Name: Greyais Be'Ureven
Rank: 18
Item request: A whetstone and salt
Specificalities: Is that even a real fucking word?
”Here, go nuts.” Grey uneasily handed the card to Ama and trudged back. He was slightly embarrassed by his markedly crude handwriting. Soldiers rarely needed to write more than their own names, and reading was a different matter entirely. Grey remained distant for what little time remained between their walk to camp.
A constant buzz thrummed at that back of his skull, and his teeth itched. Grey imagined this was what addicts must feel like when dealing with withdrawal. That was what happened, he supposed, when he was bored. Ever since adolescence, Greyais had found anything that didn't involve bruising, biting, adrenaline, or rutting to be an exercise in mind-numbing futility on his part. Born and raised to be an obedient dog of war, it was not surprising that...well, he
was your run of the mill attack dog. Food, fighting, and fucking. The three f's of his existence. Well, two. To his utter dismay, the swarthy redeemer hadn't bedded anyone since his induction.
Apparently, even
other redeemers are repulsed by one another. Although...he glanced at Cinnamon, laying just outside of the fire's warmth. She had a cavalier enough attitude...Grey wouldn't have put it past her to use sex as nothing more than a means of relieving stress, or more likely, as a weapon. She may not have been the most attractive of those present, but she definitely had the raunchy gait of a woman who knew how to use what she had. Unlike Snow and Amarilli...Amaroni...the creepy one. Grey's one-track mind quickly shifted to how much he disliked that woman.
“Good morning!” Grey was popping his knuckles when that flitty little chit decided to start yapping. There had been too much to think about during the night to sleep, so Grey contented himself with contemplation and wondering why Nica was still awake. Strange lass. Not so politely declining Amamola's offer for food, Grey stretched and worked out the kinks gathered from sitting in one spot all night.
”We leaving yet, or what?”
”Shiiit...” the word dragged low and harsh under his breath as he caught sigt of the pampered little thing balling her eyes out. Grey had always had a thing for highborn ladies, most likely because he could never have one. At least until he fell in love with Aura. She was worth any ten of those air-headed, pompous, self-righteous flouts. Of course, when she'd ripped his heart out and thrown it on the ground, that lust for ladies in powdered wigs and poofy skirts returned with a vengeance. As it was, the poor thing was more interested in dampening Snow's shoulder. Grey simply went along with it, taking everything in stride as Amaryliss decked down the situation.
Nica's laugh was pleasant enough. Grey could not fathom why he sensed a sudden thickness in the air about his fellow redeemers. He shrugged. It was probably just nerves.
He was itching to tear in to something, anything. Rend flesh with his bare claws. Claws? Why had he thought claws...
hands. Grey wanted to hear the wear parchment sound of ripping flesh and bask in the sickening warmth of black blood spewing from freshly burst arterial tracks. Yet, he thought sullenly, the abominations did not appeal to him in the slightest. The dark redeemer found himself standing stark still as the others engaged the horrendous wretches in battle. Oddly enough, none of them paid him any real heed.
His eyes traced the movements of the other redeemers, flicking across the confined field of battle and taking in more than their dull depths would suggest. Each and every clumsy, brutish swing of the abominations natural weapons caused an inner surge of loathing to ooze from Grey's chest. So wasteful. Images of himself matching Lilith's dance step for step, ringing blades clanging against one another as they maneuvered across the uneven ground. The scarred manipulator was stunned with a twinge of shock when his neck snapped forward, stretching to cover the space between them in an instant. He growled over the wet choking sounds that Lilith made as he ground his fangs deeper in to the soft flesh of her throat.
The image disappeared as abruptly as it had come. That was strange, Grey thought. But, he shrugged, it would not be too far off. From what he could tell, at short range, he was the fastest redeemer there was.
As his reverie faded in to an eerie memory, Greyais moved to follow the others. They cleaned up the infestation rather well.
When they came upon the slaver, pedophile, or whatever creep this crusty man was, Grey could not help but agree with Manon. Although it was not the best way to go about things, Grey was too incensed by human trash like this. These people were no better than abominations, ruining lives in their own wretched ways. A sudden twinge told him otherwise, however, and he felt righteous anger dimmed. It just wasn't worth it. He allowed Cinnamon and Zeke to do her thing, and soon enough they were on their way again.
Ezekiel's admonishments fell on deaf ears as Grey scratched the scruff of his meager beard. He was bored again, deathly so, and was beginning to regret not taking part in the slaughter. The scream drew the daydreaming redeemer's attention. Cinnamon was...down? That came as something of a shock, given the tenacity the woman displayed in everything she did.
Over the course of ten heartbeats, Snow was reduced to a quivering mass on the floor, as Lucas was shaking and tearing up over Cinnamon. Manon hit the ground with a loud thump, and even then, Grey could not bring himself to move. He was too busy discussing.
This is it, isn't it. I can go now? Because i'll be fuckin' honest, it looks like they're getting their asses beat.Whatever internal voice Greyais thought he was speaking with heaved a long sigh, and he thought he could hear traces of amusement in the breathy sound. No response was forthcoming, nothing verbal, anyway, but Grey could feel it: it was waving in dismissal. It was time to go.
