlesome business had brought the traveler so far out of his way. The genasi could consider this a blessing; a gift from the Dark. A pale, anemic-looking complexion hinted at the ideal breeding ground for Diarmad's spores. He was thin, though whatever marrow the other had in his bones might make for an adequate fertilizer. He considered this but kept walking, still tired from his travels in the South. "That one's poisonous. Look much closer and you'll be dead." Diarmad commented as mycelial veins pulsed idly at the nape of the genasi's neck, sharp, blue eyes taking stock of the creature that had stumbled close to his lair.

There's a kind of groan from the ground behind him that sounds like whatever had risen was actually to be missed by the Earth itself. Fear grips him for a second and there are plenty of shadows for him to step into out here that would allow him to slip away. Rowan's bold enough to look over his shoulder and his eyes widen at the sight of a man that appears more like an extension of his environment than a person. Sounds like it, too. "I didn't mean to disturb you, I was looking for mushrooms to draw." Which probably didn't sound like that good of a reason for him to be trudging through the area, but he'd heard of people at the Harmonium doing stranger things. Rowan turns fully to face the redhead and he can't say he's not interested in how he looks as if the ground had swallowed him up. Something like that wouldn't be for sketching though, he'd want paints. Oils that could convey the richness of the greenery, the way the spores seemed to cling to skin that seems almost translucent.

[diarmad]

Diarmad watched with characteristicly cold and calculating light while Belladona circled the ritual site. Her words were a dark, twisted melody harmonizing with the symphony of decay he had orchestrated. He listened, his lips curling into a cruel, appreciative smile as she wove her magic into the nithing pole, nightmares made real and dreams spoiled by malevolence.

"Poison and honey," he rasped, his voice a low, harsh whisper that carried the weight of his approval. Diarmad stepped back from the nithing pole, his hands were perpetually stained with horrors, fingers tipped in necrosis dripped and writhed in churning puddles at his feet.

"The curse is set, our darkness is sown." Their business was concluded; less prone toward small talk Diarmad's form began to dissolve following the ritual's climax as his flesh crumbled into a dark, churning cloud of spores. His eyes were the last to go, their piercing blue gaze lingering on Belladona, silently.

The cloud of spores drifted away on the wind as a malignant, sentient fog. Save for the faint, wet sound of the mycelial horrors he left in his wake, the site was silent.

Hunger is an ever present reminder to take until satisfied, and as Belladona circles around the ritual site, the empty edge of her stomach gurgles in craving. Magic set heavily on the air, power vibrating in the air as she watched with rapt attention as Diarmad twisted flesh into monstrosity. The sound, wet and agonizing, was a symphony to her ears, only missing screams to make it the sort of masterpiece she would replay once she slipped away to her domain. To feed in the pain of the living and then turn around to impose it on their dreams was her task, to weave a web of lies and misunderstandings that tangled with the sort of despair that could only be found in dreams, to drag the captured down into the gaping maws of the Dark One. 

A singular goal that she moved forward with single minded focus. A deal for a deal, a millennia of power for an eternity in the Abyss. 

While Diarmad moved to curse the waking world, she moved to keep her chokehold in the dream world, to ensure her influence clouded the senses and common sense of all those who fell into her clutches to the point reality distorted until they lost hold of what was real and what was not. A nightmare to follow them into the waking world would be a nightmare she could use to force their hands to do the unspeakable.

“Let rest become an impossible hope, luring unsuspecting victims into the embrace of dreams only to find nightmares instead,” she coos, delighted by the hatred permeating the air. Her silver hair gleams in the darkness, the hair pin keeping it up shining like a guiding light in the darkness, encouraging people to come closer, only for them to be devoured. “Let weariness cloud the minds of the righteous, of the brave. Let hesitation bleed from the dreamworld towards reality, choking and strangling perseverance and hope.”

Like a hyena stalking its prey, Belladona keeps circling Diarmad as she cackles, the echo of her laughter cutting through the oppressing silence like a knife. 

“Let the nightmares I have sown be reaped, let them follow them into the waking world so that the lines between reality and dream blurs, so that the echoes of screams and the taste of blood dull their senses when they need them most.” Laugh pettering off into deafening silence, she steps forward to the nithing pole, placing a hand over the wood and imbuing it with her own magic. Adding to the weight of magic in the air, she reaches towards the dream realm to continue with the ritual. “Let every soul that falls into my clutches feed the darkness, let their screams and despair nourish the pulsing Blight spreading through the country until the ground and people are forsaken by their very gods, let there be nowhere to turn but towards the clutches of the Dark One. Let this be my offering to the Abyss and it’s Liege, let my body and will be used as a tool for the raising of the ever dark.”

