Legion X51

The Prophecy

“This woman is going to try to make you better,” The old man had told her, indicating the painted woman, “but she says it might hurt. You need to stay still and try to keep calm... we are going to hold you down, too, so you don’t hurt yourself. Do you understand?”

Angora nodded slowly... The painted one had already healed the worst of her injuries, and now she was going to try and help her, according to the old man. But now there were questions running through Angora's mind, seemingly cleared for the first time in months. Help her do what, understand herself? Help her free her mind from whatever it was had been prompting her actions? A spear of pain shot through her forehead, prompting her to cry out in pain. She looked up at the painted one, her eyes full of panic and fear - she knew that the painted one couldn't understand her, but hopefully if she made the point frantically enough, she would understand. "It... It returns! Please, be quick, I can't keep it back forever! It tries to claw its way back into my mind, into my senses, into everything!" The entity had recovered from the heightened state of emotion - evidently it had been overwhelmed with it all, maybe inexperienced with the high-intensity action of combat: Angora had been able to quickly overpower her previous targets, and not been bogged down in trading blows... nor had she been injured in such a manner previously.

The painted woman crouched down next to her, as the green-skinned man and the warrior from before held her arms and legs tightly. Angora scrunched her eyes shut, gritting her teeth as the waves of pain began to emanate from her forehead throughout her skull... And then she felt a gentle hand on the point of the pain. It seemed to dampen the throbbing somewhat, and then... she could feel influences within her mind. She could feel the entity conflicting with her. And then an external force intervened - the painted woman, and some divine entity! The power was overwhelming, the conflict seemed fit to burst, her skull felt like it was going to fracture! Angora screamed in agony, her eyes unable to remain closed in the throes of the battle within her head. The painted woman seemed to be murmuring something under her breath, something in her own language that Angora had no idea what it was, but Angora could see the light blue aura around the woman's hand and her own eyes... Tears flowed from Angora's eyes as she tried to thrash about, tried to wrench herself free from the tightening grip of the warrior and the green-skinned companion of the healer, tried to force the healer out of her head. "Get out! Get out of my mind!" The exclamation was not directed to anyone in particular, perhaps both to the healer and the entity, but it served to release a small amount of energy that had been building up... Angora struggled wildly, despite only being able to actually move her head with any degree of freedom - her muscles tensed as much as they could, as much force as she could exert against those who held her down. The fight in her head showed no sign of slowing.

It seemed like an eternity to Angora. The tears, the screams, the agony, it was almost too much to bear. Nothing seemed to dull the pain, not even the gentle touch of the healer, not even the attempts at comfort that the green-skinned man was able to voice in Rodorian. It was nothing but mental torture, the worst she had ever experienced. And then, after what felt like an aeon, something seemed to snap. Something in Angora's mind seemed to finally give, to at last cease its resistance. The pain was blinding, but there was nothing in the back of her mind any more. The screams continued, the tears, the excruciating pain... but she was in control. She was free. She could see her world around her. She had subjugated the entity. It was hers to command, not hers to share her body with.

"S-Stop! Stop! Please, no more! Please! Please..." was all she could cry out.

The Prophecy

Just about dead on my feet here.

The Prophecy

University is a thing currently, so posting will be slower than beforehand.

The Prophecy

For future reference's sake, Iridiel was only miffed because Thaler had given Angora an extra blow, and one that could have killed her at that - on the one hand, Iridiel prefers to settle conflicts as quickly as she can, but on the other, she is also first and foremost a healer. Once somebody is down and under control, there's no point (in her mind) in inflicting additional damage, largely because as a healer, Iridiel is usually the one that ends up fixing it anyway.

She's not angry per se, she's just disappointed...

The Prophecy

Public Service Announcement: dice-rolling to decide fates can deliver unwanted and undesirable results.

Please roll responsibly.

The Prophecy

“Can you do something about... that? Your aura-thing? I think everyone would be in a better mood if you could tone that down a little.”

