EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE

[aionmods]

The Empty Throne

DESCENT

Nearly two weeks after being dragged from shrine caverns, you hear along the grapevine that the "the throne room is complete." It doesn't take long to figure out what that means; the ritual grounds that you have been hearing mention of are finally prepared, and it's only a short while before you are once again being gathered together for travel. As a small mercy, at least this time the journey is short.

Through a passage that has been blocked by a gathering of soldiers for the entire length of your stay, a stairway is revealed to you. It leads deep into the ruins, through unfamiliar structures and into the bowels of the earth. Though your feel your are mostly going downward, the walk is still long on account of how many stairs their are, and the soldiers escorting you are restless. They are now being led by the stray, mask wearing Achamites that have been accompanying the group till now, silently observing. Whatever place this is, it seems that they now hold court.

Funneled into the chambers below, you are greeted by a massive, domed enclosure of stone. Positioned around its circular radius are twelve thrones in various states of disrepair, sized as if meant to seat giants. The backs of these thrones all differ slightly in design, though most have great cleaves of stone broken loose from their architecture, as if subjected to some great cataclysm. Each is engraved with a sigil, though some have been obscured by the destruction wrought. The throne closest to the entrance has been almost entirely demolished, making it impossible to glean much about.

The dome's ceiling appears to be hundreds of feet tall at its apex, its smooth surface disrupted by stalactites that puncture through its form like teeth. As a result, many chunks of the original structure seem to have cracked and collapsed in to the floor below. When examined closely, these fragments of the domed ceiling seem to be made of a material strangely reflective in quality, though caked in many years of dirt and grime. If large enough sections are cleaned, patterns may emerge, revealing designs that look almost like star maps. The floor beneath your feet as a similar, but subtly different quality, covered in wreckage and ruin but can be cleaned to reveal complex patterns of intersecting lines.

A careful eye will indicate that these lines all lead towards the center of the room - the one space that has been cleared and scrubbed prior to your arrival. Here, the lines converge, with carefully preserved marking in the stone that bely increasing levels of runic complexity the closer you look. This is where the ritual will be held, you are told.

THE RITUAL

There is not much time to regain your bearings before you are being shuffled forth towards the ritual space; no, all the waiting has already been done. Under the command of the smaller group of Achamites, the Hylicians will make heavy use of the whips in leading everyone to their places along the rune-inscribed circle. Before that, however, small cuts will be made to each prisoner with an athame, either on their hand or arm. With a sharp, burning sensation in the afflicted skin, these cuts will spread into wounds reflecting the image of one of the eleven sigils displayed on the thrones encircling the group, and matching the shrine they were originally pulled from.

With this accomplished, they can finally be taken into the circle. With a design comprised of four triangles overlapping, the design of an open eye carved at its center, all prisoners will be led to separates points on its design where the lines cross. Seemingly arranged by their shrine sigil to be closest to whatever throne represents them, they will be brought to their designated positions one by one. Any attempts to flee or disrupt the process will be dealt with swiftly and harshly, exacerbated by the increasing levels of paranoia and fear in the soldiers themselves. Whatever is being done here, they don't seem happy to involved with it either.

When everyone is in place, the seeming master of ceremonies will finally emerge. A dark haired woman will appear from the shadows, motes of golden light fluttering about her otherwise darkness-clad visage. Moving towards the center of the circle, she will stand over the marking of the eye and begin working her magicks. As if on cue, the soldiers will withdraw any remaining whips and scurry to the outside of the circle, only for new bonds of ethereal energy to lash out of the ritual circle itself, binding each and every prisoner and dragging them down to their knees. Among the soldiers, you can hear mutterings identifying this woman as "the Aion."

