#tealias

[stormlit]

❝ hey, marston. rise and shine. ❞ from where she sits on a log, sadie reaches out and nudges the man with her foot; taciturn though she often is, the long years and shared experiences have edged her voice with fondness. not that she's about to tell anyone that, least of all john himself. by way of apology, she sets a mug of coffee down beside his bedroll, freshly brewed over the now-banked campfire. one of them, at least, has been up a while. ❝ if you got a hangover it's your own damn fault. you're too fuckin' old for me to have to drag you away from a drunken bar fight. ❞

if he's also had to pull her away so she didn't murder someone, well...shut up.

@tealias (john) liked for a starter

[feverfewed]

“i can’t even look. is it bad? wait, don’t tell me.” from bas xoxo

Not for the first time in his life, Ilbryn rails against his lack of magical talent. It's a slight against any healer, let alone an elven one, but the forces of the arcane have simply never been within his grasp. Perhaps if he were a better, more pious man some kindly deity might take pity on him and make him their cleric, but he's not holding out hope. If magic hasn't sprung from his fingertips thus far, he doubts it ever shall. Still, he makes do.

"Don't worry, I've seen worse," he tells Bas, voice gentle and eyes focused. The gash on the tiefling's leg is ragged and ugly, but not as deep as Ilbryn had first feared. "I doubt it will even need stitches, though I should like to dress it, just to be safe." Slender fingers dip into his healers bag for a vial of clean water and the herbs he keeps on hand for occasions like these. He pours a little on his hankerchief and begins to dab at the blood, gently.

"By the by, Bastian, have you any interest in poetry?" It's asked with the air of a fleeting thought as Ilbryn wipes away the drying blood and rummages in his bag again for herbs. "Or folk songs for that matter-or any kind of story, truly." Ah-there it is: a small pot with honey, witch hazel and yarrow crushed together. Keeping his tough and voice light, Ilbryn begins to pack the wound with the mixture.

"I'm something of a collector, myself, so if you've a favourite I should certainly like to hear it, if it's not too much bother."

[witchunts]

[ closed starter. ] [ @tealias / alderic. ] kezia ducks into the shadows as gunfire sounds out across the courtyard. a mission gone... not wrong, but has certainly become more complicated; this target is feisty. the witch bares her teeth in excitement and tightens her grip around her gun. she tucks into a roll behind a wall and peers around the corner, pulling back to dodge a bullet that wedges itself into the brick. her target makes a run for it, darting out of sight into a nearby building. you're not escaping me that fucking easily, she thinks to herself and breaks into a sprint, without caution, after them.

kezia comes to a closed door and with an impressive kick it flies open revealing a dark barn. " shit, " she hisses, knowing she's not going to be able to find them like this. so, she turns to her clairvoyance and seals her eyes shut. gun raised and arms extended out, kezia starts to navigate the space. off to her right, she senses movement, breath, and points the gun in that direction. from her powers, she's able to tell it isn't her target. but who, then? a voyeur? no, perhaps that's the wrong word, although there is something arousing about the hunt, for kezia at least. she gestures at them with her gun and grunts, " who are you? "

in that moment, a bullet zips across the barn and skims her bicep. kezia shouts, almost pulling the trigger of her own gun, and rushes towards the stranger to find cover beside them. opening her eyes, she allows them to adjust to the darkness and finds herself staring into the wide stare of a man. what the fuck is he doing here? " what the fuck are you doing here? " the witch complains, voicing her thoughts, agitated about being shot as she clutches her wound with her bare, dirty hand.

          " shit! " she snaps, gritting her teeth. her gaze drops to her gun and she asks him, " do you know how to use this? " without hesitating, regardless of what he says, she hands him the weapon and then unsheathes a blade at her thigh. " distract them. "

[maledictione]

benjamin abbott ❪ @tealias ❫ : you don't have to say anything if you don't want to.

words stay in her throat, tearing at her gullet — taste of blood and ash, grief threatening to choke. sometimes thinks that's all that remains, nothing left of her but anguish and fear and the raw edge of survival. everything from before withered away, unable to endure in a world designed to ruin. doesn't even try to give voice to the sorrow permanently rooted in her chest, not when talking wouldn't change anything. instead she swallows it back, hands balled into fists at her side, threadbare cardigan pulled over knuckles, nails cutting crescents into dirty palms. “ ain't nothin' to say. ” though that didn't stop each new grave leaving a scar, prayers whispered nightly for those they had lost, a plea to keep the others safe. ❪ no longer sure if there was even a god to hear her or whether they had simply always been alone ❫. attention drifting to the empty fields surrounding them, a false sense of serenity, calm before the inevitable storm. “ people die and the rest of us just gotta keep survivin'. that's the way things are now. ”

