COMPLETE | bloodlust of the purest sort

[feverhound]

Who: Scathach [ spadassin ] & Namae [ feverhound ]
What: Violence is awesome, so are crazy people. (Or vampires.)
Where: Around the streets.
When: After the redzone lockdown, a bit before the city goes BOOM.

Comments

[feverhound]

He whirled upon her instantly, a snarl on his lips, eyes flashing with unbridled rage -- before recognition struck, and it all died down, simmering low to a sullen sort of resentment, shoulders hunched, fingers gripping tight against the lead pipe. Scathach. Something inhuman, something beyond human, something worse than human in that it was something out of his reach -- and therefore not what he was searching for at the moment. Any other moment, he would have responded with a grunt, with dull apathy, but not now, not when he felt like his skull would split open any minute. Not when what he was desperate for was the feel of bones breaking under his feet.

This bitch before him was not what he needed at the moment.

"It's you." A low growl, clearly displeased -- he did nothing to mask the slightest tinge of annoyance in his voice. -- but no, that wasn't quite it. Not annoyance, nothing so small, so petty. This was hatred and rage, tinged with desperation. "Fuck off." So he said, but he still turned to face her, eyes wild -- a man driven further insane by an addiction that he couldn't satisfy -- before jerking his head, trying hard and failing to clear his head of the pounding pain that throbbed at his temple. (It kept disrupting what last fragments of rational thought he had. Kept aggravating him further. Made him hungrier for blood. Any blood.)

(Maybe -- maybe, she'd stay still long enough. Haha. Ha. He couldn't think, couldn't reason, could only see frail limbs and think -- maybe -- )

A half-staggering step forward -- then a lunge forward, before he caught himself, stopping before her, stance ducked low and lips curved in a furious snarl. "What the fuck do you want here, why the fuck are you here -- " Low words quickly escalated into an insane laugh, head thrown back, teeth bared. "Are you laughing at this all, too? Come on, it's fucking hilarious." The acid pain lanced through his head again, and he almost cringed, glaring at her. (Crack-shatter facade this close to falling apart.)

[spadassin]

The rage, absolute fury in his eyes. Yes, that was what she wanted. The yearning was growing ever stronger-she could feel her veins calling for it, for the fuel they so rarely needed. He was so full of unbridled emotion. Such a perfect-no. She would not indulge in that particular act. There were other things to keep her occupied, other ways to divert her attention from the burning and the pounding and the need.

Scathach remained perfectly still, not flinching in the least as he came at her, then stopped. Her teeth grit slightly, a motion too precise to be seen, only felt. Come on, a part of her urged. Let me see the real you. Because she needed, wanted, longed to feel the heat of battle, to feel, to feel, to feel. Anything. His rage was good enough for her, a convenient replacement. A wonderful coincidence.

The worlds worked in mysterious ways.

Slowly-or maybe it was only slow to her because it was a human's pace-she stepped closer to him, jade eyes locked on his form, a hunger there that she didn't know if he could sense. "I'm watching it all unfold, yes." Smooth, so smooth. Right in front of him now. She was so small, unimposing. A target just waiting to be hit. "It's rather amusing." Come on, come on, come on. Just an excuse. That was all she needed.

[feverhound]

She was taunting him, urging him on -- try me, try me -- like so many did, and he knew that he was a mad dog on a choke-chain, straining to claw at things that were out of reach. (But ah, you see -- such an animal has no logic. Has no reasoning. Why shouldn't it fight against leash, rage at the scent of blood?) Still, he resisted the bait for the longest moment, the howling laugh boiling down to a furious snarl that welled up from his throat, spat out in her face -- meeting jade eyes with black.

"Just that? Just amusing?" His expression continued to shift -- the slightest traces of insane pleasure wavering on and off, thin lips quirking into a grim smile for a moment before curling to reveal gritted teeth. (The cage holding him -- it was starting to break.) And his head -- it hurt, it hurt, ithurtithurtithurt, pounded, throbbed -- "You're laughing at us all -- at me." Voice instantly escalating into a yell, he shouted at her, trying to release this pent-up rage without falling into the trap she'd set -- without giving into the temptation of narrow limbs and pale skin that looked like it would bruise and bleed so easily, so easily.

