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bruised from walking into dead ends - Thalassa - 09-03-2025
Her first time back in Torchline feels begrudgingly like coming home. The tightness in her chest eases considerably just to see the familiar shores and feel the kiss of salt on her cheeks. Despite the simmering anger that she clutches stubbornly close, her shoulders sit a little lower and her spine loosens its hold. She feels almost comfortable as she wanders the beaches, soaking in the blissful sunlight and rare warmth that still clings to the sand.
There's no original intention behind her path, yet it guides her towards the shadowed darkness of Rea's Fingers. The rhythm of her feet slows, and like a draw of a blade against skin, realization runs sharp over her mind, memories and frustration welling in her mind. She clenches her teeth but doesn't stop, stepping confidently into the cavern and the fury necessary to face it.
Water ripples quietly at her feet, the melodic whistling of drafts catching at her dark hair. The pirate captain doesn't need to glance at the etchings of the wall or light any fire to illuminate her way, muscles serving as her guide to the deeper sections of tunnels. She passes the marks for her own stash - two down-pointed arrows - to somewhere even farther, a long-abandoned alcove of glittering treasure that very few have managed to disturb in recent years. Even she hasn't visited since the first time someone had led her there, but now it calls her like a match waiting to be lit, just waiting to be struck.
Thal slips around the final corner, spotting the glimmer of various metals in the darkness. The flick of her tail lights a small sconce in the wall, casting the room in brilliant sparkles and long shadows. A wealth of crates and barrels fill the space, but she doesn't bother with the value beyond the rage that it sparks in her chest. She grabs at a dusty bottle, popping the cork with practiced ease as she begins to walk through the trinkets. Her hand tips to dump the liquor as she walks, only pausing to down a mouthful herself, taking her time as she anticipates the coming destruction.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Vesper - 09-11-2025
Since Jack’s departure, the Fingers have gotten louder. Not in sound, but in presence; the smugglers, pickpockets, and slavers all crawling out from beneath their respective rocks to stake claims in the void he left behind. Power doesn’t sit empty long in Torchline. It spills. Fills. Bleeds.
And lately, it’s bled into chaos, not that Vesper minds.
He walks the tunnels without torch or guide, his hand dragging lightly along the damp wall where smugglers’ marks glitter darkly. The code’s easy enough to read once you know the language, and Jack made sure Vesper and his siblings were fluent, though it was the hum of thoughts that guided the demigod through the dark.
It was one such whisper that had led him here: a tip about a stashed shipment, something long-forgotten and conveniently unguarded. Useful, if true. Worth investigating even if not. He doesn’t rush, letting his shadows slick along the walls ahead of him, more curious than cautious, his steps soft against the uneven stone.
Then, light. A faint flicker. Not torchlight, not lantern. Fire.
It bursts briefly down one of the lower corridors; a bloom of sudden gold against the wet stone. His pace slows before he draws to a halt; he isn’t the only one who’s seen it.
Just ahead of him, half-concealed in the gloom, a knot of lowlife scavengers has stopped. There’s four of them, lean, salt-worn, and armed with all the swagger of half-smart men. One of them nudges the others and points toward the flickering light. They move like jackals, hunched and grinning, reeking of sweat and the promise of violence. [say]"Well well,"[/say] one drawls with a grin as they round the corner, the firelight catching on his rusted blade as he spies Thalassa. [say]"What have we here?"[/say]
Another snickers. [say]"Didn’t think we were gettin’ a bonus show tonight."[/say] The other two step into the alcove's entrance way, helping to cage Thalassa in with their bodies as well as the rusty blades they pull out.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Thalassa - 09-12-2025
She hears them first. The scuff of boots and quiet snickers. It puts her on a casual alert before they even appear, annoyance making her movements even sharper than before. Her tail flicks like a whip behind her, the barbed tip snapping silently between two crates as she passes, splashing more alcohol onto the stash.
