[ Continued from here! ]
[ Puzzled is good. Puzzled is much better than bleeding from her facial orifices. She pronounces Gid-e-on all the way through, and doesn't even put Nigenad after it, and he claps his hands together in satisfied pride. ]
Excellent work. Huge improvement. May I have a quick look at what's going on in there, Harrow? Just for everyone's peace of mind.
[ He steps forward, head a little bowed and one palm open, as ludicrously nonthreatening as he can manage. All he will need is to smooth a thumb at her temple, the briefest touch of skin to skin, to search for the spell and the scarring.
To Gideon, he says: ]
Oh, I believe it. But let's not go planning the mutiny just yet. I'm here to help.
[ Puzzled is good. Puzzled is much better than bleeding from her facial orifices. She pronounces Gid-e-on all the way through, and doesn't even put Nigenad after it, and he claps his hands together in satisfied pride. ]
Excellent work. Huge improvement. May I have a quick look at what's going on in there, Harrow? Just for everyone's peace of mind.
[ He steps forward, head a little bowed and one palm open, as ludicrously nonthreatening as he can manage. All he will need is to smooth a thumb at her temple, the briefest touch of skin to skin, to search for the spell and the scarring.
To Gideon, he says: ]
Oh, I believe it. But let's not go planning the mutiny just yet. I'm here to help.
[ Continued from here! ]
"Mercy," he says, mildly, "I don't recall the last time I set foot on any planet. You will still have me beat."
This is not strictly true, because he hasn't exactly been sending his Lyctors off anywhere with recreational boating trips. But then, he doesn't know all of what she's been up to, these past few millennia; that fact hangs uncomfortably heavy between them.
Then she goes and says Canaan House and makes it hurt, in the sweetest way. He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully like it doesn't.
"Cold and dreary and grey seems to be the order of the day here, as well," he allows, "so I'm sure it will translate phenomenally. I do love to see someone else improvise for a while; I've been doing it since I arrived."
"Mercy," he says, mildly, "I don't recall the last time I set foot on any planet. You will still have me beat."
This is not strictly true, because he hasn't exactly been sending his Lyctors off anywhere with recreational boating trips. But then, he doesn't know all of what she's been up to, these past few millennia; that fact hangs uncomfortably heavy between them.
Then she goes and says Canaan House and makes it hurt, in the sweetest way. He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully like it doesn't.
"Cold and dreary and grey seems to be the order of the day here, as well," he allows, "so I'm sure it will translate phenomenally. I do love to see someone else improvise for a while; I've been doing it since I arrived."
"I rather think you've been doing that for quite a bit longer, John," she says, with teeth. And oh Lord, is this what another eternity with her in another dimension is going to be like? — the gloves have come off, with simpering worship traded in for extremely passive-aggressive barbs. Each one searching for soft flesh like a cat flexing its claws, almost matter of habit.
But as if to show that it's also not a real problem (Mercy has experience working alongside someone she both hates and loves, after all), she claps her hands together: brisk, efficient.
"Let go and hand over a few of them to me. Let's say... six." And as if she's not standing there vulnerable and half-naked and looking like a drowned rat tangled in a towel, she starts to reach out for the crewmen with her own ever-burning thanergy. Mercymorn the First is a flesh magician; she can puppet meat well enough. While she noses at their rubbery muscles, she adds, offhand, "And are there any more clothes in that captain's cabin? I'll wear men's."
But as if to show that it's also not a real problem (Mercy has experience working alongside someone she both hates and loves, after all), she claps her hands together: brisk, efficient.
"Let go and hand over a few of them to me. Let's say... six." And as if she's not standing there vulnerable and half-naked and looking like a drowned rat tangled in a towel, she starts to reach out for the crewmen with her own ever-burning thanergy. Mercymorn the First is a flesh magician; she can puppet meat well enough. While she noses at their rubbery muscles, she adds, offhand, "And are there any more clothes in that captain's cabin? I'll wear men's."
There is something jarring and terrifically sad about seeing Mercy snap at him without restraint. There's an incredible honesty to it, he supposes, a new intimacy between them. A final layer of polish scrubbed off, and now what they have is so ancient and worn that it can only be exactly what it is.
What it is might be still angry, for anyone keeping score. But here on unfamiliar waters, they have only each other, and John isn't past leaning on that. He will never be past loving her, no matter what she does to him and what he'll do to her in return.
She goes poking at his puppeted sailors, half-frowning past the water still dripping off her chin, and it is both a little funny and very Mercy. John relinquishes control, splays his hands like defeat.
"Knock yourself out," he says. "I'll find you something good and pirate-y to wear."
He steps away to find a humorously oversized ruffled shirt, and leaves her on his deck among the dead.
