westwhere | sa-hareth | arrival (mingle log)

"...success for the moment, then--"

Arche's lips purse to see the state of the other young man, but at least Eleven isn't badly bleeding or anything like that, and these were never exactly going to be ideal conditions to set off a fire. What he wouldn't give for a least a med droid to consult right now, though. The bulk of his own experience treating burns has been with the help of the Force, and the majority of those were well-cauterized lightsaber wounds.

Still, this will make continuing on forward all the more difficult, and that will be only compounded if they don't try anything at all. He frowns at those holes in Eleven's shirt for a moment before pointing sharply at the ground, rummaging through the tattered mess of a sling bag he's carrying, already reaching for the other's clothing.

"Sit," he says sharply.

It fully looks like if Eleven doesn't stop him he intends to strip the man's shirt straight over his head right here.

In other circumstances, Eleven would have complied without thought, but now, dogged by threat, he wavers.

"I don't think we have the-" He blinks, not quite expecting the swift loss of his shirt, threadbare though it might be. He flushes, a self-conscious hand moving to cover the ugly starburst in the center of his chest.

"I'm- I'll be okay," he says lamely, but sits, recognizing it's already a bit late to win this debate. "It was my fault, anyway.."

"Don't be ridiculous," Arche mutters back, scowling as he leans right in to examine the injuries. Dim light, dirty burns, nearly nothing in the way of supplies -- the fact that Eleven's clothing didn't decide to stick to the little wounds is about the only blessing in this situation.

"If not now, then when? You need to catch your breath, this needs looked at, and we need to be able to keep moving after this. --You, don't even start, I'll go as fast as I damned well can," he scowls back over his shoulder, with a forbidding glare for one of the other refugees who clearly also has some reservations about this detour. His attention moves back to his task in short order as he pulls out a bit of tattered rag.

"Don't bite your tongue--"

Hurriedly deploying Sith necromancy in the middle of a battlefield doesn't exactly lend one much in the way of bedside manner; that's all the warning Eleven gets before Arche starts poking at those burns, doing his best to clean them. it's exceedingly lucky that they're relatively small, if certainly more numerous than ideal. Though he's hardly working with sanitary equipment here, he at least manages to dab some debris out of the little wounds, briskly working along before at last wadding up the now-completely ruined bit of cloth in his hand to stuff back into the makeshift bag. Can't leave any enticing scents here for the dead to follow.

Eleven's singed shirt is tossed back into his lap in fairly short order as Arche dusts off slightly salt-crusted, slightly blood-smeared hands.

Eleven hisses through his teeth as the cloth chafes over salted burns and tiny splinters. His skin feels more raw by the time Archeval is finished and he's only grudgingly grateful for his effort.

He pulls his shirt back over his head, though gingerly.

"..Thanks," he sighs, "I'm sorry for the trouble."

Eleven doesn't get any 'you're welcome' or 'I'm sorry' in return, but Arche does frown over at the other's chest for a moment longer after the shirt is back on, finally letting out a vaguely disgruntled sort of sigh.

"Normally I would make less of an utter botch of this. If we live through the other end, perhaps," he murmurs, re-tying up the bag and brushing stray salt from his knees as he pushes up from where he's sitting.

"Though either way you've likely just earned a few decorations to go with your first one. Are you able to keep going?"

Apparently the stranger finds Eleven's startlingly conspicuous scar no more worthy of comment than that -- or perhaps he's simply tipped straight over into survival mode. Once he's gained his feet, he expressionlessly extends a hand to help the other man up.

Eleven takes his hand and levers himself to his feet, then glances off with a nod- ostensibly to find and re-arm himself. He won't mind overly much if these burns scar; while they stand as proof of a lack of care of sorts, at least he'd accomplished something for them.

"I'll be okay," he repeats, turning back only briefly to ensure they still aren't being followed. "..Have we got a heading?"

"Seems like it's one-way for a bit until we're further down this passage," Archeval murmurs back, reflexively glancing around the salt pile along with Eleven to have a look behind, still abuzz with adrenaline. If nothing else the latest bit of excitement has ensured he feels less miserably cold.

"Let us hope we can at least manage to get out under the sky within the next day..."

He falls quiet after that as the group sets out again, once more without a light source to fall back on, everyone shuffling along in a nervous silence in the dark. Archeval stays at the front and holds onto the little bag of supplies carefully, knowing that they aren't likely to just stumble across that kind of windfall down here again. While he glances over toward Eleven here and there just to keep an eye on him, Arche makes no comment regardless of what pace the other keeps; there's no doubt that his new acquaintance must certainly be in a good amount of pain.

