stormofukko

[stormofukko]

@10-o sent. *lays on him*

it takes an inordinate amount of shuffling before they can lay somewhat comfortably together; kullervo reluctantly removes his banes and sets them aside, lest the hilts leave bruises along the drifter's ribs and spine. his arms wrapped about his middle yet careful not to squeeze too tightly, he rests his chin on his shoulder and finally allows himself to relax.

"amir had many questions for me regarding the old empire." he'd struggled to keep up with the protoframe's rapid manner of speech, at first. "he has a good heart, but lacks tact. i now understand why you were concerned by his obsession with the cephalons."

[stormofukko]

little mielikki's paws bat at his outstretched hand, tangling with his fingers as she nips at him playfully. he rubs her belly, murmurs praise to her in slithering voidtongue and watches her ears perk. the kubrow youngling trots along behind him as he joins the drifter; too fast to catch herself on the smooth floor, she stumbles and slides into his boot, where she flops down with a dramatic sigh and immediately falls asleep.

"liberated, then." kullervo leans against the foundry, the busy machinery humming at his back. even with his new companion demanding so much of his attention, he had not missed that look; the longing the drifter so clearly feels for him tugs at his heart. it would be irresponsible to embrace it, given the circumstances, yet staying his hand has proven difficult. they had spent centuries divided by the laws of their prison; now that they are free, it seems unjust that another obstacle has risen between them. such is fate.

"drifter." he kneels beside him after some hesitation, reaching to take his hand and clasp it between both his own. "i will take up vaenn once more and fight this war at your side, if you ask it of me. but—" a pause, in which he struggles to find the words. "my entire existence has been defined by the blade, by the violence i have been forced to commit and the violence forced upon me. i do not wish to die by it a second time."

@stormofukko sent: "it's funny; i should feel melancholy, but mostly what i feel is liberated." / [ sentence meme. ]

❝melancholy?❞ drifter parrots mindlessly. his entire being is swimming with emotions--the  first time in centuries--and he can barely fathom nailing one down to focus on. despite the number of days past, melancholic is pretty low on his list of feelings regarding duviri. ❝i'm definitely leaning a lot stronger towards liberated myself,❞ he chuckles, plopping gracelessly into a chair. 

and, well, he feels other things. as he looks towards kullervo those emotions have no problem coming through a lot stronger. it makes his throat run dry, his heart race, and a flush of heat to run up his spine and burn at his face. kullervo's already handling himself with a lot more level of a head than drifter, but even he can't be so tactless as to dump all of his longing into his lap so soon after their hard won freedom. 

especially not right in the middle of a galaxy wide hostile takeover that he, somehow, has to fight. but SOL he wants him so badly it makes his ribs ache. 

[stormofukko]

trying to picture how gelflings go about courtship brings to mind the dances of those strange, colorful little birds native to the southern expanse. doubtless it's a wildly inaccurate assumption, but he finds it charming still. it's easy to feel disarmed in brea's presence; his anxiety washes away as he hears her tale, and he finds himself sympathizing as she admits the gap in her knowledge.

"music is considered a universal language for good reason. it would seem this dousan sandmaster was inviting you to share in theirs," he says, taking a seat beside her. he can think of little else more romantic than being entrusted with the customs of a partner's culture. how wonderful it must be, to immortalize the history of one's people through sharing it with another.

"i have no clan." he looks into the distance, training his voice to practiced stoicism. "my mother was an archimedean; a scientist of high rank in the old empire. i was taken from her at birth and raised a slave."

how different he must be; this other kullervo, from some other reality, who ainikki was given leave to raise as her own. would he have become an archimedean in turn, following and upholding her legacy? would every possibility have ended with the threat of war binding him to the blade?