What it is might be still angry, for anyone keeping score. But here on unfamiliar waters, they have only each other, and John isn't past leaning on that. He will never be past loving her, no matter what she does to him and what he'll do to her in return.
She goes poking at his puppeted sailors, half-frowning past the water still dripping off her chin, and it is both a little funny and very Mercy. John relinquishes control, splays his hands like defeat.
"Knock yourself out," he says. "I'll find you something good and pirate-y to wear."
He steps away to find a humorously oversized ruffled shirt, and leaves her on his deck among the dead.
Mutiny? He won't hurt me, Griddle, it's all right.
[ Her voice is weak and shaky, still, and stumbles a bit on 'Griddle,' as she raises her head and fights herself to not smile at her cavalier. Don't worry. She doesn't. That would be weird. But she's trying to grab for Gideon's hand at the same time, which is also completely weird.
Harrow still looks a bit dazed, if nothing else. Her last memories of the Emperor Undying are not the same as Gideon's, the knowledge she has quite different.
Thus, she bows her head: acknowledgement, permission. She knows what she's done. ]
Go ahead.
[ Her voice is weak and shaky, still, and stumbles a bit on 'Griddle,' as she raises her head and fights herself to not smile at her cavalier. Don't worry. She doesn't. That would be weird. But she's trying to grab for Gideon's hand at the same time, which is also completely weird.
Harrow still looks a bit dazed, if nothing else. Her last memories of the Emperor Undying are not the same as Gideon's, the knowledge she has quite different.
Thus, she bows her head: acknowledgement, permission. She knows what she's done. ]
Go ahead.
[ Gideon gets to work on performing quite a bit of mental gymnastics -- on the one hand, what Harrow has just said is patently, depressingly false. Gideon has to correct her, both for Harrow's own safety and also because it's nice to finally be right about something. On the other hand, it's probably not a great idea to freak her out right before God's Spooky Brain Exam. That could do her more harm than good.
So Gideon bites her lip and says, tersely: ]
Harrow. Do you remember that thing with the soup?
[ It was dramatic enough that Gideon, the presence at the back of her mind, remembers the thing with the soup. The question is mostly rhetorical, a way to stall for time while the Kindly Prince does his checkup. ]
So Gideon bites her lip and says, tersely: ]
Harrow. Do you remember that thing with the soup?
[ It was dramatic enough that Gideon, the presence at the back of her mind, remembers the thing with the soup. The question is mostly rhetorical, a way to stall for time while the Kindly Prince does his checkup. ]
[ The Emperor Undying definitely remembers the thing with the soup, and he can see where this is going. His inconvenient surprise of a daughter has decided they'd better pile on all the other inconvenient surprises while they're at it.
He makes no effort to derail her. Instead, his touch to Harrow's temple is a gentle press of the fingertips, barely-there, skin to skin. He chews his lip in thought and rocks back on his heels, then moves to stand. ]
Well, I'd certainly classify this as a miracle, and it's not one of mine.
He makes no effort to derail her. Instead, his touch to Harrow's temple is a gentle press of the fingertips, barely-there, skin to skin. He chews his lip in thought and rocks back on his heels, then moves to stand. ]
Well, I'd certainly classify this as a miracle, and it's not one of mine.
[ That sure is a question. Harrow is not clear, in an obvious blinking-owlishly-at-Gideon way, as to why this is being asked. She holds perfectly still, though: she is the subject of examination by a holy presence, and won't disturb it. ]
Yes?
[ Her confusion is over how it is related, and as the water continues to move, as water is wont to do, Harrow gets a little paler (somehow possible) and maybe a mite greener around the ears, too. But she tilts her head at the Emperor's conclusion, curious and cautious at once. ]
It isn't--I just undid what I had done. I made a--mistake, I fixed it.
Yes?
[ Her confusion is over how it is related, and as the water continues to move, as water is wont to do, Harrow gets a little paler (somehow possible) and maybe a mite greener around the ears, too. But she tilts her head at the Emperor's conclusion, curious and cautious at once. ]
It isn't--I just undid what I had done. I made a--mistake, I fixed it.
While he's off scrounging for clothing, Mercymorn climbs the steps to take position up on the quarter deck, to get a clear view of what she's working with. She presses her hands against the railing and leans forward, her attention intent on controlling the crew. Not a captain herself (that role is decidedly taken), but perhaps— a first mate.
And there's a withering kind of derisive amusement in the thought. Apparently she is destined to become his fingers and hands, over and over. At least Augustine isn't here to claim first position all over again and relegate her to second mate. Time seems to be cyclical. Everything that has happened will always happen again.
