#event: cyor 2024 (mistified)

[blankticket]

@punisheye

The door was open.

Or, more accurately: the door had ceased to exist. Strange, delicate mists had crawled in from the side of it, eating away at what was physical a moment before. Where an unimpressed guard had sneered down at Vash, now there was the swirling unknown.

Without hesitation, he pressed on past where he was confined. His body had moved before he can think to note how scary this all is, before he could have the good sense to fear how the mist could be endless, his world eroded. Vash hasn't quite come to accept this complete upending of the laws of reality—it's just that he can still hear the Plant screaming for help, somewhere out there.

Turning his head this way and that to find her, Vash nearly bumps his face right into a wall of black. Instinctively, his hands come up to prevent the collision, although they're awkwardly successful by the restraints around his wrists.

The little boy winces, totters back a step, looks up at Wolfwood. His cuffed hands pull defensively toward his chest.

"Ah…" Now he's getting scared.

Wolfwood doesn't look familiar in any helpful way—he's clearly not a part of SEEDS, or a face he recognizes from Ship Five's cold-sleep registry. But he's also the only adult around… The only being around, besides his Plant brethren.

The assumption he'd be brought back into confinement by this man makes tears bead up in the corners of his eyes. He's got to be brave for her sake.

Vash's face wrinkles with effort, tiny lungs gathering air for his demand: "Let me meet the Plant!"

[punisheye]

It's cold. It's really cold.

His thin black shirt and shorts do little to protect him from it. The chill seeps through the tight fabric and into his skin, right down to his bones. The fog is dense. He's never seen anything like it before. Just read about it in books. Their planet didn't have water to evaporate and then bring back as rainfall, or to cover the sands in a haze.

It makes him feel damp. He wishes he was at home, away from this. Maybe it's just another test from Chapel. Maybe that old man is watching him, somewhere out of sight. If he could figure out what the test is meant to be then he won't be as likely to walk out of here with bruises on his ribs or a bullet in his gut.

His hands grip the gun too big for his body tight. He's shivering.

And then he hears footsteps. The boy jerks his head up, eyes wide and alert and—

Oh, it's just... some guy. He doesn't recognize him. Well, he kinda looks like him, but maybe he's just got one of those faces. Maybe he's part of the Eye, too, and they just never crossed paths. Nico had learned to keep his eyes down in the presence of the adults there, so that's what he does.

Looks down, looks away. His hands hold the gun tighter. He waits for the man to leave.

@punishercross

[corvisque]

@viladlind

the outer limits of spirale always seem to be shrouded in a gossamer veil of light mist, so it is rather easy to overlook the fog that begins creeping its way into the city proper. zevran certainly doesn't notice it, at first. not until it becomes difficult to deny the prickling on the back of his neck that tells him something is very wrong. until he notices, with some alarm, that he cannot tell where the city ends and the mistwoods begin.

he curses. really, he does not understand why this island insists on pulling little tricks like these so often -- and just when he was on his way back home, too. his narrowed gaze scans the blank greyness surrounding him, as if he might actually be able to see something in the damp. either he is paranoid, which very well could be true, or there are eyes on him. he can feel them.

"zevran..."

the voice is quiet, melodic, and familiar. the voice of a woman. he does not answer; although, internally, his cursing has grown much more colorful. would it be foolish to draw a blade against a threat he cannot see?

but then she steps into his path, as if born from the very air around him. a short, elven woman, a face he knows far too well, for it is the same face that has been indelibly etched into his mind's eye for as long as he may live.

she was... a marvel. tough, smooth, wicked. eyes that gleamed like justice. everything i thought i desired.

"rinna." his voice nearly breaks. he nearly chokes on her name. rinna. rinnala. eyes still bright, still as beautiful as she once was, no longer a pale body devoid of life and spattered in blood. he thinks that if he were to touch her, she would be warm. but he doesn't move. he can't.

"you remember me?" she smiles, but it is not the kind smile he remembers from their days as children. it would be an ugly thing, were she not the one wearing it. empty, resentful, cruel.

of course he remembers her. how could he possibly forget? he wants to say something, anything, but when he opens his mouth to speak no words come out. she draws closer to him, and closer still, until she is close enough to reach out, the tips of her fingers tracing the tattoo on his cheek.

"you remember what taliesen did to me," her voice now so low that it is nearly a whisper. "how he pulled my head back so he could slit my throat. you didn't do anything to help me. why?"

zevran closes his eyes. what can he say? that he thought she was a traitor? that being a crow had meant more to him than the woman he loved? that he had been afraid? all excuses, words that do not matter. words that cannot change anything.

