[Cast out. Undesired. Set only to dwell in the rifts between worlds for as long as time endures: it is only in wandering that his footfalls draw him away from star-touched void and into thickened mist. He expects nothing, despite the strangeness of that shift in view. Yet when the veil clears, there rests stone beneath his feet. Buildings (not entirely unlike those he'd known in the heart of Archades) kissed with rust and decay so vivid that he suspects time has caged this world just as fervently as it held him.
But the cursed know no sleep, and the dead do not fear, and so he presses onwards through narrow streets in search of something— or someone— with life yet to spare.]
[His feet splash desperately through puddles as he makes his way through the winding streets, calling that name with a desperate fury. With his powers stripped from him, Wujiu can’t travel far, can barely fight off the apparitions that seek to attack him. He can he’s got his fists and feet still, but he’s more concerned with the other matter at hand—]
Bi’an? Bi’an, where are you?!!
[ the piercing silence is his only answer, drilling through his consciousness. It’s too much, too overwhelming to not feel that presence he’s so used to. And worse—worse still—is that Bi’an is without him. Is he alright in the rain? Of course he’s not. He had to find him, before he reaches his limit.
He hardly notices another shadow leaping from the rafters of a building until its bearing down on him. All too mortal now, Wujiu is caught unawares, knocked down to the ground. His first instinct is to protect the umbrella he holds (still, silent, painfully so), but he still turns, pistoning his foot out to try to kick it off, fangs bared. He has no time for this!]
[Sound echoes there in liminal space, loud and catching, ricocheting off of buildings warped by weathered age. No more than a voice at first, panicked and fearful, and though Gabranth hardly holds right to intervene (is that not what he’s done all this time already? interfered in defiance, made folly of the gods own designs in the name of those innocents snared within them?) it is swift, his pursuit of that noise.
The snap of a blade drawn, cut sharp through the shadow poised over—
A man, perhaps. Marked and long and lean in ways that make him seem starved.]
On your feet. Quickly.
[He turns, his helmet sharply twisting as he scans dark surroundings, and the shapes of creatures given to pursuit.]
[He doesn’t know if it’s the new powerlessness or the shock of what that causes him to react a millisecond slower than he usually would at the newcomer. At being freed from his attacker, the open air and dark stars above where pitch shadow was before. The rain splatters into his face and eyes.
But he’s already scrambling up by the time the barked command rings in his ears, with a body that feels weighted for the first time in centuries.
He holds the umbrella close, refusing to use it as a weapon. Not when it’s silent like this and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t wanna risk breaking it further. ]
Yeah.
[The kick he shoots out at one of the advancing shadows is clumsy, but the pivot-turn-shoot of the spinning kick he follows up with hits home... though he already feels exhaustion creeping in.]
[He eyes that form. Practiced, it must be, for even with weariness creeping into that posture there’s surety to be found in execution: the movements precise enough that they speak of what must have been years of training. But to stay here would see them surrounded, and he worries his companion’s ferocity will give way to frailty the longer this drags on.
Hefting his short sword higher, reversed tightly in his grasp, he lunges back the way he’d arrived— dispersing yet another lumbering apparition before he turns, beckoning:]
[He doesn’t like it; he fights side by side with people, he doesn’t just take opportunities, but—-Wujiu is not stupid, especially when it comes to combat. He knows his limits most of the time, and right now they’re falling faster than he’s used to.
He sees armor and the sword; he knows the other will make it out. And he’s too preoccupied otherwise.
He swipes out to a nearby enemy and takes his exit. It seems like he’ll make it, but—there’s a sudden swipe from the side, and his arms are abruptly empty—]
No—!! [And suddenly, he’s forgetting all his composure, all his best form. He’s forgetting his escape route, scrambling for the lost item. He had to get it back, he can’t lose him—
[Damned opportunities and lost men, that is where they mire themselves now.
Gabranth bristles in irritation when his demand is denied by stolen intevention, growling low in his throat at the sight of Wujiu bucking off that brief window of escape in favor of giving pursuit. A bloodied ruination, they risk it more with each passing second spent between shadows. All for what— a trinket?
And still he gives chase: though his strides are shorter, there is time enough to cut a path in his wake, and assist Wujiu’s flight.]
