Limited 3 SIMPLE TRICKS FOR POSTPONING THE APOCALYPSE!

This RP is open, but with limitations.
"Five feet, got it..." He muttered under his breath, trying to memorize it in the short time they had, although Belle had to be honest with himself, he had never been good at calculating distances, school hadn't exactly helped him in that regard, mainly due to the fact that 'school' had always been Lucian teaching him things in his own way, and, as much as he tried, his older brother was far from being a genius. He couldn't blame him, working raising him, dealing with... Whatever he dealt with when he wasn't home.

Why was even thinking of Lucian at this point? It wouldn't exactly help him, at least he didn't think it would, maybe it was simply those milliseconds, that minimal amount of time when he thought he was done for, that he thought of those bright green eyes, looking back at him without judgement.


With a weak push from his arms, he managed to get up and took a few steps back, just as she'd said, he slowly saw the changes reversing themselves. The paint crackled away with the rising radiation of his skin, cracking and peeling as it made way for his light-filled scars, his glow returning, along with his constant headache and dizziness. Just when he thought he was getting healthier, he was back to his old self, sick, frail, but at the very least, alive.

It felt wrong to leave Eli behind given the mess outside, but staying meant being an obstacle, he should simply do what she said, and so, he did. With a gentle arm, he helped one of the nearby wounded up, his light working slowly on their bruises, he couldn't afford using up all his light in case he needed it later, but at the very least he hoped to relieve their pain, that's what he was here for, if this was a videogame, he was, essentially a support unit, which on one hand made him feel slightly more confident on his importance, but in the other, he wondered if he would be targeted if they somehow found out he was useful- He was sure they wouldn't notice him however, right? The walking, talking glowstick was very stealthy.

"I promise to come back to cover your back-" With a steady pace, he guided the others along, keeping one hand forward, ready to deal with anything that might come along from the front, sure, that was unlikely, but he wasn't willing to take any chances.
 
Eliana breathed a sigh of relief as lines of broken skin shifted back to paint and again to like… LED wires? maybe? As the other meta backed away. This did not make her feel any better about the almost killing him by accident thing, but he was safely at a distance of at least three arms lengths so she probably wouldn't almost murder him again. None of that really inspired much confidence, but Eli had always been good at grasping onto what she could. This is also around the time she finally noticed the smear of blood on her wrist and wasted a handful of seconds that could have been better spent wiping it off on the side of her skirt.

“Right, okay, I’ll just go and check the fight.” She called back as the boy hurried away to escort the citizens out the back of the cafe. This is also about when she realized she never asked him what his name was, which struck her as a touch callous given she had attempted murder and all that. This wasn’t helping.

Eli pushed herself back up to her feet. Her knees wobbled, and her side had the unpleasantly sharp sting of a soon-to-be bruise from the impact of the zombie turned missile, but she didn’t topple back over so she’d survive. Probably. Ow.

With a wince, Eli made her way back to the front of the store. She poked her head outside the hole, a thin frown forming as she tried to figure out how the fight was going. Poorly, she’d say if she were any sort of expert on looking at street fights. There were more zombies though heading towards the fight. Ones she could deal with if she just stepped out of cover. Would anyone notice if she did? She only needed to go as far out as to make the zombies drop (and hopefully not also become missiles again) and that should take some pressure off the hero with a hammer, right?

This was a really bad idea, she had just done this exact bad idea like a minute ago, why was she doing it again?

Eli slipped out of cover, and as quietly as she could she approached the undead who were attempting to join the fight.
 


Having survived for centuries, it was only inevitable that Veljara had suffered her fair share of indignities. She had been bruised, battered, bloodied, and even once had the wings torn from her body in a desperate attempt to finish her off. She’d even been defeated once, forced to return to the ancient helm that was her safeguard against death. Her mortal host had not been as lucky, but the girl had not truly been worthy of wielding her. The Norns had made that apparent once they crossed her thread with that of
Þórr’s
progeny so soon.

All this and more, Veljara had suffered through. And yet no atrocity was so great, no indignity so humiliating as this...this...this silverware-titled
heimskingi
slamming their spiked knuckles into her jaw. The flames had only begun to solidify as their fist made contact, yet it was still enough to send her reeling.

Where had this strength come from? Veljara expected a verbal jab to accompany their physical one, but all she received was silence and an iron grip clasped around her arm. The faint smell of singing flesh filled the air as Spartacus dragged the valkyrie over their shoulder, wings fanning out just before her back smashed into the ground below.

With her
draugr
seemingly handled, Phoenix pounced on her like a wildcat, the many claws of her hammer streaking downward to maim her flesh. Veljara brought her arm up, the metal handle screaming as it clashed against her gauntlet, but even then it merely dulled the force behind it. Veljara felt an unfamiliar fire bloom sickeningly in her chest as the hammer collided with a wet crack, only to be replaced by the warmth of her own a moment later.

Veljara glared up in anger, not at the Phoenix, but at the thing that Spartacus had become. It held itself differently; a rigid, meticulous fighting stance instead of a loose one that seemed to invite one to strike. It closed what little distance had been created between the two of them with mechanical precision, and Veljara growled at the thing.

“What are you, hellhound?”
She muttered, watching as its gloves glowed faintly from the heat of her armor. Almost in response, a trickle of ice began to worm its way through the back of her mind, and Veljara stiffened.
Claws not her own dug at the inside of her skull, seeking to break free of the chains with which Veljara bound her. Her vision blackened, the flames of her eyes dulling to embers for a moment as a single word, devoid of all flame and hatred, slipped through Veljara’s lips in response to her question.