Then they make the stupid decision to step through the cavern's opening, into her domain of simmering chaos that just needs a tiny spark to set it ablaze. Thal doesn't even look at them, a vicious smirk on her lips when the bottle transfers back up to meet them then returns to soaking the barrels and crates. She swallows down the burning liquid, fueling the rage coil there, honing it to a blade of violence that glints in her eyes as she finally deigns to look at the ruffians. It's cold as steel and just as sharp, a cruel tilt of her lips flashing the fangs beneath. [Say]"And I didn't think anyone would be so excited to watch their friends die - but here we are."[/say]
Then, quick as a crack of lightning, her dagger is flying through the air, a death note signed in obsidian and delivered right to the second man's brain. In hers, Thal is picturing a dark haired brute with piercing blue eyes falling like a wet sack of bones onto the damp floor. The others don't even have time to process it before she's vanishing in front of their eyes, reappearing between them to bury her second dagger into a man's sagging belly. She drags it down, relishing in the blood that soaks her hands and the screams that rip through the air.
The men finally start to move, curses and panic flowing like music around her as she twists between them as nothing more than a whisper of smoke, fire trailing her fingertips as she winks in and out of existence. Her blade teases the remaining two, catching skin and pouring blood onto the floor to mix with the salt water. She can taste the tang of blood in the air, enjoying the pain, even if it can't be the person she really wants to hurt.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Vesper - 09-14-2025
Three men fall in under a minute. It should’ve been a bloodbath—a mess of flailing limbs, missed blows, tangled footwork in the slick tidewater underfoot—but instead, it’s precise. Merciless. Beautiful in the way lightning is beautiful: fast, blinding, and over before you know you’re burning, and Vesper watches it all through Thalassa's flickering thoughts.
He feels the violence burst like fireworks down the corridor, every thought a scream before the throat has time to catch up. Their fear spikes too late. Their plans scatter like shattered glass. Thal’s presence—chaotic, hungry, laced with unspent grief—cuts through their minds like a knife through taut string. There’s only one survivor. And he runs.
Not with purpose, not even with strategy, just wild, panicked flight toward the tunnels, wheezing half-sobs as his boots slip over moss-slick stone. He doesn’t see Vesper waiting at the bend because of the how dark it is, but Vesper’s already felt him coming.
The man barrels forward and is met with a wall of shadows.
They rise like ink made solid, wrapping tight around his throat, pinning his arms back with a violent snap. He chokes. Gags. His eyes bulge wide as he tries to twist away, but Vesper doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his chin slightly, the motion slow and disdainful. [say]"Tsk,"[/say] he says softly, almost like a reprimand to a misbehaving dog.
The shadows drag the man back down the tunnel. He doesn’t walk so much as get hauled; stumbling and choking, boots scraping grooves into the rock as Vesper follows at a leisurely pace, fingers loose at his sides. Back in the alcove, the light flickers gold against wet stone. Blood pools like brine. Three bodies lie where Thal left them; slack, emptied, steaming faintly in the firelight. She’s a silhouette among the ruin, wild and glowing and furious, a storm barely contained.
Vesper steps through the threshold with all the serenity of someone completely untouched by the carnage. The fourth man flails once in the grip of the shadows before Vesper gives a lazy twist of his wrist and tightens the coil around his ribs. He glances at Thalassa, cool and unreadable. Then his gaze drops to the man gasping at the end of the leash. [say]"I think,"[/say] Vesper says, tone casual as a flicked card, [say]"you owe the lady an apology."[/say]
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Thalassa - 09-15-2025
The edge of her dagger splits through the third man's neck, a low gargling sound bubbling from his trachea while his hands reach futilely to stop his lifeblood from painting the floor red. She just stares, wishing his suffering had lasted longer when he crumples at her feet, watching as the light leaves his eyes - eyes that are too brown to be familiar.
Boots slap wet stone in a frantic attempt at escape. Thal doesn't turn quite yet, giving him a head start so she can savor the hunt through the tunnels. It won't be hard in her shift, prowling after the scent of his fear, the mix of sweat and desperation. But she waits for the moment his panicked noises start to fade -
They're cut short in a strangled sound that has her interest flaring, wondering if the night might have more to offer her than four dead bodies and a pyre of riches. She takes a moment to retrieve her first dagger from the man's brain, licking the blood from the blade as she turns to the sound of dragging feet.
