westwhere | sa-hareth | arrival (mingle log)

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)

The sudden move for his chest kicks Eleven into higher alertness, but as tense moments pass and the hand falls away, he settles again. There's nothing left there to steal, anyway. Perhaps Archeval had sensed that.

His eyes find a matching set of clean clothing laid out beside him as his companion moves about, but knows he'll need a wash before he can even think about changing.

Eleven fumbles the cup thrust into his hands, then spares only enough time to be sure it's something drinkable before taking a long draught from it.

"I'm a little better," he assesses, then swiftly finishes off his water. "Still a bit tired, but if food and baths are available.."

Whatever it is that Archeval has doesn't look wildly appetizing, but it's more than they'd had before. He can't help but smile to think they all made it, however. So much had been set against them: the cold, lack of supplies, and the long trek with undead haunting their steps. But even with all that, he hadn't failed anyone. It's something to take comfort in.

Edited 2021-04-05 04:17 (UTC)

"It's not much of a proper bath, but they have some facilities set up for those coming in," says Arche with a gesture toward another corner of the room: separated from them by milling employees and refugees and quite a few piled-up storage boxes, over yonder there looks to be a cloth partition where, presumably, people are disrobing to get clean.

"But truly. Sit. I know your type. Once you get up again you're going to go straight back to pushing yourself, now aren't you?" he sniffs. "I am not put out to fetch a few more baubles on your behalf." In fact, he's already extending a hand as though to offer to take Eleven's water glass again.

"Tell me... how much do you remember of the trip into town?"

Eleven obediently stays seated and hands his glass back to Archeval. He truly doesn't mean to do more than seek out food and bathe then hope he's able to sleep off the rest of his aches and fatigue, but he appreciates his concern, such as it is. Medic's orders.

"Ah," he says uncertainly, smile turning sheepish. "It was cold, I was tired, and we spent awhile walking."

"Well, you're not wrong," Archeval observes with another dry glance.

"...Those creatures are here inside the city limits, as well. I'm not certain if they are sapient as such, but it seems some of them are commanded by the powers that be around here. That conqueror we were told about, I suppose," he says with a shrug and a slightly rude snort.

In short order, however, Eleven's self-appointed fussy nursemaid is rising to leave him to himself for a while, returning after a couple of minutes with more water, a bowl of the same dubious porridge, and a couple small towels slung over one arm. He sets it all down carefully before tucking the last items into Eleven's hands; one towel is dry, the other has been dunked into pleasantly warm water.

"To tide you over."

It's at least enough for Eleven to wash his face a bit, if not much else. Arche sits back after that to finish his food and apparently watch the progress of the rest of the group they came in with as well, leaving Eleven to his own devices for a while.

Eleven gives him a grateful smile, warmed from chilling thoughts by the unexpected gesture, then sets swiftly to cleansing his face, neck, and hands of grime and filth. He spends a moment staring at the sigil on the back of his hand, now clearly visible against reddened skin from beneath a layer of dirt and dried oil, then comes back to himself with a blink and shifts to dry off. He feels markedly better for the brief wash as his skin tingles from it- a little more awake, and slightly less like something unsavory that had wandered in.

As expected, the food isn't anything wonderful, but it's warm and eases off the worst of his hunger. By the time he's finished, he feels steadier and relatively certain he'll be able to keep his legs if he tries to stand. Still, he'll give himself a few more minutes to be sure because if he falls, he expects the subsequent lecture will be swift and sharp.

In the meantime, he turns his attention back to Archeval. The man looks markedly better, if still a bit worn, but he imagines most of them will yet need some time to fully recover from their trek.

"Thank you again, for everything." For looking after him, even when he's clearly no longer in immediate danger. "I won't forget it."

Swift and sharp indeed -- Eleven has most certainly already got Archeval's number as the other man surreptitiously glances back to watch his progress here and there even now. At those words of gratitude, though, he just gives an awkward grimace and a little one-armed shrug. In better light and better circumstances at last, Eleven can finally see what he's looking at a little better -- a human like any he might find back home, dark hair, green eyes, a single little braid bumping against the side of one cheek. For all his talk of stars and planets, he looks remarkably ordinary.

"I believe I said before, I would hardly give our foe the satisfaction of letting anyone die out in that pit," he sniffs, affecting some kind of indignance as he scrapes at the last dregs of the meal in his bowl.

"And you more than did your part in turn. I suppose now the next order of business after some more rest is starting to figure out the whys and wherefores of this damnable place--..."