When John eventually comes up to rejoin her, she's lost in those thoughts — death and rebirth makes you contemplative, apparently — while she sends crewmates up and down lines, pulling on rope, catching some of that stormy salt breeze to start turning the ship back towards what she thinks is shore.
As God approaches her again, she lets him come in from her blind side without bristling. If he's going to stab her in the back, might as well get it over with; fretting over anything else feels like a waste of energy.
Her next question comes sideways, perhaps a little unexpected: "Were you a squid too?"
And there's a withering kind of derisive amusement in the thought. Apparently she is destined to become his fingers and hands, over and over. At least Augustine isn't here to claim first position all over again and relegate her to second mate. Time seems to be cyclical. Everything that has happened will always happen again.
When John eventually comes up to rejoin her, she's lost in those thoughts — death and rebirth makes you contemplative, apparently — while she sends crewmates up and down lines, pulling on rope, catching some of that stormy salt breeze to start turning the ship back towards what she thinks is shore.
As God approaches her again, she lets him come in from her blind side without bristling. If he's going to stab her in the back, might as well get it over with; fretting over anything else feels like a waste of energy.
Her next question comes sideways, perhaps a little unexpected: "Were you a squid too?"
[ From here! ]
Now here's a wild one. He would assume they really go in for body modification around here, which is reasonable when the whole population has a knack for flesh magic; except that the God of Necromancers can see beyond skin-deep, and what he glimpses is a marvel. He doesn't know what he's seeing, which seems to be the theme of the day.
Then the guy breaks out an honest-to-god lightsaber and twirls it like a baton, and John whistles lowly.
"You know," he says, all amusement, "I've always thought we could upgrade from rapiers."
It's funny until the guy grabs him from afar and pulls.
There is a split second in which John is genuinely blindsided, and he lurches forward like any other hapless puppet. This isn't a magic he recognizes; this doesn't touch his domain. But he can match like for like: without any outward movement, he tries to seize control of his opponent's hands and slacken the muscles. It's a gamble that the man has need of gesture to work his spells— that disarming him will let John regain his footing instead of barreling rudely forward— but it'll be a tidy trick if it works.
(Even the attempt brews something in him, a low sickly hum that buzzes in his teeth. The first signs of trouble.)
Now here's a wild one. He would assume they really go in for body modification around here, which is reasonable when the whole population has a knack for flesh magic; except that the God of Necromancers can see beyond skin-deep, and what he glimpses is a marvel. He doesn't know what he's seeing, which seems to be the theme of the day.
Then the guy breaks out an honest-to-god lightsaber and twirls it like a baton, and John whistles lowly.
"You know," he says, all amusement, "I've always thought we could upgrade from rapiers."
It's funny until the guy grabs him from afar and pulls.
There is a split second in which John is genuinely blindsided, and he lurches forward like any other hapless puppet. This isn't a magic he recognizes; this doesn't touch his domain. But he can match like for like: without any outward movement, he tries to seize control of his opponent's hands and slacken the muscles. It's a gamble that the man has need of gesture to work his spells— that disarming him will let John regain his footing instead of barreling rudely forward— but it'll be a tidy trick if it works.
(Even the attempt brews something in him, a low sickly hum that buzzes in his teeth. The first signs of trouble.)
Unfortunately for John, using the Force doesn't require using his hands. Granted, the visuals do help, but Maul would still be able to call upon his powers even if he had both hands lopped off. While weakening the muscles in his hands makes him drop his lightsaber, it doesn't stop Maul from still pulling the Emperor forward until he's right in front of him.
Maul holds him there for a moment, glaring at him. Not being able to use his hands make combat a bit more difficult but it's not impossible, especially given the natural rage within him. "Clever. Very clever. But not good enough," Maul growls. Then he leans forwards and bites down on the spot between the Emperor's neck and shoulder.
Maul holds him there for a moment, glaring at him. Not being able to use his hands make combat a bit more difficult but it's not impossible, especially given the natural rage within him. "Clever. Very clever. But not good enough," Maul growls. Then he leans forwards and bites down on the spot between the Emperor's neck and shoulder.
Well, that takes care of the plasma sword, so they've got something to work with.
Maul holds him, and John simply quirks his eyebrows in expectation. This has already gone off the rails in new and interesting ways, and he genuinely does not know what to expect next. It's a bit of a novelty, being restrained. Being glared down by a person who looks like he wants to tear John's throat out with his—
Oh, well, that's rather literal. And would put a huge damper on his afternoon, so he's going to opt out of this one.
Something very bad happens to Maul's teeth. First, it is as simple as his jaw clicking shut again; then the top and bottom rows begin to fuse together. Enamel and dentin run like wax, easy as molding clay, and John thinks this might be most effective if the nerves start twisting too. He does not literally tie them together in agonizing knots, but that's very much the effect he's going for.
