Internal Conflict

Day: 15
Quarter: Tessera
Year: 81378
Time: Just after dark

A strong gust of god-breath wind ran through Miqi's unbound hair like fingers, sweeping the waist-length matte black hair away from his pale rosy pelt. His faded emerald-flecked eyes seemed grey in the dim light, a suggestion that was supported by the despairing expression on his face.

He stood on the back row of bleachers, torn-up and flameless tail curled around his black-clad leg. The wind picked up for a brief moment, harsh enough to send a shiver down the ridge of backwards-facing fur along his spine. The ground two stories below him doubled, wavered in and out of focus, and then sharpened to surreal detail.

It called to him. He felt it, deep in his aching hands, his mangled tail, his shattered soul... Death had grown tired of waiting for Ibontiel and the fragments of Miqi, and had come aÂ’ calling.

The silver hoops in his left ear and the pewter chain holding them together abruptly stopped jingling and chattering, the wind falling back and leaving the faded pendragon alone. Alone but for the company in his own skull and the beckoning ground, the sweet, enticing ground and the freedom of the fall... the freedom of what came after the fall...

"Stop it, Miq," he murmured, voice shockingly loud in the near silence of dusk. "This is my life, mine, and I won't give it up, natural order of the world be damned. I didn't get away from one set of Arch Magos and Magosi to simply die by my own hand."

 

Miqi started at DelÂ’s voice, gasping quietly in shock and wheeling around with dizzying suddenness. He swayed atop the bleachers, stomach descending and ultimately coming to rest just short of his feet. Maybe he wasnÂ’t so ready for death after all...

A thin tendril of acid-green smoke curled from the tip of his tail, signifying annoyance and fear. He didn’t like that Del had been able to sneak up on him so easily—didn’t like it at all. It meant that his awareness and care was failing him, which was deadly. One mistake in the lab and it could be his life. Had been his life, in fact.

But that was in the past, the far past. Though his first impression of Del wasnÂ’t a good one (getting a door slammed in oneÂ’s face seldom fosters good feelings, after all), he took the time to reply.

“Yes, I am talking to myself. Yes, my tail is messed up. My ear is messed up as well. So are my claws. But what I’m doing up here is my own business."

He spoke with a cool candor, raising up his hands in a demonstration.

 

Miqi snorted angrily. His tail began to whip back and forth in agitation, clearly scarred and not even close to bleeding. He took DelÂ’s comment as a jibe, a mockery of his past injuries and his pains.

“I have no intention of jumping, friend," he said sharply, the emphasis on ‘friend’ clearly expressing that he meant no such thing. “And my tail was mutilated over a year ago. I don’t think Naupyftfaas can fix this."


OOC: Sorry for the length!

 

Miqi raised one eyebrow, a sharp and somehow utterly unamused grin on his face. He was reminded, yet again, of why he had never liked associating with anyone as Ibontiel—all too often, they didn’t take his particular mannerisms well.

“Rudeness is never unnecessary," he said dryly, another puff of smoke (this time gunmetal-grey) snaking slowly from the tip of his tail.

 

Miqi's smile became bitter and forced as he watched Del light the toothpick on fire. Joke or not, he took the implied insult-- that he, a 97 year old man, would be impressed by a puny little nioti's parlor trick! Granted, he didn't look the part of an old man, but he was by no means a five-year-old, quickly swayed by impressive little tricks. His scarred ears flicked back in disgust, the green flecks in his eyes nearly hidden by his overcast 'brows.

"That's damn polite next to what I can do, nioti," he spat, distinctive tail whipping behind him, leaving trails of umber smoke.

He pulled a small matchbook from his back-pocket and snapped off the head. Resting it in his palm, he rolled his shoulders and called upon his powers. The small piece of wood shuddered, then stood up of its own accord, turning a bright, almost neon green. Tiny leaves burst from its sides, unfurling into gentle tear-drops. Just as quickly, it fell back into his palm, shuddering into a new form: a tiny brown earthen stick stick-bug, antenna quivering in fear at its strange birth. He allowed it to crawl nearly off his palm, then clenched that hand into a fist. When he opened it again, a single match-stick rested there.

“That, too, is comparably polite, but a damn sight father than what an ordinary biokinetic can do. Besides—my only other trick has to do with surgery, and I don’t think you’d appreciate me removing your wings so cleanly you’d never know they had been there."