I will help you.

Trager

Setting: So with their child returned to them, Aryanne and Trager did a plethora of family-like things and then settled down to sleep, their son bundled up between them. Trager, is awoken suddenly in his copse.

Steam seems rush in from the north, curling at the fringes of your peripheral.

Your glance reveals that the source of the steam seems to be even further north.

You have emoted: Trager starts awake, the slightest shift in his surroundings sending the Yeleni into a state of some heightened alarm. Gently, to not wake the woman and sleeping child beside him, he rises, alarm written clearly across his face.



A wide-open circular seating area.

Large and welcoming, you find yourself in a wide, open den. Stark white and bare, the circular walls transition smoothly into heavy, snow-colored tiling, fitting together near seamlessly beneath your feet. Arranged center of the room are two, massive couches, the white fabric unblemished in an almost unnatural cleanliness. Three steps lower you down into the seating area, the stairs forming a perfect circle a few feet out from the center. The furnishing has been arranged into two, half moon sofas, splitting down the middle to offer two entrances into the rounded ring. Inside the ring of furniture is a heavy, adorned fireplace, its central placement offering a warm, pleasant heat to everyone around it without fear of being overbearing. Cut and placed into the ceiling above the lowered enclosure is a massive sunroof, allowing in both sunlight and stars with the changing hours. Steam lifting from His skin in languid wisps, Slyphe, the Fabricator is here.

Slyphe sits languidly upon one of the couches in its very center, His arms spread along the back on either side of Him in what appears to be quite the comfortable position.

You have emoted: Trager's alarmed features break, his eyes growing wide in recognition. Then, wariness, but of a different sort. "Lord Slyphe," he rasps out tentatively. He makes his way down into the sunken seating area, moving around the assortment of couches to come up behind one such piece, his hands coming down atop its cushioning to stare full-on at Slyphe. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"Concern," Slyphe remarks dryly, and it's clear by His countenance in every way possible that His words ring true. His gaze seems to sweep your form in observance before indicating the couch you stand before in a sort of inviting gesture.

You have emoted: Trager offers only a few, initial blinks as he takes in the words before he moves around to lower himself into one of the furnishings. "Forgive me for not fully understanding that term at this time," he rasps out in what can only be a painful attempt at a drawl. "My last few visits from the Divine seem to have banished that word from my mind." His hands come together in his lap, fingers interlacing before they fall still.

"I will help you," Slyphe remarks after a long, perhaps even drawn-out span of time. His gaze seems to flicker over your form, His tempestuous eyes seeming to take in every scorch mark, every burn, and every scar that weaves itself upon your face like a sadistic form of art. His head shakes slowly, sullenly, as the realization of the extent to which the burns make themselves present seems to gradually sink in.

You have emoted: A flicker of hope, then endearment, to finally fall to rest upon the the strangely flat, apathetic gaze that questions Slyphe's words. He clears his throat before he speaks, one hand rising to rest at the marred skin of his neck before Trager begins: "You spoiled us, I feel," he breathes out in an absent manner. "Protected us all from the more sadistic nature of Your siblings." A croaking rasp ripples out from behind his lips, a morbid sense of humor making itself known. "To think I wished never have left Your fold."

Slyphe takes your words like a hit to the face, His eyebrows drawing inwards as you speak. "They are not all like this, Trager," He notes after an exhalation of breath that pushes small streams of steam from His skin that float lazily skywards to collect themselves upon the ceiling before diffusing. Adjusting Himself, He leans forward, posture adopting one more serious and obviously quite less languid than before. "What She did... I do not condone," He comments lowly. "I approached Her about it, before your brother as She attempted to harm him too." His head shakes sullenly as another breath pushes forth from His lungs. "She did not appreciate it, but it would be unfair of Me to tell Mine to stand up in the face of adversity for what they believe in and not do the same Myself."

A lurid image flashes almost violently through your mind, as if illuminating the very scene the God before you had just spoke of. There stands Auresae, hand raised and only inches away from coming into contact with Rashar's face - though it is His hand that clenches Her wrist, preventing the motion from concluding. A flare of fiery colors dissolves the image in a conflagration just as abruptly as it had surfaced.

You have emoted: "But I did," Trager rumbles out flatly. Obviously the man heard Slyphe's words, saw the images, but nothing in his tone depicts the acceptance of them, as if they simply floated through one ear, then out the other. "So while I laid there, begging for death, Au-.. Aure-.. That bitch toying with me, I thought. Of You. Aryanne, my son, Rashar, Roux. I thought, surely, someone would come. Break down the door, fall from the sky. Save me, as I have saved them, helped them, so many times before." As his words come forth, each one grabs in this throat, the pain growing by the second, yet still he forces them out. His hands come apart, his form leaning forward as they find purchase atop his knees for support. "And do you know what I realized the second before the pain became too much bear? Before I drifted into the only escape I found that day? I was alone."