Darkness carries the last man forth like an offering, tight in its grasp of his life. But darkness is familiar to her, moonlit hair and quiet confidence giving her pause for the first time since her dance of death. She scans the situation with quiet apathy on her face, disguising the chaos that flips and spins through memories and emotions she'd rather not remember. The thing that hits the hardest is that he's here, right where she'd planned to burn away every lingering hold Pierce might have left on her, making it the perfect place for him to gloat and shove every one of her mistakes and weaknesses in her face, to rip open whatever wounds she'd just started to heal.
But Thal isn't weighed down by the hollowness anymore - and she's pissed.
Thal steps forward, all danger and controlled rage on the outside with broiling emotions clashing within. [say]"He's not the only one."[/say] She can't tell what Vesper is thinking and she doesn't much care, making her own meaning very clear as she meets his cool gaze with her own blue storms. [say]"But I'll accept screams just as well."[/say] Her hand flashes up to seize the coward by the throat (not Vesper - yet). Thin fingers bite into his jaw, but it's the silent tug of a new and brutal magic that has the man paling, a scream wrenching forth from his chest as essence and energy are ripped from his body. Thal shows no signs of surprise or remorse, refusing to break her stare even as he writhes pitifully beneath her grasp. Whatever Vesper had hoped to accomplish, she wants him to know exactly where he stands right now - and who he's standing against.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Vesper - 09-17-2025
Thalassa tears the life out of the last one like it’s currency owed, dragging it up through his lungs in a scream so guttural it scrapes the walls. Her hand is steady. Her magic cruel. Vesper watches, his expression unchanged. Her thoughts churn like a sea that never learns to calm; fury masking pain, accusation masking want. She directs it all at him as if he’s the fire and not the mirror. It’s exhausting.
Not frightening, not even interesting, anymore, just exhausting. Like watching a dog bark at its own reflection, teeth bared with all the theatre of dominance, when you know full well it curled belly-up not so long ago, scared of shadows.
Thal is strong, clearly. Four men down and no sign of injury, just the gleam of blood and righteousness. But he’s stronger, and they both know it, which makes her mind all the more irritating to brush up against; still so wildly feral, still so tangled in purple vines even after the Family’s rot was cut clean.
He sighs. [say]"You can say that again,"[/say] he mutters dryly, in response to her claim that the man isn’t the only one who owes an apology. If anyone’s owed one, it sure as fuck isn’t the pile of ribs currently screaming himself to death and it isn't Thalassa either. But he doesn’t press the point.
Instead, while the man writhes beneath her, Vesper steps past the blood-slick stones with quiet ease. He kneels beside one of the corpses, rifling through the pockets without ceremony, fingers brushing past damp paper and bits of rusted metal. At last he finds what he’s looking for: a scrap of parchment folded down to a precise square.
Still crouched, he flicks it open. His blue eyes scan the contents once, swift and clinical. A small nod to himself follows—a gesture more thoughtful than satisfied—and then the scrap disappears into his coat with the soft hiss of oiled fabric folding shut.
He doesn’t look atThal as she finishes up, happy to let her keep her fire and to drag what she needs out of the carcass. He’s already got what he came for.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Thalassa - 09-17-2025
The sigh is heavy with exhaustion, so similar to that last expression he'd worn. It hits harder this time, unfiltered by the haze of infection, layered by the words that have her freezing, mouth gaping like he might have said she'd grown another tail or set of eyes. The grip of her fingers alters the man's screams to something warbled and pathetic before she throws him to the ground.
[say]"Excuse me?"[/say] Her number of apologies may have tripled in the last few weeks, but Vesper isn't someone she'd ever consider worthy of hearing the precious words from her lips, not after he'd ripped and tore at her for the fun of it. Thal throws the words as he ignores her, seething at the pure audacity he has. [say]"You think I owe you an apology?"[/say] She knows he's stronger - hates herself for recognizing it - but she wants to punch him so bad right now, to force him to see her as something other than a worthless piece of trash that he'd grown tired of having to look at, because even with the infection gone, she can't forget the disgust on his face and the way it had cracked something in her.
