abraxaslogs | september catch-all; open

( He likes to help out, sometimes. When he can, and when what needs to be done doesn't strike him as particularly weird or dangerous. Sifting through the burnt remains of structures post-catastrophe isn't really all that different from what he's used to doing back home, all things considered, so he goes.

For a skinny guy with a fake leg, he's surprisingly effective here — especially once they put a shovel in his hand. It turns out Jack's hiding some crazy upper body strength, and he's really fucking good at digging holes. He's sweating, shirt plastered to his arms and his back, wholly encompassed with the manual labor in a way that's strangely meditative.

So he doesn't notice it.

An outrice, enormous, maybe seven or eight feet tall. Talons sharp, legs long, probably shaken from its domain after the attack. Pissed off, freaked out, and hungry.

Jack definitely looks like easy, completely fucking oblivious prey — he only becomes aware of the fucking thing when he rears back up to dump a shovel full of dirt out over the top of the hole he's chest deep in, by which time it's maybe six feet away and barreling forward, screeching. )

Oh shit-!

( Sudden and alarmed, he does the first thing that comes to mind — wields his shovel like a baseball bat, and swings. He hits the flightless bird square in the beak, which seems to take it aback at first — and piss it off more immediately after. )

Edited 2022-09-10 21:00 (UTC)

[ Kahlil is legitimately surprised by Jack's hidden skill. Also that it didn't take too much persuading to get him to do the work in the first place, considering how rare it is to see Jack anywhere except the library and their room.

They haven't spoken much about the attacks. Kahlil had been busy seeking information, out in the city and skulking around the castle in the immediate aftermath of Libertas. What little sleep he got was plagued by burning cities and eyeless sockets staring back at him.

When the smell of nearby fires had reached them a week later, he'd gone into a quiet panic, praying that he was still dreaming.

He's been quiet as they've worked today, lost in his own head. He'd gone to get some water for them as Jack continued to dig, and its with his back turned that he then hears the screech as the beast strikes at Jack's shovel.

A slip of cold air is all the remains where he was standing, and then suddenly he's at the creature's side, his hand dripping with blood. Its long neck is severed at the middle, a spray of hot blood washing over Jack and his shovel as its body drops to the ground, half falling into the hole with him. ]

( It all happens impossibly fast. His arms are still singing with the familiar pain of hitting something way too solid with something also way too solid, using human joints that are less solid — when suddenly a wave of hot red wetnesss cascades over his face. He's way, way too used to the sensation of arterial spray, he should not recognize it the way that he does.

But he does.

It's a little blinding, a lot disorienting, and the adrenaline's still pumping. In the span of six seconds, Jack's mind doesn't catch up with the initiative order change to the combat round. He doesn't realize a new player has entered the game, only that it's his turn and something's still moving.

Before it clicks that it's Kyle and not a second (or still somehow living) outrice, Jack swings his shovel again in the general direction of Kyle's head. )

[ He just barely dodges getting clocked by his roommate, ducking from the shovel swing aimed at his head and shooting Jack an agitated look. ]

Hey! Knock it off!

[ The shimmering stiletto edge of the Silence Knife vanishes from the first two fingers of his right hand. Next to their feet the head of the outrice is still spasming, as if not completely aware that its no longer attached to the rest of it. The body hangs mostly motionless of the edge of the hole, dark fluid oozing out the severed esophagus. ]

Sorry!

( Said a split second later after nearly clocking Kyle's lights out. He can be a little trigger-happy with baseball bat adjacent weaponry — one of the primary reasons why he doesn't ever like to use a gun. You can't really take back a bullet at terminal velocity quite the same way as somebody can withstand or dodge a melee swing. More of a takesie-backsie buffer.

A second later, the adrenaline begins to lower. So too does his shovel, as his eyes track between the decapitated bird of prey and his roommate.

A beat later, he breathes: )

Ninja.

( That dude fucking teleported for real. That's so cool. That's so much cooler than Jack will ever be.

Damn it. )

[ He rolls his eyes, but out of habit more than actual annoyance.

With the toe of his boot he gently prods the outrice's twitching neck, scanning their immediately surrounds. They're far enough out from the other few volunteers that no one is running over to see what's going on. ]

Here - [ He unhooks the waterskin from his belt and half tosses it to Jack. ] We'll dig another foot down and dump it with the rest.

[ And then, after a second of looking Jack over with a frown: ] None of that's yours?

[ The blood. Might need some of that water to wash himself off.

Not like they both aren't already in need of a hot shower. Earlier Kahlil had shrugged down to his undershirt, now just as stuck to his chest as Jack's is, streaked with dirt and sweat. There's blood streaming down his bicep from a wound he doesn't seem to notice, a thin cut like a knife's blade. ]

Edited 2022-09-12 18:49 (UTC)

( He catches the waterskin — miraculously, and not without nearly clocking himself in the face with the handle of the shovel.

