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Run.
That is all in Apo’s mind. The dead forest is a blur of greys all around, all they see are the obstacles to dodge and the paths to take. Scott’s saccharine voice, drawled threats, is not much more than a vague annoyance and a mark of where he is. The rustles of fabric Apo isn’t supposed to be able to hear and occasional jeers are the same for the others.
Run.
Really, it’s just like Apo to end up being chased by four fully-powered vampires. They wouldn’t sneeze at their fighting skills, but they’re definitely not the best, particularly with the claws they hate that they have. (She misses the weight of her axe in her hand.) What Apo is good at is running.
In all the ways, she supposes.
The cover of the grey trees begins to lighten; the river is nearby. Good, open air is good. The light footfalls of a predator are close, too close, when she breaks the treeline and leaps down onto a mix of gravel and mud. Apo musters the ability and lunges into the air, parallel to the rushing river, an attempt to gain more distance.
A searing tear of pain, claws dig into her side when a strong push in mid-air flings her out of her path and straight into the—
Water. It envelops her in a splash and a blur of cold, catches her in her fall. Slowly, gently, the current rights them, and Apo finds their footing in the gravelly riverbed and straightens their legs, swaying.
Cold riverwater rushes down their body, dripping from their hair, and it leaves them faster than it should and drier than it should; though they are still wet, it is not uncomfortably so. Apo is surrounded in it. Safe.
For the first time since she turned, the hunger and shadow of (un)death are near drowned out—by safety—and for the first time in years she dares realise the source of it. Water is safe.
Apo slowly raises their head, steadied by the feeling of water rushing around her, by strength that does not drag at her but cradles her, dark strands of half-wet hair falling back to leave her vision cleared. Scott is standing, claws coated in their blood, paces away at the shallows, with his little posse at his shoulders, and when Apo meets his eyes, they are angry.
Scott takes a step back out of the shallow water, then another. His countenance is actually disconcerted for the first time she has, possibly ever, seen. Alarm skitters in the others as well, they are unsure of how to act. Just moments ago their claws were ready, their taunts the same— they were prepared, to tear her open and to kill her, because she refused. She refused to give way, she refused to abandon herself and join that accursed Coven like the others did, and if after all she did and sacrificed and tried she needs to play for herself then so be it.
Apo feels their anger mount, the opening to strike out as the vampires who were hunting them down like a deer waver, and the water around mounts with them.
And in an instant, it erupts.
The roar like a waterfall echoes on the surrounding hills as the river surges up and up around Apo, rushes over her shoulders like a reassurance, forward to break the riverbank and bowl over her enemies before they can react.
It’s like a whirlpool. It is a whirlpool. The riverside is flooded taller than Apo before it, shifting earth and stones and gravel but all around remaining largely clear. Apo stares through swirling white crowns at the blurred shapes of white and red and black, they listen as water gushes deafeningly loud, and they straighten fully for the first time. Something in them can feel the submerged vampires, can feel as they attempt, varyingly, to struggle, held down by the unrelenting current that winds and spins above them. Futile.
The water, like she herself, will do what needs to be done. If violence is necessary, then so be it.
Apo blinks once as they observe the rapids, twice.
They were weakened by the fight and their run through the forest, close to dropping down a tier, and they are more tired now. It’s an almost comfortable sensation compared to the endless pangs of hunger, just plain old exhaustion tugging at their bones—and where safer to be exhausted than where they are? Apo exhales. The Coven will not dare give chase now unless they are truly foolish. She is tired.
The water rushes back from the shore when she lets herself fall. It catches them again in its easily reverting current, wraps them in a cool, steady pull, and Apo drifts. They are distantly aware of being shifted for their face to be above water, they are distantly aware of fading voices and motions from the riverbank.
It is safe.
The river will carry her, carry her to somewhere nicer; wherever that may be.
Until then, Apo drifts.
“Really, you should have known better than to go against us.” Scott’s voice is steady, smooth and faux-disappointed, despite the unchanging pace he moves at. “Now you’re all alone in this. The town doesn’t care about you... and you’re on your own.” Unrelenting, and they all follow.
Apo doesn’t react. They vault a boulder and dodge a tree branch in almost the same motion, and keep running.
Coward.
