[This is precisely the answer he was hoping for. Vergilius is too prideful a man, to stubborn of an old dog to relent and accept his death without a proper fight. Lobelia wouldn't adore him as he does if he were the type to give in, now would he?
Stepping back, Lobelia's eyes study Vergilius' movementsβ muscles pulled taut beneath his slacks, preparing to lunge, and Lobelia jerks to the side to avoid his assault. At the same time, he snaps his fingers, the attack meant for Vergilius instead pulverizing one of the nearby machines.
Fast, not not fast enough... Ah, how refreshing. Lobelia's prior opponents rarely put up a fight, so this will be a nice change of pace. When Vergilius settles nearby, Lobelia leaps back, up and onto a machine, and whistles again. This time, Vergilius will feel it in his upper arms, the sudden stinging ache of muscle and bone as if a solid steel frame slammed into them head on.]
Sound can't be easily dodged, Mon amour! Give up while you're still ahead!
[Could he kill Vergilius in an instant if he wanted to? Not with his strength lessoned as it has been, but he could certainly concuss him, shatter his bones one by one. The fact that he isn't suggests Lobelia wants to draw this out as long as possible. Wants to enjoy playing with his prey like a cat with a cornered rat.]
[happy pride month on this day where a man keeps calling another man "my love" while trying to kill him]
[When he lands, it's like a thunder clap of sound, his foot cracking through the floor in a crunch of a crater that makes pieces of tile scatter. He heard the machine behind him crumple. Lobelia could easily do that to him, he thinks, but obviously, if he wanted to get this done and over with, he would do so already.]
[The pain flinches through his arms - he bites back a low noise. If the pain was mean to dissuade him, it only makes his blood boil further, and he shrugs it off despite the ache. He's been through worse.]
How pathetic.
[An average man would be a bit debilitated. Vergilius lets the pain sing in his muscles like a song as he reaches with his free hand to crunch his hand into the edge of a nearby laundry machine, before pitching it forward with speeds a baseball pitcher would cry at - the appliance flies directly at Lobelia's head, but Vergilius isn't going to sit pretty, letting his gladius heat up as he anticipates a dodge, moving to try to intercept the man with a burning swing to attempt at a hit.]
[What nerve, calling him pathetic. Lobelia's eating it right up, alight with laughter and watching Vergilius' every move with the heightened focus of a predatory animal. It takes some maneuvering to avoid Vergilius' attack, snapping his fingers to halt the path of that crumpled machine and send it hurtling through the ceiling instead. As with all things, what goes up must come tumbling down.
Vergilius might want to watch his head and reconsider swinging at him, but regardless, Lobelia can feel the flames lapping at him, a cut from the blade's edge gracing his cheek. If he isn't careful, if he lets his focus slip even once, he'll swiftly meet his end. They both will.]
That won't do, Vergilius! That won't do at allβ!
[Lobelia whistles, every bit of metal surrounding them humming in unison, their pitch rapidly escalating into full on metallic screams. Vergilius may want to cover his ears if he has any intention of retaining his hearing, not that he'll need it for much longer. More than that, the pounding waves of sound are downright nauseating, the pressure only multiplying when Lobelia withdraws his fingers from his mouth and snaps them instead, concentrating those soundwaves into the arm Vergilius is wielding his blade with.]
[Lobelia's ability are something to behold - perhaps even in the City, as vicious as it is, he might be able to hold his own for a long time. It would be admirable in its own way, if it wasn't all directed at him.]
[The way the other snaps and moves, like he's directing players on a stage, is something that eats more at Vergilius than even the actual attack. As if this isn't entirely serious. There shouldn't be laughter. This isn't a game.]
[If this is a fight to hell, it should be a fight, right? He deserves nothing less.]
[But he can already sense what is to come, as the man manages to dodge, lips pursed. Another whistle. Another amount of destruction to come.]
Tch.
[A mere click of the tongue - and damn, he hopes its loud enough for Lobelia to hear - before he feels the fibers of his augmented body burning. The whistle blows. He's already moving, even as his ears are burning, his stomach churning with the sound shaking into his being, his flesh, his bones. Vergilius shoots up like a rocket, gladius burning and held forward as he crashes out through the roof from the force of the jump. It crumbles like its made of paper, pieces flying through the air.]
[His arm hurts - he realizes it dimly, even as the scent of blood suddenly comes like a sudden wind as he continues to move above from the force of his jump. Something wet, crimson and hot is dripping from his eyes, something piercing along his forehead. Pain is only the beginning. He switches the weapon to his other hand easily to give it a break from the aching deep within, even as something starts to manifest, like a red aura, around his shoulders.]
[Now, he'll see if Lobelia will give chase to his beloved guide.]