Why, god? Why is it that he seems to do the stupidest shit in front of his awesome fucking badass teleporting ninja roommate? Why? Why can't he have just, like, one cool moment ever? )

What? ( Replay the question. Actually hear it in retrospect. ) Oh. The blood.

( At which point he realizes it's all over his fucking face and shirt. )

Aw, man. Gross.

( Not that he's not grateful, of course, it's just... warm. Ew.

Focus, Jack. Shake it off. Maybe express a little gratitude to the ninja roommate? )

Thank-

( He starts, just to catch a glimpse of movement behind Kyle. His eyes go wide, and his brain lags too hard for him to formulate a coherent sentence. Instead, all he can manage to do is point and urgently yell: )

Murder birds!

( Four of them.

They do move in herds, and apparently they're down for some vengeance over killing their buddy. )

[ He's tired. This work of digging and carting around remains all afternoon is exhausting. That can only explain why these beasts keep sneaking up on him — ]

Faud— mulhi'an wahbai... [ Should've brought his blade. He grabs the other shovel as he's cursing to himself in another language and vanishes with a flick of his wrist, the scent of burning ozone and cold air pushing through the tear in the half second it takes for him to open it and jump through, closing behind him. ]

Edited 2022-09-13 01:31 (UTC)

Wow, really?

( He demands of the empty space where his roommate once was, evidently having fucking booked it. Jack's assuming he did the smart, sensible thing and got the fuck out of there before aforementioned homicidal poultry managed to clear the distance, and damn does he need to learn to teleport.

Okay, Jack. This is your moment. Do some fucking magic about it, you've been going to Hogwarts for like four months now, you've been making things, you made a hairdryer. Make something.

Shovel gripped tightly in one hand, he raises up his left and steels himself. His mind is an echoing mantra of gun, gun, gun, for once in my life I actually want a gun, please gun, gun please.

For a single triumphant moment, he thinks he's done it. There's a rigid handle in his grip, unyielding, but strangely, his finger does not find a trigger.

Ah. That's why.

When he looks down, it isn't a gun he's holding, but a rather a coffee pot by the handle. Aw, god damn it, really?

There's no time to think about it. He doesn't see where Kyle reappears, he just sees the murder birds barreling down on him. So he does the one other combat technique he's perfected aside from swinging a baseball bat.

He rears back, and mother fucking yeets that pot at full-force into the bird's face. The glass shatters on its beak, scalding hot coffee burning into its eyes, shards of glass stabbing into its neck. It screams, stumbling over its own feet and face-planting into the dirt.

Little known fact about Jack Townsend, he has extraordinary aim and is particularly good at chucking directly at people's heads. 100% track record, has worked every single time thusfar. )

[ There's not much he can do about all four of them as they barrel down on them at once. But within the cold currents of this realm he leaps from the pit, higher than he could in the natural world and slices open a tear long enough to throw the shovel out ahead of him and into their path.

Two squawk in surprise and attack the projectile with their hooked beaks and beating, flightless wings, momentarily distracted. One makes it past him. The last one he leaps onto the back of, and before it can throw him off he shoves the Silence Knife's point into the back of its skull.

In the brief moment he's in the real world he can hear shouts in the near distance of the other volunteers approaching, and the breaking of something heavy and made of glass behind him.

He vanishes again, reappearing beneath one of the birds that he'd thrown the shovel at, severing its leg at the joint before disappearing again. As it tumbles it begins tearing at its flockmate in a confused rage.

In an instant he's at the edge of the pit, reaching for Jack. He has no idea what he did to the beast, but before it can get back up - ]

Out of the hole, now!

( Oh, shit. He didn't leave. That's really good, he doesn't think that pot of coffee will stun it for long, and he's not sure if he can summon up three more of them fast enough to take out the rest. He really didn't have an exit strategy outside of throwing them like Donkey Kong throwing barrels for eternity.

He reaches up without question, grabbing Kyle not by the hand but rather clasping him at the forearm. He plants his prosthetic against the edge of the pit and pushes off, using it and the grip Kyle's got on him to haul himself up and out of the hole.

A second later, it occurs to him that it was a complete and total waste of time. Promptly changes his mind on that relief thing, because he spots that freely bleeding slice along Kyle's arm. Urgently: )

I can't outrun those things, dude. You should get the fuck out of here. Go. Teleport away. Shoo!

( Accompanied by the skeedaddle hand gesture one might use toward a stray cat, provided one was a horrible person that didn't want to pet the cat.

It's just stupid for Kyle to hang around and get hurt for him, is all. It's entirely possible ostrich squad beats solo ninja, if you ask him, and with his fake leg Jack's hardly outrunning chickens these days. )

Edited 2022-09-13 04:09 (UTC)

[ Even though Jack weighs practically nothing Kahlil's muscles are screaming as he helps pull him up.

