Canary in a Coal Mine. [Florian]

[Eitan Angevin]

"Fuck," he hissed, and immediately dropped to one knee, aiming his pistol at the shamblers even as they took note of the noise and turned toward them, curious. They were pitiable in a way, even as they were horrific. Angevin didn't know what caused them, whether they were victims of twisted magic or products of hellish magic aping humanity. In either case, he wasn't going to join them in their afterlife. They were close, but they were never going to be farther away, so he immediately aimed for disabling shots.

One. Two. And he reloaded while his clumsy charge barreled past him toward the dragonshards. This was not the time for recriminations.

One. Two. And then he was up and pelting after Albrecht, focusing on keeping his feet rather than reloading. Once he was a few paces away from the Lysanrin, he spun, kneeled, and reloaded.

One. Two. Thankfully, they were slow. Now six of them were much slower. He anchored a ward into his off-hand gauntlet and began to spin a shield against flesh, which was a pattern he knew well. He made secondary anchors in large stones nearby, stabilizing the field , but giving him the ability to move away with the primary anchor without disrupting it. Then he could feed it on the run if need be, giving them more of a headstart.

"Private," he snapped, "status report." He wasn't angry now; he was efficient. He had to rely on his training and the training that Albrecht had received before he was approved to serve upon an airship in the Air Defense Corps, as well as the training they had done together. Still enlarging and strengthening his shield, he tried to time it such that he could still reload and deliver a headshot to the nearest shambler before they got to his shield at all. Of course, the thing had more than one head-shaped bit, so he didn't know if it would be sufficient to take it down.

Albrecht could, though, putting his racial curse to good use.

[Florian]

Florian felt the aether flood his body. The shamblers were getting close, but slowed as they were from the gunshots, he had more time. The aetherytes dimmed as he stole their magic, and then Eitan, on cue, asked for a status report.

"Ready now, sir." Florian replied. There was something about being this that made him feel giddy. Maybe it was the power coursing through his veins, or adrenaline of something new, but he had a grin on his face. He knew he was not yet at his limit, but he also felt that it should be enough. At a glance, it didn't seem that Eitan's wards were against aether. He would have to get closer to the shamblers than he was to him if he wanted to avoid hurting him. He stood up and moved to Eitan's side.

"Ward. Aether." He said, his hand on Eitan's shoulder for just a second and his breathing still heavy from his run. He still smiled, and he reached a hand to the ward like a test. He had noticed some similarities between this and the ward that he'd been pushed against the wall with, and he was right to assume he couldn't just walk through it. But he could see the ward and its boundaries, and he went around it to face the shamblers head on. If only he had been able to aim such a burst of aether. While the forefront of the half-dozen were distracted almost entirely by damage that Eitan had done, the ones in the back turned to face Florian as he went past them. Just as a shambler in the front hit the shield, the shamblers in the back took the full force of aether that the Lysanrin could muster.

It had been dark, but for a moment, the violent discharge of aether lit up their corner of the Warrens. Three in the back had been grouped up together, both when they went after Eitan and when they turned to fight Florian. He had managed to duck past the swing of one of them and found himself in the thick of things. Their rotted smell, both in person and in aether, almost overwhelmed him then and there. But they were slow, and they were not impervious to his explosive magic. Lucky for him, they didn't survive the blast, and he had to step back into the rest of the shamblers as the bodies of the first three thudded to the ground.

He had less aether for the second blast, and the two furthest from him — closest to Eitan, and his shields — survived, though clearly damaged. But the vibrant crackle of aether had left his body, and such exertion was already tiring him. Still, he took his gun out again and aimed at close range for the creature closest to him. It stumbled again, but it still stood, and it had lost interest in the shielded man before it. Florian sprinted a half-circle around it and crouched back behind the ward and behind Eitan. He shot again, but in fatigue or lack of focus, it hit the center of the thing and still managed to amble back to them. At the very least, Florian's dashing between the wretched things had kept most of them from hitting the wards directly, and now there were only two left to deal with.

