sticksandbones | [OPEN] right foot in the roses, left foot on a landmine

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[OPEN] right foot in the roses, left foot on a landmine

Who: Flamebringer and you!
What: Till died so he's having a mental breakdown
When: After Roseroot, before Nov event
Where: Various
Warnings: death, lots of self-deprecation, flamebringer being himself, tons of violence, more TBA

i. a beautiful nightmare, a war of attrition
therapy building rage room

[Flamebringer can't figure out what's wrong with his brain. Talking to Wolfwood didn't put much into perspective, or perhaps it's more accurate to say that he doesn't want that perspective. It's easier to shut down and pretend he never cared (he cares, he cares so much). It's not easy to face the music, and it's even harder to let the walls of his old defensive battalions come down long enough to admit he might've been wrong this whole time. That he cared. That saying he only appreciated strong people — what does that even mean anymore? — was a lie to save face and excuse the past twenty years of actions on his part.

If he doesn't think about it, maybe all these bad feelings will just... go away. Magically.

Or maybe he can take them out on something. Perhaps his soiree with the assassins in Roseroot, mirrored copies of the squad he failed years ago, weren't enough. It's not like he wanted to get them all killed in the first place.

He hates old ghosts, after all. Look forward, not backwards. Look forward, not backwards.

So Flamebringer goes to the rage room that day, slipping into the building quietly. Part of him hopes to be unnoticed. Part of him really doesn't care if someone joins in. He picks up the sledgehammer on the wall, pauses to heft its weight in his hand, and then smashes it down onto the nearest stack of plates. The porcelain spews forth in fragments of shrapnel sharp enough to slice skin, and Flamebringer flips the hammer around in his hand before swinging it hard into a nearby shelf next.

Somehow, breaking shit isn't making him feel much better, judging by the frown on his face. He wonders if he should do it with either of his blades instead, and wordlessly hands the sledgehammer over to you. Have at it.]

ii. i'll take what i'm given, the deepest incisions
dojo training hall

[Turns out breaking things doesn't make him feel better. He wouldn't say he feels worse; largely, he feels the exact same as he did when they left Roseroot, a bit like he hates himself and a bit like maybe he's the weakest element in this place. Like, really, he couldn't kill seven people who were repeatedly stabbing him? Couldn't save one man?

Yeah. Story of his life, apparently.

So he goes to the dojo, with its fireproofed — or, well, magic-proofed — rooms and training dummies, and decides that if he can't get the emotions out with good old fashioned consensual property destruction, he's going to do so by burning it out like a plague.

He is Diablo. His tribe, long extinct bar a few, are fire and brimstone. And if hellfire itself can't get burn all these emotions out of him, there's nothing to be done at this point.

If you come into the dojo at all, you might see it — probably even feel it, the flames erupting off of every surface, an inferno rising up the walls and devouring everything in his path. Both blades are alight as he swings them in an X at a training dummy, who self-repairs despite the hit cutting it into quarters with no efforts. It's more flame than he's conjured in a long time, Arts pent up and exploding from him in vivid oranges like carbonation in a shaken can. It's difficult to see the blur of black through it all comprising Flamebringer's silhouette, and if you stand in the wrong place, you may very well end up on the wrong side of a blade by sheer accident.]

iii. i thought i got better, but maybe i didn't
riverside; cw: blood from eyes, nose, & mouth, terminal illness symptoms, self-harm via lack of taking care of yourself

[Flamebringer does not use an Arts Unit. For Terrans, this is tantamount to a slow suicide; Infected like him get a boost to their Arts at the cost of a painful death, and Flamebringer sits on the fence between life and death. A Stage 3 Infected, overusing his Arts in a rage, causing physical harm to his entire body for... what? Because he's pissed at himself is what. He's pissed that he cares, he's pissed at his own failures, he's pissed that he has to try so hard only to be rewarded with nothing but a pit in his stomach and a hole in his heart where emotions would ordinarily go.

He knows he's pushed himself too far, and it's sobering enough to make him slow down as he stumbles across the river's stones into the main part of the Grove; he promised Ezell he wouldn't be stupid anymore, wouldn't do reckless shit, and here he is leaning heavily against a tree and hacking blood into his palm. A vessel bursts behind his blind eye, and something like a laugh, self-pitying, erupts from his throat as he swipes the blood off of his cheeks with his free hand.

Lovely. He hasn't bled from his entire face in a long time.

In some fucked-up sense of the word, this is atonement.