[diarmad]

joshastradowski: MAN IN JAPAN   @ numero_netherlands @ filipkoludrovic

[diarmad]

Diarmad watched Njal with an almost palpable intensity, his eyes gleamed with a heady dose of both interest and curiosity. The witcher's reaction to his display of power was intriguing, and he found himself drawn to the raw, unfiltered interest that Njal showed. It was a rare thing to find someone who wasn't immediately repulsed or terrified by his abilities - rarer still were the observers that Diarmad cared to humor.

"Njal," he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret whispered in the dark. "Fits nicely on the tongue." A beat passed, but the genasi had never been weary of providing his name. "Diarmad." Came the genasi's response, clearly the witcher was different from the others - servants of Lolth were few, let alone among the Iskarans.

He extended his hand, reaching out to thread his fingers through Njal's as his palm covered the back of the witcher's hand. There was a spark that came on impact as Diarmad felt the hum of antimagic press against his skin; for a creature like him who was more arcana than flesh, it burned. Yet, even this form of pain was new to him; a unique experience that the genasi did not shy away from.

"Picture his core- the shape of his soul, and the fit of his body." Diarmad prompted, he leaned in to go nearly cheek to cheek against the witcher as the genasi fixed his gaze upon the sentinel. "It's a bud, soft and pink - all the fibers that make up the stem, stamen, and petals are the magic pulsing through it. My magic."

"Tearing it apart would be easy, but you've already learned to change your body- so why not another's?" Diarmad laid his own arcana within the vessel like a blueprint, leylines embedded mortal flesh for Njal to navigate, grab, and transform. "Trace the pattern, find its source, a spider weaving a web, wrapping his prey."

He asked, breathing into the narrow space between them, even as his hand began to sizzle and burn;

"Can you feel it?"

Hm, he guessed that was a true statement. Potential was supposedly a good thing. From where he stood, he had nowhere to go but up. He hadn't reached his peak yet, but he could. And he would. Njal had always been comparing himself to others. He had always wondered where he would be if he was a Kingsguard or a jarl. Maybe he was better off right where he was. It wasn't like he hadn't enjoyed his time as a warden. Most of these witches from Iskaldrik that had freedom now would probably hate him, but he'd never much cared about people hating him. Hate drove him. And, if the arena was anything to go by, people did so love to hate him.

"Perhaps I don't mind death." How many times had he told Torsten to die second? How many times did he put himself in the line of fire just because? Njal didn't fear pain and he certainly didn't fear death. His life had been him looking for the next fight he could get into. Or, well, the next time he would get hit at all just to feel something other than nothing. That was how it was in Witcher's Watch though, wasn't it? Forgo his feelings to become stronger. That was how he had grown up and that was how he lived now. To survive. To become stronger.

Speaking of Witcher's Watch, he probably should have been killing this guy on the spot. Magic wielders were of those that he had been told time and time again to put in their place. They were in Lysara now though. What use was it attacking this guy right now? No, Njal was far too interested in whatever he had going on to think otherwise. Which was...it definitely wasn't something he was used to. Magic was something he'd always looked down upon. He had hated it for so long that he was surprised that he was so willing to look the other way outside of Iskaldrik. Maybe it was because of his trip down to the Underdark. Becoming Lolth's Champion really did change a person.

Nevertheless, he watched as the other moved his hand in such a way that caused the sentinel to twist itself, bones breaking in the process. His gaze lifted to the spores that floated into the air. Tongue running across his teeth, he moved slightly as if trying to get a closer look at the hand movements the other made to do such a thing. Then the fungal darkspawn formed into something else again. And then again. After several different appearances, the sentinel was compressed, made into nothing but its base form. It was all too intriguing to Njal and he couldn't help the slow smile that appeared on his face as it happened.

"I can show you a lot fucking more." He tilted his head slightly. "You just have to show me much fucking more of that though." With a turn of his head, he looked into the genasi's eyes, scanning the other's features for a moment before looking back towards the sentinel. "Njal." He finally moved away from Diarmad to move towards the sentinel. "Let's see how it fucking works now," he stated as he wreathed himself in antimagic, a corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. A hand pushed the sentinel forward out of range. If Diarmad weaved his magic to transform the sentinel again, he would stop it just to see how the sentinel would end up. Perhaps its body would form into something else entirely. It was truly fascinating.

