driftfleet | Sweet dreams are made of these...

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Sweet dreams are made of these...

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

You say that...

[almost lazy indeed. now he's being taunted? he knows better than to give in to toying and a pretty face, but knowing is a lot different than acting. if Caesar really won't be satisfied with a game of cat-and-mouse, well...

he keeps up his backwards retreat, at one point leaning just to back-flip gracefully over the next colored path, fingers barely touching the floor. like a gymnast showing off, even if it gets him a little extra time.

which, it turns out, he needs to bite down hard into the palm of his own hand. it's the soft pad under his thumb, and over quick. in the second it takes to see blood on the wound, it's already moving into a shape, and he closes that same hand over a reddish, solid-looking bar that appears to blossom there.

now he's got a weapon too. in fact, if you pretend the ends are sharp rather than rounded, it looks an awful lot like a crowbar.]

But if you're sure, I can deliver.

[Robin flips away, and Caesar keeps his eyes on him, watching carefully with that grin tugging at the corners of his lips. There's grace in him, too, but it's not the same kind - there's more overt power behind it, such that as he crosses over the paths they crumble to nothing under his faint, chalky paint smeared across the stone floor.]

[The blooming blood weapon makes his eyes widen, but more in wonder than in fear. If he were awake, he'd be warier, but now he's mostly just curious.]

If I win . . .

[It comes out on automatic, but then a pause, then a sharper grin.]

If I win, you tell me what you are, all right, pettirosso?

[that is his weakness. he loves a good game, and the best games have stakes. he fidgets, getting a good grip on his new weapon, letting what is truly his own blood harden through impossible microscopic geometries (or magic; same thing). in the end, well...

thinking and acting. maybe he should really connect those up more.]

If you're able to beat me, sirreyr, you will have earned it.

[which is apparently his cue to finally come at Caesar--time to see how good his block is, because a solid bar is about to swing right for his head.]

[Ah.]

[And his eyes are sharp and his movements are quick, and watching Robin move is a delight but listening to the way that word rolls out of his mouth, tough guy, makes him laugh out loud, surprised and pleased; and when he comes forward swinging, well.]

[It's in moments like this that, despite everything, Caesar really feels alive. When the background of the stone ruins starts not to matter so much, and the reality of the fight takes over.]

[So here comes Robin, and there goes Caesar, and despite his size he blocks quick, the wrench up in front of his face, hitting the crowbar with a clang. He hits back quick, too, turning Robin's motion into his own, arcing into a blow for the face, because this isn't about playing nice. It's very obvious that neither of them are nice people.]

[both not nice and both having the time of their lives. what a match. he's got to hand it to him, Caesar's a lot faster than he looks like he should be... and the guy dishes out a fair number more close calls than he's normaly like admitting.

he actually has to try sometimes! Robin swings under his arm, spins and manages to hit him--but it's unlucky, just off his hip, and with the blunt side. if it'd been the hook he could have dug in and bruised him something awful... and now he is way too close.]

[It's nice when your opponent actually has to try. Even this memory of Caesar knows what it feels like to be toyed with, because his death permeates this entire place, the stark reality of it bled into the stone. So seeing Robin work for it, work to impress him, he likes that, and it shows.]

[It shows in the way that, when the blunt side of the crowbar-thing hits him, he yelps but it melts into laughter almost immediately, wicked and rich. It shows in the way he swings one arm up so he can grab Robin by the collar and yank him closer, knock him almost playfully on the elbow with the wrench hard enough to send singing vibrations up his arm, and then brings it up to poke him in the neck with the points of the wrench.]

Well?

Damn.

[dragged and hit and now held at wrench-point? he laughs at himself, because maybe it's really been too long since he's gotten into a fight like this. maybe he shouldn't have put so many limits on himself. but something about the hurt in his arm really bothers him, at the back of his head--that and the way his limbs are all sore, and he's exhausted, which doesn't make very much sense.

what a look he must be giving him--eyes a little too wide, hyper and dilated, smiling like he's somehow angry and satisfied all at once. something is wrong and he knows it, but he doesn't let go of his weapon. he can't decide what to do.

so, being the irrational creature he is, he tilts his chin up in a challenge.]

What, you gonna twist out my trachea? [he laughs again.] Why a wrench, Caesar?

[Yeah, it's - it's a little horrifying, that's true, like looking a monster right in the eye even though in this moment Robin looks very human. Nothing like Wham did, at least at the beginning (although right at the end, didn't he look so human too?).]

