crescentview | summer catchall

[ 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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