"we were wrong," he croaks, finally. "i was wrong. i am so sorry, rinna."

when he opens his eyes, he is staring straight into hers. he had always found the sharpness of her gaze alluring. difficult to read, sometimes, but all the more captivating for its mystery. now she is all steel. hard. unyielding.

"you were. i tried to tell you. what did you say to me? that it did not matter? that you didn't care? i loved you. that was no lie."

the sharp edge of a knife pressed against his throat. so quick was she that he had not even noticed her movement until it was too late.

"but look at what the truth earned me. give me one good reason why i should not repay the favor."

he can't.

[punisheye]

The old man in the chair laughs and it sounds like a death rattle. He sits there, pale and bloody and rotting, a cruel reminder to Vash just what he did. Heat is cruel to a dead body. Without a grave he had been left to the elements, to the mercy of the twin suns and the sand and the worms and the carrion birds.

"You left me to rot," Chapel rasps. "What a cruel angel. We would have worshiped you."

One mangled hand lifts, pointing a weathered finger Vash's way. Those dead eyes still have some emotion in them. Despair, perhaps. Betrayal. Grief.

"I could never forgive my student," he laments. "Despite everything I did for him, he still put me here. And then you... what did you do to him?"

He sounds despairing, agonized. Those dead eyes now look wet and red-rimmed, like he's on the verge of tears. A purple tongue swipes over cracked lips.

"Perhaps... were it not for your meddling... undoing all that he was taught... he would have survived. Isn't that a sad thought? You made him soft and he died for it."

The ghoul gives a rattling laugh again. And he moves, jerky and unnatural, limbs torn and bones splintered from bullets. He looks like he's about to get up from the wheelchair, and—

Someone breaks through the mist, coming up right behind the undead in long, fluid strides.

The man in black is no phantom. He's not the small, shaking, terrified child Vash had just seen. He's tall, strong, stone-faced, a dark shadow in the mist, and he's nuzzling his gun right into Chapel's filthy hair. It stops the old man's movements entirely.

He doesn't pull the trigger. His eyes flit up to Vash and his lips pull into a frown.

★ --;; The mist is just as thick as it had been before; feeling heavy in his nose and throat as Vash breathes through his long, quick strides, as though it held so much more weight hidden within itself, oppressive in every way it can force itself to be. Still, even through its impossible curtain, Vash is able to pick out the figures in the fog from at least several feet away. Sensitive ears pick them up first as their voices become clearer before their outlines gain clarity.

Soo enough Vash is entirely upon them-- in time for the gun to be brandishes, for the child's horrified eyes to widen as he shakes, ( "Stop--!" ) as blood paints the boy's front and face as he's forced to stand there and watch, face pale. The body jolts with each new wound before going completely still, no more force to move it.

Fury that hasn't been felt so acutely in years flares beneath his veins in an instant, bright and hot. Vash lurches forward again to reach, to do something, just as the mist thickens and undulates with its whims; one, two large steps forward until he's face to face with the heap of a man as he'd last seen him.

Or at least, almost. The man that had been spattered across what was left of the orphanage floor had been left in such a state by Razlo's final bout of fury that it was a wonder he could even be recognized, torn apart by so many rounds of bullets ripping him apart.

Vash had seen him, then. Hadn't payed attention to the dark lump against stark sand until well after the fact; until everything had felt like a dull ringing in his ears, until he'd been left hollowed out and empty, until he'd gone to fetch the shovel.

Only one grave had been dug that day, and it hadn't been for him.

The old man is barely being held together, now. Even as his body jerks unnaturally upwards he still doesn't sit straight, held up only by the careful geometry of his spine and the way the mist has placed him in the chair. By all accounts, his heart should not be beating. He's riddled with holes, see through in places; its a wonder there's anything left to hold him up at all. That blood doesn't continue to poor freely from so many open and festering wounds, left out in the heat of the suns.

From feet away, he reeks of death.

The anger doesn't simmer.

"You," he says, voice terrifyingly even, "should go back to how you were. Stay that way."

[punisheye]

Fingers pause when the little boy practically squeaks out his warning. Wolfwood blinks at him, lips twitching. He can understand the fear, the uncertainty. But this kid clearly has had no adult besides his mother treat him right at this point, has had no one else on his side. It's scary to be all alone. It's scary feeling like your very existence is wrong.

He's thinking about those marks on the wall. It makes his stomach turn. It shouldn't be shocking given what he's gone through, but the cruelty in which many treat children still stuns him sometimes.

So it's easy to show kindness to a scared little kid. The easiest thing in the world.