Innovation is the heartbeat of mankind. Without it, the lifeblood of man would stagnate and curdle.
Supposedly a quote from a scholar that overheard one demigod or another. It was likely complete bullshit, but Grey liked the expression none the less. Creativity and ingenuity were Grey's bread and butter when it came to combat, and that sentiment only strengthened in his transition to a demoni-blooded freak. Without his strange brand of cunning, he would have been crushed by that mammoth Deus some time ago. He would have succumbed to a press of demoni in the Barathi catacombs to the south. He would have died several times over.
As it was, unlike the others, Greyais was covered in a small swarm of bees. Not swarmed by, but
covered. The venomous little creatures did not leave his skin, but thrashed and stung there in buzzing anger. Or rather, the
could not leave his skin. Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that the bees were impale by tiny, hardened spikes of Grey's skin, hovering just out of stinging distance of his flesh. With slight shiver, the manipulator's skin rippled and shifted. Bees torn in three pieces each fell from Grey in a grotesque shower of insect vitae.
The manipulator began to guffaw as the tiny insect parts rolled off of his spindly frame and battered cloak. That was pathetic, he thought happily. But...that
thing's "pathetic" could have poisoned him and brought him to his knees, had he not skewered the little carriers. Now, it was time to have some fun. The itching was gone, as were the jitters. For the first time in hours, Grey was feeling rather calm. Lilith's tossed carcass and Fallon's selfish mewling were distant scenes as Grey advanced on this
Morbus. He stopped when ten paces separated him from the...thing. Grey inclined his head in mock challenge, allowing his whip to fall slack.
"I don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting." Greyais wanted to say more, but the painful surge of adrenaline in his chest urged him on. Morbus dismantled the other redeemers in short order. Although fighting demoni one on one was something of a special area for Grey, he could never compare the strength of the abominations to one another. Therefore, it was hard to gauge his own chances of survival. Or how effective this would be, for that matter.
Grey's arm was crossed over his chest, chain skidding across the ground although it had been slack on the opposite side a moment earlier. A sickening pop heralded the dislocation of Greyais's arm in it's socket, but that was a small price to pay for what he'd accomplished. A wicked hiss screamed forth as the whiplike extension of liquidous arm and thrashing chain cleared the distance between Greyais and Morbus. It was a technique Greyais preferred to use on enemies deemed too dangerous to fight at close range, and this one easily counted among them. The manipulator's arm flashed forth, seeking to sunder the pale demoni in twain.
The chain was dead and loose on the floor once more as he dug his heels in. Blood roared in his ears and the manipulator almost growled in ecstasy. Morbus could clear the space between then in less time than it took to blink an eye, and kill Grey in much the same fashion. It was fucking exhilirating.
Morbus hadn't spent a single glance on this particular Redeemer during the entire escapade, deadened eyes never once settling on his marred form. Perhaps he had been having too much fun. Yet, as soon as Grey's crude, commanding voice had rang out over the array of bodies, the creature's glassy eyes honed in on him, albeit with only a mild consequence. The warrior still couldn't seem to command forth the atrocity's his full attention as it lazily dragged its decrepate body in his direction, arm scraping against the clay leaving long trails of horror, one eye still sagging from its socket, as he almost lackadaiscally approached without true intent. A small tittering sigh seeped from his mouth like a deadly gas even as Grey's arm began to writhe like a snake, apparently uninterested by the wild show. The only thing that could crack his disinterest, in fact, was the sudden snap of Greyais' arm when had whipped forward, lopping him in half with a force that left his body swaying.
His eyes widened as he watched the lower half of his body slice open as he examined himself wonderously.. Grey's weapon sludged through his body like butter, and shlops of his thick brown innards plopped to the floor with an unpleasant "shluck". He peered down at his severed half, hands moving through his own entrails as though he we just discovering what this body was truly made of, then up at Grey, a small "oh" forming on his putrid lips.
"Well... that's neat." he said softly, almost as if an after thought meant soley for himself. He blinked twice, enough time for a single shuddering breath, before vanishing again. One of his legs lay flung among the detritus that was once sloshing within his abdomen, the other leg only barely attached to his body. The thing looked like a fucking wreck, yet it didn't seem to faze it- like this carapace he reisded in meant nothing. He felt nothing. His knew no consequence. Unlike the Redeemers, Morbus had no stakes in this game.
He appeared again behind Grey- a sick repition of the way both Lilith and Manon had gone to pass- and became so intimately close to his ear that the beads of sweat rolled from Grey's tanned flesh and onto its fetid flesh. Oh, how he loved to flaunt, basking in the attention of his little charade he put on. He drank in their horror like a more sensitive soul might take in a tropical sunset. Silently. Wide-eyed. Slack-jawed. Almost reverant in a way, though there was too much joy behind his eyes, too much jubiliation and youthful enthusiasm to use such words in this place. "No, I don't believe we have been acquainted." he whispered, just before raising his only good arm left up to swing-
Shit in a basket. it's alacrity was to be admired. Grey considered himself a decent judge of speed, but this thing was just beyond his capabilities to track with eyesight alone. The only reason Grey was not writhing on the arm of Morbus like a speared trout was the fact that it was about as arrogant and self-assured as Deus; Morbus took the time to gloat. Greyais was moving before the second word left it's charnel-spewing mouth. A thunderous crack accompanied the movement as Grey tore through the open air ahead of him, whipping around to lash at Morbus in the same movement. As the manipulator retracted hi unhinged arm once more, he loosed a pained growl. The redeemer tested his left leg, although one quick look would have spoke of the futility of the gesture.
