#mel is going to tumble it in the grass it seems like

[verndusk]

I really hope we get the furniture/decoration upgrades update before any of the romances cause Mel, sweetie

you ain't fucking anyone on that bedroll

[biillyhargroves]

Sick!Steve PLEASE! As much as I love me some mom!Steve I'd love to see Billy take care of Steve. Like Steve dealing with some PTSD or something?

I know that this didn’t quite get into sick!fic terrority but the PTSD and hurt/comfort elements are still there and I can always expand it into something a little closer to sick!fic if you would want that!!! I hope you enjoy!!

when you think with your chest (there’s not a thing that you don't see)(fic requests open) 

A flash- like a lightning bolt, a clap of thunder; some great cosmic force flips a switch that throws the clock back and shoves Steve tumbling backwards in time. He can smell the smoke from the fireworks, can hear them pop against the ceiling, spark and fizzle on the floor. He can taste the copper tang of blood in his mouth. Sometimes, he sees a shadow moving along the wall and he swears it is a demogorgon crawling on the other side. He can never take his eyes away, sure that it would soon push its way through. Once, he even took a kitchen knife to the drywall, an incident that he is still trying to cover up because he is not quite sure how to explain the huge gash to his mother.

The squeal of bus tires becomes the snarl of a demodog. He jumps when car doors slam. He plays defense every waking hour of his days, always on edge, always alert. On his worst days, his back aches from the tension wound tight across his shoulders.

Today is one such day. Steve’s heart is pounding and he cannot calm it. His body feels like he has run two back-to-back marathons after a line of basketball scrimmages, when in reality he has not done more than walk from the house to the car to the table at the back of Mel’s Diner. Billy sits across from him, and he is staring at Steve. He won’t stop fucking staring.

“Would you fucking stop?” Steve says, and Billy’s eyes widen- not in anger, not even looking hurt. If anything, he looks concerned, and somehow this upsets Steve even more. 

“What the hell am I doing?” Billy asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“You know what you’re doing,” Steve says flatly.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Billy asks, and Steve groans.

“Where the fuck did you pull that phrase?” he says. “You sound like a fucking dad.”

"Untwist your fucking panties, man,” Billy says. “You’re making a scene.”

Steve cannot look at Billy too long. He glances over Billy’s shoulder to see the door every time it swings it open. He flinches at every little clank of silverware, every shout from the waitstaff, every call from the cooks. Billy notices, but where, on other days, his eyes followed Steve’s, trailed to whatever was demanding Steve’s attention, today his attention is zeroed in on Steve. Steve feels like he’s under a microscope. He tries to shrink himself down, to make his movements minute, to do anything that might draw Billy’s focus away from him. 

It doesn’t work. Billy is, after all, not an idiot. He knows what Steve is doing, even if he hasn't quite pinned down the why. Steve thinks that this is what he is truly trying to deduce, and he doesn’t know if he wants Billy to find the answer. 

“You’re still doing it,” he snaps, and Billy rises to his feet. 

“That’s it,” he says.

“What’s it?” Steve asks. Billy’s hand closes around his bicep and he pulls Steve to his feet and shoves him not so gently toward the door. “What the fuck?” Steve says. A couple- two underclassmen Steve vaguely recognizes from Hawkins High -at a table near them turns, and  when their eyes spot Billy and Steve, they turn quickly away. Billy nudges Steve forward and as they move away Steve can hear the two teens whispering to each other. He thinks he catches his name, but he isn’t quite sure, and before he knows it he is outside being guided toward his own waiting BMW. 

“Who’s making a scene now?” Steve grumbles.

“Keys,” Billy demands, opening his palm.

“We didn’t even eat yet,” Steve says.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you starve,” Billy says. Then he raises his waiting hand. “Keys.”

“I can drive my own fucking car,” Steve grumbles.

“You don’t know where we’re going,” Billy declares, and again he says, “Keys.” 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Steve asks.

“I’m not playing,” Billy says sternly. “Keys. Now.”

Steve relents, but he is not happy about it. He fishes in his pocket and tosses his keys to Billy. When they get into the car, Billy rolls down all the windows. He tunes the radio to his favorite station and turns the volume up as high as it can go.

“You’re gonna blow my speakers,” Steve complains.

“Shut up,” Billy says. He peels out of the diner parking lot with the music blaring. Steve is sure that every single person they pass can hear the closing bars of The Four Horsemen as Billy powers down the street and makes a series of sharp, calculated turns. He drives through town and, when he hits the highway, Steve finds himself nervous.

“Are you going to fucking kill me?” Steve shouts over the music and the wind that gets louder through the open windows at Billy hastens the car’s pace. Steve glances at the odometer and watches as the little needle bounces higher and higher with every mile marker they pass. 

“Not yet,” Billy says. He is drumming one palm against the steering wheel in perfect beat with the music. Steve watches every strike, finds himself drawn to it, even counts each slap of Billy’s palm against the wheel. One, two, three, four- in quick succession, then two slower claps before the pattern repeats. When the songs change, so does Billy’s drumming, and Steve is fascinated by the easy way he picks up the nuances of each new song. Eventually, he turns toward the windshield, still listening to that steady drumming through the rush of wind and the throb of the bass. 

“Where are we going?” Steve eventually asks, but Billy either does not hear him or chooses not to. When Steve looks at him, Billy has one arm out the window and mouthing the words to Looks That Kill. “Hey,” Steve shouts, and Billy glances briefly at him. “Where are we going?”

Without answering- or perhaps this is his answer -Billy takes the next exit. Steve did not get a chance to read the sign before it blew past them in a blur of brown and white. Billy finally eases up on the gas. Steve doesn’t quite recognize where they are, but Billy seems to know his way. He glides across lanes of thinning traffic, turns down dirt roads that don’t really look like roads, and eventually parks on a strip of worn down grass. When he kills the ignition, the sudden silence almost hurts. It rings in Steve’s ears and, when Steve speaks, he still finds himself yelling as if competing with the music that is now gone. 

“You are going to kill me,” he says, “aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” Billy says. He swings open the door and slams it behind him. He starts walking without looking to see if Steve is following. Steve thinks that this means he’s supposed to follow, so he lets himself out and does just that. 

“Where the hell are we?” he asks. Billy does not answer. He leads Steve down a short dirt trail lined with trees. They walk for barely a minute before the trail empties out onto what Steve thinks must be the smallest beach in existence. Its shore is thin, the sand coarse and rocky, and the water fills up a lake so small that Steve thinks he could wade to the other side. Billy walks onto that small beach, moving down the shore like he’s done this a thousand times before (and, for all Steve knows, he has). He is looking at the ground as he walks, and Steve looks down, too, though he isn’t quite sure what they’re looking for. Eventually, Billy seems to find it. He plucks something off the ground and tosses it in his hand, then winds up his arm with the practiced technique of a major league pitcher and chucks the small rock at the water. It hops over the surface one, two, three times before sinking. 

���That was shit,” Billy says, already kicking up some sand in search of a new rock.

“Why’d we come out here?” Steve asks. “There are lakes in Hawkins.”

“They’re all always crowded,” Billy says. “This is better.”

“Better for what?” Steve asks. 

“To get away,” Billy shrugs. Steve looks at him. Billy meets his eyes and Steve finds something like compassion there, something like understanding, something like a question. “I don’t know what’s going on up there,” Billy says, pointing at Steve’s head, “but I can see the wheels turning. I know when you’ve got shit on your mind,”

“I don’t really want to-” Steve starts, and Billy shakes his head.

“You don’t have to talk,” Billy says. “But you weren’t thinking about it since the diner, were you?” he asks, and know there is something knowing in his eyes, and it almost makes Steve smile.

“Uh,” he says. “No,” he admits. “Now that you mention it.” 

“You can pick the music next time,” Billy says. “I just went default, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks. 

“Nightmares?” Billy says. When Steve creases his brow, Billy points just below his eyes, where dark circles that rival Steve’s own sit like fading bruises. “Flashbacks,” he says. At Steve’s confusion, he shrugs his shoulders. “Like I said, I don’t know what’s going on for you, but living in your head isn’t gonna do shit.”

“You sound like a Star Wars character,” Steve says.

“I’m going to have to ask you never to say that again,” Billy says, feigning anger. He then takes another rock from the ground and hands it to Steve. “Skip it,” he tells him. “Focus on the water like you focused on the music.” 

Steve takes the rock. He turns it over between his fingers, then glances up the water. After a few seconds, he looks at Billy.

“I still don’t get what this is all about,” he says. 

“You’re not focusing,” Billy tells. Steve exhales. He looks back to the water. He raises his arm, flicks his wrist, sends the rock skipping once, twice, three times before it drops to the bottom with a soft plunk. 

“Where’d you learn this?” Steve asks. “This, like, focusing bullshit?”

“Honestly?” Billy asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Honestly.”

“Max,” Billy says. “Some shit her dad used to do with her, apparently. She and I started coming down here a few months ago. With all the shit after...well, you know. I guess I was stir crazy. I guess she saw. We’d go on drives. Found this place.”

Steve is only half listening. Billy had been cooped up since Starcourt, this he knows. He had visited him at Hawkins Lab and he had snuck in through Billy’s bedroom window at home. He had been with him, but he hadn’t noticed how cabin fever had made Billy so restless. He was too busy looking for monsters in the shadows, too distracted by the burnt smell of gunpowder he swears he can’t wash off his hands. He feels guilty.

