[It would be kinder, perhaps, to take the more sensible course of action. If not to kill Blade outright, then to at least flee when the chance was provided--earlier on, and even now, the painful flickers of hesitation that are clearly taking every ounce of Blade's stolen lucid efforts. It's not as if Luocha doesn't notice them as they happen. That he doesn't appreciate it, the immense willpower it's doubtlessly taking. When all this is said and done, he will have to apologize to the man, for the selfish route he's decided to take in insisting upon staying close.
Indeed, were it not for Blade's agonizing attempts at restraint, that sword would have likely dealt a far more grievous injury. ...But it still--
--does plunge into Luocha's side, even if it lands miraculously shy of any vital organs. The burst of pain accompanying it is immediate, nearly wrenching out a cry that Luocha just barely bites back with gritted teeth, frame shuddering as crimson promptly blossoms through clothing. --But. It's nothing new, now is it? Hardly even something major. Painful, yes, but not the worst he has known. (Nothing like the first time, under the watch of white irises, when the contract was still freshly new and he hadn't yet numbed to the thorns that would accompany it--) The hand upon Blade's shoulder doesn't loosen...tightens, even, in tandem with the other hand that now grabs at the wrist holding that sword. Not even to pull it out--can't, not yet, or risk bleeding out--but to instead drag Blade closer. Pulling their bodies near flush together, a strange embrace. The purpose is two-fold: to rob the mara of any immediate chance to properly extend Blade's limbs for another attack, and also...to bring the Abyss properly and truly to them. To envelope them both...
For this close, and in a state this heightened within Blade, Luocha can properly feel the presence of the mara for the first time. A far cry from that stirring thorny prickle in that abandoned cabin back in Jarilo-VI--no, here and now it's fully unfurled, blazes with a violently demanding hunger clawing at the body hosting it. ...It's hard to believe, but it's unmistakable, the tones of the Abundance singing through it...yet another facet, of that ravenous power. Far beyond any typical instance of mara among the long-lived Xianzhou for a fact. The potency is...practically on par with that of an Emanator--and in a vacuum that would be incredibly fascinating. But here, and now, as it tears through Blade despite his most fervent efforts...Luocha cannot help but look upon it with a vehement contempt.
How dare it try to bleed him?
As if they don't both drink from the same poisonous well. As if it has a say. As if he'll be refused. No--so long as he must carry this power--his own resolve will ever remain the same. To use it to its fullest extent, for worthwhile means. And right now, what he wants, is to speak to Blade.
How dare it try to take that away from him?]
...Quiet. Quiet. You will listen to me. [No, Blade hasn't said a word. This isn't addressed to him. There is perhaps something rather distinctly possessive about the way Luocha's hand drags from the line of Blade's shoulder to his collar, to nearly cup at his cheek in the way it curves over the side of his neck--to hold him in place, and more importantly, press the flickering rosary wrapped about his wrist practically against his pulse. The way his tone drops is uncharacteristic, even compared to past occasions of battle, a shift in key from requesting to commanding; pairing alongside it is the intensity upon his features, pain promptly forgotten, and something aflame in pale green eyes as they lock with the crimson madness in Blade's.] Stand down. Repent.
[Overpowering even the blood and death that clings to Blade's frame is the heady scent of white irises; all about their immediate vicinity, the phantom flickerings of the flowers and fluttering petals that signify Luocha's healing field spring to life, that distant sound of faint windchimes accompanying. The mending sensation accompanying it has probably always felt something like a warm breeze passing over, but this time there is a renewed fervency and intensity here. Something that means to wash over the mara, overtake it, drown it. Will it struggle?]
LSDMFOSDFLS pls......... he can't keep getting stabbed like this
[ Blade's eyes widen as he stared in shock at the sword buried in Luocha's side. The fabric of Luocha's pristine white clothes is now marred by a rapidly spreading splotch of crimson, a grotesque tableau of violence that seemed surreal in its brutality. Time itself seemed to slow down as Blade grapples with the horrifying truth of what had just transpired. What had he done? What had the mara compelled him to do?
The world around him blurrs as a disorienting wave of nausea washes over him. He feels his grip on reality slipping through his fingers, like grains of sand vanishing between his clenched fists. The anguish wells up inside him, a sickening combination of self-loathing, guilt, and a searing dread that threatens to consume him whole. The mara has taken control of his actions, forced him into this situation. It's maddening, torturous even, to be a prisoner in his own body, a spectator to his own horrific actions.
His gaze shifts from the weapon lodged in Luocha to the man himself. His eyes, usually devoid of any and all emotion, now reflect a mix of disbelief and self-recrimination. He can't bear to look at the blood staining the other man's clothes, a stark contrast to the pale purity of Luocha's whole attire. The sight of that crimson stain, evidence of his own violence, is a haunting reminder of his own mistakes.
