(Catch all) Ominous October Threads

[insinning]

Who: Sinclair and You.
What: Dungeon runs, trauma bonding etc
When: All throughout October.
Warnings: Gore, Emeto, Psychological horror in one thread, NSFW stuff in another

“I see now that the path I choose through the maze makes me what I am. I am not only a thing, but also a way of being—one of many ways—and knowing the paths I have followed and the ones left to take will help me understand what I am becoming.”

Comments

[insinning]

You didn't give up on me in that dungeon. Not once. How can you ask me to do that now? I don't know if what Hien said is true. But I can't. I can't accept it.

[ Infected players. Even if they were saved everything would be a mere echo of what they once were. It's not real]

[userunfriendly]

I thought... you would have learned not to trust without reservation. To protect yourself, knowing that no one else will do it for you. This isn't something you can fight.

[ It isn't something he can fight. He knows that now. He understood that from the beginning. This... was always him.

He reaches out to put a hand on Sinclair's shoulder. Gentle, steadying. Making certain that Sinclair isn't going to move as he draws his sword and, with inhuman precision, stabs him through the side. Deep. Avoiding organs. Necessary calculation...? Yes. Yes. There is no cruelty in a quick end. They're in accord. ]

Run, Emil. Don't fight anymore. Just run.

[ Run. Survive. One more time. ]

[insinning]

--!

[ Run Emil Those words freeze him to the spot and he almost doesn't notice the blade piercing him right through.

It's so sudden but even if Michel calculated to avoid vital organs, Sinclair is still run through.

Blood splashes against Michel's hands, the ground, and the fabric around made is dyed a deep red]

Mi...chel?

[ Dark spots between to swim in his vision and he reaches out blindly, for his spear. For anything...]

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel looks down at the blood on his hands. On his blade. On the ground, on Sinclair, on...

His mind spins, desperate to process all of it at once, and he takes a step back. This is what he came for. He should be satisfied by the results. Instead, he feels... ]

No. Never again. I told you that.

[ Sever it cleanly, cruelly. Kill that name and everything attached to it. Leave him no reason not to run. ]

[insinning]

N...no. Michel. You're...there. Gorre wouldn't...

[ There's his spear, comfortable in his hand. Sinclair trembles as the blade is pulled out of him cleanly, blood spilling out from his wound and he staggers, then falls to his knees.

It hurts. It's cold. He's scared]

Why... Mithrun... everyone I need to...

[selfconcept]

[ Beneath Michel's feet are some smoky wisps and there's only half a second to react when bony claws and arms raise from the ground. The claws try to ensnare Michel as if fixing him into a more comfortable position to drag him down to hell. ]

Enough.

[ The grim reaper adjacent looks as if he came out of nowhere, calmly walking past Sinclair, the smoky halo continuing to float above his head and with the staff in hand. ]

Winter.

[ Hien's voice drops low and cold—much different than his usual dead and flat tone of voice. A warning. Sinclair is immediately healed to full and closing the wound, but thankfully, no internal organs were damaged and that part is going to be extremely sore for a while. But hey, at least Sinclair is no longer bleeding out. ]

[userunfriendly]

[ Enough? It is enough. Winter is too distracted to fully sidestep, and he glances down at an offending claws, his expression blank.

This outcome is... almost acceptable. It would serve a purpose. But his other unfinished objectives nag at him. ]

Hien.

[ Cordial, icy. Unperturbed. He resumes moving, trying to pull himself free of the claws and arms with no particular regard for any damage dealt if they dig in. ]

Keep him here. Not me.

[insinning]

[ Did Hien...always have a technique like that?

Did Harvest Clerics always have that ability at level 100?

Sinclair clutches the wound, feeling the phantom pains throb through it, unable to get up just yet. He still feels dizzy and weak...]

Hien...[ Then his eyes fall on Michel, brow furrowing, struggling to form the words]

Michel...Why are you doing this...?

[selfconcept]

Down.

[ The claws dig in deeper, threatening to pierce his skin the more Michel tries to free himself from them. Upon Hien's command, the claws attempt to suppress the target by making him kneel. Sorry, but this is Hien's version of spray bottle to the face for nasty behavior now. ]

... If you have to question why, he's no longer who you know him to be.

[ He keeps his sights on Michel. ]

[userunfriendly]

As I've said. Many times.

[ The words are directed at Hien, though they're as much for Sinclair's ears. But Winter doesn't so much as look his direction as he's forced to kneel. Blood trickles beneath the claws from his resistance; he doesn't seem to pay any attention to that, either, gaze fixed firmly on Hien.

If this is how he wants to do things... right in front of Sinclair... That would also be acceptable. ]

[insinning]

[ Even as Sinclair struggles to stay conscious, his eyes remained fixed on those claws encircling Michel, the unnatural smile twisting his features as he bled]

...Gorre... researching...

[selfconcept]

[ Hien understands now after hearing Sinclair say that and he clicks his tongue.

Unacceptable.

Hien tosses a sleeping potion over his own shoulder so that the area only captures Sinclair so the boy can fall asleep.

As for "Winter"... ]

Gather your data on someone else.

[userunfriendly]

If you let him cross my path again, I'm making you no promises.

[ Keep Sinclair away. Keep him safe. Use that power for something. ]

[insinning]

[And Sinclair collapses, comatose for however long the potion lasts - it's not going to stop him from getting up later, even if he'll be in a lot of pain]

[selfconcept]

Take responsibility for your own actions, Gorre. If you hurt him again before your time, I'll kill you myself.

[ That's a threat. "Winter" can see Hien twirling something in his hand. It looks like a wand. Perhaps a baton? A curved blade protrudes out of the end of the wand's side, effectively making this a scythe. ]

cw: implied suicidal ideation

[userunfriendly]

[ A threat? It sounds like a promise. With Hien releasing those spiky claws, Gorre rises to his feet and reaches for his sword again to rest his palm on the hilt. ]

Make certain that you do.

[ He intends to take responsibility. He was named for an angel of judgment, not salvation. ]