Mortim

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Darsby, now unclouded by deadly fatigue, gives new life to emotions he earlier expressed via physicality and tone. His previous habits of tiredness and exasperation appear to be rooted at least partially aside from his bodily state. He had the air of an intellectual on the verge of discovering some foreboding, all-encompassing truth. To speak and interact with this being was to talk with someone who lacked humor due to his mind being somewhere far removed from present circumstance.

"You're unlike most humans. I'd suspect you to be in relative distress after dealing with today's happenings. It's strange you find it good." Her sarcasm had flown in the exact opposite direction of Darsby whilst he shrugged apathetically, caring not for whatever undertones Anora may be trying to establish. The remainder of her words passed over him as fluid across a stone, doing little to move or mold him in their short-lived disparity.

Darsby gazed into the afternoon sky through jaded slits of radiant pinkish dye. Bags the size of suitcases could have hooked into the underside of either eye and they'd be wholly at home. His back hunched forward so both arms could rest atop denim-coated kneecaps. Gentle wafts of air play cheerfully with his hair in contradiction to an overly saturated figure of grim sanctity. You'd suspect him to be the detective of an H.P. Lovecraft story, facing his final demise with solemn repose.

Once Anora finished speaking and pointing, Darsby would turn his head toward her. His eyes again bled emotion and spirit in profound yet somehow subtle ways as they did before he collapsed by the road two hours earlier. A mother having a regrettable, but, necessary conversation with her dearly loved child. Someone driving by the body of an animal laying dead on the side of the road, feeling regret over its untimely demise. All of this shifting suddenly towards the feeling of watching a grown cat shelter it's infant from the rain in a dark corner of urban jungles. Steep roads where a parent drives safely to avoid swerving out of control with their family asleep in the car on a long journey home. These would all wrap themselves into one dense emotional amalgam that slips as wind through the heart. However brief it was, it still got the entirety of its point across in some cold, distant manner.

"Our deal stands. You deserve two answers still. Ask away whenever you want." He'd state simply, his expression unchanged as those words end his glancing in her direction. Darsby now stares back out into the endless horizon before him, something alien yet human collide together in the visual of him sitting there. He is motionless, more so than most any person could truthfully accomplish. He is also full of some longing natural to most any deep-thinking individual, that face searching the earth galloping before it as if some faintly world-revealing poetry were being actively written beneath it. His concern and hostility are far from Anora if they even debatably live at all inside that callously softened aesthetic. His revolver looks more as a piece to some nonchalant artistic statement than it does anything to be used for violence.

In truth, darsby danced mentally between old memories and the task at hand. He'd need to carefully sort his immediate goals before taking any action involving Anora. He'd also need to crawl from whatever dark place he'd been falling into over the course of this past month as a human. Being away from his home and duties had done much more than expected to sabotage the outlook he'd usually hold in all matters at hand.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Darsby had retreated into his bodily shell as unwitnessed energy. His powers sought refuge to amass another bought of feigned weakness. Being stuck at a level only just above that of humanities best physical specimens is likened to being deeply poisoned into a near-comatose state for him. Spending moon after moon in this vehicle had taxed Darsby into treating his body and mind as if they had both been depleted, his tendency towards dramatics only working to further these unhealthy habits. Recent events had dealt at least some form of a successful blow into changing him back into his usual self. He'd been through much before transcending to his current status; he'd do well to remember said days.

"They've really done a number on you... Or, perhaps, you did a number on yourself?" A gentle voice radiates throughout Darsby's submerged consciousness. Strands of magic connect him to a distant space where his familiar dwells, busy at work.
"Have I always been so difficult?" Bubbles float from Darsby's ethereal lips in this space of tangible thought, each one slowly disintegrating, allowing words to echo into the open void.
"Certainly. I often find myself looking after you." Our earlier voice responded in kind; it's soft syllables brush gently against Darsby's mind.
"...Will you be checking on me here as well?" He says after a long silence.
"Yes, in two days. I'll bring snacks, your favorite." The voice states in motherly tones. Darsby sighs at such a kind offer, seeing it as perhaps a pinch overbearing. Then, with the accuracy of an atomic clock, the time limit to Darsby's rest is reached.