[Eitan Angevin]

The shield had only shimmered at first when he was hastily setting it up. As soon as he smoothed it out, it was largely transparent, little light being emitted—which was energy wasted. That Albrecht had no trouble seeing it was a good fact to remember, and while he danced out beyond the shamblers to shred them with transformed aetheric energy, Angevin reloaded his pistol using touch alone. It was a good thing he used to practice in the dark to make sure he could do it with his eyes closed or in strange situations.

As soon as Albrecht returned to huddle behind the shields, he aimed carefully and landed a headshot on each of the remaining shamblers. They dropped, not quite dead.

"Eat the ward," he commanded, standing and reloading once more. Tethered where it was, he could step around from behind it to stand over the spasming shamblers. Looking down on them, he sneered in disgust. For a moment, he saw a Rathari and an elf, but that was just a trick of memory. He shot each one in what seemed to be their most vital remaining spots, and watched, waiting for the twitching to cease.

Curious, he pulled a flask out from his pocket. Not one to drink on the job, he poured it over the two corpses that hadn't been blasted properly by Albrecht's magic, then knelt to start little fires with a bit of flint and steel. The proof was high enough that the liquor caught and the ensuing stench made him quickly stand up and stumble backward.

"Fuck," he swore. "Just don't want them coming back to life. Never know with magical abominations."

He kicked one hard.

"You fucking stink!" he yelled at it. Then he kicked it again. And again. After a battle, he usually felt elated—the thrill of survival or the urge to fuck, the body wanting to remind itself that it survived. It lived. It needed to ensure that the race did as well. Today he felt only rage and he kept kicking the smoldering corpse.

[Florian]

Florian did not immediately start siphoning the wards. He sat on his heels and caught his breath. The exhaustion customary to such rampant use of his magic was already taking its toll, though, and he had to metabolize some of aether available to him if he wanted to keep going. His hand reached out and he began absorbing the ward from the center. He did think it was funny how Eitan had referred to the action as "eating" the ward, though, because it was almost exactly what he was going to do with it. With the aether, and a bit of concentration, the fatigue washed away, like a healthy dose of caffeine in the morning.

The smell of burning fleshe only replaced the smell of rotting plants, and Florian wrinkled his nose in disgust. He still crouched where the ward had once been, but now he watched Eitan curiously. The first few kicks had seemed almost a normal reaction, but now it seemed he had frustration to get out by way of violence. Florian could understand, even empathize with the feeling, but he felt the need to check in with him anyway.

"I think it's dead, Eitan." he called out with a chuckle. "But by all means, take out your anger on the thing." It was better than what Florian did, at least. Sometimes he bottled up his feelings, only to just break down in private. Though the short time that they had known each other, Eitan had learned enough about his moods that he managed to toe the line between aggravating and genuinely angering.

"What should we do now?" He stood up and brushed himself off, newly refreshed and with some aether leftover to boot. As much as he didn't want to get closer to the burnt corpses of the shamblers, he still took a few steps towards Eitan.

[Eitan Angevin]

The kicking ceased abruptly. With most of the light coming from the strange, phosphorescent growths on the walls, his shape looked strange limned by the ruddy light of his funereal pyres. His head was dropped, staring at them. His shoulders moved with his breath. His hands clenched into fists. Finally, he turned, and it seemed in that strange light that his eyes had been replaced by black shadow.

"What did you say to me?" he asked, voice deadly quiet.

Behind him, unnoticed, the fires seemed to decide that the corpses were decent meals and they began to give off an oily smoke as fat burned along with skin and muscle off of the bones of the misshapen creatures.

Behind him, unnoticed, something out of a childhood nightmare began to creep from around the corner of another branch off the cavern. Its eyes were fire, but they did not illuminate. Its face was hidden in the darkness of a cowl, the robe hanging from it as it drifted rather than walked out, silent, drawn perhaps to the fires or to the violence or to the...

Then it was looking at Albrecht.

...rage.

Did he feel it? Angevin certainly did. Rage at these monsters that threatened his home. Rage at the monsters that wore fine clothes and pretty makeup. Rage at the mages and at the races and at every injustice ever done to him. Rage against his own mongrel blood. And rage against Albrecht, or so it would seem. He didn't appreciate the effort Angevin put into him. He just fought him. He just complained. He just seduced him, tried to control him. Child of Ash and ember.