And in another fucked-up display, your approach is heralded with a middle finger while he hack-wheezes off to one side. It would be nice if you didn't see him like this.

Ezell, though, he doesn't get a middle finger. He gets a slow, guilty wave. Hi. Sorry. His bad.]

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[It's been a while since Wolfwood has utilized the rage room, himself. He hasn't needed (or maybe wanted?) to, for better or worse. His depression from the month or so prior was a different kind of feeling, it wasn't anger. Breaking things wasn't going to solve the way he felt then, and still feels every so often when he thinks about why he felt that way. No, it's actually just pure coincidence he happens to be passing by when his ears catch the sound of shattering glass and porcelain, then the heavy cracking of wood being splintered. It's enough to get him to wander that way, hands in his pockets as he raises a brow at the display he's met with when he walks through the door.

He'll catch the sledgehammer as it's thrown his way, though he doesn't immediately use it. He props it up on the ground, leaning against it like an old man with a cane.]

Yaknow...I feel like breakin' shit that don't have a pulse isn't gonna help you as much as somethin' that fights back.

[Considering everything that goes wrong for Kyojuro in the blink of an eye, it shouldn't at all be surprising that he ends up approaching the dojo. Resorting to his default, honing his prowess, is easy enough. He'll spend a few hours striking at the training dummies, blistering his hands until they hurt more than whatever is ripping through his chest at the moment, and then everything will be normal.

But when is anything so simple.

The heat radiating off of the building is alarming at first. He very nearly goes bursting into the building to call for help, when he realizes how deliberate the noise he hears inside is. He waits until a particularly vicious flurry of blows, before carefully peering inside. Despite embodying flame in nearly every essence of his being, Kyojuro is not fireproof, after all. Even the residual heat from his distance burns at his skin.

But wasn't this the very ache he had been seeking?]

I don't suppose there is room for one more?

[His tone doesn't allow for any ounce of his warring emotions. He remains as bright and jovial as ever. He is a pillar, after all. Feelings like this must be kept wrapped closely to his chest.]

[ Ezell knows that Flamebringer hasn't been... doing well, since Roseroot. There's been a lot that happened, especially after they got separated again after their night in the furniture store. He was happy that he was hydrated and well rested and he thought that maybe that, even if they were separated, that would have been enough to keep him safe and prepared for the worst. It's not the ideal situation, but so long as Flamebringer had the energy, he should have been okay.

Right?

The depression hits him, though. And this time around, Ezell doesn't even need to emotionally share with him to realize it. He doesn't expect to see him like this though. He knows Flamebringer is explosive in his feelings but... isn't this extreme? Ezell inhales sharply at the sight of both Flamebringer and the incinerated scenery, nearly tripping over himself to get by his side.

He tries to open his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He simply acts on autopilot while his brain shrieks and screams in fear of losing his stupid Sarkaz to his own feelings like this. He's pulling out a first aid kit and he's fumbling for a sanitized cloth to start on the blood that pools from his eye. ]

What... are... Why...???

Hah. Are you volunteering?

[He wonders if he wants to. Maybe he does. It's hard to say right now, when he's penduluming rapidly between feelings and getting swept up in the currents.]

Can't live without me slugging you, can you.

[Kyojuro: not fireproof. Flamebringer and Building + Dummies: Fireproof.

Well, one of them will just have to get a little burnt around the edges it seems—

Flamebringer at least manages to stop this brief bout of madness to acknowledge the other man, a brow raised, because he almost certainly remembers that Kyojuro had to take it easy at one point.]

You aren't injured anymore?

["I don't give a damn" says local man who absolutely gives a damn, at least enough to ask someone else if they're still injured.]

I think, [he starts cautiously, embarrassed at having Ezell see him this way,] I pushed a little too hard at the dojo.

[He "thinks". Yeah, uh-huh.]

It's fine. It's from my bad eye anyway. I don't have much more there to lose.

[Perhaps, but the way he wobbles as he leans against the tree says that, if nothing else, he really should lay down.]

[Getting burnt around the edges will be just fine. Absolutely incinerated, maybe not? But they'll get there when they get there.

To his question, Kyojuro gives a dismissive wave of one hand, while laying his palm over where his shirt rests against the worst of his scars.]

Though traces remain, I have been cleared to begin my full level of activity again. And I think you will provide the perfect challenge.

