Shame.
Resentment.
It had been long since Bazren felt this way. Her inner child provoked into a reaction that she deemed to be beneath her. But this woman really, really got under her nerves.
What was worse, was that she had spared her. Why...?
Why did she let her live? What is there to spare in someone so...
... Hateful?
Just by looking at her eyes, you could see it.
Unlike Bazren, there was no remorse. She wasn't sorry for antagonizing her. If anything, the only thing she was sorry for was not being strong enough to crush them under her boot and carry on, as if they'd never crossed paths.
And yet in those eyes, she saw something familiar. Perhaps it was this familiarity that tipped the scales into letting her live. A familiarity that clashed violently with the woman's otherwise dangerous, callous demeanour, making Bazren's non-existent blood boil hotter than she'd like.
Xayn let out a long, grating sigh, his gaze dropping briefly to the spreading black corruption marring his own shattered vambrace, the viscous void-stuff seeming to pulse faintly against the dull metal and decaying flesh. The sight appeared to crystallize his focus.
He turned his attention to Bazren, the blue light in his eyes steady, analytical.
Xayn: "Before this escalates further... Bazren. Your injuries. How severe?"
The abrupt shift in focus startled Bazren. Her fierce glare softened slightly, turning inward as she assessed her ravaged form. She ran a hand lightly over the jagged wound in her side -- the half-gaping cavity Mola's void-infused spike had carved clean through her torso. Unlike the other, cleaner injuries already knitting shut with unnatural speed since her reawakening, this one remained stubbornly open. The pale, undead flesh surrounding it was stained and creeping with the same black, tar-like substance that marked Xayn's wounds, actively resisting her regenerative powers, clinging like a virulent parasite.
Bazren: "Save for the present our new friend Mola decided to give me when she stabbed me end to end... Seems fine to me. Let's see."
She held the severed section of her torso against the corresponding wound, concentrating, willing the rotten tissues to reconnect. A slow, hesitant shiver ran through her undead flesh. Tendrils of tissue tried to knit across the void, reaching like desperate fingers, but the blackened edges recoiled, struggling against the encroaching void-stain corrupting both the severed piece and her main body. Despite the difficulty, a painful, sluggish reattachment began, the severed half begrudgingly binding itself back to her form with a sickening, wet sound.
Bazren: "That doesn't feel quite *right*... How're yours holding up?"
Xayn lowered his gaze, a grim cast settling over his skeletal features. He gestured wordlessly to the large, spreading black splotches marring his dark plate armour and the exposed, ashen-grey skin beneath. The void-taint pulsed faintly, a subtle, malevolent energy visibly eating away at his form, dissolving the very essence of his undeath.
Xayn: "... Not much better."
Bazren's breath hitched, a flicker of genuine alarm showing through her bravado.
Bazren: "Ack... Gross. Best we get this off -- *now*. What's the holdup here?"
Xayn: "That's the thing -- there's no getting it off. It's slowly spreading, destroying bone and tissue... Without help, it's only a matter of time until our vessels are entirely consumed."
A small, dry chuckle escaped Bazren's lips, utterly devoid of humour.
Bazren: "W-what do you mean 'there's no getting it off'? Ask that cranky hag to get it off us already, she's the one to blame for this!"
Mola's eyes narrowed to furious slits. The casual cruelty in Bazren's words, coupled with the lingering humiliation of her own recent transformation and defeat, seemed to snap the last thread of her composure. Her face contorted with a sudden, incandescent rage.
Mola: "Well, the 'cranky hag' *can't*. I've tried, it's stuck and well stuck. Seems like it loves your decaying bodies... But don't go throwing another one of your fits just yet. My master can help, I'm sure of it. Just keep your mouth shut 'til we get there, before I do something I regret."
Bazren sneered, unconvinced, prodding the newly, imperfectly reattached section of her torso gingerly.
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Bazren: "Your 'master'? If she's as friendly as you are towards us, all the help we'll get's a kick in the arse... And that's if we're lucky."
Xayn shook his head slowly, a weariness etched into his bone structure that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. This bickering was a luxury they couldn't afford, a dangerous drain on dwindling time and focus.
Mola: "Alright. Fuck this."
Mola stopped in her tracks, whirling around to face them fully, her breath coming in sharp, angry bursts.
Mola: "I'm going to lay the cards on the damn table, because clearly you two are too fucking *stupid* to realize who you're talking to..."
She pointed an accusing finger at the shriveled, desiccated dagger bumping against Xayn's hip. Its tiny tendrils twitched, a faint echo of its previous monstrous life.
Mola: "... That dagger? Guess what, it's actually --"
Xayn's movement was swift, silencing. In two quick strides, he closed the distance, his gaunt hand clamping firmly over Mola's mouth, cutting off her words mid-sentence.
Xayn: "Now now! Let's *all* take a deep breath, before we say something we *regret*..."
Bazren took a couple of steps forward, her posture tense, anticipating a reveal, a conflict. Her rose-colored eyes fixed on Xayn, narrowed in demand.
Bazren: "What are you doing?! Get your hand off her mouth... I want to hear what she was about to say!"
A low, heavy sigh escaped Xayn's lips. The enso-light in his eyes seemed to dim with frustration.
Xayn: "Oh, you're not alone. But some knowledge is best left buried, Bazren -- especially when the ground we stand on is already so unstable."
