eusford: (pic#11057451)
crowley eusford ([personal profile] eusford) wrote in [community profile] overjoyed_logs2017-03-19 02:31 am

you put on a faith facade

Who: Crowley Eusford ( [personal profile] eusford ) & You!
Where: The Meshwork
When: Chapter 4
Summary: A dream catch all! Includes AU and canon memories, one a little less awful than the other.
Restrictions/Warnings: Blood, violence, Crowley.

( if you would like something closed for our characters feel free to contact me through my plotting comment or hit me up at [plurk.com profile] vongaribaldi! )
sunderings: (until the dark days are over)

[personal profile] sunderings 2017-03-25 09:54 pm (UTC)(link)
And what of the living?

[ Standing amid the mire of blood and bodies belonging to both friend and foe alike, Sion is crying, tear-trails streaking down his cheeks though his eyes remain clear, if not overbright, his voice fluting above the carnage of battle done in another's name (glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit) to reach the ears of the person who needed it most: ]

For those who have been wounded deeply, their convictions battered and their faith shaken, are they not also in need of prayer?

[ Slow steps.

A strange aura emanates from the bodies underfoot (tinged with hues of sickly blues and greens), but the heels of armored boots pass over them all (both now and always, and unto the ages of ages), bridging the distance between himself and one who has fought the hardest and lost the most. ]


Do their hearts not need healing and rest?
sunderings: (to carry a wish)

[personal profile] sunderings 2017-03-26 10:29 pm (UTC)(link)
Outnumbered, yes, but not outdone. Not yet. [ —there is a spark to the gold of Sion's eyes, something as unyielding as it is stalwart, borne of a tenacity of will attributed not to their Lord, but of simple belief in the man before him: Crowley, who has lead them much too far to lose his faith like this. Somehow, Sion is aware of it, the disenchantment which hangs over the other man as a too-pervasive sense of dread, something which creeps into the marrow of one's bones and settles there, unable to be exorcised so long as the question remains: what meaning is there in this bloodshed? ]

A last stand will either see us united and redeemed, or it will see us delivered into the hands of our shepherd, but whatever the outcome—

[ With a shake of his head, Sion blinks back his tears, deferent to this man for reasons he cannot explain: ]

—it will have been our decision, our choice to fight for our fallen comrades and friends, and there is meaning in that.

[ But it is not Sion's order to relay. ]
sunderings: (into the deep)

[personal profile] sunderings 2017-03-29 12:22 am (UTC)(link)
[ Consuming, Crowley's grief, and fragile is the man's anger—in the instant their eyes meet, blue locking with gold, Sion knows the man (and it is strange, how he does, without truly knowing the crusader at all) is much too gentle for this. For war. For bearing the weight of soldiers and their lives as he struggled across wastelands strewn with corpses and battled great kingdoms of shadow. Crowley feels too much, too profoundly; he loves and reveres a man who is dead unto refusing to betray a command which might have saved them all.

But no, Sion thinks, as the scene changes and an archway appears before his eyes, nothing could have spared the men from this.

Death upon the battlefield might have been noble and just, but this is--...

Slaughter.

Damietta, a place of sanctuary, is destined only to be their tomb, the final resting place of so very many (comrades, good friends, family) bonded through training and trials, but despite the pervasive sense of (shared?) dread which courses through him, Sion reaches out, his palm striking Crowley straight in the chest: ]


Move.

[ And from its place at his back, Sion draws his blade: a broadsword with which to defend those who haven't yet fallen— ]

Go forward, into Damietta. [ Even if it seems a hopeless fight, Sion has never been one to turn away from contesting all that has been fated to be. ] Take everyone that you can.

I will finish this.
sunderings: (he who will sunder the darkness)

[personal profile] sunderings 2017-04-01 02:31 am (UTC)(link)
[ Staged before them is a trap: a comrade in arms, barely alive, lying in the dirt as a 'devil' looms behind, standing motionless as others swarm about in the chaos of losing so, so very many friends in the blink of an eye. I can't allow you to do this on your own, Crowley has said, and as surely as it will take two to leave a scratch upon this beast—has Sion ever glimpsed something which moved at such at inhuman speed? at the back of his mind, an answer forms, but before he can begin to grasp it (the magic knights of Estabul), his focus returns to where it is needed most—he knows that Crowley cannot bear to leave any of their number (someone who is suffering, bleeding out before their eyes) behind. And so--...

In the breadth of a moment, he catches Crowley's gaze, nodding with the briefest flash of a smile (for that man who is much, much too kind, as perhaps Sion himself had been once upon a time), before he surges forward to meet the creature head-on, blade poised to swing in a merciless arc which has taken the life of many a foe. ]


As though I'd let you torture him— [ Him being Crowley, and not the solider between the three of them. ] —for any longer, fiend!

[ (Distantly, he wonders if it would not have been better for him to slit the throat of their comrade as the man lay dying, but there is something in Sion which wishes to protect Crowley from a reality where such a cruelty is practicality; where the frail hope that is a hand reaching out is pitiably inconsequential in the end.

Crowley, who will survive this, should not have to be subject to so bleak, so desolate an ideology.) ]