"I can deal with them bein' mad," he assures Vash. "They're not gonna find out. If they do, I'll tell 'em it was all my idea."

Wolfwood's thumb presses the release and the cuffs snap open. He pulls them away and lets them hit the floor without a care.

"Yer not gonna get in trouble. I'll take care of ya."

Still crouched, he turns his hand palm-up and offers it to Vash. Wolfwood let himself smile, eyes scrunching up. It's genuine and friendly. He hopes that the kid can feel a little more at ease seeing him like this.

"S'okay if you don't trust me, but I'll still help."

Unfair! This guy's messing with him!! (…Right?)

Vash's only met so many adults so far—with the bulk of him still wanting him dead—and he only knows about two other Plants like him. Maybe Wolfwood was from a ship where the crew cared for another Independent well enough to be seen as equals, let alone friends, and to insist on getting him uncuffed…? Maybe Ship Three and Ship Five were outliers as to how special Plants were treated…?

As a kid, it's difficult to intuit what is and isn't possible in the world.

He pouts, eyebrows furrowed deep while he bows his head in thought. Then, with a little closed-mouth sound of frustration, the young Plant lowers his wrists toward Wolfwood's hands. A few tears plip onto the cuffs before Vash shakes his head to quit it. He sounds thoroughly begrudging of this plan:

"The. Button. You gotta press it."

The cuffs themselves have never chafed—some kind of gravitational force kept space between the physical shape of the cuffs to avoid discomfort, and without leaving any evidence onto his wrists. It made for a one-size-fits-all snugness, a vague impression of decency given to whoever had to bear them. Whether Vash had them on for a few hours or for nearly an entire year might have been difficult to tell, if this Wolfwood hadn't borne witness to those marks dug into metal walls.

"They're g-gonna be mad at you!" Vash warns again, flinching back into unease as he watches Wolfwood's instructed fingers move toward the release button. He's scared; he squirms in place. Doesn't wanna die. Doesn't wanna get this guy killed, get the Plant killed, like how he let it happen to Rem, to everyone, for being something wrong. He has to insist, louder: "They're gonna be mad!"

[blankticket]

Unfair! This guy's messing with him!! (…Right?)

Vash's only met so many adults so far—with the bulk of him still wanting him dead—and he only knows about two other Plants like him. Maybe Wolfwood was from a ship where the crew cared for another Independent well enough to be seen as equals, let alone friends, and to insist on getting him uncuffed…? Maybe Ship Three and Ship Five were outliers as to how special Plants were treated…?

As a kid, it's difficult to intuit what is and isn't possible in the world.

He pouts, eyebrows furrowed deep while he bows his head in thought. Then, with a little closed-mouth sound of frustration, the young Plant lowers his wrists toward Wolfwood's hands. A few tears plip onto the cuffs before Vash shakes his head to quit it. He sounds thoroughly begrudging of this plan:

"The. Button. You gotta press it."

The cuffs themselves have never chafed—some kind of gravitational force kept space between the physical shape of the cuffs to avoid discomfort, and without leaving any evidence onto his wrists. It made for a one-size-fits-all snugness, a vague impression of decency given to whoever had to bear them. Whether Vash had them on for a few hours or for nearly an entire year might have been difficult to tell, if this Wolfwood hadn't borne witness to those marks dug into metal walls.

"They're g-gonna be mad at you!" Vash warns again, flinching back into unease as he watches Wolfwood's instructed fingers move toward the release button. He's scared; he squirms in place. Doesn't wanna die. Doesn't wanna get this guy killed, get the Plant killed, like how he let it happen to Rem, to everyone, for being something wrong. He has to insist, louder: "They're gonna be mad!"

"S'okay. That don't scare me. My best friend's a Plant like you. We live together."

Best friend is one way to put it, but he's not really looking to confuse an already confused kid further. That's not what's important right now. What's important is this kid gets to where he wants to go and that he's safe.

"Plant or not, yer still just a kid." Wolfwood reaches over, his fingers delicately brushing over the cold metal of the cuffs. He frowns looking at them. "A kid ain't supposed to be wearin' these."

Such tiny hands and wrists. Awful that they even make handcuffs this small.

What kinda people're scared of a kid?

They just don't think you're useful to them yet.

"I don't know how I got on this ship. I'm just here. Maybe I'm meant t'be here n'help ya get to the Plant?"

"I won't tell anyone if you don't."

[punisheye]

"S'okay. That don't scare me. My best friend's a Plant like you. We live together."

Best friend is one way to put it, but he's not really looking to confuse an already confused kid further. That's not what's important right now. What's important is this kid gets to where he wants to go and that he's safe.

