Bouts of lucidity, veiled in red [ Dohm / Blackwell ]

[SanctifiedSavage]

The first thing that Shura knew, absolutely knew, was that this wasn't home. Home was cold, white, biting wind, and overcast skies. Home was furs and the smell of pine and cedar. Wood and... well. This wasn't home. Not at all.

That was the first thing. The second being, beyond that Shura didn't know where he was, was that there were two bodies near by. Strangers he didn't know, whose faces had been broken and cracked. Skin peeled off and tossed aside like a wet towel. The dirt of the road was dark and splattered away from the limp corpses. Fresh and warm. So fresh. The blood called to him. It always did. Had for as long as Shura had memories. More a mother to him than his own, who had cast him out to the cold shortly after he'd been born.

Then, beyond his bloody hands, his clothes were ruined. Again. Shura stood, since he'd been crouching, and looked down at his ripped and bloodstained button up shirt and frowned. What had happened? What'd he do? And not another damn shirt. It wasn't like he had a change of clothes floating around – his red eyes briefly looked at the bodies nearby – before immediately discarding the idea of taking their clothes. One was a woman, and while he didn't mind wearing the occasional dress now and then, hers had been torn open at the back where something had been plunged into it.

Something. Something. The murmur in his mind was teasing and suggestive. They all knew what that something was. Shura had obviously killed the two people. Had put something big and sharp in the woman's back and ripped out bones through the man's side. His clothes were worse off than Shura's, which immediately meant that was not an option either.

With dried blood on his hands, he palmed at his eyes. There was pressure on the inside of his skull, like someone tapping on his temples. Trying to get his attention. Hey, hey. See what you did?

Well, obviously he did. He'd been crouching near them, blood splattered. Clothes torn like he might've been in a scuffle. Though, to be frank, that could've been from a different scuffle. Or he could've torn them himself in a bout of nervousness.

That and there wasn't anyone else around. Yes, yes, he knew that. He didn't need told. Shura could see for himself, they didn't need to point that out.

So. Now that he was aware of what he'd done – aware? Hardly – he should... do something with the bodies. The ditch? There was a ditch. The road was nice enough and the ditch would serve. The blood was noticeable, mind, but a day or two of weather would... well, would do whatever. He wouldn't be there. He should find home, right?

Where the fuck was home? How had he gotten so far... Well, that was a stupid question. Shura just ended up in places that he didn't want to be, or did he? What had he been doing? Sighing softly at his own inability to remember, though it was more out of resigned acceptance, he waved a hand and the woman's body jerkily started to crawl itself towards the ditch. Her blood was still cooling, and thus could be a suitable tool for Shura. Why expend his own energy when hers was perfectly acceptable?

His other hand made a shooing motion toward the broken man and he twitched, bones crunching and cracking, as his corpse jerked in ways  it was not meant to in order to comply with Shura's command. It was the blood responding to him, after all. The flesh and bones hardly mattered so much. They were but a vehicle for his source.

It really was a shame Shura didn't pay better attention to his surroundings. Incapable of multitasking, unable to hear more than the conversation he was having with himself and the crack of corpses moving themselves across what he thought was an empty road, outside a city.

During the afternoon.

It wasn't like he'd have made a better plan, anyways. Shura didn't have foresight, not like that.

[Dohm]

Dohm was waiting for his brother to return from his errand; it wasn't atypical for Lincoln to go off and deal with matters without him. Dohm was well aware of why this was a common occurrence and he had no problem with it. He knew he wasn't the most... 'presentable' person. He had made his home by a large oak, finding shelter in the shade guarding him from the afternoon heat. However, something had been teasing at his nostrils for a while now, and it wasn't the old blood dried onto his helmet. This blood was fresh, very fresh, and it was near. He began to fiddle with his thumbs to distract himself from such a temptation; the thrill of combat and the exhilaration of bloodshed was like a drug to him. As the minutes passed, he had found himself picking away at his own skin. It wasn't until he felt the smooth feeling of his own blood trickling down his thumb that he was freed from this trance and was released from his own miniscule amounts of restraint. He was now left without his guardian and his shepherd and he was free to give in to such desires, so with a heave he lugged his sword onto his shoulder and stood, allowing himself to take in the full spectrum of scents that wafted through the air. And all the wind brought to him was the scent of blood, so he began to silently follow it...