Bone jutted from several spots beneath the skin and bright red flesh oozed blackish blood, seeping through the fabric of his pants. Greyais had mangled his leg in the explosive movement. He managed to escape, but at a high cost.
Well,he figured brightly, bouncing on the ball of his remaining good leg,
At least I can do that one more time. That's something...It was all or nothing. There were two options left to Grey now: Make one more retreat when Morbus advances, desperately flailing at him again...or lash out like a wild, cornered dog, praying to whatever gods were watching that he could incapacitate it. Neither choice was particularly palatable, but...he was Greyais Be'Ureven. What the fuck did he care?
s
Another peal of shattering bone was hardly a warning, for Grey was in front of Morbus before the sound could finish washing across the area. Chain discarded and sword drawn, the manipulator brought his kilij up in a deadly arc that would tear the beast in two neat pieces from guts to head. He put every ounce of his considerable strength behind the blow, intending to beat this creature or die trying.
Morbus backed away from Grey's attack, fluidly twisting from the waist to just barely evade his mighty swing. The man's sword shredded into his already dislocated upper arm, splitting the skin like rotten fruit. His brows twisted for a second- truly confused as to how the blow had landed at all- before it sweeped into nothing less than pure exhilaration- absolute gaiety. So this was the dance the sickly monster had been waiting for.
Morbus receded from view once more, to appear behind Grey again. These motions he did over and over again were equally meant to install a sort of dread as much and to fuel his own taste for merriment. A globule of the spoiled sludge splattered on Grey's shoulder, and his long, thin tongue, thicker at the base and reminiscent of a snake's, slid out of his mouth. It was discolored, a pallid biege hue, and chunks of what appeared to be vomit coated it. Upon further inspection- as if anyone could have inspected anything- one'd find that this malodorous samp had been made of the mashed carcasses of unfortunate bees that bred from the pit of his belly. His tongue slid onto Grey's skin, licking up his own rot and smearing it up his neck before it dipped into the other's ear. It had all happened incredibly fast (the encounter less than a couple seconds) but time seemed to have slowed down. He tried again- like a broken record- to strike Grey with his talons, boorish patterns beginning to loom over the battle field. Yet, his predictability offered no refuge for the Redeemers, the malady outweighing that advantage by tons.
This was absolutely absurd. Demoni were powerful, gifted with strength, endurance, and most physical aptitudes that eclipsed that of humanity by a wide margin, but this...this was unreal. Greyais
destroyed himelf trying to rival the speed this thing was putting out, and Morbus was not only laughing as he did so, not only was he not showing
any signs of slowing, but Morbus was literally nothing but a floating torso at this point. If Grey actually gave a damn about his life at this point in his carrier, he might have been afraid. Alass, in his bravery or stupidity, the manipulator found the experience pulse-poundingly epic. The demoni blood in him was screaming to be set free, and if he slipped any further, Greyais might find himself fighting as an abomination. Without anyone he really gave a damn about nearby, there was no chance he would come back from that sort of forced transformation. Yet, there was little choice in the matter. Grey could not simply stop fighting because he was in danger of becoming that which he hunted.
It was a dilemma hunters of all sorts faced, and nobody was going to call Greyais Be'Ureven a quitter. When that gray, corpse-cold tongue slithered against his neck, Grey had to suppress a shudder of revulsion. Who does that in the middle of a battle? That was like licking the blood off of your blade, or something equally theatrical and foolhardy. Both of his legs were broken, and he was standing by virtue of preternatural strength alone. Again, he'd be damned if he was going to go down without a fight. Grey's arm shot down into the earth like a ballista bolt, acting like a pivot at the manipulator wrenched himself about at breakneck speed once more. He managed to escape the demoni's questing claws by a hairs breadth as the distance between them opened up once more. Upon retracting his now ruined arm, Greyais slumped to the floor.
"Well then..." he wheezed, taking stock of himself. Both legs were broken and bent at odd angles. His left arm was now limp and fractured in two dozen places, and on top of it all, Grey felt a splitting headache coming on. As it was, the scarred redeemer was basically forced to sit on his ass with his sword held as high as he could get it with his one remaining, functioning limb. He pointed the blade directly at Morbius, ready to launch his arm like a chained harpoon. It was a paltry defense when compared to his earlier attacks, but hey, what was a manipulator to do? A ghost of movement behind the demoni almost gave him pause, but Grey was too well trained to give away and ally's position like that.
You better pull something out of your ass right now, angry man. And where the hell is that flitty chit?