(The glass splinters -- shivers -- shatters.)

There was the shotgun-crack of pavement splitting when he gave the pipe a meaningless swing into the ground, sinking the curve of metal half an inch into asphalt -- before he turned to her -- eyes wide with newly unbridled rage. Logic be damned -- rational thought gone -- he needed to tear at someone, anyone, and she was the only one around. "Hey -- girly -- is it that fun, to watch us crawl?" And he almost, almost sounded sane, for a moment -- before lunging at her, lead pipe tearing out of the ground, swinging in a sharp arc aimed at her neck.

[spadassin]

Men were beasts at heart, every one of them, though clad in more fragile flesh than most creatures. They played games of 'civilization' and prided themselves on having created things like poetry and music, but inside they were as territorial as wolves. The desire of an alpha to expand his hunting range, to control resources, to spread his power as far as possible, were drives born of primitive animal hunger. Whether he expressed it by clawing trees to mark them for a rival or sending forth an army to raze the neighboring domain, the end result was the same.

This man was no different-in truth, he was the epitome of what his race truly was.

"Hilarious, really." Anything to rile him up, to get him to react. Because their minds were as paper-thin as their skin, so easily torn if one knew the right ends to pull. The tempo of the pounding in her head was quickening, escalating from adagio to vivace, never slowing but only gaining speed. The experience of pain was reduced, even eliminated, at times when one’s attention was diverted elsewhere. Perhaps that was why she couldn't feel it, for concentrating so hard on this man who was slowly losing that small bit of sanity that separated him from the true beasts of the world.

The redhead saw his muscles coiled before he'd even begun to speak, and she knew she had one. "The best sight in the world, darling." And there it was-the lunge, the attack, the aggression she'd been waiting for, forcing him to build and now release. A trill of high-pitched laughter escaped her throat as she swiftly drew one of the swords on her back and deflected his blow with the flat of the blade, feeling the ancient metal tremble and vibrate in her hand, thankful for the pressure of battle again. "Come at me, Namae!" she goaded, taunted. She put her right hand behind her back and smirked, brandishing the sword in her left. "I want you to hit me!"

[feverhound]

If what she wanted was the elimination of sanity, the demolition of that faint and fragile barrier between man and animal, a complete and utter breaking of rationality -- then that was what she got. Fueled by the splitting pain in his head, the acid in his veins, Namae dropped what shards of a human facade that he had so long maintained -- let the anger take over everything.

The harsh grind of steel on steel resounded in the air, the vibrations of his weapon jarring him to the bones, but who cared about that -- he couldn't help but give a barking laugh, teeth bared and eyes flashing with some sick combination of ecstasy and exhileration as he drew back his weapon, made another lunge for her, movements quick and determined. (Because wild animals should never be underestimated. A dog in the wild can destroy one on a leash, tear apart one that has been tamed. That's the beauty of having nothing to lose, you see.) For every parry, there was another attack on the backswing -- fast and furious, without reason, relying only on brute force and speed to tear through her defense, nothing more.

Haha, it was hilarious, hysterical -- he knew as well as her that this was a lost cause, that to lay a single blow on her would be akin to reaching the gods -- but it didn't matter any more. Just this feeling of living, this feeling of dying, this, it was enough, and thin lips curved into a wan smile, tinged with madness. (Nothing to lose, nothing to gain, stuck in an eternal stalemate fueled only by bloodlust and fury -- this was the perfect crescendo, the perfect high note for this crashing deathmarch of his.)

[spadassin]

The Immortal could tell that he was well-aware that he could not win, and it was enthralling. He had finally reached the point where he was willing to give up everything at another's whim-at her whim. How long since she had found someone with that ability? How long since she had felt this alive? Not since the ancient days, when Marcus Aurelius had ruled almost the entirety of the known world. Certainly that was too long.

Her movements were slow to her, probably quick and nimble to him. There would be no fun in defeating him so swiftly, without even giving him a chance. But why? There was no way she would let herself be defeated, let him take advantage of one moment of lost focus. She was the Origin-she had created the art of fighting. Every known style was derived from her own, and though he was not consciously using a certain approach, she could still recognize it, still predict his moves before they were made. And so each seemingly haphazard attack was dodged or blocked, but she did not attack yet.