He holstered his gun. As he began to walk toward Albrecht with slow, predatory grace, he drew his dagger, his mage-killer.

"What should we do now?" he asked. Perhaps he was mocking the question. Perhaps it was rhetorical.

[Florian]

It was not the first time a dagger had been drawn on him. His arms, his face, were testament enough to the fact. He didn't expect it from Eitan, though. If Eitan was going to kill him, he had expected other weapons. A dagger to kill mages, that seemed intent on absorbing the light of aether around it.

"What?" He said, aloud, and then he spoke more quietly. "What are you doing?" More than a few reasons had passed through his thoughts - Angevin was tired of him, he was told to kill him by the Order, Florian had fucked up a few too many times. But Florian didn't think he'd fucked up, and he couldn't imagine Eitan giving him a fighting chance if he was going to be killed. He still had some of the aether from the ward. Not a lot, but maybe enough.

He looked behind himself for a second as he backed up, and on the swing back, he saw the thing. The ugly, horrible, tattered thing thing. When he looked back at Eitan, he could see the anger on his face. What had he said about creatures that play on negative emotions? He didn't look between Eitan and the wraith for long. As it approached the burning corpses of the shamblers, the fires only seemed to grow. Florian coughed from the smoke and smell. But he wasn't angry. Maybe it was the fact that he had to spend every day surviving a world that did not want him in it, but defeating the shamblers was a cathartic experience. A time where he had control over the world and was allowed to exert it. It was rare he was allowed the chance.

If Eitan were unarmed, Florian knew he could beat him in a fight. But with a knife...he'd have to discharge the aether he still had. Behind him, he knew there was still some left in the dragonshards. Maybe it was smart that he had opted for speed instead of full consumption. Maybe it was smart that he had been in a good mood. He didn't want to hurt Eitan. Not for real. He bounced on his feet and glanced around, his approaching superior and the creature behind him still in the corner of his eye. If anything were going to play on emotions, he would immediately suspect it to look like that. Its sudden appearance and Eitan's change in mood had to be correlated.

But Florian didn't feel angry. He felt determined, he felt exhausted, he felt confused, but he didn't feel rage. "You want to fight, then?" He called out. He stopped backing up, and moved his feet into a familiar stance. He couldn't use his gun against Eitan. As soon as he got close enough, though, he would discharge the rest of the aether he held. It was enough to hurt, enough to shock, but not enough to kill or really damage. At least, he hoped. If he could shock Eitan, even just enough to disorient him for a moment, maybe he would be able to disarm him. If the dagger was truly edged with something with so dire a name as magebane, perhaps it could disrupt whatever magical connection the creature had with Angevin. The aetheric tether between the two of them was clear enough an indication to him that magic was involved.

[Eitan Angevin]

Angevin continued to advance, his face a contorted rictus of hate. Behind him, the rage wraith almost seemed like a child emerging from their room on the day of their naming, anticipating gifts and cake and other reasons for celebration. The flames rose higher, catching the other shambler corpses, hungry and consuming. It was the setting of a nightmare—fire, corpses, monsters, and the person one ought to be able to trust coming with a mage-slaying blade and a thirst for blood.

The approach was slow, whether to draw out the dark anticipation or because he could barely control the rage inside him. In fact, he wasn't controlling it, though perhaps a part of him was attempting to mitigate it. Just before he was close enough to strike, Albrecht's defense kicked in, enough to knock him back and knock him down, enough to shake the overpowering emotion enough for him to push through it.

He looked up and instead of some demonic version of Albrecht, he saw the thing. Seeing it, he could now discern its presence inside him, a sickening, corrupting influence. It was close now, looming over him, but it didn't threaten; it coaxed. He could feel the rage rising up in him from that dark place that he had labeled Dratori filth and pushed down as hard as he could his whole life. The rage came, but he directed it at the proper target and his scream was far too primal for a high society party as he shoved the magebane blade into the thing's chest.

An unholy, psychic scream tore through their minds as it reeled back.

"Kill it!" he screamed and then ducked lest Albrecht's attack take out him as well. It wasn't the most heroic of actions, but he wasn't trying to be a martyr down here where it wouldn't matter.

