gold veins spread through her cloak and she jerks upright. the draconid part of her - bloodthirsty and angry and feral - turns frustration into something more useful. wrath envelops her as she opts to leave the e4 to his fate, attention turned wholly to her own prey. 

fafnir's fists gather lightning and it sprays with thunderous claps every time he makes contact with the ensnared creature. 

those ghostly vines, held together by lyune's own spirit, grow in a frenzied tangle. every snap of the walking wake's jaws shears through the trappings, but they're overgrown in an instant. 

clawed fingers grasp the hilt of her sword more readily and this time, when she finds her opening, the blade is snicked with purple fire, imbued with the strength of a dragon's claws. it tears through the cerulean hide, spraying crimson on the white tufts of fur on its hind legs. 

it bellows, enraged, and its wrath rises to meet freya's own. plants wither. light and fire and water and ice and heat mark their surroundings. trees are felled, rocks split in two.

by the time greyson finds her again, she is sitting with her back against lyune's side, rolling a blood-stained pokeball in her hand.

Greyson Connors

☉

where his expression is an apathetic sculpture, her own is twisted with pain and anger. he's an elite four member; he is one of four among hoenn's entire populace where she can trust his expertise in battle, but this? they could have ended up hurt. or maimed. or killed. 

the sore twist of her back reminds her she more than likely pulled a muscle. her sword is meant for defensive measures at worst, and against other human beings at best. not otherworldly bastardizations of johto's legendaries. 

it's with a pained grunt that she gets to her feet, clipping the ball to her belt. fafnir is gone, taking a well-deserved rest after nearly having his throat torn out by the feral pokemon.

"one unhinged member of the elite four is more than enough for me. whatever you're dealing with, get it the fuck together."

she looks over lyune's wing, checking the strappings around the metal and, satisfied, hauls herself up and onto his back.

"this wasn't winning. rocket's still out there. there's still research stations to set up. our people, if they're coming across things like this, aren't going to walk away unscathed."

Greyson Connors

☉

no wonder king finds her pride so insufferable. when faced with it herself, it's a hideousness. frustration skitters over her skin and she's grateful her cheeks are still red from the exertion of the fight, else he'd see the anger rising like a pool. 

off he wants to go. off to another fight. she knows it's not about helping others - it's to throw himself to the blood-hunger, to be at the mercy of his own self-indulgent pain. she recognizes herself in him and she does not understand what could have possibly changed. 

her lip curls at the question. 

"no," she snaps. her sygna suit hums. embers curl around her teeth. "and i'm getting tired of answering that question when all i've done is my job."

agonizingly long hours. months of thankless work. a love and a family lost. and what do they continue to do, time and time again, while matias skirts his surveillance and fucks up again and again and again?

try and brandish her traitor. 

"and here i was, thinking i'd finally found someone in this gods-forsaken initiative that i could trust. go, connors. go and make yourself useful elsewhere."

Greyson Connors

☉