"Speaking"

'Thoughts'

Something else/flashback

Jaune

He's crouched at the base of a tree with his back set against the bark, muffling curses of annoyance every time his clothes catch on a rough patch. There's forest in every direction spanning outward for miles, and he can't help but notice that it's disturbingly quiet for midday.

Normally the woods encompassing his village are absolutely teeming with wildlife, ranging from the average woodland creatures like squirrels and wolves. To the much more deadly Grimm, although thankfully the only ones around Nomas consist mostly of Ursae, and the occasional Beowulf pack when they wander too far south.

Today though, there's only rustling leaves and the occasional bird call, and where the hell are all the animals because it's not like an entire forest-worth of creatures can just up and disappear. So they're hiding from something. And if there's one he's sure of it's that it most certainly isn't him. The hairs on his neck are steadily rising in anticipation, gooseflesh following right behind it, but for what? So far nothing's actually happened.

Although even to him the plan is somewhat obvious, Jean's trying to lure him into making the 1st move. His understanding trips, stumbles off a cliff, and dies past that point. Because Jean has no reason whatsoever to be anywhere even approaching cautious. If they were to actually fight head-on with Jean going all out. Jaune shivers at the thought, a chill snaking it's way down his spine; it would be nothing short of a bloodbath.

You certainly are confident, That voice says again, and Jaune has to bite his tongue to keep from squealing like a particularly wimpy child. On a hunch he glares down at the sheathed sword in his hand, 'Don't do that!'

His theory is confirmed when a sound like wind chimes plays loud in the back of his head, and it takes a moment before he realizes that the sword is laughing at him. 'Dammit.' Just his luck too, that he chooses the sword that's a jerk. The fact that he can even think that with a straight face is a sign that yes indeed, this is a very weird day.

His thoughts are interrupted by a loud crack to the right and a harsh shove at the back of his head that screams, Move! He dives to the right just in time to watch Jean fly over his head, and punch the tree instead of his face; apparently she got tired of waiting. For a moment they lock eyes and Jaune can only stare at the pile of splinters that used to be part of a tree, and he is sooo screwed.

There's another nudge, Keep moving! So he scrambles to his feet and dashes deeper into the forest hoping to lose Jean in the ensuing rush.

The trees ahead are littered with branches, some hanging only a scant few inches above his head. He swings the sword up as he runs, chopping clean through them and leaving a small trail of debris in his wake. It probably won't do much, or even less than that, but something tells him she's right on his tail. And he'll take whatever minuscule amount of time it buys him to escape.

He pivots on his heel, slips as his momentum slides him a bit too far to the right. And stumble-runs his way forward through the trees to his left, panting the entire time. He runs diagonally between the tree trunks to try and break line of sight long enough to hide. It doesn't work, if the sound of branches cracking overhead is any indication, Jean's been keeping pace from above the whole time.

Jaune fights down the anger rising in his chest, there's a time and place to lose his temper and It feels like an almost cruel dismissal of his effort, then again why should he expect anything different? Him and Jean have never had the...best of relationships to put it lightly. A four year age difference coupled with three slightly older sisters for her to play with instead of him will do that.

A loud thud echoes through the trees and he's instantly on alert, scanning his surroundings for the slightest hint to his sister's location. A footprint, displaced dirt, a crack in the tree bark for crying out loud, but there isn't any. Which just makes this situation more frustrating, because she screwed up and gave away her position, and he knows she's somewhere nearby, probably right over his goddamn head. But he isn't good enough to do anything about it.

Duck! the sword screams and Jaune drops to the ground hard enough to rattle the teeth in his skull. While Jean flies past him screaming "Dammit!"

He hauls himself to his feet and turns to run again. Only to come face to face with Jean, and wow she looks really pissed. Fast as lightning she crushes his right hand in an iron grip, and pulls them face to face, "How did you think that would work?" She sounds angry, as if the very idea of his plan working is so laughable that it's a direct insult to her abilities as a huntress.