He soon found the road and his acute sense of hearing, akin to his sense of smell, began to hear the familiar sound of breaking bones, writhing bodies, and the thick thud of dead weight. He was getting closer to his destination, but what he would find remained a mystery. His long, lanky legs made quick work of the distance and he soon found himself behind the cover of slight brush with a pale individual covered in blood within his view. Dohm knew this to be his target, but something told him to wait. Something within him told him to observe before rushing in without restraint like he was so accustomed. Was it his conscious? No, it was Lincoln. It was the Blackwell training that was instilled in his mind so permanently now that it was far beyond his ability to fight. And so, he waited, watching this individual behind the veil of his helmet, behind the painted mask of blood that now gave him an identity.

He watched this strange individual toss the bodies about effortlessly, without lifting or touching them in any way. Magic was being used and to Dohm, one of the most sinister kinds; blood magic. He felt the fury building in his gut, but still he did not move. Still he wished to obey the teachings of his brother, rules that would surely spare him injury. However, as the bodies were tossed to and fro and more blood was shed, he felt his own will breaking. He began to clench his jaw and loudly grind his teeth, resisting the urge to take this individual's life. It wasn't until the pair of bodies were thrown into a ditch that Dohm lost control of his own urges. He slowly stepped forth from the cover of the bush to reveal his tall, lanky body to the stranger. He said nothing, awaiting for his target to become aware of his presence. After all, it was so much more satisfying striking fear into the hearts of mages before peeling the ears off their corpse...

[SanctifiedSavage]

The ditch, then what? What? Pausing in his rudimentary disposal, Shura waved a hand near his ear like he was trying to dismiss a buzzing insect. Shooing away the whisper, the echo of the question near him. Trying to chase away the annoyance. He already didn't know what he was going to do, he didn't need reminded. What exactly he was going to do. The plan? Was there a plan?

Shadows tugged at the corner of his vision, so he glanced, but it was nothing. It was always nothing. Flickering shapes and things just out of notice, chased away by his attention.

Shura sighed again and continued to shoo the bodies like one might misbehaving cats, cracking bone and rolling fresh across stained dirt and grass until they met at the precipice of the ditch, then gravity took over and Shura didn't need to do anything more.

The blood still called to him. Like a soft, whispering song. Still warm. Still here. Don't go. No, of course not. He'd wait. Just a little longer. Until it was cold. The blood, that is. Until the blood was cold. Then he could... well, what was the plan again? The plan! The snap in his mind made him cross his blood stained arms and turn about face.

Petulant, like a child.

Just in time to catch the stranger tromp out of the shrubs. Was the stranger really there? Yes. Ok. He wasn't seeing things. Someone was really there. Shura straightened out the hem of his tattered shirt and cleared his throat, like a schoolboy adjusting his uniform before the principle. It didn't occur to him that the person in front of him was an oddity, a monster in some shape or form, that he should be concerned at all.

Shura was barely coherent about the world as it were. It also didn't occur to him that the stranger would've seen the bodies roll, but he might hear the blood. Right. The blood. He might hear that, then he'd know. So, he had to talk over it. Nonchalant. "It's an afternoon, is it not?"

[Dohm]

Dohm continued to watch the individual and take in his posture and mannerisms as he performed what could only be known as a daily ritual for the stranger. The pale mage uttered words as his attention was garnered by Dohm's presence; was he actually speaking to him? Such a rare thing, conversation. So rare that Dohm had not uttered a word for many days on end, so a reply was forlorn to him. He mentioned the day and the time... these were things that typical stranger's discussed, wasn't it? This individual was not afraid? This individual did not automatically cower, run, or beg for mercy at the sheer glimpse of him? Dohm would obviously be confused as he simply canted his head to the side, causing a small glint to scurry across his eyes underneath the looming cage of his helmet...

A word would not leave his throat; he simply stood there with a crooked neck staring at the pale mage. He rolled his shoulders and let his sword fall freely to the dirt, sending a spray of debris into the air, perhaps attempting to gather how skeptical the stranger was. However, the mage's reaction wouldn't matter much. Dohm began to slowly stride closer to the mage, dragging his sword behind him, creating a large rift in the dirt; surely this man was too weak to swing a sword so heavy. His bare feet stomped almost silently in the grass as he made his way to the path, stopping only a couple yards from the mage. He paused there for a few seconds before taking a deep inhale through his nostrils. As he exhaled this breath, one could hear an almost pleasurable growl come rumbling from his throat, echoing underneath his helmet. "Engage," he stated plainly.

Dohm would await the stranger's reaction to his word; perhaps he truly was unaware of who he was. Perhaps he had simply stumbled upon these bodies and was a pacifist. Many questions ran through Dohm's head, but he knew that they would soon be answered based upon the pale mage's reaction to a simple word...