He wants to say something, anything, to break the deafening silence that hung in the air like a shroud of despair. He wants to beg Luocha to run, to escape while there is still a chance. The words form in his mind, a plea for salvation, for mercy in the face of this escalating tragedy. But when he opens his mouth, his voice fails him. Instead of coherent words, a strangled noise claws its way out of his throat, a desperate sound that conveys his inner turmoil.
The mara, ever wicked and tenuous, lingers in the recesses of his mind, a constant and malevolent presence that seemed to feed off the chaos and suffering it caused. It whispers in his thoughts, a sinister and persistent force that urges him toward more violence, more destruction. Its sing-songy pull, like a haunting melody, has always held him captive, a seductive and destructive force that seemed insatiable.
Yet, something is different now.
Luocha's commanding tone, so contrary to his usual demeanor, pierces through the chaos in Blade's mind. It carries an intensity that he has never witnessed before. Luocha's pain seems to be forgotten, replaced by an unwavering determination that burned in his pale eyes. The mara hesitates, its vicelike grip on Blade faltering for the briefest moment. It's as if it doesn't know how to respond to this sudden change in the status quo. Fear, or perhaps shock, is evident in the mara's presence, a response Blade has never experienced before. It's as if the mara, too, is struggling to comprehend the power that Luocha holds over it. The sinister force that has driven Blade to this point now seems to waver, caught between its insatiable hunger and Luocha's overwhelming presence.
Just as the other has commanded, the mara now remains silent. Blade is impossibly still. His grip on his own sword slackens just a tiny bit, and the crazed look in his eyes has now dimmed.
This just might be the opportunity they both need to drag Blade away from its siren's call— only to lure him straight into an entirely different one. ]
there's always room for future stabbing?? also jfc how has it been weeks since i hit this back 😭
The thorns of the mara waver, hesitate--recoil as if stunned, if such a thing had capacity to experience such a feeling. As it should, that vindictive part of Luocha thinks of its own volition, still heady with the cold fury of an authority refusing to be denied. Ah, if the say were entirely his own--if he were yet sure such a thing were in his power, and did not also carry with it potential repercussions too numerous to predict in this spur of the moment--Luocha would like nothing more than to purge this poison from Blade's person in its entirety. So that he would never be taken from him again--
--but, now is not yet the time to entertain such a thought, and he knows it. (It's a surprise that the desire has even arisen as fervently and suddenly as it does; something to pore over later, the implications of his own heart there...) Far more important are the results of the present, what has been affected. That Blade now falls still, as the mara does, the fire in his eyes cooling. The grip on his sword slackening. A vast improvement, over that pained struggling of earlier.
It should be enough this time.]
Good. Breathe, as you receive this. Listen to me...it is past, now.
[Heeded as he's been, the sharp command of Luocha's earlier tone softens now. Low, soothing. Reminiscent of the voice he had used that time back, on Jarilo-VI, talking Blade down through his mara in that abandoned building...a test of the past that's indeed proving quite fruitful now, applied tenfold as it is. For a few moments longer, his hand remains against the side of Blade's neck, keeping the charm pressed there; fingertips ghost in gentle contrast over the point of the man's pulse, more soothing measures, to settle him in much the same way the flickering of the healing field around them continues to.
And then, with his other hand, Luocha reaches for the hilt of Blade's sword, gently tugging it from his grasp.
A heavy thing, quite the contrast to the artisanal lightness of Luocha's own weapon of preference. Breaths slow and carefully controlled--as the fire in his side promptly makes itself known once more--Luocha pulls the blade out of his own body, in a swift and prompt motion that is perhaps a bit too well-versed...
There's only a bit more blood allowed to spill from the wound, at least, before an iridescent bloom of the Abyss flares over his frame. Mending that particular injury, at the least--though strength completely spent is another matter entirely. Hand slipping from Blade's frame at last, Luocha sinks down to his knees as he drops the sword.]
future stabbing, i see....... also pls it's okay!! u know i'll backtag into infinity 💜
He floods his lungs with air, settling with a deep inhale and exhale rhythm as if he's trying to flush out the mara from his system. The Abyss Flower, too, works its own magic, its warm and soothing sensation engulfing the entirety of the swordsman's being, leaving nothing left for the corruption to latch onto. He leans into Luocha's touch much like a dying man who's just been given his only lifeline. His fingers cling to him, unwilling to let go.
A part of him is afraid of what would happen if he did. Would he succumb to the mara and lose himself? Or will he do something much worse?
(Later on, it'll be something he has to think about: that he's more worried about hurting Luocha than his own body.)
