crescentview | summer catchall

[ Adelis had bristled when Trahearne extended to him the same sentiment Mishka does to him now; yet here Mishka was, offering apologies without, perhaps, knowing of life besides the wretchedness of Ostoya. Or without even knowing that Trahearne was lucky that he always had the choice, one that often went against his instincts, to leave and recuperate in Lion's Arch, or at home in the Grove.

He never thought himself lucky being so tightly bound to Orr--would he ever call the fact that he survived "stubbornness" or "tenacity," when that he managed to live through that ordeal at all simply came from fear and his desire to hide? He'll never know.

At last he looks up from his little work of art. There's a proud glint in his eye when he regards Mishka, one that admires him and his people for persevering, despite the odds against them. He wonders if people did actually choose to live on Orr, they would be like the Ostoyans.

The question, though, is a nice distraction from his memories of Orr. ]

This is an airship. [ He carefully digs a deeper moat around it, trying not to disturb the sides of the drying sand. ] The Glory of Tyria, to be more precise. The pinnacle of our technological advance, and a shining beacon of what can be done when Tyrians unite in the face of adversity.

[ It's the pride of the Pact. ]

Edited 2023-02-01 13:56 (UTC)

( Mishka doesn't know what an airship is, but he can guess just from the name. His interest renewed, he studies it more closely. )

Unite, hm. I can't imagine that's any easy task.

( While he isn't familiar with the magnitude of the achievement, he can guess; no peoples are inclined to work together in a broader scope, not even Trahearne's own, it seems, though they descend from one source. Were this Etharis, it would be an impossible ask.

So there is the wonder in Trahearne's home: that its people can unite. It is not that Mishka does not feel the same bristle of irritation, or envy, or pride, that Adelis does; some of these are simply Ostoyan traits. But Mishka is measured in keeping these feelings from taking root in him; to let himself run loose with putrid emotion would be to let the beast that he is win.

Instead, he forces himself toward patience. He forces himself toward wonder, and keeps himself from envy. )

Have you ever ridden it? The highest I've ever been is up on a spire. I cannot imagine how small the world must seem when you brush shoulders with clouds.

[ Trahearne shakes his head. It sure as hell was not. Though he did have some political basis to stand on--the charr-human peace treaty, the unsteady respect with which everyone held the asura, considering their control over travel--getting the orders, which were already multiracial organizations, to stop bickering for one second to focus their attention on Zhaitan was a stress he had never imagined in his life beforehand to be undertaking.

But they did it. And the hope they--he felt in the wake of their victory was indescribable. If only he could share that joy with the likes of Mishka and Adelis. They'd likely benefit from it. ]

I have. [ He lifts his head as a sea breeze comes over them. His eyes shut, recalling the one--and only--time he got to stand upon her deck. How full of hope he had been in that moment, too. ]

It's indescribable--the feeling of flight. One feels so indomitable from the skies. That there is nothing in this world that can hold you down.

[ His eyes peel open as he turns his attention back to Mishka. ]

I wish there was a way I could show you what it's like.

( He tries to picture it, but it's a struggle. He can think of how it feels to stand upon the tallest spire, and feel the night breeze against his face, but the clouds, and movement? Trahearne's expression suggests it must be some incredible thing. Would that Ostoya had such wonder in it.

The sentiment earns a smile from Mishka that seems just a little smaller, and then just a little softer, than all the rest he's had so far. )

... I'd have liked that.

( Mishka would like a lot of things, though, and he's used to not getting the things he wants. Instead, he focuses on the things he's lucky enough to have; no matter how small, no matter how pathetic.

Half-jokingly, he continues: )

But conversing along the shoreline with you is a certain next best thing, so I don't regret I have this, instead.

[ The softness of Mishka's expression takes Trahearne by mild surprise; his, in turn, softens as well. Though they've not interacted much, and though memories of their initial meeting are lost to alcohol-ridden memories, he feels like he's never seen the other man make that face before. It's hard not to mirror it.