She wanted to wait until he was close to exhaustion for that, to perhaps be merciful upon this wretched soul.

The petite woman practically danced away from him then, pale skin almost glimmering in the gloom. I'm here, it seemed to call. How can you not hit me? I'm right here. She knew that by this point, everything about her, from the mere shape of her arm to the way her lips had twisted into a playful smirk, were making his hatred grow, increasing his fury and making him want to hurt her, make her bleed, tear her limbs from her unimposing body. He was almost there, almost to that point she was waiting for.

[feverhound]

Fighting a losing battle -- hahaha, it was nothing, really, just the story of his life. Crawl to the top of that hierarchy created by man, only to be kicked down and burnt to death, left to struggle in the gutters. A dog in the sewers living off corpses -- and that was really the only way he knew how to survive, any more. Rotting in this cesspit of silence, stagnating in the silence of this ghost-town -- he'd been dying slowly, the irony had been killing him -- and he couldn't help but laugh as a swing of the pipe was smoothly deflected, sending him retreating a step. Eyes wide with unbridled emotion -- rage, rage, tinted with madness and the purest of exhilaration -- and lips curved in a wan smile.

"You're laughing at me, bitch." It was a statement, a fact, something not worth posing as a question, because he knew, oh he knew -- this was a lost cause, so why the hell shouldn't he enjoy it? Eyes never leaving her face, he licked at a shallow cut across his forearm, feeling the slightest sting, tasting that familiar copper tang. "Having fun? Like kicking a dead animal, isn't it?" Words that were spoken in quick, harsh tones, almost spat out in a breathless rush, reeking of anger. "Won't even dignify me by fighting back? Girly, you hurt me."

The last two words were nothing but a hollow snarl as he lunged for her once more -- the tendrils of exhaustion beginning to strain at his limbs, the splitting pain in his head growing worse, worse -- he almost faltered for a moment, regained his step, attacked once more, ignoring the way his body protested this abuse -- because he was only human in the end, too weak, too fragile. (Nah, that's not it. I'm an animal. Nothing more.) The only thing he could do, really, the only option there was any more -- it was to fight. It was all he had.

[spadassin]

And now he was pushing her, along with the beat pounding along in her head, the same rhythm a heart might have had. She wouldn't know. Hers was long dead, a cold lump of nothingness in her chest. A slight shadow of what it could have been. What he had and chose to throw away like this. If he asked, she would spare him-but he would not. She already knew that. And if he did, it would likely be too late, his lifeblood already draining from him and leaving him a silent shell of what he had been in a matter of seconds.

Such. A. Waste.

A low snarl escaped her then, menacing and completely inhuman. Terrifying, to any sane person. She could hear the rats that the scent of fresh blood had attracted-they were running from the sound, from the vibration of it through the concrete. They were stupid creatures, but they sensed danger and knew when to run. This man did not, or he simply ignored the instinct. A true soldier-he could have been great. With the correct tutelage, he could have been something more than a raging beast, more than even any normal man. But there were always those few with the potential who left it at that-never becoming what they should be.

That moment of weakness and those words were all it took to convince her. She moved then, so blindingly fast that she was upon him in a second, wrapping her stone arms around him, capturing him in her embrace. She wondered if the icy feel of her skin would snap him out of this, though she was far beyond caring. He was practically begging for her to give back what he'd been dealing out. And he was so warm against her, so utterly breakable. She breathed in the scent of him, tasting his blood on the back of her tongue. The redhead gently leaned her head against his chest, holding him almost as a lover might. "You have no idea what I can do to you." Her voice was silky, far too soft. Too normal. Not right at all.

[feverhound]

At first, he didn't care, didn't notice, didn't even register the way the hair at the back of his neck was standing on end, just didn't realize the way his nerves were on fire, warning him that he had to flee. (Basic survival instinct. No one wants to die, you see, because that's the only thing that all living creatures know. That they want to live. That's all there is to it.) Then, too fast to see -- it was like a hand had torn into his chest, fingers wrapped around his heart, and had simply crushed it -- breathing stopped, eyes wide -- and he froze for a moment, true to his instincts, stopped in his tracks by the feeling of ice pressed against his skin.

