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Emet-Selch had done all that he had felt required of him: he'd let his two compatriots know of his condition. And with that accomplished, he'd set the watch aside, and crumpled back onto Mettaton, letting out a heavy breath as he settled into as comfortable a position as he could. Letting the other Ascians know that he was alive again (as well as that he'd died, he supposed) was one thing, but staying up to see if they replied went beyond what he thought could be expected of him. He was tired; they could wait.
And with Mettaton finally in something that at least looked like good, thorough sleep, Emet-Selch had little and less reason to fight off an encroaching unconsciousness. Despite how exhausted he was, he knew it would probably be fitful, prone to waking in twitching starts, thoughts muddled with memories of blood and dark burrows and the scent of rot all around him. That was just how it had been, ever since he'd revived, and what he assumed would continue for some time to come.
But not this time. His body had finally won the conflict with his mind and his heart, pulling him into a heavy, thorough unconsciousness. Even without the incidence of death, he hadn't slept well for several weeks preceding; with dying added into the mix, what this mortal flesh needed most of all were long, deep periods of rest. And with his Bonded safe and in close, constant contact, all concerns that required consciousness had been lifted- and his body could, so-to-speak, pounce, dragging him into a heavy instance of repose.
And so he remained, oblivious to Elidibus' ominous lack of response. Were it not for the slight movement of his chest, and a body temperature greater than ambient, it would be possible to mistake him for having slipped back into the realm of the dead. His coloring was still poor, sickly, his wounds extensive, and his body fragile. He was not well, and there was no mistaking it.
The room is entered; Emet-Selch had a visitor, but is unprepared to receive him, sleeping through anything that might've been mistaken as concern on his guest's face.
There's no movement, no sound, no reaction at all to the partial exposure of his body, as Elidibus peels away protective blankets. That his chest had taken significant damage across it becomes expressly evident for all that it's covered, considering the amount of bandaging applied. Applied and in need of refreshing, as they had both old blood transferred there from being pressed to Mettaton's body, as well as signs of fresher bleeding underneath- a silent record of how his weakened body had tried to propel itself, for whatever reason (to reach his Bonded, of course). The newer bleeding seems to have been well contained and not urgently serious, at least, having not soaked entirely through the bandages- but were a warning for why the Ascian needed to keep still, lest he make anything worse. Another bandage lay at the side of his neck, in much the same condition.
But any prodding goes unremarked on, unnoticed, unreacted to. Even when his non-functioning eye is opened for him, there's not so much as a flinch. Elidibus could proceed, could observe as much as he liked, and there was precisely naught that Emet-Selch could do about it. Granted, even had he been awake his only defense would have been commentary, as so much as sitting up under his own power was exhausting and not something to be attempted casually.
Yet sleep, deep as it was, eventually fades. And where individual gestures like the sound of a coin hitting the wall, or the prodding of his eye, or the moving of blankets wasn't enough to rouse him, the steadier contact of damp fabric rubbed against skin might have helped coax Emet-Selch back to the surface sooner than otherwise. What was that, and why was it happening? His breathing changes slightly; he shivers, as though more of his skin was exposed, and eventually his eyes half-open, his working one struggling to focus on the source of this strange sensation. His head tilts, his eyes blink, expression moderately uncomfortable as his gaze adjusts to the light, and then fails to adjust to what he sees in it.
Elidibus, damp cloth in hand (a damp cloth stained reddish, he notes absently), applying said cloth to his body. Emet-Selch freezes, tensing as much as his weakened muscles allowed.
...A moment later though, he relaxes. This was clearly a dream, some absurdity his unconscious mind had come up with. He did want to be washed off, after all, the old blood and bits of fur and dirt that he'd picked up from his Bonded weren't pleasant to have left on his skin, so this was just an expression of that desire. That it was Elidibus performing the task, well, that was dreams for you. They were always a bit nonsensical. He closes his eyes again, waiting for the dream to move on.
But it didn't. And rather than falling back asleep (or continuing to sleep?), that peculiar feeling of being washed... persists. His brow furrows. His eyes open again, focusing once more on Elidibus there, in his hospital room, where Emet-Selch lay tangled up with his fiancé, wearing nothing but blankets over his lower half and bandages on his chest and throat. Bits of his skin were wet (and somewhat cleaner). Elidibus was bathing him. The Convocation's very own Emissary, made into the manifestation of their people's hopes, was washing him, by hand.
A low, strangled sort of noise escapes his throat: his initial response to something he could not now un-experience. There's flashes of inclinations: to laugh, to try and go back to sleep, to ignore it all. There were a lot of things he could say, some more flippant than others, some rude, some demanding, most some manner of perplexed.
His eyes close yet again, but not to sleep or pretend to. His voice is slightly taut, words given in a tone that makes a valiant attempt towards idleness. "I didn't know you were so eager to... change careers, Elidibus. But nursing. I'm not certain it suits you."
The last time he'd seen the Emissary, the other man had treated wounds wrought by dragon claw. Was this going to become some sort of pattern?
And with Mettaton finally in something that at least looked like good, thorough sleep, Emet-Selch had little and less reason to fight off an encroaching unconsciousness. Despite how exhausted he was, he knew it would probably be fitful, prone to waking in twitching starts, thoughts muddled with memories of blood and dark burrows and the scent of rot all around him. That was just how it had been, ever since he'd revived, and what he assumed would continue for some time to come.
But not this time. His body had finally won the conflict with his mind and his heart, pulling him into a heavy, thorough unconsciousness. Even without the incidence of death, he hadn't slept well for several weeks preceding; with dying added into the mix, what this mortal flesh needed most of all were long, deep periods of rest. And with his Bonded safe and in close, constant contact, all concerns that required consciousness had been lifted- and his body could, so-to-speak, pounce, dragging him into a heavy instance of repose.
And so he remained, oblivious to Elidibus' ominous lack of response. Were it not for the slight movement of his chest, and a body temperature greater than ambient, it would be possible to mistake him for having slipped back into the realm of the dead. His coloring was still poor, sickly, his wounds extensive, and his body fragile. He was not well, and there was no mistaking it.
The room is entered; Emet-Selch had a visitor, but is unprepared to receive him, sleeping through anything that might've been mistaken as concern on his guest's face.
There's no movement, no sound, no reaction at all to the partial exposure of his body, as Elidibus peels away protective blankets. That his chest had taken significant damage across it becomes expressly evident for all that it's covered, considering the amount of bandaging applied. Applied and in need of refreshing, as they had both old blood transferred there from being pressed to Mettaton's body, as well as signs of fresher bleeding underneath- a silent record of how his weakened body had tried to propel itself, for whatever reason (to reach his Bonded, of course). The newer bleeding seems to have been well contained and not urgently serious, at least, having not soaked entirely through the bandages- but were a warning for why the Ascian needed to keep still, lest he make anything worse. Another bandage lay at the side of his neck, in much the same condition.
But any prodding goes unremarked on, unnoticed, unreacted to. Even when his non-functioning eye is opened for him, there's not so much as a flinch. Elidibus could proceed, could observe as much as he liked, and there was precisely naught that Emet-Selch could do about it. Granted, even had he been awake his only defense would have been commentary, as so much as sitting up under his own power was exhausting and not something to be attempted casually.
Yet sleep, deep as it was, eventually fades. And where individual gestures like the sound of a coin hitting the wall, or the prodding of his eye, or the moving of blankets wasn't enough to rouse him, the steadier contact of damp fabric rubbed against skin might have helped coax Emet-Selch back to the surface sooner than otherwise. What was that, and why was it happening? His breathing changes slightly; he shivers, as though more of his skin was exposed, and eventually his eyes half-open, his working one struggling to focus on the source of this strange sensation. His head tilts, his eyes blink, expression moderately uncomfortable as his gaze adjusts to the light, and then fails to adjust to what he sees in it.
Elidibus, damp cloth in hand (a damp cloth stained reddish, he notes absently), applying said cloth to his body. Emet-Selch freezes, tensing as much as his weakened muscles allowed.
...A moment later though, he relaxes. This was clearly a dream, some absurdity his unconscious mind had come up with. He did want to be washed off, after all, the old blood and bits of fur and dirt that he'd picked up from his Bonded weren't pleasant to have left on his skin, so this was just an expression of that desire. That it was Elidibus performing the task, well, that was dreams for you. They were always a bit nonsensical. He closes his eyes again, waiting for the dream to move on.
But it didn't. And rather than falling back asleep (or continuing to sleep?), that peculiar feeling of being washed... persists. His brow furrows. His eyes open again, focusing once more on Elidibus there, in his hospital room, where Emet-Selch lay tangled up with his fiancé, wearing nothing but blankets over his lower half and bandages on his chest and throat. Bits of his skin were wet (and somewhat cleaner). Elidibus was bathing him. The Convocation's very own Emissary, made into the manifestation of their people's hopes, was washing him, by hand.
A low, strangled sort of noise escapes his throat: his initial response to something he could not now un-experience. There's flashes of inclinations: to laugh, to try and go back to sleep, to ignore it all. There were a lot of things he could say, some more flippant than others, some rude, some demanding, most some manner of perplexed.
His eyes close yet again, but not to sleep or pretend to. His voice is slightly taut, words given in a tone that makes a valiant attempt towards idleness. "I didn't know you were so eager to... change careers, Elidibus. But nursing. I'm not certain it suits you."
The last time he'd seen the Emissary, the other man had treated wounds wrought by dragon claw. Was this going to become some sort of pattern?
One thing Emet-Selch might notice. Elidibus does seem to be better at this than when he'd last cleaned any portion of his contemporary's body. Perhaps this makes the situation even more surreal than it already seems. It's almost as if he cares.
Make no mistake. This initial cleaning is not his intended result. Elidibus is giving Emet-Selch's host body a critical examination. If even a fraction of what was said in the message is true and that it might be imperative to take care of their current hosts, then he wants to know what condition his fellow Unsundered are in. Particularly the Architect, who had already had notable degradation.
And if this resurrection did not restore lost limbs or that eye, what else will cease to function after this recent incident? One could suspect he started before Emet-Selch woke up because there would be protests otherwise. They would only be partially correct.
There are many factors involved. Keeping up the act of what he's ostentatiously here to do, yes. The practicality behind cleaning away the extra grime before removing the bandages before thinking of tending to the injuries underneath. Of course. Planning on how to extract Emet-Selch's frame from an overly protective Puca, sure. And naturally, that full-body examination, which is clinical to the point of terrible from someone who claims to be a 'brother'. By the time awakening is a factor, the Emissary has no doubt managed to thoroughly check over as much of the body as he thus far has access to.
There is a slight pause in action when Emet-Selch first shows signs of stirring. But he continues, letting his contemporary wake up- or rather, decide whether or not he's awake or still dreaming something utterly ridiculous. By this point, it's pretty reasonable to assume he's got a basin of dirty water. But thanks to magic, it's just a matter of touching the basin in a certain spot to empty it, then refill from a pitcher that seems to have plenty more water than it seems capable of holding. It's during one such change that the bed-ridden Ascian speaks.
Elidibus turns his head to look down on Emet-Selch. Then to the door which is still firmly closed and then back once again. A decision is made, whether to speak like 'Ardbert' in a public place and hint toward preferring his identity not be placed at further risk. Or, simply answer as he was addressed. Slowly turning back and wringing out the cloth once again, he reaches out to continue his work. He also chooses the latter of the two options, though he speaks quietly enough that the noise and bustle outside will not let his voice carry beyond the confines of the small room.
"I see your tongue has suffered little from your aborted demise, Emet-Selch," the Emissary offers calmly. "Though no doubt had you your full wits, it might occur to you that rather than change careers, I am simply adapting to our current needs." Elidibus won't wipe anywhere that will impede the other Ascian's ability to speak. In fact, he's largely done what he can without a few further matters taken care of. Namely, Mettaton. And bandages.