It would distract even a trained necromancer long enough for John to step back for some breathing room. Against this guy, John's not so sure.
(Something simmers, just out of sight. There is a faint, thrumming smoke around his heels now. It represents a much larger problem than the guy with the teeth.)
Maul holds him, and John simply quirks his eyebrows in expectation. This has already gone off the rails in new and interesting ways, and he genuinely does not know what to expect next. It's a bit of a novelty, being restrained. Being glared down by a person who looks like he wants to tear John's throat out with his—
Oh, well, that's rather literal. And would put a huge damper on his afternoon, so he's going to opt out of this one.
Something very bad happens to Maul's teeth. First, it is as simple as his jaw clicking shut again; then the top and bottom rows begin to fuse together. Enamel and dentin run like wax, easy as molding clay, and John thinks this might be most effective if the nerves start twisting too. He does not literally tie them together in agonizing knots, but that's very much the effect he's going for.
It would distract even a trained necromancer long enough for John to step back for some breathing room. Against this guy, John's not so sure.
(Something simmers, just out of sight. There is a faint, thrumming smoke around his heels now. It represents a much larger problem than the guy with the teeth.)
cw: psychic choke, all the fighting cws for this thread really
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
survivalthroughhate
2022-01-10 12:03 pm (UTC)(link)
At first Maul isn't sure what's going on. Then as the pain starts he realizes that this opponent has done something to his mouth. There is a muted sound, a growl of pain or rage or both that cannot escape Maul's mouth for the simple reason he cannot open it. His mouth is fused shut by whatever strange magic this man has at his disposal. It's creepy, weird, and painful, but there's nothing in it which sets off the fear or panic that so often rise when Maul encounters something that reminds him of his past.
No, all he feels right now is just usual rage of wanting to defeat the opponent right in front of him. He leans forward and headbutts the Emperor hard, jutting his head downwards and then back up. No one in the galaxy ever wins when it comes to getting headbutted by a Zabrak. They have horns for a reason.
Well, if this man can mess with his very bones and seal up his mouth as if he is nothing more than a doll to be played, Maul decides to see how well he he was able to do so without oxygen. His hand doesn't come up the way most Force users do to emphasize their actions but still the Emperor will feel his windpipe slowly be closed as surely as if two hands are wrapped around his neck trying to choke the life out of him.
No, all he feels right now is just usual rage of wanting to defeat the opponent right in front of him. He leans forward and headbutts the Emperor hard, jutting his head downwards and then back up. No one in the galaxy ever wins when it comes to getting headbutted by a Zabrak. They have horns for a reason.
Well, if this man can mess with his very bones and seal up his mouth as if he is nothing more than a doll to be played, Maul decides to see how well he he was able to do so without oxygen. His hand doesn't come up the way most Force users do to emphasize their actions but still the Emperor will feel his windpipe slowly be closed as surely as if two hands are wrapped around his neck trying to choke the life out of him.
[A letter arrives in the hands of a mildly bewildered, well-dressed young Trenchie, who gives it to whomever (or whatever) opens the door first with instructions to 'deliver it only to the captain'. It is written on thick, cream-colored paper and sealed with red wax impressed with the emblem of a hawk. The writing inside was done by quill and ink, each letter shaped to exacting calligraphic perfection.]
TO HIS DIVINE IMPERIAL MAJESTY THE EMPEROR OF THE NINE HOUSES, HALLOWED IN NAME, THE RESURRECTING KING, NECROLORD PRIME, A SUPPLICATION FROM PAUL ATREIDES, DUKE OF ARRAKIS,
I write this missive to you under the seal and covenant of my House, which has never been broken, and in the spirit of respect and reparation, praying only for the consideration of Your Divine Imperial Majesty of my words.
I will not burden you further with apologies for my conduct in your presence, except to say that they were and remain sincere. I have reflected often since on your magnanimity in the face of my inexcusable presumption, and I may only again express my humility at your grace in answer to my offenses.
I ask this grace of you once more, knowing that it is undeserved, for my lapse in seeking your blessing for my pledges to your Houses of the Sixth and the Ninth. They, who surely number among the best and most dear of your subjects, have done me great kindnesses, and I am sworn to their service, their interests to me as my own.
Kindly Prince, King Undying, I humbly ask your leave to continue my association with your loyal servants, to serve as their ally, and therefore, to serve as yours. May your reign last eternal, your crown undimmed, and the Tomb ever sealed.
Paul Atreides
[There is a folded note as well, tucked into the letter, written with the same precision on thinner, paler paper. When opened, it reads:]
To the captain of the good ship Lonely Island, from Paul, navigator,
If you'll still have me.