[He does pick up the slightest vibe that something is wrong. Unfortunately, he doesn't know enough about Flamebringer to really be sure. And as far as Kyojuro is concerned, a fight might just fix them both.]

So. I will ask you once more. Will you let me join you?

[ There's a certain Sankta back home who would speak about things so nonchalantly regardless of the intensity of the situation. Had this been that Sankta and not Flamebringer, he very well may have taken it in stride. But Flamebringer expressed himself so vividly in ways Ezell could not. He was acrylic paints on a budding artist's canvas - messy, but passionate. He hated to see him lose himself like this, in a similar way to Ezell's own depression.

He doesn't ask anything else, trying to process his emotions in a way that wasn't becoming a verbal bomb on Flamebringer. That's never been good for them before. He's blown up on Flamebringer so much before - in their dream, in the underwater shelter, and, hell, even when they met by the river. If he yells, if he screams, will that help? Certainly not for Flamebringer.

...

Tears sting his eyes as he finishes cleaning the blood from his face, and he grabs Flamebringer's hands to coax him to sit down at the very least. He'll carry him to the clinic or home after if he has to, but for right now he needs to at least not dangerously wobble like this. The blood loss probably has his head spinning, so not moving for right now is for the best.

He starts digging around in the kit, pulling out a bandage and gauze, working on putting it against Flamebringer's eye and keeping pressure against it. ]

It's not fine. [ He finally says, voice wavering with his own distress. ] Please do not... give me assurances when they are lies. I...

[ ~~You said you weren't going to leave me, so why are you so eager to make your Oripathy worse like this?~~ ]

I'm- I'm sorry. I... I should've gotten to you sooner. I should've been able to help before things got like this.

[ Tex has no idea what she's getting into when she goes to enter the Dojo. She is here to practice with the sword Kyojuro has been training her to fight with—she's unhappy with her progress so far, and unwilling to let her new status as being human get in the way of calculating her moves the way she can remembering doing as an AI back in the universe of the UNSC—but the blast of heat when the door slides open is beyond anything she's experienced in this flesh. She can see a figure fighting inside and is immediately prepared to run in and rescue whoever is trapped inside.

But the motions this person is carrying out are not the actions of someone in distress. In fact, he's moving more like someone who's commanding the flames than trying to escape them. And she's learned enough about the magic present in this place to now know this is a possibility.

She edges closer to entering the Dojo and calls to him. ]

Hey!

[Flamebringer winds up laying down after a few minutes, because it's easier than trying to sit up and hold his head still for Ezell. The ground can do that for him.]

No, I was trying to burn off the energy and went too hard in my sparring. I'd say sorry to the owners if the room wasn't completely fireproofed. I just didn't realise how hard I was going into it. Didn't even bother going that hard for Till...

[God.]

I might've been more useful if I did that.

That's not true, either. You know he'd tell you that you're an idiot for even thinking like that.

[ He's going to start tending to the rest of him. It was his eye that got it worse, but he's seem to exacerbated some other unrelated injuries... Ezell's gonna put this boy in a full body cast so he can't move, he swears- ]

Why didn't you come talk to me...? I could've... done something that doesn't involve you hurting yourself like this, I... [ He chokes a bit. ] I can't... lose you like this, Flamebringer. Even if you say you're okay, you're exacerbating your Oripathy...

What can I say? I have a problem.

[Wolfwood kindof shrugs like "lol" as he weighs the sledgehammer between his hands, then sets it up against something nearby.]

Let's say I am volunteering. If you think it'd make you feel better, then c'mon. Whatever damage you can do to me, I can erase in a few minutes.

...sure. Think you can handle the heat?

[Normally, Flamebringer would spar with only one sword, but both are already out. They're different from each other, heavily so; one is a katana, something Kyojuro will definitely know as a more fragile blade — supposedly, anyway — and the other is an odd, curved blade the size of Flamebringer himself, more like a cross between a claymore and scimitar that he hefts one-handed. Anyway, point being... he might go hard as hell here.]

If so, draw your blade.

What?!

[Hi, Tex, nice to see you! Or maybe not so nice, if the glower he shoots her way is anything to go by. The flames don't extinguish in their entirety, but gather up at his back and on the tips of his horns, wreathing around his limbs in such a way that speaks of extreme and careful control.]

[It turns out that after getting stabbed many times during his battle with the shadow-Ivan and the assassins, he didn't bother to go get healing. The wounds are bandaged or cauterized, but otherwise are causing a great deal of pain as he lays there in the grass. If nothing else, he's stable... he won't die from this much.]