But first, "In the absence of anyone more suited and since it is oft ill-advised to allow the patient to treat himself, I have stepped into that capacity. It allows me a chance to comprehend the damage done and what this... Resurrection magic can accomplish." Disturbingly little other than the retrieval of the soul itself, it seems. And if such is the case, he is no doubt struggling with the instinct to reject any mortal care administered to such a precious commodity as an Ascian's sole host body. Even if there's only so much he can do. For a brief moment, the fledgling feeling of concern might flit through the Emissary's gaze.
Then gone again. Because cleanup, an examination of the shell, and changing bandages? These are things he can do. Blandly, Elidibus concludes, "Now that you are awake, I would like to continue my task. So if you would kindly unravel yourself from your puca's clutches, I will endeavor to do so."
And once that's done, there's no doubt going to be a talk over what that message said and the events that led to it being sent. But first things first, as unusual as it might be for an Ascian to consider a 'disposable body' as a priority over information.
Make no mistake. This initial cleaning is not his intended result. Elidibus is giving Emet-Selch's host body a critical examination. If even a fraction of what was said in the message is true and that it might be imperative to take care of their current hosts, then he wants to know what condition his fellow Unsundered are in. Particularly the Architect, who had already had notable degradation.
And if this resurrection did not restore lost limbs or that eye, what else will cease to function after this recent incident? One could suspect he started before Emet-Selch woke up because there would be protests otherwise. They would only be partially correct.
There are many factors involved. Keeping up the act of what he's ostentatiously here to do, yes. The practicality behind cleaning away the extra grime before removing the bandages before thinking of tending to the injuries underneath. Of course. Planning on how to extract Emet-Selch's frame from an overly protective Puca, sure. And naturally, that full-body examination, which is clinical to the point of terrible from someone who claims to be a 'brother'. By the time awakening is a factor, the Emissary has no doubt managed to thoroughly check over as much of the body as he thus far has access to.
There is a slight pause in action when Emet-Selch first shows signs of stirring. But he continues, letting his contemporary wake up- or rather, decide whether or not he's awake or still dreaming something utterly ridiculous. By this point, it's pretty reasonable to assume he's got a basin of dirty water. But thanks to magic, it's just a matter of touching the basin in a certain spot to empty it, then refill from a pitcher that seems to have plenty more water than it seems capable of holding. It's during one such change that the bed-ridden Ascian speaks.
Elidibus turns his head to look down on Emet-Selch. Then to the door which is still firmly closed and then back once again. A decision is made, whether to speak like 'Ardbert' in a public place and hint toward preferring his identity not be placed at further risk. Or, simply answer as he was addressed. Slowly turning back and wringing out the cloth once again, he reaches out to continue his work. He also chooses the latter of the two options, though he speaks quietly enough that the noise and bustle outside will not let his voice carry beyond the confines of the small room.
"I see your tongue has suffered little from your aborted demise, Emet-Selch," the Emissary offers calmly. "Though no doubt had you your full wits, it might occur to you that rather than change careers, I am simply adapting to our current needs." Elidibus won't wipe anywhere that will impede the other Ascian's ability to speak. In fact, he's largely done what he can without a few further matters taken care of. Namely, Mettaton. And bandages.
But first, "In the absence of anyone more suited and since it is oft ill-advised to allow the patient to treat himself, I have stepped into that capacity. It allows me a chance to comprehend the damage done and what this... Resurrection magic can accomplish." Disturbingly little other than the retrieval of the soul itself, it seems. And if such is the case, he is no doubt struggling with the instinct to reject any mortal care administered to such a precious commodity as an Ascian's sole host body. Even if there's only so much he can do. For a brief moment, the fledgling feeling of concern might flit through the Emissary's gaze.
Then gone again. Because cleanup, an examination of the shell, and changing bandages? These are things he can do. Blandly, Elidibus concludes, "Now that you are awake, I would like to continue my task. So if you would kindly unravel yourself from your puca's clutches, I will endeavor to do so."
And once that's done, there's no doubt going to be a talk over what that message said and the events that led to it being sent. But first things first, as unusual as it might be for an Ascian to consider a 'disposable body' as a priority over information.
Her shoulders tighten. Damn it, this is why they don't let her try to negotiate anything. To argue it further just makes her sound like she's angry that everything isn't organized in a way she approves of.
Bloody hell, sometimes she hates her own temper. Her nails scrape the wood of the table as she curls them inward.
"Fine. Not like I want to go to the trouble of spreading ill rumors about you, anyway."
Curt and definitely not making eye contact. It'd be useless to ask him if he understands how she feels, though, not when he feels so little anymore. She turns her back to him and saunters back around the other side of the table.
"I'll keep working on this, at any rate. Maybe someday, it will remind you of something more pleasant."
Bloody hell, sometimes she hates her own temper. Her nails scrape the wood of the table as she curls them inward.
"Fine. Not like I want to go to the trouble of spreading ill rumors about you, anyway."
Curt and definitely not making eye contact. It'd be useless to ask him if he understands how she feels, though, not when he feels so little anymore. She turns her back to him and saunters back around the other side of the table.
"I'll keep working on this, at any rate. Maybe someday, it will remind you of something more pleasant."
To start, there is nothing from Mettaton.
Well, there's nothing threatening. But there's something.
At feeling Emet-Selch stir at all, even if it's by being manipulated like a lifeless doll, Mettaton grips onto him tighter like his favorite teddy bear. In dreamland, being reminded of his Bondmate's movement and even the stir of his soul (though their robust Bond has been temporarily damaged by their death, the worst part of dying) is a warmth, a security. Mettaton nuzzles his cheek against the top of Emet-Selch's head in the process of trying to cuddle closer.
It's a nice reminder, recalling that Emet-Selch is alive and near. But it'd be selfish of him to request Emet-Selch remain awake just for this consolation. No, they could meet in their dreams instead... Except for that there's the voice of an interloper afoot.
At the first evidence of Elidibus' voice, Mettaton stirs anew. His tone is measured and calm enough that it doesn't rouse him immediately, what with this being the first hint of deep sleep Hotland's idol has managed in... weeks, it felt like. But with enough talking, Mettaton buries his face in dark locks of hair; he burrows, he rouses, his leg twitches and tightens in its entanglement with his bedridden Ascian.
Mettaton doesn't comprehend what Elidibus is saying, just that there's an intruder, and Emet-Selch is under his protection. The robot has a habit of thinking like this, especially when he's disoriented or slipping into a feral, primal mindset. In a beat, Mettaton comes to with a start: in a hasty burst of energy, his hand reaches across Emet-Selch's body and slams down against the mattress in agitated protectiveness. He pushes himself up the best he can, leaning low over Emet-Selch's torso as his upper lip peels back and he stares, glares with a single luminous, golden eye, right at (or through?) Elidibus, the unexpected company.
—And just as quickly as that moment came to be, Mettaton blinks. His lips part, and his eye widens as he stares stupid at Elidibus. Then, at Emet-Selch. Then back to Elidibus.
Then, back to Emet-Selch again, who he pouts at and sinks toward. Mettaton is not the former "glory" he was back when he first met the Emissary, with glinting, silvery fur and an overall glow to his demeanor. His ears are ratty and hang like a lop's, his hair a tangly mess—though it'd be a surprise to anyone that this isn't the worst it had been. It remains caked with blood and dirt, but the bangs are desperately smoothed down, even if they remain unkempt. Where Emet-Selch's body is riddled in bandages and the evidence of wounds, Mettaton's entire chassis is flecked with dried, old blood, with every patch of fur having been plucked and torn away at until he was left with more bald spots than patches of blood-caked fur. His arms, and even his hips once they were revealed, would bear this same self-destructive pattern. In short: Mettaton is a horrid mess of still caked blood, black fur, and dirt, and nobody in this fine establishment has sought to change this fate of his. Much to his vanity-fueled dismay.
The Puca sighs, an expression of relief, realizing that Emet-Selch is fairly calm, and that this is a face he recognizes, and his attention's directed again to Emet-Selch's compatriot. His voice is smooth and melodious as ever, unaffected by his own recent resurrection and poor condition.
"Elidibus, darling! What a surprise... Did you leave Emmy a message, that you were stopping by?"
If so, he should've liked to hear about it! Mettaton dislikes being viewed while in such a state of disarray, and he would've made more of an effort to stay awake! But moments more spent staring at him has him piecing together some more... impressions.
Such as the linens. The cloth in hand, drenched in water. Emet-Selch's arm left arm being pulled toward Elidibus. That's the arm he'd most recently injured, he considers: the bicep is wrapped in dirty bandages, his ring finger bejeweled in a reddish-gold band. Only the roots of his ears seem to twitch at all, the rest of him unwilling to cooperate.
Well, there's nothing threatening. But there's something.
At feeling Emet-Selch stir at all, even if it's by being manipulated like a lifeless doll, Mettaton grips onto him tighter like his favorite teddy bear. In dreamland, being reminded of his Bondmate's movement and even the stir of his soul (though their robust Bond has been temporarily damaged by their death, the worst part of dying) is a warmth, a security. Mettaton nuzzles his cheek against the top of Emet-Selch's head in the process of trying to cuddle closer.
It's a nice reminder, recalling that Emet-Selch is alive and near. But it'd be selfish of him to request Emet-Selch remain awake just for this consolation. No, they could meet in their dreams instead... Except for that there's the voice of an interloper afoot.
At the first evidence of Elidibus' voice, Mettaton stirs anew. His tone is measured and calm enough that it doesn't rouse him immediately, what with this being the first hint of deep sleep Hotland's idol has managed in... weeks, it felt like. But with enough talking, Mettaton buries his face in dark locks of hair; he burrows, he rouses, his leg twitches and tightens in its entanglement with his bedridden Ascian.
Mettaton doesn't comprehend what Elidibus is saying, just that there's an intruder, and Emet-Selch is under his protection. The robot has a habit of thinking like this, especially when he's disoriented or slipping into a feral, primal mindset. In a beat, Mettaton comes to with a start: in a hasty burst of energy, his hand reaches across Emet-Selch's body and slams down against the mattress in agitated protectiveness. He pushes himself up the best he can, leaning low over Emet-Selch's torso as his upper lip peels back and he stares, glares with a single luminous, golden eye, right at (or through?) Elidibus, the unexpected company.
—And just as quickly as that moment came to be, Mettaton blinks. His lips part, and his eye widens as he stares stupid at Elidibus. Then, at Emet-Selch. Then back to Elidibus.
Then, back to Emet-Selch again, who he pouts at and sinks toward. Mettaton is not the former "glory" he was back when he first met the Emissary, with glinting, silvery fur and an overall glow to his demeanor. His ears are ratty and hang like a lop's, his hair a tangly mess—though it'd be a surprise to anyone that this isn't the worst it had been. It remains caked with blood and dirt, but the bangs are desperately smoothed down, even if they remain unkempt. Where Emet-Selch's body is riddled in bandages and the evidence of wounds, Mettaton's entire chassis is flecked with dried, old blood, with every patch of fur having been plucked and torn away at until he was left with more bald spots than patches of blood-caked fur. His arms, and even his hips once they were revealed, would bear this same self-destructive pattern. In short: Mettaton is a horrid mess of still caked blood, black fur, and dirt, and nobody in this fine establishment has sought to change this fate of his. Much to his vanity-fueled dismay.
The Puca sighs, an expression of relief, realizing that Emet-Selch is fairly calm, and that this is a face he recognizes, and his attention's directed again to Emet-Selch's compatriot. His voice is smooth and melodious as ever, unaffected by his own recent resurrection and poor condition.
"Elidibus, darling! What a surprise... Did you leave Emmy a message, that you were stopping by?"