"Plant or not, yer still just a kid." Wolfwood reaches over, his fingers delicately brushing over the cold metal of the cuffs. He frowns looking at them. "A kid ain't supposed to be wearin' these."

Such tiny hands and wrists. Awful that they even make handcuffs this small.

What kinda people're scared of a kid?

They just don't think you're useful to them yet.

"I don't know how I got on this ship. I'm just here. Maybe I'm meant t'be here n'help ya get to the Plant?"

"I won't tell anyone if you don't."

Wolfwood's persistence stops the kid in his tracks. It's not frustrating so much as it is anxiety-compounding.

A criminal? He very much is, although it wasn't quite the reason he's been detained for the better part of a year. Vash shakes his head fervently, curling his hands toward his chest again as a measure to protect Wolfwood from himself.

"N-no! It's 'cause I'm a Plant, too." In other words, it's for your safety.

Vash had quickly come to learn that being nonhuman in itself was a danger that superseded appearances. What use was there for a Plant if he was defective? As things were right now, all he did was deplete resources and pose a threat to life aboard the ship. Maybe even beyond.

"They'd get mad at you, anyway." He really wasn't a part of the crew if his instinct was to free Vash. The boy wipes his face against his arm. "Who are you? How'd you get on the ship…?"

[blankticket]

Wolfwood's persistence stops the kid in his tracks. It's not frustrating so much as it is anxiety-compounding.

A criminal? He very much is, although it wasn't quite the reason he's been detained for the better part of a year. Vash shakes his head fervently, curling his hands toward his chest again as a measure to protect Wolfwood from himself.

"N-no! It's 'cause I'm a Plant, too." In other words, it's for your safety.

Vash had quickly come to learn that being nonhuman in itself was a danger that superseded appearances. What use was there for a Plant if he was defective? As things were right now, all he did was deplete resources and pose a threat to life aboard the ship. Maybe even beyond.

"They'd get mad at you, anyway." He really wasn't a part of the crew if his instinct was to free Vash. The boy wipes his face against his arm. "Who are you? How'd you get on the ship…?"

"Luida? She's not—"

Ah. He's trying to leave. Wolfwood considers reaching out to catch the boy by the arm but figures that it might just make him panic more. Especially since he already has those restraints. That can't be comfortable.

...He's thinking a lot about the tally marks carved into the face of a wall. Child-height. Wolfwood feels a little nauseated.

Wolfwood still deliberately moves to block the kid's way, but he stays crouched down, trying to make himself look smaller.

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. Don't go runnin' off on yer own! C'mon, I'll help ya." Wolfwood nods to the cuffs. "At least let me get those off a' ya, or somethin'. A kid ain't supposed to be wearin' handcuffs. Yer not a criminal."

[corvisque]

it is not difficult for worry to turn quickly into irritation. it is much easier for zevran to be mad than it is for him to be afraid -- anger can be directed, pointed, used for greater purpose. you can place anger on someone. you can do nothing with fear.

who does fiyero think he is, to insert himself into zevran's personal business like this? it is true that he cares a great deal for the tiefling -- no, he loves the tiefling -- but this has nothing to do with him. fiyero knows nothing of what the assassin used to be, what his life had been like before this island, before the two had ever met. zevran had told him stories, of course, often choosing to make light of the less pleasant aspects, perhaps, but that is a far cry from truly understanding. fiyero does not know the danger inherent in placing himself before an antivan crow. was it not enough for the bard to die by an assassin's blade once already?

"did you?" it is a nasty thing, to bring up their recent experience, but zevran cannot bother to care. finding the whole story as to fiyero's most recent death had been a matter of going behind the bard's back, cobbling together pieces until fiyero had finally been willing to fill in the missing details. there is a part of him still hurt that his lover had not been truthful from the beginning. he hadn't been deceived out of malice, but deceit by omission is still a form of deceit. one he knows well, considering how often he's used it himself.

"did you think i would be fine with the knowledge that you had followed me into death? did you think i would be fine when you would not tell me why?"

he is shoved back, but he does not retreat. the fire in his blood only burns hotter when fiyero places himself between the two assassins. foolish, stupid, ridiculous man.

rinna does not cower before the threat, but he did not think she would. any outside observer would envy her apparent calm -- but zevran knows enough to see the tensing of her jaw, the movement of her fingers tightening on the dagger's grip.

"you would do all of this for him?" she asks. "all of this for a man who would never do the same? demon or no, you might be his lover now..." and for one split second there is obvious hurt in her expression, before it is swallowed once again by passive coolness. "but it won't matter, in the end. he is loyal to no one but himself and his precious crows. it is better you learn that now, before it is too late."

she looks over at zevran, but he does not lower his gaze. he stares straight at her, more defiant in his misplaced rage than he had been upon first seeing her.