I write this missive to you under the seal and covenant of my House, which has never been broken, and in the spirit of respect and reparation, praying only for the consideration of Your Divine Imperial Majesty of my words.
I will not burden you further with apologies for my conduct in your presence, except to say that they were and remain sincere. I have reflected often since on your magnanimity in the face of my inexcusable presumption, and I may only again express my humility at your grace in answer to my offenses.
I ask this grace of you once more, knowing that it is undeserved, for my lapse in seeking your blessing for my pledges to your Houses of the Sixth and the Ninth. They, who surely number among the best and most dear of your subjects, have done me great kindnesses, and I am sworn to their service, their interests to me as my own.
Kindly Prince, King Undying, I humbly ask your leave to continue my association with your loyal servants, to serve as their ally, and therefore, to serve as yours. May your reign last eternal, your crown undimmed, and the Tomb ever sealed.
[There is a folded note as well, tucked into the letter, written with the same precision on thinner, paler paper. When opened, it reads:]
To the captain of the good ship Lonely Island, from Paul, navigator,
If you'll still have me.
[ Across Trench, a man unfolds a letter and exhales an immediate little sigh. He leans against the table and rubs a thumb at his temple. At my inexcusable presumption, he sighs again; at the Tomb ever sealed, he makes a noise.
Later that day, a skeleton goes clattering politely down the cobblestone road. (A Hunter smashes it, which is deeply rude, but it waits for a quiet moment to reassemble and then sets off again.) It arrives holding a rolled letter, bound shut with a thin organic filament and a tiny clasp of bone. The material looks uncomfortably like vellum.
Printed there, in a tight and messy scrawl, is the following: ]
TO THE NOBLE PAUL ATREIDES, DUKE OF ARRAKIS, EXCELLENT NAVIGATOR AND HONORED FRIEND OF THE NINE HOUSES, WHOSE PENMANSHIP IS FRANKLY ASTONISHING AND I DO MEAN THAT IN A GOOD WAY,
I find that I so rarely write my own missives I have wholly lost the art of it. I acknowledge and respect the effort, Paul, but there's no need for such formality here.
You will be doing me an immense favor by standing beside my adepts and their cavaliers, who number among the most skilled and stalwart heroes of the empire, and who are very likely to charge off towards danger with little regard for their own safety. This is a deeply commendable trait, and one that will turn my hair grey. Harrowhark and Gideon, though born to the Ninth, are members of my own First House: they are my hallowed saints, arbiters of my word and will, my divine family. I am relieved to hear that, should need arise, you will be at their side.
If ever you have need of me or want for conversation, my door is open.
I'll keep you posted on more boat trips.
THE EMPEROR DIVINE ETC
O CAPTAIN YOUR CAPTAIN
A FRIEND
Later that day, a skeleton goes clattering politely down the cobblestone road. (A Hunter smashes it, which is deeply rude, but it waits for a quiet moment to reassemble and then sets off again.) It arrives holding a rolled letter, bound shut with a thin organic filament and a tiny clasp of bone. The material looks uncomfortably like vellum.
Printed there, in a tight and messy scrawl, is the following: ]
I find that I so rarely write my own missives I have wholly lost the art of it. I acknowledge and respect the effort, Paul, but there's no need for such formality here.
You will be doing me an immense favor by standing beside my adepts and their cavaliers, who number among the most skilled and stalwart heroes of the empire, and who are very likely to charge off towards danger with little regard for their own safety. This is a deeply commendable trait, and one that will turn my hair grey. Harrowhark and Gideon, though born to the Ninth, are members of my own First House: they are my hallowed saints, arbiters of my word and will, my divine family. I am relieved to hear that, should need arise, you will be at their side.
If ever you have need of me or want for conversation, my door is open.
I'll keep you posted on more boat trips.
O CAPTAIN YOUR CAPTAIN
A FRIEND
The guy just headbutts him right in the face.
There is a sudden spray of Darkblood, there and then gone: a glitter in the air which collapses to colorless dust and patters mundanely to the ground. John reels back, scrunching his nose around as though to set it back in place. The wounds are gone as soon as they'd formed; there is nothing for him to wipe off his face but that same dust, which he does, with the heel of a hand.
It is more than a mortal has managed on him in the past thousand years. It hurts like a genuine bitch. He'd say as much, but John gets no further than "Ow," before his throat crunches shut.
Okay: this is rude.
Lack of oxygen won't bother him for a while yet, not when he can enrich his own bloodstream with a thought. Getting headbutted in the face again would. So he drags the warped teeth from Maul's mouth, spills them out and builds them up into constructs: it looks like Maul is drooling skeletons. They're not human skeletons, because he has to work with what he's got, and what he's got is a half-understood blueprint of a species he cannot name.