Let it go! You’ll end yourself in folly, spurred on in this pursuit—
[He doesn't hear it. It's just ringing noise, a sharp, painful whine that pierces through his brain and heart. This feels more like drowning than when he'd drowned, that pressure from without and within, his throat closing with the weight. Bi'an, Bi'an, Bi'an.
He dives for it, grabbing it and rolling--his folly still an unmistakably skilled one, though it's not enough to protect him from the claws that sink into his back. The crowds of shadows have thinned, but he's still overwhelmed. And still, he positions the old, ragged, unbearably dusty umbrella under him, not so much screaming as roaring as first fabric, then flesh is split, yielding thick, black blood.
If he fights back, he risks letting go again, losing him again. He'll endure, then. Better he be the one waiting, enduring, than Bi'an. ]
[Fool. He thinks the word alone in isolation, letting it knot itself somewhere in the forefront of his mind— but there’s a catching snarl that rises in his own throat in unison, even as he lunges hard and harsh into that tangle of shadows and tattered limbs: twin blades cutting in a flurrying half-circle about the man left prone and bloodied across cold streets.
In someone else there might be mercy. Pity for such a sight, even as their pursuers scatter (however briefly).
In Gabranth, there's only anger, and it makes itself known when he snaps:]
You risk yourself for naught, you tempt death and detraction and for what— ?
[Thankfully the herd has thinned enough that the whirlwind of swords further dissuades them--limping, hissing, they stagger back and away. They are safe, at least for the time being.
Wujiu hisses in breath through his teeth, one hand holding the umbrella close, the other fist pushing himself up from the ground, his flayed-open back stretching painfully. For what? For everything.]
I'm...fine. You can...go. [Gritted out as he tries to deal with pain that he hasn't felt this acutely in a while. Where was the flesh stitching together, wounds melting off...? He feels cold.]
Spare me. I’ve not the stomach nor the temperament to endure lies at present.
[With a glance towards his side he evaluates one of the nearest buildings, all open windows and the half-gated entryway that might serve as sufficient barrier should their pursuers return.]
Inside.
[It’s a murmured command this time. Hardly toothless, but there’s no sign of cutting claw or anger present— helm pulled from his head in dark, secure spaces.]
[He has to be halfway dragged in, because even though he knows, deep down in the way that an animal knows, that his body is only a step away from giving out...his heart refuses to accept it.
He immediately turns to go back in the way they came, and then...falls flat on his ass, his legs having given up entirely.
Wujiu has to take a few breaths, to try to calm his whirling mind, that need to go, go--
All he manages to do is turn his burning, torn back towards the man, umbrella still held tightly. He doesn't even want to let it go enough to undo his robes, but it's acquiescence to his demand.]
[Frustration still brims full within the cup of his sanity, but he tamps down on it with effort as he moves nearer (he is not the man he once was, that much remains true), reaching to set hands across those narrow shoulders.
He cannot feel how cold they must be through the thickness of his gloves.]
[He still gets a light, frustrated growl, echoing the edge in the armored man's voice with his own, but--
Without Bi'an to warn him (Hold, Wujiu) it's his instincts that finally assert themselves. Despite everything, Wujiu still has his self-preservation, and he finally stops holding it down.
And if the man says he can treat him? All the better.
He doesn't say anything, but he does loosen his grip on the umbrella just enough--just enough to wordlessly unfasten his outer robe, letting it drop. The shirt comes next, sticky with black blood. He knows enough about medicine to know it wouldn't do to have the clothes in the way.
So what his companion gets now is a full view of that emaciated back, the spine rising from marked skin like some sort of leviathan in a stormy sea.]
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steals my own IDV post for this
But the cursed know no sleep, and the dead do not fear, and so he presses onwards through narrow streets in search of something— or someone— with life yet to spare.]
no subject
Bi’an? Bi’an, where are you?!!
[ the piercing silence is his only answer, drilling through his consciousness. It’s too much, too overwhelming to not feel that presence he’s so used to. And worse—worse still—is that Bi’an is without him. Is he alright in the rain? Of course he’s not. He had to find him, before he reaches his limit.
He hardly notices another shadow leaping from the rafters of a building until its bearing down on him. All too mortal now, Wujiu is caught unawares, knocked down to the ground. His first instinct is to protect the umbrella he holds (still, silent, painfully so), but he still turns, pistoning his foot out to try to kick it off, fangs bared. He has no time for this!]
no subject
The snap of a blade drawn, cut sharp through the shadow poised over—
A man, perhaps. Marked and long and lean in ways that make him seem starved.]