Billy’s hand lands on his shoulder. 

“You don’t have to talk,” Billy says. “But if shit gets too heavy to carry, just tell me you want to go to the beach. Okay?”

The sincerity in Billy’s voice, on his face, settled in the very depths of his eyes, is unlike anything Steve has ever seen in him before. Billy squeezes Steve’s shoulder and Steve thinks he might melt at the touch. Again, he sighs. “Okay.” They are quiet for a time. As promised, they do not talk. They skip rocks. They make it a competition; Billy wins, though Steve chalks this up to experience. The sun begins to sit and they quit their game, instead sitting together the sand. Steve leans against Billy. Billy secures on arm around Steve’s back. Steve rests his head on Billy’s shoulder. 

Eventually, Steve asks, “What if I want to talk?”

“What?” Billy asks.

“About...everything,” Steve says. “What if I want to?” 

“You can,” Billy says.

“Not now,” Steve clarifies.

“That’s fine,” Billy says.

“But maybe later,” Steve says. 

“No pressure,” Billy assures.

“I will want to,” says Steve.

“I’ll be here,” Billy says. 

“Promise?” Steve asks. Instead of speaking right away, Billy squeezes Steve’s shoulder. He tugs Steve a little bit closer and Steve lets him. He feels Billy press a kiss to the top of his head and, if possible, Steve curls up even closer to him. 

As the sun takes its bow and the sky grows deeply dark, Billy says, “I promise” 

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 26

(Banner made by the loveliest @harry-nofookingway-styles)

Harry X OFC (AU)

In which Melody is reacquainted with an old classmate named Harry, and must keep afloat in the violent, criminal life of an underground boxer.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: LAST CHAPTER Y’ALL. EPILOGUE TO COME. I’M SO SORRY. XX Pls like, reblog, send feedback. :’)

There were a lot of Harry’s things scattered over Melody’s apartment. She realized this in the next few weeks. T-shirts, sweatshirts, a roll of tape, hair ties. She even found a stick of his deodorant in the bathroom. It all made her nauseous.

Bea was back. Part of it was because Melody had told her all about what happened with Harry. But part of it was also because she and Dom had been arguing, with their new constant proximity. They needed some separation.

“That was a pretty shitty move, Mel,” she had said. And she was right.

Melody still couldn’t wrap her mind around the end of her relationship. It felt like the wrong ending to a book, like the last few pages were missing. But Bea thought it would be easier if there weren’t reminders of Harry everywhere.

“Boys are so fucking weird,” Bea said, stuffing another item into the tote bag full of his things. “How do you go somewhere wearing a jacket and then leave without it?"

Melody didn’t reply. She was folding up a worn cotton shirt, the logo of Harry’s gym peeling off the front. It was her favorite to sleep in because it was the oldest, most-washed, softest of all his clothing. She swallowed around the knot in her throat and placed the shirt deep within the bag so that she wouldn’t have to look at it.

Bea leaned back on her knees. A strange calm had come over Melody since she’d been with her. Or perhaps not calm, but resignation. And Bea knew that Melody had had break ups before. She had witnessed one the previous year, when they were living closer to campus, in a nicer apartment that neither of them could really afford. That was Nate, an archaeology major, and it had taken Melody all of two days to forget the entirety of their three month relationship. This was different.

“I can come with you, if you want,” Bea offered gently. She toyed with the freshly-washed curls that were dangling over her forehead, stretching them out to dry to her liking.

Melody smiled at her, or tried to. She couldn’t get her cheeks to lift. She didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to cry, though. And she didn’t know if that was a good sign, that she was able to keep her emotions under wraps, or if that meant that her tears were just pooling, preparing for an onslaught when she saw Harry for perhaps the last time.

“No, I think I need to do this on my own,” Melody whispered back. “But thank you.”

“Of course.” Bea rose to her feet and took a sip of the smoothie that she had made for an afternoon snack. There was one for Melody too, but it hadn’t been touched. “Get in, get out, okay? Even better if he’s not there. Just drop the shit off and come home. We’ll watch a movie or something.”

Melody didn’t really feel up for smoothies or movies, but she nodded anyway. What she really should have been doing was working on the self-portrait for her art class, but she had a hard time going in the studio when Harry’s eye was always staring at her and she would have to use the paintbrushes he’d bought for her birthday. Besides, she had a hard time looking at herself in the mirror lately.

“Okay,” she agreed. She stood, a pair of sneakers already on her feet, a thick sweater already hanging down to her thighs. She pulled the tote over her shoulder and was surprised at its lightness after everything that she and Bea had packed up.

“Come right back.” Bea patted Melody’s hip and then returned to her room.

Melody hurried down the stairs and out onto the street before she could lose her nerve. April had found the city. Melting snow was trickling down from rooftops, forming puddles in the uneven sidewalks. The sun was warm when it was able to peak through clouds, and even though the park was many blocks away, Melody could smell the fresh scent of spring grass. It would have been a welcome change of season if the rest of her life didn’t feel like a muddy mess.

She tried to think only of schoolwork as she avoided joggers and dog-walkers. Her nails, however, were wearing down by the time she reached the corner store. Her teeth had worked of their own accord. That was an old habit, one that she thought she had kicked long ago.

Melody was examining her fingertips as she trailed down the alley where Harry lived. She was distracted, occupied, probably just trying not to think about seeing him again. She didn’t notice that the door was open until she reached his steps.

Melody paused. Her pulse picked up as she remembered the cops that had scared her so terribly, that had had her watching her back for weeks afterward. But Harry was done with that, right? He’d told her he paid off his last shipment and would never sell another gun. But that was for her, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d taken it back up after she was out of the picture. Both of those thoughts made her gut twist.

Get in, get out, she told herself in the same voice that Bea had used. There was no reason for her to stick around. It didn’t seem like the door had been forced open like the last time, only left open. She should just drop the bag in the hall and go home.

Melody sucked in a deep breath and stepped through the doorway. She kept her eyes down, set the tote bag on the other side of Harry’s shoes, and began to back out. But she looked up, bittersweet memories flooding through her, breaking the feeble dams she had begun to construct.

The coffee table was on its side.

Melody’s stomach flipped again. The table was tipped lengthwise, one of its legs splintered. She took a single step forward and that’s when she heard a sharp thud deeper into the flat.

She took a short moment to steel herself and pressed down the hallway. The thudding was coming from Harry’s bedroom. She heard him swear under his breath and then shout something she couldn’t make out over the ringing in her ears.

She was in the doorway, Harry was slumped back against the edge of his mattress. Colton was poised over him. She could recognize him just from his profile. His hand was wrapped around the collar of Harry’s shirt, his muscles tensed just like Harry’s were before a fight.

Melody gasped as Colton delivered a punch to Harry’s abdomen. Both of their heads swung toward her. Harry’s eyes blew wide as he sucked in a pained breath.

“Melody—” He was cut off as Colton slammed a fist into the side of his jaw. He grunted and then shoved against Colton’s chest until he could straighten up.

Colton lost his grip on Harry’s collar, stumbled backward into the dresser, where his arm sent bottles and the picture of Harry and Melody crashing to the floor.

“Melody, get the hell out!” Harry shouted, turning to fix her with an urgent glare. “Now!”

She flinched again as Colton barreled forward, taking Harry down to the floor with him. Her feet reeled her backward. She started back down the hall, frantic, panicked, but she stopped at the corner of the living room. Her eyes flitted to the cabinet at the kitchen’s entrance.

Melody tripped forward as she heard another impact back in the bedroom. Colton was yelling now, but she couldn’t make out his words either. Her breaths were ragged, her fingers trembled, but she still managed to unsnap the holster holding Harry’s handgun. It felt heavy and cold and foreign in her hand. She pulled the hammer back like Harry had, until she heard it click into place. Then she made her way back down the hall.

Melody had no clue what she was doing. She didn’t know anything about guns. She didn’t even like the feel of it in her hand. And when she reached the entrance to the bedroom she couldn’t even raise it.

Harry and Colton were tumbling on the floor. Harry caught sight of her again, over his brother’s shoulder. Blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth. There were spatters staining the collar of his gray t-shirt. And Melody opened her mouth to speak but froze when Harry narrowed his eyes at her.

She jumped and stepped backward as Harry spat in Colton’s face. He sent a fist into his abdomen. They rolled over, out of her line of vision. She heard more hits and the next thing she knew, Harry was in front of her. He slammed the bedroom door behind him and held the knob firmly in his grip. His chest was heaving, his eyes were wide, his pupils dilated as they lowered to her hand.

“I—”

“Mel, go in the bathroom and lock the door,” he commanded, peeling the gun from her fingers. He swiped at the blood running from his mouth with the back of his wrist, and when she hadn’t moved, he shouted, “Go!”

The door behind Harry jiggled violently and the muscles in his arms strained as he tried to keep it closed.

“Open the fucking door!” thundered Colton from the other side.

Harry gave Melody a hard shove and she stumbled backward into the bathroom, finally gaining her wits and shutting the barrier between them. She clicked the lock into place. It was dark. The sounds outside were muffled, but she heard a loud crack and then more fumbling as the fight began again.