[diarmad]

At the root, it was all cyclical, life and death in a beautiful symphony. Too many tried too desperately to preserve what was already damned, Diarmad chased what came after. Rare did a healer have the stomach to use what matter remained, life persevered in the cells and the very air itself - or it became the base from which countless scaffoldings could be built. Kian had his interest, but Diarmad didn't afford respect so easily.

"I'm well aware." Kian explained the root of his interest and Diarmad restrained himself from commenting further. Nobody alive understood quite how the genasi's body worked like he did. He'd done this to himself, bit by bit and culture by culture. Diarmad was resolved to make the deal, to lay down where Kian instructed and allow the witch his attempt, but Doctor Blythe kept talking and played more of his hand.

"Exploratory?" Diarmad questioned, he stepped in and cocked his head idly to the side. "No." Placing himself in another's hands for a trivial fee did not make an equitable deal, should the other wish to learn, then he would need to do so the same way as he. Through the dark and the long road of night.

A point of order, "You aren't capable of harming me, not in any way that matters." Not an insult, simply a fact. With a subtle turn of his hand, the corpse stood and moved to stand beside Diarmad. "I offered generous equivalence, and you demanded more." He considered the other's techniques and his elemental, "A warning," the blood and flesh amalgamation was not the ideal route, "your technique is especially vulnerable to my magic - you'll need to devise another method," organic and wet, the moisture was an ideal breeding ground for the spores that had already wormed their way within. Joined by his latest sentinel, Diarmad put his back to the pirate, "The deal is off until we can come to better terms. You can find me in the feywilds, in the swamps to the Northeast, bring twice as much as what you carry in that bag and I'll reconsider indulging your academic pursuits."

Kian couldn't imagine what someone like him would want with harvested organs, but such information served no purpose toward his goals. He didn't need to know the reason why, he simply needed to gain. Yes, a contract steeped in life felt apt. Using live organs like bartering chips, discussing excisions and surgeries for the sake of higher knowledge, it was all so sublime and exactly the kind of exchange he'd never have encountered had he remained in the Tower. There was so much more to magic than what most witches thought of as conventional, and this druid was proof of that. After all, they were prone to fateful encounters, weren't they?

"I assure you, I serve life first and foremost. I'm A healer by trade, so neither of us has to surrender if my skills are up to the challenge you pose. And I assure you, they most certainly are. Death is merely an occasional consequence, but even those who die by my hand live on in a way. These organs I have are proof of that." There were secrets in the spores he created and even more in the strange body he possessed. When the other opened his chest cavity, The Dreadnought had to lean down to inspect as closely as possible. So many questions and hypotheses ran through his mind at once that the urge to jam his arms in there to explore nearly overwhelmed him. He wanted to know how things were connected, how he was able to function, and, of course, take a few samples to research and possibly integrate into one of his babies. How often would he come across such a unique physiology?

The glimpse he got wasn't nearly enough to sate The Dreadnought's curiosities, leaving him in a state where every word the other spoke drew him in deeper. "I apologize for my previous ignorance, I had no idea someone like you existed, but you are correct. Your unique body would still serve my purposes. You don't have organs? That is fine because there are still connections, synapses, and an entire ecosystem dwelling within you. I want to learn how every inch of you works, and I'm not afraid of the risks involved. The chance to learn everything about you feels like a fair trade for the organs I've harvested. We have a deal."

Kian removes his gloves and holds his hands up with his palms facing him. From beneath his skin his own blood boils to the surface to coat his hands in a protective layer all the way down to the elbow. On his back, beneath his long cloak, blood bubbles into a conjuration sigil. "Doctor Blythe," he mutters, hunching over as the wet sounds of his elemental growing from his own flesh fill the night air. Fully formed, the elemental slides down and out from beneath The Dreadnought's clothes with wet, sticky noises, growing to full size out in the open. Its grim, permanent smile was nothing compared to the one Kian wore beneath his mask, excited at this new opportunity to expand his knowledge. If he was successful, there was no telling how his future babies would benefit.

