07-17-2015, 12:40 AM
Few papers had scrawled upon the floor of Christa's literal bunk-and-duffle room. Posted upon the dusted walls was but one thing and the focal point of the room.
An expansive map with more than a few markings. Upon even a glance, it could be determined that the entire Omniverse had been mapped out in extensive detail, the dividers of the verses were crimson lines, and many colored arrows were pointed at the not-so-random places of interests. Few in the dunes, which was the most unremarkable verse on the topography etched map; still there was one that pointed to their very location.
The verses that held the most interest, or were marked with the most 'red flags' were that of The Pale Moors, which was painted in shades of black had a few stickies on it. The largest and most noticeable location was marked on a definitive landmark near the corner of the verse boundary. One word in large capital letters labeled this distinguished flash of color, "The Necromancer."
The next verse was the Tangled Green, which was layered in so many leads it looked like a forest of paper stuck to that entire section of the wall. Christa's gaze did not fall on her sole objective as she entered the room, and instead, her expression lined with determination. She always felt something for the fallen.
Little of Issac's blood dripped and dribbled onto the floor. Christa had soon discovered that his blood weapon was also a helpful power. And it's limitless extent of use was worth thinking about later, because quite simply, it was a threatening skill that she could use.
The woman was frowning because his agonized exertion may keep up for hours, the blood wouldn't clot because of their drinking game earlier. Issac pressed against the wound, a clean one – no jagged tearing – which had gone straight through. Both soldiers knew this was fortunate, but such facts did nothing to take the immense pain away from the hole in his shoulder.
Never a woman to bother with pitiless questions, Christa's gaze swept over him without the interrogative words, 'Are you alright?' Why make him lie? Or why should she make him feel more than the pain already was? The concern was there in her eyes, and that would have to be enough. Such inevitable questions took away from the acknowledgement of the sensation, once the pain was fully realized, she found, it always receded. The unrivaled merely awaited the contorting expression on the veteran's face to relax.
Maybe some morphine would help? She thought as she shook out a few half-full orange bottles as she sifted through the cabinet in addition to the clear box with a large crimson cross on it and then made a swift course for the place that she had set the man down.
The muscles in his face continued to cringe with a fresh flush of pallid color, but the good news was his eyelids weren't drooping. Pros and cons, Christa figured, that his own body couldn't pass out from the pain. Her still bloodied hand slid the medicine cabinet closed again as she caught sight of her own reflection. A picture worth a thousand words.
Her iced eyes lingered on her pallid skin before moving to her battle ruffled hair and blood splattered cheeks. A despaired blink and she swiftly dug her heels into the floor. The exchange in the mirror showed Christa something she didn't want to see. She hadn't always been this way. A cold-blooded huntress, haunting the dark with fire. And get her still hot Beretta on her side spoke differently. Soon her quick pace brought her to Issac.
The warrior's eyes touched just over the lightly saturated wound. Only a small stain came from his shoulders. It was curious, he wasn't exactly bullet proof, but on the other hand, he wasn't far from it. A flickered glance from Christa as she tried to determine his vulnerabilities, she was an inherent tactician and the theorist couldn't help deciding that his arm had been taken before he had gotten his abilities. That, or there was a trick to his immortality. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, and had no desire to make her newly acquired friend an enemy. They were in this boat together, and the two were against the many who had spontaneously decided to lance the Bloodlance.
Both had their wounds, his just proved much more fatal. To the girl's credit, her still bloodied hands didn't fumble on the box for a second as she opened up and prepared the set of gauss. "I trust you've had your fair share or this." She held up the marshmallow colored cotton and offered a more than knowing smile to him. She heard him wince before she sterilized the wound. And after the inferno that pained strict through him, none of her follow-up prodding seemed to bother him as he was plucked a few times and sutured up. Her hands had worked with complete finesse around the muddled cartilage and muscle. As she finished, her eyes didn't bother to look at his face. Perhaps she couldn't bare his still-weary expression. Or perhaps she just didn't give a damn. Some time passed and she downed her reserve stores of whiskey, straight from the bottle. An eyebrow raised to him as she 'politely' passed the bottle.
Issac took a refreshingly pain-quenching sip as his eyes wandered the desolate southern room. Wooden floors, a pristine bed with a checkered comforter and sheets, and a cleaned part of the otherwise dust covered ground right below. "So how long have you been sleeping on the floor?" Issac asked. It seemed he had struck a personal nerve as she looked to the freshly fluffed pillow and realized that hotel-style way of doing things had given her away. Was she sleepless? Or perhaps..