[potprri]

ch: AARON

@tealias / sullivan: "i don't speak italian, but he ain't happy."

it's difficult to recall if he's ever seen gia truly furious before. in his years with the team, he's certainly caused his occasional upset and left the man quite displeased, on rare instances perhaps even angry, but though he remembers countless conversations of rapid, agitated italian, he struggles to come up with a single instance where his team principal has actually been this livid. there's a chaos in the garage that goes far beyond the usual post-race bustle. far more people than necessary, probably more than allowed, and his gaze searches for his team mate who - miraculously - has made it out of the absolute wreckage of a car largely unscathed, finding him sitting still as a statue next to his race engineer with the only sign of life being the occasional shrug of his shoulders or nod of his head. he shouldn't be with a doctor, they cleared him too early, he knows gia would agree if he paused his tirade a second to breathe and think clearly. as it stands, he is currently busy tearing into otto frank with a viciousness that almost impresses aaron. much as that man makes his skin crawl on occasion, he hardly ordered his driver to turn finn's car into a pile of burning carbon fiber. it looked horrific on the tv, the replay only hitting the broadcast once it was clear finn made it out alright, so he has no difficulties imagining where the edge of panic in gia's voice actually comes from. they are all family after all.

sullivan had made it to the garage even before aaron. impressive but not surprising - and even though he still has not stated the nature of whatever it is the two of them got going on, aaron finds himself squeezing the other mans shoulder in reassurance, tilting his head in finn's direction. a quiet look, he's alright before he cracks the smallest of smiles. he likes palone. blunt, ballsy, very sharp. he wonders if he is aware of how observant he is and uses it to his advantage or if it's a gift he doesn't utilize on purpose. "you sound quite judgy considering i am fairly certain the only reason you're not currently beating the shit out of someone is cause the shock still hasn't worn off." it's not a joke, not really. sharp, yes, but also very impulsive. and aaron has no doubt the redbull driver would've been in sincere danger had palone decided to go to their garage first. he feels a swell of pride, somehow, at the fact that the boy decided against that. "i don't think he's truly pissed at frank. gia... worries. more about him, i think, because he has already lost -" it's different. he reminds himself mid-sentence. it's insane to mention it, and it is different. so instead, he shakes his head and squeezes sully's shoulder again. "let's grab the kid and get out of here, yeah? don't think he should be here. neither should you."

[potprri]

@tealias : "you didn't need to step in like that." / sully

the dry laugh is entirely involuntary and he immediately pays the price. the pain jolts through his body and he lets his head fall back against the wall with an almost concerning loud thud. didn't need to - like it was planned. or even chivalry. like he left any room for hesitation long enough that he might actually have stopped himself. like he does not know how senselessly stupid and, frankly, borderline embarrassing the whole ordeal had been. like he would not be crimson with shame at how humiliating this whole thing truly was if his blood wasn't too busy dripping out of his nose. he sits with his head tilted back only briefly before he remembers you're not supposed to do that and immediately leans forward again, forearms on his elbows and shoulders slightly hunched. because he's in pain and because he does not want to look at sullivan while he waits for what is surely about to come. he will tease him. he will certainly point out how truly pathetic he is at fighting and he will, rightfully, laugh at him. he'd care more, perhaps, if the throbbing wasn't doing its utmost to make it impossible forming coherent thoughts.

"he was a fucking prick." he wonders if it's even audible with how he tries to wipe at the blood with the hem of his own shirt - it's ruined anyway, might as well make some use of it. and it's true. finn can count on one hand the amount of times he's actually gotten into a physical fight which, given how much he enjoys verbal ones and how truly energetic he can get in those, just shows how lucky he's been in the past. this time, though, it was well earned, even with finn's initial lack of personal involvement. in fact, it was almost an accident he'd overheard it to begin with. a dig at sullivan, something finn initially interpreted as flirty banter between the pair, followed up by something that dug so deep, was so personal, he barely gave sully - the one it was aimed at - any time to react before he threw a punch. and yes, in hindsight he could've handled it a lot more maturely but it felt good . it felt satisfying hearing the faint crunch, it felt fucking exhilarating seeing the shocked expression, the glimpse of crimson, hearing the gasp. and the brief second he caught sight of sully, staring in utter disbelief and something that almost read as wonder, twisted something in his stomach that felt so thrilling he would've probably chased that feeling with a second punch had the recovery of his opponent not been so swift and his fist perhaps a little less hard. after that? a blur. and now finn wishes he'd been hit harder as to not having to remember any of it. he doubts looking at sully will feel much like a thrill now. then again, perhaps dying of shame will be a quick way to go and he will not have to endure whatever jokes the other is cooking up for long.