Grinding her teeth, she doesn't stop the chilling bite that enters her tone, fangs flashing in the low light of the fires. [say]"Enlighten me, because I sure as hell have no clue what I did to deserve how you treated me."[/say] She finally slams her boot into the man's skull, tired of hearing his screams mix with the high-pitched whistle of her anger. He goes silent, leaving her laser focus on Vesper, daring him to turn his back again.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Vesper - 09-18-2025
A muscle in Vesper’s jaw ticks. Not from her words—those are predictable by now—but from the weight behind them, her thoughts a thundering wave of self-righteous anger he’s already seen break a dozen times. They’re clearer now without the infection, but not quieter. If anything, the clarity just sharpens the bitterness until it scrapes along his mind like bone on stone.
He turns, slow and deliberate, brushing blood from his fingers with the same care someone might fold a handkerchief. His blue eyes settle on her at last now that he's able to look at her properly without a violet maelstrom choking everything out, and there’s a flicker; recognition of what was. Of the Thalassa who used to crack jokes sharp as knives, who used to drag him into shadows by the collar and moan his name into the wind.
[say]"First off, you fucked the enemy, specifically the one who shoved a blade through my dad's belly until he fuckin' bled out. Same one who came here to gut everything that makes this place ours."[/say] His lip twitches. Not quite a sneer, just the ghost of something that used to be disbelief, worn thin now to exhaustion. [say]"Then seemed to get real offended when I didn’t fall apart like some jealous schoolboy."[/say] He laughs, dry and quiet, like the sound of paper being torn in half. [say]"You stood there with void in your veins and still managed to act like you were the one being wronged. Told me I should’ve just said I didn’t want to see you as if I was the one who'd killed whatever we had."[/say]
His lips curl, just slightly with some hard-to-parse emotion. Not hurt, not heartbreak, but the kind of contempt that grows when something you respected throws itself off a cliff. [say]"Then you turned heel and made sure to bite first every fuckin' time. Told me to jump in the Wishing Well, actin' like the reason I couldn't look at you was because I was jealous and then proceeded to be nothin' but an absolute bitch any time I came upon you after that, actin' like I should have been reachin' out to you with open fuckin' arms and not treatin' you like a fucking weapon for the Family."[/say] He steps forward once, just enough to cross out the distance her fury tried to stretch between them.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Thalassa - 09-19-2025
Finally, a flicker of emotion. It's only a shadow of the Vesper she remembers, but it's more than being ignored. She watches him stand, meeting his gaze without flinching, already bracing for every accusation he's ready to throw. And damn does he throw them. Only pure, stubborn willpower keeps her spine from curving, keeps the pain from her features as she takes it all like she deserves every reminder of her weakness.
She hadn't known Jack was his dad - not that it would have changed anything. She'd known Pierce had killed Flora, but it didn't stop her from searching for him, from encouraging his advances, from practically daring him to infect her. Thal wouldn't argue that her own moral compass was darker than most, uncaring about any plots or schemes that hadn't involved her, but it doesn't change how stupid she'd been to think herself outside their reach, to think so highly of herself that he wouldn't dare.
But it had never been about Pierce anyways.
No, she'd 'fucked the enemy' because it was easier than facing her feelings. Despite what everyone else had thought and what the outcome had ultimately been, Thal knew Pierce was safer - safer than whatever Pandora's box was threatening to open. It was easier to burn a forest than have to acknowledge the change blooming within. But now she's left with the charred earth, thick with the smoke and ash, wondering how deep the burns go and if anything would ever grow there again.
It's almost enough to show the sorrow on her face, to glimpse the guilt amidst the pride she'd been working to salvage. Her voice is quieter, a simmering anger that's no longer directed only at Vesper despite the way she narrows her eyes up at him like she might be able to weather the barrage of mistakes thrown in her face. [say]"Tell me you've never made a stupid decision before. Tell me you've never been overconfident and had it bite you in the ass."[/say] She flashes her fangs again, daring him to claim perfection when everyone else is so broken. [say]"I screwed up once and nearly ended up with a life sentence of slavery."[/say] Her words are punctuated with a flick of her tail, a clenching of her jaws so tight that her fangs could snap. Asta might have said it wasn't her fault, but it doesn't change the fact that no one else would have cared enough to cure her - and that hurt, knowing that if she didn't have him, she'd still be a shell of a person pining after a psychopath who thought it would be fun to strip her of free will then leave her with a pathetic pendant as a consolation prize for losing part of her soul.
