#;file. a marquess | hector

[beholdenning]

Denning is made for battle. He is not blindsided.

He isn't, truly, even if it seems as such: He sees every tense, every movement, but somehow, it does not yet occur to him that he should react — The morph has no orders to kill, and ever has he only acted in the interest of others, caring little for things such as self-preservation.

Kill for me. Die for me.

Such was ever the song and dance. Without a master — No, a master weaving those very commands into his very being, why should he fight back?

Hands find the collar of his shirt, malice recognisable without effort. A clatter as a platter of food falls to the polished floors. His back hits the wall hard, rattles his frame. Still, his eyes are flat as ever, empty, devoid of reaction, even under direct threat — And while there is response to demand, there is also enough pressure on his chest that it is difficult to draw in enough air to vocalise anything, be it reply or mimicry. A rattling noise leaves him, proof of the limitations of a system since improved. Denning's head tilts at the realisation, with no further indication of struggle, regarding Hector with a dim confusion; Why give him a command, then actively hamper its fulfillment?

Another set of calculations run parallel in his mind — This frame can take a degree of superficial damage from weapons and magic. Blunt force trauma inflicted by things such as bare fists would prove less effective than they would on the average human. His head is less of a vulnerability, too — Even if it were bashed halfway in, he would retain most function. Overall, the lordling's chances of doing significant damage to him in the short frame before they draw the attention of their deities remains slim.

But — Beyond even that, a quiet roaring override: The morph remembers a sleeve cut away, black ichor staining white cloth, ruining it for further 'proper' wear altogether. He would still 'bleed' under duress. And this garb, made for him, according to his specifications... Though half of it is already black as night...

... It would still stain.

How disagreeable.

There is a spark, for a brief second, in hollow depths. A pale hand shoots up to claw at Hector's, digging the nails in, beginning to pry the fingers loose, drawing breath. If a flower blooms from the blood he draws, he pays it no mind.

"Are here," he rasps, cadence eerily identical to the lordling's. Golden eyes meet blue, piercing, bright and unwavering. Then, in Lord Nergal's: "Dread Isle. Await."

One more fragment, his own, mouthed and unvoiced: 'dress. it will stain.'

And then he breaks off with a hissing noise, not unlike static —

To twist in Hector's grip for leverage, for momentum,

And kick out, aiming right for Hector's gut.

➵ pause. charcuterie board.

The world tips as he passes by an array of tables, a strange stasis taking his balance, his limbs, his synthetic breath. There is a strange jamming of time, not unlike those days spent in nothingness upon the Dread Isle, and that alone sets a strange spike of static through his chest —

And then it passes, and suddenly, his body is left to its own devices — It is his instinct to collapse like an unattended marionette, but he stands firm, mindful of the small plate of various cheeses and crackers pushed into his hands.

Take a break, his elemental seems to croon — Not that he understands. Unfortunately, that does not seem to be in his future either, for the morph just so happens to not be where he was moments prior, instead perched upon the arm of a plush bench, next to...

Ah. Marquess Ostia. He no longer has any orders to kill the other, but it is jarring to see the lordling at such proximity.

... What to do? Sitting stiff a moment longer, Denning blinks owlishly, before silently offering the man a cube of fragrant gouda, stuck on a toothpick, as greeting and offering.

The night is going surprisingly well,

until it isn't.

He's still not quite accustomed to those bratty elementals' shenanigans. Why earth? Is it that he's not rebelled enough of late? Quite frankly, Hector's got enough of the codgers back home, never mind this stiff peacock overhead.

And so he is, for a moment, sat and enjoying a spot of respite.

The elemental can't begrudge him that much, right?

Hairs at the nape of his neck prick suddenly, and it feels like he's been burned - not by flame, but by something too cold to touch, a primal fury born of instinct.

"You."

The monster who'd led the charge during the infiltration of Ostia back then. Hector recalls the stare, sharp yet empty, as mockery of life drained from the creature's body.

Impregnable Castle Ostia, all had said. Untouchable... no more.

Because of this freak and its master.

"You...!"

He's on his feet at once, Denning's collar in his grip and

WHAM.

The wall gets a lovely taste of morph, up close and personal.

That the Fang had somehow crawled back to life from the gutters of the underworld was one thing, but this, this was too much.

Already, he feels Earth's roving gaze looming toward them. Better be quick then.

"How is it that you are here?"

This thing should be dead. Long dead.

[beholdenning]

Heard, catalogued: The yowling of a man who has flattened his own fingers.

... Perhaps better to narrow it into the category of 'pain responses from the current Marquess Ostia'. Golden eyes stare at flesh-and-blood digits swelling to an angry red as their own hands continue hammering away mechanically.

Thunkthunkthunkthunk. Clink. Scratch. Thunkthunkthunkthunk. They count the cycles until the Marquess recomposes himself enough to speak; When he does, he seems 'bothered'. Denning's head tilts. Strange. Though put clumsily, what they said is the truth. Still, they grasp the repeated why—Why here, why in Fódlan—And find their hands stilling.

Thought buffers, unexpectedly. Why? What once was a simple question to answer is now a nebulous thing: Devoid of higher purpose, function whittled down to 'help', always but a tool, a means. Greater queries answered to Lord Nergal. Three letters, the justification ever only one name.

Their Master is dead. Lord Nergal is dead. They know not how to answer this query. There is no answer deemed correct. There are no words they can provide.

Still, they try, borrowing them instead. "ma-stərz ded—"

Their voicebox clicks, imitation-swallow. Another shake of the head. Their hands twitch. One comes up to grip at their throat. "ded. nät hir. aɪ, hir."

Statement strings to statement. Digits dig into synthetic flesh. "foʊdlən, ma-stər." Nails drag down their neck to the leathers of their uniform. They tap the metal guard twice.

"aɪ, help." Denning repeats.

dread and valor .

[beholdenning]

Denning is content to be put to work. It is, too, comprehensible work: Rebuilding is vital, after all. One's base and foundation must be solid to weather hardship, and home and shelter are some of the most vital of a mortal's foundations. It is easy work to grasp and settle into, rewarding to do efficiently, rhythmic and logical. The noise settles into their frame, an ambient buzz that drives them onwards.

Still, Marquess Ostia's presence is a nagging blip in their periphery. It is the kind of distraction they have learned to ignore, especially in the past months where they have been among many with power, with strength of spirit; Though, shutting something out when it is actively addressing you is both difficult and 'impolite'. The metronome rhythm of their hammer stutters, then ceases, leaving the sound of the young Marquess' own tools to fill what they had left vacant.

There is a long pause where they simply stare at him. They have no active quarrel with him, despite the memory of the encounter at the Ethereal Ball remaining fresh in their mind. He, in turn, makes no move to attack them this time, though they have nothing on their form that would make them resist. A truce, tenuous perhaps, but a truce nonetheless.

"Mnnnnn," A hum to the negative in their 'own' voice, a sticky sound accompanied by a shake of their head. They take his sentences in their head, anatomise them, reconstruct them, rip them apart and stitch them back together.

"ˈnevə, prɪˈtendɪŋ." The morph parrots in part, the mirror of Hector's voice choppy, uneven, imperfect. A pause, before their hammer lifts, draws back again and continues putting down nails in a perfectly spaced line.

"aɪ, help." Denning adds, presumably helpfully.

dread and valor .