An Idiot Explodes

[Mads]

718 Zi’da and 40...

Babysitting, again.

This was fucking Etzos part two. This time, instead of the too-tight black leather uniforms of the guard, Robin was dressed in his own: brown leathers, with ashy patches, fitted on a loose cotton long-sleeve and black pants. If he didn’t look the part of stick-up-his-ass cop, it’s because he wasn’t. He didn’t want to be here, but that was obvious; his face wore a scowl better than he wore his armor and his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

“Oh, but Robin, what if they come after us next?” He strangled his voice into something resembling, he thought, his mentor. Anyone else would think he’d been smoking since birth. “We’re foreign, too. The organization is, its people, you,” he rolled his eyes then, and he did it again now. Let the mortal masses try it. Give him an excuse to set fire to their temples and homes, leaving them running towards the hills.

He could be a better monster than any overgrown bush.

But instead he was playing second-bit spy. Robin was to watch the mob and to report back. He was told to not interact. Not if they started ripping foreigners apart. Not if they slashed themselves to death in lip-service to some made up god. Not even if the creep finally did something interesting or if it launched an all out front of guerilla warfare.

His job was to stay unnoticed and listen and watch; none his strengths.

“Then, perhaps,” A quiet, curious voice sounded from above him, calm and soft - just shy of feminine. “You should do a better job of hiding, if you are, indeed, afraid of being ‘next’?”

The earth below tensed, same as Robin; he hadn’t been scared in a long while, but it took a special kind of bravery to sneak up on a defiar. “Tell that to the idiots who sent me here,” he said, surprised at the face looking down. Young and blonde, with sharp blue eyes. Vaguely familiar. Vaguely upsetting. “If I’m afraid of anything,” he turned his attention back towards the growing crowd, “It isn’t them.”

“No?”

The wind picked up, souring from torchlight and unbathed human flesh, twisting between Robin and the stranger that sat on the burnt-orange tiled roof. Lazy, he thought, thinking he should know better than to let anyone sneak up on him. “How’d you get up there?” Meaning of course, how the fuck did you manage to not get knocked off by the wind.

Bright blue eyes blinked three times in a rapid succession - yet shiver of a sense of something vaguely familiar - before he offered a smile; a normal smile, as far as Robin was concerned, though in context, even he knew it was a little odd to be smiling. “I climbed.”

Ah, wrong question. Try again. “Why?” One word-ed, direct, it wasn’t a better question but a pointed one. Robin turned his attention to the crowd screaming in a foreign tongue.

“Why not.” Rhetorical. The bat-eared blonde had a pretty good grasp of Common; Robin couldn’t decide if that was annoying or relieving.

Those in the crowd slashed their bodies with bloodied knifes, blindly praising a terrible something that he didn’t think existed. Again, he doubted the intelligence of the Seekers. Why send a spy that couldn’t understand the locales. “Is everyone here a fucking moron?”

“The Heaps are, for the most part, uneducated, if that is what you mean.” It wasn’t. “And your fear is well placed.” The man’s voice carried with it a very deliberate smile in his tone. “It is more a matter of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’, at this point, I think.” Was that a threat or a warning? He couldn’t tell - not that he was all that great at understanding what the fuck people meant to say when they didn’t say things straight.

[Robin Stark]

Robin shifted against the building. The stones accommodated him, shifting this way or that, which the bright eyed man seemed to take note of, a small glimmer of interest in his eyes that was quietly contained. “Oh, I’m fucking betting on it,” and something that almost sounded like confidence tripped over his words.

Heaps was another word for many, wasn’t it?

At least there was only one Zipper to worry about.

“What are they saying?”

The blonde didn’t answer immediately. Instead his too bright gaze lifted from the back of Robin’s chestnut-colored, close-cropped hair and settled on the chanting masses. Their voices filled the square, bouncing off of the black granite walls and seeming to echo back upon themselves. Several men and women and scrambled up on top of the roof of one of the smaller buildings, leading the chants, eyes wide with anger and elation from their new-found influence over their frantic peers.