"i betrayed her," he states, simply. he flicks his eyes to fiyero, looking ever the imposing, terrifying figure with rapier in hand. "it would be unfair to deny the pound of flesh she is owed, don't you agree?"

when an owlbear cub feels threatened, it puffs up its feathers to make itself look larger. in parts, that's what fiyero is doing this very moment. he's powerful. he's fought more battles than he can count on both hands, nearly every day filled with fighting and leading and healing and more fighting. and he's come out of them alive.

but without the presence of his party at his back, he realizes he needs to put on a show. a tiefling, a foulblood, taller than both with horns that split rinnala's lip, a tail that lashes behind him as he scrambles to pick himself up. eyes wild and fangs still bared, even as he lets zevran help him get to his feet.

to defeat a monster, you have to become monstrous.

' have i? ' incredulous, angry, ire directed at zevran for perhaps the first time since they met. ' what of yourself? ' fiyero's already looking him over as he speaks, a hand drifting past his throat to make sure the blade didn't break skin. make sure nobody gets hurt. heal them if necessary. put yourself in the middle of battle to cast magic more powerful. this is his job. it's easy. ' did you spare a single thought to how i would feel? you were going to let her kill you. '

there's a spell ready on his lips that's not needed, so the hand dips and shoves zevran hard, taking a step in front of him. he draws his rapier from its sheath and holds it up, ready to leap forward. but rinnala doesn't move. and fiyero doesn't move. and she looks at him, demon that he is to so many people, and there's disgust on the ghost of a woman that zevran loved. fiyero almost wants to laugh.

the bitterness is ugly. like something spoiled inside of him. no matter where he goes, he can't escape it. foulblood. demon. hellspawn. you don't belong here.

zevran defends him. zevran cautions him. and somehow, that only makes him angrier. fiyero feels hot, a dangerous fire swirling in his chest. he doesn't want to kill her, not truly. he never wants to kill anybody. but how many times was he forced to end a life to preserve his own? how many times did he kneel over the body of somebody who could have survived, if they'd only listened to him? free hand pressed against the base of one horn, where he'd hit her in the face, checking for cracks, fiyero snarls.

' i can be plenty demonic if i want to be. ' it's goading, his pride hurt, his concern washing over any rationality he might have possessed otherwise. ' i will burn your eyes out of your skull and rip your throat out with my teeth if you lay another finger on zevran. you may have your history, you may have your reasons, but i won't let you hurt him. not today, not any other day. leave. ' rapier pointed at her, fiyero gives her an opportunity. if not for her sake, for zevran. it'd be a cruel thing, to make him watch her die a second time. ' now, rinnala. '

[punisheye]

"Luida? She's not—"

Ah. He's trying to leave. Wolfwood considers reaching out to catch the boy by the arm but figures that it might just make him panic more. Especially since he already has those restraints. That can't be comfortable.

...He's thinking a lot about the tally marks carved into the face of a wall. Child-height. Wolfwood feels a little nauseated.

Wolfwood still deliberately moves to block the kid's way, but he stays crouched down, trying to make himself look smaller.

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. Don't go runnin' off on yer own! C'mon, I'll help ya." Wolfwood nods to the cuffs. "At least let me get those off a' ya, or somethin'. A kid ain't supposed to be wearin' handcuffs. Yer not a criminal."

Overwhelmed with emotion and confusion, Vash totters another step back, unsure of whether he's even allowed to talk to this total stranger.

He already feels so much like he's constantly in trouble, doing something wrong. If he tells the truth, would that make it all worse? Would Wolfwood even believe him? But if he doesn't, then the Plant…

"I… I can hear it," Vash feebly answers, courage faltering. "Do you know where Luida is? Maybe she'll let me help."

The boy's head perks up at the sound of something at a particular frequency—looking beyond the stranger, not particularly wanting to wait around for an answer, he nervously circles around the other to chase after it.

"I gotta go. Bye."

[punisheye]

The boy tenses up when the stranger speaks to him. It'd be so much easier if he just left him alone and carried on and let young Nicholas figure out what he's supposed to be doing here on his own. But the guy mentions the old man, and Nico shivers.

"I don't know where I am," he mumbles. "Don't know why I'm out here. But I'll figure it out. I got to."

He's scared, and he's obviously trying really hard to hide that he is in a way only a frightened teenager would. Because he's trying to puff up, to steel his expression (and failing), to straighten his spine and keep going (but his legs won't move), but he's still sweating and his hands have a white-knuckled grip on that cross.