Jack's shoo get ignored, he doesn't have time to even be mildly annoyed by it or try to argue with him any more. He just needs to get it done quickly:

Without a word he vanishes again, though this time its with a violent, horrific shriek in the air, as if the air he parts is made of metal being torn in half. Flames rip along the edge as the opening seals again behind him.

What Jack sees:

The outrice in the hole drops suddenly, only the briefest flicker of Kahlil's form in the air behind it as it happens, followed again by that same ear-piercing metallic shriek and flame.

The outrice with the severed leg joint has stopped moving, its hide slashed to pieces by its flockmate. As it stands to face Jack, ready to charge, a flash of flame appears by its side - Kahlil moving in and out of space as he stabs it again and again, lacking the precision of his earlier attacks.

But between the wounds left its dead friend, the bird falters, and then crumples with pained cries.

Kahlil drops out of space one last time, out of breath and bleeding from a new wound across his scalp. ]

( So there they stand in the wake of the bird murder (burder?), Jack covered in blood he hasn't really earned, Kyle panting, and almost a half dozen bird corpses littering the ground around them.

A beat of silence passes wherein Jack has the opportunity to feel like a dumbass for trying to heroically sacrifice himself for somebody who doesn't need it to an extent that is almost laughable.

After that long, pregnant pause, he levels Kyle with a frustrated accusation. )

Why are you so cool? What the fuck, dude? That was incredible. Holy crap. Can you, like, chill?

[ He's been crouched where he landed, head down, and only finally turning his head toward Jack with an utterly perplexed expression on his weary features.

It seems to take him a second to parse the hostile words, and then his shoulders start to shake with tired but genuinely mirthful laughter.

He quiets again as the other volunteers finally approach speaking distance. They check the bird corpses, trying to decide what to do with five of them now - and concerned about more desperate, starving beasts that survived the burning woods impeding their efforts. Kahlil nods and answers their questions - a few are curious about how he took them down, but as they keep talking he tries to shift behind Jack, leaving him to speak with them as he focuses on trying to stay on his feet.

He ends up crouching near the cart they'd been using, parked by the makeshift outpost. His wounds aren't serious, though he's starting to feel them now. ]

Edited 2022-09-13 15:30 (UTC)

( Wow, cool, what a terrible decision to leave Jack in charge of speaking to human beings. He's genuinely not sure whether or not he's supposed to lie to these guys, whether Kyle's status as a ninja is a secret or something.

Time to use his elusive cunning and disadvantage to all deception checks with a -5 modifier to control the situation.

How did he do that? )

Magic.

( I've never seen any magic like that. )

It was... bird magic.

( Bird... magic? )

Yep. Totally poultry fueled, it's insane. You should see him in a KFC.

( What is a... KFC? )

Um. It's this- it's like a. You know what? It stands for... kill fucking chickens. I don't know what to tell you, dude just really hates birds. A bird murdered his entire family. He's really sensitive about it, but we're fine here, so if you could just... give us a minute?

( O...kay.

He gets the sense it's less that they believe or even understand him, and more that they're just so perplexed by speaking to him they'd rather just opt out of the conversation than keep pursuing their questions. The farmers go about loading up the bodies, heaving them onto carts one after another, because waste not want not, right? Might as well harvest them for meat and bones and feathers or whatever. Use every part of the birdfalo.

Once they're preoccupied with that, he turns his attention back to Kyle. )

Hey, are you okay? Shit, you're bleeding. How bad is it? Do you wanna maybe sit down for a second, I can probably... help with those?

[ Kahlil lifts his head automatically to Jack's approach, frowning at the question and eyeing the deep cut on his bicep. It's hard for him to say whether he was caught but a beak or claw, or if it was the Gray Space itself that caused his wounds, the unfamiliar currents punishing him for his reckless speed. It was sloppy, he would have rather not used his abilities at all in the presence of natives. With Jack so readily willing to sacrifice himself, he hadn't had much of a choice.

After a moment, softly: ]

It's not that bad. [ He gingerly touches the wet spot on his scalp, his hair sticky and tangled there. ] Just need to get it cleaned...

[ The world tilts very suddenly, and he goes from a crouch to sitting. The last thing he wants to do is actually pass out here. ]

( Kyle tilts from crouch to ass, and Jack's reflexes are catlike only in the sense that they're probably asleep in a sun spot on the floor somewhere right now. He jolts to try and catch the guy about a second and a half late, and doesn't so much as manage to even get a hand on him before it's already over.

Why did he bother trying, really?

It's still a little concerning, despite Kyle's insistence to the contrary. )

Okay. Um- hold on.

