aungier | "All that we see or seem..."

Date: November 4th, 1888
Time: 12:30 AM
Location: Second floor hallway
Characters: Warsman and ultimately Robin Mask, but also open to everyone! [OPEN/~~CLOSED~~]

Summary: Warsman reacts less than positively to the fungus' spores and finds himself overwhelmed by paranoia in the hallway, taking it out (aggressively) on those around him- including the one person he trusts more than anyone.
Warnings: Event-related horror, violence.

In the hallway, Warsman staggered.

The fear beat against his skull in a brass knuckle one-two, and in between the thuds he could feel his own heart kicking at his throat like a frightened horse. His head had been a dreamy hurricane of stranger's faces and jeering voices only a few minutes before but now he wasn't sure if he'd even opened his eyes at all. What time was it, even? Deep down, he knew he was at Aungier House- he knew he was in the hallway- he knew he was by his bedroom--

But there were so many shadows, so many dark gaps in his vision for things to hide in while he was distracted, and he'd seen so many things in his dreams... he'd spent so many years wrestling (boxing) that it seemed inconceivable to imagine a world like the one he found himself in now that wasn't about to turn on him. More alarmingly, he felt slow and stupid, as though he'd been drugged, and that thought only frightened him all the more; he hadn't had a sensible thought since he'd awoken. If he'd awoken.

He fell drunkenly against a wall with tendrils at his back, but his senses were almost totally self-absorbed. All he could hear was the harsh, shallow sound of his own breathing, that metal ko... ho... sigh that seemed to haunt him day and night and that now commanded his full attention in its inhumanity. But if all he could hear was himself, didn't that mean that just about anything could creep up on him? And with the state he was in, he was perfectly, painfully vulnerable.

Something flickered in the corner of his vision. Warsman's eyes flared a searing red through the darkness and he rounded on it fiercely, fists raised. "Show yourself-!" His voice cracked like old china.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lancer too stumbles through the house, half fatigued and half wanting to tear something apart. He has to get to his mistress, but he doesn't know if she's even here. After all, this entire place might just be a dream.

He stops in his tracks when he hears a voice. Unlike the whispered snatches or general clamor ringing at his ears, this one is clear, though strangely echoing.

"How about you come out first? Unless you're an Assassin, you shouldn't hide in the shadows like some coward!"

For the moment, he doesn't even notice the inconsistency in his own speech.

The filaments underfoot deaden any approaching footsteps, but there's no mistaking the crack of a second voice through the hallway; Warsman's nerves are jangled enough that he looks up with a hissing intake of breath, fists jerking defensively into a striking position.

"Where are you?" He's dizzy enough now, trying to focus on every corner of the hallway at once, that he barely even realises he's slipping into Russian until it's too late. But language barely even matters when he's potentially in danger. Spying a humanoid shape nearby, he takes a few threatening steps forward, eyes burning. "Don't make me hurt you...!" And doesn't want to hurt anyone, but...

Lancer's body tenses. He starts to give off a quiet, bestial growl. He has no compunctions about fighting back against anyone who might attack him.

"Hurt me? As if you could!"

He starts advancing toward one of the shapes fluttering at the corners of his eyes. Hopefully, it would be the right shape.

The growl splits into three distinct voices of varying pitches and Warsman claps a hand to his head with a thin gasp. His fingers find feathery blond hair and it occurs him him vaguely that he's left his helmet behind, and that his head is worryingly exposed, but there's no helping that now.

The figure lurches towards him, and before he can stop himself he's narrowing the gap between them. "D-don't say I didn't warn you!" Russian again, but it's hard to care when he's moving into seize the figure in a rib-crushing bear-hug.

Lancer can't tell what is charging at him, screaming sounds that couldn't possibly come from a human mouth. But he can tell it's dangerous. He quickly ducks to the ground and lashes out with a kick aimed to the charging monster's legs.

The sweep seems to come almost from nowhere, kicking out from blotchy shadow, but as Warsman staggers and falls he sees his opponent close up in one bewildering flash of eyes and teeth and hands- and throws his arms out, trying to drag him down with him with his own immense weight. Assuming, of course, that the glimpse he's seen isn't simply part of a whole far greater than himself.

Lancer hasn't regained his balance yet, so even though he tries to back away from the monster, it still crash lands on him with its greater mass.

"Fuck!"

That exclamation was in Old Gaelic, but not like he notices.

The two of them are knocked clumsily to the floor and Warsman is about to drag the creature into some sort of lock- if, indeed, it has arms to lock- when their struggles reveal a curious fact. His vision may still be wavering too badly for him to make much sense of his opponent, but he can feel perfectly well and the body beneath his is distinctly human. Not only that, but it's a lot smaller and leaner than he is- strong, yes, but not monstrous.

Warsman hesitates, disarmed and loosening his grip before he even realises it. "Who are you?!" he spits out again, and this time his voice is edged with concern as well.

It's a massive shock when the monster pulls off of him. Enough that he also stops moving and actually listens.

"You can call me Lancer, if that means anything to you."

His body is still tense. He's ready to strike out at the monster if need be.

"Lancer...?" It's not a name he'd readily associate with a terror of the night, and now that he's calming down Warsman finally finds himself wondering if he'd really be speaking to him at all if he were going to tear his throat out in the next fifteen seconds.

He's still ready to throw a punch if need be, of course, and he's more than willing to crush him if he has to... but something calmer and more reasonable than anything he's felt so far tells him that he won't have to. "... I'm sorry. I don't know the name." A beat. "Warsman. I'm Warsman, that is."

"Wars...man."

His head is swimming. It's hard for him to think. But he knows he should have heard of the name from somewhere, even if he didn't know the person.

"W-what happened to you?"

It's possibly a well-meaning question, but it instills a blood-chilling jolt of panic in him and he jerks back, eyes glowing red in his fear.

"What do you mean? What did happen to me?" Before Warsman can stop himself he's feeling for Lancer's shoulders, just barely highlighted by mushrooms, seizing them in a vice-grip that makes for quite the counterpoint to his trembling. "What do you see?!" He can barely see his own hands in the dark; how does he know they haven't warped and twisted while he was distracted?

He winces as he feels the grip on his shoulder. One of his hands goes to grip Warsman's wrist. To his surprise, it feels rather...human.

"Look at you! You look like some sort of monster! Some sort of...blob!"

"All that we see or seem..." - November 4th, 1888

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