GO TELL AUNT RHODY THAT EVERYBODY'S DEAD

[dousing]

COVERED IN BLOOD MEME So you're a bit of a mess. Or you're stumbling upon a mess. What happened? There's blood everywhere, what the hell? Is it your blood, animal blood, the blood of someone you murdered? Hell, maybe you ran out of tampons. Anyway, no matter how it got there, you're (or someone you know is) covered in blood. Can it be explained away? If not, is someone going to prison? The hospital? Going to die of blood loss? Get in trouble for playing catch with the blood bags? Man, we don't know. The point is you have a mess to clean up. Or roll around in gleefully, you nasty fucks. • Top level your character. Include any details you might think are relevant. Or don't. As always, we're not the cops. • Reply to other people's top levels! • While this meme is bound to have a lot of potentially triggering content, content warnings for anything ott or very extreme are probably a good idea! • Have fun!

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[eggclipse]

[ 0.532 seconds of self-indulgent regicide daydreaming makes a record leap to 1.5, a personal best in ignis' book and just past that threshold that he can allow himself to feel ashamed about it. just a little. perhaps a smidgen. the shame is only really, actually present because when noct has the audacity to turn that awful lopsided smile around, it does him the favour of melting a little of ignis' arctic chill.

he's always been horrendously weak to it. a major flaw that, to this date, he hasn't found a fix for.

better luck next time, scientia. ]

I'm positively sanguine about the prospect.

[ it's a little hard maintaining perfect composure here. there's a chink in the armour, a tiny little crack. his mouth does this thing where it kinda twitches upward, like he's doing his best not to even think about a smile but it's still elbowing in on the conversation anyway. ]

[noctsout]

Yeah? Should let me take the wheel more often, then. [ Not that Noct particularly wants the driver's seat (a nap, after all, is a faraway prospect if one was also expected to drive), but Ignis' buttons, the harmless ones, could be so few and far in-between that it'd be a shame to waste any opportunity to push them.

But here, also, persists the (dis)advantage of a long acquaintance, of living for and being lived for-- Noct needs little other than a gut feeling to know that forgiveness is chugging along. That, even as his skin still itches with the prickling sensation of being flayed alive by a stare alone, he's, maybe, doing something right that he needn't worry for retribution. (Er, too much retribution.) He cants his head in consideration, a quirk that belies a quick computation of ideas that has about a 50% record of being well-advised. The other 50%, well.

Yet another cursory look to the rest of their party later-- ]

You know, I bet we can make it outta here and to the river if we book it. [ Before they're seen, he means. ] Might even be able to grab your spare specs on the way too, if I warped.

[ The true purpose of the great and wondrous magic of the Lucii: fetch quests, apparently. ]

[eggclipse]

[ every turn has a 50/50 chance of ending in complete disaster when they're out and about in the great breathless wilds. the degree of said disasters is the variable point here, ranging anywhere from forgotten lunches to ruined outfits. this one seems rooted firmly in the latter half. noctis' suggestion is slowly pushing that disaster meter up from its tenuous resting point at 'manageable' to 'this might be a poor idea'.

but. ]

We could if we started off now.

[ but water. a glimmering hope of, if not cleanliness, then at least the chance to free himself from the worst of this situation. good gods, the chance to wash his face is like a dream arisen from the depths. ]

You know where I keep my spare?

[noctsout]

[ A wave of the hand, dismissive and worrying-- ] Nah, but I'll figure it out.

[ He rolls his shoulders back as his choice in weapon -- the dagger that had (sort of) started it all -- materializes in his hand, at the ready. It's like reflex now, thoughtless, to pull matter out of empty air. No different than cracking his knuckles, he thinks, so easy when it'd used to be so difficult, impossible. (Best not to think about that.)

The blade goes from one hand to the other, precariously balanced. Ready, set. ]

Hey. [ Barely a warning, barely even a note of sound. ] Race you there.

[ --And he's gone. Because even if it ends up being one-sided? He's still winning this thing. ]

[eggclipse]

Noct, wait--

[ worrying doesn't hold up to the situation as much as outright alarming does, it falls short like a deflated basketball would, too soft, too uneven to fly proper, splatting disappointingly on the court below to the tune of ignis' pulse kicking into high gear.

he starts running before he's even done fully processing what just happened, the last three seconds compressing into a dizzying blur of potentially poor ideas and noctis' smile. (minute and sharp and usually the last thing he sees before a wide-area spell goes off over all their heads.) he sprints, he books it from the field despite the awful, gut-churning and mostly silent squelch of his shirt against his skin and and the largely audible squish of his socks in his shoes.

ignis has never felt more undignified since the incident with the painting, all those years ago.





he doesn't get paid nearly enough for this job. ]

[noctsout]

[ It's too early to consider asking for a raise. Just wait until they get to the end of the story, which might go like this:

Several point-warps and a few minutes of a sprint. That's how much it takes to bring Noct from the epicenter of battle to where the Regalia sits, beautifully untouched, innocent of the chaos that his small slip of the blade had caused. Just as easy is the act of throwing himself above the door of the driver's seat, landing in-- some interesting contortions that gets him stretching for the glove compartment. There's enough rummaging around that Noct isn't quite sure where (and how) he finds Ignis' spare glasses, still safely locked away in its case, just that he does. Somehow.

Then he's upright and on his feet again, zipping off into the direction of the river, his mind going blissfully blank with the adrenaline of phasing through the very matter of air. Of the feeling of flying, high on the way that the landscape is a movie reel on fastforward as he-- ]

Whoa-- incoming!

[ Deja vu and a touchdown. At a distance that brings him into shoulder-crashing distance of Ignis, the momentum and ensuing crash of which, well.

Into the river they both go. ]