He doesn't even notice when his sword has been taken away from his grasp, too focused on the soft glow emanating from the charm and then the sudden weight of the other man leaning against him. His hands scramble to keep Luocha steady, sinking with him to the ground as he tries to keep his steady. ]
Luocha—
[ He almost doesn't sound like himself. The concern is evident in his voice.
The likelihood of the other man being gravely injured is low considering the man's affinity with Abundance, but still... ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slaps top of luocha's head, this guy can fit so many stabbings tbqh (It's Fine he can heal!! ✨)
Indeed, were it not for Blade's agonizing attempts at restraint, that sword would have likely dealt a far more grievous injury. ...But it still--
--does plunge into Luocha's side, even if it lands miraculously shy of any vital organs. The burst of pain accompanying it is immediate, nearly wrenching out a cry that Luocha just barely bites back with gritted teeth, frame shuddering as crimson promptly blossoms through clothing. --But. It's nothing new, now is it? Hardly even something major. Painful, yes, but not the worst he has known.
(Nothing like the first time, under the watch of white irises, when the contract was still freshly new and he hadn't yet numbed to the thorns that would accompany it--)The hand upon Blade's shoulder doesn't loosen...tightens, even, in tandem with the other hand that now grabs at the wrist holding that sword. Not even to pull it out--can't, not yet, or risk bleeding out--but to instead drag Blade closer. Pulling their bodies near flush together, a strange embrace. The purpose is two-fold: to rob the mara of any immediate chance to properly extend Blade's limbs for another attack, and also...to bring the Abyss properly and truly to them. To envelope them both...For this close, and in a state this heightened within Blade, Luocha can properly feel the presence of the mara for the first time. A far cry from that stirring thorny prickle in that abandoned cabin back in Jarilo-VI--no, here and now it's fully unfurled, blazes with a violently demanding hunger clawing at the body hosting it. ...It's hard to believe, but it's unmistakable, the tones of the Abundance singing through it...yet another facet, of that ravenous power. Far beyond any typical instance of mara among the long-lived Xianzhou for a fact. The potency is...practically on par with that of an Emanator--and in a vacuum that would be incredibly fascinating. But here, and now, as it tears through Blade despite his most fervent efforts...Luocha cannot help but look upon it with a vehement contempt.
How dare it try to bleed him?
As if they don't both drink from the same poisonous well. As if it has a say. As if he'll be refused. No--so long as he must carry this power--his own resolve will ever remain the same. To use it to its fullest extent, for worthwhile means. And right now, what he wants, is to speak to Blade.
How dare it try to take that away from him?]
...Quiet. Quiet. You will listen to me. [No, Blade hasn't said a word. This isn't addressed to him. There is perhaps something rather distinctly possessive about the way Luocha's hand drags from the line of Blade's shoulder to his collar, to nearly cup at his cheek in the way it curves over the side of his neck--to hold him in place, and more importantly, press the flickering rosary wrapped about his wrist practically against his pulse. The way his tone drops is uncharacteristic, even compared to past occasions of battle, a shift in key from requesting to commanding; pairing alongside it is the intensity upon his features, pain promptly forgotten, and something aflame in pale green eyes as they lock with the crimson madness in Blade's.] Stand down. Repent.
[Overpowering even the blood and death that clings to Blade's frame is the heady scent of white irises; all about their immediate vicinity, the phantom flickerings of the flowers and fluttering petals that signify Luocha's healing field spring to life, that distant sound of faint windchimes accompanying. The mending sensation accompanying it has probably always felt something like a warm breeze passing over, but this time there is a renewed fervency and intensity here. Something that means to wash over the mara, overtake it, drown it. Will it struggle?]
LSDMFOSDFLS pls......... he can't keep getting stabbed like this
The world around him blurrs as a disorienting wave of nausea washes over him. He feels his grip on reality slipping through his fingers, like grains of sand vanishing between his clenched fists. The anguish wells up inside him, a sickening combination of self-loathing, guilt, and a searing dread that threatens to consume him whole. The mara has taken control of his actions, forced him into this situation. It's maddening, torturous even, to be a prisoner in his own body, a spectator to his own horrific actions.
His gaze shifts from the weapon lodged in Luocha to the man himself. His eyes, usually devoid of any and all emotion, now reflect a mix of disbelief and self-recrimination. He can't bear to look at the blood staining the other man's clothes, a stark contrast to the pale purity of Luocha's whole attire. The sight of that crimson stain, evidence of his own violence, is a haunting reminder of his own mistakes.
He wants to say something, anything, to break the deafening silence that hung in the air like a shroud of despair. He wants to beg Luocha to run, to escape while there is still a chance. The words form in his mind, a plea for salvation, for mercy in the face of this escalating tragedy. But when he opens his mouth, his voice fails him. Instead of coherent words, a strangled noise claws its way out of his throat, a desperate sound that conveys his inner turmoil.