[Florian]

Shit. He had used the last of the foreign aether stored to shock Eitan, but he didn't know that. And now it was up to him to kill the thing. He knew, on a technical level, that he could still do it. He didn't really have a choice, and he didn't really have a chance to go sucking up more aether from dragonshards. Eitan seemed to have managed to pull himself together and disable the thing, but his magic wasn't good for killing like this.

Florian approached the creature as it clawed at the dagger in its chest with a hand both skeletal and ghastly. He summoned the aether from inside him, a wellspring that refused to be tapped without repercussions. A part of the Lysanrin curse. He managed, and he shocked the wraith with a burst of electricity that only further fueled the fires surrounding him. The specter fell to the ground as dust, the magebane dagger with it.

Blood leaked out of his nose and his ears and his mouth, and cramps wracked his body. It was far more a violent reaction than he had expected. The fires died down as the wraith did, but the acrid smoke was overwhelming and Florian could barely see between his splitting headache and the obscuring ash. He managed to retrieve the dagger despite this, the aether-void of the thing visible to him, and he stumbled back towards where Eitan had hid. He didn't have the energy to keep seeing the aether around him, and his eyes washed from silver to black. Though Eitan may have associated such a color with his anger, he was not angry. He wasn't even angry at Eitan, as much as he should've been for becoming the target of his sudden bloodlust.

"Can we go home now?" He spoke quietly and with great effort, the dagger held out for Eitan to take.

[Eitan Angevin]

The wraith died if such a thing was to be considered alive. Angevin had read differing accounts; some experts considered them undead while others considered them products of the Dread Mists or some other perversion of the aether. In any case, he felt its influence dissipate within him, even though he could still feel the pollution of it within. The rage remained, though it was hamstrung, listing about with no target. Not Albrecht, he told it in no uncertain terms, trying to regain control of it if he couldn't banish it entirely.

Albrecht was there then, looking the worse for wear, his eyes black but not reflecting any rage himself. He snatched the dagger away from him, not because he had done anything wrong, but because he oughtn't to have let go of it. Cleaning it on his trouser leg, he sheathed it.

"Here," he said gruffly, spinning a bit of his aether out as if he were going to form an anchor, though he didn't bother with too much form since he just wanted the Lysanrin to eat it. He wanted to say you look like shit, but he didn't trust his words right then. And so terse and to the point is what Albrecht got, though clearly his commanding officer was still concerned with his well-being or he wouldn't have bothered at all.

With that transaction complete, he struggled to his feet. The emotional toll was wearing on his physical strength. It was definitely time to leave. He pulled Albrecht up and slipped his arm around his back to keep him afoot. Better that than let him soldier on only to have to carry him when he fell. But for all the support he offered, his body had a rigidity to it, and there were invisible walls up within him now.

"Now we can go."

[Florian]

Florian reached his hand out and stole the aether from the ward that he made. He didn't bother to look at it, but it was enough to stave off exhaustion for the time it would take them to leave. As worse for wear as he looked, he was still able to walk, especially with the extra support offered by Eitan. While Florian seemed to be the target of his rage, however brief, he wondered how easily Eitan could normally be tipped to that point. The vision of Eitan's slow approach with the dagger in hand was enough to start eroding their already shaky foundations of trust. It was one thing to know that something could happen, but it was another to be faced with it directly. Maybe he wholly expected Eitan to kill him one day, but not so soon. He walked a bit in silence while his nose bled profusely for the next few minutes. But eventually it let up, and while he pushed through the pain the rest of his body insisted upon, he found the energy to speak.

"I'm sorry for shocking you." The apology almost felt absurd, because he was only defending himself. He gave a strained chuckle. "I don't think I'm ready for you to kill me yet." Really, he didn't know how to approach what had happened at all, and he tried to defuse it with morbid humor. If anyone were to be consumed by rage, he expected it to be himself. Eitan must have been better at keeping such feelings under wraps, and maybe his bottling of that was why he'd been so susceptible. It was distinctly uncomfortable to know that at least some of it had been directed at him.

"This is what happens when I don't have any aether stored. My body really does not want me to use my own."