Angora shook her head sadly. "I... I can't control it much... it varies on my.. my e... emotion?" Angora looked at the ground as the painted woman seemingly tended to her wounds, and the green-skinned man crouched by her - probably to keep her from doing any sudden moves judging by his grip on his knife. Angora, despite her fear of these people, tried to communicate as best she could. Perhaps if she co-operated with them, they would be less likely to kill her? And besides, the old man seemed genuine enough, perhaps she could use him as a way of keeping the others from harming her... Her voice rang hollow in her throat, it having gone unused for seemingly forever. And yet, the words came - from where, she did not know, but that did not matter for now. "I-I'm sorry... It... The attack was... it wasn't necessary. Other people... like you... they make me scared... they make me fearful that they will kill me and take the sword... S-So I kill them first... It... It feels like the... the natural thing to do?" Angora looked down at the ground, now overcome with the shame of her actions. Maybe the other people weren't hostile? Maybe they didn't want the sword, maybe... maybe she'd killed them without reason? Maybe she'd killed them in cold blood? There was a word for that. A word that even Angora knew.

Murderer.

The very thought of the word was crippling. As Angora looked down at the ground, unable to face her captors from the shame of her actions against them, her face burned. Her wounds dripped fresh blood that had rushed to the surface of her skin, seemingly to the painted woman's annoyance. And the old man's voice... she heard dim voices in her head... voices she thought she recognised, speaking the same language that the old man had been speaking to his companions. She heard a man's voice and chuckle, and footsteps, but then a shout, and a scuffle... And the unmistakable sound of a knife plunging through flesh and blood. Angora's eyes opened wide as she heard the next voice. It was her own. Speaking the same tongue as the old man. Seemingly triumphant. And then, the voices faded away.

"Old man... Your language... it brings back... m-memories... dim ones... I don't know what they mean... like I remember them, but I don't..." Angora looked into his eyes. "Could you help me understand?"

The Prophecy

The pain was almost unbearable. The blood leaking from the gouges torn from her face and her ruined nose flowed freely, stifling any attempt Angora could make at responding to the curious old man, who was somehow able to... communicate with her. His words were all languages, and yet no language at the same time, but... but Angora could faintly understand him.

“We won’t kill you unless we have to. Why did you attack us?”

It was the first time since she had taken the Black Blade that it had been possible, and had she not been subjected to severe blunt force trauma, she might have been excited to finally encounter somebody who she could communicate with, perhaps explain herself, explain that she didn't know they were no threat to her, explain that she thought they were about to attack her and that she wanted to strike first so as to prevent that from happening. The opportunity was once in a lifetime, perhaps. However, as it stood, Angora wasn't in much state to respond to the old man, as much as she desperately wanted to explain herself. The pain from the painted woman's kick fogged her thoughts, as well as some strange feeling that she could not shake off, one of confusion and lethargy. Perhaps the painted woman also had an aura about her, one that clouded the thoughts of those around her, as Angora had? Not only that, but she could feel the white-skin underneath her slowly move away from her, finally releasing her iron grip on Angora's red-raw, and now blood-choked throat. Relieved at last to be able to breathe, Angora involuntarily began to cough violently, hacking up several globules of red-stained saliva and spitting them onto the ground, which was already beginning to resemble that of a slaughterhouse. However, Angora had no sooner been able to regain her ability to breathe, and she was even about to muster up a response to the old man, when the white-skin drove what felt like a spike through the side of Angora's head. The world around her swam before her eyes for a split second, Angora could hear the painted woman dimly roaring in what seemed like anger at the white-skin, before she lost all of her senses and collapsed limply back upon the ground, unconscious.

Angora came to in a fog of pain. Her eyes were unfocused, her muscles were twitchy, her breathing ragged. She tried to stand, but her muscles refused to obey her head's commands. She felt a wave of nausea overwhelm her senses, and she tried as hard as she could to fight the onrush of vomit from her distressed stomach, but it was no use: Angora coughed and retched, her pained throat protesting at the acidic liquid, but nothing was forthcoming save for a foul-tasting mouthful of bloodied vomit, which Angora spat upon the floor. Dragging herself to her knees, Angora blinked several times to try and clear her vision, and she focused on her breathing... in and out. In and out. Rinse and repeat, until you feel as if you're not going to suffocate. Angora tried to take stock of her surroundings as best she could; the painted woman from before seemed concerned at Angora's plight, whilst she could still see the old man from before. She tried to remember what he had asked her... something to do with why she attacked them?