[Oh, but of course he can hear Vergilius click his tongue in opposition to him. Of course he can. No matter how loud or cacophonous the onslaught, he only has ears for his love, and that much remains true even as the roof groans and cedes to the sheer oppressive force of everything that is Vergilius.
The sight of him rising like an angel, like a savior dripping blood from a thorned crown, enlivens Lobelia. Thrills him in a way he couldn't possibly put into words. His guiding light rises up, lurid red dripping from his eyes, and he doesn't need to be told to follow.
Not once had he needed to be told to chase after Vergilius, linoleum and metal crumpling beneath his feet as he propels himself up through that gaping hole in the ceiling in hot pursuit of his ange de la mort.
Still, Lobelia's assault doesn't let up. Guide him as you will, Vergilius, but you'll be contending with the rain of blows Lobelia calls down with every step. His arms, his legs, his torso. Whatever he can hit, whatever he can chip away at, is his target.]
[The form Vergilius manifests, with the roiling, raging flow of blood, is almost like that of a warrior. Perhaps he is indeed an angel. He will take Lobelia into his open arms, embrace him, and use his divine sword to banish him to hell as the sinner he is. His own dull heart, so kept under lock and key, isn't even free of the excitement that fills the air.]
[How odd, how very odd. He doesn't have ears like Lobelia does, but he almost swears that he can feel their hearts beating in tandem as the other jumps after him to clash with him in the air.]
[The blood of his new mantle billows like flame - the man attempts to hit, but it reacts in turn like limbs of their own, parrying instinctively. His gladius still is held high, no weaker even by being held by his other hand, as he slashes and strikes where he can. His mouth is open in a snarl, his eyes blazing. There's no restraint. If he can tear into the other man, he will. The wolf no longer has its muzzle.]
[What comes up must come down, though, and gravity starts to shift him down, even as he's turning to launch a heavy, horrid kick at the other's abdomen to try to bring him to the ground first.]
[Brilliant, dazzling, divine. He was right to consider this man his angel of death, his blade burning hotter than the flames of hell, those bloody tendrils effortlessly parrying his every attack. This is Vergilius' true form, isn't it? How lovely he is, done up in so much blood, and Lobelia wants to imagine it's from each and every life he's taken, siphoned from their bodies and forged into something lovely to behold.
Lobelia is forced to take a more defensive position, snaps and whistles catching that blade before it can cleave into his shoulder, the weight of soundwaves slowing its advance to a crawl. The blade still manages to tear into his flesh, but it's nothing that will slow him downβ a mere inconvenience, and Lobelia is certain he'll suffer his fair share of those.
He's spoke too soon, clearly, when audiomancy alone is not enough to stop the trajectory of that kick. It's enough to lessen his impact, kicked to the sandy stretch below and cushioning his fall with waves of pressurized noise, the first gaping crater of many to dot the beach.
Propelling himself back upward β and forwards β Lobelia snaps, aims to blow up as many of those bloody tendrils as he can while kiting the shoreline. There has to be a limit to such a power, Lobelia thinks, and that's just as well. This old man can manage to last long enough to satisfy him, can't he?]
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Stepping back, Lobelia's eyes study Vergilius' movementsβ muscles pulled taut beneath his slacks, preparing to lunge, and Lobelia jerks to the side to avoid his assault. At the same time, he snaps his fingers, the attack meant for Vergilius instead pulverizing one of the nearby machines.
Fast, not not fast enough... Ah, how refreshing. Lobelia's prior opponents rarely put up a fight, so this will be a nice change of pace. When Vergilius settles nearby, Lobelia leaps back, up and onto a machine, and whistles again. This time, Vergilius will feel it in his upper arms, the sudden stinging ache of muscle and bone as if a solid steel frame slammed into them head on.]
Sound can't be easily dodged, Mon amour! Give up while you're still ahead!
[Could he kill Vergilius in an instant if he wanted to? Not with his strength lessoned as it has been, but he could certainly concuss him, shatter his bones one by one. The fact that he isn't suggests Lobelia wants to draw this out as long as possible. Wants to enjoy playing with his prey like a cat with a cornered rat.]
no subject
happy pride month on this day where a man keeps calling another man "my love" while trying to kill him][When he lands, it's like a thunder clap of sound, his foot cracking through the floor in a crunch of a crater that makes pieces of tile scatter. He heard the machine behind him crumple. Lobelia could easily do that to him, he thinks, but obviously, if he wanted to get this done and over with, he would do so already.]
[The pain flinches through his arms - he bites back a low noise. If the pain was mean to dissuade him, it only makes his blood boil further, and he shrugs it off despite the ache. He's been through worse.]
How pathetic.