❝ strings ... ❞ brea contemplates out loud, reaching up and taking the firca from kullervo's hand with an appreciative nod. her thumbs are quick to retrace the bone stems carved with the appreciative, meandering symbols of life and death ... ❝ this firca was a gift. a one of few courting attempts by a dousan sandmaster from the crystal desert - though us vapra are a lot more accustomed to the intricacies of bowed instruments. it's beautiful, but i know little of how to play it. ❞

silverlings take to strings the way drenchen take to drums : tuneful hallmarks of each clan showing some semblance of their people's way of life through their music, as demonstrated so clearly in the eloquent and airy, free forming music of the vapra. then the sharp and whet plucked strings of the stonewood lute, the resonant rolling of the drenchen's drum circles deep into the swamps of sog ... even the fast but tranquil flutes of the spriton clan are hardy like their farmers. brea latches to culture where she can see it, and her journal reflects her observations.

❝ stories and history is oftentimes retold through music amongst the gelfling ... as you can imagine, each clan has their own standard of tradition when it comes to the archival of their history. ❞ the firca finds its place back onto the belt of the smiling princess. ❝ but what of yours ? ❞

[stormofukko]

oh boy i start my job as a wound man tomorrow can't wait to be stabbed, sliced, slashed, lacerated, eviscerated, bludgeoned, cudgeled, beaten with rods, beaten with irons, shot with arrows, shot with cannons, have spears thrown into me, have spears thrown through me, impaled on spikes, flayed, flensed, boiled, shot with arrows again, and have rocks dropped on my head

[stormofukko]

"is that a promise?" best now to offer some levity, as he senses the tension bleed through in the drifter's voice. something has shaken him, something that scratches at the walls just beyond the periphery of kullervo's perception. if he looks, he knows he will see the marks left in his wake; but he knows not how to see. such is the paradox of the void. "i will have to return the favor. perhaps we can make a tradition of it."

he sighs, trying and failing to settle comfortably against the bars. his fingers remain busy with the straw; twining and snipping, twisting ends into the desired shapes. from the last strands he creates a figure, one arm longer than the other, its featureless head crowned with spikes. he's wondering at its familiarity when he catches the drifter's sudden falter, and worry outweighs principle.

kullervo twists to face him, the straw figure forgotten. it scatters across the floor of his cell, carried by a gentle breeze to whirl endlessly into the yawning void. "drifter," he says, his voice sharp and urgent. "your wound; focus on cauterizing that first. the blade should be ready. we can divine the meaning behind your experience when you are no longer in danger of bleeding out."

drifter cranes his neck just slightly as kullervo speaks, eyes flitting briefly over the--his mind refuses the vision of it and he faces forward again. after a moment he considers, casting his gaze upwards then. funny… for the longest time he couldn't remember looking at the sky for anything beyond telling of the spirals. ❝ it's nice sometimes, ❞ his thumb circles the bane again. ❝ if we fight again i'll put you on your back so you can enjoy it for a few seconds.❞ 

inexplicably his throat tightens at the sound of kullervo's quiet laugh. its low rumble is a pleasant backdrop to the light headed haze settling over him. for few long seconds he slows his breath and strains his ears to hear it. his body relaxes a little more against the bars, soothed by the sound, even just the memory of it. 

❝ um, ❞ voice catches in his throat feeling suddenly hoarse, blinking, nearly missing the question. ❝ no, i don't think so. ❞ it's such an oddly specific thing to ask that he thinks on it further, strains his mind against the initial recall. in response he feels something crawling in his ribcage, something he can't quite place. his grip on the bane tenses, but the soothing motions continue. ❝ no, wait… i did. ❞ unlike every time before, where unanswerable questions, sensations, and phantom memories seemed to glide off him like oil on a kaithe's hide, unacknowledged and forgotten in the next second, this one sticks. he wants it to, he wants to answer kullervo. 

❝ a voice, i think, ❞ again, tension; the soothing motion falters for a beat, starts again. that gnawing feeling hiding away deep inside grows, makes his sluggish heart start to beat faster. ❝ sounded like it was right--right at my ear. he-- ❞ his breath catches, eyes darting along the arena, as if he expected to see the warden appearing above him and the sky lit like a burning fire. their surrounds remain empty, and the sky calm, yet the feeling remains. 