If so, he should've liked to hear about it! Mettaton dislikes being viewed while in such a state of disarray, and he would've made more of an effort to stay awake! But moments more spent staring at him has him piecing together some more... impressions.
Such as the linens. The cloth in hand, drenched in water. Emet-Selch's arm left arm being pulled toward Elidibus. That's the arm he'd most recently injured, he considers: the bicep is wrapped in dirty bandages, his ring finger bejeweled in a reddish-gold band. Only the roots of his ears seem to twitch at all, the rest of him unwilling to cooperate.
There's a very peculiar individual on the pocketwatches today.
If you're doing naught else, it might be diverting for you to speak with them. Another fledgling mage, though this one seems a little less idiotic than most.
Though unlikely, mayhap they would make a decent target for your own nascent skills in this world's magic.
If you're doing naught else, it might be diverting for you to speak with them. Another fledgling mage, though this one seems a little less idiotic than most.
Though unlikely, mayhap they would make a decent target for your own nascent skills in this world's magic.
Elidibus speaks, and Emet-Selch frowns, grudgingly opening his eyes once again to look at him. In addition to the unexpected feeling of wet cloth being rubbed over parts of his body, there had been familiar, reassuring sensations, such as being held tightly by robotic arms, and the press of a face against the top of his head. It had certainly made the whole waking up process that much more confusing, but as the seconds ticked by and reality settled into this strange version of itself, there was nothing he could do but face it as it was.
That he had called him Elidibus rather than Ardbert: a deliberate choice, if one taken in an instant, without checking particularly hard for whether there was anyone else in the room besides the three of them. But Emet-Selch was recently dead and currently tired; keeping up too many pretenses didn't appeal whatsoever. That, and he can well guess as to why the Emissary was here, and it wasn't out of an urge to strip him down and wash him alone. Their conversation would be suspicious enough for anyone expecting the Ardbert persona anyway.
Lacking the energy to waste on waving off Elidibus' claim of simply adapting to the situation he'd found himself in, he's struck next by the realization that the Emissary seemed... entirely intent on continuing, now that he was awake. But that there was a hint of some manner of emotion there- it's that alone that keeps Emet-Selch from immediately arguing against this course of action. Well, that and the utter surreality of it all drained him, kept him languid against the bed, barely accepting that this was all happening to him in the first place. But at the request for him to somehow detangle himself from Mettaton- that only has his frown deepen. He would do no such thing, especially not to satisfy curiosity. If Elidibus was determined to keep cleaning him, he could feel around whatever part of the puca he was currently pressed to.
But before he can reply, there's a greater stirring, through Bond and body of his companion, something more than that welcomed burrowing and clutching (all things that Emet-Selch relaxes sleepily into, as though long-accustomed to all of this contact). Alarm, aggression- flashes of instinct that are clear even through their badly damaged Bond stir his pulse, but he didn't need their souls tied to recognize what Mettaton was doing. Guarding him against a possible threat.
With surprising speed considering the weakness he knew Mettaton shared with him, Emet-Selch finds himself hunched over, the interloper warned against further contact. Throughout, it's a reaction he remains entirely calm for, apart from an initial startle at Mettaton having so quickly roused. With a small sigh, he reaches up to pet gently at the monster's side with his better hand (not that his arm liked being lifted like this at all), a reassurance that he was fine (well, that he wasn't being threatened). That he was in no need of defense.
But it's soon that Mettaton comes to that realization himself, that this was someone that he knew (or at least, had met before), and certainly someone that his Bonded knew. The pout in his direction gets a brief half-smile, very faintly amused, as Mettaton settles in his relief, moving himself back where he had been on the bed, greeting Elidibus in a far more normal way.
What's clearest of all, perhaps, is that Emet-Selch sees nothing problematic or unusual in the puca's possessive and protective instincts; why wouldn't he favor a monstrous defense of his welfare? But the puca hadn't actually attacked Elidibus, and had recognized him quickly enough and backed down- so it was all fine, as far as he was concerned.
"He did not," Emet-Selch sighs, shifting back against Mettaton's body, before belatedly remembering that he didn't actually know that for certain, having not checked his watch in... however long it had been since he'd sent those messages out. Maybe the other Ascian had sent plenty of warnings. "Well, I didn't invite him, anyway." That much he could say for certain.
But when did Ascians ever wait for invitations to turn up anywhere?
"While I won't deny the value of a hands-on experience," he looks back to Elidibus then, a mild reproach evident in his tone, as much for show as for anything, "I would've thought a verbal accounting would have sufficed. Are you truly so eager to tend to my wounds...?"
After another thought, another realization (another point of utter strangeness), he reluctantly adds: "Though you've improved your technique. Perhaps 'tis a job not unsuited to you after all."
That he had called him Elidibus rather than Ardbert: a deliberate choice, if one taken in an instant, without checking particularly hard for whether there was anyone else in the room besides the three of them. But Emet-Selch was recently dead and currently tired; keeping up too many pretenses didn't appeal whatsoever. That, and he can well guess as to why the Emissary was here, and it wasn't out of an urge to strip him down and wash him alone. Their conversation would be suspicious enough for anyone expecting the Ardbert persona anyway.
Lacking the energy to waste on waving off Elidibus' claim of simply adapting to the situation he'd found himself in, he's struck next by the realization that the Emissary seemed... entirely intent on continuing, now that he was awake. But that there was a hint of some manner of emotion there- it's that alone that keeps Emet-Selch from immediately arguing against this course of action. Well, that and the utter surreality of it all drained him, kept him languid against the bed, barely accepting that this was all happening to him in the first place. But at the request for him to somehow detangle himself from Mettaton- that only has his frown deepen. He would do no such thing, especially not to satisfy curiosity. If Elidibus was determined to keep cleaning him, he could feel around whatever part of the puca he was currently pressed to.
But before he can reply, there's a greater stirring, through Bond and body of his companion, something more than that welcomed burrowing and clutching (all things that Emet-Selch relaxes sleepily into, as though long-accustomed to all of this contact). Alarm, aggression- flashes of instinct that are clear even through their badly damaged Bond stir his pulse, but he didn't need their souls tied to recognize what Mettaton was doing. Guarding him against a possible threat.
With surprising speed considering the weakness he knew Mettaton shared with him, Emet-Selch finds himself hunched over, the interloper warned against further contact. Throughout, it's a reaction he remains entirely calm for, apart from an initial startle at Mettaton having so quickly roused. With a small sigh, he reaches up to pet gently at the monster's side with his better hand (not that his arm liked being lifted like this at all), a reassurance that he was fine (well, that he wasn't being threatened). That he was in no need of defense.
But it's soon that Mettaton comes to that realization himself, that this was someone that he knew (or at least, had met before), and certainly someone that his Bonded knew. The pout in his direction gets a brief half-smile, very faintly amused, as Mettaton settles in his relief, moving himself back where he had been on the bed, greeting Elidibus in a far more normal way.
What's clearest of all, perhaps, is that Emet-Selch sees nothing problematic or unusual in the puca's possessive and protective instincts; why wouldn't he favor a monstrous defense of his welfare? But the puca hadn't actually attacked Elidibus, and had recognized him quickly enough and backed down- so it was all fine, as far as he was concerned.
"He did not," Emet-Selch sighs, shifting back against Mettaton's body, before belatedly remembering that he didn't actually know that for certain, having not checked his watch in... however long it had been since he'd sent those messages out. Maybe the other Ascian had sent plenty of warnings. "Well, I didn't invite him, anyway." That much he could say for certain.
But when did Ascians ever wait for invitations to turn up anywhere?
"While I won't deny the value of a hands-on experience," he looks back to Elidibus then, a mild reproach evident in his tone, as much for show as for anything, "I would've thought a verbal accounting would have sufficed. Are you truly so eager to tend to my wounds...?"
After another thought, another realization (another point of utter strangeness), he reluctantly adds: "Though you've improved your technique. Perhaps 'tis a job not unsuited to you after all."
If you were to look instead of ask me you'd note there is only one new mage of recent messaging.
Yes.
Yes.
It is not from a sense of humor surely. yet as it is not denied that Lahabrea had been obstructing Elidibus as was suggested, this must mean he's being true to his enjoyment of others' suffering. Right?
But Lahabrea would know there isn't much frustration rising in Elidibus. Lots of patience and reasoned debate, but suffering isn't there. Would that not mean this might, however unlikely, mean that between enjoyment of suffering and actual amusement, the emotion fleetingly felt with the Bond is, in fact, the hallmarks of a sense of humor?
An opening or a trap? Elidibus will seek to use the opportunity to sit up. There is some success, perhaps. After all, he's only testing a bit but not actually seeking to surge out of Lahabrea's hold.
"Why are you asking about... ah, yes. The Bond." Elidibus would have begun to ponder whether he remembers any of the images which might have crossed over the Bond from Lahabrea. It didn't occur to him at first that Lahabrea meant his own dreams.
But then, the word 'salt' really strikes home. A reference that Elidibus does not take long to puzzle, by the way he raises a hand to brush a few fingers near his eyes. The tears are dry but there's still a trace to feel and... marvel over? It's absolutely certain now that he'd not been aware. "What is this?"
Elidibus knows what tears are. This is not what he's asking, almost to himself as though he momentarily forgot Lahabrea's presence. Forgot to mimic his own tones and thus asked the rhetoric with Ardbert's natural voice. His jaw snaps shut moments later which suggests he realizes the brief loss of control. When he speaks again, Elidibus has collected himself.
"Fragments. They were... nonsensical as ever," he murmurs absently and almost indifferent. But however reluctant the answer is given, it is indeed an answer that doesn't quite dismiss the matter.
Zodiark was a dragon. Flames on the horizon were... hope? And mix this with the usual, waking nightmare of fruitlessly chasing what little recollection of Amaurot he still has. Prayers reaching out, gripping and molding him until he could no longer recognize himself--
"I can't remember anything which would cause this." For a second there is an acrid sting of bitterness across the Bond. And then defenses are rising. "These 'tears' are more like to be yet another physical response of this host I can no longer control."
It's a fancy way of saying he must have dust in his eyes. Elidibus isn't fooling anyone in the room with it. But he will try to end the conversation by continuing to wend his way out of the nest of dragon and bean bag. There's plenty of excuses to do so. Find trousers. Get out of the cage. Take a bath. Wash away any proof that tears were ever-present. He's about to set his feet down on the floor of the cage.
Bare feet. And he seems to have forgotten about the shards of obsidian scattered around.
But Lahabrea would know there isn't much frustration rising in Elidibus. Lots of patience and reasoned debate, but suffering isn't there. Would that not mean this might, however unlikely, mean that between enjoyment of suffering and actual amusement, the emotion fleetingly felt with the Bond is, in fact, the hallmarks of a sense of humor?
An opening or a trap? Elidibus will seek to use the opportunity to sit up. There is some success, perhaps. After all, he's only testing a bit but not actually seeking to surge out of Lahabrea's hold.
"Why are you asking about... ah, yes. The Bond." Elidibus would have begun to ponder whether he remembers any of the images which might have crossed over the Bond from Lahabrea. It didn't occur to him at first that Lahabrea meant his own dreams.
But then, the word 'salt' really strikes home. A reference that Elidibus does not take long to puzzle, by the way he raises a hand to brush a few fingers near his eyes. The tears are dry but there's still a trace to feel and... marvel over? It's absolutely certain now that he'd not been aware. "What is this?"
Elidibus knows what tears are. This is not what he's asking, almost to himself as though he momentarily forgot Lahabrea's presence. Forgot to mimic his own tones and thus asked the rhetoric with Ardbert's natural voice. His jaw snaps shut moments later which suggests he realizes the brief loss of control. When he speaks again, Elidibus has collected himself.