“Spork…”


Snarling, Veljara shoved the pathetic creature back down, her flames flaring in earnest. Clutching her spear in one hand, she swept it along the ground, sparks spitting in its wake. She sought to bring at least one of her foes to the ground and felt a grim satisfaction as Spartacus fell. Rolling up to a crouch, Veljara pressed one knee against her prone target’s windpipe, drawing her spear up with both hands, the glowing head pointed at their chest.

“I almost pity you, Spartacus, for you shall be deprived of witnessing my great work.”
Veljara let out a laugh, the sound something akin to logs falling within a fireplace, as she prepared to silence this distraction once and for all.

“But take comfort, for you are far from the last body that Veljara shall lay at the feet of Ragnarok.”
The pitiful thing in the back of her mind raged, but Veljara roared as she brought the spear down. Ice seared her mind, flames sprang up around her before being just as quickly smothered, and spear hit flesh with a sickening crunch.

Pitch black eyes stared down at Spork’s body. Blackened hands clutched a dark iron spear, its head now pointed at her instead of her...Spork’s chest. The haft now lay against their leg, bent at an odd angle where the bone had snapped. Freyja stared out of Veljara’s body, looking on in horror at what she had done, at the damage she had caused to the one she’d cared about. She felt flames licking her insides, and with a sigh let them out. Fire erupted from her skin, wrapping around her. What few
draugr
remained fell to the ground as charred corpses once more, their sparks mercilessly ripped away from them.

The flames grew, burning white hot as they threatened to consume any who dared step too close, waves of heat rolling off of the blaze. With one last roar the fire burned away, leaving naught but ash and corpses. Veljara, it seemed, had returned to wherever she went after her slaughter.

And this time, she had taken Spork with her.

heimskingi - fool/imbecile/dumbass
 
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They throw the valkyrie farther than they’d intended to. Rather than landing at their feet, she hits the ground a few feet away, and they waste a few precious seconds locating her and following after.

All the while, the fog settles more heavily across their mind, and though they hear her question, they don’t feel the need to answer it. She’ll get her answer soon enough, regardless, in the form of their boot through her skull. Or whatever passes for it, on a being composed primarily of fire and soot.

The path to her destruction is the only thing they can hold in their mind, cold and clear and glowing with brutal logic. This woman is a threat. To them, to Kitsune, to - “...Freyja?”

Spork’s voice sounds foreign to their own ears, echoing strangely under the moment of sudden clarity they find themself in. Reeling, they abort the curbstomp and stumble back - only to literally stumble, something sweeping their feet out from under them so they go down hard, the asphalt knocking the breath from their lungs when they hit it back-first.

There’s no time to recover before the valkyrie - (Freyja?? No. This thing can’t be her. (She wouldn’t have- They wouldn’t have- Ugh.) It must be something… something else, something weird. Satan knows they’re no stranger to meta weirdness) - is upon them again, her shin like an iron bar across their throat.

Winded and already more than a little breathless from the pain besides, they protest this abuse as loudly as they can. It’s pretty much just a waste of oxygen, but it does make them feel a little better. And, while she’s hopefully-but-probably-not-really-all-that distracted, they raise the arm that isn’t pinned and try to push her off, which is much more productive. The angle’s shit, it’s the arm that got rattled earlier, and she’s pressing down with just about all her weight, but hey. Levers and mountains, right?

“Phra-sing, jesus christ,” they choke out. Or… try to, at least. With their head spinning like it is, they can’t be sure.

There’s a faraway kind of roar, and then a much more distinct snap. Distantly, they think that they recognize the noise. It’s the dry-kindling sound of a broken bone, but it sounds… weird. Wrong. Distorted, kind of, because that’s not someone else’s tibia snapping under a well-placed boot. It’s theirs, and as soon as they realize that, the pain comes rushing in.

Something vital slips from their white-knuckled grasp, and the world stops making sense.

They struggle to breathe around the tattered edges of their pride. The wind fuzzes in their ears, bloody, burning, soft? Warmed, but not burnt, they tilt their face into the oven door, and it clanks against their plastic carapace.

Exhausted, they close their eyes, and the Earth spins beneath them, dizzyingly fast, in entirely the wrong direction. This matters, somehow. The rest is unimportant, already forgotten under the cleansing storm of ash and flame.

 
Grit scraped underfoot as Eli slid to a stop, her arms throwing themselves up at the searing flash that consumed the street. Heat scraped at her, a memory carried along by a wind which stilled close enough to her skin that she could feel it at the very moment it became not. Maybe if she hadn’t flinched, maybe if she had left the cafe sooner, maybe, maybe didn’t change the was as the wall of fire consumed its own end and nothing was left in its passing save the lingering blistering heat that never could quite reach her.

Eli teetered there, weight shifted too far forward onto the edges of her feet, one arm still raised to ward away what wouldn’t reach her as her other had had almost drawn the dagger off her thigh. Bad posture, bad form, something to cringe about as she took a step back. Two of them were gone, but there was still the third meta and she didn’t need to almost kill a second person who was just there to help. Instead her gaze skittered away, first to see if the meta in the cafe had also returned, and then just across the bodies. Charred skin, vacant, acrid, all of that felt very cold in the pit of her stomach.

Her silver eyes turned back to the meta, a little wide, a little guilty perhaps because maybe she could have been faster for them too. She drew in a breath, because her lungs were aching and swallowed because her throat felt dry. “I’m sorry they went.” She said, her first step back finally getting another to accompany it, and a third for good measure. Her mind cast itself this way first and then that way, looking for something to add to the apology, but what was it you should add anyway? Eli didn’t know, so she did what seemed to be the next best thing and turned to retreat. That at least she was probably fast enough to pull off.
 
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