"I'm not stupid, ya know." Jean squeezes harder and he screams when he can feel the bones in his fingers start to creak as Crocea Mors tumbles from between his fingers.

Her lips are drawn back in a familiar snarl that sends a chill down his spine, "It's your fault they're gone." She says her face drawn back in an expression of pure hatred, "Why couldn't you just keep your stupid mouth shut?" In an act of desperation he swings at her face wildly with his other arm 'letgoletgoletgo.'

Jean just winds back and headbutts him in the nose momentarily stunning him as his vision blurs. She pulls her arm back and jabs him in the chest once and he can feel his ribs blossom with pain. Twice and they creak painfully. Three times and there's a cracking sensation in his chest that makes his eyes bulge as all the air is forced out of his lungs. Jean finally lets go of his wrist and he stumbles back drunkenly, somehow still on his feet, before the strength is seemingly sapped from his limbs and he falls to one arm retching against the dirt.

Jean crouches down on the balls of her feet bringing them face to face. Staring impassively at his injured form as he empties his stomach over the ground.

"Ya know, this isn't over until you can't fight anymore. The goal isn't to make me back up or hit me or any of that bullshit that we both know isn't gonna happen; because frankly: you suck. It's to see how long you can last." The scenery shifts and settles rapidly before his eyes and he has to fight to stay conscious.

"Oh! and ya can't outrun me so I don't really get why you even tried in the first place. Fighting me head on isn't gonna work either. 'Cause unfortunately I'm just flat-out better than you." She sing-songs in his ear and seriously Jean is enjoying this way too much.

She grabs him suddenly by the chin and forces him to look into her eyes. "So what are you gonna do Jauney, how much longer can you last? You'd better hope you don't disappoint me." She's gone the next moment leaping back into the treeline and disappearing in the branches.

HIs arm gives out and Jaune collapses to the ground, before flipping onto his back with a scream of pain, his spine arching off the floor in agony while he paws feebly at his chest with his aching hand. 'What the hell did she do to me?' It feels like an eternity before the pain fades from pure molten hell in his chest to a dull constant throb. His muscles finally untense and he falls back down to the soil with a groan. For a minute he just lies there, trying to catch his breath.

There's a nudge, Get up. a groan of pain is his response. Let Jean come back, he's too beaten to care anymore. Cold fingers are at the back of his neck, it's an oddly comforting sensation, with an almost tender edge. You can do this. A chill floods through his body again before pooling in his chest, and the pain eases into a cool numbness, it helps. Not a lot, but enough to count. Now get up.

With a groan Jaune hauls himself back into a sitting position with his legs kept tucked under him. With one hand on his knee he moves to stand. Only for his ribs to flare up again, sending white hot pain lancing through his chest once more, he tries to grit his teeth and bear it. Until another flash of pain hits, and a scream tears itself free from his throat before being muffled behind his teeth. He collapses back onto his knees, sweat pouring down his face panting heavily at the effort. 'Crap she really did some damage. How am I supposed to defend myself against that if I can't even stand?

Jaune decides to try another idea, slowly shuffling through the dirt on his shins until he reaches a tree trunk. With one hand against the bark and another held against his aching torso he slowly but surely hauls himself to his feet. It hurts, his ribs still catch rough and jagged if he tries to rush, but it's a far cry better than doing it unassisted.

Ignoring the absolute agony that is his rib cage he lifts Crocea Mors from it's place on the floor and draws it, clutching the sword tight in his right hand, the sheath hanging loosely in his aching left. Smart idea, it snarks in his head Should have done it earlier though, He ignores that too because sass is really not needed right now, especially not from a sword thank-you very much.

Looking down at the sheath an idea takes form in his head, because in the stories hadn't there been something else that was special about the sword? 'This thing is a shield too isn't it?'