The final remark, though, is entirely unexpected. His brows lift for a second. Talking with him being compared to flying on the Glory of Tyria is. That's a huge compliment, and he isn't sure how to take it. ]

You flatter me, Mishka. I can think of plenty of other things besides sitting here that could bring us a similar level of exhilaration.

[ But he relents, ignore the blush on his cheeks because he's not blushing. ]

But thank you. I enjoy your company.

( Mishka laughs lightly, clearly enjoying the way his leafy cheeks color. He'll let Trahearne have his pride and not call it out; he knows it's there, and that's a secret only for him. )

I'm pleased to hear it.

( He lifts his hands from the structure of his castle, which is seems both a manor and a church at once.

It doesn't hold good memories for him, like Trahearne's airship does (lol), but his thoughts always circle back here. )

Perhaps you might understand, having spent time in a land adjacent to Ostoya in nature, but I've found that it's best not to underestimate the value of good company. It's both a rare and fleeting thing.

Though, I'm quite curious what else it is you have in mind, that might involve the two of us. ( He says that with a bit of a ;) tone, but he'll offer Trahearne an out from that teasing: ) More fantastical tales, perhaps?

[ The blush fades and a smile takes over. He does understand--having spent so many years alone in Orr, ostracized because of Orr, it was rare to find genuine company. He would gladly include Mishka among those small numbers.

For a moment, he looks at Mishka's impressive sandcastle, then out over the beach. A forced exhale, an immature chuckle, escapes his lips. ]

A jog, perhaps? A game of volleyball? A swim? [ A pause. ] Perhaps a spar.

[ Physical activity is always fun. ]

( While all of those do sound appealing, he does seem to perk up at the mention of a spar! )

You enjoy a good fight, then? I haven't had the opportunity in a moment; I'd quite like that, if you would.

( Maybe Trahearne didn't mean right now, but he can't help but remark with a grin... )

Though, I wouldn't recommend a spar while you're still in a state of general undress.

[ He absolutely meant right now.

It's been a while since he put any of his magic to real use, but they are on good enough terms.

He's already getting to his feet by the time Mishka warns him. As he wanders to a nearby coconut tree, he glances over his shoulder. ]

Then I suppose you do the same to make this a fair fight. Besides-- [ He stoops to pick up a coconut and a fallen branch. Good enough. ] --I trust you not to kill me.

[ THE BAR IS VERY LOW ]

( He ?? laughs ?? )

And lose your company so soon?

( Fine, fine, he'll get up, stripping off the hat, the sunglasses, the sandals, and the wrap; the tank top stays on, because it's skin tight anyway, and he's got loose beach boyshorts on.

He'll come over to take up a branch of his own after a bit of inspecting, before quite suddenly he firms a grip on both ends and slams the middle against the trunk to snap it in two. He takes the branch with the finer, jagged point. )

I make no promises about anything short of death. ( He grins, once again with some mischief, and step back to a position across from Trahearne. He'll take this more as a duel than a brawl like with Tartaglia. ) On your mark, then.

Edited 2023-02-02 22:41 (UTC)

[ A grin tugs at Trahearne's lips as he weighs the stick in his hand. ]

It's been a while since I fought like this, but I expect nothing else. You'll have to forgive the rust.

[ There's a pause as he takes a ready stance, eyes piercing Mishka. ]

Let's begin.

[ And in sudden movement, Trahearne leaps backwards, the sand beneath him bruising at his feet. What does it mean? Find out soon! ]

( Trahearne kicks back, and the strange pigment of the sand is not lost on him; were he with his usual weapons, he might have the luxury of pulling back and striking from afar.

As it is, he is not intent on being the first to pull out his special tricks, and so he presses forward, dashing in with nimble rapacity even on the shifting sands, and swipes low, intent clearly on knocking him off his feet to interrupt whatever he's concentrating his energy on. )

[ Ah-ha, so he's the fast sort.