"Come," she says to the coterie of robed Achamites, who will approach the circle with an assortment of vials collected into cases. There is enough for each prisoner to be given a drink, and so they will; a vial of abyssal liquid will be forced into each one of your throats, no matter how uncomfortably it must be done. While no less ruthless, the Achamites have a different way about them as they work, forcing themselves upon you with a strange familiarity that feels more akin to a mother forcing their child to take medicine than the suspicious hostility of the soldiers. As the foul liquid touches your tongue, it takes on a consistency almost like a living thing, crawling down your throat even if you refuse to swallow, all while the Achamites stroke your hair and make saccharine assurances.

Once all the prisoners have been fed their vial, the Achamamites too will retreat from the circle - all except for one. Joining 'the Aion' at the center, the two of them will begin enacting a planned ceremony of sorts, that culminates in the following scene:

The Achamite kneels before the Aion, lifting their masked face to meet their dark gaze. They speak, in practiced tones.

"To the Kenoma my body, to the Kenoma my soul."

In response, the Aion holds the Achamite's face between their hands in almost a loving gesture. She speaks softly:

"By the blood of the Martyr, I accept your sacrifice."

From the Aion's hands a darkness spreads across the Achamite's body, as if they are melting and dissolving on a cellular level. She kneels along with them, cradling them as their body breaks down, pooling in a void-black liquid around their knees. It drains into the lines of the ritual circle, surging out towards the prisoners.

Within moments, the ritual is complete.

KENOMA SICKNESS

As this dark power surges throughout the ritual circle, you will find yourself almost consumed by the tide. Whatever foul creation you were forced to swallow wakes within your chest, and you can feel it move within your veins, inside you lungs, behind your eyes. As quickly as it begins, the flood of darkness washes over you, but not without leaving you stained.

Something has changed in its wake. As you return to your senses, you will notice the magical bonds of the circle have fallen away, leaving you free to move; for once, the soldiers will not move to lead or restrain you. Instead, the Hylicians warily back away from the ritual space, retreating towards the only path upwards, where they form a defensive line. The Achamites that linger make a series of ritual gestures, praying in voices too soft to hear. The Aion woman stands in the center, her hands blackened with residue from the person you just watched fall to pieces in her arms.

"You will be given time to find your truth," she says. "Use it well."

As you recover from the experience enough to stand, she and her Achamite entourage are already retreating to join the Hylician guard. Gradually, your situation will become clear: they intend to keep your trapped down here. However, it will not be the same as when you waited before. Instead, the soldiers simply intend to block your only exit out, and otherwise leave you free to roam the full diameter of the throne room, seemingly free to do whatever you want as long as it isn't trying to break free of the cavern's confines. Each day, they will offer to their prisoners a limit supply of food, water, and firewood, but nothing more. Beyond that, you only have your increasingly dirty white robes and the same bedrolls as before.

❖ COMMUNION
The first change you will experience is an itching darkness in your mind, like a psychic wound that is becoming infected. The sort of thoughts you would normally try to force down become increasingly hard to resist; despair, hatred, and fear will plague you, and requiring great feats of will to silence even temporarily. Phantoms of the things you'd rather forget will become a constant companion, all while a presence seems to whisper: when you accept your fate, the pain will stop.

Worse than this, the darkness of your mind may not remain private. As if awakened by the ritual, your empathetic sense has become impossibly strong, to the point that you feel the broadcasted emotions and thoughts of others, and in turn, your darkest thoughts will be psychically projected to others with a volume proportional to the intensity with which you feel them. This effect is most potent between those sharing Legacy, with the capacity for their identities to become momentarily confused. In all cases, this connection may bleed into your dreams, or manifest as hallucinations.

❖ TRANSFORMATION
Yet, your mind is not the only thing that ails. In proportion to the strength of your emotions, your body may begin changing to match your state of mind. Physical transformations akin to those mentioned here will begin to manifest, themed to your inner suffering and the most negative aspects of your self conception. These alterations may shift from moment to moment, depending on the turbulence of your emotional state. They may or may not be painful.