"Naturally, before I start removing anything, I'd like to understand how your body works on a deeper level. My elemental will support me, allowing me to get a sense of your bodily functions to know which samples would be most beneficial. Naturally, he will also help to mitigate your pain. My interest isn't in causing you harm, it's in learning. I want to know all the secrets you hide beneath your flesh and study the parts I remove for my own purposes. Call it exploratory surgery before we really begin. Does that sound good? There won't be any missteps on my part."

[diarmad]

"Potential is the secret nectar." Diarmad's voice was a quiet murmur, silk darkened by shadow. "The peak is final, but potential... that’s infinity," His lips held a faint smile, fleeting as the glow of twilight, as he allowed his gaze to drift over Njal. Power hummed around him - not the pale trappings of coin or title, but power of a finer, darker essence, the kind that presses fingers to the pulse of life and death. "as soon as a person has reached their summit, they might as well be dead."

Diarmad walked the path of Night not for fleeting riches or the vanity of titles but to touch the eternal, to trace the hem of immortality itself. That was the only power worth a damn.

He felt Njal’s presence drawing near, a breath's distance from him, danger thrummed in the air, a taut and shimmering thread of thrill, its spark brushing against Diarmad’s skin and winding his breath to a slow cadence. "Words are wind," came the genasi's remark as he canted his head, slightly, toward the witcher, toward the creature that should damn him for existing. There was excitement in that, in danger and damnation - Diarmad didn't feel threatened, only interested.

With a slow, measured motion, he lifted his hand, his fingers unfurling like dark tendrils. In the shadow of his command, his sentinel began to shift, its body twisting, reshaping, bones splintering only to reform. The tendrils of fungi that crowned its back bloomed, petal by dark petal, unfolding into velvety, ink-black flowers. Their spores floated like ash on the air, iridescent, shimmering as if they’d swallowed starlight itself.

"They become as I desire," he whispered, his words sliding close, each syllable was silk over iron. "Guardian. Soldier. Companion. Fuel for spells." With each word, he forced his will deeper into the sentinel’s form, its limbs stretching, warping into patterns both exquisite and grotesque - a serpentine forest of gnarled roots, a seething ocean of decay. The fungi sculpted shapes upon shapes: a nest of coiled serpents, a bleak forest whose branches curled like talons, and the glimmering edge of night’s deepest void.

With a flick of his fingers, Diarmad closed his fist. The creature’s body compressed, pulled inward, collapsing until all that remained was the raw essence of decay, withering to its most primitive form - a chittering sentinel, woven from webs of mycelial darkness, ever-changing, yet always bound to his will. "You can use your antimagic unlike anyone I've ever seen," Diarmad pointed out, only a thin air separating their proximity. He studied Njal's features, the hard line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the bow of his lips. "Diarmad." The genasi said, "My name, witcher. Yours?"

Interesting. Njal had seen quite a lot in his time as a witcher. His entire job was to find people with magic and send them to the mines. Well, actually, he guessed his main priority was keeping said people within the mines. That had been in Iskaldrik though. As much as he had no idea who he was supposed to be right now other than a witcher, he had plenty of opportunity to figure it out. Gladiator fights, diving courses. They were all of interest to Njal even though he pretended not to enjoy them as much as he did.

That all led back to this though. Here he was standing in front of someone that clearly had magic, someone that had very dark magic at that, and he was just...interested. What could these fungal monstrosities even do with what they had been given? Njal was very interested in finding out. He couldn't help but think of how that particular magic worked. The fungus clearly worked its way into the darkspawn's body, but the rot had to break it down eventually, didn't it? Or maybe there was something this man did to keep the rot at bay. Magic did work like that, he guessed.

"That's me. Nothing but fucking potential." Wasn't that always it? People saw Njal and saw nothing but potential. He wanted more than that. He wanted people to look at him and see that he was more than capable than they could ever imagine. Potential meant he looked fucking weak and he was not weak. For now, he wouldn't take offense to that though because he had a debt to collect from this one. A devious smile lifted onto his lips as he observed the genasi as the other observed him. Very interesting.

Njal looked back at the sentinel as it stopped and then moved closer to the genasi. "So you won't offer your undying loyalty and servitude?" He made a 'tsk' sound as he stopped right in front of the other. "That's almost a bit fucking disrespectful. But..." He turned and stood behind the redhead, his head moving enough that his chin was hovering over the other's shoulder. Njal looked towards the sentinel again. "...What can they do? I have a lot of fucking ideas."