(Run, his instincts screamed at him. Beg her for forgiveness. Kneel. Grovel. Plead with her. You don't want to die, you say you don't care, but you're just an animal in the end, and that's the only thing you have to lose -- your life. Run.) And he almost obeyed. Almost. Faltered for the smallest split second, a hard bubble of air caught in his throat and his heart beating a wild machine-gun tattoo against the cage of his ribs. It would have seemed an eternity to her, this hesitation (-- only human in the end, pitiful, pathetic --)

But no. (Pride is the downfall of all.) Because that falter, that stumble -- it was gone as quickly as it had come, wiped clean and replaced with the purest form of anger. (The pounding in his chest, his head -- the faint throbbing in what was left of his left arm -- this bitter taste of rage -- it all blended together, aimed at her.) Wordlessly, he released his grip on the pipe and before it could fall, reached for the knife at his belt, grasping the handle in an instant. This is my answer. The faintest flash of metal as he twirled it around with a practiced sort of ease, and brought it up in a sharp swing, aimed at her soft underbelly. It didn't even matter if this worked or not. It all lay in the principle, in fighting the unfightable, in experiencing this thrill. In living.

[spadassin]

There it was-the fear. A bittersweet smile flicked across her lips for a split second. She was not losing her edge-it just took a bit of work to get this one to see the truth of what she was. She wasn't really sure if she truly wanted him to be afraid of her-though common sense said that it'd be a good idea. To know that she was still more than capable of immobilizing a person by mere touch and fright was completely invigorating. A better wine than anything the humani could ever hope to create. Power corrupted, but absolute power had always sounded so inviting.

His heart bating so quickly was a quick rhythm, matching the pounding cadence in her head. There was still no pain-she was too engrossed by him, his heart, the way she felt him stop breathing and his temperature drop a few degrees. Not that it mattered much-he was still an inferno compared to her. She could almost imagine that he wasn't just a mortal, but more like her, and the thought was soothing. Even when she felt him regain that purely animal instinct to kill her, saw his aura flutter around him like a flock of enraged sparrows, she knew that there was no stopping herself now.

The redhead let out a low sigh of defeat. After two and a half millennia, the principles of being human remained the same; kill or be killed. It was comforting to know that at least one basic instinct had not been suppressed by the niceties and technologies of modern day society. So she let him strike her, felt the metal pause against her flesh before it shattered to dust. Stone skin. She could imagine that she felt it tickle a bit. As soon as his blade was gone, she moved one arm from around him and drew one of her own. She flipped it around her fingers almost as a mockery of what he had done, before she looked up at him. Glass-green eyes were searching for something in that feral visage of him even as she slipped the knife into the same spot he had chosen for her, straight through his soft flesh.

[feverhound]

It's true, what some say about particular moments in your life playing in slow-motion, frame by frame -- everything screeching to a halt for a split second before playing again, with every movement, every breath, every heartbeat clear as water. To savor. To enjoy. To feel. Because that moment, when stainless steel -- perfectly honed to a point -- rebounded off flesh and snapped clean, gleaming shards scattering onto the pavement. That realization. That clarity. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from hers -- all of his shock and anger and weaknesses laid bare.

Then everything snapped back. A blur of movement, and the smooth slide of steel into his own flesh. (Almost graceful, he had to admit. He'd never been one to deny that there was a certain aesthetic to violence.) Immediately, he pushed away from her, staggering back -- it was an almost unconscious action, as any animal will back away from what has wounded it -- a stumble, a gasp, one good hand clutching at the wound as tendrils of brilliant crimson began to flow. The familiar coppery scent began to grace the air, as the bitter taste of blood and bile rose to the back of his throat. Ironic, really, how that craving of his, that hunger for violence was finally being sated through his own flesh.