As for her actions, Thal steps closer, further bridging that gap so he can see the truth in her eyes, even if he can see them clearly in her mind. [say]"You said you understood but no matter what demigod powers you have, you can't."[/say] She's talking and now she can't stop, justifying the explanation as a means to prove herself rather than some weak need to redirect the brunt of the blame trying to crush her. [say]"You try making sense of anything when their claws are so thick in your skull that any logical thought gets twisted and contorted. It just pushes you farther into their cruel grasp as they convince you that everyone else is lying, that everything other than them is wrong. It's a prison of illusions that you can't escape because nothing can convince you that you should. It's having to live with the guilt and disgust, knowing that I was so manipulated that I would have done anything for them just for an ounce of approval."[/say] Her breaths come fast - too fast - as she tries to convince herself that it's only the anger making her vision constrict, only the rage that's making her fingers tremble, uncaring that she'd stopped talking about him anymore, consumed by the memories that well in her mind, dense with a lack of control that has bile threatening to rise again.
A chill tries to spread through her veins, shocking her enough that she sucks down a breath, planting her feet against the feelings she refuses to show Vesper. The pale wash of her features and brief avoidance of his gaze would be enough even if he wasn't a telepath, but Thal doesn't know that, and she clenches her fists at her sides, still doing her best to hide it all as she snaps, [say]"I've suffered enough without your judgement, so forgive me if I don't feel inclined to grovel to another asshole for their approval."[/say] He might not have deserved most of her wrath, but she didn't think he deserved her precious apology either, not when all he'd done was goad and insult after finding out she'd been infected.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Vesper - 09-19-2025
Vesper scoffs, the sound low and hollow, like laughter stolen from something with teeth. No need to point out that he’s only been walking Caido a little over a year; not long enough to have racked up a library of mistakes, but it's an entirely unfair point so he doesn't make it. Just huffs a humourless breath that calls bullshit without lifting a finger as she says she only made the one mistake.
Then he pulls back, slowly, gaze dragging down her frame like he’s weighing whether it’s worth stepping back into the fire again. Whether there’s anything left to salvage in the embers for either of them. Apparently deciding there is, he speaks again, voice frayed now with exasperation. [say]"I was probably the only one tellin’ you the truth from the start. That you were infected. That it was rot, not redemption, twistin’ up your mind."[/say] His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. [say]"And apparently there's enough purple left in you to think I’m the bad guy for sayin’ it to your face."[/say]
As she plants her feet but drops her eyes, that, more than anything, digs a splinter under his skin. Vesper breathes in through his nose and tips his head back, staring past her like he’s searching for distance he can’t quite reach; the wall behind her, the past behind that. Somewhere safer. Somewhere quieter. At least in the beginning, she’d gotten under his skin with her hands and her teeth and the salt-wet heat of her mouth. Now it’s all thorns and gods but he should just walk the fuck away now.
He watches the snap of her anger. Watches the tremble in her jaw, the twitch of her tail, the way her fists tighten like she’s trying to hold herself together by force. And he listens. Really listens, even when she spits his words back with venom, warping them into something ugly. That’s when he straightens—shadows stretching faintly in his wake—and leans forward, the crack in his mask finally visible. [say]"I never said I understood,"[/say] he growls, quiet but sharp. [say]"I said I knew more than you thought. "[/say]
His hands twitch at his sides, not quite reaching for her, not quite fisting into restraint. For a moment, the shadows at his heels furl and furl again, like wings that don’t know how to fold as he fights the urge to reach out and shake some grit and strength back into her. Instead, Vesper runs a hand through his pale hair instead, dragging his fingers through the strands like it might keep him from letting those same hands force some sense back into her. [say]"Fine, you know what?"[/say] he says, voice smoothing into something cold again, tired and sanded down. [say]"Paint yourself the victim. Me the asshole. That’s easier, right?"[/say]
He leans in now, a full foot of height making the angle necessary, not to intimidate, just to reach. The words are barely more than a whisper, but they hit like a stone dropped in water. [say]"We both know that’s a fuckin’ lie though."[/say]
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Thalassa - 09-19-2025
Thal knows she's made more than one mistake in her own short, remembered life - gods know there's not enough time or paper to work through that list - but it doesn't make it feel any better to hear the dismissive weigh of his airy breath. It doesn't change the fact that it had only taken one stupid decision to blow everything to smithereens. The only consolation is that he stays, listening despite how he obviously disagrees.
