It was like falling and having a scream ripped from your chest. It was reflex, it was unthinking and uncaring about psychics or death.
Ilya closed his eyes.
There was no doubt in his mind, to the point that the thought barely even crossed his mind, that he could block or catch the hammer … or survive it, most likely. Pragmatism took over. He just waited for death.
Pragmatism fled, and was replaced but an instant flush of first relief, and then, when that faded, the ever-present undercurrent of fear, his mind coming back to its natural pace.
Ilya reached into his pouch, his hands shaking with adrenaline or maybe fear or maybe fear or maybe fear, and then he paused.
The cup had a Mask of Creation symbol on it. He probably shouldn’t blow up Ekimu’s ancient chalice. He placed it into his pouch, for no reason other than that it was handy … and maybe the cup was valuable …
He shook his head. Don’t steal from Makuta.
He left the cup in his pouch.
He still had his final potion. He couldn’t hit the Makuta now, not with so many crowding around him, not without knowing what the potion did. But maybe …
Was the hammer far enough away from the rest of the party?
Katau grunted as he picked himself up off the floor. He noticed that Makuta had engaged the other members of their party in battle, and he wanted to help.
Katau grabbed his fire sword and started running towards the Mask Maker, trying to attack.
It was currently barrelling madly towards Jaawu, who was leaning against the furthest wall from the action. The occasional scrape against the wall was enough of an indicator for its target, if he cared to listen. Poor Jaawu would have to start moving soon or suffer a terrible headache.
Makuta grunted as his hands pressed against the shield. Due to the speed of the switch he was unable to readjust his position for better retaliation, and his frustration from that fact was evident. But he cut himself off as his eyes caught hold of Henan retrieving his tools.
As Henan ran and dove towards Makuta, he fell backwards, offering no resistance to Cheshie’s efforts and hopefully putting her directly in the path of the oncoming Okotan’s dive. Being on the other side, Katau had at least some warning that this was happening, in case he wanted to clear the lane.
Jaawu saw (and heard) the hammer, and resolved to try and run from it. Which he did. He intended to continue running until Makuta found the need to get his hammer back.
Makuta’s palm clutched the vicious elbow now pressed against his throat, his hand being the only thing between it and cutting off his breath. Cheshie was now directly in the way of any sword swipe from Katau, and if he attempted it he would likely hit her instead.
So far one competent fighter, two cowards, and two fools. Makuta’s eyes shot towards Jaawu. Let’s make it necessary for them to assist.
The speeding hammer had chased him to the other wall, suddenly veering off and making a beeline for Cheshie’s side opposite of Katau.
Makuta took the hit. Stung like a knife wound, that was for certain. This Cheshie would make an excellent sparring partner when all of this was over. But he took the hit with satisfaction knowing the hammer she had failed to notice would hurt at least a little bit more.
The top of Makuta’s hammer slammed into Cheshie’s side with enough force to throw her off its wielder. “If I were trying…” Makuta said, using a spin from the hammer to scoop himself off the ground and into standing position, clutching the handle with a ready stance and staring daggers into Katau.
Cheshie turned in time to see the hammer coming, but not in time to do anything about it. There was a crunch, followed by a crash as Cheshie fell to the ground. Winded was an understatement as she clutched her side, gasping for air and struggling to lift her body off the ground, finding little success with either.
Jaawu was still next to his favorite wall, but he could still hear Makuta.
“I wasn’t being literal!” He shouted from across the room. “It was meant as an exaggeration!”
“Of course we would.” Katau mumbled as it was made abundantly clear that his weapon skills weren’t up to par. He stopped his sword swing and attempted a thrust at the mask maker.
"I didn’t sign up for this job."Henan muttered to himself."So why,in all of okoto’s masks,am I in this room,in this situation,fighting a bally mask maker,with people,i barely even know?"He rubbed sand off his mask."If you were going to tell us something,you should just tell everyone to stop,and explained exactlly why you brought us here.I was well on my way to carve my finest statue yet! I swear,i always told myself,if i’m going to fight someone,i better know the whole story."He said while fiddling around with some very small chisels from his pack."so how 'bout we all stop fighting,and you tell us exactly why we’re.To the finest cleaveage.