[SanctifiedSavage]

The silence that stretched between them after Shura's question was maddening to the bloodmage. He looked at the man, looked at the ground, looked back to him, then to the sky, the shrubs he'd walked out of, back to the ground, then back to the man. Guilty, guilty, guilty. He radiated it. Felt it ooze from his skin as the words echoed from around him.

He shushed them, clenched his jaw as the stranger tilted his head, then cleared his throat. Something to the left of him caught Shura's eye, another shadow flickering at the corner of his vision, but he didn't look. Didn't want the newcomer – he was real, right? – to think that Shura wasn't paying attention.

He was. Really.

The big sword did catch Shura's attention, but not because it was big. But because it moved. He watched it dig into the dirt and idly wondered if someone would come along and fix the rend. Did the stranger know he was ruining the road? Did that matter? Shouldn't it?

When the sword stopped moving, Shura looked back up. Ruby red eyes blinked slowly as he regarded the other man. Reminding himself the stranger was real. Because that mattered. Didn't it? Shouldn't it? The question was sibilant, mocking. Which made Shura frown.

Especially when the stranger then growled at him.

He wasn't real, was he. Some manifested monster plucked from his mind or one of the shadows from the corner of his vision that hadn't moved fast enough not to be noticed. The man-thing didn't look fast, that was certain.

Engage? What did that even mean? Shura's eyes narrowed and he scowled, waved a hand dismissively. In doing so, a blood-shaped snake rose from the ditch at his behest. Thicker than Shura's arms and longer than he was tall, the blood-craft creature reared up and flared a mock-cobra hood to hiss at the would-be-man-monster. No noise came forth, but the glinting, blood fangs were very real.

As was the implied threat. Shura half turned away and grumbled, annoyed, "Go away." Then the snake, at the behest of its master, moved to encourage the stranger to do just that.

[Dohm]

A strange snake met Dohm's gaze as the mage turned to walk away, dismissing him like just another stranger. Now it was his turn to discern whether or not what was happening before his eyes was reality. He has experienced visions before, but surely he was over that by now. Surely Lincoln's rigorous training had rid him of such instabilities. So it was left to Dohm to decide that yes, this was real. Once the mage's back was fully turned, Dohm took advantage of his opportunity. He lunged forward towards the snake, sending a violent spray of earth behind him. This created a small crater where he once stood; his movements were so rapid that one may not even be able to observe his pounce. He closed the distance between him and the snake with only one bound, proving that his long limbs were hardly a hindrance to his athleticism. A clean swipe of his bastard sword would be just as quick as his initial burst of speed, aiming to slice the cobra in two, though his movements shortly after such a display were slow and lumbering; he would lug his sword back onto his shoulder after dispatching the magical creature.

After observing the reaction the magical creature had to his sword, Dohm would turn back to face the mage and speak once more, this time his guttural voice giving the stranger a glimpse of its true quality. "ENGAGE!" he yelled, growling and rasping as violently as his voice could. Was this a trick? What exactly was Dohm expecting from this stranger? Most, if not all, of Dohm's behavior would come back to the training that Lincoln had provided him. The wisdom that such a lost soul learned wouldn't easily be forgotten, no matter how intense his desire for bloodshed. One may be able to discern that Dohm would not attack unless provoked first; perhaps to give himself an excuse if caught by the powers that be.

He huffed smelly exhales of breath from underneath his mask; he was fighting a rage inside him. He stood eerily still, so one may be able to catch a glimpse of how far his empty gaze had widened at the confirmed sight of a magic-user. His muscles were flexed despite his casual posture; he was ready for bloodshed. 

[SanctifiedSavage]

As soon as Shura had turned away, he'd forgotten the stranger. The fake. The shadow that wasn't slow, the one he'd caught. His snake would deal with it. The blood cobra reared up and did strike at the man, but its open mouth met with the bastard sword head on and split, like so much blood being part by a blade.

The solid form splashed to the road and groaned to Shura. It was that which caught his attention. Not the man or his shout. The blood was always louder to the mage, always came first. His red eyes became faintly luminous when he glanced over his shoulder and he realized, with spiked, heated annoyance, that the shadow, the fake-man-stranger was still there.

Had cut his snake. His now bloody, broken snake.

Fine. This thing wanted to break Shura's toy, he would give him something harder to break. The blood cried and stirred, hissing around him as Shura turned to face him. He took a couple of steps back and a smile, cruel and sweet and far too wide to be the sort of normal smile, etched across his pale face. "Fine, fine, fine, fine," he chanted while he lifted his hands, palm up.