With a moment of clarity, she yanked her phone from her pocket and shakily dialed 911, gasping as something crashed in the other room. Her thoughts were jumbled with her panic. She spat out information, though, when her call was answered, and was halfway through describing where she was when she heard a gunshot. Her voice failed her.

“Ma’am?” came from the phone.

Melody’s ears were ringing with the sound of the shot. Her lungs had stopped working. She stared unblinkingly at the single flimsy door that separated her from whoever was on the other side. She waited. Waited for Harry to talk to her through it, but then the woman on the other end of the line kept talking, asking questions, and still he wasn’t there.

Melody dropped her phone when a minute had passed, when there was no sound from outside the bathroom. She hesitated, but she clicked the lock out of place and peeked into the empty hall, into the bedroom where all she could see were Harry’s sheets spilling onto the floor. She stepped across the hallway and peeked around the corner.

“No, no, no, no,” Melody chanted as she stumbled past the dresser and shattered bottles and fell to her knees. Harry didn’t even flinch as she gripped his limp arm. She crawled up his side, into the blood that had begun to collect around him. There was a lot of blood. So much blood. Spreading out through the carpet fibers. She didn’t think a single person could hold much more.

Harry’s eyes were closed. His hair was sticking to the side of his head. Melody pressed her fingers to his cheek as she started to cry. She reached for the sheets that had been crumpled onto the floor and pressed them to the wet side of his scalp, lifting his head onto her thigh, and she let out a pained sob when none of her jostling pulled a response from him.

“Please,” she choked out as blood began to seep through to her hands. “You’re not dead, you’re not dead, you’re okay, don’t die.”

She didn’t know if she was right. She couldn’t bring herself to check his pulse or his breathing. If she was wrong, she wasn’t sure she could handle it, so she would wait. She’d wait for someone else to do it. Because there were people coming. She could hear the sirens even now, through her sobs and her ringing ears and Harry’s deafening silence.

Epilogue

[isei-silva]

The Last

Feralas.

The cave was dark and welcomed no one, but to Beurghes it was a second home. In fact he could argue he spent more time in this place of death and research than he did in his own home, and despite the eerie waft of the black nothingness in front of them he was at ease in his surroundings. He knew where to step, where to go, and there was much to do since their flight from Desolace. Much time had been lost.

Mel rolls his shoulders about, grumbling. "You sure you don't need another nap, Big Guy? Yer flying took it out of you just to get to Desolace."

Beurghes walks ahead in the cave, tall and stoic save for a slight limp he forces to hide. Illuminating the path ahead with a glow of green from his hand. There is urgency in his tone. "I slept enough. And fear more that if I fall alseep that deep again, I may not wake up. Let's get this done, so I have a certain peace of something accomplished."

The path elevated to the side and at the top opened up to a wide, open area that had been turned over the years from a pocket in the rocks to a study full of shelves, crates and vases, glass containers that peppered the place, chemical concoctions and the utilities thereof. Papers and books littered the place, piled together next to corners of bones and other discarded body parts in various stages of rot. The smell did not seem to perturb either much.

Mel nods, and stretches his arms out, fingers hooked as he cracks his digits. "I gotcha. But c'mon, you said you wanted the books set aside? All of 'em? And the equipment burned?" The Squid of an elf meanders to the bookcases, squinting.

[Beurghes]: “All of it.”

Meanwhile, outside the cave, a pair of shadows made themselves known stepping into the dim light of the thick forest. The blood elf Magister, Sortilar, and his bodyguard, Espoire, the terrible Nightborne.

"I believe this should be it," Sortilar gestures toward the cave. "All the signs match. Perhaps we'll find something of use for the work ahead of us. No time better than the present, after all."

Espoire glances at the multiple yetis wandering about, grimacing under his mask. "Seems about right. Let's hope the old bastard didn't leave a mess for us to look through."

[Sortilar]: "Oh, I presume there are traps and wards... Most likely still active. But you have your new venoms and I have recently been able to recharge, so... A few beasts and traps should not prove too much of an issue, now, should they?"

Espoire looks at him from the corner of his eye, and nods slightly. "Still, I'll go ahead. No need for you to risk it."

The Magister nods to Espoire. After all, that is a bodyguard's job. "Even with that thing of his being considered, deathsting venom should have some effect." 

Espoire disappears into the shadows without another word. 

Sortilar waits by the entrance, hands idle and folded behind his back as he waits for the signal to progress forward. 

Beurghes is near frantic but forces to breathe deep and maintain some semblance of dignity and control. Nothing was happening fast enough for his likes. Hands wildly gesture here and there at Mel. "The papers, book, and research to be set aside. Everything else, pile together!"  Then barks out "There should be oils, douse it all!”

“Gotcha, boss, " Mel salutes, and does as asked. All the books are pulled from the case, and set aside, the Void elf working quickly. He meanders about, snooping for the oils, all the misc equipment, like a snake in the grass, and with a loud...And that is a LOT of noise. Planters knocked over, delicate equipment broken to pieces...Mel's having a great time throwing everything into a heap!

Beurghes approaches, leaning heavily on a cane recently summoned and coiled by the very roots peeking through the walls of the cave. A weak spell for a druid, but a most welcomed respite from his own weight. "The bones and everything else, too."

Mel nods, nearly skipping about - His excitement is PALPABLE as he nearly dances and skips about the area. Books and written works are organized into one pile, and he makes a huge noise FLINGING equipment, bones, remains, morrowgrain, extracts, into a big awful pile. "Ha-HA! It's been a long time before I got to trash some place!" he cheers.

Suddenly Beurghes stops Mel from grabbing a choice selection of books and papers he had set aside on a crate that the void elf was going to just grab. The old druid hobbles forward, a hand out. "Give me those books. I know where to hide them, there's a deeper section, below.”  Beurghes snatches the books out of Mel's hand, giving them a quick look over at their written contents to ensure these were pieces worth hauling and hiding. He gestures to the rest of the unbecoming pile with a sharp flick of his hand. "Get -on- with it."

Once the books are in the Beurghes’ possession he starts to step back, aside. He pauses to look at the stone walls above and around them taking into consideration where the weakest points would be. "After, I'll cave it all in."

Mel grabs a particularly large pot of soil, and ssstttrrrruuuuuugles, managing to lift it over his head some, and CRASHING it into the pile! Mel cackles in delight and victory, kicking the pile and going to find more things.  "Okay yeah yeah yeah, I getcha. The books are in their own pile - lemme grab the oils." he grins, excitedly, his tendrils -bzzt-ing with electricity and excitement. He retrieves the oils, going right into dousing all the equipment and mess 

[Beurghes]: "Don't set them ablaze NOW, you git. Get the rest of the books and papers."

Espoire appear a few yards into the cave, gesturing for Sortilar to follow.

Sortilar doesn't notice for a moment, having occupied himself by retrieving the stiletto blade tucked into the sections of his false leg. Better than trying to use a staff in close quarters. He then notices Espoire beckoning, and moves forward. “Lovely decor," he says flatly, as they progress.

Espoire reappears before Sortilar, placing a hand out. He gestures slightly forward down the cave, noiselessly, with a nod of his head. The racket is echoing through the tunnel. There's someone else here.

The Magister frowns, nodding. He may be no rogue, but he's dealt with enough skullduggery to have some sense of what might be afoot. And then it's clear with the crashing noises. Yetis, perhaps? He waits for Espoire's instincts to guide the matter.

Espoire slinks back again, not stealthing this time. He beckons Sortilar to follow him, slowly and quietly. It sounds like its emanating from just above them.

Sortilar grimaces, moving slow so the metal of his leg doesn't give them away with a similar echo.

The Nightborne turns to Sortilar, and in roguespeak, signs one word: "Action? At this distance, the voices from above are quite discernable.

Sortilar considers for a moment, looking about their surroundings. It's a path up yet without much cover and Duskwhisper's instincts are good enough he will likely sense them if they simply go up it. He points toward one of the cages hanging from the ceiling. His hand swings down as a fist and then opens. It seems he's decided to make a distraction and flush them out. Perhaps even seperate them.

Espoire nods, assuming, as the long range DPS, that Sortilar will do the honors.

Another gesture from Sortilar, a finger walk then pointing forward, hoping Espoire will get the idea... An ambush. 

Above the pair Mel continues to work following Beurghes’ orders. "I getcha, books first." He hurms. The oil is on the stuff, and off he goes, bringing books to Beurghes so that the old man may sort them.

Beurghes only picks what he considers to be most important to be carried by his own person then leaves the rest for Mel to haul. "Can't you see I can barely support MYSELF?" he huffs. "Get the rest and follow me."

Espoire's already disappeared, beginning to walk towards the incline.

Sortilar steps back, counting... And then picks up one of the skulls. An enchantment to aid the impact and then he reels back, chucking it toward the ceiling and one of the cages. It might not fall, but it sure will make some noise. He then ducks down into his position of more cover, preparing if they are smart and decide to simply look over the edge.

Mel groans. "Yeah yeah, don't have a hissyfit, Farmboy. Just point out the ones that you wanna kee-" The noise RATTLES Mel, the void elf yelping like a little elflet, dropping the books down onto the floor, already crackling with electricity as he whips his head about, darting forwards

Beurghes doesn’t appear as startled and instead makes a foul noise, clicking his tongue. "Damnable beasts," he mutters, likely referring to the yeti that meander about.