“We will not suffer the heretics any longer,” he started, speaking slowly and clearly, a noticeable lag behind what was being said but not so much that Robin was unable to match what was being said to its translation - as much of the rage that frothed from the collective’s gnashing mouths was lost in translation. “For too long have they spat in the face of He Who Bleeds. For too long have they so jealously kept their blood from us-” he interrupted himself with a shake of his head, “From Him.” The crowd roared back in an unintelligible response of heated agreement that didn’t need to be repeated in his own tongue.

“Ah, yes. Of course,” blind (or highly inventive) worship wasn’t the most novel way of expressing an especially determined case of xenophobia, but they were particularly dedicated to its performance. If anything, he applauded the effort. “And you’re also...whatever this is?” He wouldn’t say crazy; for all he knew, there really was some kind of leech-y emea creature these people worshiped. No different from Rharne, for example. Fucking savages.

“Quacian?” If it was a joke, Robin wasn’t laughing.

“Are you? Quacian?” He didn’t know a nicer way of asking if someone was involved with a suicide cult than that. “Or maybe not. Maybe you just wanted a nice view for to-trial’s parade.” Death god aside, it was a beautiful day. Warm for the cold cycle and nobody, at least not yet, had been attacked by a plant.

“I am.” His feet kicked absently through the air - which, as Robin was far more keen to notice - seemed unnaturally accommodating of, almost fearful, not quite, but almost. “Quacian, that is. These are my people.” A pale hand moved in a broad, unfeeling sweep of the increasingly wild congregation. “But you are not wrong; I did want a ‘nice view’.” He chuckled there - empty and hollow but not so much that it was cause for alarm. He’d heard Zipper laugh like that so many times, it was more normal to him than a genuine expression of emotion, after all.

The wind ducked and dodged, keeping a careful distance from the man’s feet. Strange, he thought, but it wasn’t the same way the elements had carefully admired Aeon or Hans. His own stomach tightened, something clamping inside, and not for the first time that trial, Robin needed to remind himself he wasn’t alone. Not an I, but a we. “Who are you?”

“Oh yes, introductions.” With a small “hup” of a breath, the young man cast off from the roof’s edge and landed on the ground without a surprising lack of noise. The earth barely even felt him - and it most definitely should have given the height he’d just descended from. He extended a pale hand, smile inviting but utterly unreflected in those bright, grey, piercing eyes of his. “My name is Mathias, but you may call me Mads. It is a pleasure to meet you…?’

[Mads]

“Robin,” his eyes flickered to the man’s feet; yes, he was touching the ground - now, anyway. He fed the earth more ether, stirring the Under. It shifted, feeling the crowds and the buildings and everything -- but not the stranger before him.

“Robin.” Hand still extended, unmoving, patiently waiting in a way that made Robin feel awkward when, by rights, it should have been the opposite way round. “Like the bird?”

“Yes,” he stared at the offered hand. He looked back up to Mads, meeting him eye-for-eye.

“Interesting.”

“Where does the creep fall into your religion?” He wondered if it was too late to make a deal with the Quacian devil. Maybe Mads was the Quacian devil. Maybe he already fucked it up.

Mathias - or Mads, whatever - seemed to take the hint, though his eyes flashed just a bit brighter for a half trill, and his hand returned to his side. In the distance, the other Quacians, the seething mob, had whipped themselves up into a frenzy, clamoring and climbing over one another to catch at the crimson rain of blood from the speakers atop the building who had carved long, deep gashes into their arms and legs.

“The creep?” Dirty blonde curls bounced with in an almost comical juxtaposition to the gleeful, frantic carnage all around them as he took a step forward, shaking his head. “It does not ‘fall into’ any part of the Scarlet Belief, as far as I understand.” His bright stare, however, remained fixed on Robin - probing far past the point of expected interest.

But if anyone could win a staring contest, something so based in idiotic stubbornness, it was Robin. He met him eye-for-eye. “It doesn’t?,” he asked, feeling the wall behind him as he realized just how close Mads was and still, the elements ignored him. “No explanation for the literal murderous garden?” his eyes didn’t linger on the other man’s lips.