Fine, fine, the blood echoed. Droplets lifted from the ground, gathering in formless mass. Slow, for a breath, then rapid at Shura's demand. It was cooling, loosing its touch, so he added his own hot, searing, crazy blood to it too. A sharp, jagged spike of black blood shot from his palm to fuel his magic, and construct his beast.

Not a snake, to chase away the shadows, but a many limbed, gaping maw of a monster. No real definitive form as it was a product of Shura's need and mind. It float before the stranger-that-was-not-real, claws longer than a standard blade tipped on hands capable of wrapping, easily, around a man's neck. Once more the blood-craft creature opened the maw in the middle of its body and quietly roared, black red skin rippling over newly created muscle and sinew. Exposing rows upon rows of teeth meant to rend and tear.

If the shadow-man wanted to play, Shura would play. He had the mage's attention.

[Dohm]

Dohm stood and peered up at the abomination, the disgusting creation born of volatile magic; it was exactly the bait he needed to let himself loose. However, he would not immediately rush towards the creature as he did before, he only stood ominously still as it writhed and turned in front of him. One may be able to hear his breath become more labored, his heavy exhales echoing underneath his helmet. However, one would certainly not mistake this for fear, it was easily observed that it was simple exhilaration, the thrill of the coming slaughter overcoming him.

His muscles all simultaneously flexed and within the blink of an eye, Dohm had burst forth, creating yet another divot in the earth. From the mage's perspective, he might only see Dohm's form disappear within the creation, as if it was his intention to be consumed by it; in fact, it was. He dove head first into the blood creature's maw, aiming to get at its guts, if it had any at all. Once he was within the mass of blood, he would surely sustain multiple lacerations due to the nature of such a monster, but this would not phase Dohm at all, it almost made him even more furious. He would have positioned himself upon his bound, rotated his body in a way so that when necessary, he may unwind himself and spin while holding his blade in both his calloused hands, aiming to dismantle the creation from within.

He had no regard for his own safety, only the destruction of the magic and the mage who had so unwittingly conjured it. If he were successful in his attack, Dohm would emerge from the creature by bursting from its backside, slinging blood all around in a circular motion, but he would not cease his assault this time; his agility would remain and he would stride forwards towards the mage now, his massive blade held out behind him in the wake of his speed. If one were to take the time to look, his eyes had grown wide underneath his helmet which would now be caked with blood, diminishing his beloved skull 'painting' upon his face. The fearlessness and the savagery could be almost felt as he charged...

[SanctifiedSavage]

Shura didn't understand that he was in danger. That wasn't a concept he could understand at that moment. He was fighting a monster of his own creation, as far as he was concerned, and the only way to do that was with his own, well, monsters. So it certainly made sense that he didn't see the shadow-man-stranger disappear into the blood-craft beast. They did that to him all the time.

The blood-craft felt nothing either. Wasn't capable. It only lunged and reacted, consuming the man and cutting into him with the many rows of serrated teeth where ever flesh was exposed to the blood. He managed to cut it with his sword, but it didn't matter. Blood was liquid and could be reconstituted, especially now that Shura was paying attention. Eager and grinning like a kid that had found a pile of sweets hidden in the closet.

The blood-craft didn't let the shadow-man-stranger take more than a couple of steps toward Shura before it's razor claws pierced through his lower leg and pulled him back. Corded muscle rippled beneath blood-craft skin as the beast used its claws in his flesh to drag him back to it and brought another massive clawed hand to use, hitting him square in the back with the intent to knock him forward and flat on his chest. Fueled by Shura's own life and blood, this creature would not be so easily dismissed as the craft-snake before it.

[Dohm]

Lost in his lust for the mage's blood, Dohm paid absolutely no mind to the creation as he leaped through it, nor did he pay any attention to his own well being. His vital points were left unscathed thanks to the miniscule amounts of armor he did decide to wear, but his upper arms, his legs, and even parts of his neck were left with jagged wounds than began to steadily drain his body of blood. However, this only served to fuel his insatiable rage. the pathwork linens he wore were already torn to shreds, so this gave the creation an easy target when sending an appendage straight through Dohm's right leg. What may prove to be even more frightening was Dohm's disregard and apathy for his injury; it was like he didn't even feel it. He only pulled against the strength of the abomination, digging his left foot into the dirt and curling his toes to remain rooted.