Silently, our troubled traveler opens his luminous eyes. His mortal shell takes several seconds to account for all of its separate parts as dust is witnessed to dance gently in the waning sun of a dying day just above his revitalized features. He takes a few moments just to lay there, returning his mind to places it's long left in the archaic sands of time — days of walking beneath purple sky's, hours of drills and meals with long perished companions. His present body may not require food or air, even so, these thoughts brought a faint grin and distant hunger to his typically soured psyche.

Darsby eventually sits up over the edge of his mattress in one smooth motion, lithe legs spilling over lumpy bedding. He examines his surroundings with what most humans would perceive as extremely heightened perception. He can hear it, the sound of wood and wind a floor above and beneath him. He can smell them, the grass and trees surrounding Grandpa Jacks Estate. Even without eyes, the world would be full of plain detail for a fair amount of surrounding meters. Long years spent honing abilities to perceive greater constructs than Earth have paid their dues in some small way here.

Darsby blinks at the nearby outfit put together by Anora two minutes into re-aligning himself. This country's plethora of simple raiments have always been uncomfortable. Too many separate articles to arrive at one outfit, it all seemed unnecessary in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, he knows it may be needed to appear somewhat normal looking when peering into his plans for the immediate future. Also, he realizes he should be kicking himself to accept the hospitality of the simple people populating this world. Once getting dressed he places his revolver into the left side jean pocket, its leather-bound handle protruding enough to be observed.

Further minutes passed. Darsby eventually found his way on to the roof. He'd had trouble understanding the window presented to him; he couldn't accurately read the alien language on some small piece of paper that was left for him. After several grunts and a nearly shattered glass pane, he'd found himself on the roof whilst whispering apologies to Anora's relatives. His pronounced posture carries him in long steps towards the chimney Anora is propped against. He'd look vastly different than he had at the hospital.

His shoulders are squared, his balance is steady, his hips facing directly towards whatever it is he finds himself focusing on. Darsby could be more easily related to a marine in dress uniform than the shambling figure that had been nearly dismembered by a passing car earlier today. His skin may still be of a porcelain tone, yet something about it appeared more vibrant and full of entirely necessary moisture. The only thing immediately off about him would be his shirt; it is much too large for him. Baggy jeans and worn boots can near-always attribute to someone's upstanding, working character. Regrettably, a shirt of this size typically can't. What stands before Anora now looks like a middle-schooler wearing his large fathers flannel, entirely intent on remaining proud of himself despite its untucked edges reaching very close to the knees.

Darsby didn't appear to understand how he presently looked, resigning himself to gingerly approach the chimney Anora was inhabiting. Something of mild, childish anxiety had overcome those exasperated features and broad chest. He moved in a near stumbling motion to rest against the bricks himself, as if feeling he may not have permission to do this. Darsby was tired, as always, yet this exhaustion was evidently of an emotional sort. His body had renewed itself; somehow, his mind had barely followed.

"Are you... Okay?" Darsby didn't look to understand how to ask this question entirely, yet, he did, nonetheless. His words weren't full of the warmth most people expect from their fellow man, though, it may be surprising he decided to show any concern in the first place.

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(Pursuer update in next post, had a huge migraine.)

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

I totally understand, that's been the story of my life these past couple of weeks. I haven't had a chance to watch more than 20-40 minutes of TV in what feels like ages.

I absolutely loved your post!! You always include details I feel like I personally would have missed entirely. I mean I know that just happens with different perspectives and writing styles, but it still is rather enchanting lol. I also feel like I know Anora quite a bit better at this point after reading all of that, which is certainly useful when inventing plot points ;3

Yeah it's been a good feeling.
You totally guessed it! I mean that character does stick out more for the time being, but I just feel so much better about them after the swap.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Yes I love the show! I haven't been very into it in recent years but I did at one point recently binge some of the current seasons.

I'm totally excited for the post! I cant say I'll return in equal length but I am curious as to how she'll be reacting to Darsby going comatose lol.