[stormofukko]

kullervo might have met such confidence with a sly quip, but ultimately holds his tongue. he makes busy his idle hands, pulling pieces free of the straw beneath him and weaving them into pointless shapes. an orowyrm eating its own tail, a blade, a prowling kexat. he tears them to pieces when done, only to start over again until the pieces are so frayed as to be useless.

"only the void beyond my cell." he glances towards it as he speaks, to that roiling unlight and its unfathomable depths. "i can see the sky when i am released to fight, but my focus is elsewhere then."

he does not remember how the sun feels. he had believed himself undeserving of its warmth, once, but now that belief falters. the drifter has opened his mind to other possibilities, if not redemption in full; that, he knows he can never achieve. his head lolls forwards with a huff of laughter at his own thoughts, rumbling deep in his throat.

the caress along that disembodied hilt is rather effective at stealing his attention back. he eases down from his usual stiff posture to sit cross-legged, the bars of his cell a startling chill against his spine as he leans to the drifter's right. he still does not look upon him, out of respect, but instead traces faint patterns across the ceiling. the feeble flames embrace him, cradle him, and he feels almost drowsy.

still, what the drifter says is troubling. nothing about duviri is ordinary, to be certain, but what he recounts seems especially unusual. a gift from the capricious void, or a portent of things to come? "when it happened—this invisible blade, the hand—did you hear anything?"

he chuckles despite himself, letting his head fall back and rest against the bars. ❝i don't think i can embarrass myself in front of you.❞ which could be the blood loss talking, or just the fact of their strange co-existence. they had fought many times, killed each other many times; what was there that could possibly wound his pride? granted, he probably didn't have any pride to wound at all. pride required – well it required more than drifter had left in him. 

his anxieties over the fire possibly hurting kullervo through his bane are slowly assuaged the longer it remains over the fire, and, as far as he can tell, kullervo doesn't seem to react badly. though if it takes too long he won't have to worry about the uncomfortable experience of cauterization, the blood loss will get him first. 

❝ talk? ❞ somehow that seems the stranger part of this entire ordeal. certainly it's the area drifter is least experienced in. he's not terribly interested in talking himself, but kullervo's voice is welcome…and he did want to hear more of it. ❝ i uh – shit, i'm not even sure how to begin. ❞ absently, as he ponders, his thumb moves in small circles around the bane's hilt. ❝ i was being executed, again. impalement. a favorite. and then i was impaled…again… but not by something real. i didn't die, even though i felt the blade as much as always, ❞ he shifts slightly, adjusting where his shoulder blades press to the bars. 

❝ then a hand fell out of the sky, fused to my hand--or replaced it--i can't really tell. that got everyone really riled up. ❞ he turns his head, just barely able to peer at kullervo through the bars. ❝ how much of the sky can you see? ❞

[stormofukko]

"i am sure." he steels his tone, offering the confidence he lacks. still, he looks away as the drifter strips of his outer layers, shuffling to kneel with his back to the bars. it feels almost comical to be respecting his privacy in such a manner when he has struck him with countless fatal blows in battle; but kullervo is stubborn, in his own way. he will not risk discomfiting the drifter through scrutiny of his bare form.

"if you do not want to embarrass yourself, stay your back to my cage," he suggests. "i cannot reach you otherwise." and that is half the problem, he thinks. these acts of service are not enough, do not feel enough; he should be doing more to help the drifter in his struggles, yet caged he remains. he has rarely felt so conflicted.

"so small a flame will not heat the blade efficiently. keep it there for several minutes." warmth trickles down his spine like water as the drifter holds his bane over the fire, the strongest impressions focused in scars left open. it is inexplicably, bizarrely, soothing; as if he is immersed in the steam from a boiling pool. he flexes his fingers against his knees and resists the urge to look.