❖ AFFLICTION
Along with the above effects, characters may also experience various more mundane ailments; essentially anything traditionally associated with illness could fit. Weakness, nausea, body aches, and chills are all common options. Along with this, void-black ooze may start to trickle from virtually any orifice. While it may stain clothing and skin, the material itself will dissipate after a few minutes in a manner reminiscent of ectoplasm. This effect may also appear around your Shard, as if the stone itself has begun to bleed.

RESISTANCE

Even as the Kenoma threatens to overwhelm you, you still have the power to fight. Though it may be a grueling war of attrition, you can force back its advances with sufficient will to survive and resist the darkness. Of course, your captors are not going to make this easy for you. Those that fight hard enough to expel the Kenoma from their bodies and spirits will take at least a week to do so, and for that duration they will be trapped within this chilly cavern, haunted by their worst thoughts and emotions.

The bedrolls barely strand up against the cold, your clothing doesn't at all, and to be comfortable you'll require fire. Yet, there is a limited amount provided to you, along with food and water, and the soldiers do not seem to be making any effort to distribute it evenly. Achieving basic warmth and sustenance may become a battle against your fellow inmates, all while you struggle against the enemy infecting your body. Cracks in the dome of the cavern lead into some smaller caverns and crevasses in the stone that can offer some privacy or protection, but the more splintered the group becomes the less the supplies will hold up. Fortunately for you, neither the cold nor starvation will kill you, but it will make you suffer.

Yet, you may still persevere. As you fight back the Kenoma, something else will be cultivated in its place. Bit by bit, a comforting and warm presence will grow within you, gradually disrupting the maladies afflicting your body and mind. Your faith and perseverance has been rewarded with an attunement to the Pleroma, the Kenoma's cosmological opposite; given enough time, the Kenoma will be forced from your being entirely, in the form of void-black sludge. Only then will your power begin to shine through, the abilities of your past life slowly returning.

You must keep your guard. With or without otherworldly power, escape will be a struggle.

ACCEPTANCE

Or, you may choose the easy option. Maybe the Kenoma resonates with your history and emotions in a way that makes it seem like it isn't the enemy. Maybe the depths of your despair are too deep to escape. Maybe your simply lack the strength to fight. Whatever the reason, sooner or later, the Kenoma claims you. The more you let it in, the less it feels like a poison and the more it feels like strength. The darkness settles comfortably into the cracks and holes of your spirit, and you awaken to its power. You feel the change viscerally.

This world is not good enough, a voice seems to speak through the Kenoma. This suffering you feel, the cruelty that has birthed this darkness in you... it is simply the rot that is consuming this existence. A better universe awaits, one forged by your own hand, and all you need do is first bring about this broken reality's end.

Whatever effects you were suffering from the Kenoma's presence will fade away, and in its place, you will feel your endurance bolstered. The clarity is stark in comparison to the mire you were trapped in before. As the other prisoners suffer around you, the Aion woman from before and an accompaniment of a couple Hylician soldiers will approach you among the ruins, as if summoned straight to your location. She looks you over, her dark eyes impassive, and then asks:

"Did you feel it?"

She doesn't actually wait for an answer, your expression alone enough to assure her. She'll tell the soldiers that you are free to go, and that you are to be given a share of their food and a change of clothes. She'll escort you out of cavern and towards the upper ruins, where the soldiers and Achamites have set up camp. This feels natural to you, somehow, like you and her are on the same wavelength in a way that is hard to comprehend. She is like you, you sense. That dark power is within her as well.

She doesn't linger with you for long, but she will see that you are on your way before heading back to the caverns. She'll say that the voice you heard, that promise, was the Regent, the ruler of this land. They spoke of a power that could birth a new, better universe, and they weren't misleading you. It's within their reach, closer than ever, and if you help them achieve it you will be rewarded lavishly. For now, you are free to regain your strength while the others make their choices. She only asks that you stay in the area and be ready to join the Regent in Achamoth when all is prepared.

If you're prone to boredom, though, she will mention that you'd really be doing the prisoners a favor by convincing them to accept the Kenoma like you did. You could convince them with words, or by making their situations so unbearable they won't have a choice but to break. However you'd like. It won't be worse than what's coming for them if they carry on this way.