Yeah I'm happy to use them to represent the primary magic control organisation affiliated with the United States. I wrote a short story about them years ago so when I found them lingering at the back of my mind I was more than overjoyed to throw them in. I gender-switched one of them here and I feel it was definitely a good decision. Feel free to guess which one lol.
I enjoy writing for them at the moment.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Aww, thanks!

I know, I love that quote. It always feels fun for the mouth lol.

The changes were awesome, I've been working towards a healthier lifestyle and it's been miraculous.

You can totally do a time-skip, no worries. I don't plan on anything happening in between here and there so no worries at all. I'll let you know if things are going to heat up, otherwise, feel free to take liberties wherever. I've definitely put Darsby in Anora's care. He's rather defenseless at the moment.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Anora's figure looked as a specter of interlaced color. As a dense cloud of mist may shift its location, so did she shift her own. Blacks collided against soft shades of peach, flowing brown rivulets cascade from the bulbous oval likely to be her head. His exterior may look ragged, more than several steps into some nondescript illness; still, it maintained blatant signs of composure. His back was rigid and straight regardless as to frequent retching. His chest was flexed above gently interlaced legs. His form was of someone still in relative control of their primary faculties. His body operated on a profound depth of muscle memory. His mind began losing any grip it may have once had. The only two signs of his actual state were those drained eyes. To be a gateway of the soul is an understatement by our current circumstance.

Those pink spheres of ocular engagement were far from present, one having been nearly closed whilst the other twitched and pulsed in weak rhythm — their faint and unique coloration shown with alien luminance in a world of once average human perception. Anora may not have looked into Darsby's eyes, having focused on his revolver for entirely sensible reasons, yet, should she have chanced upon them for even a moment something rather strange would have happened. In their weakness, an ethereal call emanates. Something beyond words wishing to be in the company of another tugs gently at any who stare. This isn't a universal longing for emotional saturation as humans often seek without realizing. This is something far colder like a book read from the lips of a mathematician.

Howls and strong gusts of wind, gunfire and rattling walls, screams and cold hands. All of these slip as a single breath into Anora should she have met Darsby's eyes. An artist who feels another should look upon their depressing work. A mason gazing upon finished brickwork he may never be close to again. An unappreciated moment of cleaning up after another. These feelings are only the beginning of an expression going far deeper into the heart than any author could describe through just words. It seeks to strike for a brief moment at Anora's psyche. Then, all at once, these things are over. Like air forced from the body they leave with Darsby's shifting gaze, it's twitching figure staring into some presently unknown abyss.

His mind was being pulled into some other place as this woman he'd come here with moved to and fro in attempting to assist him. His naked backside loosened, it's many indentations of firm muscle giving way to smooth hills oiled over by the deep valleys which tug at them in the form of jagged, shadowy rivers. Pits of memory he'd wished firmly to avoid in his typical strengths washed as capricious waves over him. One moment he's crawling down a dark passage, flickering lights shaking against explosive-born tremors. Another moment he's pressed against a wall, smarting over a sharp pain in his leg and a lack of combative resources. And finally, he's sitting next to someone rather familiar, their gentle voice slipping as soulful hymns into his hungering ears.

*Hupf!* Darsby takes a sharp breath in, his lips resisting the sudden show of force with one faint flopping sound of protest. His eyes split open as if similarly gasping for air. Darsby's free hand reaches with a faintly practiced motion for Anora's collar. Should she dodge, which certainly wouldn't be too difficult, he'd still likely get at some other random area farther down her shirt as he isn't the slowest man. He'd use her shirt as leverage to lurch upwards, bringing his face uncomfortably close to hers. Everything about this effort likely won't seem even remotely hostile, if perhaps, mildly aggressive. If anything, he'd appear desperate and pressed for time.

"Earth girl..-" Darsby would sputter from between dry lips, his breath smelling surprisingly of freshly cut grass instead of bile. ".-I-.. I need two hours to recover, give me two quiet hours and you may ask two questions which I'll answer by complete honesty. Please, get us out of here, something in the wind wants our heads." He wouldn't have stopped himself from speaking if she had pushed him off of her, though, the urgency in his eyes and face may have disarmed her. Rarely do modernized people experience genuine life and death scenario's, the exceptional results these events breed in an expression would riddle his own. Darsby would then sputter with several hard-fought breaths, his body going limp shortly after.