"Just leave me alone, old guy."

Despite the fact that the fog obfuscates his glasses, he keeps them on. Maybe he's just feeling odd, maybe it's the time of year, or maybe it's the damn mist of it all.

He's armed, but not with the Punisher. At least for this encounter he doesn't regret it, not entirely. The kid's wild eyed, but with a Punisher of his own, and given his own recent encounter with his own child self, that can only mean one thing.

"Ain't grown into that thing yet, huh?" The not-quite-yet-a-priest stands there, staring up at him for a moment, before averting his eyes. He feels bad for the kid, and almost wishes he had a spare set of shades to give him, with his own issues with eye contact.

His exhale turns into a whistle, and he keeps his gun holstered.

"Old man send ya out here?" If he's got the gun, if he's got that look in his eyes, if he looks that tired, then...

"Don't know why - ain't nothin' here fer us. No targets or nothin'."

[blankticket]

Overwhelmed with emotion and confusion, Vash totters another step back, unsure of whether he's even allowed to talk to this total stranger.

He already feels so much like he's constantly in trouble, doing something wrong. If he tells the truth, would that make it all worse? Would Wolfwood even believe him? But if he doesn't, then the Plant…

"I… I can hear it," Vash feebly answers, courage faltering. "Do you know where Luida is? Maybe she'll let me help."

The boy's head perks up at the sound of something at a particular frequency—looking beyond the stranger, not particularly wanting to wait around for an answer, he nervously circles around the other to chase after it.

"I gotta go. Bye."

It's as if everything disappeared at once all around him, replaced with a fog so thick he could barely see past his own nose. He feels exposed, still, and vulnerable—he doesn't know where he is now, or what exactly is going on.

He's in the middle of deciding which way he wants to go when suddenly a tiny figure tumbles out of the mist in front of him. Wolfwood tilts his head down, blinking, meeting the wide-eyed, wet gaze of the little boy in front of him.

And he knows that face. Had worn that face in a memory and seen a reflection of it looking back at him; had seen that face some weeks ago, older and more defined, distraught and disappointed in him.

Wolfwood nearly asks the little guy how he suddenly shrank, but the boy beats him with his demand.

"What?" What Plant? The older Vash? What? And why is this little version of Blondie have those handcuffs on?

He remembers, distantly, a conversation back in Home's geodome, with his friend held to his chest. That admission that he had been held captive as a child, up until he was useful.

"Hey..." The boy is clearly distressed. Wolfwood being so tall and kind of scary looking probably doesn't help, so he lowers himself down to a crouching position. He's so small, but he's trying to be so brave. Wolfwood tries a smile. "I don't know where the Plant is, kid. D'you need help? Why're you all alone?"

His human ears never couldn't hear the cry of a Plant, so he figures he's pretty useless here. Still, he doesn't want this kid running around these mists by himself.

[corvisque]

he will die with his eyes open, staring into hers. he can never give her justice, but he can give her this.

the bite of the dagger against his neck, the whizzing of an arrow as it misses them both by inches, the blur of red and gold that comes barreling through the wood from behind. it all happens so fast that for a moment he cannot understand what, exactly, he's seeing. rinnala has pulled herself away from him, spinning to face this new threat.

fiyero, fangs bared, hissing, spitting venom and hellfire. a terrifying visage more akin to a feral animal than the lover he knows. zevran watches as the tiefling flings himself toward the smaller assassin, taking them both to the ground. his body finally frees itself from its shocked stupor, primed to pull rinna from fiyero when he sees the flash of her blade.

his blood runs cold.

he has lost them both, once. rinna had been years ago, nearly a decade, the wound left by her absence already beginning to scab over, but fiyero's death is still fresh. he cannot lose him again.

(he knows that in truth he cannot lose rinna again, either, even though she is already dead. a ghost, this woman nothing but a shade in her form, and yet the idea that he might watch her die in front of him a second time is enough to remind him of the hollowness he had once felt. the cavernous hole in his chest where his heart had once been.)

the elven woman grunts in pain as she rolls off and away, stumbling to her feet. putting distance between herself and her attacker, in the way they had been trained. it gives him time to rush forward to fiyero. to put himself between his new lover and his old.

"have you lost your mind?" he hisses, pulse beating in his ears, as he stoops to help the bard to his feet, while still trying to keep his focus on rinna, all too aware that this would be the perfect time to surge forward again.

she doesn't make a move, only stares, lip split and trickling blood. there is a question there, then a sudden flash of understanding, disgust. because he knows what fiyero must look like to her. there are very few creatures in thedas that sport horns, and qunari are hardly so colorful.