"it may help to keep talking," he continues. it may help us both. "tell me of your outlaw duties. tell me of the state of duviri. nothing reaches me here, save for the rumors the children spread."

the silence in the face of his question makes him turn in place, not enough to cause any more discomfort to his wound, but enough that he can take in kullervo’s reaction when he finally responds. he wasn’t wholly shocked by the answer, yet the bane felt heavier now, his eyes drawn to the place on kullervo where it was taken. ❝ if you’re sure... ❞ even as he says it, he has to corral his thoughts away from pondering over holding a piece of him outside of the barrier, always separating them and absent of the violence that usually came without it.

the uncomfortable itch of strained muscle and half-dried blood reminds him that he’s still very much actively wounded. he grimaces as he turns away, twisting the bane in his hand with ease so he still has use of his hands, and starts to pull off a few of his many layers. once, when he had to cauterize a wound, he made the mistake of thinking he’d cleared the area completely of any stray cloth or fiber and wound up melting it into his skin. that was an experience he was even less eager to repeat.

removing his poncho, armor, straps, and extra clothing, including a heavy hood, he sets them aside. he then partially removes his shirt, freeing his arm, ensuring that his injured side is totally bare. from his various miscellany of pilfered effects, he fishes out the small contraption that can make just enough of a fire to heat the blade; he suspects it was normally used as a simple burner for a kettle or something similar. it takes a moment of fiddling, but he manages to get the flame going and sets the piece on the ground.

❝ hey if i pass out can you do me a favor? don’t let me face-plant on to the floor, ❞ he jokes because he knows it won’t happen. no matter how badly he wished he could, he had an uncanny, unfathomable ability to stay awake through tremendous amounts of pain. despite kullervo’s assurance, he still hesitates before holding the blade of the bane over the fire--but the creeping wooziness of blood loss urges his hand forward the last few centimeters until the small flame spreads over the flat of the blade.

[stormofukko]

it is not the first time that kullervo has taken measure of another's wounds, nor does he believe it will be the last. it had once been to the benefit of his fellow dax, before he was outcast from their ranks; now, the drifter. as he settles back on his haunches a distance from the bars, he rubs slick blood between thumb and finger, as if only now becoming aware of the crimson staining his hand.

the drifter's simple yet pointed questioning troubles him in a way that he cannot place. for a moment, he is tempted to lie; to deny any sensory feedback from his banes. it would have been a poor lie. his focus narrows to a needlepoint as the drifter caresses the hilt, his mind torn between wary restraint and a blade's simple desire to fulfil its purpose.

"yes," he says, after too long a pause. "i can feel it." his arms move in abortive motion, as if halfway to wrapping about himself before he lowers them back to his sides. it is not so much the feeling of being held, but the eagerness to be used that haunts him. "i cannot explain it in a way that you will understand; but you will not hurt me, drifter. i offer this freely."

❝ yeah… yeah, i walked into that one, ❞ just like he walked into those damn liminus claws. but he'll not say that bit aloud. some joke about the liminus being determined to wound them so they kept winding up in this position is almost made, but sputters out when he feels kullvero guide him. dutifully he sits, pressing his back to the bars to try and eliminate as much space between them as he can. 

it only occurs to him in that moment that be handled gently is probably as much a stranger to him as it is to kullervo. that lingering thought is supplanted by awkwardly trying to figure out what to do with his right arm, unable to let it down for getting in the way – and that thought is interrupted by the gentle pressure at his side, and the sound kullervo makes behind him. drifter keeps his arm aloft and his gaze DECIDEDLY fixed forward. 