[Even so, this is different. Angry and satisfied all at once. Yeah. That's about right.]

Why shouldn't I?

[It comes out remarkably soft, all things considered. And he's smirking. He's happy. As happy as anyone in this room ever gets. Which is a challenge, too.]

Stupid question. Because I can hurt people slowly with it if I want to, pettirossa, or break all their teeth in at once.

[oh, he loves it. adores it, even. he laughs again, kind of giddy with how pleased he is at this whole thing, how much he kind of wishes Caesar would do it.]

You're mean! You're so mean. [he wriggles against in his grip a little, against the wrench still at his throat.] I really like it. The sirreyr wins after all.

[he suddenly drops his tension and a majority of his apparent madness with it. not quite a rag doll, he's still standing on his feet--but he's certainly not about to throw another punch.]

I'll tell you what you want to know.

[You're so mean. I really like it.]

[That's new and fun. Mostly when he does this people leave crying or unconscious. They don't laugh like they might faint from how much fun they're having, or look at the wrench the way Robin's looking at it. And then he goes limp, and Caesar toys with letting him go, but . . .]

[Mm.]

[Instead he keeps his grip on Robin's collar firm, tips his chin up with the end of the wrench.]

So tell me what you are. Maybe then we can be mean some more, if you want.

Oh...

[he'll make him swoon, at this rate. at the very least, he's certainly not complaining, being kept like this. funny thing is, he doesn't find this monstrous in the least. Caesar is just having some fun--and when's the last time he had that, huh?

with an elegant flair, he holds his hand up to Caesar... but the far more distracting part is how his previously-solid weapon sluggishly twists and coils around his wrist like a snake. the shape of it slides to stand up on his open palm, blooming into crystalline, ruby-red rose (thorns and all) before the other's eyes.]

How do you feel about Gods, ueslyr?

[There are a lot of little things about this he likes. The violence is the big one, of course, but the little ones . . . the way the blood moves like a living thing, shifts into a shape that's beautiful rather than repugnant, the delicate petals in Robin's palm, the way they're becoming increasingly unsubtle, both of them, and what he says, victor. It's been so long since he's won anything.]

I used to believe in one. I don't know if I still do.

[Hesitantly, curiously, he loosens his grip on Robin's collar to brush one finger carefully along the petals, wondering as he does if they'll feel like velvet or like clotted blood. Either way, the wrench stays exactly where it is.]

[strangely, the sculpture feels more like glass or a cut crystal. it feels like it would have weight, not much like blood at all. Robin remains diligently at wrench-point, smirking mischievously...]

Understandable. Sometimes believing is worse.

Do you have the patience for a story? [he nods his head a little, towards those stairs--or where those stairs should be, since the room's become somewhat less-defined since the last time be bothered looking.] It isn't a story of faith, I promise-- The answer to your question is just a complicated one.

[It's probably strange, but he feels compelled to keep touching the rose. It's such an unexpected texture; his fingers slow and his brow furrows, and he tips his head, trying to understand.]

[A story about gods . . . hm.]

[He knocks Robin's chin up with the wrench hard enough to make his teeth knock together, then drops it to his side and nods.]

I have more patience than you might expect. Tell me.

Guh-- [rude. his free hand goes to his jaw, of course, to rub the sore spot... but he ends in another cheeky grin, even if it's just to show that his beautiful teeth are just fine.

the movement seems to free up the rest of him to move like a human and not like a carefully-poised prisoner... so he holds the blood-rose properly, plainly offering it up to Caesar.]

There is a very popular myth on my world that tells of the creation of everything. The Gods looked upon the empty blackness and saw fit to create glittering stars to illuminate their splendor, that kind of thing. At some point, they brought my world into the picture, and filled it flora and fauna and, specifically, humans. Humans were filled with a special little spark, and that made them the Gods' favorite.

Following?

[Look at all those teeth. They're very pretty. Look at this present, the rose he takes in his hands now, cupping it carefully and glancing from it to Robin as he makes his explanation. It makes sense, it does. A special little spark.]

[He nods.]

Following.

Fantastic.

[he isn't completely out of the fighting mindset. he stretches out his fingers and rolls his shoulder now that he's free; his posture isn't usually this loose (or ready for sudden movement).]

After being delighted with their creations, it's said that the Gods designated special avatars to watch over them. They picked nine humans and granted them incredible power, command over magic, and dominion over an aspect of humanity-- [he counts them off quickly, on his fingers.] Souls, creativity, life and death, knowledge, courage, pain, invention, vision, and solace.