Espoire takes the opportunity when Mel wanders near the edge of the elevated cavern, raising a booted foot and kicking the void-elf's rear, and off he tumbles from the edge.

Mel looks about, and looks up at the still swinging cage...then around at all the Yeti. Then down at the cracked and shattered bones. "...No, Beurghes, yeti's don't thro-" Too late, he looks behind him, and he spies the Scorpion, just as the boot kicks him RIGHT OFF. "COMPAN-" He squawks as he hits the ground, face first.

At this now Beurghes suddenly turns around to suddenly find Espoire dangerously close in front of the druid. "Scorpion."

Sortilar isn't expecting a moving target, so while he casts the dragon's breath spell he was holding -- flames roaring up past the edge -- Mel probably comes out of it singed, rather than with the melted off face that might have happened.

Espoire chuckles, giving a quick look around. “Evening, Duskwhisper. Quite the place you have here. Fitting, for a bachelor such as yourself."

Beurghes notices the sudden burst of flames and sounds none too amused. "There are OILS poured over the place," he warns to whomever else, but already he has an idea of the person.

Mel has been singed, his leathers smoking, the void elf leaping to his feet and shaking himself out, teeth bared. Well, the first strikes already been struck - Mel surveys around...and lands white eyes on the hiding Sortilar. "Ah, it's you." He growls, the sound unnatural

“Bloody --," Sortilar begins, but manages to collect himself, the years of military training showing as he pulls back down on the excess heat of the blaze he just conjured and wasted, and holds it at the ready for a more focused attack if Mel moves. "It's me," he retorts, voice sharp and eyes eerily bright.

"How unexpected." The old druid glances at the edge of the stone floor, where the fire had burst from and where he now had heard that voice. "...Both of you."

"Indeed, we thought you'd be dead by now,” Espoire nods.

A brief grin of a sneer from Beurghes. "Eager, aren't we."

Sortilar keeps his eyes locked on the ren'dorei, trusting Espoire to handle whatever is to happen on the level above. His job is keeping Duskwhisper's cavalry distracted.

Mel makes a face. He glances up, and calls. "Eh, sorry, Lord Farmboy, looks like you ain't getting yer suicide by sentinel. " he wiggles his arms out, Mel uncaring and relaxed as he makes lots and lots of sudden, uncaring movements in Sortilars line of sight, loosening himself up, but not moving yet.

[Beurghes]: "Tell -him- this isn't what we agreed upon."

[Mel]: "What he said, Magister."

"Shut up, squid boy," Espoire calls, to the ren'dorei, eyes fixed on Beurghes. "You were supposed to be long gone by now, weren't you?"

[Sortilar]: "Pity. Neither was him diced up into puree by a Sentinel. I need that body for study... So, it looks as if I have to seek to recover my losses."

The void elf slides his boots across the floor, back, and forth, back, and forth, fidgeting in weird ways, looking ready for a scrap, but...mostly just bluster for now, it seems.

Beurghes's eyes narrow, staring over the floor's edge. "Sortilar," he calls out for the Magister tensely.

And Sortilar continues to hold his ground in this standoff, not acting. At his age, he's wise enough to know that this pairing off is less advantageous for combat than the other might have been. He's not going to waste a readied spell until he's sure. "Yes, darling?" It seems as if he's in a more energetic mood than usual.

Espoire smirks.

[Beurghes]: "Ease. Both of you. You'd be daft to think I'd try anything fast in a cave of yeti; upset the beasts and they will rampage. And it is far too narrow in here to not expect collateral."

Mel doesn't act. Not yet. But, should Sortilar pay attention...Mel is crackling, tendrils twitching in the high temperature and high humidity of the cave. But he seems to act on Beurghes word alone, so...nothing. Not yet.

"That's what she said," Sortilar mutters under his breath, already tired of Beurghes' grandstanding. Until the ren'dorei has stood down, the spell remains charged and ready to go.

Beurghes speaks through clenched teeth. "AND, need I remind of the oils poured."

"It seems there's much for us to discuss, yes..." Espoire comments, casually clasping his hands behind his back. "Call of your dog, then, I've had my fun."

"Mel!" Beurghes calls out.

Mel's stone cold facade breaks, twisting up into a gremlin, tight smile, snrking. "Pfft, okay, really, whats the call, boss? He ain't standing down - i'd rather not be roasted, thank ya."

[Sortilar]: "I dare say some roast squid sounds lovely."

Mel grunts, and shuffles about, tense. "...Aight, standing down. Cover yer ears." HE states, simply, before turning his body away, and throwing his arm out quickly, deeper into the cave. C-CRACK of thunder bolts through the cave. A small one, but probably not something you'd want to be hit with. "Okay, there you go." he loosens up. For added measure, Mel plunks himself down on his ass, legs crossed, chin in hand. Hrmph

And Sortilar slams his left hand into the stone, the right being a ruse as the energy quickly transfers to his dominant hand and discharges against the stone wall, scorching it.

Beurghes hisses a tense, angry sound of frustation at all the needless noise in a face full of beastly yeti. For the love of...!

Mel was aiming away from people, for the record, but Mel won't cause a fuss over someone flexing.

Espoire silently resheathes the venom-coated throwing knife he'd withdrawn from his belt. His eyes stay trained on the druid in front of him. "So, planning on having a bonfire then? That seems out of season."

[Beurghes]: "Oh, spare me the theatrics, Scorpion, and ask what I'm doing like a sound man."

"What? It seemed like a safe option for something not doused in oil," Sortilar mutters, popping his fingers to work the tension out of them from holding a spell for so long.

Espoire blinks, and laughs, a rumbling noise that echoes lightly off the cavern walls. "Well, then! What are you doing, Duskwhisper?"

Mel sits, jutting his chin out. "Aight. That's fair, Magister. So, what, you dropping in to rummage about the place? Look for secrets? I dunno, have some romantic tete-a-tete bullshit?”

[Sortilar]: "Correct. Someone did not properly deliver his own corpse. So much for the "betterment of the elves". Ha."

[Mel]: "Well, I -asked- him if he wanted me to snap his neck, but he wanted to die by his peoples hands. Also, he's fun to pester."

[Espoire]: "So, I figured he threw a hissy fit about not flying about due to his heart threatening to sputter out and landed in a gulch somewhere."

Beurghes hmphs and attempts to hobble around Espoire. One hand firmly gripped on his cane, the other coiling the small stack of books and papers close to his chest. "I'll tell you when I'm done."

[Mel]: "Yeah, we took a break in Desolace, yer point?"

Espoire takes a step, firmly placing a palm around the druid’s arm, roughly. "Hah... no. No you will not. You will tell me, now. What are you doing with all your 'precious' research?"

[Sortilar]: "I told him not to fly at all, because high elevations might cause his cardiovascular system to no longer work due to the lack of ability to render oxygen properly."

[Mel]: "I hear you two up there, don't make me come up there, or make the old man make me come up there, i'll do it!" he threatens, hopping to his feet. The void elf pauses, and looks at Sortilar dumbly. “We were flyin' low, fer your information."

Beurghes looks down at the hand at his arm, then up at Espoire. Unnerved and annoyed at the same time. "Research? What makes you say that? I'm sentimental over my things,” he lies.

Sortilar grimaces. "He is only intaking about half of the oxygen he could, judging by the blood sample. So, even exerting himself could cause a fatal episode. Whether it by by flying or fucking, chances were good that he ignored his dear doctor's orders and keeled over somewhere."

[Espoire]: "I see, so that's why you were planning on caving this place in with all of it inside."

Mel honks. At that. And looks up, absolutely UNCARING that there's two other people in the room. "OI! FARM BOY. IS THIS WHY YOU TOLD ME NO? BECAUSE -ACTUALLY- SCREWING ME OVER WOULD GIVE YOU A HEART ATTACK?" he calls out, asking.

Beurghes stands as proudly as he could despite his more leaning on the cane for support. "Let me do this. It is one thing."

Sortilar knows exactly what he did, content to fold his arms back into the default military casting position at ease behind his back.

The old druid deadpans at, and pointedly ignores, Mel's outburst. He's not going to dignify that with an answer.

Espoire grimaces at Mel's yell, choosing to ignore it as well. "You promised to surrender yourself and research to the Magister for 'the betterment of the elves', remember? Or have you grown forgetful in your old age?"

[Sortilar]: "Oh, and the coin, for the girl to be nicely set up for some time."

Espoire nods in the general direction of the other two. "And that."

Beurghes attempts to jerk his arm from Espoire's hold. "Am I -dead- yet? The Magister can have my corpse, when it IS one."

"The plan was fer him to be killed, buried, and I'd drag his corpse to yall. Quit getting both of yer frilly panties in a knot, yeah?" the void elf grumbles, and utterly ignoring Sorts presence, Mel moving to head up the stuff.

[Sortilar]: "Oh, so THOUGHTFUL, Duskwhisper, sending a ren'dorei to my doorstep. Excellent planning."

Espoire's grip only tightens on Beurghes' arm.

“Boo, you whore.” Mel honks over his shoulder, lower lip jutted out. Mel directs that at Sortilar. Mel wanders right away from Sortilar, then peaks over the edge. "You coming, you bastard?"

