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Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who: Bariyan e Kodhi
Broadcast: Whole network | Voice
Action: The Marsiva
When: March 17th or whenever's convenient honestly

Broadcast:

[ Bariyan's voice is low, scratchy, and calm. He's got one simple not-at-all cryptic question: ]

Who here should I watch out for?

Action:

Bariyan's awakening is objectively boring: he'd opened his eyes, gotten out of his bunk, and stared in silence as he'd tried to absorb recent events. And recent knowledge. Then, after some sense of reality had settled back in, he'd merely skulked about the deck until he found... something.

It was black. Mostly. It looked a bit like a cart. At the same time, it looked like nothing Bariyan had ever encountered before.

By the powers of Bariyan's torpid mind and his augment combined, he eventually came to the conclusion that he could walk on it.

It's a treadmill.

He's been walking on it for almost an hour now, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, expression stormy. Looking for all the world like he's trying to storm off somewhere, and getting absolutely nowhere.

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"You don't look very bloody to me," Bariyan replies, automatically, hardly registering the words until they're all the way out of his mouth.

His eyes widen in embarrassment at his own stupid response. Then he just powers through the moment.

"I don't consider myself human," Bariyan says, speaking quickly. "But that's neither here nor there."

He steps off the treadmill, puts a hand to his chest, and executes a small, awkward bow. Keeping his eyes on Koltira the whole while.

"Bariyan," he says, by way of introduction.

Koltira's about to snap back a response, but he's caught off-guard by the sudden formality.

"Koltira," he says, straightening up. His tone is a little less aggrieved as he continues. "And the name refers to history."

"All right. Should we talk about how we died, now, or is that a conversation for later?" Bariyan asks, still stiffly formal. His dress blues only accentuate the cool politeness that's settled between them; unfortunately, he'd been pulled into this world straight from an event that required him to be presentable.

"By all means," Koltira says. "Enlighten me."

"I was rather hoping you'd go first," Bariyan grumbles. But he squares his shoulders and starts to walk away from the treadmill, slowly, as he continues.

"It wasn't interesting," Bariyan says. "A mercenary cut my head off."

"A man ran me through," Koltira says. The corner of his mouth quirks up. "We're good friends now, though."

"Good for you," Bariyan says, vaguely. "Though strange."

If Koltira doesn't come after him, Bariyan's just going to keep walking away. He's done with this general area of the ship, he's ready to be elsewhere.

Koltira lets Bariyan get a little ahead of him before he follows. He's tall, and takes long strides; he's caught up soon, and has to moderate his pace thereafter.

"No," Koltira says. "It wasn't. In the end."

"You can't say something like that and not continue," Bariyan says, barely turning a head as Koltira catches up to him.

He both hates and loves the emptiness of this deck; it's eerie, and discomfiting, but it's also the most peace and quiet that Bariyan's had in years. He can't recall having ever gone this long without someone popping up to ask something of him. So that's nice, in a way.

"You first," Koltira says. He watches Bariyan carefully as they walk together. He can sense the magic holding Bariyan's body together, the necromancy -- but it's foreign to him, inexplicable.

Bariyan's irritated by the response. His answer didn't merit explanation -- he was killed by a mercenary, mercenaries tend to kill people, the fact that this particular one had shared a close history with him and held a strong grudge was besides the point -- Koltira had the far more interesting story. Yet he's prying information out of Bariyan before he tells it.

There's not much of a way out of this situation, either. Bariyan sighs.

"What? Some mercenaries were sent to kill me. One of them succeeded. Then I was raised, as a..." Bariyan waves his hands in the air, shrugs. "...guardian, of a sort. I've made no friends in this time. I do my job, I do it well. Or I did, until now."

Edited 2015-03-20 01:30 (UTC)

Koltira knows as well as anyone that mercenaries don't just kill anybody for any reason. They had to be ordered, and they typically weren't cheap. Someone -- or someones -- had wanted Bariyan gone, very badly, and to Koltira that was the more interesting story.

No one had specifically come seeking Koltira's demise. He was simply collateral damage.

Instead of asking further questions, though, Koltira honors the quid pro quo.

"It was a war," Koltira says. "Many people died. Some of us were brought back."

Bariyan grudgingly accepts this answer -- he supposes he deserves vague, clipped replies if that's all he's giving in turn.

"By what? For what purpose?" Bariyan thinks he can get away with more questions. He's already offered up the reasons for his raising, free of charge.

"His name was Arthas," Koltira says. He sneers, but it's at the memory, not Bariyan. "The human prince of a kingdom in my world, corrupted by a powerful runeblade."

He indicates Byfrost, still glowing softly on his back. Byfrost was no Frostmourne -- it held only one soul, rather than legions -- but they were not so different, conceptually.

"His armies ravaged my homeland," Koltira continues, because Bariyan has been just so generous. "Most of my people are gone. And those that remain ..."

He shrugs. Certainly, he'd switch places with a living blood elf any day of the week, but their fate had not been kind, either.

Bariyan doesn't have an immediate reply to any of that. So for a while afterwards, they just walk in silence, until Bariyan breaks it with an awkward cough.

"It's not pleasant, is it?" Bariyan asks, not as a genuine question, but as commiseration.

"In many ways," Koltira says. He's walking briskly, though not too brisk -- can't let Bariyan get away -- and watching Bariyan now from the corner of his eye.

Time for a segue. "Who wanted you dead?"

Okay, so. Not really.

Bariyan shoots Koltira a look that can only be described as hunted. He keeps his gaze upon Koltira, but fidgets with his sleeves, with the new bump of the augment behind his ear.

"Our empress. She needed a sacrifice. Someone to turn into... this." Bariyan pauses in his fidgeting to gesture down at himself. "This, what I am, it could have been anyone. But I was her favorite choice."

That wording makes Bariyan smile. He looks away, tugs on his sash. "And the easiest. The man who killed me would have done so for free, I think. He wasn't fond of me."

It's been years since Catsovi killed him, and it's gotten a little easier to reflect upon the event and all the terrible things that had led up to him. But not that much easier.

It's a decent enough answer. Koltira considers pressing the issue further, asking more questions. A sacrifice, but for what? Why was he the best candidate? Why did his murderer hate him? But Koltira is not blind to Bariyan's discomfort.

"My death was not so complicated," he says. "My city was under attack. I defended it, and I lost."

"Your death is much more tragic," Bariyan says, again, absent-mindedly. Once the idiocy of his reply has caught up to him, he stumbles a bit in his next step, raises a hand to his mouth. "Uhm. Not to compare. I mean to say... my condolences."

"I don't know," Koltira says. "Being hunted down by my own country sounds a bit worse."

He shrugs. "Not that many of them appreciate me now. Or any of us."

"It wasn't quite... my country...." Bariyan shrugs it off. He doesn't want to get back on that track of conversation. He barrels on, hopefully before Koltira can pry into it. "Were there many of your sort?"

Koltira isn't a scholar, but he recognizes deflection when he sees it. Again, he considers pressing for clarification, for more information, but -- there will be time for that later. Plenty of time.

"Which sort," he says. "Elves? Death knights?" He pauses. "Elven death knights?"

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