The Nine Kings, as they became known, each ruled over a kingdom and kept all of those aspects balanced with one another. Legend claims that the world knew a period of peace and bounty unparalleled with anything else its since their reign... But, like all reigns, theirs eventually came to an end.

[Fantastic. He shouldn't be hanging off this guy's every word so much, or so pleased at the approval, but there it is.]

[Nine humans with incredible power . . . this sounds familiar. Where has he heard this before? Shaking his head, confused, he pauses, then nods again.]

And when it did. Things went wrong?

[It only makes sense.]

Of course. One of them ruined it for the rest, sent the entire world into a civil war. Cities burned, people suffered. In the end, it was the humans they were told to protect that rose up and killed them just to end the destruction they caused.

[here comes the drop. even here, wound up on adrenaline, it makes his stomach churn. a wrench swinging towards his face is hardly a bother, but something about this has him glancing away towards anything that's not Caesar.

but he promised, and the other earned it. fair is fair, and he speaks this part concisely.]

That said, here's my story. One day, a boy was born with white hair, skin like a ghost, and eyes the color of blood. No one in his village could explain why, so they thought him an ill omen, someone who would surely drag evil and misery wherever he went. When he was ten years old, he was suddenly taken away from his village by strange men who wouldn't speak to him. He was tortured for reasons he did not understand, and then sent to the ruins of an old castle very, very far away.

There, he was told he was one of the Nine Kings reborn, that he had been marked by the Gods themselves. He was told to serve men like the ones who'd kidnapped him. The eldest child they were keeping there killed the guards, and set all nine children free. They had nowhere to go, so they lived together, becoming brothers and sisters.

The boy lived that way for many years. He watched his family change before him, their bodies growing into the things of dreams. When the eldest told them to march, they all marched--until he fell into greed or madness or fear, and murdered all but the boy and his two favorite sisters.

The boy awoke to find he'd crushed his brother's body with a power he didn't understand. His sisters died keeping him safe from his brother's power, and used their last moments to bless him with unending life--blood that would heal his every wound.

[he holds his palm up, the one he'd bit into. the skin there is a little red (unusual, but he doesn't notice). the wound itself is healed.]

When his sisters died, he heard a voice speak to him from all around, echoing in his heart. "Rise, child, and know yourself as Riem, he who holds dominion over pain."

[even the name, Riem, makes itself known to Caesar--it means "hurt", in every way he could possibly imagine. wrapped up in a growing tangle of his own telling, he takes a step forward and leans in uncomfortably close, looking up at Caesar with his head tilted to the side and his sharp gaze peering out from under his bangs.]

So, ueslyr, what do you think that makes me?

[Blood. It always comes back to blood, doesn't it? Blood for kinship, blood for death, blood for bonds, blood for love. Blood for injury, blood for health. Blood to prove you're still alive. Blood in a bubble, holding an antidote.]

[And that makes the room change, after all. Just a little bit. A bubble drifts behind his head, carrying something inside, blurred by the shape of the soap-and-blood walls but identifiable to sharp eyes: a ring strung on ribbon, something precious.]

[He blinks, and leans forward, takes Robin's chin in his hand, and inspects him. There's no white hair, no red eyes, no magic. Just a pretty boy.]

[It's obvious anyway.]

It makes you hurt.

[he looks at that bubble, of course, that bizarre little out-of-place thing that's suddenly appeared. he has no idea what it means, but he doesn't have much time to wonder. being touched puts his focus right back on the man in front of him, though he hardly resists.

there are little clues, if Caesar ever pays close enough attention... the little streaks of white that Robin sometimes puts in his bangs are actually an omission, not an addition. his eyes are boring and brown until they're hit with the right light and flecked with hidden reds.

but his grin's a little more eye-catching, all bitter and half-snarl.]

Sure sounds like the case, doesn't it? Not that the Gods I'm supposed to be representing have ever returned any of my calls... [he glances back at that... bubble, again.] The management's terrible.

[Maybe he'll see them now, these clues. Maybe. Right now he's just looking, witnessing, trying to commit this to memory. Robin is vicious and angry and bitter and sad, and it's - it's a little bit like looking in the mirror.]

[He exhales slowly, not bothering to pull away.]

God never returned my calls either, pettirosso.

I see you looking. Do you want a story in return?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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