"you've given yourself to a demon." she says this as a statement of fact. he should find her lack of surprise offensive, but there were always whispers of crows who dabbled in blood magic in exchange for power. she had heard the stories just as he had.

"he is not a demon," he says, archly, "and he has nothing to do with this."

words meant for her and fiyero both.

the first arrow misses.

it was a long shot, trying to hit an assassin square in the forehead from this distance. she only has to move her head to the side when the zipping noise draws closer rapidly and the arrow streaks past where it would have landed, disappearing into the mist surrounding them. fiyero hadn't really needed to hit, when this almost as good as hitting her in the first place: her attention away from zevran to somewhere over his shoulder. two blue eyes shine through the grey fog, narrowed, approaching.

the second arrow grazes her shoulder as she ducks out of the way. from this angle it looks like she tries to pull zevran along with her, the both of them jostled by the movement. fiyero's boots carry him across the distance frighteningly quickly. he's aware of the eyes on him, the focus sharpening. a different target that is unwilling to relent, no recognition in his steps or expression.

it seems he's made a habit of getting involved in things that have little to do with him. but when it's zevran with a knife to his throat, doesn't it have everything to do with him?

he dashes and turns after strapping his bow to his back, draws a practiced hand over the harp by his side and lets infernal spill from his lips. where zevran may be used to the language of hells sounding soft and gentle from fiyero's lips, there's no such pretense now. fuelled by rage, he sounds wretched and vicious. ' by talos' teeth, you raw-boned ratsbane, leave him alone. '

vicious mockery is flung at her and fiyero doesn't wait to see if it sticks. he doesn't think he'd see much of a reaction anyways— judging by her uniform, she may be as practiced at compartmentalizing pain as zevran is.

instead, he hurls himself at her much smaller form, using his height to his advantage. slamming his shoulder into her sends the both of them tumbling onto the path below and for a brief moment fiyero is startled by the absolute lack of fear. there has never been much space for it, for the feeling to grip him too tightly when somebody rushes at him with the intention to hurt. only the weapons in his hands, the magic underneath his fingertips. his voice, calling out for his companions.

they struggle for purchase, fiyero's claws tearing wherever they catch, painted lips ripped into an intimidating hiss when she finally manages to pin him to the ground. he tries to bite at her like a rabid dog, single-minded focus on nothing other than causing harm.

and there are memories there that could matter. zevran had told him about rinnala and taliesen. a story spoken with the both of them curled up together, when he'd caught fiyero pressing a thumb to the pulse point by his wrist for the tenth time that day. another line drawn, connecting the both of them. what he had done to zevran, zevran had done to people he loved. only with them, there was no way for them to return.

and fiyero was sorrowful, and fiyero was thankful. to be trusted to hear and carry it. holding up those memories alongside zevran, knowing that they share in this horrible feeling as they do so many other things.

fiyero could be remembering. fiyero could be thinking.

he doesn't.

he kicks instead, a hand surging up to grab her by the throat as she draws back the hand still somehow holding the knife. he can't bite, but he can slam his forehead into hers, horns adding an additional weight and spits a hateful: ' harder to do with somebody that fights back, huh, you xasli, you— '

[punisheye]

"You should be grateful."

That voice is low, cold. It speaks slowly, as if talking to a particularly incompetent child. And in the speaker's opinion, that's exactly what he's doing.

"Plucked from that slum of an orphanage and given purpose, and yet you continue to spurn it."

As Vash breaks through the mist, he'll see them: there is a young boy there before the towering figure in white. That boy can be no more than fourteen, but looks particularly small for his age. He's shivering, eyes wide, skin clammy. There is a gun in his shaking hands. Even with a face so round and soft with youth, his identity is unmistakable.

The man looming over him is unmistakable himself. Younger than Vash would remember, but not by much. There are less lines on his face, but his hair is already white. Instead of a beard there's a thin layer of stubble.

Neither of them seem to be aware of their audience.

The mist swirls then. A heap appears between the two. Looking closer, one would see that it's a body. No, not just a body. Whoever it is is still alive, just barely.

The boy tries to speak: "I'm so—"

"Enough. You are not sorry. If you were, you would do as you are told. But it seems that I, once more, have to do it for you."

And then the man brandishes a gun and points it right at the heap on the ground. One shot, two, three, four, more—overkill. His stone-faced expression and the way each shot illuminates him is almost hauntingly similar to the sight of a man in black shooting a samurai dead.

Blood splatters across the boy's face. He lets out a weak little whimper.