When she parts ways with you, you are left to your own devices. Somehow, you feel inclined to cooperate. After all, the Regent did have a point.

QUESTIONS

Are the involuntary transformations during the Kenoma sickness period temporary afflictions or permanent ones?
By default they are temporary, but characters can also keep a couple keepsake changes if you'd like! An Aion's physical appearance is something that is generally in flux, and so even if you keep something from this event, you can always alter it later.

What kind of supplies are going to be distributed to those who accept Kenoma and leave the caverns?
They'll be given food, water, and clothing. They'll be given more/better rations than they were as prisoners, but it's still the sort of food that is limited by the fact that they are out here on a mission. The soldiers will have some fresh meat from prey they've been hunting in the forest, and will generally be having a lot of stew-based food going. There are actual spices in it, though, so that's cool. This is all set up where the Hylicians are camping.

As for clothes, they will get a fresh set (including boots or shoes) and some soap to clean themselves up in the nearby creeks and ponds. Hylici has an aesthetic that leans towards ancient Greek/Roman, so while they won't have anything fancy with them, you are free to assume they are able to acquire anything in that general ballpark. They do also have pants, though. While it is now spring and Horos has a generally temperate climate, it can be chilly at night.

Will Pleroma attuned be able to escape once they've regained their powers?
Yes, they will be allowed to escape at that point, and a second log will be going up to cover that part of the event. This log should generally cover up until shortly after Pleroma start ejecting the Kenoma's influence. Characters are permitted to escape by their own power if they somehow devise a plan to do so, but as we know the Pleromas are at a significant disadvantage in this situation, some characters who have fought against the Kenoma particularly valiantly will be given some magical assistance to help the survivors escape.

Will the Kenomas be able to try to stop them?
Yes! The second log will be set up to contain some PVP, though given the Pleromas do need to escape, we ask that you play nice. There will be a battle, but it will be structured in the context of the Pleromas having to hold off the Kenomas long enough to escape, so it will be relatively brief.

Can we speak to "the Aion"?
Yes, she will be around for the full length of the event. All characters will have the chance to find her watching over the group whether they are Kenomas or soon to be Pleromas. She will not be that talkative, though, so anyone tagging her will have to lead the conversation. She will not make small talk. Martyrs will recognize her as one of them.

Comments

MOD CONTACT

[aionmods]

This is where you can ask the mods questions about the event scenario or pursue IC investigations about your character's surroundings. Attempts to engage with NPCs that don't have their own top level will default to summary interactions unless the thread moves towards needing dialogue. Please remember that responses will be limited by demand and mod availability.

[edgevassal]

Hypothetically speaking what would happen if someone (Hubert) tried to stealth murder the Martyr.

THE MARTYR (NPC)

[aionpcs]

The woman the soldiers called an Aion remains in the cavern with you after the ritual is complete, lingering on the sidelines in watch. She seemingly doesn't engage with you or the soldiers; instead, her mind set to her task, her gaze unblinking and her body seemingly having no need for food or rest.

She won't rebuke anyone who approaches her, and her presence has a certain warmth to it despite her restrained presentation. Despite that, she seems to have nothing to say to you right now, whether your still a struggling prisoner or a recently liberated servant of the Regent. That doesn't mean you can't be the one to speak to her, of course.

Your involuntary empathic connection seems to reach her as well, though she radiates little in return besides an unwavering psychic presence. Those from the shrine of the Martyr will recognize something familiar about her, and maybe even a hint of anticipation behind her blank expression. She's waiting for something.

hello..........................

[edgevassal]

In truth, Hubert has been plotting methods to kill the Aion ever since the ceremony had completed. It's simply the way his mind works. He's not even sure what he expects to accomplish with the idea--well, there is the chance that the entire scenario is some elaborate sorcery on her part and their collective entrapment and disease will end with her death, but he doubts he could be so lucky. No, it's only the impulse of a desperate and spiteful man: if they all must be forced to suffer for the sake of some foul purpose, then Hubert wants to give as good as he gets. One last middle finger to prove he can't be quietly controlled, and if their captors decide he's too much trouble to keep around as a result, then he wins twice over.