Owen doesn’t bother to join in when Pyro and Shelby match Scott’s taunts to varying degrees, underline them. He doesn’t play with his prey, he catches it and makes that its end. Apo is a particularly annoying prey, and Owen will be sure to make his next swing hurt in neat retaliation for the thin gashes across his left shoulder.
He is just on her tail as she jumps down onto the muddy shore, a tiny distance from being able to claw at her again. Apo lunges up and away in a neat arc, and Owen is about to snarl in anger when Scott, coming in from a more perpendicular angle, leaps too. They meet in mid-air, and he digs his claws into her as he shoves sharply.
Scott lands neatly at the edge of the water, bearing a smug little smirk, as Apo plummets into the river with a resounding splash.
And... something isn’t right. She winds in the water, the motion just slightly off—too slow, almost—and finds her footing, and Owen skids to a deft halt to one side of Scott, followed closely by Shelby. The feeling deepens as Apo straightens up, nearly to their waist in the river, and rivulets of water run from their soaked hair and wet clothes. Water doesn’t flow like that. Something’s wrong.
Apo is still, still where a human would likely be heaving for breath, wet hair—that was absolutely wetter than that just a moment ago—a somewhat stringy curtain obscuring her face, then she lifts her head.
And their eyes are glowing. Not red, not with the iridescence that comes with vampirism, but a clear, pale grey. Pyro, the weak fool, flinches back slightly, though with the sight, confusing and unsettling, before them, Owen has to suppose it’s not entirely unwarranted. Apo’s gaze glows, with some measure of the light almost tinted blue, the exact colour of the river that rushes around them.
The river around them, which has been shifting in its flow, lazily pushing their heavy skirts into a swirl. Oh.
Scott takes a wary, stilted step or two back, not fool enough to be blind to the danger, and Owen shifts his balance backwards, preparing to retreat instead of lunge.
It’s futile, ultimately.
The river explodes, and there’s hardly even an instant to cry out before it overwhelms them.
Owen is instantly soaked, dragged to the ground by a wave taller than himself, hitting hard gravel that knocks the hiss on his tongue out of him. The water is a force unrelenting and unforgiving, a vortex keeping him pinned, cold, and heavy. There’s the distant discomfort caused by flowing water, a simple urge to not enter when at his level of strength, but it’s drowned out by everything else that sucks about this.
Owen curses internally, and it’s only a moment before he begins to struggle.
Or, he attempts to.
No matter how much he pushes and writhes, he cannot move more than an increment before the force behind the water is too much to oppose. Opening his eyes is much of the same drag, but Owen is determined as he squints over at the blur of steel grey and dark crimson, cursing a little more. The strange glow in Apo’s eyes is bright enough pierce the gushing water, a minuscule beacon in the low light of dusk and the thick, oppressive blur that has swallowed him.
Owen is forced eventually to shut his eyes again, screwing them close while the water whirls steadily above and sends the occasional pebble glancing off of him.
He is... utterly powerless here.
It is silent but for the roar of water and the sharp, grinding chink of shifting gravel. Oppressively so.
The point of a small stone knocks into his jaw, leaving a tiny wound that sends the barest hint of iron out before it is dispersed into nothingness. The pressure seems to be mounting, mounting and mounting and Owen tenses, tries to push up against the ground, and he is more desperate than angry this time.
And then, suddenly, it’s gone.
The water pulls back, and the sound is a deafening roar as the dullness of being submerged fades abruptly.
The sensation of being drowned, be he mortal and in need of air or not, was not a pleasant one. Owen sits up with a gasp, an utterly undignified sound that he has not made in... a while, soaked and muddied and furious. And... thoroughly unsettled.
What in the world just happened?
His eyes snap open, bleary and aching slightly, in time to see Apo sink in the river, the flow of which has returned near instantly to normal. Water drips down his face, over his eyes. Leftover rivulets trickle down the disarranged gravel and mud of the shore and into the main waterway.
Pyro whimpers quietly as he uncurls. “What...?” His voice shakes, raw. He looks pathetic, soaked and scared.
Shelby is shivering, as well as a vampire can, at least, eyes wide, and Owen doesn’t particularly care for their fear either. He is much more focused on watching Apo, who drifts, unmoving but for floating to the surface, downstream.
“She... seems to be weak.” His voice is hoarse. Water is plugging his aching ears. “We could follow.”
None of them do.