And he couldn't help but laugh, hacking, coughing, wan smile painted thin across blood-flecked lips as he glared at her. "A fucking monster, aren't you." Words laced with the blackest of humor, as he gave a wet laugh, fighting down air in harsh pants -- his heartbeat a wild hammering in his chest that was suddenly painful. But still -- he couldn't give up the fight -- simply laying down to die, that wasn't his style. Stilling the slightest tremors in his hand, he drew a second knife, holding it loosely in blood-stained fingers -- there was a certain grace in the way he knew it was a lost cause, but chased it anyway. The wound was bleeding profusely now, spots of crimson dotting the cracked pavement, and he gave her a grim smile. "Going to finish me off, or do I have to make the first move?"

[spadassin]

A man was never more alive than in the midst of a battle, where death picked and chose with a randomness that changed him forever, that made every sense in his body sharpen to crisp awareness of all that was life, all he would never do again if he died in the next moment. She could see that he was experiencing that. The utter realization in his eyes. She valued it, treasured it. Taking a life was not such a simple thing, though she often made it seem as such. There was true sacrifice on both sides of a kill; the dying person's life was forfeit, as was a bit of the killer's humanity. A double-edged blade if she had ever seen one.

The vampire let him go, half grateful for the loss of warmth and half longing for it. As long as she was able to feel something, she was content. Only when there was a lack of feeling did she truly become what had been intended since the moment of her creation. Casting a cold eye on death and life was not they way she existed. Doing so was impossible for her now. A long time ago she had been able to kill without a second thought, but the ages had brought wisdom to her, which mingled with her recklessness to create a curious sort of balance between the two that she could not explain.

Like a maddened cat, she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise and a low hiss escaped her throat. But then it was gone, replaced with slightly narrowed eyes and a curled lip, allowing the slightest glimpse of her pointed teeth. Monster. How she loathed that word. She was not the true monster, no. "There are creatures far worse than me," she said, voice returning to the calm, aloof default.

She watched as he drew another blade, unsheathing one of her swords at the same time. Good. He would not die so easily, though it would seem simple to her. Instead of answering, she merely stood motionless, an expectant look on her face. If she took the initiative, he would be dead in a manner of seconds. That was not an honorable way for him to die. The least she could do was give him something of a chance, even if it was fake.

[feverhound]

The momentary lapse in that aloof facade -- the venomous hiss and the glint of too-sharp fangs -- didn't go unnoticed, and he considered the tiniest victory. Shattering a mask, to tear apart carefully-crafted images -- there was a certain pleasure in knowing that he could aggravate someone enough to show their true colors, if even for a second. (Even if it wasn't human.) He couldn't help but laugh, really -- a low chuckle that escalated into a rasping bark, punctured by hacking coughs, wet with the blood welling in his throat. It was all too hilarious, this situation, the more he thought about it. Stuck in an interdimensional city, threatened by a clown, dying at the hands of a vampire. Like his life had turned into some enormous joke -- he just couldn't take it seriously any more.

One last howling laugh that tapered off into a strangled cough -- a wet splatter as he spit out a mouthful of blood, leaving an almost obscene stain on the ground. (Alright. Time to end this show with a bang.) And he gave her a crooked smile -- almost sincere, almost truthful -- as he twirled the knife in his fingers once, twice -- then steadied his grip on it. (The bleeding showed no signs of stopping, and the way it was interrupting his breathing -- damaged lung, at least. Knowledge that was completely and utterly useless, except for one thing -- he didn't have much time to make a dynamic exit.) "Hey, girly," -- a pause, before he corrected himself, for the first time -- "Scathach." He'd always been once to respect strength. The only thing he'd ever looked to. "At least grant me this last honor, will you."

A staggering step forward before he broke into a low dash, the knife screeching through the air in a glimmering arc, aimed at her throat -- and he already knew, it was useless. Most likely to be parried, and a meaningless action even if it made contact. But still, but still. The meaning lay in the action itself, not in the reaction -- and the faint traces of a feral smile still graced his features as he lunged at her.

[spadassin]

His laugh reverberated through he concrete, rising up through the soles of her black boots and digging into her skin, worming its way into her pride. Which, she could feel, was already beginning to take the place of her rational thought. She could feel it shoving her common sense out of the way and displaying itself in all its selfish glory. There would be no concealing it, not this time. Though it was a guaranteed win for her, she would not let it seem any less of a victory.

He deserved better than that, for getting to her this way.