His preferred method would be poison, but he doesn't exactly have the supplies for such a thing, so he's forced to resort to cruder tactics. He pulls his pathetic excuse for a bedroll to an edge of the cavern as far from her as possible, and when he's certain no guards (or fellow prisoners, for that matter) are observing him, he tears off a long, thin strip of the canvas, long enough to roll into a cord and wrap into his fists for a better grip. A makeshift garrote. Easy enough to loop into a loose necklace and hide beneath his thin shirt, if need be, too.

Next is to get close enough to her to strike before she can get her guard up. He's lucky that the Hylicians seem to be here to keep the prisoners in, rather than for the Aion's protection. Perhaps they don't expect their captives to strike back? How foolish of them. Still, there's no reason for him to rush things and risk making her suspicious, so he takes the time to close the distance between them over a number of days, making his movements seem like the natural wandering of a hopeless man beset by miserable illness. He focuses on that as feeling much as possible, too, hoping that the truth of that experience will mask him accidentally broadcasting the hatred he also bears her. Or maybe it doesn't matter either way.

At his next inevitable coughing fit, he makes a point of just happening to come to rest near her, and waits for a while to "recover his strength" at that position. It gives him a chance to observe her and her movements more closely. And when he's certain she's paying him no mind, it's second nature to slip into a shadowy corner behind her, masking his footfalls in the sounds of the misery around them, and pulling his makeshift cord from his shoulders and into his hands.

He'll expose himself immediately, but that's all right. He only needs seconds to kill her, and what happens to himself afterward doesn't matter. In place, it's now or never: he pulls the garrote taut between his fists, and lunges to loop it around the base of her jaw. He aims to either strangle her or snap her spinal cord; he isn't picky which one.

Ernesto Salas | Arknights | Lover

[goldendeceiver]

[ During the long and grueling wait period, Ernesto had idly commented to someone that his worst case scenario for what the "ritual" was, was something that would strip their free will out of their hands. He'd said it in a relaxed manner at the time, but he hadn't been kidding. While the prospect of being sacrificed was terrifying enough, the prospect of having his mind corroded and twisted, or worse being stuck fully functioning inside a body he no longer had control over, was so much worse.

So when the ritual starts, it feels like a culmination of his worst fears coming to life. There's a part of him that still believes that they're going to be slaughtered here as they're led into the circle, but the viscous, lively substance they're forced to drink clarifies it all for him quickly. He coughs and hacks violently, even as he watches the man dissolve away in front of his eyes, but it doesn't do him much good.

Just like everyone else, as that black liquid rapidly spreads out across the circle, it hits Ernesto like a ton of bricks; darkness swallows him, and his suffering begins. ]


I. LET'S SHARE SOME RATIONS

[ It's pretty obvious what they're doing with this one. The rations are given with intended scarcity in mind. Even in his struggling state, Ernesto can see that much. The good news for him is that the sludge they forced down his throat doesn't have him feeling particular hungry these days, an unpleasant nausea gnawing at his stomach most of the time.

The bad news is that it also has him getting chills on the regular, and more of that firewood would be nice. He'll approach people who have small fires going, holding out what little ration of food he has with a weak attempt at a friendly smile, and an equally weak wag of his tail. ]

Trade you? I could use a warm spot to sit, and you look like you could use something to eat.


II. MY INNER VOICES ARE ALL JERKS

[ The uncertainty rolls off of Ernesto in waves. While he's not the kind of person to harbor unending hatred for humanity in his heart, he's also not the kind of person who believes in the inherent good of all people either. It'd be nice to say he exists in a happy middle ground, but that's not exactly true either. Ernesto's own mind likes to try to tear itself to pieces, exhausting him on the regular as it is, and right now that feeling is so much heavier than usual. It's hard to bear as he sits slumped on the ground, too tired to stand for a moment.