“If you mean to imply the creep’s creation is in some way to related to the Wounded God, you would not be the first to think so.” His voice was quieter now, still calm and vaguely empty. “But the Theocratum allows such speculation no weight.” Though he blinked, as usual, there was not small sensation of relief that came with a gaze held broken - it wasn’t so much a contest as it was an all out war. “It is one of the grand questions of Quacia: from whence did the creep first spring forth?” He shrugged as the crowd let out a rapturous gasp behind him; one of the three speakers had fallen from the rooftop and into the mob’s midst. “I, for one, find the myriad of speculative theories fascinating.”

The earth told him the speaker was no longer breathing when he hit the floor. Still, the Heaps screamed deliciously, hungry, ripping apart the man’s body with joyous delight. More and more blood spilled to the dirt, and the earth drank readily.

“A bit of an urgent question though, if we’re being fair,” the whites of his eyes tinged red with irritation; he refused to blink. He would win this private war of theirs, not once, but again and again and again. Immortals help him, he’d spell the earth to rip his eyelids open forever.

But the fucker remained as cold and calm as ever, almost as if he was intentionally making a point of there being no conflict at all, as he smiled just slightly in reply. “Oh it most certainly is just that, but-” He drew a short breath for what could only be emphasis. “I am afraid there is no readily available answer.”

“And nobody’s asked He-Who-Must-Not-Be, uh,” Robin paused, blinking. He couldn’t remember the damned name. It had been so obvious, what was it, the immortal of slitting wrists? “Um, so does your god always ask for blatant sacrifice?” Robin wasn’t a god but this seemed like a waste of plenty good worshippers.

Especially ones that were fit enough to fight the creep.

[Robin Stark]

“Blatant?” Mads blinked once then smiled. “No. But many do engage in the theatrics of it.” Did he? He didn’t seem like the type. As close as he was, something seemed to catch his attention, and his eyes fogged with the light pallor of distance that settled into one’s gaze when one was otherwise preoccupied. “Oh.”

“What?”

“The foreigners,” he started, his translation just as calm and empty as before in spite of the vitriol the words implied. “Do not fear the Wounded God, so let us, instead, instill the fear of Him in them.” The crowd roared in response, their small, ritual knives held high, most edges dripping with thick, crimson liquid.

“Para o Deus Ferido!” They shouted over and over again, their voices melding from words into pure, raw emotion as they surged forward through the streets.

Eyes regaining their bright, empty spark, Mads’ head tilted just slightly as his smile curved his lips enough to reveal the white of his teeth. “For the Wounded God.”

And then everything clicked. The strange not-thereness of the man, his obvious confidence, and, “Mage,” and no, it didn’t explain the cult-yness or the awkward way not having personal space, but it did explain why the elements were ignore him. Or avoiding him. “What kind?” Not that he would know. Damn Victor, that useless bucket of animated lard.

Though is brow raised in a carefully displayed arc of surprise, his smile never faded, nor did it ever once touch his bright, piercing eyes. “The Wind didn’t tell you?”

It may not have, but it told him now danger was on its way and in the form of hundreds of stomping boots that beat against the earth and hungry, angry voices that clawed at the air. “No.” He didn’t like the man’s smile, the easy confidence he couldn’t shake -- and then he had a smile of his own. His lips curled lopsided, stretched wide enough to see the whites of his teeth. “You did something. Made them quieter,” ether bubbled, dripping down from him into the deepest place he could reach. It slipped past hard edges and secret lakes, all the way until it reached the boiling hot. “Undo it.” The ‘or else’ was left unsaid.

“Oh?” His voice carried no apology whatsoever. “Undo what?”

Not defiance. Not necromancy. Not transmutation. There were the weird animal-fuckers and the mage-cannibals. Immortals, fuck, why hadn’t anyone taught him anything. The earth grappled with the crowd of suicidal maniacs and Robin winced as he struggled to level the magma below. His hair started to stick with sweat to his brow and -- was Mads doing this?

“Are you quite alright, Robin?” There wasn’t a hint of concern in his words, though his smile did soften.

