lifeaftr | Who Is In Control?

Who: Foster van Denend and ~~Crabbytz~~ Kravitz HatesFun
What: Who hates necromancy? Kravitz hates necromancy!
When: September 21st
Where: Nuidan I6
Warnings: Undeath and necromancy, physical violence, Foster.. more may be added as they come up.

In a way, the scene is almost pastoral.

The far edge of the island is... beautiful. The mile leading to the ocean's edge is covered in windblown apples, plums, peaches, and more; the air is sweet and heavy with it, the sun streaming gold through the orchard to paint everything beneath the trees dappled with its light. As you emerge from the trees, it grows a bit colder, a bit brisker, but those streams of golden light keep things warm enough to be bracing rather than icy.

And out of the earth grow thick tangles of thorns, holding a bright and tempting bounty...

Raspberries.

Which Foster is using his unfeeling, mindless corpse-puppet to gather, because it's fiddly work that requires both dexterity and patience--two things he decidedly lacks. The catlike undead has no eyes, and so cannot 'see' the berries, but sharing Foster's field of vision when in this close proximity--well, he's just directing it with his mind to do as he would, but without any of the stress or frustration of doing it himself. Honestly, it's the most mundane, menial use of a human corpse possible. Berry-picking.

He can't see anything to get upset about in that.

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Truly, he barely has any energy left. The portaling, the hit, the strength it took to repel the corpse and the blood drying on his legs from where it connected are all proof of that. But the fact that Foster can still find words in all this, find one more realm of defiance, makes his blood boil. Even though he can't fly properly anymore- nor can he construct bodies to enhance his own ability- Foster doesn't need to know any of that. He grits his teeth between pain and exertion and the book disappears in front of him, as does the scythe. In a matter of seconds, he telekineticly lifts his own body, just enough to make it up to Foster's face, and slaps him right across the cheek with the back of his hand.

"I. Have had it up to here--" He even takes the time to put his hand above his head on the good side of his body, for emphasis. "--With your shenanigans today. There is one law, if I can help it, and it is not to disturb the dead. You have made a mockery of that singular rule in a place already lax about the deceased."

He's breathing more heavily than he probably needs to, the face of a man who should not start another fight and is yet prepared to. "So you will never do this again. And I will take you to the Storyteller, right now, for judgement."

Kravitz backs up with a huff, lowering himself towards the ground but looking no less intimidating than when he started. "How. Do. You. Plead."

Don't disturb the dead, Kravitz says. Well, color this second dead guy seriously disturbed. He'd trade every single story he's earned so far for a pair of gloves right now.

...And perhaps something to block out the smell, too.

With the head retrieved, he kneels beside the rest of the corpse, somewhat more off balance than usual. Put a nice thick blanket on his list of things he needs and doesn't have. Seeing the mess up close has him shooting another glare Foster's way. His thoughts are mirroring Kravitz's, unbeknownst to any of them. What does it take? Have some sense. Just accept, plead guilty, and let them get on with the burial.

Foster was wholly unprepared for it--it's not the hardest slap he's ever received (that accolade goes to his super strong vampire girlfriend), but it's enough to hurt, and keep hurting well after Kravitz is back on the ground. There's that second of shock, too, and that presses him into silence, at least temporarily.

The sensations that follow--of fractured bewilderment because his question was completely serious and reverent ecstasy at the moment of sincere rage Kravitz honoured him with--are not exactly visible on his face, especially once Kravitz repositions himself and commands Foster to order.

Foster's expression sobers, even as his heart is actually racing--fast enough to leave him nauseous now--and he answers through a lightheaded mix of dismay and euphoria.

".... guilty."

Maybe thankfully for this whole party, Kravitz is too blisteringly angry to notice that Foster may be enjoying this in some capacity. He's also too used to dealing with corpses for the rot nearby and on him to truly bother his senses, though it's unfortunate that he'll have to clean this himself this time. Still, he keeps his scythe by his side as he tilts his head, not letting Foster out of view, to address Hector.

"I'm going to bring him to the Storyteller's temple, and then I'll be back. You do not need to stay here, but... I would appreciate it, if you did." He isn't supposed to allow mortals to help with his work, could be dangerous having them involved. But he's not the reaper he wants to be, and he's going to need a hand before this is all over, so the least he can do is not drag someone else into it. Kravitz turns back to Foster, using his scythe to point to the Mana Pool.

"Go on. We're going back to Ensö."

"Go on, don't worry. I won't go anywhere."

Just tell yourself he's not exactly a mortal anymore, Kravitz. He eases himself down, sitting in the dirt and settling in to wait.

"...maybe you should bring back some blankets too."

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