Any solid thoughts might not be obvious at first when approaching him, but that wall of doubt and disquiet is going to hit hard enough to almost feel solid.

Don't worry, a barrage of equally confused thoughts is sure to follow. ]


III. THE STRUGGLE IS REAL

[ It's not looking good, champ.

Ernesto had done a great job keeping on the good side of the guards up until this point, so he'd avoided any extra thrashings some others got. Everyone here is pretty equal in suffering though, and for the first time since coming here Ernesto is really looking rough. He's got a real haggard and hangdog look about him, ears and tail both drooping sadly.

Day one had been bad enough, but it has always gotten worse for him as the week drags on; that's the struggle that comes with being someone whose moral beliefs flicker and sputter like a dying flame during the best of times.

He shivers on and off throughout the week, and it doesn't always have to do with the cold. While he doesn't seem to have any visible changes on his body, it's clear he's been afflicted in some unseen way, judging from the way even subtle shifts in his movement seem to be done gingerly and with great care.

Worst of all, it's whenever he feels his most resilient that the disgusting ooze inside of him makes itself known again. It's like something is lodged in his throat, and hacking and coughing like he did when it was first dumped down his throat only ever brings up the tiniest flecks of the stuff. It feels like no matter how hard he tries, he'll never be able to clear his system of it.

In these weaker and more pathetic moments, he does his best to find a hidden spot to curl up by himself, not able to force himself to put up his usual sociable and pleasant facade. Even at his lowest, Ernesto doesn't like people seeing the mask slip.

Too bad for him, there are limited places to really be alone down here. ]

ii-ish bleeding into iii

[lockedon]

[ Ernesto doesn't look good. Eustace barely looks any better. The normally healthy hue to his skin has taken on an ashen quality, and he's been forced to pace his steps to hide the fatigue that trails him at all hours.

But he's got one thing going for him; this place that they're being kept in isn't anywhere near as cold as the frozen north of his homeland. It certainly isn't warm by any means, and he finds goosebumps prickling on his skin more often than not, but it's not so difficult to tough things out. For now, at least.

Others don't seem to be as lucky, bodies trembling - from cold? from exhaustion? from the disease that's been forced into them? - as they curl into themselves in a stolen corner. He turns his gaze away from most of them, concerned only with his own survival, but it's harder when it comes to someone who's left an imprint on him, no matter how shallow. ]

Here.

[ That's all the warning given before he tosses his bedroll - admittedly thin and worn - at Ernesto, wherever he is. Hi, guess who. ]

Vi | Arcane | Firebrand

[fistcuffs]

THE FIRE

[ Vi isn’t sick. She’s not sick because to be sick right now would be death, and like hell is she going to die in this cave after everything these assholes have put her through. She has to live now. Out of pure spite if for no other reason.

But of course, that’s easier said than done. Vi can’t let herself stop, can’t let herself rest, because if she falls apart now she doesn’t know how the hell she’s going to pull herself back together. Barring an enemy to fight she paces, taking ragged little breaths between steps. Catch her at the right moment and you might see her stumble, crumpling a little against cold stone. The firewood in her arms slips, falling to the ground in a loud clatter of wood on rock.

An impossible sound to miss, if you’re anywhere in the vicinity. ]



THE FEAST

[ Any resources she can get her hands on, Vi is collecting, organizing, distributing. In her stronger moments she’s back on her feet, looking for anyone who looks lost, cold, alone. ]

Hey. [ Her thumb jerks behind her, her face open with real concern. ]

We've got a fire going. Come on, get warm.



BRING YOUR OWN FEELINGS

[ Guilt bleeds from Vi. Punishing, suffocating, agonizing guilt.