On your feet. Quickly.
[He turns, his helmet sharply twisting as he scans dark surroundings, and the shapes of creatures given to pursuit.]
Can you fight?
no subject
But he’s already scrambling up by the time the barked command rings in his ears, with a body that feels weighted for the first time in centuries.
He holds the umbrella close, refusing to use it as a weapon. Not when it’s silent like this and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t wanna risk breaking it further. ]
Yeah.
[The kick he shoots out at one of the advancing shadows is clumsy, but the pivot-turn-shoot of the spinning kick he follows up with hits home... though he already feels exhaustion creeping in.]
no subject
Hefting his short sword higher, reversed tightly in his grasp, he lunges back the way he’d arrived— dispersing yet another lumbering apparition before he turns, beckoning:]
This way— I will guard your flight.
no subject
He sees armor and the sword; he knows the other will make it out. And he’s too preoccupied otherwise.
He swipes out to a nearby enemy and takes his exit. It seems like he’ll make it, but—there’s a sudden swipe from the side, and his arms are abruptly empty—]
No—!!
[And suddenly, he’s forgetting all his composure, all his best form. He’s forgetting his escape route, scrambling for the lost item. He had to get it back, he can’t lose him—
no subject
Gabranth bristles in irritation when his demand is denied by stolen intevention, growling low in his throat at the sight of Wujiu bucking off that brief window of escape in favor of giving pursuit. A bloodied ruination, they risk it more with each passing second spent between shadows. All for what— a trinket?
And still he gives chase: though his strides are shorter, there is time enough to cut a path in his wake, and assist Wujiu’s flight.]
Let it go! You’ll end yourself in folly, spurred on in this pursuit—
no subject
He dives for it, grabbing it and rolling--his folly still an unmistakably skilled one, though it's not enough to protect him from the claws that sink into his back. The crowds of shadows have thinned, but he's still overwhelmed. And still, he positions the old, ragged, unbearably dusty umbrella under him, not so much screaming as roaring as first fabric, then flesh is split, yielding thick, black blood.
If he fights back, he risks letting go again, losing him again. He'll endure, then. Better he be the one waiting, enduring, than Bi'an. ]
no subject
In someone else there might be mercy. Pity for such a sight, even as their pursuers scatter (however briefly).
In Gabranth, there's only anger, and it makes itself known when he snaps:]
You risk yourself for naught, you tempt death and detraction and for what— ?
no subject
Wujiu hisses in breath through his teeth, one hand holding the umbrella close, the other fist pushing himself up from the ground, his flayed-open back stretching painfully. For what? For everything.]
I'm...fine. You can...go. [Gritted out as he tries to deal with pain that he hasn't felt this acutely in a while. Where was the flesh stitching together, wounds melting off...? He feels cold.]
no subject
[With a glance towards his side he evaluates one of the nearest buildings, all open windows and the half-gated entryway that might serve as sufficient barrier should their pursuers return.]
Inside.
[It’s a murmured command this time. Hardly toothless, but there’s no sign of cutting claw or anger present— helm pulled from his head in dark, secure spaces.]
And show me your wounds.
no subject
He immediately turns to go back in the way they came, and then...falls flat on his ass, his legs having given up entirely.
Wujiu has to take a few breaths, to try to calm his whirling mind, that need to go, go--
All he manages to do is turn his burning, torn back towards the man, umbrella still held tightly. He doesn't even want to let it go enough to undo his robes, but it's acquiescence to his demand.]
no subject
He cannot feel how cold they must be through the thickness of his gloves.]
Compose yourself. Else I cannot treat you thusly.
no subject
Without Bi'an to warn him (Hold, Wujiu) it's his instincts that finally assert themselves. Despite everything, Wujiu still has his self-preservation, and he finally stops holding it down.
And if the man says he can treat him? All the better.
He doesn't say anything, but he does loosen his grip on the umbrella just enough--just enough to wordlessly unfasten his outer robe, letting it drop. The shirt comes next, sticky with black blood. He knows enough about medicine to know it wouldn't do to have the clothes in the way.
So what his companion gets now is a full view of that emaciated back, the spine rising from marked skin like some sort of leviathan in a stormy sea.]
...There.