The Urge is forced to his knees, but that doesn’t stop him from snarling like a wild animal. After failing another wisdom save When the sorcerer sits down to bandage himself, the Urge struggles harder, only to be held in place by the ropes around him.
“I will bathe in your blood before the night is over!” The Urge snarls.
As far as first words go, and his first time hearing anything from the Dark Urge, it’s quite interesting. Strange doesn’t seem to instantly react at first with any visible shock, instead working on attending to his injuries first.
There’s a certain kind of zen calm which has settled over him: adrenaline washing away, leaving that crisp mouthy Marvel confidence in its wake.
“Is that the general goal?” he asks as he glances up over his unrolled gauze, lightly curious, as if the Urge has merely announced an intention to go apple scrumping. “Cut people open and bathe in their blood? Broadly?”
"I'll pluck your eyes out and wear them on your ligaments like charms," the Urge growls at the Sorcerer, continuing to struggle against the ropes.
If he had his way, the Sorcerer would be on a table, ready to be dissected, already dead with his eyes torn out. Then the Urge would use any sharp object-- horn, knife, mirror shard-- to cut out the other organs.
For now, the Urge tries to bite the Sorcerer on top of his threats.
As the Urge flings his body forward to use his teeth as a weapon, the magical restraints tighten again and yank him out of the way before he can collide with Strange. Which unfortunately leads to the elf tipping over and thrashing on the ground, like some quarry lassoed and hog-tied, to be slung over some horse’s back.
Christ, getting him back to the Gallows is going to be difficult, isn’t it? They don’t have a horse or a griffon with them. Maybe he’ll call Clarisse, get her to fly one out to them in the woods.
Strange finishes wrapping his shoulder and then starts packing up their supplies, still calm and business-like. Tav had always named this (personality? psychosis? magical possession?) with capital letters, clearly a proper noun: Not until the Urge is defeated.
Now that this is the sorcerer’s first time meeting it, he can’t help seizing this opportunity to ask, to try to get more information, anything which might give him more context and help them all make their way towards a cure: “Do you go by the Urge? Is that the name you’d prefer to be called? Do you truly have no other?”
"I am Bhaalspawn," the Urge snarls at the Sorcerer. "I am heir to my father and he requires blood, sacrifice. I am no Urge, I am the true form. My bloodkin is responsible for this idiot."
Talking does not slow down the Urge in the slightest as he continues to fight against the ropes, tearing at his own skin and flesh if needed to get free.
"I have killed many stronger than you," a sick sneer stretches his mouth. "Put their organs in jars and bled them out for my father."
The flippancy isn’t unearned. He has been tortured. He has been impaled, cast into flames, crushed, ripped apart, tied up in Ebony Maw’s grasp, a thousand needles hovering centimeters from his eyes, burrowing into his skin, into his brain. Pain, agony, dying over and over, dying and dying. His organs in jars is practically an everyday threat by now.
He rubs absentmindedly at his throat and what he expects to be faint bruising later — but Tav’s fists are not Thanos’ monstrously oversized hand, so there’s that small favour.
With the equipment packed up, he shifts to redo Tav’s restraints, prepared for when the magic will fade, replacing them with tightly-cinched everyday rope and some shackles they’d both seen fit to pack beforehand (this trip was a gamble, yes, but not a completely unplanned one).
“Well, Bhaalspawn,” he says, “I’m looking forward to getting my friend back, one way or another. We’ll see you back to the Gallows.”
And thus begins the long haul of dragging that howling seething monster back home.
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Date: 2024-08-07 01:40 pm (UTC)After failing another wisdom saveWhen the sorcerer sits down to bandage himself, the Urge struggles harder, only to be held in place by the ropes around him.“I will bathe in your blood before the night is over!” The Urge snarls.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-10 01:53 am (UTC)There’s a certain kind of zen calm which has settled over him: adrenaline washing away, leaving that crisp mouthy Marvel confidence in its wake.
“Is that the general goal?” he asks as he glances up over his unrolled gauze, lightly curious, as if the Urge has merely announced an intention to go apple scrumping. “Cut people open and bathe in their blood? Broadly?”
no subject
Date: 2024-08-10 02:02 am (UTC)If he had his way, the Sorcerer would be on a table, ready to be dissected, already dead with his eyes torn out. Then the Urge would use any sharp object-- horn, knife, mirror shard-- to cut out the other organs.
For now, the Urge tries to bite the Sorcerer on top of his threats.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-12 01:58 am (UTC)Christ, getting him back to the Gallows is going to be difficult, isn’t it? They don’t have a horse or a griffon with them. Maybe he’ll call Clarisse, get her to fly one out to them in the woods.
Strange finishes wrapping his shoulder and then starts packing up their supplies, still calm and business-like. Tav had always named this (personality? psychosis? magical possession?) with capital letters, clearly a proper noun: Not until the Urge is defeated.
Now that this is the sorcerer’s first time meeting it, he can’t help seizing this opportunity to ask, to try to get more information, anything which might give him more context and help them all make their way towards a cure: “Do you go by the Urge? Is that the name you’d prefer to be called? Do you truly have no other?”
no subject
Date: 2024-08-12 01:27 pm (UTC)Talking does not slow down the Urge in the slightest as he continues to fight against the ropes, tearing at his own skin and flesh if needed to get free.
"I have killed many stronger than you," a sick sneer stretches his mouth. "Put their organs in jars and bled them out for my father."
potential 🎀
Date: 2024-08-16 10:08 pm (UTC)The flippancy isn’t unearned. He has been tortured. He has been impaled, cast into flames, crushed, ripped apart, tied up in Ebony Maw’s grasp, a thousand needles hovering centimeters from his eyes, burrowing into his skin, into his brain. Pain, agony, dying over and over, dying and dying. His organs in jars is practically an everyday threat by now.
He rubs absentmindedly at his throat and what he expects to be faint bruising later — but Tav’s fists are not Thanos’ monstrously oversized hand, so there’s that small favour.
With the equipment packed up, he shifts to redo Tav’s restraints, prepared for when the magic will fade, replacing them with tightly-cinched everyday rope and some shackles they’d both seen fit to pack beforehand (this trip was a gamble, yes, but not a completely unplanned one).
“Well, Bhaalspawn,” he says, “I’m looking forward to getting my friend back, one way or another. We’ll see you back to the Gallows.”
And thus begins the long haul of dragging that howling seething monster back home.