( He takes a slow, precarious knee at Kyle's side.

He's been practicing. There's a pause, a look of concentration, a wrinkle of his nose. Two, three, four seconds pass, and then with little fanfare and no special effects, there's quite suddenly a coffee cup in his left hand, and a scrap of cloth in his right. )

Here, let me see-

( It might be alarming, but should Kyle balk at the idea that Jack's about to dab hot coffee on his wound, he can breathe easy. Any reluctance will be met with a bewildered: it's just water, I'm not a maniac.

He can help rinse the gross and the dirt out, give him something to press against the wound to stop the bleeding until they can get back to the castle and have a healer take care of it. )

Edited 2022-09-20 07:11 (UTC)

[ He fixes for a second Jack's face, the way he wrinkles his nose gives him the sudden urge to pinch it - which, probably lucky for both of them, he doesn't indulge in. It should say something that the sudden appearance of the mug and cloth out of thin air doesn't startle Kahlil. ]

Oh - thanks. [ he says almost like a question, reaching to take the mug with the assumption there's coffee in it and it's being offered. Odd, but it might give him a spark of energy... he only frowns and stops when his hands touch the ceramic and the mug is definitely cold. ]

Uh -

( Literally never once in his entire life has anybody pinched his nose. He genuinely could not say how he would react.

Odds are he probably wouldn't, seeing as that's his default. )

Oh- no, this is...

( He tilts the mug to show its contents — clear, cool, clean. )

For cleaning. Your head, I mean. Not drinking. Unless you're thirsty, in which case go for it, I can make another one. I just thought...

( You know.

Helping. )

Right, right -

[ Makes sense. He quickly lets go of the mug, closing his eyes and tilts his head down, allowing Jack a better view of the gash on his scalp (and hiding his mild embarrassment).

It's not particularly deep or gory, but its still oozing thanks to it being a head wound, and his hair is already starting to become sticky around it. ]

Thanks. [ Did he say that yet? ]

Dude. You just saved me from like two dozen murder birds. You don't need to thank me for anything again, like, ever.

( Insisted somehow both mildly and emphatically. Maybe it's the gentle monotone that perpetually overlays his voice.

In any case, he goes about cleaning the blood out of Kyle's hair with the methodical nature of a man who has done this way too many times. When you have a best friend like Jerry who has a fetish for swords and shoulder-length hair, you get kind of good at weirdly specific stuff like this. )

Hey- why do you keep doing that, anyway?

Edited (i found a typo) 2022-10-05 06:20 (UTC)

[ Murder birds. He lets out a light huff.

Jack's unflappable calm lets him relax for a moment. With someone else he might be still trying to calm them down or convince them that his wound isn't as bad as it probably looks. He wouldn't mind having to do either if needed, but — it's a relief not to have to right now.

Wound aside, Jack's fingers moving through his hair feels... nice. This time he lets out a breath that's more like a sigh. ]

Keep doing what?

Sweeping in to help me.

( As though it should be obvious — it is to Jack, anyway. He can count on one hand the number of people who have ever bothered to intervene on his behalf in his entire life, so every instance of it stands out bright and clarion in his sad, foggy mashed potato brains.

Between catching him mid-stumble in that ballroom to the focus cast on him during the rain-spell thing (Look after Jack) to this? It's starting to transcend coincidence and head straight toward pattern.

Blood largely cleaned, step number two is to snag his sleeve with his teeth and rip a scrap of fabric off without preamble. He folds it in half, presses it lightly to the wound, and then reaches out to guide Kyle's hand to it in an unspoken you hold this here. )

Would you rather I didn't?

[ He hears the tear of fabric and glances up, the confusion in his expression making it clear he's not teasing this time. The obvious answer in the case of the homicidal dinosaur birds is: because you would have died. He hasn't really thought much about the ballroom dancing - the attack and the conversation they had in the carriage afterward supersedes all that in his memory.

As he studies Jack's face he lets his hand be led to the fabric scrap and then to his wound. His own fingers are cold to the touch, making Jack's feel comparatively warm. ]

I don't know, maybe?

( He shrugs, his hands falling down uselessly to his sides — at some point in all that, the cup vanished. He doesn't remember when, didn't notice, and doesn't think about it now. It served its purpose and, in an exceedingly convenient timely fashion, disappeared. A scrap of cloth would too, hence the ripping it off of an already bird-blood ruined shirt. )

Don't get me wrong, I totally appreciate not being torn to shreds by ostriches from my nightmares, but... historically speaking, really fucked up shit tends to happen in my general... atmosphere. I get the feeling sooner rather than later it's gonna be something way more dangerous than a party fowl. I know you're a ninja and everything, but you don't have to be a stupid ninja. Stupid ninjas are dead ninjas.

ғᴀʀᴍʟᴀɴᴅs

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