[Beurghes]: "Sortilar, perhaps some things were lost in translation."

"Truly a machiavellian plot here. I'm simply astounded. But, you sound sentile, given you are calling me by my given name, rather than my familial name as you were INSTRUCTED." Sortilar grimaces, prowling now. He is keeping his eye on the ren'dorei, making sure he does not get a chance to interrupt Espoire.

"Your body..." Espoire finally replies, having waited for the Magister to join them, "is one thing. Your -research- however.... that's quite another."

Beurghes grimaces. "...Evensong," he corrects himself.

Mel glances over and squints, peering between Sortilar, and Espoire. He keeps his eyes on Sortilar, and...inches. Closer. To Espoire. Peering and investigating.

Sortilar decides to cut to the quick of it, to throw their enemies into disarray before they can regroup. "Yes, indeed... This is about... Morrowgrain."

[Beurghes]: "My research is incomplete. It would be of no use to you in its current state."

[Espoire]: "Don't think I don't see you, ren'dorei. So keen to save the poor girl this bastard kidnapped, and so quick to return to his side after your faux 'rescue' mission."

"...And what would a Magister of Silvermoon, and the Sc- And -Espoire-" Mel flaunts knowing the name of the Nightborne, "Would want with Morrowgrain." The elf pauses, looking at Espoire

Espoire turns to the ren'dorei, brow furrowing. "Well, that's none of your business, now is it?"

[Mel]: "Oh no, I made it clear to him, if he went after Ily, i'd snap his neck. Easily. Ily's right out of his hair. She's safe. Me, call me whatever, I pity the old guy."

[Sortilar]: "I'm just curious how he expects to go see Sentinels and be oh-so-tenderly dispatched by them after that."

[Mel]: “That and he's great company when he's not grand standing and not being a fucking prick."

"Mel," Beurghes warns softly through a growl without looking at him.

[Sortilar]: "I seem to, after all, remember a certain other druid... It did take me a bit, since it has been years and the actions of the Cenarion Circle have never been of much interest or import to the Reliquary. But banned research that people have died for? Oh, I'm sure the Grand Magister would be quite interested."

Mel glances at Beurghes. He grunts, and...shuts up. He unhooks his stein, and pops it open, slurping his ale. Mel squints at the mention of the Grand Magister, glaring at Sortilar from across the way.

[Beurghes]; "Leave it banned. It is research not even known yet aside from myself. It is intended to be kept away, for it is filthy, unclean, written literally in blood, and I rather it wait a thousand years under debris for maybe then the people might understand and better it."

[Sortilar]: "Oh, isn't it? I wonder why they locked Archdruid Staghelm in a barrow, then. Was that political posturing by Whisperwind to get to where she so precariously stands now?"

[Beurghes]: "Morrowgrain is indecipherable, Evensong."

"Oh, so, void magic is perfectly a bannable offense, but poisons that can assassinate political leaders is perfectly A-Okay, eh? No fuckin' wonder Sunflare was always bitchin' to me about you guys, yer all dicks." Mel grumbles into his mug, sipping.

"Well, yes. I would presume there to be ciphers and such. You'd not write of such a thing in your coffee table book. So, why bury it in a cave where some intrepid adventurer is sure to find it? The Reliquary's depositories are secure and catalogued. Down to the tiniest scrap of fossil.” Sortilar smiles, an expression that doesn't reach his fel green eyes in the least. "I mean... Look at your company. Do you trust a creature born of using Dar'khan Drathir's research to not come dig it up later to pass it to his friends? Or perhaps... Did you intend to kill him and make sure that didn't happen?"

Beurghes reacts at the last comment, a small almost unnoticeable twitch on his face.

Mel bristles at that. "You -wot-?" he asks, a rough, Corwins Crossing type accent bleeding through more than usual, tendrils curling up at the mention of removing him.

Sortilar merely smirks.

Mel turns his eyes at Beurghes, intending to speak, then looking back around, the void elf incredulous. "Oi, fer the record, Lord Farmboy, I don't suggest giving this shit to the Horde either. Hello? Poison that can be fed to people? Potent, no signs of it killing someone till it does?"

[Beurghes]: "Let it be hidden, Evensong."

[Sortilar]: "Why would it be of interest in that regard, given plagues and the manabombs Duskwhisper was so sure to remind me of? The Banshee enjoys wholescale slaughter. Our Regent Lord, on the other hand..."

Beurghes hisses at Mel. "It is supposed to be a -remedy-."

"I bet the Banshee Queen would love the -shit- out of that. Like she had a grand old time twisting the Reagent Lord's arm fer troops and manpower." Mel scowls. He looks back to Beurghes. "That's exactly the point - yer looking into it as medicine, but, the Queen, the Magisters, they won't care. They'll use it as a weapon and not give two shits fer yer intended use of it, yeah?"

"And it has worked so well for her thus far, now hasn't it?" Sortilar merely regards Beurghes. "Unless what you are attempting to say here is you would like our aid removing this ren'dorei from the equation."

Espoire stands silently, stoically. He keeps one firm grip on Beurghes' arm, the other hanging loosely at his side, ready to act should he need to.

[Beurghes]: "I can't decipher it as a medicine. I do not have the knowledge, nor the time."

[Sortilar]: "Unsurprising. You lack the network of resources needed, especially given the stigma associated with the research. A pity."

[Beurghes]: "Your people could hardly do any better! None of us have the current knowledge or means to manipulate this herb, its nature is too strong."

[Sortilar]: "You were, at least, correct in that... I do appreciate knowledge. A waste, but there is the problem as stated: you keep company with a creature malformed by the magics of a betrayer, one who brought the Scourge upon my people. And rather than disappear, they decided to come try and take our Sunwell for the void."

[Beurghes]: “Mel is a betrayer to you, not to me."

[Sortilar]: "...So why would he not? He already did."

"...Jokes on you." Mel eases up.

[Sortilar]: "He was born of betrayal, betrayed you in Elwynn, and will assuredly do it again after your death should it get him some coin."

"I actually already told him." Mel winks, and sticks his tongue out. PTHTBBTHH

"Elwynn?" At this Beurghes narrows his eyes at Mel. This was new to hear.

[Espoire]: “Yes, so that's twice you've betrayed, isn't it, ren'dorei?"

[Sortilar]: “He was quite happy to sell you out."

[Mel]: "Nothing I haven't already told ya half way, boss. They wanted us outta the way, so, clean shot at you. I just actually wasn't expecting 'em to be so quick. but...fuck, whatever."

[Beurghes]: "And -this- is their clean shot?"

[Sortilar]: "Yes, since unlike some of our current company, the girl has not done anything wrong. You, I could care less for."

[Mel]: “Yeah, hell if I know. And that's true. If you do anything to her, I can and will snap yer necks. Leave er out of it. She's out of it. She ain't got anything to do with -any- of this anymore."

"As I stated previously," and Espoire turns to look at Mel with his cold, glowing blue eyes. "You were not supposed to be here, ren'dorei. We offer you your life and yet you're so quick to give it for a thankless old murderer."

[Sortilar]: "As I told them, a clean shot was needed since the progression of your disease will quite literally possibly overtake you like rabies. Thus, they were warned to remove themselves from your presence, before the affliction could infect them or cause you to do so."

Mel makes a face, baring his teeth. "Well, shame on me fer feeling pity for an old bastard and at least letting him commit suicide."

Sortilar regards Beurghes solidly. "I believe you already stated your desire to do so to me and I expressed no complaint. Hopefully, this behavior of his proves why I believe it is not safe for him to know where it is."

Mel scowls.

[Beurghes]: "What would -you- do with it, then?"

[Sortilar]: "Honestly, I do not much care. Burn the books here, as long as a betrayer like this can't profiteer off of it."

Espoire frowns under his mask, but says nothing.

[Sortilar]: "If your corpse is delivered in one piece in a way that will not incriminate me using this... Thing. I am patiently unbothered. Burn it, Espoire can slice your gut open, and we all go home happy."

Beurghes yanks his gripped arm again. "Let me -bury- it. Burn the rest, but bury the research."

[Sortilar]: "Duskwhisper... That is not viable, and I believe you know as much. At best it will indeed be used as a tool for murder. Scrape as you may to try and leave a mark, be it by research or a footnote in a book of illustrations of your dissected form..."

Mel just bristles, baring teeth at the further jabbing, but saying nothing. His tendrils curl.

[Beurghes]: "What do you want  in return for the research to be saved, intact?"

[Sortilar]: "Because it would be wasted knowledge, just like my medical arts in this age of healing spellery. But again, I am not particularly invested. I believe, however, I have been more candid than others here."

[Mel]"I am what I am. Maybe i'm an uncaring jerk who doesn't care fer keeping secrets from old men who're ready to die, yeah?"

"I came for my promised payment. As long as it is going to be delivered in a way that does not involve this creature, you can do whatever you like. But I do believe it foolish to leave it in a cave where this thing knows where it is. Especially given how quick it turned on you and then back when it was profitable to do so." Sortilar by this point seems almost amused. "It's laughable... Did he actually think he stood a chance with you sexually, even hale in your best of days?"