His eyes narrowed and his pompous smirk turned into a scowl. “Can you feel what I’m doing?” He asked, remembering how Zipper could, annoyingly, catch the direction of his spells. His ether strained to push through whatever the other mage was doing. Like he was strangling it and Robin was doing his absolute best to get his magic through. He could still feel the red-hot of the magma and it sang.

With a shrug, Mads hopped backward just a trill before Robin found that, suddenly, whatever he’d been straining against was no longer there - and no longer keeping him for pouring his ether out in far more massive a quantity than he had intended.

The earth cracked between them. The mob didn’t catch the Under stirring beneath, all attention on the pale man who’d dared to hold it down. Robin’s eyes widened and, “You fucking moron what did you --,” then it got very hot.

And Mad’s eyes burned bright with fascination.

[Mads]

“--you fucking idiot,” his ether spilled, lacing into the earth, and it desperately tried to shake him off. Robin held his spell tight, knowing the earth, feeding his desire not to have to deal with a volcanic eruption. The torchlight in the crowd burned brighter, singing to its sibling trapped below. “Don’t do that,” he said to both Mads and the magma brimming below.

“You knew I was casting. You know what I am,” his touch lightened and the earth seemed to sigh with relief. Patches of red glow littered the ground, steam catching in the air. The people continued to march, praising, blood washing the streets. “Tell us what you did. Tell us what you are,” he was louder, braver, bolder. A man who was very much not alone.

Mads let out a soft whistle, the space between the two of them much wider than Robin remembered. “Power and control? You certainly do not disappoint, defier.” His grin was playful - though paired with those bright, empty eyes of his, it was almost sinister. Almost. “And you say you are with the Speakers? I have no doubt they were quick to snatch something - some… one - like you up like a child and a fat rat.”

“More power than control, honest,” he promised. Robin watched Mads’ bright eyes. His expression was empty besides his smile; unsettling was a word he was sure could be used. Or freak. “Test me again and see if the Wounded God comes calling for what’s left of your body,” he left the lava just below, spreading his spell low and wide. If the mage saw his magic, like he guessed, he’d know Robin was the only thing keeping this place from a quick end.

“I have what I came for.” He smiled calmly, more space between them, as the mob continued, swelling and rising like wave of bloodied flesh. “And I would suggest,” he added, tone just barely in a proper critique of Robin’s threat, “You not throw away your life to snuff out mine. The Dragoons may not be like you, but they are surprisingly capable when it comes to murder and magic.”

“You mean the basics with the fire?” Robin snorted. He remembered them, from his first day. Cumbersome and pathetic, burning whatever vegetation they’d get. “They almost let a whole building burn and you’re telling me they’re the threat?” No, he didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it. His number one issue was Mads and his nameless magic.

“You would be surprised what advantage numbers have over a single mage.”

“If only I was alone.”

“Did I say you were alone?” he smirked - at least, Robin was pretty sure it was smirk - as the earth urgently reminded him that the swarm of those dirty, bleeding Quacians was almost upon them. If he was going to act, he needed to do it now.

He didn’t want to have to deal with the mob. He’d gotten what he’d been sent for: information. “It sounded like you did,” he shrugged, the wind rustling above, twisting with smoke and dust. He watched the mage, the anti-mage, whatever the fuck he was. Robin pushed against the stone behind him, his magic stirring the wall apart as he tried to --

And then he was stuck. Robin pushed again, confused, “What the --,” but the earth figured it out before him. Whatever spare ether he’d left in the ground spurred towards the enemy, a rolling wave of granite, fizzing with residual heat and --

Mads raised a single finger - a reprimand - as Robin’s spell collided with the air, leaving him standing there, untouched. Only… it wasn’t the air. It was as if the air itself had been pushed aside for a moment to make way for and invisible… something. Something he definitely didn’t like.