Darsby's body would become cold, unresponsive, and lacking in the natural movement of breathing. By all accounts, he would appear dead. He'd be chilled, without a pulse, and entirely limp in the grass beneath him. He's not the heaviest of individuals, weighing in presently at a surprisingly low amount of one hundred pounds despite his height and physique. Perhaps his organic composition has something to do with this? Either way, Anora has been left with a dead body and a request to safeguard it for two hours. Luckily, no one was on this typically deserted road to witness what has just happened. Despite all these things, his hand remains dead-locked around the hilt of the revolver, some superhuman strength keeping that durable skin firm against its surface. Anora would have to use a crowbar and a large metal hammer even to begin to pry it from him. If she'd inspect it, she'd find the chamber emptied of usable rounds.

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*Bang-Bang! Thwop!....Bang!... Thwop!Thwop!* Inside the hospital, a man in a dapper suit was at work disposing of whatever horrid beasts had remained after Darsby and Anora's escape. He utilized himself and his tools with deadly efficiency. He would strike them down, then use small canisters of stored incantations to transport said abominations to a research/disposal facility. Everything would be resolved by the time the police arrived. He'd even magically transport the artificially shot and murdered corpses of an active shooter and police officer for whatever loose ends may follow. This was rehearsed, practiced as drills run again and again in countless simulated environments by the agents of whatever force this man belonged to. He'd cast one final spell once having finished his 'clean-up', a faint radiance which invades the minds of its recipients and alters their memory's to match whatever your typical police officer may expect to hear or find.

His partner had also assumed her duty as the tracker of their team. She had an unnaturally striking physique, massive fissures of shadow the likes of which you could lose your house key's in acting as the lines between each respective muscle adorning her thick skeletal structure. Crooked, thick horns propelled themselves valiantly from her forehead, clumpy tufts of red hair falling between them. Violent features set out to slam themselves into each other over what may have once been a beautiful face had it not been crowded continuously by fierce anger and hard-fought pleasure.

She'd stalked by swift steps across the entirety of whatever carnage presented itself. With many provocative scents caking her flared nostrils she finally came upon the prize, the shattered window with which our protagonistic pair had made their escape. It wasn't the window itself which shown as a reward, but a sharp piece of glass that jutted mischievously into open air along its side. This shard had upon it a faint red stain, the stain of a girl who'd misjudged a jump in the panic of following her partner's unexplained demands.

This hunter of unparalleled skill pulled the shard from its frame with a practiced motion, teasing it's dripping edge with her quivering tongue. Her shoulders swelled and shifted just below a grimacing face most would pay hard cash to avoid witnessing shortly after tasting the irony supplement now coating her alien taste buds. "Found you..." She'd hiss playfully to herself.

Sirens had now swelled into a chorus around her, yet, all law enforcement which arrived appeared to slip by without paying her any thought. Whatever she may say, shout, or do, would go completely unnoticed by them. The same would go for her partner as he stepped into the open air next to her, magic meant to distract others from their presence operating with potent effect. In two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, they'd cleared the scene and established methods to track whoever had last been here; an unsatisfactory time by most standards given to them over recent months.

"Found 'em?" The man would sigh, withdrawing a cigarette and rusted lighter from his suit jacket.
"The girl I expect to find doesn't trouble me deeply; her blood is uncultured... It's the other smell that gets to me, her companion. I can hardly discern species, let alone if he's stronger than myself or perhaps even weaker than the girl." Her lips quivered in rage at this statement, the vile syllables by which she spat each separate word growing ever more rotten than the last. Her failings are markedly rare, primarily when she's remotely invested in a matter.
"Let's get back to the car. I'll request governance over this case." He turns towards the parking lot holding their ride after relinquishing a wisp of smoke from his lips. He is apathetic to nearly everything he'd just experienced, all aside from the sentences he'd just heard his partner speak. She may never in the past have failed to distinguish her prey simply by one smell, this standalone failure marking nothing significant to him. What would become significant is her rebellious rage over possibly not being allowed to track and manage this present pair. He'd have to call in a few favors.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Of course! Please feel free to ask about anything when you have questions. I typically have things pretty well thought out once they've reached the page.