Slyphe opens His mouth as if to speak, but closes it immediately thereafter, His lips pushing into a grim line. It's clear He's contemplating the words to say, and time after time they seem to evade Him in their formation. Wordlessly He rises and steps forth to take a seat next to you upon the couch, His hands outstretched with His palms facing the ceiling. "You are a fighter, Trager," He comments, His tone far quieter than typical of Him, and yet there's an almost paternal undertone accentuating His words. "I... cannot tell you what I was doing, but I assure you, I heard your screams. I -felt- your pain resonate within My chest and upon My skin." A brief shiver seems to send itself down the God's spine, His eyes flickering shut for the briefest of moments. "But I knew you would make it. I knew, and had faith in you to triumph while I was..." He trails off, gaze narrowing just somewhat. "Doing what I had to do, for the good of everybody," He somberly concludes.

Lifting His palms just somewhat, Slyphe says, "Lean forward so that I may help you with the marks She's left behind. I can take care of what physically remains."

You have emoted: Trager simply sits. He listens, the light sneer that so recently accompanied his words gone now, replaced with sympathy. Sorrow, not for himself, but for the God seated next to him, for the words that come forth from the Yeleni now, eyes fixated longingly at Slyphe's palms. "I do not blame You, Father," he finally whispers. "Not anymore." He lifts his gaze, intending to meet Yours now, revealing once more the full scope of his scars. "You are right," he says simply. "You very nearly always are, as long as I have belonged to You. I am a fighter. But those qualities, those parts of me that You think are still here..." He slowly shakes his head, "They are gone. I have my son, and while that is all that should matter, a piece of me will forever remain on that floor, Her fingers tearing through my flesh in front of them. No," he rasps out, an edge of determination leaking into his words, "These wounds, these trophies, will only be replaced once I am released from this form. I am Yeleni in appearance, but inside no longer. Do you know what it is like for your mind and body to tear at themselves, fighting over dominance of what you are?"

Defiantly, you say, "And so they will stay, if only to serve as mute to the battle within me. Until I can feel whole, inside, again."

"Is that what you desire, Trager?" Slyphe questions back, and surprisingly enough the question is but that - no cynicism, sarcasm, underlying tones - nothing else accompanies His words to insinuate otherwise. "You wish to embrace the power of death? Of struggle and sorrow?"

Aryanne arrives from the south.

You have emoted: "It is, Father," Trager whispers out softly. "I can not.. It -hurts-," he breathes hurriedly now. The emerald of his eyes appear sharper, the thin veil of water now condensing around them as each word threatens to send them over into tears. The Yeleni, so intent, so fixated upon Slyphe, does not seem to notice Aryanne's entrance.

Slyphe too does not seem to notice Aryanne's entrance, His attention set firmly upon you. Again the God takes in a deep breath and releases it before He places His hands upon your shoulders. "Then I will help you," He resolutely states with a nod of solemn affirmation. "Nobody, mortal or Divine alike, should endure what it is you've endured." His grip upon your shoulders tightens slightly as His eyes flare once a violent blue, the typically-pleasant cerulean hue slowly transitioning into a murky, turgid bluish black not unlike a roiling, sea-churning storm. "This, I can assure you My son, will not be pleasant," He warns. "For either of us."

Holding a lump of sleeping child bundled in an airy, sheer gold palla, Aryanne steps in from the south with casual curiosity, her eyes shooting with with surprise as she catches Slyphe in her gaze, grip on the palla tightening marginally. She lingers at the entrance, clearly too intrigued to leave, but too polite to disrupt the pair further.

You have emoted: Trager's mouth slackens, falling open in what can only be anticipation for what is to come. His hands come up, sliding over Slyphe's own, and his eyes flicker shut. Hope. Readiness. Acceptance. All of these emotions, and more, shift over the Yeleni's features, perhaps the most he has shown this month.

Through Slyphe, a ripple of energy pulses through the room that sends the furniture therein shaking and propelled slightly from their original positions. A crackling aura begins to engulf the God and you alike that bears the same color His tempestuous eyes do as His grip tightens.

Images begin to slither throughout your consciousness as a deep sorrow begins to swell to life within your chest. Like bile, it pushes upwards through your stomach to snake through your esophagus and linger just at the back of your throat. There She stands, Auresae, Her hand held against your face as the all-too-familiar scent of burning flesh pushes itself through your nostrils once more.

Aryanne's arms tighten further as her eyes cut to Slyphe with rising alarm, mouth falling open to speak, but merely hanging for several moments before snapping shut, having reconsidered her words, stepping back to press into the door frame with concern etched silently across her features and the stiff tension in her frame.