"Oh yeah Ear-y? Well I never found a use for pillows." The woman kept her game face, finding his words to be a challenge, rather than what they really had been meant to be. Issac's fatigued eyes wandered as Christa tore off her own blood soaked shirt and revealed a couple close calls. The ribbons of blood were more like lacerations than full on deep set wounds and he had experienced. Still the woman scowled at him when he realized and quickly looked away at the sight of her bra strapped covered shoulder blade . "You'll be eyeless too if you peek."
He had been examining her wounds, but hadn't gotten a very good look before he complied with her wishes and looked away to the main attraction. The sight of the map had originally surprised the wounded man, probably because the fire-filled Christa didn't seem like much of a planner to him.
The sterile bite at her wounds caused not even a trace of convulsing pain. Her eyes were distant, and soon enough her wounds were wrapped. Christa thought of her sister, Katia, as she bent down and scoured her duffle for a shirt. Primes never had to worry about this. Christa thought as her hands fondled the bag thoroughly enough to find a shirt crumpled into a ball. As she held it up, it was quite evident that there was an obscured bloodstain located on its center. "Not mine, of course." She meant the blood, and probably the shirt too. But it would have to make due.
Christa slipped it over her head and took another swig off the bottle before braiding her hair so it stayed out of her way. The warrior almost looked like a girl if it wasn't for the beretta in her hands. And she seemed to be in a better mood because she had replaced it with a fresh clip.
"You know, for a man in your position, you might find the bed more comfortable. You know, since I don't use pillows anyway." Any protest he could have made was shot down by her glare. And there was the girl's mindful kindness again. Her eyes still skewered him as he slowly stood from the hardened chair and made his way over to the heavenly bed. He sat on it as though it were a freshly fluffed cloud. Pristine, clean, and hadn't been slept in. The girl exhaled a breath and suited up, equipping herself with knives - which he was told not to look at where she was placing them on her person - and her eyes fell on her wall. Her objective. She took another swig of whiskey as she looked prepared for either a night-raid, or as though she planned to keep guard.
From his enjoyably propped position he had a great view of the wall. And upon a closer look, he could see a little shack in the town they were in. It was hard to miss and was the same one he had strolled into. There wasn't much else in the dunes, and identifying the old woman's bead shop was a sticky note. One word written on it.
"Trap!"
"Well I'll be damned."
An expansive map with more than a few markings. Upon even a glance, it could be determined that the entire Omniverse had been mapped out in extensive detail, the dividers of the verses were crimson lines, and many colored arrows were pointed at the not-so-random places of interests. Few in the dunes, which was the most unremarkable verse on the topography etched map; still there was one that pointed to their very location.
The verses that held the most interest, or were marked with the most 'red flags' were that of The Pale Moors, which was painted in shades of black had a few stickies on it. The largest and most noticeable location was marked on a definitive landmark near the corner of the verse boundary. One word in large capital letters labeled this distinguished flash of color, "The Necromancer."
The next verse was the Tangled Green, which was layered in so many leads it looked like a forest of paper stuck to that entire section of the wall. Christa's gaze did not fall on her sole objective as she entered the room, and instead, her expression lined with determination. She always felt something for the fallen.
Little of Issac's blood dripped and dribbled onto the floor. Christa had soon discovered that his blood weapon was also a helpful power. And it's limitless extent of use was worth thinking about later, because quite simply, it was a threatening skill that she could use.
The woman was frowning because his agonized exertion may keep up for hours, the blood wouldn't clot because of their drinking game earlier. Issac pressed against the wound, a clean one – no jagged tearing – which had gone straight through. Both soldiers knew this was fortunate, but such facts did nothing to take the immense pain away from the hole in his shoulder.
Never a woman to bother with pitiless questions, Christa's gaze swept over him without the interrogative words, 'Are you alright?' Why make him lie? Or why should she make him feel more than the pain already was? The concern was there in her eyes, and that would have to be enough. Such inevitable questions took away from the acknowledgement of the sensation, once the pain was fully realized, she found, it always receded. The unrivaled merely awaited the contorting expression on the veteran's face to relax.
Maybe some morphine would help? She thought as she shook out a few half-full orange bottles as she sifted through the cabinet in addition to the clear box with a large crimson cross on it and then made a swift course for the place that she had set the man down.
The muscles in his face continued to cringe with a fresh flush of pallid color, but the good news was his eyelids weren't drooping. Pros and cons, Christa figured, that his own body couldn't pass out from the pain. Her still bloodied hand slid the medicine cabinet closed again as she caught sight of her own reflection. A picture worth a thousand words.