"Fragments. They were... nonsensical as ever," he murmurs absently and almost indifferent. But however reluctant the answer is given, it is indeed an answer that doesn't quite dismiss the matter.
Zodiark was a dragon. Flames on the horizon were... hope? And mix this with the usual, waking nightmare of fruitlessly chasing what little recollection of Amaurot he still has. Prayers reaching out, gripping and molding him until he could no longer recognize himself--
"I can't remember anything which would cause this." For a second there is an acrid sting of bitterness across the Bond. And then defenses are rising. "These 'tears' are more like to be yet another physical response of this host I can no longer control."
It's a fancy way of saying he must have dust in his eyes. Elidibus isn't fooling anyone in the room with it. But he will try to end the conversation by continuing to wend his way out of the nest of dragon and bean bag. There's plenty of excuses to do so. Find trousers. Get out of the cage. Take a bath. Wash away any proof that tears were ever-present. He's about to set his feet down on the floor of the cage.
Bare feet. And he seems to have forgotten about the shards of obsidian scattered around.
Elidibus closes his eyes and sighs. It's audible even though Irhya retreats. Is that disappointment? Perhaps. But it is also resignation.
"It seems for now I too must ask no more about the matter," the Ascian answers when Irhya pointedly does not answer his question. "For now."
It seems it will only be a short reprieve. He has no way of knowing why the miqo'te Warrior of Light is refusing to explain what's really on her mind. She may well be right, that Elidibus would not comprehend such an explanation. And there's every right to expect that it may anger him to suggest she 'knows' him.
Perhaps if he ever grasps hold of some emotions he is willing to keep, then one day...
But for now, Elidibus watches Irhya move around the room. "Memories are fleeting. I know not why there is such insistence that I may somehow find 'joy' in the reminder." His voice has taken on a cadence which suggests he's speaking in half-rhetoric. And although he does not clarify, it is not just Irhya's insistence he speaks of.
With a little more focus and this time to the miqo'te, Elidibus then suggests, "If you wish to remain here, I will see to the saddle's fitting." Oh yes, there is still that, isn't there. "I will inform you if there is aught which does not fit Filia." He turns and walks toward the finished saddle, meaning to pick it up. Well, the opportunity is given, should Irhya wish to be alone.
"I do still suggest you show Emet-Selch your work. He may well appreciate the homage to his creation." Or maybe not. Sometimes it's hard to tell with the prickly Architect.
"It seems for now I too must ask no more about the matter," the Ascian answers when Irhya pointedly does not answer his question. "For now."
It seems it will only be a short reprieve. He has no way of knowing why the miqo'te Warrior of Light is refusing to explain what's really on her mind. She may well be right, that Elidibus would not comprehend such an explanation. And there's every right to expect that it may anger him to suggest she 'knows' him.
Perhaps if he ever grasps hold of some emotions he is willing to keep, then one day...
But for now, Elidibus watches Irhya move around the room. "Memories are fleeting. I know not why there is such insistence that I may somehow find 'joy' in the reminder." His voice has taken on a cadence which suggests he's speaking in half-rhetoric. And although he does not clarify, it is not just Irhya's insistence he speaks of.
With a little more focus and this time to the miqo'te, Elidibus then suggests, "If you wish to remain here, I will see to the saddle's fitting." Oh yes, there is still that, isn't there. "I will inform you if there is aught which does not fit Filia." He turns and walks toward the finished saddle, meaning to pick it up. Well, the opportunity is given, should Irhya wish to be alone.
"I do still suggest you show Emet-Selch your work. He may well appreciate the homage to his creation." Or maybe not. Sometimes it's hard to tell with the prickly Architect.
Elidibus did not send a message informing Emet-Selch of his impending arrival. But really, was it hard to believe that something so vital as what was written would not result in an appearance? Even if one were to set aside Elidibus's... perspective on the idea of once again losing his fellow Ascian to true death, there was also the matter of recent events.
Emet-Selch may have some knowledge of the Emissary's intentions of observing the Evergreen Circle. Probably had brief questions asked. You know, just enough to guess a bit at what Elidibus had been up to. And if he had somehow missed Emet-Selch's capture and subsequent death at the hands of this cult...
Elidibus did not know. But he wanted to ascertain the truth and there are some things one simply does not do through text messages.
Mettaton awakens. And while Elidibus briefly stopped his work, he does not flinch. The feral, protective expression on the Puca's face is met with unflinching calm as the Emissary waits for the next move. Just one of those small, unassuming moments in which the Ascian shows he is not the hyur he appears to be. Though who's to say Ardbert didn't once stare down a growling threat once or twice in his life? There was probably a lot more tension involved on his part, however.
But there is a sigh. Not because Elidibus is relieved. Oh, no. Because Mettaton has, by pulling back somewhat, revealed that he'd replaced some of the grime, fur, and blood that had been patiently wiped away with more of its ilk. And there is Emet-Selch, looking at him like he'd just been asked to... well, that it had been just suggested to not take a well-earned centuries-long nap.
Also a sigh because of 'Emmy'. Really, the puca is incorrigible. But at least he said the Emissary's title correctly. Elidibus studies the two. Puts Emet-Selch's arm down (sorry, Mettaton, people wear rings all the time where he comes from. He's not going to pick up on the significance of engagement bands), and finally patiently expands on his instructions.
"Your bandages are filthy and in dire need of changing. If what you said in your message continues to hold true, then the care for your body is now paramount." What advantage it affords his 'personal curiosity' is clearly low in the order of such importance.
It's hard to tell whether Elidibus is convinced this is not something that can be overcome. But he's certainly willing to consider the idea that the prison this star has sealed them in absolutely can keep them from searching for another body once their current one is spent.
"You, Emet-Selch, are in no condition to see to the matter yourself," Elidibus states, pointing out the obvious. "Because of your Bonded's overzealous guard, which is to be given its due credit," the Ascian gives a brief nod to the ever-watching Mettaton, "there is a dearth of volunteers, chirurgeon or otherwise, who wish to attend the task. If this cannot be rectified, I will stand in their place."
This is... a small stretch of the truth but based on it. Sure people were reluctant but they were willing to try. If Elidibus hadn't shown up at the right time, they would have at least left water and towels to be used and have tried to ask Mettaton what he needed to clean himself. Something along those lines.
What might come as a shock- and perhaps outright suspicion to his fellow Ascian- Elidibus then turns to address the puca directly. "It should be no surprise that I would come the moment I read what Emet-Selch sent, whether or not it was with an explicit entreaty to attend him." Yes, Emet-Selch, you should be getting suspicious. Even if he's indirectly answering the question about why he showed up. Or sit back and watch as Elidibus seeks to use words to coax Mettaton into a cooperative state.
The Emissary doesn't change his tone or manner. That would certainly have given the game away entirely, wouldn't it? With the same calm way he addressed his points to a respected peer, Elidibus offers to the puca, "It seems they have been remiss in your care, having little experience with your unique combination of machine and living creature." Momentarily, the Ascian lets his attention stray to the load of clean cloth still waiting to be used. There really is a lot. Maybe more than could be credited as 'for Emet-Selch's use alone'. It will certainly back up the words which follow.
"I would be remiss were I not to give due consideration for one Emet-Selch favors so ardently. Given your condition, I would believe it prudent to examine you, as well as do something regarding the filth they have left upon your body. And with clear instruction, I should be capable of seeing to any injury or repair you might have sustained. I will need you to lay beside him so that I may attend you both."**
Elidibus. The Emissary. Just offered to give Mettaton. A sponge bath.
And a physical. Well, he does have deft hands.
The Ascian returns his gaze to Emet-Selch as he brings up the matter of his improvements. "I have been given ample opportunity to study and practice since last I tended your injuries." It's said in a dismissive matter, as if the details aren't really important. Still one might wonder what circumstance Elidibus found himself in to pick up a better technique.
**[Disclaimer: What he said can interchangeable with the following. 'Since I know I cannot convince Emet-Selch to send you away and you are also covered in filth, I will wash you so you don't undo all my hard work. Also let him go so I can properly do my task. AND stop attacking the doctors so they can do their job or I will show up every single day and cut into your alone-time.']
Emet-Selch may have some knowledge of the Emissary's intentions of observing the Evergreen Circle. Probably had brief questions asked. You know, just enough to guess a bit at what Elidibus had been up to. And if he had somehow missed Emet-Selch's capture and subsequent death at the hands of this cult...
Elidibus did not know. But he wanted to ascertain the truth and there are some things one simply does not do through text messages.
Mettaton awakens. And while Elidibus briefly stopped his work, he does not flinch. The feral, protective expression on the Puca's face is met with unflinching calm as the Emissary waits for the next move. Just one of those small, unassuming moments in which the Ascian shows he is not the hyur he appears to be. Though who's to say Ardbert didn't once stare down a growling threat once or twice in his life? There was probably a lot more tension involved on his part, however.
But there is a sigh. Not because Elidibus is relieved. Oh, no. Because Mettaton has, by pulling back somewhat, revealed that he'd replaced some of the grime, fur, and blood that had been patiently wiped away with more of its ilk. And there is Emet-Selch, looking at him like he'd just been asked to... well, that it had been just suggested to not take a well-earned centuries-long nap.
Also a sigh because of 'Emmy'. Really, the puca is incorrigible. But at least he said the Emissary's title correctly. Elidibus studies the two. Puts Emet-Selch's arm down (sorry, Mettaton, people wear rings all the time where he comes from. He's not going to pick up on the significance of engagement bands), and finally patiently expands on his instructions.
"Your bandages are filthy and in dire need of changing. If what you said in your message continues to hold true, then the care for your body is now paramount." What advantage it affords his 'personal curiosity' is clearly low in the order of such importance.
It's hard to tell whether Elidibus is convinced this is not something that can be overcome. But he's certainly willing to consider the idea that the prison this star has sealed them in absolutely can keep them from searching for another body once their current one is spent.
"You, Emet-Selch, are in no condition to see to the matter yourself," Elidibus states, pointing out the obvious. "Because of your Bonded's overzealous guard, which is to be given its due credit," the Ascian gives a brief nod to the ever-watching Mettaton, "there is a dearth of volunteers, chirurgeon or otherwise, who wish to attend the task. If this cannot be rectified, I will stand in their place."
This is... a small stretch of the truth but based on it. Sure people were reluctant but they were willing to try. If Elidibus hadn't shown up at the right time, they would have at least left water and towels to be used and have tried to ask Mettaton what he needed to clean himself. Something along those lines.
What might come as a shock- and perhaps outright suspicion to his fellow Ascian- Elidibus then turns to address the puca directly. "It should be no surprise that I would come the moment I read what Emet-Selch sent, whether or not it was with an explicit entreaty to attend him." Yes, Emet-Selch, you should be getting suspicious. Even if he's indirectly answering the question about why he showed up. Or sit back and watch as Elidibus seeks to use words to coax Mettaton into a cooperative state.
The Emissary doesn't change his tone or manner. That would certainly have given the game away entirely, wouldn't it? With the same calm way he addressed his points to a respected peer, Elidibus offers to the puca, "It seems they have been remiss in your care, having little experience with your unique combination of machine and living creature." Momentarily, the Ascian lets his attention stray to the load of clean cloth still waiting to be used. There really is a lot. Maybe more than could be credited as 'for Emet-Selch's use alone'. It will certainly back up the words which follow.
"I would be remiss were I not to give due consideration for one Emet-Selch favors so ardently. Given your condition, I would believe it prudent to examine you, as well as do something regarding the filth they have left upon your body. And with clear instruction, I should be capable of seeing to any injury or repair you might have sustained. I will need you to lay beside him so that I may attend you both."**
Elidibus. The Emissary. Just offered to give Mettaton. A sponge bath.
And a physical. Well, he does have deft hands.
