[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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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?]