Her lips tighten into something that's not a wince and not a sneer, balking at the claim that the Family still has any hold on her. A dread settles in her gut, hoping desperately that he's wrong, that whatever demigod ability he has is wrong. She swallows her argument along with the acidic taste on her tongue, ignoring it as she holds what little ground she has. [say]"No, I just think you're a heartless bastard for knowing the truth and choosing to taunt me while I was living in hell."[/say]
But the memories are just as overwhelming, and even more damning without the violent haze to soften the guilt. It's a mercy that he looks away when he does, granting her just enough space to shove some of the threadbare pieces of panic back into a tidy corner where he can't see. Thal is just taking a regular breath when he leans forward, drawing her attention to the darkness that lines his form, the silk curtains parting for her to see the shadows in his eyes, the emotion as he corrects her. She doesn't flinch or back down from the growl that vibrates the space between them. She straightens her spine more, the trauma shining bright in her eyes when she uses what strengths she's gathered to hiss through the clench of her jaw. [say]"Then don't pretend to know why everything you said sounded more like a declaration of war than an offer for help."[/say] Although even as the words leave her mouth, she knows they're wrong, because he'd never once indicated that he wanted to help. All he'd done was tell her how unbearable her infection was, somehow thinking that drowning her in truth and baiting her was going to magically make her want to be cured.
Blue eyes track his every twitching movement, every flicker of the shadows at his heels, wondering what exactly he's holding back and why. She doesn't have time to ask the question when he's slapping the word 'victim' in her face like a label, something she'd said to Maea before, something she never wanted to be. It has her sucking in a breath, her words a seething whisper as she fights the mental image of her broken spirit cradled in Asta's arms. [say]"I'm not a victim - not when everything's my fault - "[/say] she lets out a forced self-deprecating laugh that's barely more than a huff of air that trembles in her chest, knocking against all the self-hatred and hidden fears that weigh heavy in her eyes as she levels them on him, daring him to argue when she adds pointedly, [say]"but you're still an asshole."[/say] Her finger pokes accusingly into his looming chest, not deflecting or absolving herself or him. Even if her own responses towards Vesper had been those of a caged animal being prodded with a stick, however aggressive or biting she'd been, he continued to stick his fingers through the grate, expecting a different response. She may feel guilty for some of her words or actions, but there was plenty of blame to go around.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Vesper - 09-23-2025
He scoffs, slow and deliberate, like she’s said something funny without meaning to. [say]"Taunt you?"[/say] The words drip with disbelief, a darkly charming curl tugging at the corner of his mouth. [say]"When the fuck did I taunt you, Thalassa?"[/say] His voice isn’t raised; it doesn’t need to be. It threads through the space between them like smoke, too controlled to be casual. His smile stays sharp and cold as he shakes his head, silver rings catching the firelight with each small movement. [say]"You so sure your memory’s reliable given the state you were in? You think you saw clarity when you were neck-deep in someone else’s poison?"[/say]
His smile fades when she leans into that wounded moral high ground—when she frames it like he should’ve helped her—something flickers in his gaze. A small, genuine confusion etched into the lines around his eyes, pale blue in the firelight and colder for it. [say]"Why?"[/say] he asks plainly, the question stark against the tension. [say]"Why’d you ever think I should’ve helped you?"[/say] He doesn’t wait for the answer. Instead, his voice darkens as his weight shifts. [say]"Between fuckin’ me and draggin’ me out to help you in the fuckin’ swamp, you found time to commit yourself to someone else. So if what we were was just casual, why the hell would you expect me to bend over backward to save you from the choice you made?"[/say]
There’s heat behind it now. Not just the ache of old attraction or the sting of betrayal, but something sharper. The implication she keeps dropping—that he failed her somehow—claws at whatever fragile moral footing he’s managed to carve out for himself. He sees it in her mind, the flicker of guilt snapping its teeth at his words, and it only makes him laugh. Not out loud—just the ghost of it, dry and bitter, curling in the back of his throat. [SAY]"Y’real sure I’m the one makin’ you out to be the victim?"[/say] he mutters, eyes narrowing. [say]"Sure sounds like you’re just mad I didn’t do more."[/say]
Even now, the words he wants to throw at her are barbed and brutal—that even as an asshole, he’d still have more than just one person lining up to drag the infection out of him. But he bites it back, jaw tightening. No point throwing more matches when she’s already smouldering.