❝ what? ❞ he groans, raised arm going half limp, casting his gaze back through the bar. it's something he's had to do before, and he's not very keen on repeating the experience. as the bane comes into view, though, he relents with a weary sigh and reaches for the hilt. ❝ yeah, i do. just seems like a waste of my good fire, is all, ❞ despite the sarcasm once his fingers close around the hilt his attention is swiftly drawn to it. 

his grip becomes notably more tender, his other arm relaxing from it's duty in holding his clothes aloft, temporarily forgotten. ❝ when you said your banes are like a part of your body, ❞ the word is drawn out as he fumbles, trying to find a way to his query without sounding like a moron, and without — ❝ can you feel this? ❞ head tilts slightly back again, his thumb running once along the hilt for emphasis. ❝ it won't hurt you, right? the fire? ❞

[stormofukko]

"i don't think that." it's a poor attempt at humor, familiar in how it comes wrapped in a veil of concern. "and you could stand to be a little less dedicated. work yourself to death, and you will have accomplished nothing."

it warms his void-weary soul that the drifter trusts him enough to be so vulnerable in his presence; a warmth that he is careful not to express, for fear of bringing awkwardness between them. he reaches through the bars, guiding the drifter to sit with his back to the barrier, the cold print of his metal fingertips resting over bare skin. it's difficult to examine the wound proper through the immovable obstacle between them, but he manages well enough.

applying gentle pressure in circular rhythm around the gash brings forth a fresh well of blood; kullervo hums, the sound as hoarse as it is thoughtful. his presence flits upwards, over the impression of the drifter's ribs beneath his skin, tracing his pulse with a warrior's acuity. for a moment, silence; the thundering of a heartbeat is all he needs to hear.

"bandages will not suffice to staunch the bleeding. have you something to burn?" his other arm reaches through, one of his banes glinting in his grasp. "take this. heat the blade, and hold it to the wound. i doubt i need to explain to you the method of cauterization."

@stormofukko sent : "you're not patching this up alone. let me help."

was it the third pathetic wince that spurned kullervo's offered assistance or the fourth? his hands – his one hand – the extra hand? there's no real way for him to describe it, honestly, and he's not going to bother – he's struggling. more than usual to mend his fresh wounds. and, for whatever reason, he's elected to do so in the company of one where battle damage happened between them as much as conversation. 

usually he drags himself to some tiny, hidden cave to lick his wounds in solitude. today wasn't one of those days, it seemed. 

❝ you'd think i'd be smarter than letting the liminus get the drop on me by now, ❞ he huffs, pushing himself away from the wall. there's really no hiding how exhausted he is, and all he has are strips of clean enough fabric to make placeholder bandages, which he offers to kullervo in a tiny bundle. ❝ sorry i haven't been around much, ❞ he starts, bundling up the layers of worn fabric and piece meal armor to lift away from his injured side. ❝ i've been really dedicated to my outlaw duties, lately. ❞ 

the liminus that got him only managed a single gash, but it bled and stained brown, void scarred skin a rusty crimson with irritating persistence. 

[stormofukko]

@10-o sent. 👀 does using your banes hurt? Do you feel it everytime they are pulled out, or go back in?

"there is more to it than pain, but what you say is the simpler answer." kullervo slides a dagger free of his chest, twirling it through nimble fingers before returning it to its sheath. "they are a part of me. a part of my soul, my body. if you would consider—"

@10-o sent. 👀 do you ever. Would you do you. Do you think. Would you, you d....do you dream that you, would you, have you ever, would, if I did, w--

"drifter." he reaches through the bars to place his hands upon the drifter's shoulders; shaking him, gently. "when did you last get any rest?"

[stormofukko]

@10-o sent. 👀 wanna figth?

@10-o sent. 👀 would you still fight me if I was a wyrm?

"our every encounter need not end in violence, drifter. wouldn't it be pleasant to simply exist?" he leans his head against the wall of his cell, feigning lengthy consideration. "if that was your wish. i have never fought a dragon, but if the dragon were you, i'm confident i would win."

[stormofukko]

Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty.

No deleting questions, either!

[stormofukko]

Subscribe to my OnlyFoes for an opportunity to get your shit rocked by the Auntie Anne's pretzel stand at the mall. Giving away discounted subscriptions to 25 lucky people who have never experienced the rush of combat. I will personally introduce you to the linoleum tiling in a Dress Barn with devastating combinations and spin moves for just 4.99 a month.