Makuta allowed the flat of the blade to run directly alongside the head of his hammer and then shoved the sword away.
“This is enough.” The handle of the hammer tapped the floor, and Makuta’s voice carried a clear tone of irritation, if his body language failed to convey that message. His purple eyes shot towards Ilya on the opposite side of the room, and he made two threatening steps in that direction when-
There was a knock at the door.
Not taking his eyes of Ilya, the mask maker gestured with his hand towards the door and it flew open. Standing outside was a small fire Okotan, visibly unnerved by the doors opening on their own, his eyes darting from person to person in an attempt to find some answer.
“Tussul.” Makuta sighed, having turned about to see who was present. He motioned with his hand, and the hammer flew off down the hall someplace, making an awful ruckus while doing so. “Get acquainted, everyone.”
He resumed his march towards ilya, hands folded behind his back, eyes as menacing as ever - although the slightest hint of being really darn tired lurking around his pupils.
Ilya, upon hearing the signal to cease fire, lowered his hands, putting his last potion back into his pouch. He had already begun to move back towards the group and away from the forge when the Makuta turned to face him. Ilya stopped moving.
He would have stiffened, if he weren’t already. This whole ordeal barely seemed real.
Barely.
He remembered the cup, his mouth curling down at the edges. You’ve done idiotic things. This has to be the worst of them. The Makuta knew. He must know. And there was no easy way to explain it, no lie he could concoct - dared to concoct - that would fool the Makuta. Not on such short a notice.
Ilya was tired. He’d run before, fought before, even, but nothing like the adrenaline-suffused blitz of fighting the Mask Maker.
But so was the Makuta, it seemed. Ilya kept his posture respectful - though maybe too much defiance and too little subservience - but it was a hard-fought battle not to let a sardonically victorious sneer pass across his face.
Remember your fear. What was he thinking? He wasn’t. Makuta could kill him like nothing.
And yet … He wanted nothing more than to left his chin and stare down his nose at the Mask Maker, at the tiredness in his eyes.
What an agonizing walk! Was Makuta purposefully taking the smallest possible steps to draw out the tension of the moment, making his approach all the more… Menacing? Annoying?
Whatever the intent or the resulting emotion, the mask maker had approached to an uncomfortably close point, allowing him to look down on Ilya from the bottom of his eyes with nearly zero effort. It was then his eyes broke from Ilya’s for a moment, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips.
“You have failed.” Makuta’s voice was soft and quiet, just audible enough for Ilya to be their only recipient, as the mask maker’s violet eyes returned to his. “I set a test of your skill before you and you failed in every possible capacity. You did not lead your team, you did not approach the enemy, you did not exhibit the slightest hint of bravery. By every possible account, you have failed.”
“So perhaps the notion has crossed your mind that I would revoke your position and hand it off to someone far more capable, more competent at fighting, like Cheshie has proved herself to be.” He continued, slowly circling the Okotan while looking casually at the ceiling, before his eyes whipped back around with a menacing air. “Wrong. There is one truth in this universe, Ilya, and that is every Okotan fulfills his Destiny. You try to weasel out of yours at your own risk.”
“In spite of your secondary title, you will be doing the majority of the commanding on the field.” Makuta broke eye contact once more, having his back mostly to Ilya. “I know Tussul, and he is a skilled marksman, but he is not destined to lead. You will fill the void, or your team will abandon you for someone stronger.”
“What say you?”
Tussul threw both hands to his mouth in shock and bolted towards her, sliding on his knees over to her position. “Are you hurt? Are you okay? Are you bleeding? Do you need help? A-Are you going to be okay? Can you walk? C-Can you feel everything? Is any part of you cold or- or too hot? Do you feel anything broken? Is there a source of pain? Are you infected? Do we have to-”
The puppy dog eyes made it infinitely worse. This would, in theory, keep going until he ran out of breath.