Not that he's so concerned with some random stranger or anything, naturally. But it would be a shame to lose such a valuable resource right now.

Eleven's performance during their narrow escape definitely seems to have bought them some time, as no pursuit sneaks up behind them while they continue down the crumbling tunnel; eventually, however, they come to a fork in the path. A few stray primitive tools lying around, half eaten with rust, suggest that one or both of these must be the opening of a vein and possibly a dead end. As the group stands there uneasily glancing around, though...

Arche frowns in half-disbelief for just a moment. Raises his head, sniffs the air. Lifts a hand up to try to feel the currents moving.

"Is that... a fresh breeze...?"

Edited 2021-04-02 23:48 (UTC)

He's almost relieved to stop, though it's swiftly overridden by frustration once the reason becomes clear. But he perks up along with the rest of them in the wake of their de-facto leader's observation.

"If you think it might be, then it's worth following," he said, sharing the group's general sentiment.

If this was a mine, then it stood to reason there would be a town somewhere nearby for the workers- or former workers, given its deteriorated state. But even an abandoned town would shelter them nicely.

"I suppose it's the only thing we've got to go on right now anyway," Archeval muses with pursed lips, still trying to feel for the air in the dark without tripping on anything, a couple of the other refugees joining in. It takes several long, tense minutes, but eventually one of them gives a sudden exclamation-- "It's this way, this way!!" -- and the group is off down one of the paths.

No one has stopped looking over their shoulder for pursuit, Arche least of all, but the thought that there might genuinely be an end in sight to wandering through these dark passages lends renewed energy to the refugees' steps. There's crumbling salt underfoot and it's still easy to stumble, but as time passes, several of those here seem to have grown more alert and less groggy as well. It's a hopeful development -- one Arche doesn't fully trust given that he still has no access to his powers, but still, he'd rather help herd alert cats than half-asleep ones.

After a little while, when no more pursuit seems immediately forthcoming, he even dares to glance over toward the silhouette of Eleven in the dark and make conversation again.

"Holding up there?... You've the stamina of a soldier, it seems."

Edited 2021-04-03 03:02 (UTC)

Worry tugs at his heart for the group that runs ahead. If they run into something, he might not make it in time. But it's comforting at least that he isn't alone. The air ahead does seem to be growing lighter as they walk- cleaner.

"I just don't want to be a burden to anyone," he admits, smiling tiredly. "Especially when people are relying on me. You shouldn't have to worry."

"Who said anything about worrying?" Arche scowls immediately. In a not at all blatantly transparent way or anything, of course.

"It benefits everyone here for our fighting talent to be at their best, plain and simple. Anyhow--" He moves right along before he can be further accused of anything else itchy. More importantly, something about those words rubs him the wrong way--

"If that means you've just been keeping your mouth shut for everyone else's benefit, be sure to say something if you need a break. You won't be helping anyone by keeling over--..."

There's a small clatter in the dark and he goes abruptly silent at the tail end of his little lecture, gaze darting around even if it won't do him much good right now -- but it doesn't repeat itself. Hopefully it was just someone ahead kicking a rock.

The words sound like everything he imagined Hendrik had been thinking as they set off to Heliodor castle, but his own thoughts on the matter fall short as he stills to listen to their surroundings. The echo of the disturbance rattles straight through his ribcage. When it fails to come again, he slowly starts forward again, though his nerves are still on edge. Goddess, he can't wait to be above ground in a more natural darkness- or what he hopes is an ordinary darkness.

"I promise I'm okay," he insists, voice lower as his ears strain in the dark, "At least as much as any of us can be." The burns sting and aggravate him, but the pain isn't enough to sap him of his strength yet.

"I just want to get above ground."

"Can't fault you there," Archeval sighs back, and then there's no more talking for a while. Gradually the adrenaline fades a little more as they go on; his steps get heavier again; and -- no, really, he knows exactly how Eleven feels. No matter how much his feet or body ache, the thought of stopping now when outside might be just around the corner is abhorrent. He forces another step further, another step further still. Gods above, how did he do this when he was a kid? He's been living the Sith Lord high life for just long enough now that those memories are starting to blur around the edges.