"Then you take it. You mentioned the Reliquary, no? His people can't return to Silvermoon. And it may be wasted knowledge to you, but to someone else, maybe soon, maybe-- " A sudden burst of a cough interrupted Beurghes’ words, hoarse and heaving, dropping the books to clutch at his chest as the outburst passed and his breathing returned. Albeit more ragged now.

"Fuck you." Mel states, "I still got old lists about Magisters and nobility. You still got family, I don't hold grudges but i've got half a mind to act on this if you keep pressing me."

[Sortilar]: "And, as you can see, once he is at risk of not being able to pick clean your corpse... He threatens my child."

Mel jolts, and his spite is traded out with concern, the elves wrigglers curling tightly as he takes a stance to inspect Beurghes though keeping his attention on the Magister. "Again, fuck you, that threat was fer making one of my funny outbursts an insult. Not cool."

Beurghes forces himself to stand as proud as he could muster, a quick movement of hand his thumb wiping away blood at the corner of his lip.

[Sortilar]: "So, Duskwhisper... What will it be? An eager murderer of family for no other reason than his wounded pride... Or, as you have stated, a magister who has offered you out the end you wanted and a means to make sure this book is never seen again?"

Espoire releases Beurghes' arm after the coughing fit, not seeing the need to detain him any longer.

Sortilar waits patiently, unmoving. As he expected, the time has come, if it hasn't already passed and merely been forestalled with force of will alone.

Beurghes gives a final jerk of his now freed arm just for the point of it. Hmph! "You know your answer."

Mel juts his chin out, eyes squinted, tendrils curling tightly up, long ears vibrating with irritated anger. He looks back to Beurghes, then back. "He ain't calling the order fer you two to kill me." he states.

[Sortilar]: "And how would it please you for it to be dealt with, Duskwhisper?"

Espoire walks around to the far side of Beurghes, smiling and holding out an expectant palm.

[Mel]: "I am not an -it-."

[Sortilar]: "Yes, you are. You can go skulking off now you do not have a dying old man to use. But I will make one thing painfully clear..."

Beurghes grimaces a soundless snarl and reluctantly hands over the books to Espoire.

Sortilar smiles, the look slipping to clearly murderous. "If you so much as breathe in my daughter's direction, the Scorpion and I will play volleyball with your empty little skull. Are we quite crystalline clear?"

Espoire takes them, giving a half nod, half bow in thanks. 

Mel glances to Beurghes. He's not pissed at that, flicking a long ear, and looks over to Sortilar. "Then maybe you shouldn't be a fucking prick about shit, eh? But yeah, don't have a fucking hissy fit, I'm not gonna go screwing around with family." he waves a hand, dismissively.

"No, I do TRULY believe you misunderstand," Sortilar states, upper lip curling in disgust as he pulls the stiletto from his belt.

"And what the hell do you think's gonna happen, anyways. I ain't skulking off, because I never gave much a shit about the research to begin with." Mel looks to Beurghes.

[Sortilar]: "I should kill you where you stand for even mentioning it. And nothing in this planet, beyond, or above, will stop me. I will hunt you down, splatter your pathetic little corpse in a path long enough that the carrion birds will not be able to fly from one end to another. Are. We. Clear?"

Mel lifts his chin up, baring fangs. "Crystal clear, assmunch. Now how about you, and that knife, keep away from me." he growls, evening his head out - Mel was a stony facade, body language easy and loose...but his tendrils betray his motions - he's nervous, VERY nervous about that sharp object.

[Sortilar]: "Then do take a couple of steps back and another short fall before I get quite stabby and put more holes in you than you can moan about."

"Speaking of." And with a quick movement, Espoire kicks the cane out of Beurghes' grasp, taking a fistful of his hair and pulling him forcefully to the ground.

Beurghes had been leaning most of his weight on the cane, so having it kicked out from his grasp forced his knees to the floor almost falling over were it not for the grip on his hair which the sudden yank thereof broke a loud, pained sound out of him.

"Scorpion," he says, voice sharp and authoritative. "We will deal with Duskwhisper later. Help the man up and apologize." 

Mel narrows his eyes, and glances over to the downed Beurghes, bristling, and raising his hackles, Mel like a dog ready to strike - in fact, he almost does, lunging and stepping right to Beurghes side to bare fangs up at Espoire. A hilarious sentiment since Mel is so, so much smaller than the Scorpion.

[Sortilar]: "Bloody hell, we are not ani -- and you, BACK."

Espoire looks up, surprised. "I thought we'd be making this quick. A quick slit of his throat and the problem would be done with."

[Sortilar]: "We will ask him how he wants to go, once this other problem is addressed."

Mel stares at Sortilar. "Careful, you stick a knife in me here, dunno if i'd taint the sample'r not." he bites out, and...differs to Beurghes, and POINTEDLY is the guy helping Beurghes back up, differing to the old man.

Sortilar grimaces at Espoire in annoyance, obviously displeased at the interruption.

Espoire scoffs, releasing the old man's hair, allowing Mel to help him up.

[Sortilar]: "If I simply wanted him dead, I could have stabbed him with a poisoned needle at the well."

The druid's hair is released and with that is able to be helped back up again, now leaning more on Mel to act as the cane lost somewhere on the ground.

Mel...looks about, now completely uncaring of the Magister and Scorpion, scouting about for the kicked out cane.

Espoire looks up at Sortilar, uneasy. He doesn't like the idea of keeping a target alive for more time than necessary. There's a reason he made a good Assassin. 

"Sounds like yer the one with a dog that doesn't listen. I may have been screwing Sunflare, but I never fucking acted unless he actually told me to." Mel raises a brow. "Because, you know, I respected him enough to not make a huge fuckin' fuss." he grumbles, differring to Beurghes. "Oi, gimme a sec." Mel moves off, grabs the cane that had been kicked from afar, and returns it.

Sortilar continues staring Espoire down, looking as if that blade might get turned on the nightborne instead.

Espoire actually rolls his eyes at that. "Oh, please, now the squid is lecturing me."

[Sortilar]: "Stop acting like a damn idiot. You will be dealt with later."

Espoire regards Sortilar with those same cold blue eyes, unreadable. "... very well." He turns to Beurghes, and begrudgingly nod/bows again. "My apologies."

Beurghes accepts the returned cane, easing into it as he had been before with what pride he still had after being kicked and manhandled like that.

Sortilar is all but twinging with fury at this point, between Opheria being threatened and now this. If looks could kill, the one on his face would be close to it.

"Well then, Magister," Espoire matches that look, unmoving. "What are your orders?"

"...Ooohhhhhhh, so -that's- what's up." Mel hurms, passing the cane to Beurghes. "Sounds like an issue of power - must be something less than professional. Big guy thinks he can get away acting in the name of a guy who ranks higher than him." he shakes his head, and waves a hand, making s show of dropping it, and also differs to Beurghes. "Just say the word, Lord. Make the decision yerself."

Sortilar simply pinches the bridge of his nose, silently amazed that by some freak circumstance, Beurghes is actually the one annoying him the LEAST currently.

[Beurghes]: "There is no answer I can give you, Evensong, that will change that inevitability that you will do what you already set out to do. You know of my person, my works, and my places. I have no further leverages to wedge."

[Sortilar]: "I am not particularly concerned with leverage, as I have stated before when faced with your analysis. Nor am I particularly in the business of delighting in misery as you once claimed, either. I do not take delight in the idea of slaughtering you like livestock. So."

[Beurghes]: “So what NOW."

[Sortilar]: "As I said, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead. That is simply the facts of the situation. As I asked before this battle of wits that unfolded about us...State how and when. I am not sentimental. If you want it to be now, before the pain progresses and you lose your sense of self, Scorpion will handle it eagerly, as he has proven. He even has a new venom or two for the task."

Mel folds his arms, looking up at Beurghes.

[Sortilar]: "Similarly, you can find a particularly pleasing bed and another batch of women. Or, finish up some business and choose then to die of an injection."

"Neither of us know what will happen once I breathe my last," the old druid starts, a hand to his heart. "I am not -supposed- to be, so there is no reference. Nothing could happen, I die and I'm another corpse. Alternatively, I die and the organic arcane, now without restraint, begins to break down my body far too fast."

[Sortilar]: “Yes. I have measures prepared for that circumstance, as my companion can attest to."

Both of Beurghes’ hands clasps over the top of his cane. "Would they work?"

Sortilar looks aside. "Did you even tell them properly, how far gone you are? I am surprised a mercy killing has not already happened, honestly... You must at this point be having your lungs already crystallize. But yes, the coffin would to the job plenty well. I use it for preservation of corpses I am analyzing regularly. It is a variant of Consortium stasis chambers and quite stable."

[Beurghes]: "Holding up my own body is a strain. I flew my last flight. I have stopped being able to keep food down over a week. I feel my heart beating much too hard, as though in a vice that tightens by the day."

[Sortilar]: "Hopefully now my reasoning for seeing collection of your corpse as a lost effort is apparent. Even if we had found you, it would take a pickaxe, not a scalpel."

Mel looks up at Beurghes, lips pressed together.

[Sortilar]: “You are correct in speculating without the energy of your continued life in the flesh, it could indeed rapidly crystalize. The death of your nervous system in the extremities should have hinted as much long ago."