The skeletons have horns. In each eye socket is a speck of livid red light. They crowd in at Maul, bones clicking as they move, and give their new God the cover to step away.
There is still smoke around his ankles, simmering, but he can get away with this. Constructs are a freebie, to a point. And smashable skeletons have always been cinematic in an arena.
There is a sudden spray of Darkblood, there and then gone: a glitter in the air which collapses to colorless dust and patters mundanely to the ground. John reels back, scrunching his nose around as though to set it back in place. The wounds are gone as soon as they'd formed; there is nothing for him to wipe off his face but that same dust, which he does, with the heel of a hand.
It is more than a mortal has managed on him in the past thousand years. It hurts like a genuine bitch. He'd say as much, but John gets no further than "Ow," before his throat crunches shut.
Okay: this is rude.
Lack of oxygen won't bother him for a while yet, not when he can enrich his own bloodstream with a thought. Getting headbutted in the face again would. So he drags the warped teeth from Maul's mouth, spills them out and builds them up into constructs: it looks like Maul is drooling skeletons. They're not human skeletons, because he has to work with what he's got, and what he's got is a half-understood blueprint of a species he cannot name.
The skeletons have horns. In each eye socket is a speck of livid red light. They crowd in at Maul, bones clicking as they move, and give their new God the cover to step away.
There is still smoke around his ankles, simmering, but he can get away with this. Constructs are a freebie, to a point. And smashable skeletons have always been cinematic in an arena.
The man bleeds, so clearly he's vulnerable. He's about to press his advantage and crush the Emperor's throat completely when Maul feels the painful sensation of his teeth being dragged from his mouth before being spilled upon the ground. With them gone, he feels his mouth unfuse and go back to a state of normalcy. Even the gaps that were just there in his teeth don't seem to be there anymore.
Maul watches in amazement as the teeth on the ground grow into skeletons like something out of an old myth or legend. Well, looks like his opponent now has protectors. Rather than showing any fear or being intimidated, Maul smiles. Now this is going to be fun.
He calls upon his saberstaff and the weapon flies into his grasp. Reigniting it, he leaps forward and starts dealing with the skeletons the way a wolf would be among the sheep. He makes a couple of quick slashes, dealing with the one on his left side first before he turns his attention to the others.
Maul watches in amazement as the teeth on the ground grow into skeletons like something out of an old myth or legend. Well, looks like his opponent now has protectors. Rather than showing any fear or being intimidated, Maul smiles. Now this is going to be fun.
He calls upon his saberstaff and the weapon flies into his grasp. Reigniting it, he leaps forward and starts dealing with the skeletons the way a wolf would be among the sheep. He makes a couple of quick slashes, dealing with the one on his left side first before he turns his attention to the others.
Yeah, yeah, he fixes the guy's mouth. His new friend has been a real sport about getting his dental nerves wiggled around like spaghetti, so it seems only fair.
The smile is wild. This guy really is something else.
"Not bad."
It's good to have his voice back. The Emperor falls back at a leisurely backwards stroll, rubbing his throat as he straightens out any lingering internal damage. He wipes a little more blood-dust out of his eye. He lets his skeletons do their thing.
Maul is too good at this: he powers through skeletons like a knife through butter. Bone chips fall like rain. So their God decides to keep things a little interesting: he stands up every melty-edged victim of the saber, every sheared-off humerus or hunk of ribcage. Each one grows into a fresh skeleton. Five opponents become nine, then thirteen, then twenty.
They surround Maul in a clicking, scrabbling horde: reaching for his eyes, his face, his throat. None of them seem capable or even particularly willing to do much damage, but it's still a horrifying crush of living bone.
And it lets John straighten his clothing, dust himself off, observe the carnage from a more comfortable distance.
"It's over, mate."
He spreads his arms, all amusement, while his servants try to bury Maul beneath their brittle bodies.
"I have the high skeletons."
The smile is wild. This guy really is something else.
"Not bad."
It's good to have his voice back. The Emperor falls back at a leisurely backwards stroll, rubbing his throat as he straightens out any lingering internal damage. He wipes a little more blood-dust out of his eye. He lets his skeletons do their thing.
Maul is too good at this: he powers through skeletons like a knife through butter. Bone chips fall like rain. So their God decides to keep things a little interesting: he stands up every melty-edged victim of the saber, every sheared-off humerus or hunk of ribcage. Each one grows into a fresh skeleton. Five opponents become nine, then thirteen, then twenty.
They surround Maul in a clicking, scrabbling horde: reaching for his eyes, his face, his throat. None of them seem capable or even particularly willing to do much damage, but it's still a horrifying crush of living bone.