Well, he'll just have to do it the Sith way instead. It's an effective enough distraction to start assembling a list of every person he's going to murder for their part in this awful indignity: The ringleader who decided to get rid of him, of course... The people who grabbed him off Yavin 4... Anyone who's laid a single hand on his ship or its crew in his absence... Whoever came up with this deeply inconvenient cocktail of drugs...

He might not have the Force at his command right at the moment, but sheer spite is still a powerful motivator in and of itself.

At some point he looks up from his ruminations to find that he can actually properly see his hands in front of his face again, and -- his eyes widen a little as his steps instinctively quicken once more, seeking the light.

Eleven's breath catches, the shot of hope through his chest lending him strength as the caverns gradually give way to a sky layered by perfectly natural clouds. After hours spent underground, even that sight seems beautiful. The air is clear and it feels like he can breathe properly again.

"Thank the Goddess," he says, eyes tracking the sloping path upward they would need to take. "We're nearly out."

He throws his companion a smile full of relief, then hefts the shaft of the shovel onto his shoulder and moves forward with renewed determination.

Is it a little on the nose for them to walk out into the last minutes of dawn? Perhaps, but all the same there are the fluffy clouds ringing the sky with the faintest tinge of pink against their whites, fading into a blue expanse that's still slightly darker directly overhead; and if Arche strains a bit he can make out the last hints of stars and the planet's moon just now disappearing into the light. The view reminds him of the rare sunrises on the Imperial capital world of Dromund Kaas when rain isn't falling, and...what a strange thing to feel homesick for, but there it is.

One hurdle down -- he stops to examine that path Eleven has already started toward -- probably quite a few to go. But as always, he'll survive. Far more terrifying foes than this have not stopped him yet.

It's a struggle to take the upward slope, despite their collective eagerness and actually having light to see by; Archeval helps haul up one of their wounded members here and there with a gruff admonishment to stay away from the path edge, though he's absolutely flagging himself. The way is slick, probably pounded down by countless feet and wheels and heavy loads over the years, and if any undead catch their scent while traversing this area things are certain to go south quickly. But slow and steady, they make their way up. The air out here is still cold, but as the sun climbs higher those weak and watery days soak in nevertheless, and it's at least a little better than before.

Who knows what they'll find at the top, but so far, so good.

It's a climb that would have winded him on a normal day, but weakened and pained, Eleven's breaths start to come hard halfway up. When his vision begins to spot, he reluctantly calls for a break to rest.

At least he isn't the only one that all but collapses where they stand.

Eleven closes his eyes and breathes, then slides back against the wall of the mine and works to regain a semblance of steadiness. The cold doesn't bother him as much now, warmed by their hike even if the bitter air feels sharp with every inhale. His stomach chooses then to growl its displeasure and Eleven grits his teeth.

His eyes seek out Archeval to turn his mind away from it. "How- how are you.. holding up?"

Edited 2021-04-03 17:32 (UTC)

Arche glances over with a confused wrinkle of his nose for a second, then just gives a little shrug. He's curled up himself just nearby with his head leaned back against the stone behind them, staring vaguely toward the brightening sky.

"I've had worse," he says shortly. "Not bleeding and the drugs are fading a bit. I shouldn't be a hindrance."

Though his head feels clearer even through the fatigue, however, when he reaches out his senses in search of the Force he still gets only a vague sense of vertigo in return. If he weren't so tired this definitely would have progressed from 'unsettling' to 'alarming' by now.

One of the other refugees, carrying the second little bag Arche managed to slap together, has pushed themselves back up on fatigued limbs to shakily make the rounds of the group. When it comes to his turn, Archeval accepts another broken-off piece of biscuit with a grateful nod, and takes a careful little sip from the singular small container they found that could carry water. They're definitely lucky even to have this much.

"If you need it, come lean on me," he tells Eleven quietly, with pursed lips, glancing the other man up and down before starting to gnaw on the rock-hard food a little bit.

"Won't have you falling at the eleventh hour after we've gone to all this trouble. Wasteful."

The rationed portion feels like it only serves to incense his hunger than whet it, but he hopes his body can draw strength enough from it until they can secure something more.

In the light, he's able to see his companion more clearly, take in self-same weariness and the evaluating look he's given to add weight behind the words. But even with that, he's still not sure how to take it- or perhaps he's simply too weary to take offense.

"Thanks," he sighs, deciding to interpret the offer as well-meaning in spite of its delivery. While he hopes he won't need to accept, he's just as worried he may have to. "...For your help in all this, too."