Beurghes looks down at his hands. Behind the leather and roots, one hand feels far too stiff and almost already lifeless. That he could move his hand and arm at all was due to the ten thousand years of practice and muscle memory at this point.

[Sortilar]: "But, even murderers are offered a last supper. So, what do you select as yours? Because, Belore above... Yes, it would be easier to simply slaughter you here and be done with it, but it would traumatize that girl all the further."

The old druid scoffs at the mention of Ilyssae, still not looking up. "Why would it?"

[Sortilar]: "Because I am sure it will be related to her in lurid detail, and most likely she would also not delight in a slaughter no matter the horrible things you have assuredly done to her. I have a daughter myself, not much older, I imagine. Of course, I might be wrong. She might simply be infuriated to not turn you into a blood sieve herself. I simply speculate due to the reluctance she has previously expressed."

Mel makes a face up at Beurghes. "...Oi, Duskwhisper. You sending me off?" he asks, casual but with a certain undertone of something sad in his voice.

Beurghes does not look to Mel. "...Take care of Ilyssae."

Mel peers up at Beurghes. "...Gotcha." he states, simply, and settles for a pat on Beurghes back. Gently. "Die well, big guy." he states, casual, and eases away, making sure Burger still has his cane so he can at least stand tall.

Beurghes rolls his shoulders back, straightening up more. "I don't want to say anything, concerned they'll be my last."

Sortilar waits through these assuredly heartfelt goodbyes or... Whatever they are. At least he has enough dignity not to rush it along at this point, even if he doesn't particularly see the point. "So... What will it be then, Duskwhisper? The blade, the needle?"

Mel opts to sit and watch by a stalactite

Beurghes says nothing but nods respectfully. Espoire was the expert, after all.

[Sortilar]: "Then, set to it, Scorpion. I apologize for interrupting your earlier work."

Espoire has been standing silently, patiently. He looks at Beurghes, perhaps a bit surprised. He does not complain, however, drawing a blade from his hip. "No preference, then? Standing, sitting, on your knees...?"

The cane is tapped hard once against the floor, both druid’s hands firmly set on top. "Standing."

Sortilar looks aside, unable to help but be a bit grimly amused... If standing was the choice, he might just barely be able to reach the throat to try and make it quick. But a good, clean cut... Indeed, that's best left to Espoire.

Mel watches, calmly, arms folded, a witness to witness the affair. Lips pressed together, tendrils curled. Again, stony face, but the tendrils betray him.

Espoire nods, taking a few steps and takes position behind Beurghes, flipping the blade in his hand. "Very well. Walk in starlight, Duskwhisper, may you be given mercy in your next life." He reaches up, wrapping an arm around Beurghes's neck and pressing the blade into his throat... One quick movement. And it's done, blood pouring from the slice, staining the druid's dark skin crimson.

The cane drops out of his hand, hitting the stone floor with an audible, dry sound as instinct forced his hands to the cold of the knife across his throat and the heat of the blood pouring from it. It was not an elegant affair, the gurgling of choked blood blending with heaving gasps of breath that could no longer catch air. Eyes widen and narrow, unsure of how to feel, what to look for. It wasn't long before the old druid fell to his knees blood seeping from between the cracks of his fingers and the edges of his lips. Normally one would keel over as the body limped, but in Beurghes' case, with the rush of arcane no longer under control in his body, it cracked from his skin in long lines like an overflowing pot more crystal than organic convulsing the body that slowed to stillness.  

"...We need to get moving," Sortilar says, voice flat. He turns about, expression flat and business like, not betraying anything. His hands move to begin casting one of his temporal locks, hopefully enough to keep it at bay until the body can be moved to Silvermoon.

Espoire nods, impassive. "What do you need from me?"

Mel, uncaring that he was now 1 v 2, heads to the Oil covered equipment. And goes to snoop about for...something.

Suddenly a burst of arcane glass tore and breached at the weakest points of his body, eyes and mouth, joints and chest, the sounds of popping and cracking a sickening symphony that jerked the body around until all reactions ceased, and with it movement. A cloudy mist of blue seeped from the cracks in his body and dissipated into the air fading into nothing.

Espoire steps backwards, shielding his eyes from the burst. "Shit--"

"Just carry him. With some dignity, please. Whatever he ha --" Sortilar breaks off, cursing in Thalassian as the spell doesn't take, or else is unable to stop the sudden progression.

Mel flicks his fingers - and provides the electric spark that sets the equipment and morrowgrain ablaze. He turns about, pulling out his stein...and wanders over. Unceremoniously, he pours it out on top of the crystalline corpse...and then turns to go back to making sure the fire burns.

Sortilar lowers his hands, considering the situation. After a moment, he moves closer, hovering his hands near the structure but not touching it directly. "...Am I the only one here who wanted to give him at least SOME dignity?"

"It's what he woulda wanted." Mel lies, boldfaced.

Sortilar sighs, seeming revolted.

Espoire says nothing, looking from the crystallized corpse to Sortilar.

"I will open a portal back to Silvermoon City. It may be best to have my animus golem handle the transport." It seems the old Magister is wise enough to venture a guess that either of them coming into direct contact with something so infused with arcane is a recipe for disaster. Instead, he turns about and begins weaving to form the portal.

@hollowlaughter @jollyparaphernalia @space-chaser

[qwertythepopstarian08]

Overshadowed (Part One)

Overshadowed- An OK KO Fanfiction

Description: TKO’s only been around for a year and he’s already starting to slip.

Warnings: Angst, slight horror, Canon-Typical Violence, some kids questioning reality, melting stuff (but nothing too bad), it gets a bit spooky later on...

This fic is an extremely late drabble meant for TKO’s birthday, but I guess it’ll do for SPoOkY Month!

This is also part of an AU called Melting into Shadows (of just Melt AU). You’ll find out why soon enough...

It’s been a year. One year since he first woke up as himself.

Actually, it’s been a year and a month, but TKO couldn’t care less about the details. All he knows is that he’s ‘happy’ now, if happy can even be applied to him.

Right now, he’s standing in the rain, not caring about the possibility of getting sick, the still-surreal sensation of the outside world helping to calm his nerves.

KO’s been letting him out on his own more often, trusting him ever so slightly more each day ever since the PKO incident in which they ‘fused’.

It’s nice, but ever since that day, he’s been feeling odd, if only in subtle ways. His head’s been buzzing with more than electricity, and his mind swims, wading through rivers of almost tangible anxiety.

The chilled rain does little to ease his mind on its own, but the idea of real sickness somehow excites him. He shudders from a brisk breeze, thinking of the sensory overload a cold would bring, something to break him out of his recent numbness.

But before the slightest sniffle can arrive, the front door slams open, the worried tone of his mother shocking him from his thoughts.

“TKO?”

He turns quickly, eyes locking onto her with an oddly intent focus. Contrary to the intensity of the glare, his mind continues to reel, only being dragged back to reality as Carol walks closer.

“What are you doing in the rain?” She reaches for him as he speaks, the look in her eyes promising warmth and blankets and cookies, but the alter ego doesn’t want warmth, yanking his hand back with a fluid movement.

The spikes along his wrist catch on Carol’s arm, and she lets out a small yelp of shock, drawing back. The concern in her eyes has shifted to fear, and TKO’s eyes widen with regret, his eyes filling with recognition.

“M-Mom?” he stammers. He backs away a pace as Carol glances back to him, a small, yet noticeable frown forming on her features. “I-I...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, turning on his heel and breaking into a run through the downpour.

The freezing rain is anything but soothing as he runs, further and further from home. KO is demanding control back at this point, something usually out of character for him, but he ignores the voice, not wanting to face his own mother again.

“It was an accident!” his original protests.

TKO says nothing in reply, only grimacing as another tug for control yanks at him. His eyes flare violet as he turns a corner, rushing past the Plaza like a bullet, nearly slipping on the wet ground.

He’s used to running on concrete, but the lack of concentration is weighing on him, his frustration building. Stray sparks buzz at his wrists, and he breathes heavily, his stamina dwindling.

Leaping over the ditch separating the Bodega from the backwoods area, he skids to a muddy stop a few feet away from the koi pond, his breaths labored.

It’s late, and he’s exhausted, but he doesn’t care, pulling his soaked, messy hair back into a poorly done ponytail using one of KO’s spare headbands.

He’s starting to feel sick, not to mention hungry, a small growl escaping him as he walks towards the pond, sitting down. He can’t stand it, but he can’t bear to go back.

“We could be in bed and safe now, if you hadn’t overreacted,” KO unhelpfully supplies.

TKO snarls in response, running a hand through his hair. “I’m your dark alter ego; newsflash, it’s my job to overreact.”

The voice in his head is quiet for a moment, before sighing, a wave of sympathy accompanying the words. “That doesn’t mean it’s right.”

The alter ego fails to respond, distracting himself by glancing to the water. The twin fish swim around happily, seemingly unharmed by the storm, which was flooding the tiny pool. Letting out a quiet, shaky sigh, TKO dips a hand into the water, watching as the fish swim around it quickly, brushing their tails against his fingers a few times as if offering reassurance.

One fish moves on shortly, yet the darker koi lingers for a few moments, its small eyes almost saddened as it stares up at TKO. It swishes its tail against his wrist once more, narrowly avoiding the spikes, before swimming away to catch up with its friend.