Bazren: "Fuck's gotten into you, Xayn?! I'm wiped out for a couple of hours and you're head over heels over this bitch or what?"
Mola wrenched her head back violently, tearing Xayn's hand away from her mouth with a disgusted gasp, gagging.
Mola: "UGH, DON'T EVER -- *EVER* DO THAT AGAIN!"
Xayn released her, his expression unchanging despite her fury.
Xayn: "Apologies... But you have to *listen*, both of you, please. Lest we meet our ends sooner than any of us would like."
Before Mola could retort, he cut her off, his voice steady, commanding attention despite its rasp.
Xayn: "Mola -- I think we both knew from the start you were being... *less than forthcoming* regarding the dagger. First, you attempted to pin its foul work on us, which by itself seemed rather suspicious, a convenient scapegoat falling into your lap... But then, an hour ago, these suspicions were all but confirmed."
He paused, his steady gaze pinning her.
Xayn: "When Bazren was still unconscious, you presented a narrative: your master sensed a disturbance, then sent you to investigate. You claimed it was then you stumbled upon us and the dagger, amidst the carnage. A tidy story. Except... "
He gestured subtly towards the twitching dagger at his hip.
Xayn: "... this artifact seemed to *know* you. It spoke of you. With venom. The so-called 'witch bitch'."
Mola flinched, almost imperceptibly, her gaze darting away towards the distant, indifferent hills, a flicker of guilt or perhaps fear crossing her features before being swiftly masked by renewed defiance.
Xayn: "It implored us to kill you, so that it could claim your body, your power. Now, does that sound like a first encounter, sorceress?"
Mola grit her teeth, refusing to meet his eyes, her silence a damning confession.
Bazren let out a harsh bark of laughter, sharp and triumphant.
Bazren: "HA! Fuck this conniving bitch Xayn, why are we wasting time with her still?! Let's kill her and be done with it...!"
Bazren's tone was sharp, predatory.
Xayn: "Kill her? You're the one who spared her, Bazren. Had you wanted to kill her, you could've done so the exact same moment you ripped the dagger from her body... Clearly, you had reasons to spare her, whatever they were. So, drop the act already."
Bazren didn't reply. She simply looked at Xayn, her rose-colored eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and resentment, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy in the air.
Xayn turned back to Mola, his voice regaining its measured tone.
Xayn: "My point is, we all clearly have things to hide. I'd say, that is *not* a problem by itself. I've told you this before, Mola: there are no saints among us. You think it was by chance that we were the only undead to claw our way back from Mortmundus...? I've no doubt you've faced your fair share of questionable choices and necessary evils -- well, so did we. As much as it may pain you to admit, we are more alike than our appearance would suggest."
Mola: "Don't try to sell me that crap -- I am *nothing* like you freaks!"
Her voice was sharp, recoiling from his words. Yet, there was still a faint, unsettling undertone to her defiance, a residual echo of the monstrous form she had briefly inhabited, suggesting a deeper, more complex link to forbidden power than she admitted. Her words trailed off near the end, as she seemed to catch herself, the instinctual, inhuman edge of her retort becoming momentarily apparent.
Xayn: "We are what we are. And whatever that is, quite frankly, is irrelevant to me."
He took two slow, deliberate steps closer to her, his unnerving presence demanding a reckoning.
Xayn: "Undead revenant or dark magic practitioner... Neither of us are in a position to be picky right now. We need your help --"
Bazren shouted, a visceral sound of protest, of being overridden.
Bazren: "XAYN!"
He turned to her, his own gaze sharp with frustration.
Xayn: "Bazren, please."
He turned back to Mola, pressing his point, his voice low and insistent.
Xayn: "But you *also* need ours. We each have plenty of cards left in our hand -- we each can make moves that would ensure our mutual destruction. It's easy to tear all we've built down, given the desperate state we're in. The real challenge is figuring out how we can all get what we want from this preferably, without *repercussions*, as you so put it."
Mola clenched her fists, her gaze locked on Xayn's face, weighing his words. Reluctantly, a muscle in her jaw twitched, a grudging nod of assent.
Mola: "... Hmph. You're making a worrying amount of sense, all of a sudden."
She turned around abruptly, resuming her walk, the argument seemingly concluded.
Mola: "Fine. Let's keep moving."
Bazren: "'Fine'? That's all you've got to say?!"
Bazren's voice was incredulous, laced with bitter frustration.
Xayn: "It's plenty, for now. Twist your arm a little, would you? Nobody gets to spare sacrificing something here -- either we all get out on top, or nobody does -- so start by sacrificing some of your pride, Bazren."
Bazren stood behind, rigid with indignation, as Xayn followed Mola, leaving her momentarily alone on the path. She was clearly not happy.
Bazren (muttering): "Ugh, I hate it when he gets like this... Acting like he knows better. 'Twist your arm a little'... idiot. Twist it any further and it'll just fall off again, with how fucked up it already is..."
He noticed how she wasn't keeping pace, hearing the faint sound of her muttering. He stopped and glanced back, his glowing blue eyes catching the light.
Xayn: "Come on, Bazren! Your legs're still fine, aren't they? Hurry up."
Taking a deep, ragged breath that did little to ease the pain in her chest, she picked up the pace, awkwardly cradling her severed torso piece against her side, the movement jarring the raw wound.
Bazren: "I'm coming, I'm coming... no need to start another lecture."