There's a one-armed shrug from the other man in response.

"You've done the same for me." Archeval's eyes turn away from Eleven toward the sky overhead after a moment, lips thinning into a hard line as forbidding look crosses his face.

"And either way... Someone has just made themselves my enemy by all this. I am very much not inclined to give my enemy a single moment of satisfaction. Not in dying down here in this pit, and certainly not in leaving anyone else to their tender mercies." His lip curls in a dark sneer for just a moment before he stops himself, taking a deep calming breath which he lets out in a long sigh.

"...But time enough later to think about revenge. And to see you back to this mission of yours."

Eleven's faint smile falls in the wake of thoughts of vengeance and his own mission. He hopes he isn't failing his grandfather- or Erdrea itself- by falling wherever it is he's come to. But it's all he can do now to survive and stay alive so that he might find a way to return.

He rests quietly for precious minutes more until the cold begins to creep in again, then finally pushes himself to stand.

"We can make it."

As they climb higher and reach the top of the mine, the view reveals a town past a stretch of tundra. It's slow-going against chill winds, ice, and fallen snow, but the promise of a haven keeps them all driven to move forward. They're lucky, in that only a single undead finds them out in the open. Lacking the strength, energy, or concentration for a prolonged, evasive fight, Eleven surprises it by rushing in to tackle it down into the snow, then shatters the blade of the shovel into its neck.

He averts his eyes from the severed corpse and wavers as he stands, breathing rapid puffs of ice crystals. His limbs quake with a mix of adrenaline and fatigue, but they're too close to stop now- can't afford to, now that they're practically defenseless.

"Almost- almost there."

"Not like that you're not, just look at you-- Come here already."

A figure trudges up behind him, gives the undead a none-too-kind kick with the side of his foot -- watches its fingers flex, purses his lips -- and then Archeval is grabbing Eleven's arm despite any and all weary protests, slinging it around his own shoulder to half-drag the other man away from the threat as quick as they both can manage.

"Try not to go face-first into the snow, you're heavier than me," Arche grits out, plenty exhausted enough already himself, but apparently determined through sheer stubbornness not to let Eleven fall behind. He tries not to touch skin-to-skin as they stumble along, but with their ragged dress and fatigue and sheer proximity, there's really not much to be done for it. Snow and frozen grass crunch under their feet as they just keep trying to put one foot in front of the other out here in the cold, Arche occasionally stopping to shake Eleven awake, eyes on those still-fresh burns.

This close, Eleven might make out the impression of something on the other man's skin -- a mark on the back of his neck, or elsewhere -- but through the biting cold and fatigue and pain, it's hard to keep track of such inconsequential details. Archeval just keeps trudging along with the rest of the group, struggling with his companion's weight at times, but determined to bear this load as long as he can.

He'll be damned if someone who's done him this many good turns gets left behind. Not with civilization right there in sight.

Arche knows no one here, doesn't understand the language, certainly doesn't trust any of these people, but -- still it's a comfort of sorts as the buildings grow closer, as he begins to hear the familiar bustle of a city at work and sentients calling out to one another. Small mercy that, as their ragged little group comes upon their first street and finds some buildings to slip between, there don't seem to be regulated checkpoints coming into this side of town. His blood runs cold as they briefly pass another group of the walking corpses, but -- these, bizarrely, seem to be going somewhere with purpose; the group hides in the shadow of an overhang and the creatures pass them by, all unnoticed. Just what are the things exactly? They surely can't be some kind of local species...?

One of the other refugees feels like they blend in enough to ask some directions of the locals, and after a couple more grueling hours of trying to cross the foreign streets, they all find themselves standing at the side entrance of a large building decorated in slightly worn-down finery. Archeval, giving a glance to his flagging companion, spares no time dragging Eleven right inside.

Eleven's too unsteady to protest, leaning on Archeval and doing his best to carry as much of his own weight as possible. But his body is overtaxed and running on too little, disinclined to let him push it further than he already has and works to try and slip into unconsciousness in blinks.

He's lost track of where they are or where they're headed, trusting the rest of the group to get them somewhere safe. He's grateful for the warmth of the indoors when it blesses them, sloughing off the cold in shivers. Voices wash over him, led further in, and then finally, he's lowered down to sit.

Eleven blinks tiredly.

"Thank you," he says, voice heavy with gratitude. "I wouldn't've made it..."