Within their mind, KO sighs, “It’s really getting late, TKO…Mommy’s probably really worried!” before falling completely silent, leaving TKO alone.

He smiles, if only slightly, looking back in the direction of the Plaza. There’s no doubt Carol’s looking for him by now, and he’s feeling a bit better, now that he’s had time to clear his head.

“Alright, KO,” he sighs, a reluctant grin stretching across his face. “You win.”

Strangely, there’s no response, but TKO chalks that up to retribution for his attitude earlier, shrugging. The buzzing has returned to make up for the silence, and he supposes he appreciates the static, which replaces the dull sound of raindrops.

He moves to stand, only to stumble, his legs giving out. Perplexed, he looks back, a twinge of anxiety welling up in his mind. The cold stopped bothering him ages ago, yet all he can feel now is a strange numbness.

“Wha-?” He cuts off, eyes widening, as his form seems to visibly glitch, as if KO was forcibly taking back control, only without the onslaught of positive thoughts. The only thoughts he can form are fearful notions, each more incredulous than the last.

The glitching, which starts abruptly as his knees, cuts off at his feet, where he just seems to blur together, the sheets of rain coming down only doing more to compromise his view.

“KO... is this normal?” He’s only been a conscious being for a year, and he’s slipping. “KO?!”

There’s no response, and the alternate forces himself to stand again, eyes filling with what seems like tears. Static crawls up his limbs, numbness following it only to be replaced with an inky, blurred substance.

TKO jolts in terror as he realizes what the blur is. He screams, leaning against a tree to steady himself as his thoughts devolve into terror-filled yells. “N-No! I don’t want to...” He cuts off with a series of heavy, labored coughs, entire frame shaking with each one. The shadows which once made him up entirely spread up to his neck, the rest of his body obscured as his legs give out entirely, barely feeling as he tumbles to the grass.

What was happening?!

All at once, KO’s thoughts course through his mind, and he lets out a choked scream, overwhelmed. Feelings of terror and vulnerability overlap with his own, multiplying and enveloping his consciousness. Despite the lack of coherency in the words, he can hear his original hollering one terror-filled sentence.

“TKO, you’re melting!”

Much to the alter ego’s horror, when he looks down at himself, he can see his body glitching and stuttering, inky shards flickering away as blurry energy burned at him.

He can barely even feel the rain as the static spreads, a labored breath shaking his deteriorating frame as he holds out a hand, staring dumbfoundedly as what seems to be his own essence visibly drips away, evaporating before it can even hit the ground.

“TKO!!!”

The mental connection snaps like a twig, and KO’s voice cuts off.

Ink-colored tears drip down the alter ego’s face, and he gives one last shaky, fearful intake of breath before the static overtakes him, fizzling with violet and evaporating, leaving KO’s unconscious form behind.

The smoke lingers, pulsing like a static charge.

It collects in the air above the child, humming and droning, purple electricity buzzing around it. It hovers there for a moment, as if collecting itself, tendrils of smoke and electrostatic separating and joining again, only to descend as a whole, floating towards KO.

The smoky energy buzzes and flickers, never straying too far from KO’s prone body, yet never coming closer than within an inch away from him.

It speaks, “KO…?” Confusion lilts in its tone, which glitches and hitches like the rest of it.

The child before it fails to respond, and the energy bristles like an angered cat, particles of charged static orbiting its amorphous shape.

Almost as if disturbed by the display, KO stirs, if only slightly, his eyes fluttering open. He stares blankly forward for a moment, eyes blinking slowly, before recollection of the past hour seems to kick in, causing him to jump up in alarm.

Much to the young hero’s displeasure, his weakness catches up with him, and his legs give out, a shudder ripping through his frame.

Letting out a cacophony of hissed murmurs, the shady smoke curls around him, buzzing and blinking.

As his gaze meets the supposed being, he squeaks in alarm, raising his arms defensively.

“Who are you?!” His voice holds all the fear of a startled child, and the shadowy energy seems to wilt, something similar to recollection sparking in it. “Are you the one that hurt TKO?!”

The energy being’s entire frame jerks, and it suddenly curls in on itself, gaining distance between the child and itself.

“N-n-NOooOOo!”

KO’s expression softens, and he leans slightly closer, sitting on his knees.

“Well, maybe you can help me find him!” Suddenly cheerful, he reaches forward as if to shake the shade’s ‘hand’, only to slip through the smoke as if it were water. It murmurs something, its mind swimming, and he removes his hand, bashful. “Oh, sorry! This has never happened before, so I guess I’m a little shaken up! Usually TKO lives in my mind!”

Slowly, he stands, starting to walk towards the forest’s entrance, and the shadow moves to follow him, humming thoughtfully. Something about the idea of living in someone’s mind seems familiar to it, and it flickers, confused.

“Where… did you last see him?”

KO turns to look at it, and his smile falls. He glances towards the koi pond, then towards the direction of the Plaza. He clenches a fist.

“You see, TKO was really upset when we came here, but after we stopped, it started getting all hazy, and… now I can’t hear him.” He pauses to look down at his feet, recalling the odd static that had taken his alter ego. “I’m kinda scared.”

The energy buzzes quietly, It swishes around KO’s arm, much like how the koi fish had around TKO’s, then blinks, offering reassurance. KO watches the action absently, but a tiny smile quirks his features as his new companion swirls, smoke spreading around him.

The pair stops at the ditch, and KO sighs, glancing around for a sign of TKO. Instead of hopping over the gap, he slides down the muddy incline, trudging forward. A pang of worry settles in his stomach, and he pauses, feeling tears start to collect in his eyes. Worried, the energy being hums loudly, buzzing around him.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouts, “TKO!”

No answer. He tries again, “TKO!”

His lip quivers, mirroring how he’d shuddered from the cold earlier, and he grips at his hair, somewhat bothered by the lack of turbonic energy backing up the anger. The first few tears slide down his face, and he sinks to the ground, hugging himself.

“T...Turbo….” The rainfall intensifies. The safety of the Bodega is literal feet away, but he can’t move. “Where... are you?”

The shadow buzzes around him, offering little comfort as the child cries himself to sleep…

“There he is!”

KO stirs at the sound of familiar voices, his eyes opening suddenly. At the sound of new people, the static energy hisses, then fades from view, cowering.

“He’s in the alleyway!”

His heart quickens, hope filling him. Maybe everyone else can help him find TKO! Fueled by adrenaline, he jumps to his feet, wiping dried mud from his cheek as he dashes towards the Bodega. The shadowy creature next to him hums quietly, trailing slowly behind him, and he beckons it with a hand, unable to hold his smile.

He turns the corner, skidding to a near stop, before rushing towards a familiar woman.

“Mommy!” All the fear and anger from earlier is gone, evaporated as he leaps into Carol’s waiting arms.

She catches him effortlessly, only cringing slightly from the sudden weight. A warm hug surrounds him momentarily as his mother embraces him, before holding him at arm’s length, examining him for injuries.

“KO! Are you okay?” she questions worriedly. KO winces at the tear marks lining her face, glancing around to see a concerned Rad and Enid as well. “When T ran off, I got so worried…”

“I’m fine, Mommy!” he assures her, although it’s not entirely true, and now that the euphoria has worn off, the anxious dread from earlier has begun to set in again.

He wriggles out of Carol’s grasp, waving his arms for emphasis as he yells, “But TKO’s gone!”

It’s now that the static creature decides to make itself known, flickering in and out of view as it buzzes around the mother and son duo. Carol watches the being uneasily, somewhat shocked by its presence.

“Uh…”

The static being hums, content with orbiting around Carol’s hair. It clearly doesn’t understand her apprehension, murmurs of incoherent words overlapping. It likes her, the familiar aura calming it in despite the sudden crowd.

Enid approaches, quirking an eyebrow. “KO… what is that thing?” From the look in her gaze, KO can tell she’s thinking about the Gloop incident, and he rushes to reassure her of his new friend’s innocence.

The shadow glitches at her angrily, before KO gently collects it, wafting its smoky form towards himself, where it swirls about, restless.

Allowing the smoky being to coil around him, KO pouts. “This is my friend! He’s been helping me look for TKO!”

Rad pipes up, “Um, doesn’t that guy live in your mind?… I mean...?” His gaze flicks between the others and the newcomer, a slight anxiety building in his tone. “Unless that changed somehow.”

“Last I saw of him, he was still sharing a body with KO,” Carol recounts.

An aura of perplexment is beginning to build amongst the group, and KO sighs heavily, shaking his head.

“And that’s why we’ve been looking for him.”

The static around KO lets out what could only be described as a snicker, despite the distortion. It uncurls from around him slightly, raising what seemed to be its head, then grins, showing off a jagged, glowing smile from within the static.

This time, when it speaks, its voice is significantly clearer, a strangely familiar snarky tone dripping from its words.

“And as you can see, we haven’t made much progress.”

Hearing the voice, KO jolts, startling the smoky creature into darting away from him, yowling. It splatters to the ground, hissing indignantly as everyone stares at it, each expression holding varying levels of awe. KO recovers the quickest, his shock melting into extreme joy as he steps forward, arms outstretched as if to scoop the static into a hug.

It recoils, staring up at the small crowd in confused terror, when Rad suddenly speaks, his voice high with astonishment, “TKO..?”