[An average man would be a bit debilitated. Vergilius lets the pain sing in his muscles like a song as he reaches with his free hand to crunch his hand into the edge of a nearby laundry machine, before pitching it forward with speeds a baseball pitcher would cry at - the appliance flies directly at Lobelia's head, but Vergilius isn't going to sit pretty, letting his gladius heat up as he anticipates a dodge, moving to try to intercept the man with a burning swing to attempt at a hit.]
no subject
Vergilius might want to watch his head and reconsider swinging at him, but regardless, Lobelia can feel the flames lapping at him, a cut from the blade's edge gracing his cheek. If he isn't careful, if he lets his focus slip even once, he'll swiftly meet his end. They both will.]
That won't do, Vergilius! That won't do at allβ!
[Lobelia whistles, every bit of metal surrounding them humming in unison, their pitch rapidly escalating into full on metallic screams. Vergilius may want to cover his ears if he has any intention of retaining his hearing, not that he'll need it for much longer. More than that, the pounding waves of sound are downright nauseating, the pressure only multiplying when Lobelia withdraws his fingers from his mouth and snaps them instead, concentrating those soundwaves into the arm Vergilius is wielding his blade with.]
no subject
[The way the other snaps and moves, like he's directing players on a stage, is something that eats more at Vergilius than even the actual attack. As if this isn't entirely serious. There shouldn't be laughter. This isn't a game.]
[If this is a fight to hell, it should be a fight, right? He deserves nothing less.]
[But he can already sense what is to come, as the man manages to dodge, lips pursed. Another whistle. Another amount of destruction to come.]
Tch.
[A mere click of the tongue - and damn, he hopes its loud enough for Lobelia to hear - before he feels the fibers of his augmented body burning. The whistle blows. He's already moving, even as his ears are burning, his stomach churning with the sound shaking into his being, his flesh, his bones. Vergilius shoots up like a rocket, gladius burning and held forward as he crashes out through the roof from the force of the jump. It crumbles like its made of paper, pieces flying through the air.]
[His arm hurts - he realizes it dimly, even as the scent of blood suddenly comes like a sudden wind as he continues to move above from the force of his jump. Something wet, crimson and hot is dripping from his eyes, something piercing along his forehead. Pain is only the beginning. He switches the weapon to his other hand easily to give it a break from the aching deep within, even as something starts to manifest, like a red aura, around his shoulders.]
[Now, he'll see if Lobelia will give chase to his beloved guide.]
[He needs him to lead down the path, after all.]
no subject
The sight of him rising like an angel, like a savior dripping blood from a thorned crown, enlivens Lobelia. Thrills him in a way he couldn't possibly put into words. His guiding light rises up, lurid red dripping from his eyes, and he doesn't need to be told to follow.
Not once had he needed to be told to chase after Vergilius, linoleum and metal crumpling beneath his feet as he propels himself up through that gaping hole in the ceiling in hot pursuit of his ange de la mort.
Still, Lobelia's assault doesn't let up. Guide him as you will, Vergilius, but you'll be contending with the rain of blows Lobelia calls down with every step. His arms, his legs, his torso. Whatever he can hit, whatever he can chip away at, is his target.]
no subject
[How odd, how very odd. He doesn't have ears like Lobelia does, but he almost swears that he can feel their hearts beating in tandem as the other jumps after him to clash with him in the air.]
[The blood of his new mantle billows like flame - the man attempts to hit, but it reacts in turn like limbs of their own, parrying instinctively. His gladius still is held high, no weaker even by being held by his other hand, as he slashes and strikes where he can. His mouth is open in a snarl, his eyes blazing. There's no restraint. If he can tear into the other man, he will. The wolf no longer has its muzzle.]
[What comes up must come down, though, and gravity starts to shift him down, even as he's turning to launch a heavy, horrid kick at the other's abdomen to try to bring him to the ground first.]
no subject
Lobelia is forced to take a more defensive position, snaps and whistles catching that blade before it can cleave into his shoulder, the weight of soundwaves slowing its advance to a crawl. The blade still manages to tear into his flesh, but it's nothing that will slow him downβ a mere inconvenience, and Lobelia is certain he'll suffer his fair share of those.
He's spoke too soon, clearly, when audiomancy alone is not enough to stop the trajectory of that kick. It's enough to lessen his impact, kicked to the sandy stretch below and cushioning his fall with waves of pressurized noise, the first gaping crater of many to dot the beach.
Propelling himself back upward β and forwards β Lobelia snaps, aims to blow up as many of those bloody tendrils as he can while kiting the shoreline. There has to be a limit to such a power, Lobelia thinks, and that's just as well. This old man can manage to last long enough to satisfy him, can't he?]