And it lets John straighten his clothing, dust himself off, observe the carnage from a more comfortable distance.
"It's over, mate."
He spreads his arms, all amusement, while his servants try to bury Maul beneath their brittle bodies.
"I have the high skeletons."
It doesn't take Maul long to realize what is going on as the skeletons coming after him multiply. Hmmmm, he'll have to think up a strategy with a little more imagination now than just the usual hack 'n slash that he prefers sometimes. Several of them are dismantled through the Force as Maul sends the bones off all in different directions so it will be harder to put themselves back together.
Good thing Maul wasn't even in that movie or he'd be highly annoyed right about now. He's already working himself up into a fine state and scowls at the Emperor's words. Like so many others here, it seems this powerful opponent has underestimated Maul. It isn't the first and certainly won't be the last.
"You think this is over? I have not yet begun to fight!" There's a crackle of spiritual energy so potent that even a non-Force sensitive like the Emperor will feel it as Maul draws upon every bit of anger, hatred, and determination he has. What he needs to do now requires a lot of power if not finesse. The air swirls around him for a moment and then he just sends a wave of Dark Side energy out in every direction. It's like a bomb going off as the remaining skeletons go flying every which way. If he's not expecting it, that will even knock the other man clean off his feet.
Those in the stands go completely hushed for a moment....and then the crowd goes wild at seeing that display of power from Maul. He's been in fights here in the arena several times but hasn't done anything quite like that and it has definitely drawn attention now that he has. With bared, sharp teeth that make him look like every inch the feral being he is capable of being, he looks to see if there will be anymore shenanigans from his opponent.
Good thing Maul wasn't even in that movie or he'd be highly annoyed right about now. He's already working himself up into a fine state and scowls at the Emperor's words. Like so many others here, it seems this powerful opponent has underestimated Maul. It isn't the first and certainly won't be the last.
"You think this is over? I have not yet begun to fight!" There's a crackle of spiritual energy so potent that even a non-Force sensitive like the Emperor will feel it as Maul draws upon every bit of anger, hatred, and determination he has. What he needs to do now requires a lot of power if not finesse. The air swirls around him for a moment and then he just sends a wave of Dark Side energy out in every direction. It's like a bomb going off as the remaining skeletons go flying every which way. If he's not expecting it, that will even knock the other man clean off his feet.
Those in the stands go completely hushed for a moment....and then the crowd goes wild at seeing that display of power from Maul. He's been in fights here in the arena several times but hasn't done anything quite like that and it has definitely drawn attention now that he has. With bared, sharp teeth that make him look like every inch the feral being he is capable of being, he looks to see if there will be anymore shenanigans from his opponent.
This does, in fact, knock John flat on his ass. He lets it. As the dust clears and the bits of bone go pattering across their stadium, he takes a good look at whatever that was. He takes mental notes. He'd love to buy this guy a drink and ask how, and what, and if he could get another couple demonstrations for science.
Still, one thing can be said of God: he is never, never, done with the shenanigans.
The roar of the crowd is a welcome surge of noise, even if they're not roaring for him. It's still his show. He sits up, straightens his shirt, knocks a couple pebbles out of his hair. It has the feel of a pratfall routine. Around them, the shattered skeletons rise and reassemble.
"Best two out of three?"
Still, one thing can be said of God: he is never, never, done with the shenanigans.
The roar of the crowd is a welcome surge of noise, even if they're not roaring for him. It's still his show. He sits up, straightens his shirt, knocks a couple pebbles out of his hair. It has the feel of a pratfall routine. Around them, the shattered skeletons rise and reassemble.
"Best two out of three?"
Maul, underneath the haze of rage, is likewise a little curious about the Emperor and what he's able to do. He's never encountered magic quite like this, not even among the rather abundant population of magic users in the city. He takes in the measure of this....is he human? Or only resembling the species superficially the way so many humanoid aliens are like in his own universe.
He flips the saberstaff around in his left hand and makes a few flashy movements with it. They wouldn't be very effective during a real fight but they look awesome when showing off in front of a crowd. "I can do this all day," Maul says in a cocky but not unwarranted fashion.
He flips the saberstaff around in his left hand and makes a few flashy movements with it. They wouldn't be very effective during a real fight but they look awesome when showing off in front of a crowd. "I can do this all day," Maul says in a cocky but not unwarranted fashion.
It looks, in God's holy estimation, pretty badass honestly. He gives a low little whistle, and picks himself back upright with all the grace of a nobody: like he's just a man, like he's somebody's dad. For fleeting moments he seems comically out of place in an arena of death, which is at least funny to him.
"Here's take two, then."
The skeletons screw their heads back on, reattach their arms, put on their feet like wacky shoes. Then, as one lurching and clattering horde, they charge.