And then she pokes him. The jab of her finger doesn’t move him an inch. If anything, he steps into it, close enough that his breath warms the air between them as he leans down. The snarl that curls through his lips isn’t theatrical; it’s tired, deep, too full of everything he hasn’t said. [say]"Takes one to know one."[/say] His voice is low. Not soft. Just quiet. Like something dangerous right before it snaps, though for the briefest moment, he still looks like he’s searching. Not for an apology. Not for forgiveness.
Just for her.
But the moment slides past, and he straightens again, the shadows that lick up his spine pulling tighter, colder, as if to remind him of who he is and what this really is, and what it no longer is.
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Thalassa - 09-24-2025
Having nothing to compare her memories to, Thal doubts herself, shaken by the utter disbelief in his voice. He makes it so hard to find the logic, to explain why everything he'd done had set her off, had dug so deep into her stubborn insecurities that she couldn't stop the denial. She can't separate the infection from her own reactions. She can't figure out whether it had been her thoughts or the Void twisting things. And she sure as hell can't admit that it didn't matter. But she can plant her feet and look him in the eyes, can ask him to tell her the hard truths now that her mind is clear.
Thal can't bring herself to give in so easily, to ask for his help now when he's proven he wouldn't before. Instead, her lips purse, a challenge clear in her eyes as she dares him to label what he'd done, to prove to her that he hadn't enjoyed watching her suffer, that he wasn't a heartless monster. [say]"Then what would you call it when you knew I was infected - that nothing you said was going to help - and still laughed at my pain, pointing out all the ways I wasn't good enough anymore? Don't lie and say you didn't want a reaction at the expense of my feelings."[/say]
As much as he's able to read and goad her, Thal can't do the same, and she isn't prepared for the cold eyes or confusion or complete apathy he throws her way next, his questions stabbing straight into her chest and the root of all her problems. Her blazing blue gaze flickers, a glimpse at the truth she's tried desperately to hide, that now floods her thoughts. It hurts that he hadn't cared, that he'd rather cut all ties than even play with the idea of helping her, that she'd actually liked him enough to be worried when his life had been threatened only to have the opposite thrown her way. She can't fault him when they had been casual; but it doesn't make it hurt any less, and she hates admitting that she'd been weak enough to give him that power.
A deep breath fills her lungs, doing its best to replicate strength as she stands her ground against him. There's something in the heavy weight of her tone, a quiet realization that dampens the fiery snap. [say]"I didn't expect you to be some selfless savior or knight in shining armor that would scour Caido until you found a cure, but I sure as hell didn't expect you to abandon me to a fate worse than death without so much as a flicker of remorse."[/say] Especially not when he held so much of the reason for her choice.
It's impossible to keep her bearing near him. One minute he's cold and the next he's hot, stepping cleanly through her fire to call her shit, pulling her from the hatred that swirls her thoughts. Indignation rises, eyes narrowing as she makes use of what little height she has in preparation for a fight. [say]"I - "[/say] But the argument dies on her lips, the quiet saying more than she wants before she clenches her fists, a decision solidifying in the pieces of pain and regret.
Looking up, there's no more bravado or facade that she hides behind, the truth feeling as much like an insult as any lie. Her voice is full of disappointment, the edges dripping with regret. [say]"I am."[/say] Mad at him for not doing more. Mad at herself for hoping he might. Mad at the Pierce for ruining her. Mad at herself for letting him. But 'mad' isn't enough to encompass what she feels - all she feels. It's a clusterfuck of chaos and insanity that she silently drowns in, having always known it would be her downfall.