You have emoted: Trager's sits, waiting, appearing nothing if not the willing, hopeful participant. And then something changes. His face, appearing so peaceful and wanting, scrunches up in an instant. He shudders once, as if to choke back something rising within him reflexively. His lips part only minutely, and a low, morose howl rips unbidden from the man's very soul. It as if he is being tormented all over. His body, his mind, whatever might be taking place within him, clearly speaks to something unpleasant in nature.

The image ripples and distorts, perception changing despite the morbid scene remaining quite the same. You see yourself burning under Her touch, skin blistering and crackling as She malevolently pushes on. You hear your own screams of agony and torment, your voice cracking as your wind pipe succumbs to the searing flames to be replaced by a low gurgling instead. Aryanne stands just before wherever it is you are seeing and hearing this encounter, but the image is seen from behind the wooden bars of a crib.

Slyphe's fingers clench around your shoulders even tighter, though as the energy that wreathes their forms seems to pulse blindingly it becomes quite obvious that any physical pain as a result thereof is likely the least of anybody's worries.

Aryanne's breath escalates as her eyes widen and brows shoot up into her hairline as her toes curl into the floor. Her arms hug ever closer as she cowls against the wall and a forlorn, pathetic whimper manages to slip free, the noise lost in your screams.

You have emoted: Trager's own grip tightens, cropped nails drawing down the God's flesh as if intending to tear furrows along the skin. The howl shifts, the timbre lifts, and then he is simply screaming. The same, wracking pleas of his body that he hears within, that he emitted under the Goddess' hands. His body begins to shake and spittle begins to flick and slip out of his mouth in between shuddering breaths for air, flying out to land on Deity he sits before.

Slyphe's lips push into a grim line, brows creasing as His countenance shifts into one unsubtly
portraying signs of His own dread. His breathing begins to rapidly escalate, chest heaving up and down repeatedly as your skin begins to darken and contort inch by inch. Your appendages begin to elongate, and with every iota of transformation you endures a scar fitfully, painstakingly, begins to vanish slowly out of sight.

Again the scene before you contorts, though this time to something different in its entirety. There stands the Fabricator, His gaze set grimly upon a pair that rest within a dim cell. The two behind the bars are Jarva Ruek and Issril Etysul, the Malevolent's Apostles. They both wear expressions completely devoid of emotion or even thought, their eyes glazed passively over. The God thumbs a small device in the image, and for a fleeting moment your senses are wracked by a mind-numbing burst of color and screeching, high-pitched sound.

It becomes steadily obvious that it is not only your pain you endure, but the God's as well. Regret, grim determination, a deep sense of longing - all of it, it fills you to the brim to the point where it seems almost as if your mortal frame may be only moments away from breaking beneath its impact.

Fright slowly bleeding into wonderous awe, Aryanne continues to stare, her gaze flitting over your unexpected change, the tense buoy of her limbs calming, though she does not dare tread any closer or loose her grip.

You have emoted: Heavy, wracking gasps wreak havoc upon Trager's form as his screams stop abruptly. His eyes fly open, giving sight of a more internal shift in the man's physiology. No longer are does he stare with emerald eyes, but of a similar hue to the God's own, the heavy, blue-black quickly swallowing out any trace of what was there. The primal tinge to them shed light on the pain, still there, still so all-encompassing, but the man's shock, his accusation, nearly overwhelming all else. His violent shakes continue on, picking up into such a tempo that would surely have shaken off a lighter grip.

Slyphe's lips part in exertion as He releases a low growl, heavy breaths pushing forth from His
nostrils as His body tenses. A staggering wave of invisible force shakes the house you stand within to its very foundation, and then only moments later the room is engulfed in a haze as the energy surrounding Him and you explosively expands to cover every inch of living space in a way that renders sight useless.

Slowly, almost painfully so, the haze that fills the room begins to diffuse. As the smog-like
substance clears, it is only the two of you left behind. No God. No turgid streams of cerulean
energy as there once was. Nothing.

Aryanne flinches back, finally breaking her gaze as the energy blinds her, reaching up to deflect her eyes. Finally lowering her arm, she struggles to blink through the starry haze, finally finding your form within the space, simply staring for a few moments before hazarding a single step from the wall, breathing out an uncertain, concerned, "Tra..Trager?"

You have emoted: As the haze clears, lifts, Trager's form is finally allowed into sight. The
drastically changed Azudim is sprawled out across the couch where moments ago the God has sat with him. His limbs, so long, lithe now, half hang off the furniture. A slight twitch of his fingers, the rubbing of his digits together that sends a violent, crackling blue to set off beneath the now dusty, onyx skin. Eyes flutter open, unseeing, but scanning all around him.