"This man was a traitor. He sought to destroy the Eye of Michael from the inside. And where would that leave your home? Without food, without money; no way to keep that hovel afloat. If you cannot kill anyone, how can you expect to keep your family safe?

"Do as I say, Nicholas, and all will be well."

The mist thickens around the three, obscuring them from sight. What's left is silence that seems to last forever.

And then it thins, and there is still a man there. Sitting, now, in a wheelchair. Older, clothes dark, torn from bullets. Blood is caked onto his face, in his hair. His skin is pale as death. He looks like he could be a corpse sat upright.

Until his head jerks up, eyes staring straight towards where Vash stands. The voice that comes from the bloody form of Chapel's throat is rough, creaking:

"Ah... it's you."

★ --;; This isn't.... it's not new, but that doesn't stop the rapid descent of mist and fog from striking a chill through the entirety of Vash's body. If anything, after the few moments it takes for the recognition to settle in, that same recognition is exactly what makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The sudden flood of it, roiling and descending as though in a dream, is familiar in a way he so much wish it wasn't.

"Just once," Vash huffs quietly to himself, as if trying to distract himself from the buzzing of his nerves beneath his skin, "Just once, could I catch a break?"

So much pain, blinding light. A memory like his is both a blessing and a curse, so many things so crystal clear-- it had only been a short time ago, at least sin comparison to the rest of his life, but the memory of the last time this mist had cut through bone and sense still sits so vividly behind his eyelids.

He doesn't know where anyone else is. Doesn't know what they might see. What might see them.

Moving. He's got to move. If he keeps standing here as he is, he won't find anyone. He's good at moving, he reminds himself. Good at channeling movement into his feet, quickly, instead of the spiraling of so many thoughts.

But as he does, it doesn't take long for voices to be heard. Or-- a voice, rather. Stern and harsh and biting. The sound of a bullet ricocheting off the pavement.

Vash's feet choose the direction to carry him in, without second thought.

@punisheye

[punisheye]

It's as if everything disappeared at once all around him, replaced with a fog so thick he could barely see past his own nose. He feels exposed, still, and vulnerable—he doesn't know where he is now, or what exactly is going on.

He's in the middle of deciding which way he wants to go when suddenly a tiny figure tumbles out of the mist in front of him. Wolfwood tilts his head down, blinking, meeting the wide-eyed, wet gaze of the little boy in front of him.

And he knows that face. Had worn that face in a memory and seen a reflection of it looking back at him; had seen that face some weeks ago, older and more defined, distraught and disappointed in him.

Wolfwood nearly asks the little guy how he suddenly shrank, but the boy beats him with his demand.

"What?" What Plant? The older Vash? What? And why is this little version of Blondie have those handcuffs on?

He remembers, distantly, a conversation back in Home's geodome, with his friend held to his chest. That admission that he had been held captive as a child, up until he was useful.

"Hey..." The boy is clearly distressed. Wolfwood being so tall and kind of scary looking probably doesn't help, so he lowers himself down to a crouching position. He's so small, but he's trying to be so brave. Wolfwood tries a smile. "I don't know where the Plant is, kid. D'you need help? Why're you all alone?"

His human ears never couldn't hear the cry of a Plant, so he figures he's pretty useless here. Still, he doesn't want this kid running around these mists by himself.

@punisheye

The door was open.

Or, more accurately: the door had ceased to exist. Strange, delicate mists had crawled in from the side of it, eating away at what was physical a moment before. Where an unimpressed guard had sneered down at Vash, now there was the swirling unknown.

Without hesitation, he pressed on past where he was confined. His body had moved before he can think to note how scary this all is, before he could have the good sense to fear how the mist could be endless, his world eroded. Vash hasn't quite come to accept this complete upending of the laws of reality—it's just that he can still hear the Plant screaming for help, somewhere out there.

Turning his head this way and that to find her, Vash nearly bumps his face right into a wall of black. Instinctively, his hands come up to prevent the collision, although they're awkwardly successful by the restraints around his wrists.

The little boy winces, totters back a step, looks up at Wolfwood. His cuffed hands pull defensively toward his chest.

"Ah…" Now he's getting scared.

Wolfwood doesn't look familiar in any helpful way—he's clearly not a part of SEEDS, or a face he recognizes from Ship Five's cold-sleep registry. But he's also the only adult around… The only being around, besides his Plant brethren.

The assumption he'd be brought back into confinement by this man makes tears bead up in the corners of his eyes. He's got to be brave for her sake.

Vash's face wrinkles with effort, tiny lungs gathering air for his demand: "Let me meet the Plant!"