"And nor would we. Seems you played the hero in the end after all," comes a familiar voice from overhead again. There's a nudge to Eleven's shoulder, someone pushing him down against blankets, thin but soft.

"This is probably going to hurt, but sleep if you can," comes Archeval's murmured voice one more time.

Some of the workers have brought medical supplies, sparse but certainly better than the nothing they were working with before; disinfectant, clean bandages, blessedly warm water -- automatically, Arche is already rifling through it all with shaking hands when one of the other strangers here leans down into his face with a soft smile.

"You seem ready to collapse yourself. Please, rest, get some water. We can look after him for now."

Clean, female, nicely dressed, speaking something that he can only understand through the translator. A local then, perhaps. Arche's mind tiredly registers all this and he purses his lips as he sits back a little, pushing away from the case of supplies. His head swims slightly the with the motion. Ah -- that will be his body's last gasps of adrenaline wearing off.

"...burns. On his chest. Be careful with those," he gets out after a moment, rubbing a hand across his face, and stumbles back swayingly to his feet to find that water. It's always nervewracking sleeping among strangers; hopefully these don't decide to dispose of the foreign nuisances in their sleep, because he knows very shortly he's not going to have a choice.

Once he's carefully drunk his fill, he crawls into a corner to be quite dead to the world for a while, sitting back up into a woozy wakefulness many hours later only when the clamor of activity around him in this large backroom becomes too insistent to ignore. New business of some sort? Another wave of refugees? He can't find it in himself to care right now; instead his eyes automatically seek out the people he stumbled into that door with.

Eleven goes easily, eyes closing and awareness fading with the soft promise of linens. He's brought back to by the sting of liquid until finally, he drifts into unconsciousness. He sleeps for some time until discomfort reigns through his slumber and pulls him awake.

"Hendrik..?" he tries blearily, levering himself up with a frown, searching for his protector. He finds a less familiar face, but one he still recognizes. The new reality reasserts itself with crushing clarity.

"..Too much that it wasn't real," he hazards on a breath, moving to sit up properly. He could do with more rest, but he's in less pain for sleeping and his visual search for water is more pressing than even the flurry of activity going on. "Where are we?"

By the time Eleven fights back to consciousness, it looks as though Archeval has already been up for a little while; he's curled on a different pallet of blankets a few feet away, looking cleaner than when Eleven saw him last, in tidier clothes and midway through a small bowl of what looks like some kind of porridge. He gives a bit of a start at the sudden familiar voice, glancing over with some amount of surprise on his face to see Eleven awake.

"I seem to remember it was called the House of Dew?..." he answers as he carefully pushes up, crossing over closer to the other man's place with bowl in hand. After enjoying their brief reprieve his feet are now protesting mightily whenever he goes anywhere, but he does his best to keep the grimace off his face.

"The same place those... people named, when they were first releasing us. I haven't had the chance to ask around much yet, but from what I can tell this is some sort of-- Entertainment establishment--" He pronounces the words dryly. "Which has taken in a number of people like ourselves, providing shelter and supplies. And yes..." A deeply dry note enters his voice once again as he glances Eleven up and down, setting his bowl to one side to lean over closer.

"The galaxy is not such a kind place as for any of us to wake up and find our troubles just an unpleasant dream, I'm afraid. Hold still a moment."

Eleven gets no more warning than that before Arche thrusts his hands right into the other's personal space, splayed directly over his chest, not quite touching. Archeval takes a deep breath as he lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, seeking, hoping.

...and a moment later he's pulling back with an irritated sigh, having nothing but a headache to show for his troubles once again. He reaches up to rub at his temples with an irritable grimace.

"Typical. All right, never mind." It seems whatever power Arche keeps trying to access is still just as lost to him as Eleven's own healing. "But you still shouldn't get up yet--"

He raises his voice to deliver that admonishment as he turns away, crossing through some of the hustle and bustle to where there's apparently several carafes of water on a table in the corner.

"Medic's orders. I can say that now that we're someplace reasonably secure. How is the chest? Fatigue? Hungry yet?" Moment's later there's a plain wooden cup of water being thrust into Eleven's hand, and his surly companion has settled back down to poke at his bowl of food some more. Despite his terrible bedside manner, he seems to be keeping a keen eye on how Eleven is doing.

"...ah, yes, and. Most of the rest of them are across the room from us. Everyone made it here," he adds, a little more quietly.

Edited 2021-04-05 03:18 (UTC)

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maybe we should time jump a little? i know you've got another post up and stuff

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