His eye seems caught by something as he speaks, though, and after a second he's peering straight over at that mark on the back of Eleven's hand.

"...Oh. Interesting. Was that there before you got here?"

He hadn't personally noticed any new and unwelcome marks on himself while he'd been bathing, but then it hadn't exactly occurred to him to look.

Veronica, Eleven decides. Archeval's mannerisms remind him of her the most. It's a funny thought.

But he blinks back to attention when the man shifts his own, eyes on the back of his hand.

"Ah, yes," he says, resisting the urge to fidget. "It isn't new."

The thing of it is, he's not sure it means anything anymore. But for all his ignorance of Yggdrasil, his companion doesn't look terribly foreign. Perhaps he'd simply grown up somewhere remote, where She wasn't visible.

"Erdwin's Lantern," he tries, seeking Archeval's reaction. "The red star where the spirit of the Luminary of Legend has kept watch over Erdrea since the Age of Heroes."

Blink. Eleven just gets a thoughtfully non-comprehending frown in return, though Arche seems at least receptive.

"So that is a... tattoo? Implant? Ritual marking of some sort?" He takes a couple wild guesses, stroking his chin for a moment with a raised brow and a certain scholarly interest to his expression. "Inspired by... local legends, I take it...? Or perhaps something a bit less legendary and more practical." Of anybody else in this room, he might be the most well aware that 'ancient legend' and 'practical reality' aren't always mutually exclusive.

Edited 2021-04-05 19:03 (UTC)

Eleven deflates a bit, having failed to successfully distract the man. No apparent recognition of any of those phrases means he might have to truly consider the alternative.

"Birthmark," he supplies with a faint smile, then hesitates as he searches for a base explanation for someone that wouldn't know what his title means. That in itself is something of a relief, if he's honest. "It- it represents a power I was born with. But ah, that doesn't mean anything now."

"A power?... I see. It might still again before long," Arche shrugs, and then gives a disgruntled grimace. "Hopefully, at any rate. Whatever we've been dosed with must wear off eventually--..."

The alternative doesn't bear thinking about right now, so he moves right along from that. It's an interesting idea, at any rate -- he's never heard tell of something like the Force manifesting so strongly in a person that they bore a physical mark from it, but there are many planets and many strange phenomena in the galaxy...

"So. You are marked with the symbol of... what sounds like your home culture's deity? Why do I have a feeling that this has something to do with the mission that ended in you captured in hostile territory surrounded by slavering monsters? That does always seem to be how these things go," he reflects in a bone-dry drawl.

It's a shockingly accurate guess and Eleven blinks some surprise. But the idea that their powers may return lends him some hope, even if he's sure this particular part won't. Moreover, if that is the chilling reason why he's here...

Eleven picks at one of the blackened holes in his clothing. "If that's true, then you must also have a light to be extinguished."

There's a pause, a vaguely surprised blink, and -- briefly Archeval laughs. Brow furrowed, low and a little ironic.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. But I can think of many who would disagree with you."

There's almost no chance that Eleven has heard of the Force or the Sith, he imagines, and certainly the man can't know about the Dark Side or the Light Side or his new acquaintance's opinions on any of those subjects, but-- his heart gives a little bit of a flip anyway. In his position, those aren't words that a person ever wants to be accused of.

Eleven glances up and gives Archeval a considering tilt of his head. With his own power locked away, his sense of Light and Dark are muted- possibly gone. But he's sure that a spark of light is someone that gives people hope.

"I guess we can't know for sure." But it feels right; he's almost certain of it. In the wake of that certainty comes the dreaded feeling of being hunted once more. "We just have to survive this so we can return."

"Surviving is certainly the plan," Arche agrees, dusting his hands a bit as he rises to start tidying the space around them, gathering used bowls and cups and towels.

"I should leave you to recuperate, though. I've no idea what the rest of this lot plan to do next or anything of the sort, so I suppose I may venture out and hear what I can hear. I will find you if there is some sort of news."

Eleven nods. No matter why they're there, it's clear they should all work together.

He gathers up his set of clothes and slowly pushes himself to stand. It feels like victory when he doesn't immediately feel dizzy. Once he's bathed and slept off the remains of his exhaustion, he plans to make an effort to come to know the others.

"Don't push yourself too much," he can't help parroting with a thread of humor. "Or I'll have to look after you instead."

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darkeststars - 2021-04-05 22:22 (UTC) - Expand

sa-hareth | arrival (mingle log)

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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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