The Ascian returns his gaze to Emet-Selch as he brings up the matter of his improvements. "I have been given ample opportunity to study and practice since last I tended your injuries." It's said in a dismissive matter, as if the details aren't really important. Still one might wonder what circumstance Elidibus found himself in to pick up a better technique.
**[Disclaimer: What he said can interchangeable with the following. 'Since I know I cannot convince Emet-Selch to send you away and you are also covered in filth, I will wash you so you don't undo all my hard work. Also let him go so I can properly do my task. AND stop attacking the doctors so they can do their job or I will show up every single day and cut into your alone-time.']
His Bonded's overzealous guard. Mettaton is a bit touchy about his uncontrollable Monstrosity, having become a Puca totally against his will. There were a lot of habits he resented of his, from messing-up-beds-beyond-anyone's-good-sense-to-turn-them-into-burrow-like-nests, to snapping-at-doctors-who-are-only-trying-to-help. His anger has whatever fur he has left bristling, and whatever fur he's pulled out would've joined in his mindless offense. But now, smoothed over as it is, Mettaton only huffs.
"It's not my fault they keep putting themselves right in the way of my beautiful, shapely legs. Who can blame them?" he mutters, managing a smirk at the thought (read: convincing himself) that they must enjoy his legs, no matter how sore-ridden. Who wouldn't? "I've only hurt one person!"
(He hurt two. One of them was immediately upon his resurrection; he doesn't remember this.)
But this problem of having been yet caked in grime... it extends much further than Elidibus realizes. Even when he attempts to ask, the doctors are dubious: is this automaton broken? They have a magitech iron, and they know good and well that putting water on it would spell its ruination, as well as a shock hazard. This makes it incredibly difficult to tend to Emet-Selch, since the two are inseparable, as evidenced right now: Emet-Selch will not untangle himself for the sake of a wash, and nobody offers to wash Mettaton.
(Maybe the two of them understand that Emet-Selch's just bound to keep getting gross until someone gives in and gives Mettaton the bath he craves. It was useless to wash Emet-Selch if they wouldn't pay the same dignity to Mettaton.)
He's over the unexpected arrival quickly enough, as it makes sense that one of the Ascians would check in on his own like this, he supposes, and Mettaton acknowledges his rationale with a short nod. Yes, he also understands the alarm of death in this world, of the fact that their souls are bound to their hosts as they are... That death was occurring strangely to Emet-Selch, too, is a grim reality he's aware of. Mettaton glances down at Emet-Selch's skin where the blankets begin, wondering if Elidibus is here to check in on this new state of being bound to his host. He smiles softly, wondering if maybe he's even here out of care. (Why does Elidibus strike him as someone he's known for a time? He'd never noticed that before, when he first met him... Is Mettaton fond of Elidibus already? That makes sense. He's often fond of a lot of people. Monsters grow fond quickly in general. Nothing seems out of place when he thinks about it like that.)
The Emissary's desire to care for Emet-Selch also makes sense, and Mettaton does settle—though he's just as content as Emet-Selch to disobey and remain tangled up in Emet-Selch. But when Elidibus redirects his focus and strikes an offer with Mettaton, why...
"Correction: I'm all living creature, despite being a machine," he begins, already beginning to shift excitedly. But he smiles bright, regarding Elidibus warmly, eagerly. "Would you really do that for me, beautiful? Thank GOD, you're an angel! Everybody here's afraid to let me near a glass of water, lest I," he gestures with a weak arm, and it flops over, comically snake-like; "explode."
The flatness to his expression suggests that he finds this to be absurd. That flatness rounds back out again, and MTT brightens.
"Really, I don't care what your reason is. I'd kill to be clean. It's disgusting. The hospitality rating of this infirmary's easily a one, only because it can't be zero. They have a lot to learn about basic amenities." Here, the excitable Puca turns to Emet-Selch for the Ascian's take. "Well? What do you think, Hades?"
(He accidentally calls Emet-Selch Hades. Where Mettaton's normally decent at minding the names (but not perfect), he's just... not working at his best, exhausted and weak. He doesn't even catch that he's erred.)
Given Emet-Selch's approval first, Mettaton will gladly... attempt to untangle himself. But his limbs are weak, just as his fianceé's are. Mettaton's body is heavy metal, and his weakened soul is having a hard time flexing his fingers or working his limbs.
"It's not my fault they keep putting themselves right in the way of my beautiful, shapely legs. Who can blame them?" he mutters, managing a smirk at the thought (read: convincing himself) that they must enjoy his legs, no matter how sore-ridden. Who wouldn't? "I've only hurt one person!"
(He hurt two. One of them was immediately upon his resurrection; he doesn't remember this.)
But this problem of having been yet caked in grime... it extends much further than Elidibus realizes. Even when he attempts to ask, the doctors are dubious: is this automaton broken? They have a magitech iron, and they know good and well that putting water on it would spell its ruination, as well as a shock hazard. This makes it incredibly difficult to tend to Emet-Selch, since the two are inseparable, as evidenced right now: Emet-Selch will not untangle himself for the sake of a wash, and nobody offers to wash Mettaton.
(Maybe the two of them understand that Emet-Selch's just bound to keep getting gross until someone gives in and gives Mettaton the bath he craves. It was useless to wash Emet-Selch if they wouldn't pay the same dignity to Mettaton.)
He's over the unexpected arrival quickly enough, as it makes sense that one of the Ascians would check in on his own like this, he supposes, and Mettaton acknowledges his rationale with a short nod. Yes, he also understands the alarm of death in this world, of the fact that their souls are bound to their hosts as they are... That death was occurring strangely to Emet-Selch, too, is a grim reality he's aware of. Mettaton glances down at Emet-Selch's skin where the blankets begin, wondering if Elidibus is here to check in on this new state of being bound to his host. He smiles softly, wondering if maybe he's even here out of care. (Why does Elidibus strike him as someone he's known for a time? He'd never noticed that before, when he first met him... Is Mettaton fond of Elidibus already? That makes sense. He's often fond of a lot of people. Monsters grow fond quickly in general. Nothing seems out of place when he thinks about it like that.)
The Emissary's desire to care for Emet-Selch also makes sense, and Mettaton does settle—though he's just as content as Emet-Selch to disobey and remain tangled up in Emet-Selch. But when Elidibus redirects his focus and strikes an offer with Mettaton, why...
"Correction: I'm all living creature, despite being a machine," he begins, already beginning to shift excitedly. But he smiles bright, regarding Elidibus warmly, eagerly. "Would you really do that for me, beautiful? Thank GOD, you're an angel! Everybody here's afraid to let me near a glass of water, lest I," he gestures with a weak arm, and it flops over, comically snake-like; "explode."
The flatness to his expression suggests that he finds this to be absurd. That flatness rounds back out again, and MTT brightens.
"Really, I don't care what your reason is. I'd kill to be clean. It's disgusting. The hospitality rating of this infirmary's easily a one, only because it can't be zero. They have a lot to learn about basic amenities." Here, the excitable Puca turns to Emet-Selch for the Ascian's take. "Well? What do you think, Hades?"
(He accidentally calls Emet-Selch Hades. Where Mettaton's normally decent at minding the names (but not perfect), he's just... not working at his best, exhausted and weak. He doesn't even catch that he's erred.)
Given Emet-Selch's approval first, Mettaton will gladly... attempt to untangle himself. But his limbs are weak, just as his fianceé's are. Mettaton's body is heavy metal, and his weakened soul is having a hard time flexing his fingers or working his limbs.
A few harsh words touch the tip of her tongue, but she manages not to unleash them. For now, as he says. She leans forward, dipping her head down, and waves a hand at him in a suspiciously Emet-like gesture.
"Do as you will." Maybe it is a worthy idea to show him the saddle, if only to pester him for more information she can actually do something with. His memories of Elidibus won't help when the man himself does not actually remember any of it, and has probably lost a great deal of his personality in the process of forgetting.
As he takes the finished saddle, she picks her head up and says one more thing in parting as he reaches the door. "Someday, I might be able to speak more about it. But today is not that day."
"Do as you will." Maybe it is a worthy idea to show him the saddle, if only to pester him for more information she can actually do something with. His memories of Elidibus won't help when the man himself does not actually remember any of it, and has probably lost a great deal of his personality in the process of forgetting.
As he takes the finished saddle, she picks her head up and says one more thing in parting as he reaches the door. "Someday, I might be able to speak more about it. But today is not that day."
That Elidibus had been inspecting this cult however closely was something that Emet-Selch wasn't aware of. But it wouldn't surprise him; whatever they had been doing was probably worth looking into, and if there was information to be found that might be of some overall use, why wouldn't Elidibus be after it? And with Mirrorbound having been requested to investigate, there would be nothing strange about another one doing just that. Emet-Selch, however, had wanted nothing to do with the cult. He'd been kidnapped once before, and if this group had anything to do with the recent disappearances (and it was now clear that they had, with the victims recovered), he did not want their attention.
And yet he'd died anyway, for reasons related if not directly so. He hadn't been kidnapped by the cult, after all.
That there was information to provide that would be better spared the potential insecurity of texting- sure. He could accept that. A meeting in person was something Emet-Selch suspected would be inevitable, unavoidable. But for Elidibus to have turned up with such immediacy... he couldn't decide entirely what to make of it. Were it someone else, he might have readily assumed concern, but- well, maybe it was, in its own way. Along with, of course, the practical. The pragmatic.
Perhaps he should have waited a few more days before sending out that message. Or waited until he was out of the hospital entirely.
Then again, he was getting something of a wash (Something that had already been partially undone by a few renewed smears of blood, thanks to Mettaton's aborted aggressive stance, though this too is something that Emet-Selch just accepts. He's had to; the puca was filthy, they cuddled anyway, therefore he became filthy.). Unfathomably strange as it was, it wasn't unpleasant, the promise of being slightly cleaner, and it was technically better than some stranger having such access to him.
So in the end he sighs; his shoulders twitch in something likely intended as a shrug (it's followed by a small wince; neither arm wanted to move much). "I suppose you'll have to do, now that you're already here," even accepting, Emet-Selch could still grumble about it, "having worked your way past my guard's defenses."
It still wouldn't have necessarily been enough to get him to shift very much- but then Elidibus makes his offer to Mettaton. To wash him. An offer the robot, naturally, reacts to with delight (not that he could blame him; it had been a frustration, to have had to live with their current state of grime, lacking the strength to do anything about it themselves). The Ascian, however, is skeptical at this sudden magnanimous offer, no matter how practically stated (Part of him is just caught on the idea of watching Elidibus, of all people, bathing Mettaton. The only person more absurd in that role would be Lahabrea.).
But it was something that needed done, and that they would both appreciate. Questionable motives aside, it would be a hard thing to turn down. Just about to verbalize his allowance, his tolerance, he's struck short as Mettaton turns back to him, asks for his opinion directly.
--The use of his name. It's enough to have him still, if just for a moment, giving Mettaton a somewhat blank stare, before his gaze unwillingly darts sideways back to Elidibus. Of course Mettaton knew his name and used it, and in a circumstance like this, it wasn't a surprise that he wouldn't be at his most careful. And as people went, the other Ascians were the ones Emet-Selch minded the least to have hear it (apart from Irhya, of course, but then he knew the two of them used it between each other if they spoke of him). After all, they knew his name. They- should know his name, for all that personal designations hadn't been used amongst them for thousands upon thousands of years. With Elidibus in particular....
Well. Like it or not, he supposed he'd find out if the other man recognized it at all. Sighing more softly, he only nods at first, in acquiescence of Mettaton's beginning struggles to untangle himself from him. "If you'd care to take advantage of Elidibus'... thoughtfulness, I've no objection. I doubt we'll receive a better offer."