[Robin Stark]

He squirmed, pushing against whatever held him in place - he could feel it now, clamped about his ankles in a way that was so, so frustratingly familiar, he could taste it on the tip of his tongue. His ether slipped past Mads’ magic, twisting the wind and dust above him into something large. It grew and grew, his face straining as he gave more and more. He watched the man opposite him as he cast. “I won’t hold them both back. Let me go,” he hissed, the ground steaming as the magma inched closer to the surface.

But instead of the expected Common he’d been speaking, Mads briefly turned over his shoulder and shouted a surprisingly well-matched, fervent declaration in Vahanic. The next thing Robin knew, his feet were released a trill before the swarm of enraged bodies washed over him, all screaming and bellowing unintelligibly.

Once upon a time, a jealous witch named Zipper attacked a beautiful hero named Robin. He was young and talented; it only made sense she wanted to hurt him. She planned and plotted from a distance in a tower she crafted from her own power. She watched, safe atop a throne shaped from fallen enemies and her brother, waiting.

One day she attacked him when he was alone -- when she thought he was alone.

The crowd, full of young and old, men and women, made the same mistake. They saw a single foreigner, trapped. They didn’t see a young man struggling for freedom. They didn’t see a victim, an innocent, but instead, an enemy to be destroyed. They ran at him with pitchforks and knives and bloodied wrists and --

Looking back, Robin might consider learning the stupid language. He might have stopped them. But then, he supposed, the Wounded God wouldn’t have had his fill.

He screamed as they reached him. Their metals pierced his skin, spilling his own blood into the earth. And what he once tried to soothe asleep, awoke with a vengeance.

Perhaps Mads wanted this. Or, perhaps, maybe he shouldn’t have attacked him. When did the beautiful hero become the jealous witch? Robin would later learn that the Heaps were the lowest of the low. Pawns up for grabs, used and tricked by the great nobility of Quacia.

Mads would see Robin lost in a living, twisting ball of flesh and rags.

Mads would hear the scream.

Mads would know what killed them all.

The earth roared. It ripped itself apart in desperate panic. Great shards of stone and magma burst around him, plumes of smoke and ash spreading wide and high. The lava burned hotter as people screamed in pain, tripping over charred bodies in a desperate attempt to escape. Torches littered the dusty path of the once-mob, burning an angry white. The fire ate everything, flesh and wood alike.

His spell was spent and there was no one left behind. Not Mads. Not a living soul to tell the tale.

Robin stirred in the Under, swaddled in spit-fire and rock, far beneath the still sizzling remains left in the wake of his magic. His wounds seared themselves shut with granite and crystal. The Seekers would want an explanation, sure, but he wanted one more. Mads. He whispered the name into the earth again and again, a single curse spread into the ground of Quacia.

[Cervantez]

An Idiot Explodes

☠ ======== ☠ ======== ☠ ======== ☠ ======== ☠

Points awarded:
Mads & Robin = 15 each {Can be Applied for Magic}

Knowledge:
Detection: The Elements Can Sense Too
Detection: Paying Attention to the Right Things
Discipline: Learning to Hold Your Tongue
Discipline: Mind Over Matter
Endurance: Not Dying in a Volcanic Explosion
Endurance: Getting Stabbed
Endurance: Getting Sliced
Endurance: Surviving Another Day
---------
Non-skill
Mads: A Mage
Quacia: Cult to the Wounded God



Mads

abrogation-
mute
shackle
reactive defiance

acrobatics-
landing with bent knees
perching on the edge of a building
walking backward

discipline-
knowing when to release a mute rather than maintain it out of pride
allowing an annoyance to go free


Fame: Robin = +10
A massacre at the hands of a defier mage with short brown hair? It couldn't be Robin could it? If that's the case the people will be talking, and the Theocratum will want an explanation.

Notes: This was.........interesting to say the least. The fact I couldn't tell who was really telling the story{meaning there were times in both of your posts where it seemed Robin was writing as mads and vice versa} which was hella confusing. That aside as this is about the story, this was a great one to read. I like the surprise of emotion and playfulness of Mads, as from other threads I've read, he lacks such traits so it was cool to see he could actually portray them, be it genuine or not. I love Robin in this, I love the perspective of Quacia and its customs from an outsiders viewpoint.

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