"You... strangers... Angora... thought you... would... attack her..." was all she could manage before her muscles failed her once again, and she slumped back to the ground, unable to hold herself up. "Angora... her... my name..." She looked up at the old man, whilst... whilst the painted woman frowned and crouched beside her, murmuring something under her breath. Angora began to feel slightly better, her thoughts clearing. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you... you were friendly... Everyone before has attacked me... They wanted the sword. I was scared. I thought you would be the same."

The Prophecy

Iridiel I think has allowed us to finish the detour. Angora's now in no fit shape to fight.

Just, uh, try not to kill her, Nessa.

The Prophecy

Wham.

The painted woman had been able to close the distance between herself and Angora much quicker than Angora had counted upon, and she was defenceless against her attacks, what with the white-skin still trying to throttle Angora to death. She hadn't been able to kick out at the woman, largely because she hadn't noticed her approach thanks to the white-skin's efforts to cut off her limited air supply. Angora screamed in pain as the white-skin sank her teeth into her ear, but it was the kick that was the straw to break the camel's back. The kick impacted her on the side of the face, just above her mouth and at the side of her nose. Her world exploded into a mist of red and a fog of agonising pain. Angora felt a definite crack in the area impacted, as well as the base of her nose by the bridge - the bone splintered as though the painted woman had kicked open a door. Blood gushed from freshly-opened wounds on Angora's face and her broken nose, as well as a bloodied lip, but it was nothing compared to the pain. Angora had never felt anything like it - it was almost analogous to being stabbed; which she might as well have been, given the boots of the painted woman had some kind of metal studs in them to aid in grip. The force almost wrenched Angora's head from her spinal column - by some miracle she had escaped a fatal neck injury, but she was in no fit state to fight back anymore. Tears streamed from her reddened eyes and dripped into the open wounds on her face - the salt made the pain even worse (as if she thought such a thing was possible) and they mixed with the blood to fall upon the ground.

Before Angora could even so much as attempt to raise an arm in defence, there was another spike of pain from her chest. Evidently the painted woman was not finished, for now she was placing what must have been all of her weight onto Angora's right breast. It was bad enough that the woman had kicked her in the face, but now she was effectively stepping on her? And... Angora's face blanched with fear. She could dimly see the crossbow bolt aimed directly at her head. At this range, the painted woman wasn't going to miss. And Angora would be dead as soon as it hit her. Terrified now of her almost-certain fate, Angora's demeanour had changed completely - no longer was she the screaming embodiment of rage from before, incensed at these people crossing her path... but they were now her vanquishers. They might well be her killers. She didn't know their language, but she could barely speak herself. Somehow, she managed to stammer out "P-P-Please... n-no..." in her own tongue, in the vain hope that they would spare her life.

Inwardly, she braced for death.

The Prophecy

She was going to die. She could feel the white-skin's grip loosen slightly, but not enough to open up Angora's airway fully. She struggled to suck air into her lungs through her partially-blocked throat, her heartbeat was racing, she needed to think about what to do, she needed to survive. Having dropped her sword by now, Angora gripped the white-skin's arm around her throat as hard as she could, and then threw herself forward and pulled away as hard as she could, her nails still digging into the soft flesh underneath the white-skin's arm. It opened up a second or two of full breathing, which enabled Angora to look around briefly, only to see the warrior male from before in front of her, his sword over her and poised to strike. He had clearly shaken off the stunning effect by now, and she had a matter of seconds before he doubtless impaled her on his sword, which would be almost certain death. In another act of sheer desperation (and now increasingly panic), Angora lifted her right foot and kicked the male as hard as she could between the legs, aiming for his crotch area - Angora knew that was her only chance to stagger him - or at least reduce him as a threat to her for a while - whilst she tried to deal with the white-skin on her back. Angora's strength was yet to begin to wane from lack of oxygen, but it was still a precarious situation, one that was not helped by the approach of the painted woman and the green-skinned male...