Stepping ever closer, Aryanne's steps tread quicker to slap audibly against the floor until she
reaches the seat next to you, squinting and canting her head to the side as she looks over the transformed Azudim. Pausing a moment to hope her presence is noticed before further action, she reaches a free hand down to grasp your own and ask again, "Trager?"

You have emoted: Flawless. His skin boasts no imperfections, smooth, sleek, with a coloring between onyx and smoke-streaked marble. Trager's eyes continue scanning before abruptly snapping on to Aryanne. He pushes himself up, languidly, with all the grace, if not more, of his Hunter past. "He did it," the Azudim whispers out softly. One hand rises up, tentatively, but with a joy, no, a -relief- that appears so tangible across his visage.

In a low, rumbling hum, you say, "Thank you, Slyphe. Thank you..."

THE END


Before:

He is a stalwart Azudim. He stands tall and empirical at just over six and a half feet. The skin he leaves bare to the elements boasts a heavily-tanned, bronzed coloring. Across the man's flesh are a myriad of different, fairly noticeable scars and burns. Across the left side of his face, stretching from the corner of his eye to the tip of his lips, the skin has been stretched thin, and appears paler then the rest, evidence of some past burn that has marred his flesh. Across his throat, remnants of an angry scorch, flushed red as if left to perpetually pain him. Surrounding his eyes is flesh of a similar coloring, sunken in from past injury that thankfully has not caused permanent damage to his emerald-green eyes. The entirety of his form is thin, lithe, though rippling with a muscular grace, akin to a hunter stalking its prey. His wide shoulders transition down into generously muscled arms, broad hands with thick, roughened digits. He boasts a runner's legs, well-equipped to carry him swiftly and surely wherever he might travel. He walks with the blessing of Maghak. He bears the burden of the curse of Auresae.

After:

He is a stalwart Azudim, cresting at just over an imposing seven feet. The entirety of his skin is without imperfection, the onyx flesh affording an almost smoke-like marbling in the pigment. Devoid of any thick, noticeable muscling, each long limb boasts a subtle grace in their movements, all coming together to form an entity of such fluid, harmonical motion that nearly defies the laws of mere mortal aspect. His movement ignites a flickering of energy, not unlike a roiling storm beneath his flesh, though at rest it lingers silently, affording an eerie glow to the dark pigment of his skin. A thick, sleek showing of midnight hair is left tousled absently atop his head, offering a youthful look to his otherwise masculine traits. Perhaps the most stark, surprising aspect of the Azudim are his eyes: the deepest, darkest of blues, while still maintaining some small pigment that allows them to keep such a description. Torrential, shifting, as if the very depths of the ocean writhe about within them. He walks with the blessing of Maghak. He bears the burden of the curse of Auresae.

Serrice

YOU ARE AN ALCHEMICAL EXALTED.

ALSO MAYBE A ROBOT.

Rashar

YOU SON OF A BITCH YOU DON'T GET TO STEAL RASHY EYES.

Rashar

Ahem. Anyway. Good stuff, man. You two.. you two. Come at me, bros.

Solaria

This stuff makes me miss @Slyphe sometimes. Good read - same as all of these recently.

Aryanne

Sorry for totally busting in and rp-spying on you guys, it was just too great not to watch. I've really never seen Slyphe beyond various logs, and he's always so awesome. I loved Trager's gradual scarring himself up (unintentionally, sorta) and Slyphe's solution felt like an awesome way to legitimately make Trager 'raw tough special snowflake'.

Awesomely done, was glad to cling to a wall and watch (even better now to see the extra vision bits! Prison Cell apostles and device, hmm?!)

Moirean

Fun read and beautiful writing. I saw the hint.

Slyphe

That was a blast! I've got to say though, this emote:

You have emoted: "But I did," Trager rumbles out flatly. Obviously the man heard Slyphe's words, saw the images, but nothing in his tone depicts the acceptance of them, as if they simply floated through one ear, then out the other. "So while I laid there, begging for death, Au-.. Aure-.. That unicorns toying with me, I thought. Of You. Aryanne, my son, Rashar, Roux. I thought, surely, someone would come. Break down the door, fall from the sky. Save me, as I have saved them, helped them, so many times before." As his words come forth, each one grabs in this throat, the pain growing by the second, yet still he forces them out. His hands come apart, his form leaning forward as they find purchase atop his knees for support. "And do you know what I realized the second before the pain became too much bear? Before I drifted into the only escape I found that day? I was alone."

...had me like actually kinda sad for real. Good job, 10/10 - IGN.

Ishin

Good read man, good read.

Edit: Btw, official welcome to Team Red.

Ashmer

Not gonna lie, I'm kind of mad that I don't get to RP with @Slyphe.