It's easier accepted than done. Legs clumsily unlock from one another, arms wriggle free from where they'd been wrapped. The bed was still small, so they were still in contact, of course (and Emet-Selch was still disinclined to not at least have his side or hip pressed to Mettaton anyway), and altogether it's a rather awkward, pitiful struggle to achieve even partial separation. Mettaton had a heavier body to move, and Emet-Selch had been partially eaten; it is an incredibly sad display of dexterity and dignity.
When possible, Emet-Selch slumps back fully against the bed, annoyingly out of breathe for such meager work. Dying had never been so much of a hassle.
And yet he'd died anyway, for reasons related if not directly so. He hadn't been kidnapped by the cult, after all.
That there was information to provide that would be better spared the potential insecurity of texting- sure. He could accept that. A meeting in person was something Emet-Selch suspected would be inevitable, unavoidable. But for Elidibus to have turned up with such immediacy... he couldn't decide entirely what to make of it. Were it someone else, he might have readily assumed concern, but- well, maybe it was, in its own way. Along with, of course, the practical. The pragmatic.
Perhaps he should have waited a few more days before sending out that message. Or waited until he was out of the hospital entirely.
Then again, he was getting something of a wash (Something that had already been partially undone by a few renewed smears of blood, thanks to Mettaton's aborted aggressive stance, though this too is something that Emet-Selch just accepts. He's had to; the puca was filthy, they cuddled anyway, therefore he became filthy.). Unfathomably strange as it was, it wasn't unpleasant, the promise of being slightly cleaner, and it was technically better than some stranger having such access to him.
So in the end he sighs; his shoulders twitch in something likely intended as a shrug (it's followed by a small wince; neither arm wanted to move much). "I suppose you'll have to do, now that you're already here," even accepting, Emet-Selch could still grumble about it, "having worked your way past my guard's defenses."
It still wouldn't have necessarily been enough to get him to shift very much- but then Elidibus makes his offer to Mettaton. To wash him. An offer the robot, naturally, reacts to with delight (not that he could blame him; it had been a frustration, to have had to live with their current state of grime, lacking the strength to do anything about it themselves). The Ascian, however, is skeptical at this sudden magnanimous offer, no matter how practically stated (Part of him is just caught on the idea of watching Elidibus, of all people, bathing Mettaton. The only person more absurd in that role would be Lahabrea.).
But it was something that needed done, and that they would both appreciate. Questionable motives aside, it would be a hard thing to turn down. Just about to verbalize his allowance, his tolerance, he's struck short as Mettaton turns back to him, asks for his opinion directly.
--The use of his name. It's enough to have him still, if just for a moment, giving Mettaton a somewhat blank stare, before his gaze unwillingly darts sideways back to Elidibus. Of course Mettaton knew his name and used it, and in a circumstance like this, it wasn't a surprise that he wouldn't be at his most careful. And as people went, the other Ascians were the ones Emet-Selch minded the least to have hear it (apart from Irhya, of course, but then he knew the two of them used it between each other if they spoke of him). After all, they knew his name. They- should know his name, for all that personal designations hadn't been used amongst them for thousands upon thousands of years. With Elidibus in particular....
Well. Like it or not, he supposed he'd find out if the other man recognized it at all. Sighing more softly, he only nods at first, in acquiescence of Mettaton's beginning struggles to untangle himself from him. "If you'd care to take advantage of Elidibus'... thoughtfulness, I've no objection. I doubt we'll receive a better offer."
It's easier accepted than done. Legs clumsily unlock from one another, arms wriggle free from where they'd been wrapped. The bed was still small, so they were still in contact, of course (and Emet-Selch was still disinclined to not at least have his side or hip pressed to Mettaton anyway), and altogether it's a rather awkward, pitiful struggle to achieve even partial separation. Mettaton had a heavier body to move, and Emet-Selch had been partially eaten; it is an incredibly sad display of dexterity and dignity.
When possible, Emet-Selch slumps back fully against the bed, annoyingly out of breathe for such meager work. Dying had never been so much of a hassle.
Entertainment pursued too long turns fun into annoyance easily, and Lahabrea relents before it gets that far. There's still a level of not-quite-comfort; he knows how bonds are supposed to work, and what is accepted as normal behavior between bonded, but even though the line has already been crossed into what will certainly later strike him as peculiar and uncomfortable, letting Elidibus go also means an allowance for a bit more distance.
What's this?
"Something must have been distressing, recalled or not." He knows not what though, and can't begin to guess. Though he knows he dreams every time he sleeps, those dreams inevitably fade to nothingness by the time he wakes, leaving him with no images in their passing.
Dreams weren't supposed to be sensible. "It's rare for anyone to remember their dreams, past the very moment of waking, which is why I asked now and not later. They fade for all, like fog beneath the sun. In another few bells, if there's anything left at all to recall, it would be unusual." Reassurance, of a sort, to that surge of bitterness. This ... this isn't Elidibus' broken relation to the world and everything in it including himself, it's merely how things were.
They weren't meant to last. That was the point of dreams. A brief exercise in imagination and emotion as a mind struggles with its daily life. A biological necessity. But not a lingering one.
Escaping, for the moment, isn't difficult, though there is a sudden movement from the dragon as Elidibus attempts to stand to quite abruptly grab Elidibus and heft him right off the floor, setting him instead to one quarter-turn to the side in a little flash of irritation. He remembers the shards, and that work he'd been up to, surely Elidibus could damn well remember it too, it wasn't centuries ago.. "Watch your step."
What's this?
"Something must have been distressing, recalled or not." He knows not what though, and can't begin to guess. Though he knows he dreams every time he sleeps, those dreams inevitably fade to nothingness by the time he wakes, leaving him with no images in their passing.
Dreams weren't supposed to be sensible. "It's rare for anyone to remember their dreams, past the very moment of waking, which is why I asked now and not later. They fade for all, like fog beneath the sun. In another few bells, if there's anything left at all to recall, it would be unusual." Reassurance, of a sort, to that surge of bitterness. This ... this isn't Elidibus' broken relation to the world and everything in it including himself, it's merely how things were.
They weren't meant to last. That was the point of dreams. A brief exercise in imagination and emotion as a mind struggles with its daily life. A biological necessity. But not a lingering one.
Escaping, for the moment, isn't difficult, though there is a sudden movement from the dragon as Elidibus attempts to stand to quite abruptly grab Elidibus and heft him right off the floor, setting him instead to one quarter-turn to the side in a little flash of irritation. He remembers the shards, and that work he'd been up to, surely Elidibus could damn well remember it too, it wasn't centuries ago.. "Watch your step."
That was certainly familiar. But Elidibus knows Bonded share emotions and dreams, in a manner of speaking. Is it really a stretch to think mannerisms might leak across? Well, it's something to ponder over. Imagine if Lahabrea started to pick up Elidibus's habitual... ticks.
Come to think of it, would anything really change? A calm, still, and somewhat stoic Lahabrea? Elidibus can't imagine the comparison. He shakes his head free of such strange imaginings.
For now, he is content to depart, though pauses at the door when Irhya calls after him. The Ascian looks over his shoulder with a hint of interest. "I will be waiting to hear what you have to say, then," he answers in acceptance. He has plenty of time to wait, or so he is in habit of believing. What are a few centuries... ah, but does Irhya have time? He'll have to remember to look into the 'lifespan' of the vampires.
He leaves. And proves competent enough to fit saddle and bridle to not need help with that. The measurements done in a previous meeting have proved sound and while Irhya may be called out to see the final fit for the sake of satisfaction, it is probably a short and businesslike exchange.
What price remains to be paid is exchanged and Elidibus takes advantage of the newly saddled Filia to ride quickly out of sight. If no one else might be satisfied, at least the amaro looks happy. An excellent fit saddle and finally being able to trot along at a pace that isn't to match a hyur's walking speed. What more can be wanted out of life at that moment?
Come to think of it, would anything really change? A calm, still, and somewhat stoic Lahabrea? Elidibus can't imagine the comparison. He shakes his head free of such strange imaginings.
For now, he is content to depart, though pauses at the door when Irhya calls after him. The Ascian looks over his shoulder with a hint of interest. "I will be waiting to hear what you have to say, then," he answers in acceptance. He has plenty of time to wait, or so he is in habit of believing. What are a few centuries... ah, but does Irhya have time? He'll have to remember to look into the 'lifespan' of the vampires.
He leaves. And proves competent enough to fit saddle and bridle to not need help with that. The measurements done in a previous meeting have proved sound and while Irhya may be called out to see the final fit for the sake of satisfaction, it is probably a short and businesslike exchange.
What price remains to be paid is exchanged and Elidibus takes advantage of the newly saddled Filia to ride quickly out of sight. If no one else might be satisfied, at least the amaro looks happy. An excellent fit saddle and finally being able to trot along at a pace that isn't to match a hyur's walking speed. What more can be wanted out of life at that moment?
Yes. Not fooling anyone, Lahabrea least of all.
Getting somewhat free allows Elidibus to understand how hot Lahabrea's body temperature really is. While he knows the room has not cooled down and there would certainly be no need to worry about his state of undress causing a chill, it still feels refreshing. Drafts drying the sweat might be a part of that, but there's definitely a distinct difference between dragon and room's ambient climate.
Only a small part of his mind is dedicated to musing this matter. There are tears to wonder about. An assessment on the nature of dreams to listen to. While Elidibus very much wants to be vehemently dismissive of considering dreams as to be anything relevant, it's too much ingrained in his nature to not listen as insight is given. Especially when it is a peer.
Had Elidibus ever slept during his long vigil? It would be unlikely. And even if he had, any memory of 'dreaming' would be long discarded. There is little doubt the experience is entirely novel from his perspective. And thus, Lahabrea's knowledge is able to break through the burgeoning walls within the Emissary. He nods in acceptance of the explanation and shows signs of relaxing. Biology. The biology of a host he's imprisoned in is a concept Elidibus can cope with. It's not... him.
"I am not overly fond of the experience," the Ascian slowly answers. He ponders over Lahabrea's earlier question and its connection to the tears. Or the Bond. Perhaps both? "Though if there is some merit to do so, I will endeavor to write down what fragments I do remember, on awakening." Being brought to tear? Stray memories he no longer consciously remembers? Probably not what Elidibus meant. If the dreams were his own or Lahabrea's? More relevant. The Emissary's tone makes it sound like he's making a great concession in offering to record his dreams.
It's not like he forgot the obsidian shards were there. Truly. So lost in the moment of a great many thoughts, he had allowed himself to start wending free on autopilot and... well, fortunately, Lahabrea was not nearly so caught up in his own thoughts. Elidibus very nearly doesn't notice how he's picked up and shifted to a safe spot on the cage floor. Nearly.
He does frown a bit in puzzlement as he notices his feet seem to completely miss the floor. This nagging little downturn of lips continues until he's shifted and set down again. Elidibus slowly spins in place to look at Lahabrea. The speaker looks irritated. Then to the floor where he has been set and the shard-strewn floor where he'd been about to step. Oh.
"My apologies." For inconveniencing Lahabrea. It's like a thank you. Looking around some more, he spies his trousers. His top is easily found as he'd personally set that aside. "I will return shortly. Unless you wish to continue speaking. Then you are welcome to join me."
He really does understand that wouldn't be something you say to mortals without sounding like he's insinuating something else. Here, he doesn't have to worry about such tedious misunderstandings. And he probably doesn't literally mean 'in the bath', so much as 'in conversational range'.
He abruptly frowns and, looking down, gives the trousers a quick shake. From one of the legs rolls a somewhat indignant Cherry Bomb. There is a resigned sigh. It's probably just as well he's managed to pick up some basics in mending spells.
Getting somewhat free allows Elidibus to understand how hot Lahabrea's body temperature really is. While he knows the room has not cooled down and there would certainly be no need to worry about his state of undress causing a chill, it still feels refreshing. Drafts drying the sweat might be a part of that, but there's definitely a distinct difference between dragon and room's ambient climate.