It's why she doesn't have the emotional room to bait him into telling her what thoughts make his jaw clench or his voice lower - not sure she wants to know.
He might be stronger, he might have the ability to get under her skin, but they've already established how hard-headed she is, meaning it should come as no surprise when she doesn't flinch from his aggression or the heat he shoves down her throat, her finger staying planted on his chest until he ultimately steps away. Falling into old habits, her mouth curves into a sharp grin that doesn't reach the storm in her eyes. [say]"I didn't say I wasn't one."[/say]
RE: bruised from walking into dead ends - Vesper - 09-25-2025
Vesper shakes his head slowly, disbelieving, the corner of his mouth pulling into something that’s more weary than cruel. [say]"The first day I knew about it was in the Climb,"[/say] he says, voice low and level. [say]"And I didn’t mock you. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t do a damn thing except stand there while you snapped at me for noticin' that somethin' was different."[/say] His eyes narrow just slightly, a subtle gleam catching in the firelight. [say]"The next time I saw you, you told me to jump down a fuckin’ well. Third time, you were baring teeth in the hedge maze like I’d stolen something from you."[/say] He clicks his tongue softly, a gesture more tired than scornful. [say]"So no, I ain’t gonna apologise for telling you the truth. And if it came out cold, Thalassa, that’s because you were ice first. Every time."[/say]
Her thoughts simmer, half-regret and half-pride, but there’s no need to poke at them. He feels them the way a sailor feels the pull of a tide; present and inescapable, but not always worth the effort of swimming against. He lets them tug at his mind without comment, lets the guilt wash through her while he stays dry. And when she claims he abandoned her, something colder flickers behind his eyes. [say]"You keep sayin’ that,"[/say] he murmurs, head tipping just enough to suggest the weight of incredulity, [say]"but I didn’t abandon you to a damn thing. You chose it. "[/say] The disdain in his tone is faint but unmistakable. Not jealous—never that—but still rankled by the implication that he should’ve known better, should’ve done better, when she hadn’t left a single door open for him to step through.
[say]"You can’t have it both ways. Can’t tell me you don’t need a soul, wear that sharp little armour and spit fire every time I get too close, then act like I’m some kind of bastard for not climbin’ in after you once you set yourself on fire."[/say] His arms fold, not in defensiveness but with a studied patience, like he’s willing to let the silence stretch as long as it takes for her to really hear him.
Her thoughts begin to shift, softening in corners she doesn’t mean to expose, and he lets them unfurl inside his mind with a faint, bitter curiosity. There’s disappointment there, and hurt, and all the confusion she’s tried to hide behind sharp smiles and raised voices. For once, it’s not about who’s right. It’s about what’s left.
His posture eases as hers does. Some of the bite drains from his expression, though it never quite becomes warmth. [say]"You never let me in,"[/say] he says at last, quiet and almost regretful. [say]"Not really."[/say] There’s no accusation in the words—just a tired truth, flat and unembellished. [say]"That day in the Celestine, when we were trading secrets? When I brought you up there to do somethin' nice for you?"[/say] His gaze drifts, recalling it with a faint curl of his mouth that doesn’t resemble a smile. [say]"You told me your daggers were blessed by Dygra. And that you had a lyvern shift."[/say] He glances back at her, brow raised. [say]"That ain’t a secret, Thal. That’s a fun fact. Ones I coulda probably guessed at."[/say]
Another shrug, more reluctant than flippant. [say]"Maybe you would’ve told me the real shit in time. Maybe we would’ve got there."[/say] But he shakes his head slowly, resigned now, the tension in his shoulders long since abandoned. [say]" But you’re the one who cut that path off. You made your choices."[/say] His gaze steadies on her face, the chill in his tone returned, but quieter now, tempered by something heavier. [say]"You wanna be mad at me, go on. But don’t rewrite it like I failed you, when you never once made it seem like you wanted me for anything but the fuckin’."[/say]