Her iced eyes lingered on her pallid skin before moving to her battle ruffled hair and blood splattered cheeks. A despaired blink and she swiftly dug her heels into the floor. The exchange in the mirror showed Christa something she didn't want to see. She hadn't always been this way. A cold-blooded huntress, haunting the dark with fire. And get her still hot Beretta on her side spoke differently. Soon her quick pace brought her to Issac.
The warrior's eyes touched just over the lightly saturated wound. Only a small stain came from his shoulders. It was curious, he wasn't exactly bullet proof, but on the other hand, he wasn't far from it. A flickered glance from Christa as she tried to determine his vulnerabilities, she was an inherent tactician and the theorist couldn't help deciding that his arm had been taken before he had gotten his abilities. That, or there was a trick to his immortality. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, and had no desire to make her newly acquired friend an enemy. They were in this boat together, and the two were against the many who had spontaneously decided to lance the Bloodlance.
Both had their wounds, his just proved much more fatal. To the girl's credit, her still bloodied hands didn't fumble on the box for a second as she opened up and prepared the set of gauss. "I trust you've had your fair share or this." She held up the marshmallow colored cotton and offered a more than knowing smile to him. She heard him wince before she sterilized the wound. And after the inferno that pained strict through him, none of her follow-up prodding seemed to bother him as he was plucked a few times and sutured up. Her hands had worked with complete finesse around the muddled cartilage and muscle. As she finished, her eyes didn't bother to look at his face. Perhaps she couldn't bare his still-weary expression. Or perhaps she just didn't give a damn. Some time passed and she downed her reserve stores of whiskey, straight from the bottle. An eyebrow raised to him as she 'politely' passed the bottle.
Issac took a refreshingly pain-quenching sip as his eyes wandered the desolate southern room. Wooden floors, a pristine bed with a checkered comforter and sheets, and a cleaned part of the otherwise dust covered ground right below. "So how long have you been sleeping on the floor?" Issac asked. It seemed he had struck a personal nerve as she looked to the freshly fluffed pillow and realized that hotel-style way of doing things had given her away. Was she sleepless? Or perhaps..
"Oh yeah Ear-y? Well I never found a use for pillows." The woman kept her game face, finding his words to be a challenge, rather than what they really had been meant to be. Issac's fatigued eyes wandered as Christa tore off her own blood soaked shirt and revealed a couple close calls. The ribbons of blood were more like lacerations than full on deep set wounds and he had experienced. Still the woman scowled at him when he realized and quickly looked away at the sight of her bra strapped covered shoulder blade . "You'll be eyeless too if you peek."
He had been examining her wounds, but hadn't gotten a very good look before he complied with her wishes and looked away to the main attraction. The sight of the map had originally surprised the wounded man, probably because the fire-filled Christa didn't seem like much of a planner to him.
The sterile bite at her wounds caused not even a trace of convulsing pain. Her eyes were distant, and soon enough her wounds were wrapped. Christa thought of her sister, Katia, as she bent down and scoured her duffle for a shirt. Primes never had to worry about this. Christa thought as her hands fondled the bag thoroughly enough to find a shirt crumpled into a ball. As she held it up, it was quite evident that there was an obscured bloodstain located on its center. "Not mine, of course." She meant the blood, and probably the shirt too. But it would have to make due.
Christa slipped it over her head and took another swig off the bottle before braiding her hair so it stayed out of her way. The warrior almost looked like a girl if it wasn't for the beretta in her hands. And she seemed to be in a better mood because she had replaced it with a fresh clip.
"You know, for a man in your position, you might find the bed more comfortable. You know, since I don't use pillows anyway." Any protest he could have made was shot down by her glare. And there was the girl's mindful kindness again. Her eyes still skewered him as he slowly stood from the hardened chair and made his way over to the heavenly bed. He sat on it as though it were a freshly fluffed cloud. Pristine, clean, and hadn't been slept in. The girl exhaled a breath and suited up, equipping herself with knives - which he was told not to look at where she was placing them on her person - and her eyes fell on her wall. Her objective. She took another swig of whiskey as she looked prepared for either a night-raid, or as though she planned to keep guard.
From his enjoyably propped position he had a great view of the wall. And upon a closer look, he could see a little shack in the town they were in. It was hard to miss and was the same one he had strolled into. There wasn't much else in the dunes, and identifying the old woman's bead shop was a sticky note. One word written on it.
"Trap!"
"Well I'll be damned."
![[Image: -Gildarts-fairy-tail-35651033-300-180.gif]](http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/35600000/-Gildarts-fairy-tail-35651033-300-180.gif)
"I have never met a strong person with an easy past." -Atticus