[stormofukko]

in the instant as sun and moon cross against his throat, he wonders if he went too far; if his words had only succeeded in driving his fellow prisoner further into apathy, not motivating him as was his intent. what is grief, compared to death's steel kiss? what is rage? he breathes in deep, silently willing the drifter to take his head even though he knows the motion is a hollow threat. no; the drifter had already made up his mind before he acted, and kullervo knows no amount of begging will sway him now.

the drifter needs no assistance in dispatching the dax, but he invites himself to the battle nonetheless. as the gladius reels from their misguided blow, a crimson blur takes shape behind them, blade in hand; vaenn bursts through alloyed bone and armor alike, tearing them in half at the waist. kullervo whirls on their comrades with a roar; fear and confusion sends their ranks into momentary disarray, and he sidesteps to position himself back-to-back with his ally.

"why draw this out?" he asks, knowing the answer. when had he last witnessed the drifter trapped in the throes of emotion? when had he last heard his blood sing through his veins? "this is pointless, drifter. it would be easier to accept the inevitable." strange, how his growl sounds almost like laughter. "but have it your way."

he eyes an approaching malleus as the brute rushes them, their every step spawning whitecapped waves. there is no joy to be found in this battle, no bloody sport; he splits their arms from their body with one looping swing and cuts short their scream as he cuts off their head. an arrow from one of the arcus perched on high takes him in the shoulder, but the wound does nothing to slow him, slaughter-drunk as he is.

the warden's demands for obedience cannot reach him now. he has been here before. he will fight until he is overwhelmed and subsequently executed; until they are overwhelmed, he reminds himself, casting a glance over his shoulder to where drifter stands his ground. he catches his attention with a salute, brandishing vaenn with its hilt pressed to the featureless plane of his helmet, as if to bestow upon it a kiss all teeth and hunger. he would oft cut his tongue upon his blade in the same manner, when he was still a man. some habits persist.

there's an instant he dreads feeling his blades connect without resistance, thankfully it never comes. at the very last second kullervo dodges, his swords streak through the air, and he feels relief spiked into the bitter armor of his heart. he could almost smile with it – and a breath leaves him just shy of a laugh as he readjusts his balance and prepares to fight in earnest. yet kullervo does not stand, and his words form a knot in drifter's throat. 

hearing the warden and dax begin their commotion he swings sun and moon again, the blades crossing, each stopping just on either side of kullervo's neck; their juncture just under his chin. he kills him now and he's punished for his surrender later; he flees now and he's punished once drifter clears the arena. all would be reset, like it never happened, but the idea of it torments him nonetheless. 

his eyes dart to the cell, he can hear the dax splashing into the water behind him. it's the only time he has to decide, move or stay. flee or fight. his gaze falls on kullervo again – his heart is racing. his heart is racing. 

a heavy metallic gauntlet lands on his shoulder and he moves in an instant, blades slicing through air and water — one. two. first the arm of the gladius falls into the water, and then it's head tumbles after. there's only a second of surprise and stillness to hover in the air before he moves again, advancing on the next dax before the water droplets even have time to descend. it's a maelstrom of metal and water, billowing ragged cloth against gleaming skeletal frames. 

one reaches to restrain him and finds their grip closing on nothing but his tattered poncho before he slides past them, removing their legs at the knees. another swings, he dodges, impales their hand in place with moon while sun arcs out to his left, deflecting a shot from an arcus perched atop the arena's walls; as their projectile returns in force and spears them out of view, he twists his body over the herald, taking it's arm with him, and forcing it's body to bend into the oncoming blow of another gladius. 

kullervo would be punished either way, drifter would die either way, but damn it if he wasn't going to make them work for it — and force the warden to choke on the indignation of losing control in his domain. 

[stormofukko]

where his mind fails him, muscle memory suffices to fill the gap. he drops to his knees at the apex of the drifter's swing; sun and moon flash over his head, the flat of one blade kissing his void-flame crest. he does not rise again, but the near threat of injury seems to have snapped him back to his senses. "if you wish to leave," he says, quiet, "the only obstacle in your way is you."

whatever he means by such cryptic speech, he does not elaborate. he bows his head and stays his submission. no threat could move him, now. the muttering amongst the dax soon turns to jeers and shouts; one hurls a stone from the stand, striking the water a hair's breadth to his left.

