[center][h3][color=C0392B]Rudolf Sagramore[/color][/h3][/center]

Flame flooded him.

Heat in his veins coursed. A burning river, surging through aching muscle, leaking out from the scrapes Valon had left, like the winding channels of flame beneath a volcano. It bubbled, boiled, flickered, leapt, filling his world with writhing black. When it left, he could feel the stinging pain melting beneath it, as though the lines on his face themselves were burnt away. His limbs responded to his will, but they seemed to do so of their own accord— it was like the weightless nous of doubled-over haste. It seemed like it made sense. Pain and the weight of his limbs were both a response signal. If you wore away one to nothing, then another was sure to be affected, somewhat.

His breath was thick with smoke. Hot, and sticky, it didn't seem to tighten the throat or chest the way the grain silo had... but each breath seemed to fuel the chorus within him, the oscillating surge and drone of rushing, rising tar, water pumping into a cauldron about to bubble over. Were it the time or place, he'd have likened it to feeling in some way like he was under the waves all over again. A haze of heat coated each breath. There was a strange sense of familiarity to that. Almost like a fever.

Within this symphony, however, muddled by the fog of war, the blaze of black, through the dulled voices and rushing fire and howling wind and muted colors and crashing metal... was a single discordant note. A feeling. A response signal that was so alien, not even calcinating[sup]1[/sup] fire could break it apart. Not before it reached his head.

He knew by now the feeling of striking with the blackflame. It was a gnawing, abrading thing, it burned and chewed through something when it struck, grinding and pulling it apart by the bonds that arranged a material out of base elementa. It siphoned structure, subverted order, melted form— that was part of why he had reasoned it to be fueled by luck. To start a fire you need ample fuel. To eat through order, order must first be ordained. Thus was fate[sup]2[/sup]. But in making contact with the Ruby Weapon's ankle girding...

[i][color=c0392b]What the he[/color]ll was that?[/i]

The scream of shearing metal, armor forced to split. The resistance of sinew, taut muscle being severed by a blade, a sharp blade, and unimaginably sharp blade— but when he struck with the lump of cursed metal he wielded, he swung through empty space until he was left, simply, with a light tap. Every time before now, no matter the technique or force applied, it was always brushing a feather against the target and no more.

This was not that. Not at all. This was neither of those two sensations. Beneath the weight of the fire, there was an unexoected lightness for a moment— like a binding had become loose. The curse needed to be broken either through a specific ritual or through the death of the caster, the man who walked presumably upon a whole separate plane from theirs. What was the reason for this sudden, unexpectedly proper feedback? Impressions raced in his head, almost-thoughts swirling, clashing, racing through the smoke. Isolde [color=c0392b][i]lied?[/i][/color] [i]Wrong?[/i] 
[color=c0392b][i]Uninformed? Enough fire burns curse?[/i][/color] 
[i]Not enough for that.
The Weapon ate aether before.
[color=c0392b]right, Leviathan's absorption.[/color][/i][sup]3[/sup]

A thudding. Pressure waves at the top of his skull. Light from on high, a scream of orange.

Heavy drums above his head, some fifteen feet, scattered the swirl, as Chisato, Galahad, and Izayoi made their moves. Bidden to alertness, Rudolf's head snapped upward, greying eyes wide and unwavering as Reisa redirected her chariot to counterattack, shifting the weight, even her mighty titan of flesh and steel forced to give an inch. Its arm extended, tipped in razor claws, each easily eclipsing even the accursed greatsword in length and lethality—

[i]Side.[/i]

And one showering his frame with sparks as it burst out, telescoping and stretching as if made of putty, and Rudolf brought the hardened steel of the rondel up to divert its course even as his feet carried him out of the way. A rush rose from the pit of his guts, scattering as it hit his heart. He recognized it as what was supposed to be fear. He [i]was[/i] scared. That was the whole reason he'd come this far, worked this hard, sacrificed this much. He knew he was scared. He knew he was terrified of this enemy. It wasn't like he stopped feeling it altogether—[sup][color=c0392b]4[/color][/sup]

Quick as lightning, quick as it had extended out, the claw retracted back to the hand of the weapon, adjusting its aim minutely before firing again. He could perceive the form of this. He and his enemy would dance on the margins until whatever Reisa used to read his patterns caught him.

He would break that form. The burning told him to. It told him something even more important than that—

Whatever the reason for it was... his dead weight had woken up, and could break this juggernaut down where everything else failed. 

He dove forward this time, summoning the memory of the last time he had fought the insurmountable. He couldn't recall the thoughts, but the feelings, the arcs of weight and balance—

Clearing the path of the next incoming strike, Rudolf let the blaze roar through him as he drove the knife through the steel that held the massive foot of the Ruby weapon's weight on the deck, and wrenched his torso, swinging the seven-foot tower of steel and fire 'round in a vicious crescent, crashing through the claw as it contracted from the miss, carrying through to the armor again. He leapt, he struck. 

He roared, crashing through, daring to let the next attempt to impale him that would doubtlessly come meet the godslaying blade he had awoken through unknown means, to test its mettle as it deflected away, and he swung again. His voice seemed doubled. A trick of his ears?

Not the time. He needed to focus only on cutting through the armor, keeping the weapon from regaining any more initiative, and not dying before [s]he[/s][sup]5[/sup] they had killed it. 

[hr][hr]
[list]
[*][sub]1. That's a specific term I would really appreciate having some time and space to double check whether or not I let slip.[/sub]
[*][sub]2. Luck of course being another name for the winding whims of fate. You can always make your own luck— and many times, you do so by playing nice with the big folks upstairs. It's bribery, really.[/sub]
[*][sub]3. Two streams of consciousness, even collaborating, are indistinguishable from two guys trying to talk at the same time and neither backing down. I've done my best to make it legible for you, dear reader. I'm a [i]caring[/i] curator.[/sub]
[*][sub][color=c0392b]4. But it's like the fear breaks apart before it can get stuck in and be a problem. In a way quietly horrible, but I can't deny it's saving our asses. Speaking of, less chatter unless it's relevant. Tell me when more bombs are hitting my airspace.[/color][sup]1[/sup][/sub] 
[list] [*][sub]4-1. Hold on. Time out. Who let you in here? That's not how thi— [i]All of it's relevant, you rock-munching Northron barbarian [b]child[/b]![/i] Watch the skies, the shadows of the fleet are moving out of formation! Wouldn't want one of them to veer into this [b]big new ego[/b] you've got, would we?[/sub]
[/list]
[*][sub]5. Admittedly, it's getting very loud in here. Even if some senses aren't being as dulled as others, there's a lot going on that can drown out outside stimulus. But never mistake that for being in isolation. Just because you can't see something doesn't mean something isn't [i]there[/i]. This is a fundamental concept to the people of the night, and our magics.[/sub]
[/list]