Only a small part of his mind is dedicated to musing this matter. There are tears to wonder about. An assessment on the nature of dreams to listen to. While Elidibus very much wants to be vehemently dismissive of considering dreams as to be anything relevant, it's too much ingrained in his nature to not listen as insight is given. Especially when it is a peer.
Had Elidibus ever slept during his long vigil? It would be unlikely. And even if he had, any memory of 'dreaming' would be long discarded. There is little doubt the experience is entirely novel from his perspective. And thus, Lahabrea's knowledge is able to break through the burgeoning walls within the Emissary. He nods in acceptance of the explanation and shows signs of relaxing. Biology. The biology of a host he's imprisoned in is a concept Elidibus can cope with. It's not... him.
"I am not overly fond of the experience," the Ascian slowly answers. He ponders over Lahabrea's earlier question and its connection to the tears. Or the Bond. Perhaps both? "Though if there is some merit to do so, I will endeavor to write down what fragments I do remember, on awakening." Being brought to tear? Stray memories he no longer consciously remembers? Probably not what Elidibus meant. If the dreams were his own or Lahabrea's? More relevant. The Emissary's tone makes it sound like he's making a great concession in offering to record his dreams.
It's not like he forgot the obsidian shards were there. Truly. So lost in the moment of a great many thoughts, he had allowed himself to start wending free on autopilot and... well, fortunately, Lahabrea was not nearly so caught up in his own thoughts. Elidibus very nearly doesn't notice how he's picked up and shifted to a safe spot on the cage floor. Nearly.
He does frown a bit in puzzlement as he notices his feet seem to completely miss the floor. This nagging little downturn of lips continues until he's shifted and set down again. Elidibus slowly spins in place to look at Lahabrea. The speaker looks irritated. Then to the floor where he has been set and the shard-strewn floor where he'd been about to step. Oh.
"My apologies." For inconveniencing Lahabrea. It's like a thank you. Looking around some more, he spies his trousers. His top is easily found as he'd personally set that aside. "I will return shortly. Unless you wish to continue speaking. Then you are welcome to join me."
He really does understand that wouldn't be something you say to mortals without sounding like he's insinuating something else. Here, he doesn't have to worry about such tedious misunderstandings. And he probably doesn't literally mean 'in the bath', so much as 'in conversational range'.
He abruptly frowns and, looking down, gives the trousers a quick shake. From one of the legs rolls a somewhat indignant Cherry Bomb. There is a resigned sigh. It's probably just as well he's managed to pick up some basics in mending spells.
It isn't unreasonable to be wary about damaging Mettaton. And it's to their credit that they showed concern for him as something other than an object. It's probably better than Elidibus's initial estimations or thoughts on the matter of what the Puca is. Even now as the robot insists on being 'all living creature', there is a reserved interest, as if it is taken into consideration but not necessarily believed as fact.
But really, at the end of the day, the healers of this place left Emet-Selch's host body (and possibly the only one he gets) in the company of someone covered in filth which would be no kindness for the injuries he's obviously taken. Much less a pleasant experience. It is unacceptable. At least both seem willing to consider
"I see. Then you need no further consideration for your machine body when I begin?" Elidibus seems to accept Mettaton does know what he's talking about. Keen eyes notice some of the struggle involved in the beginning efforts of disentanglement are not just the innate weakness. "...Other than weigh...t."
The word goes from standard tone to at least an octave lower as Mettaton utters Emet-Selch's true name. Elidibus, who had been moving to the Puca's side of the bed with the intent of offering physical aid in alleviating the issue of the robot's physical weight, halts in his tracks. His jaw tenses.
There is something there in his reaction which suggests he felt something and perhaps it can be asked after another time. But the Emissary is frighteningly quick to relax and continue his journey. His response, if you can call it that, is only one of bland commentary. "It would be best to consider this a public place, Mettaton." Was that a usage of a name, of all things? "Though were are alone in this room, I would not regard this as a place which should be privy to any other form of address than Emet-Selch's proper title."
Even Emmy might be preferable. Whatever Elidibus's opinion though, his words and tone seem to indicate he's merely instructing the Puca on proper Amaurotine etiquette.
"Allow me to aid you." With that phrase, the Emissary goes about with his intent to help sort out the two bodies so both might properly take advantage of his offer. He is pointedly gentle.
But really, at the end of the day, the healers of this place left Emet-Selch's host body (and possibly the only one he gets) in the company of someone covered in filth which would be no kindness for the injuries he's obviously taken. Much less a pleasant experience. It is unacceptable. At least both seem willing to consider
"I see. Then you need no further consideration for your machine body when I begin?" Elidibus seems to accept Mettaton does know what he's talking about. Keen eyes notice some of the struggle involved in the beginning efforts of disentanglement are not just the innate weakness. "...Other than weigh...t."
The word goes from standard tone to at least an octave lower as Mettaton utters Emet-Selch's true name. Elidibus, who had been moving to the Puca's side of the bed with the intent of offering physical aid in alleviating the issue of the robot's physical weight, halts in his tracks. His jaw tenses.
There is something there in his reaction which suggests he felt something and perhaps it can be asked after another time. But the Emissary is frighteningly quick to relax and continue his journey. His response, if you can call it that, is only one of bland commentary. "It would be best to consider this a public place, Mettaton." Was that a usage of a name, of all things? "Though were are alone in this room, I would not regard this as a place which should be privy to any other form of address than Emet-Selch's proper title."
Even Emmy might be preferable. Whatever Elidibus's opinion though, his words and tone seem to indicate he's merely instructing the Puca on proper Amaurotine etiquette.
"Allow me to aid you." With that phrase, the Emissary goes about with his intent to help sort out the two bodies so both might properly take advantage of his offer. He is pointedly gentle.
"I do not think that necessary, unless you recall something particularly interesting." It's apparently not something Lahabrea considers even remotely important, just potentially diverting. Dream sharing was one of the things bonds were supposed to do, but as far as he can tell nothing of the sort had happened. They might be too early in their work to tell. "And I do mean 'interesting', not ... necessarily relevant. Sometimes the imagery that lingers from a dream can be inspiring, but hardly vital. A great many works of art and creation have come from the strange moments of dreams." But they also get by without them just fine!
Interesting, but not vital.
Now that sleep is definitely past and the comfortable haze with it fading, the undercurrent of ill temper is rising again, as it inevitably must. The dragon had its own interests and wants for the morning, and he's ignoring all of them. He focuses instead on making sure Elidibus doesn't slice his feet open, watching with narrowed eyes as the bomb is shaken loose from a trouser leg.
So that's where it went. By now, Lahabrea's fairly certain it only makes a nuisance of itself because it gets away with it, the dragon-changed Ascian would have pingponged the little creature right into the wall after the first time, well aware such a thing wouldn't actually harm it. Elidibus was ... far gentler than he would have been.
"I am not inclined to leave my confinement, even if you feel it worthless," he responds eventually. "Not while the moons retain their sway. Even a few moments of delayed struggle betwixed me and my target might be enough for an escape." And not bloody, horrifying demise!
Plus it saves the temptation of wanting to bathe, when water was fairly uncomfortable. There had to be alternatives.
Interesting, but not vital.
Now that sleep is definitely past and the comfortable haze with it fading, the undercurrent of ill temper is rising again, as it inevitably must. The dragon had its own interests and wants for the morning, and he's ignoring all of them. He focuses instead on making sure Elidibus doesn't slice his feet open, watching with narrowed eyes as the bomb is shaken loose from a trouser leg.
So that's where it went. By now, Lahabrea's fairly certain it only makes a nuisance of itself because it gets away with it, the dragon-changed Ascian would have pingponged the little creature right into the wall after the first time, well aware such a thing wouldn't actually harm it. Elidibus was ... far gentler than he would have been.
"I am not inclined to leave my confinement, even if you feel it worthless," he responds eventually. "Not while the moons retain their sway. Even a few moments of delayed struggle betwixed me and my target might be enough for an escape." And not bloody, horrifying demise!
Plus it saves the temptation of wanting to bathe, when water was fairly uncomfortable. There had to be alternatives.
Mettaton attempts to raise his hand to his mouth to cover it daintily, scandalized, but his arm just... flops sadly. He's having a real rough time using his body. "Weight! Of course I need more consideration than that. But they could just ask! You can't just dunk me in a tub, for example..."
In other words, no: they hadn't ascribed much respect to the robot. Even being told that he had a soul didn't seem to convince him that he could speak to them about his needs. But before he can continue very far, Elidibus stalls, then gives him quite the pointed look. The use of his own name is expected, and after a time, he'd get quite irritated if Elidibus avoided using it for very long: he deserves respect, after all. But when he realizes the mistake he's made...
He tries again to cover his mouth in more drama, but this is more reflex than acting. His arm fails him again. Not even his ears can stand, but his face is screwed up, lips tight and eye wide. He glances to Emet-Selch with a sheepish smile.
"Oh," he breathes, but it's... reassuring that the door's closed. Already, Mettaton's aware that he's slipped a few times in not using Emet-Selch's title... Being freshly revived would obviously scramble his head and make him behave uncontrollably. To Emet-Selch alone, "Sorry, my dearest. That was careless of me..."
Hades is just his name. Mettaton recognizes that Emet-Selch is an important title, but he views his fiancé as Hades, the man behind the mask in all respects. ...He is also decidedly not Amaurotine, and fails to truly grasp this society's inclination toward upholding titles and conforming to proper reservation. But his apology is made, and it's directed entirely at Emet-Selch, not at all at Elidibus. He'd told Emet-Selch that he'd use his title in the presence of others, after all, and he'd erred.
As soon as Elidibus is on the move, Mettaton nods with as much exuberance as his tired body can manage, practically squirming with excitement. "Please do," he beckons, still sidling comfortably against Emet-Selch's hip. But he wouldn't dare go any further from him than this, no matter how much assistance he received. "Anyway, what was I saying...? Oh, yes. This body can tolerate anything short of submersion, darling. So you can do your worst! I'm sick and tired of smelling like old blood, and it's not doing Selchy any favors."
This really would be the best, and only, offer he'd receive. Comfort wasn't a priority for a robot, not by the Coven's staff. Mettaton presents himself to Elidibus' attention—and for Elidibus' intervention and interest, Mettaton's body is caked in old, flecked blood, mostly from his hips, up. Dirt remains caked in nails and mixed with blood; gnarls of thick, dark fur sticks to him in places still, but not nearly as much as when he'd woken up. It looks like he had a little tussle in a fur-lined subterranean burrow or something, and absolutely reamed his opponent and bled them dry.
But he wears for Elidibus and Emet-Selch a bright, eager smile, glancing between them.
"Finally! I've wanted this simple pleasure for too long. You're making dreams come true, Elidibus-darling. —....."
...That name. Those syllables. Mettaton has the sort of heavy deliberation after saying it that Emet-Selch alone might recognize: he is dissatisfied with affixing -darling to so many syllables, and seeks to remedy this. Terrible. Mettaton has finally had it with Elidibus-darling.
In other words, no: they hadn't ascribed much respect to the robot. Even being told that he had a soul didn't seem to convince him that he could speak to them about his needs. But before he can continue very far, Elidibus stalls, then gives him quite the pointed look. The use of his own name is expected, and after a time, he'd get quite irritated if Elidibus avoided using it for very long: he deserves respect, after all. But when he realizes the mistake he's made...
He tries again to cover his mouth in more drama, but this is more reflex than acting. His arm fails him again. Not even his ears can stand, but his face is screwed up, lips tight and eye wide. He glances to Emet-Selch with a sheepish smile.