You won't. It wasn't on purpose. [He waves a hand about, flips his wrist, and sighs.] Don't know. I just got back and got agitated, needed to go do something before I exploded.

[...]

Haah. Fine. Look alive, then.

[Why is y'all's love language this... anyway Flamebringer takes a single, long stride forward, cocks his fist back, and nails Wolfwood across the face.

why why Why are you two like this why can't you make out like normal gay people]

By all means.

[Though the warmth is oppressive, even downright dangerous, Kyojuro does not shy away. Instead, he steps forward, both hands falling to the hilt at his belt. One hand finds its way to the hilt, wrapping around it reverently before inching it out just slightly. His feet shift, one behind the other, as he stares at Flamebringer. Given his strange away of weaponry, it's hard to pin down exactly how he'll fight. Thus, Kyojuro will be both ready to charge forward and to pivot to the side, if need be.

But he will let his companion make the first move. He won't learn unless he's taking the time to observe, after all.]

I wish you luck!

Edited 2025-11-04 23:08 (UTC)

[They're so fuckin' stupid man, I don't know what else to tell you. Wolfwood knows the value of a good beating (??????), so of course he's willing to offer this to someone he knows needs it badly.

Of course, Flamebringer doesn't really even give him a chance to brace himself for it, which is fine. His head snaps back from the punch in a way that can't be good for his neck, but he takes the punch in stride regardless even with the way the pain radiates through his jaw and even down into his left shoulder. There was some heft to that. Like, damn girl you really do need therapy don't you-]

Haaah..., good.

[His roll wasn't...great for this but I will throw him a bone and let him not have a nosebleed this time. For now.]

C'mon, hit me again. I know that ain't all you got.

[The time needed for bracing yourself was given when you said "hit me" dumbass—]

What, you're not hitting back? You like being a punching bag that much?

[Yeah, he needs therapy. But instead of punching this time, he goes for a kick, trying to knock Wolfwood into the nearest wall.]

Maybe...

[Or, maybe he just knows Flamebringer needs this, so he isn't going to begrudge him getting a good hit or two in.

Of course, he doesn't want Flamebringer to think he's just allowing each and every strike without any attempt to dodge or make it a little more difficult for him, so when Flamebringer tries to kick him, Wolfwood just barely manages to sidestep out of the way to avoid it. Barely, he can feel the wind from his foot as it rushes past.

He isn't hitting him back though, interestingly.]

Oooh, almost. Try again!

[What the fuck. Enrichment? In his enclosure? Wolfwood will get to watch Flamebringer's claws flex in real time, his tail lashing like a caged tiger waiting to pounce. What the fuck. Don't you belittle him like this he's going to Get you—

Flamebringer is An Animal, though, so he absolutely will be rushing forward to try tackling Wolfwood into the breakables. Sorry what was that, use his fists? Kick?? No no. Tackle. Tackle like the football.]

[You know he should have expected something like this. Flamebringer isn't just going to punch him forever, so the tackle doesn't come as a COMPLETE surprise...but also, he somehow still isn't expecting the way the Sarkaz flings himself at him.

It's the pinnacle of prop-fall comedy in here as Flamebringer literally smashes Wolfwood into a wooden shelf that splinters on impact, along with everything on the shelves tumbling off and shattering on the floor in explosions of glass. Though he isn't able to avoid getting tackled, he IS still able to start to try to roll himself upright so he can attempt to get the upper hand and climb on top of Flamebringer to sit on his chest.

You know, like a real man in a fist-fight would do.]

[Get it together Wolfwood, you have to expect that Flamebringer will do the deranged thing eventually!

Anyway, they go tumbling into the wrecked items, neither any worse for wear because these men are both made of goddamn titanium, and the wrestling winds up with Flamebringer underneath Wolfwood after quite a while of rolling back and forth. Depending on if Wolfwood sits on Flamebringer's biceps too, pins them with his knees or whatever, he may have a fighty Sarkaz trying to pick him up and throw him off.]

Get any closer and I'll bite your dick off.

[little do you know that's probably what wolfwood wants—]

[Wolfwood has done a bit of grappling in his time, so he's going to try to pin Flamebringer down by the biceps. He's only got one working knee at the moment, so-

He doesn't seem to care if he gets thrown off or not, just happy to have enough time to lean into Flamebringer's space, smirking.]

S'that a promise?

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[OPEN] right foot in the roses, left foot on a landmine

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