No worries. I appreciate you putting up with me as well! :3

Two-five minutes is a pretty long time all things considered. You'll come to find that this pair can occasionally be rather efficient. Besides, they're far away from us at the moment so things can be just a little wibbly worbbly.

We have done an awful lot of writing! It's been incredible. I've also recently really come to understand Darsby's backstory and character quite a bit better in recent days. I really appreciate you putting up with my occasional spurts of being missing. Had a lot of big life changes recently. I'll have a post up soon! :D

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

So, I get where you're coming from with the intensity thing. Here's the meta: that spell split her body into layers and tossed them as tendrils of smoke with sensory perception still intact through miles of space in a split second. Her insides were slammed quite literally with super-fast walls of cold atmospheric air and blistering sunlight, exposed nerves and all. She'd be cured of these sensations immediately upon reformation, but I think an inside-out body tossed at super-fast speeds through the sky may feel a good bit of pain. I get where you're coming from, I'll try to make these things more clear in my posts rather than getting lost in descriptors.

I definitely need to work on how convoluted my writing can become. Don't worry, I understand where to work on these things, for the most part, it's just old habits I'm slowly breaking at this point.

I think I'll actually add those pursuer things in my next post, so you're fine. I can add a bit of a time-skip since some small amount of it will have passed between posts. I wrote that reminder more for myself than for you lol xD

For real with the second page! I'm super happy and hope to pick things up a bit with future posts. I've been slow-burning things a little more than necessary I think.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

Darsby is reminded of the youth before him by her immediate and emotional reactions. Anora is young, prodigiously young. She is in fact so inconveniently young, in comparison to himself, she may as well have been a fly on its second day of living set to accompany a sixty-year-old retiree who decided that working another day is well worth it by the long run. This metaphor may be found to apply in many respects.

In his defense, Darsby is set into physical and emotional action by severe injuries sustained during his unspeakable captivity in this weak body. He is actually, by recent natures, a quiet homebody of sorts. His days of dutifully milling about with his as of yet unseen familiar in tasks of constructing greater magics were treasured days indeed. Now, the enormity of annoyance set to accompany his present task had begun setting in after witnessing our girl dash quickly from left to right in both physicality and perspective. Her lack of knowledge allowed her to be propelled from taking on the guardianship of an entire hospital to abandoning all of its residents in less than a minute of thought. Under the sight of tremendously aged eyes, she was momentarily likened to an infant rodent in its early days of self-discovery.

'This helps no one' Thought Darsby to himself, pulling his mind from its dust-caked labyrinths of contemplation. He must continue to emulate Anora's youngness in himself for his present tools were comparable to her own. He must not be fully discovered unless absolutely necessary, lest heat greater than hellfire potentially consume all Earth.

"The Men in Black were killed centuries ago. Also, the Secondary Ministries cleaning crew doesn't even operate on Earth. Otherwise... Never mind." Darsby replied in frank frustration after initial confusion over her question. Her pop references had somehow struck upon facts entirely unrelated to their present situation. His feet had spun him into walking towards and entering the car shortly after she yelled at him to join.

"I'm not an agent. Plus,-" Darsby looks over to Anora with another wave of frustrated confusion overtaking him, his door now shutting with an insulated *thud!* "- how do you have anywhere to be? What else could possibly seem important to you right now?" Stress painted a response which took Anora's words far too seriously as sirens closed proximity on our pairs present location. Darsby opened his palms to hopelessly gesture towards this ebon-clad girl near him, his revolver held loosely by a thin finger. Eventually, he scoffed, sighed, and tightened his hands whilst curling into his seat with a gesture of someone who's given up on figuring out whatever it was they were once trying to resolve.

"What is your deal?" Darsby would say more to himself than anyone else after the question of an invisibility spell is raised. People who were both new to magic and younger than five centuries were not a category of individuals he'd associated with for quite some time now for reasons of his own. Obviously, this personal dilemma was catching up to him.