Trahearne, unfortunately, is not. He does, however, have more survivability than he ever lets on. He realizes that he won't be able to dodge in time, so he opts to take the hit, letting the momentum of his fall carry him across the sand as he rolls, skidding to his knees.

Even while he's incapacitated, death coalesces behind Mishka to form a couple of flesh golems. The creatures are almost as large as the both of them, and the raw, exposed hunks of flesh and bone follow Trahearne's will to rush up to him, swipe at him.

He just needs to slow Mishka down. From his spot, he thrusts his stick into the air--large skeletal hands burst from the sands and loom over his opponent, threatening to come down and pin him in place. ]

( There's an apparent "!" on Mishka's expression as Trahearne summons both his horrifying flesh abberations and the skeletal hands, and, in some way, he feels relieved. If Trahearne were the sort with an elegant style of fight, lovely vines and blooming flowers with elegant scents, he'd feel bad introducing his miasma.

But, well, it seems he and Trahearne share one further trait: neither of them fight pretty.

Mishka kicks back in the sand, avoiding a swipe from one golem and feeling the second graze him; the injury matters less than the damage it does to his balance, for by the time he's caught his footing there are skeletal hands that rip up from the earth to chain him, like a swatted fly. Ah, the aggravating irony.

As the hands come down, Mishka exhales deep. From his lips spills a greyish, translucent smoke that fills the area, writhing, chittering, clicking, winging out— for the smoke coalesces into a sludgy black, thousands of locusts, aphids, and whiteflies that buzz through the area with a striking fury, unfurling into the area like a thick fog, making Mishka and anything around him much harder to see.

Though Trahearne may be able to escape their touch, they'll harry his minions and the hands, nicks and cuts and bites whittling down the health of anything that remains within their area of effect for long.

And then comes something strange.

As if bleeding suddenly, that same thick sludge, through the whirring smokescreen, seems to spill from Mishka— his mouth, his arms, and speed away from him— out of the smokescreen, toward Trahearne on both sides, coalescing into thousands of small spiders, spythronars, lightning sparking after them, leaving a white trail, like ice, behind—webbing. They weave with incredible levity, the sand dunes turning a shock white.

And then, if Trahearne has the mind about him to notice, there is one last sludge trail that shot out from Mishka, that seemed to not coalesce into anything at all once it hit the boundary of the swarming pests. Or perhaps he simply missed where it went?

If there is anything apparent, it's that Mishka is keen on manipulating the field to his advantage while Trahearne has his movement impeded. )

Edited 2023-02-13 02:31 (UTC)

[ Trahearne's eyes widen for a moment in shock when he sees the insects. That isn't what he's expecting. He hasn't had much experience fighting any of these other people from other worlds, and had been mostly operating on the assumption that fighting styles were mostly the same.

He was wrong. He knows, as a necromancer, insects and plague and pestilence is at his beck and call if need be, but not like this.

Aphids bad. That causes him genuine worry as he dashes to the side, leaping and rolling out of the way when he hears the buzz grow closer.

But it's a little too late. The spiders descend upon him, essentially gluing him in place. He grits his teeth--Mishka's good, he'll give him that. But he won't be tied down like this, and he's not looking forward to finding out what that last sludge trail is going to do.

There's a sudden shift in the air around him, and an eerie, ghastly green glow envelops the sylvari. He stands from the webbing, dashing out of it like it hadn't been a problem at all, and a wispy green trail follows in his wake. And though he can't see Mishka, he knows his minions have a bit of life left, so he decides to try what he can. He whips forth the hand with the coconut, a hand made of shadow bursting through the air into the darkened haze where Mishka hides. He'll know if it connects--whatever damage it deals to Mishka, it'll heal himself. ]

summer catchall

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cw: illustration of fantasy spiders in link

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