A swift strike in the back would surely send such a strangely distributed person tumbling forward, but what one may not realize is that Dohm was accustomed to taking a beating. He knew how to use it to his advantage, and what he needed was enough strength to tear his leg free, and the blood monster unwittingly gave this to him. With absolutely no regard for his leg, Dohm took the strike to his back and was heaved forward thanks to the added momentum of his left leg. He tumbled over himself and rolled, swinging his sword in front of him and then whipping it back as he came back to stand and face the mage. This would direct a downwards, diagonal slash at the pale mage, aiming to cut him deeply across his chest. However, such a maneuver would leave Dohm's right leg maimed and practically useless; he would not be able to use his typical bursts of speed as he had before. Also, a large bruise quickly bubbled to the surface of his skin located at the direct center of his back. These limitations would surely bring any typical warrior to their knees, but Dohm was trained to ignore the pain. In was beat into him by not only Lincoln, but the horrors of their shared past.

After the sweeping strike with his blade, Dohm's sword would find itself rooted back in the earth and he'd instinctually use it as a makeshift crutch, if only momentarily, as he was anticipating another act of violence from the mage.

[SanctifiedSavage]

Up until now, Shura was quite convinced he was fighting himself. That the shadow-man-stranger wasn't really real, that this was all a very elaborate illusion. Delusion? Whatever it was, he was certainly out of his mind.

Not that he didn't already know that, but so be it. He dealt with his own troubles all the damn time. In a way. In his own way. His blood-craft monster didn't need complex orders, which was a good thing. It had the impressed order to attack whatever was coming after Shura, so it instinctively went after the stranger. It just benefitted Shura that the man was real and the blood-craft actually had something to hit. Otherwise, it was likely to sit and float midair with nothing to really do or fight figments of his imagination.

This meant that it attached itself to the stranger, piercing his flesh and drawing blood – nigh feeding itself on the blood spilt in a way. Drawing some energy from this new source of power. Shura knew something was off then.

Shadows didn't bleed. His personal monsters didn't bleed.

Fuck. Shit. Move!

His smile faltered and confusion played across his face before he fell back, unceremoniously, as the tip of the strange man's sword cut across his shoulder and chest. Effectively ruining his shirt, which wasn't a big deal, but the blossoming pain from his shoulder nearly being shattered and the muscle down the frost of his chest being split was his own, personal, agonizing hell.

It served to both piss off Shura and set him into overdrive.

Fuck fighting. He didn't want to deal with an actual crazy person trying to kill him. He scrambled back on his hands while his own blood poured down the front of him, hot and angry. Hissing at him while his blood-craft pulled the man away from him.

Get away. Get away. Get away! Shit he already knew being screeched at him. Self-preservation kicking into over drive.

He needed to go. Shura's blood crawled across his body and up over his shoulders, cutting through his shirt once more and flared up and over his shoulders. Spreading out in thin, wide bat wings.

Driven purely by his desperate need to get away, the wings beat down hard to lift his up and off the ground. Anything to get away from what he now knew was a crazy person trying to kill him.

OOC

I do think that Shura has to make an exit, stage right, because he won't be able to sustain a fight beyond this point. Lemme know if you need me to adjust anything, as always.

[close]

[Dohm]

Blood being spilled. Mage blood. it was so delicious to Dohm, finally his craving was sated, even if it was only a slight laceration. However, such an insatiable man always wanted more; one cut wasn't nearly enough. Dohm was well aware of the abomination behind him, taking his own blood to fuel his opponents magic, but his target, his drug, was escaping. It stole all of his focus as the blood creature began to take hold of his limbs and restrain him from chasing after the pale mage. It was as if this creature was holding onto him from inside, the sinister magic latching onto the blood pouring from Dohm's leg and the deep slices all over his body. He painfully ripped his limbs free only to be restrained once more, vigorously attempting to get at the mage once again.

Lifted from the ground, he lost himself to his rage as the beast painfully drained him of a significant amount of his blood and all he could do was shout. "PRODUCE! PRODUCE! PRODUUUUCCEE!!" One may only discern for themselves what he meant by this; produce more magic? Was he yelling at himself? Or perhaps he wished the mage to produce himself. Perhaps he wanted the mage to produce combat, produce a fighter. The pale mage would hear the crazed man's screams slowly fade into the background as he flew away, but a keen sense of hearing may be able to catch the faint sounds of the blood monster being beaten by bare hands, and a final shout from Dohm, "I HAVE YOUR SCENT...!" Like a rabid dog, Dohm craved the mage's death for no other reason than to spill blood. The pale mage now knew the fury of only one of the Blood Brothers, in time he may know the terror of facing them both...