Idly, her lips flicked over her lips as the blood spattered to the asphalt. This was what happened when she lost control-she began to slip into the ways of the blood-drinkers. She would not give in, no. She would merely lose herself in the sensation because she could. Her ears perked at his words. To hear her name come from mortal lips was always so exhilarating. Because those who ever spoke it were either praising her or cursing her.

Then he was running to her, and she bent her knees, taking a stance that most humani didn't know existed. That was because it belonged to her, the Origin. His knife, aimed to her neck, was deflected with the flat of her blade, and she wrapped an arm around him again, this time pinning herself against him with an iron grip. He could struggle-she expected that he would-but he would not escape. The arm with her sword slowly flipped it around, aiming straight towards his heart. "You are a true warrior, Namae," she said gently-one might have called it soothing. The tip of the sword rested against his thin shirt for just a second before she pushed it through his flesh, through bone and sinew, to the organ that was still beating erratically, the rhythm of his life to be silenced at her whim.

[feverhound]

And this was what it all boiled down to -- flesh and steel. He almost stopped in his tracks, that moment she shifted into a stance that was unfamiliar -- but too far into the motion, the knife swing went through, despite his knowing all too well that it was utterly useless. And he wasn't disappointed, of course -- the steel shivered in his hand as the knife was parried, parried aside in mid-swing -- and the touch of ice against his skin, it sent a jolt down his spine. Made his blood run cold, even as he strained against her hold -- an animal struggling in a trap -- movements stilted, weakening.

(Death. Funny how the prospective was so chilling. He'd killed many, more than he cared to cound -- played a dangerous game with chance so often. But now that the moment was here, he couldn't help but fight with the edge of desperation. I don't want to die.)

The only thing that stopped him -- her words, crooned so softly -- he froze for a moment, and watched, eyes wide -- as the blade slid in smoothly. Straight into the heart. (It was a fascinating sort of experience -- watching the stainless steel sink into his chest, inch by inch.) Then, the spread of the murky red through thin fabric -- and the overwhelming pain. It hit him in an instant, stole his breath away -- and he couldn't help but stagger, choking on blood. His own blood.

Instinctively, he clutched at her hand, the one still wrapped around the knife in his chest, fingers spasming, gripping tight even as he sank to his knees -- dark gaze flickering up to meet her eyes. (No regrets, even as he felt himself bleed out with each second that passed, tick, tock.) For a moment, there was a spark of the same anger, the same unbridled rage, before it faded into something akin to acceptance -- a dying ember. Blood-stained lips forming the vaguest of smiles.

(And she would have heard, his dying heartbeat, faltering, fading -- slowing to a halt.)

[spadassin]

She fell to the ground with him, supporting him with her arm. Her iron arm, undying arm, arm covered in a pale layer of unblemished ice. His eyes, she knew she wouldn't forget them. She never forgot the face of a person she killed in one-on-one combat. They were all too precious, too fragile to let go of, to let fade. They made her what-who she was. Each and every one of them. Placing a face with a name was her breath, just as fighting was her heartbeat.

It always fascinated her how a body was always warmer in those moments of death. Blood was so heated, and once it poured from the skin the sensation was almost like touching lava, for her. It soaked into her clothing, staining the black an even darker shade of ebony. The crimson trickled over her white skin, leaving trails as if she was the one who had been cut. The sight always made her think about what it would feel like to be injured.

She maintained eye contact with him even as Death's embrace became tighter, allowing him the honor of not dying facedown as one of anonymous thousands. A mere ant in the way of the world. The metaphorical light fled from his eyes, his aura flickered and then died along with him. In the moment death truly took him, she gently pressed her stone lips to his forehead and murmured a few words in a language so old that the earth could not possibly have known what she was saying. A prayer for the fallen.

Scathach quietly sheathed her bloodied sword-she would have to cleanse it later-and closed his eyes with the very tips of her fingers. She gently slid one hand beneath his knees, the other around his shoulders, and stood with him cradled in her arms. If one hadn't seen the pool of blood on the ground or the small dribble still coming from his corpse, they might have thought he was sleeping. Casting one last glance at the impromptu battleground, she made her way to the west, towards the setting sun and the forest.

There would be enough wood on the outskirts to burn his body on a pyre fit for a hero.