He gets a scoff in response. Yes. It says and he can feel hope gathering in his chest, Don't be an idiot, before the sword crushes it beneath (its? His/Her? Whatever) heel. She'd break your arm. It's harsh but true, what good is a shield if his arm can't take the strain of blocking an attack in the first place?

So he tosses that idea aside for another time. But something's weird because he hadn't known where Jean was. Sure he'd had an idea, it was impossible not to when branches were literally cracking overhead. But an idea is a far cry from actually knowing, and if he didn't know, how the hell did a sword?

He brings the sword up to his face. 'I'm assuming from your warnings that you can sense her movements?' Yes I can, it replies and Jaune wants to bash his head against the nearest tree when he feels a kind of smug pride buzzing against his fingertips. Because he just had to-just couldn't possibly not choose the sword with an ego.

'Will you help me then?' He asks, quickly adding a 'Please?' at the end, don't want to offend it or some shit like that. There's another web of cold that spreads from his fingertips to his toes and eases (at least somewhat) the ache in his wrist. I would love to. It chirps happily.

He starts walking aimlessly through the trees as they think, one arm clutching his aching ribs, the other held tight around Crocea Mors' handle. Better to be a moving target than a stationary one, although from what Jean said before that probably won't do much, if anything. But it's a comfort at least and he'll take it.

'Then what's the best plan for right now?' He asks, 'Because I'm probably as good as dead on the ground.' But the trees might be an even worse place, if Jean can't fully mask her movements up there, he sure as well won't be able to.

Well you're right about that. It replies. There's a tapping sensation on the right side of his chest and Jaune's breath hitches at the unexpected pain. 'What the hell are you doing?'

She cracked two ribs. Crocea Mors replies and cold spreads outward in his chest easing the pain once more. Trying to make it bearable. It doesn't do much, but he can breathe deeply now. Which is ya-know...nice.

A part of him is admittedly touched by the gesture, he promptly tells that part to shove it before the sword can hear it, or...sense it, or whatever the hell it does. 'Not that I'm not thankful, but how are you doing that?' He asks because since when can a weapon do that? It wasn't ever mentioned in any of the stories he'd heard as a kid.

There's a flash of irritation that he chooses to interpret as "I'll tell you later."

Focus on the girl above us.

Realization sets in when leaves flutter down in front of his face, 'I fucking hate everything.'

There's the cracking of tree bark and Jean's shadow overhead as she comes down a few feet in front of him. One glance at her feet and the footprints her landing didn't leave behind sends a jolt of fear down his spine, 'She's making noise on purpose.' He doesn't run, doesn't try, because what's the point when the most he'll get is maybe a minute or two of time? Sure he can make up plans on the fly, but he isn't a miracle worker, and if he wants to get out of this without getting hit again a miracle is what he needs. Shame those seem to be in short supply this season.

She doesn't even put up the illusion of effort, one knee bent at an angle and shoulders slumped lazily forward, her right hand in her pocket while yawning into the other. "I hope you've thought of something Jauney, otherwise this is gonna be more boring than it already is."

Anger flares hot and wild in his stomach 'oh goddammit' and he doesn't think. Just grips Crocea Mors tightly with both hands and hopes that this doesn't end with another pair of cracked ribs.

He slashes down hard at her chest in an attempt to interrupt whatever she might be about to do.(Because even with one hand in her pocket and nothing even slightly resembling a fighting stance, it's still Jean and that more than makes up for it.)

She lazily taps on the flat of the blade with her fingertips and deflects it off to the right. Tapping his left arm three times with the same hand as he spins, his left foot having lifted off the ground from the force. There's a moment of blind panic where he expects to take a punch and feel fire spark in his chest again, but Jean doesn't move, and he's momentarily caught off guard as he continues to fall. 'Shit it's too late to swing back on my feet, I waited too long.'

Turn with the strike. Bring it back.