"Oh," he breathes, but it's... reassuring that the door's closed. Already, Mettaton's aware that he's slipped a few times in not using Emet-Selch's title... Being freshly revived would obviously scramble his head and make him behave uncontrollably. To Emet-Selch alone, "Sorry, my dearest. That was careless of me..."
Hades is just his name. Mettaton recognizes that Emet-Selch is an important title, but he views his fiancé as Hades, the man behind the mask in all respects. ...He is also decidedly not Amaurotine, and fails to truly grasp this society's inclination toward upholding titles and conforming to proper reservation. But his apology is made, and it's directed entirely at Emet-Selch, not at all at Elidibus. He'd told Emet-Selch that he'd use his title in the presence of others, after all, and he'd erred.
As soon as Elidibus is on the move, Mettaton nods with as much exuberance as his tired body can manage, practically squirming with excitement. "Please do," he beckons, still sidling comfortably against Emet-Selch's hip. But he wouldn't dare go any further from him than this, no matter how much assistance he received. "Anyway, what was I saying...? Oh, yes. This body can tolerate anything short of submersion, darling. So you can do your worst! I'm sick and tired of smelling like old blood, and it's not doing Selchy any favors."
This really would be the best, and only, offer he'd receive. Comfort wasn't a priority for a robot, not by the Coven's staff. Mettaton presents himself to Elidibus' attention—and for Elidibus' intervention and interest, Mettaton's body is caked in old, flecked blood, mostly from his hips, up. Dirt remains caked in nails and mixed with blood; gnarls of thick, dark fur sticks to him in places still, but not nearly as much as when he'd woken up. It looks like he had a little tussle in a fur-lined subterranean burrow or something, and absolutely reamed his opponent and bled them dry.
But he wears for Elidibus and Emet-Selch a bright, eager smile, glancing between them.
"Finally! I've wanted this simple pleasure for too long. You're making dreams come true, Elidibus-darling. —....."
...That name. Those syllables. Mettaton has the sort of heavy deliberation after saying it that Emet-Selch alone might recognize: he is dissatisfied with affixing -darling to so many syllables, and seeks to remedy this. Terrible. Mettaton has finally had it with Elidibus-darling.
Edited (wrote sheep instead of sheepish apparently) 2021-02-22 19:24 (UTC)
[Lalli and Elidibus, set loose on a house full of things to investigate by hitting the confirm key. House is certainly DOOMED to be stripped. ...Or maybe not, since it seems to be Lalli's house too.]
I will be there within a bell.
[Another message follows this, apparently as a correction.]
Under one hour.
[Either way, he seemed confident enough with the directions given.]
In fact, it's roughly a half-hour later in which this 'Ardbert' fellow arrives, astride a mount which might graciously be deemed a gray-feathered camel-bird. It seems content to stride leisurely over the streets, talons finding traction by digging into the ice-lined cobble. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this picture alright? Although it could fly, Elidibus has kept to a ground route. Easier to deal with directions that way and it avoids complications, like scaring the devil out of neighbors or on-edge concerned cousins of missing people.
So here is the home and there is a figure standing in front of it. Since folk generally aren't standing around in the winter weather, there's a good chance that he's arrived in the right place. Elidibus... or rather Ardbert has a young adult appearance as his voice over the comms that day had suggested. Though given how educated his words were over the audio that day, maybe the archaic gear and cloak, the giant axe, and the casual hairstyle would seem more fitting to someone that spend most of their time in the wilds, rather than culture and civilization and scholarly pursuits.
And since he dismounts and moves toward the house with ease, it's clear he's accustomed to moving around in the stuff. The amaro follows a pace or so behind, led by the reins still gripped in one gloved hand.
"You're the cousin? Unless I have come to the wrong address." 'Ardbert' offers an easy smile, though his expression isn't overly cheerful. Of course not! One does not be overly cheerful when someone needs to be found. "I am Ardbert. Which is also the name I go by."
I will be there within a bell.
[Another message follows this, apparently as a correction.]
Under one hour.
[Either way, he seemed confident enough with the directions given.]
In fact, it's roughly a half-hour later in which this 'Ardbert' fellow arrives, astride a mount which might graciously be deemed a gray-feathered camel-bird. It seems content to stride leisurely over the streets, talons finding traction by digging into the ice-lined cobble. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this picture alright? Although it could fly, Elidibus has kept to a ground route. Easier to deal with directions that way and it avoids complications, like scaring the devil out of neighbors or on-edge concerned cousins of missing people.
So here is the home and there is a figure standing in front of it. Since folk generally aren't standing around in the winter weather, there's a good chance that he's arrived in the right place. Elidibus... or rather Ardbert has a young adult appearance as his voice over the comms that day had suggested. Though given how educated his words were over the audio that day, maybe the archaic gear and cloak, the giant axe, and the casual hairstyle would seem more fitting to someone that spend most of their time in the wilds, rather than culture and civilization and scholarly pursuits.
And since he dismounts and moves toward the house with ease, it's clear he's accustomed to moving around in the stuff. The amaro follows a pace or so behind, led by the reins still gripped in one gloved hand.
"You're the cousin? Unless I have come to the wrong address." 'Ardbert' offers an easy smile, though his expression isn't overly cheerful. Of course not! One does not be overly cheerful when someone needs to be found. "I am Ardbert. Which is also the name I go by."
A reaction. But one Emet-Selch had trouble deciding what meant. There was no flash of recognition of it being anything other than a name, but there was no obvious bewilderment or confusion either. It answered nothing. But it certainly wasn't something to inquire about now, so apart from a briefly uncomfortable look, he allows it to lie.
But Mettaton's recognition of the mistake and his apology gets a faint shrug as he rests back; he'd wave it off if he could, but while the robot's arms are noodly and limp, his are formerly-eaten (if reconstituted) and limp. Had the door been open, had there been other non-Elidibus people around, he would've been more exasperated (that Mettaton had already used his name before, in front of doctors, he doesn't entirely remember; he'd not been in the best frame of mind either), but as it went, it was an error of minimal harm. And with Elidibus' reminder, Mettaton knew better now.
The Emissary's use of Mettaton's name gets a brief, if mildly surprised look, though it settles into one of equally as mild approval. At least Elidibus wasn't as resistant to the idea of using the names of others, unlike Lahabrea.
And with a bit of added help, the two are duly extricated from one another as much as they can be. Though contact remains, it's not of the sort to get too much in the way. And even were there space on the bed, there was only so much extrication either of them would tolerate.
Mettaton's continued anticipation towards a cleaning remained expected, if faintly endearing. He knew how much care his Bonded took towards his appearance, and the days spent without a wash had been- less than comfortable for either of them. The Ascian hadn't quite inured himself to the smell of old blood, and it would be a relief to not keep experiencing it. That Elidibus had decided on this task for himself... it would be worth some gratitude, perhaps, even if he hadn't arrived here with the purpose of washing either of them.
But that heaviness at the end of the puca's words.... Emet-Selch did indeed recognize the threat of that pause. He'd heard it only once before, and he hadn't immediately known what it portended. Emet-Selch-darling had been a spoken atrocity that had only occurred a single time, followed by that same realization that no, this would not do. It was only on their next meeting that the fruits of Mettaton's creativity had solved the issue: Emmy-darling. He'd been no more amused by it than Elidibus had been, but of course the puca had completely ignored his demands not to do that to his poor title. By now he was used to it and Selchy (which was debatably worse), and since he heard them so rarely anyway these days, only in circumstances like this, when they were in another's company- he'd just kind of accepted it.
(Had the awareness of the preferability of Hades-darling over the butchering of his title influenced his decision to give Mettaton his true name? No. ...Not entirely, anyway. It was a bonus, though.)
Regardless: he knows that pause and what it means now, but apart from briefly closing his eyes, steeling himself against Inevitability, he says nothing on it.
"But there you have it, Elidibus. With the lack of a readily available bathtub, there's little harm you can do."
For now, Emet-Selch settles on his half of the bed that now seems even smaller now that he and his robotic Bonded are less compressed upon it, wondering if it was worth casting about for a blanket to re-cover his chest now that it wasn't being currently attended to. It was damp and he was cold, but after a dissatisfied huff he remains sulking back into his pillow, eyes opening again, as though the impending vision of the Emissary cleaning his puca was something too absurd to miss.
But Mettaton's recognition of the mistake and his apology gets a faint shrug as he rests back; he'd wave it off if he could, but while the robot's arms are noodly and limp, his are formerly-eaten (if reconstituted) and limp. Had the door been open, had there been other non-Elidibus people around, he would've been more exasperated (that Mettaton had already used his name before, in front of doctors, he doesn't entirely remember; he'd not been in the best frame of mind either), but as it went, it was an error of minimal harm. And with Elidibus' reminder, Mettaton knew better now.
The Emissary's use of Mettaton's name gets a brief, if mildly surprised look, though it settles into one of equally as mild approval. At least Elidibus wasn't as resistant to the idea of using the names of others, unlike Lahabrea.
And with a bit of added help, the two are duly extricated from one another as much as they can be. Though contact remains, it's not of the sort to get too much in the way. And even were there space on the bed, there was only so much extrication either of them would tolerate.
Mettaton's continued anticipation towards a cleaning remained expected, if faintly endearing. He knew how much care his Bonded took towards his appearance, and the days spent without a wash had been- less than comfortable for either of them. The Ascian hadn't quite inured himself to the smell of old blood, and it would be a relief to not keep experiencing it. That Elidibus had decided on this task for himself... it would be worth some gratitude, perhaps, even if he hadn't arrived here with the purpose of washing either of them.
But that heaviness at the end of the puca's words.... Emet-Selch did indeed recognize the threat of that pause. He'd heard it only once before, and he hadn't immediately known what it portended. Emet-Selch-darling had been a spoken atrocity that had only occurred a single time, followed by that same realization that no, this would not do. It was only on their next meeting that the fruits of Mettaton's creativity had solved the issue: Emmy-darling. He'd been no more amused by it than Elidibus had been, but of course the puca had completely ignored his demands not to do that to his poor title. By now he was used to it and Selchy (which was debatably worse), and since he heard them so rarely anyway these days, only in circumstances like this, when they were in another's company- he'd just kind of accepted it.
(Had the awareness of the preferability of Hades-darling over the butchering of his title influenced his decision to give Mettaton his true name? No. ...Not entirely, anyway. It was a bonus, though.)
Regardless: he knows that pause and what it means now, but apart from briefly closing his eyes, steeling himself against Inevitability, he says nothing on it.
"But there you have it, Elidibus. With the lack of a readily available bathtub, there's little harm you can do."
For now, Emet-Selch settles on his half of the bed that now seems even smaller now that he and his robotic Bonded are less compressed upon it, wondering if it was worth casting about for a blanket to re-cover his chest now that it wasn't being currently attended to. It was damp and he was cold, but after a dissatisfied huff he remains sulking back into his pillow, eyes opening again, as though the impending vision of the Emissary cleaning his puca was something too absurd to miss.
[This one's audio though, not text. The sound of the river can be heard in the background, ice cracking slightly. He sounds.. perfectly normal.]
In light of Emet-Selch's loss of his fae bond, I volunteered you to take her place. It would, I think, do him good to have one of his own kind instead of another mortal as a link, especially given the rest of them can't be relied on.
In light of Emet-Selch's loss of his fae bond, I volunteered you to take her place. It would, I think, do him good to have one of his own kind instead of another mortal as a link, especially given the rest of them can't be relied on.
[Since audio is the method, Elidibus responds in kind. He is somewhere quiet and likely secure as he uses his own voice]
I have no objections. It will be interesting to see how the Warrior of Light reaction, should he accept the proposal. I have recently confirmed my true identity to her.
I have no objections. It will be interesting to see how the Warrior of Light reaction, should he accept the proposal. I have recently confirmed my true identity to her.
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