"no, no, no!" the warden slams his fist upon the arm of his chair; the thud echoes around the basin, casting ripples across the water. "enough of this farce! dax, get down there and escort the drifter out of my prison. i will not be made a fool of in mine own domain!"

as the dax scramble to descend, kullervo tilts his head towards the open cell and its backdrop of yawning void. an easy escape route for a kaithe with a skilled rider. go, is his wordless plea. quickly.

he emptied himself of everything. no doubt or fear is allowed to linger. they've done this many times, this dance, and they'll do it again. he's ready to face kullervo and fight until one or both of them falls, until all fades to black and he's left gasping awake some place else, walking off his undeath. but he's not ready for kullervo to emerge from his cell, not fueled by his usual, beastial vigor for combat, but as his vacant, empty mirror. 

drifter can feel his heart sinking with each step, hoping he'll feint and draw his weapon, slash forward with unexpected animosity springing from his sluggish gate. the warden barks his orders, drifter's grip on his blades becomes unsteady, restless. the dax shift in their place on high and he feels tension build between his shoulder blades. ❝ c'mon… c'mon, just attack me, ❞ he urges – pleads – under his breath. his boots slosh in the water, pacing his end of the arena. kullervo's stillness makes his heart start to race in a way it has long since abandoned; in a way that even fighting and death no longer elicited. 

the tension building is palpable and he recognizes it well. the static before an execution is demanded — so he decides to break the stalemate and moves first. before the warden can act he runs forward, blades at his side splitting the water's surface. it doesn't take more than a breath to close the distance. rivulets of water become mist against the speed of his swing, sun and moon seek their target, wide, reckless – it would be easy for kullervo to counter. 

please, please, move. 

[stormofukko]

Sex is when you push your finger into someones open wound and they make a pathetic little moan in response

[stormofukko]

beyond the warframe's unending lamentation and the shouts of the encroaching dax, the drifter's request is met with silence. the latter party halts by sharp command from the warden as he paces his narrow walkway, suspicious gaze cast upon the figure now standing in the open. some fugitive trickery, no doubt.

"very well," the warden finally acquiesces, if for nothing other than satisfying his own curiosity. he raises the longer of his mismatched arms, hand slicing down through thin air. "have it your way, outlaw."

the cell door rattles open to abrupt silence. there is no rush to begin their dance, no spike of adrenaline to punctuate the first clash of their blades. kullervo staggers to his feet by instinct alone, his hands naked of any weaponry as he moves with methodical step into the shallow water. dax and warden alike watch from their high seats as he merely stands there, arms limp at his sides; awaiting execution without feeling.

"what is this?" the warden snaps, sharpness of tone descending like the lash. "must i send the liminus to motivate you, betrayer? i order you to fight!"

his mind paints a vivid picture for him as the warden speaks again. as clearly as he stands there, mocking, he sees himself appear behind him, driving not his blade but his fist, cloaked in strange power, through his rib cage. it wouldn't be satisfying, he knows, more akin to breaking a plate in temporary frustration. forgoing the diminishing desire to tear the warden limb from limb, he ignores him. 

❝kullervo,❞ he tries again, still straining to reach. void flame hair just brushing at his fingertips makes the feeling of sparks dance on his skin of an otherwise rapidly numbing limb. even now the urge to flee from the sensation and submerse himself in it are at war. teeth gritting with the effort, his arm goes limp in the cage, drawing back as he hears the distant approach of dax soldiers. 

 already the spiral has claimed him, and there was only one way drifter knew of to draw him out again. ❝fine,❞ he growls, stepping away from the cell and sloshing into the arena. sun and moon were unsheathed in his final steps, steeling himself over again. ❝open it.❞