The mara, ever wicked and tenuous, lingers in the recesses of his mind, a constant and malevolent presence that seemed to feed off the chaos and suffering it caused. It whispers in his thoughts, a sinister and persistent force that urges him toward more violence, more destruction. Its sing-songy pull, like a haunting melody, has always held him captive, a seductive and destructive force that seemed insatiable.
Yet, something is different now.
Luocha's commanding tone, so contrary to his usual demeanor, pierces through the chaos in Blade's mind. It carries an intensity that he has never witnessed before. Luocha's pain seems to be forgotten, replaced by an unwavering determination that burned in his pale eyes. The mara hesitates, its vicelike grip on Blade faltering for the briefest moment. It's as if it doesn't know how to respond to this sudden change in the status quo. Fear, or perhaps shock, is evident in the mara's presence, a response Blade has never experienced before. It's as if the mara, too, is struggling to comprehend the power that Luocha holds over it. The sinister force that has driven Blade to this point now seems to waver, caught between its insatiable hunger and Luocha's overwhelming presence.
Just as the other has commanded, the mara now remains silent. Blade is impossibly still. His grip on his own sword slackens just a tiny bit, and the crazed look in his eyes has now dimmed.
This just might be the opportunity they both need to drag Blade away from its siren's call— only to lure him straight into an entirely different one. ]
there's always room for future stabbing?? also jfc how has it been weeks since i hit this back 😭
The thorns of the mara waver, hesitate--recoil as if stunned, if such a thing had capacity to experience such a feeling. As it should, that vindictive part of Luocha thinks of its own volition, still heady with the cold fury of an authority refusing to be denied. Ah, if the say were entirely his own--if he were yet sure such a thing were in his power, and did not also carry with it potential repercussions too numerous to predict in this spur of the moment--Luocha would like nothing more than to purge this poison from Blade's person in its entirety. So that he would never be taken from him again--
--but, now is not yet the time to entertain such a thought, and he knows it. (It's a surprise that the desire has even arisen as fervently and suddenly as it does; something to pore over later, the implications of his own heart there...) Far more important are the results of the present, what has been affected. That Blade now falls still, as the mara does, the fire in his eyes cooling. The grip on his sword slackening. A vast improvement, over that pained struggling of earlier.
It should be enough this time.]
Good. Breathe, as you receive this. Listen to me...it is past, now.
[Heeded as he's been, the sharp command of Luocha's earlier tone softens now. Low, soothing. Reminiscent of the voice he had used that time back, on Jarilo-VI, talking Blade down through his mara in that abandoned building...a test of the past that's indeed proving quite fruitful now, applied tenfold as it is. For a few moments longer, his hand remains against the side of Blade's neck, keeping the charm pressed there; fingertips ghost in gentle contrast over the point of the man's pulse, more soothing measures, to settle him in much the same way the flickering of the healing field around them continues to.
And then, with his other hand, Luocha reaches for the hilt of Blade's sword, gently tugging it from his grasp.
A heavy thing, quite the contrast to the artisanal lightness of Luocha's own weapon of preference. Breaths slow and carefully controlled--as the fire in his side promptly makes itself known once more--Luocha pulls the blade out of his own body, in a swift and prompt motion that is perhaps a bit too well-versed...
There's only a bit more blood allowed to spill from the wound, at least, before an iridescent bloom of the Abyss flares over his frame. Mending that particular injury, at the least--though strength completely spent is another matter entirely. Hand slipping from Blade's frame at last, Luocha sinks down to his knees as he drops the sword.]
future stabbing, i see....... also pls it's okay!! u know i'll backtag into infinity 💜
He floods his lungs with air, settling with a deep inhale and exhale rhythm as if he's trying to flush out the mara from his system. The Abyss Flower, too, works its own magic, its warm and soothing sensation engulfing the entirety of the swordsman's being, leaving nothing left for the corruption to latch onto. He leans into Luocha's touch much like a dying man who's just been given his only lifeline. His fingers cling to him, unwilling to let go.
A part of him is afraid of what would happen if he did. Would he succumb to the mara and lose himself? Or will he do something much worse?
(Later on, it'll be something he has to think about: that he's more worried about hurting Luocha than his own body.)
He doesn't even notice when his sword has been taken away from his grasp, too focused on the soft glow emanating from the charm and then the sudden weight of the other man leaning against him. His hands scramble to keep Luocha steady, sinking with him to the ground as he tries to keep his steady. ]
Luocha—
[ He almost doesn't sound like himself. The concern is evident in his voice.
The likelihood of the other man being gravely injured is low considering the man's affinity with Abundance, but still... ]
Are you alright?
[ His apologies go unsaid. ]