Darsby snapped his fingers to perform what he would deem more immediately important magic than invisibility regardless as to whether or not Anora had begun speaking, in fact, Darsby may have waited until Anora began speaking simply to interrupt her. He would have done so without looking directly at her as to not be suspected of childish spite. Someone of his unrevealed rank could hardly be caught being needlessly spiteful. Regretfully, it's a mild habit of his.

The moment Darsby snaps an entirely foreign set of sensations will overtake Anora. Her skin would feel as if it had liquefied, this tingling maelstrom of nerve-based calamity creeping into her muscles then shortly into her skeletal structure. All sensation is folded into itself, her once whole body is melted to take the shape of a curdling wave of chaotic colds and hots. Light and heat splinter her innards whilst rivulets of ice pierce the entirety of what may have once been called her spine. She swirls and bobs as her vision follows suit to this chaotic existence. Roads wrap around the sky and buildings tumble like laundry inside a lazily swirling washer. Anora's perceived world had spun violently again and again as all rules pertaining to balance and gravity are eaten up by liquid dismay. Then all at once, as if her body were a cup and the entirety of her consciousness is a tall drink, she'd be reassembled via 'filling up' the allotted space in her freshly stolen vehicle. Her body and our encapsulating van remained exactly as they were before hell had overtaken them, except, their location had changed after being harshly put back together. Somehow she'd been moved quite a distance during that vivid conundrum. They were on some vaguely familiar country road miles from the city. County road 15 stretched in meandering streaks far into the gently rolling distance ahead. Darsby sits next to Anora, only now he is painted an even paler shade than before. His now truly ivory skin shakes and stretches against an emaciated exterior, that body of his curling into the seat it occupies as if it were but a small creature in a world of menacing giants.

*Hurp!* A hand reflexively grasps at Darsby's mouth as the other feverishly clamors for the nearest door handle. He leaps from the unmoving vehicle to vomit as a pitiful mess of hospital robes and ragged pink hair amidst tall tan weeds. His shoulders heave around an overly curved spine whilst either hand braces a cold hard earth. Fluids spill into waxen roots with each primitive howl of intestinal dismay.

Eventually, the sickness subsides and our callous escort slumps back upon his sprawling legs. His hunched form holds little pride as either eye remains closed above panting lips. He takes deep and labored breaths, feeling waves of sharp heat stick needles into his stomach and chest.

"How do you...-" Darsby pauses to breath and lick his lips before continuing. "-I think I've... I've forgotten what it's like to be weak.." For once, his emotional walls were markedly broken beneath closed eyes. His lack of magic reserves and physical stamina had tapped into a voice he hadn't used for a thousand years. This sight, in all its natural calamity, was something of a novelty. Centuries had passed in awaiting this lack of self-restraint.
"I'm not-.." He'd continue, pausing to take several short breaths in expectation of either tears or another wave of regurgitation. "-..I'm not a god Anora... I'm not-I promise...-" He heaves as if nearing another rough spell. He sounds more like a drunk than anything else. "-.. Your planet is small; it's so small... I'm so far awa-*BLEAUughghUHGHu!*" That thin frame topples forward again, bile and dry heaves wrack him about trembling bones. There's nothing left to spit up despite all best efforts. He's ice cold to the touch and looking more human than he has since properly meeting Anora.

The revolver never leaves his hand. Should Anora touch the weapon, she'd be lightly shocked as if by static and met with a gentle and weak "..stop, please.." from Darsby.

My swimming instructors a dragon. [Mortim / Siaya Dragalorn]

I always appreciate you sending these bits of knowledge and experience my way! Writing skill means nothing if it's not used properly. I'm glad to be getting a little better at putting my ability to use in its proper channels whenever you have more to say.
I understand you feeling as though that last hider belongs in my post. I put it in there just in case you needed it for reference. Better safe than sorry.

Anora might feel some twangs of pain, pleasure, and a mixture of other emotions/sensations. You could liken the experience to her body being somehow harmlessly turned inside out and exposed to strong winds/pressures before being flipped back into itself and returned to total normality. There wouldn't be any lasting effects aside from perhaps empty lungs upon initial re-entry. Her hands, legs, and everything else will be exactly where they were before the magic is used.

We'll see if they catch up as fast as I suspect they might for you to find out ;D