"i've got this, palone, you can go back. 's just my nose! might add some character if it heals a bit crooked."  he prays he won't make him explain. won't ask why. won't force finn to ponder a question he himself is trying to avoid. hopes he'll only laugh. "i doubt he was the best you can do. weak knuckles. and it..." it's almost subconscious, the way he presses down on his nose harder with his shirt, tries to focus on the pain instead of what he's about to say. "it wasn't okay. what he said to you. so yeah, i did need to step in like that."

[potprri]

@tealias : "i'm rather good at educated guesses." / otto

there is a thought that, despite his very best efforts, he can not quite seem to shake. gnawing with increasing annoyance at the edges of his mind and leaving him distracted enough that he misses a good part of the speech the team principal is delivering with leveled enthusiasm. it should be harder. even with his more recent upset with his team, even after everything he's learned in the past weeks, it should probably be a lot harder to throw away a legacy at the mere promise of a new one. maybe later, if asked, he'll claim he grappled with the decision. he might say he lost sleep over it, that it was not easy to leave the team that gave him everything (the team that took everything). he might lie. it should be harder, but it isn't and aaron finds himself with his leg bouncing restlessly, waiting for otto to finish his monologue so he can finally put ink to paper and make it official.

otto, flawed as the man may be, makes no promises of family, of home or purpose or even belonging. there's no talk of prestige. otto talks about winning, about opportunity, about statistics and the car, about plans for the team and progress. factual, almost analytical and aaron finds that he appreciates that a lot. perhaps all of this would've been enough to convince him. perhaps it would've sufficed to make him feel like he'll get an actual say in his own future and he would've signed either way. but if otto wanted to prove to aaron that he has an exceptional eye for strategy, he does so by sealing the deal with repeating something so simple and yet so brilliant, aaron almost chuckles. a name. his name. the reason he sits here in the first place.

"i don't think you'd let all this depend on an educated guess." he reaches for the pen even though otto does not quite seem to be done speaking. his agent should be here to look through the fine print but he hardly cares about the details. it's trivial, payment and requirements and brand deals, none of it will make a difference to him. "i think for this to work, we need to agree to not bullshit each other. we both know what this is and i admit that it is... brilliant."  no intention to stroke the man's ego and no illusion that he needs it. it's a simple fact. the sound of pen on paper seems almost comically loud in the mostly bare office. aaron does not miss how harsh the contrast is to gia's where the walls are filled with pictures of the team, of victories and of his children. for a brief moment he wonders if otto is actually doing this out of sympathy. and then it is done. "i want to be the one to tell him. "  he does not know how yet, isn't even certain how nicki will react. last thing he wants is for him to think this is another opportunity taken from him by aaron. the only reason he hesitated at the offer to begin with. "i need to be the one to tell him. please."

[2077smerc]

( 🔫 ) : for our muses to meet at gunpoint. (from kyle garrick, or whichever of my muses you vibe most with!)

the red dot finds her chest before the voice did. V  froze  mid-step,  hands  still  half-busy  with  the  busted  door  panel  she’d  just  forced  open.  slowly-very  slowly—she  lifted  them,  palms  out,  fingers  splayed  like  she’d  suddenly  decided  to  be  cooperative.  her  eyes  flicked  sideways,  clocking  the  angle,  the  shadow,  the  breathing  she  can  hear  just  over  the  rain.  she  was  dressed  in  a  matte  black  tactical  pants,  reinforced  at  the  knees,  a  dark  hoodie  pulled  up  under  a  lightweight  armored  vest. no  insignias.  no  tells.  her  face  obscured  behind  a  half-mask,  only  her  eyes  visible,  sharp  and  reflective  in  the  low  light. a  suppressed  pistol  sat  holstered  high  on  her  thigh,  custom  grip  worn  smooth  from  use.  another  handgun  low  at  her  back,  just  in  case.   "alright,"   she  shrugged,  calm  as  if  she’s  not  one  wrong  move  from  a  hole  in  her  sternum.   "if  you’re  gonna  shoot  me,  at  least  do  me  the  courtesy  of  telling  me  who  you  are  first." her  gaze  sharpened,  chin  tipping  up  just  enough  to  show  she  was  not  scared—just  calculating.   "because  I’m  either  trespassing  on  someone’s  op,"   a  beat,  a  crooked  smile  tugging  at  her  mouth,  "or  we’re  both  about  to  realize  we’ve  got  the  same  target."