He digs his right heel into the soil and turns fast, putting the leftover momentum behind a slash at her ribs, she catches it and taps him on the wrist four times in rapid succession, the second she lets go he backs away to get some distance. It doesn't even come close to working, she's too good for that. But it does force her to block, and for a second her eyes widen and she looks surprised before it's buried back under that same lazy smirk, and he'll count that as a victory in itself.

You have reach. Use it. Jean steps towards him to close the gap and he stabs forward in a panic forcing her to backpedal abruptly or risk being impaled on the blade.

There's excitement bubbling up in his throat and a grin snaking its way across his face because holy shit he's actually holding her off. That train of thought is promptly shut down by the mental equivalent of a slap to the back of his head. Don't get cocky. You aren't.

Apparently Jean has the same idea because she's not smiling anymore, and oh god he's doomed. There's a nudge that he barely has time to interpret as Watch out! He tries to move, to dodge but his muscles have barely started tensing before his sister's left leg comes crashing against his already beaten rib cage with a loud Crack!

There's white fire lancing through his chest and the world tumbling end over end, his back collides hard with a tree, and he slumps back against it now unable to force himself upright. Mouth open in a silent scream of pain, it's almost certain one of his ribs is broken now, he watches with blurred vision and fear stirring deep and primal in his gut as Jean approaches. Darkness comes soon after.

Jaune

He comes to sometime later, flinching back from the harsh 'evening?' light as he slowly opens his eyes. He's still slumped against the tree that (presumably) knocked him out in the first place, with Crocea Mors clutched between white-knuckled fingers.

With a groan of pain he unfurls his right hand, letting the sword slide into his lap while he massages his aching head with the left. 'What happened?'

Blondie knocked you out. The reply is blunt and there's irritation tickling the back of his throat that he swallows down roughly, just barely managing not to flinch. For some reason the idea of disappointing the sword hurts a hell of a lot more than actually disappointing Jean. Then again Jean is kind of a dick and it was probably an inevitability anyway. The sword had believed in him, even if only a tiny bit it had honestly truly believed that he would succeed, and it hurts to fall below expectations.

'I'm sorry.'

You got cocky and lost.

No mercy from that corner apparently. His head is pounding horribly like two metal points are slowly being drilled into his skull. Two of his ribs are cracked, possibly broken and his hand hurts like hell, and he's so tired, there's exhaustion pulling and tugging at every little ache in his broken frame, slowly sapping whatever energy he has left. There isn't anyway to "win" this argument, honestly he wonders if this is even an argument, only a few words in and it feels more like a mental beatdown than a discussion.

'Stop...please, just-just stop.'

...Okay.

A chill flows through his head. Spreading out and tracing every little line until the pounding headache has faded to a heavenly cold that has him tilting his head back with a groan at just how good it feels. 'If that was an apology then consider it accepted.'

Good! Now get moving, HOMEWARD MARCH!

Once his ears have stopped ringing because loud. He realizes that there's one little problem with that plan. 'Where? I don't even know where home is.' A cold grip at the back of his neck again, it pushes and he's suddenly looking at the trees off to the left. Blondie went that way! Now mush!

Something shoves against his back and Jaune is stumbling to his feet, just barely managing to avoid getting a mouthful of dirt. Wind chimes sound again and he can't manage to suppress a smile. Just such an asshole.

It's dark by the time he finally makes it home, stumbling through the treeline and calling out for somebody to open the door, interspersed periodically with him cursing Jean's name up and down and sideways, "Seriously who does that? More importantly why do you get away with it, it's such bullshit!"

Jane is the one who finally gets him calmed down. It basically involves shoving his aching frame into a chair and threatening not to heal him if he doesn't sit still. But hey, whatever works.

It doesn't however stop him from glaring daggers at the kitchen table while they eat dinner and Jane focuses her semblance into mending his ribcage. Of course he only glares vaguely in her direction, can't actually give her something to get mad about after all. It's petty, and he knows it, but he also knows that with 2 cracked ribs, a concussion, and an angry purple bruise down his back he's allowed to be a little petty for once.

Re-edited: November 28th 2015