They're still just canon fodder. Even given the opportunity, none do anything more than claw and grapple harmlessly for their target: they're all bark. It'll be more of the same if he doesn't spice things up a bit, so he spreads his hands like the maestro of an orchestra.
All the half-dried blood here in the sand, the abandoned waste of past fights, stops being dry. It stops being waste. Warmblood's easiest, resists him the least, so he grabs it as his chosen clay and starts to craft something useful.
From the sand, beads of dark red blood rise as though magnetized; they form a trickle, then a lattice; and suddenly it's not unlike something Maul might have seen in an old dream, faced with a Pthumerian Queen. A net of tacky blood weaves itself into existence and tries to ensnare Maul, tries to take him to his knees. Among the riot of skeletons, everything is maroon and white, lit by the flash and sizzle of the saber.
Oily black smoke simmers at God's heels, but he can keep her down for a little while yet. So long as he doesn't spill any more pain and blood and life, anything to excite her into frenzy; so long as he can start to wrap this up...
Somewhere out of sight, there is a groan of metal as blood and bone shear the lock off a monster's cage.
"Here's take two, then."
The skeletons screw their heads back on, reattach their arms, put on their feet like wacky shoes. Then, as one lurching and clattering horde, they charge.
They're still just canon fodder. Even given the opportunity, none do anything more than claw and grapple harmlessly for their target: they're all bark. It'll be more of the same if he doesn't spice things up a bit, so he spreads his hands like the maestro of an orchestra.
All the half-dried blood here in the sand, the abandoned waste of past fights, stops being dry. It stops being waste. Warmblood's easiest, resists him the least, so he grabs it as his chosen clay and starts to craft something useful.
From the sand, beads of dark red blood rise as though magnetized; they form a trickle, then a lattice; and suddenly it's not unlike something Maul might have seen in an old dream, faced with a Pthumerian Queen. A net of tacky blood weaves itself into existence and tries to ensnare Maul, tries to take him to his knees. Among the riot of skeletons, everything is maroon and white, lit by the flash and sizzle of the saber.
Oily black smoke simmers at God's heels, but he can keep her down for a little while yet. So long as he doesn't spill any more pain and blood and life, anything to excite her into frenzy; so long as he can start to wrap this up...
Somewhere out of sight, there is a groan of metal as blood and bone shear the lock off a monster's cage.
[ Gideon does not take her eyes off God throughout the spooky brain exam, which thankfully does not last for very long. Once he's a safe distance away, she continues. ]
Cool. [ not cool. ] Well, the reason you felt like complete shit that night, besides the not sleeping, was that this asshole - [ Gideon points a thumb over at God ] - decided it was in your own best interest to send my crusty namesake to either "fix" or "put you down."
[ Yes, that is complete with air quotes.
Quieter, this time, dangerously and deadly serious: ]
He's tried to hurt you before. [ As if God isn't even there: ] And he's not gonna do it again.
[ Not while Gideon is around. ]
Cool. [ not cool. ] Well, the reason you felt like complete shit that night, besides the not sleeping, was that this asshole - [ Gideon points a thumb over at God ] - decided it was in your own best interest to send my crusty namesake to either "fix" or "put you down."
[ Yes, that is complete with air quotes.
Quieter, this time, dangerously and deadly serious: ]
He's tried to hurt you before. [ As if God isn't even there: ] And he's not gonna do it again.
[ Not while Gideon is around. ]
[ Harrow looks hopelessly, helplessly lost, and also a bit like she's about to vomit on his shoes; it's an expression with which he is deeply familiar. The younger and more disruptive Gideon— though she may well be the only Gideon left, now, a scrap of half-eaten soul with a stolen name and eyes he's only ever seen in one place besides a mirror— jabs a thumb at him in open disgust.
God exhales a low, slow breath. He rubs a thumb at his temple. Around them, the world rocks and heaves. ]
I'm afraid you were out for a bit, Harrow. You've missed a few things.
[ To the accusation he does not even have the grace to look embarrassed: he is simply very tired. To the pair of them, he says: ]
I can assure you there's no current danger to young Harrowhark aside seasickness.
[ Now that they're ruled out the hemorrhaging, anyway. ]
God exhales a low, slow breath. He rubs a thumb at his temple. Around them, the world rocks and heaves. ]
I'm afraid you were out for a bit, Harrow. You've missed a few things.
[ To the accusation he does not even have the grace to look embarrassed: he is simply very tired. To the pair of them, he says: ]
I can assure you there's no current danger to young Harrowhark aside seasickness.
[ Now that they're ruled out the hemorrhaging, anyway. ]
John?
You've been this dodgy over fucking JOHN?
You've been this dodgy over fucking JOHN?
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