Approach her and her hands come up. She’s shaking her head, shaking all over. You might catch flashes of it now- a sister lost, years alone in a cold cell. She wasn’t there, wasn’t there, wasn’t there to protect her sister. To save her father, her brothers. They’re all dead, and it’s Vi’s fault. She’s sure of it. She knows this guilt, this pain, deeper now than her own bones. ]

No... no, don’t- [ Breathe. She can’t breathe. She folds rigid arms around her middle, hunching. ]

Don’t touch me, okay?



WILDCARD

[ If any other firebrands are looking for the opportunity to jumpstart some CR with a horrendous dreamshare, I'm your girl! Also open to playing around with other psychological/physical affects. ]

BYOF :)

[passio]

[ dextera knows this. he knows this guilt and this horrible sense of failure—they’re sharing it, and in a way the overwhelming presence of hers smothers his own. he’s exchanging one horrible burden for another without alleviating any of the pain, but with the hurt comes clarity. he imagines his loss; he can feel hers, and he knows what he would want someone to do for him.

he wants to help. ]

…

[ when she tells him not to touch, he does politely withdraw his hand, but he doesn’t leave her alone. even in silence, he nonetheless seems urgent about wanting to support her panic. ]

hubert | fire emblem | champion

[edgevassal]

[ 01. the ritual | cw: emeto ]

[The first thing Hubert does, once the prisoners are all released from their bonds, is make himself vomit. He has the decency to retreat to a darker, more isolated corner of the cave, first; less for decorum and more for his own protection and dignity, but regardless the fewer eyes on him the better.

He only succeeds in losing his own meager rations, the noise of it still echoing through the dank space despite his best efforts. The strange crawling sensation on the inside of his skull and through his bones remains. It figures he wouldn't be so lucky. For a few moments all he can do is hunch over, propped against the cave wall, staring at his own sick and grappling with a very unfamiliar feeling: he has no idea what to do, and no guess at what is about to happen to them.

It's accompanied by a worse one: fear.]

[ 02. communion ]

[You should be dead.

It's not a new thought. It's one he's had constantly ever since he woke up here, in fact, but now it throbs in his temples like the pulse of his heart. Like a headache. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was audible.

How dare she die while you live. How dare you even draw breath. Failure. Worm. Scum. You should be dead.

He isn't going to bother arguing with himself otherwise: it's all true. But this new, oppressive manifestation of his own thoughts is so unhelpful; debilitating, even. It's all he can do to keep himself to the surface of awareness, like he's struggling not to drown with only inches of air to work with. It may all be true, but Hubert is cognizant enough to realize this is the influence of whatever substance the cultists forced on him. Out of stubbornness and spite alone, he refuses to succumb. But it's harder to manage with every passing minute.

As always he keeps to his corner, and simply prays to a nonexistent god that his fellow prisoners will keep their distance in turn. Nobody needs his demons, and he isn't all that interested in anyone else's, either.

The impulses bleed into his dreams. He doesn't know how Edelgard died, but his own subconscious supplies plenty of options. Enbarr in ruins, the Immaculate One triumphant, the surface of the earth crawling with Those Who Slither come to reclaim their old kingdom on the rubble of everything they--Edelgard and he--had strived to build. It doesn't truly matter how it came to pass, only that it did, and Hubert is the only one to bear witness when he should have given everything he had to prevent it, even if it had been pointless in the end. He should be dead.

But like hell he's going to give this Aion the satisfaction of accomplishing what even the Goddess couldn't.]

[ 03. affliction ]

[Hubert is gaunt enough on a good day that being ill doesn't have that much affect on his appearance, but even he looks particularly sunken as the days creep on. It doesn't help that he hasn't been consuming his share of rations, preferring instead to hoard what he can for emergencies and redistribute the rest, which might be surprising in the face of his generally misanthropic behavior.

He doesn't make a show of it. Instead, he sidles up to those who look particularly in need--whether sickly or simply in a severe stage of mental deterioration--and slides over some of his hoarded food without so much as a greeting, before slipping back into the shadows like some kind of weird bat-person. If he had it his way, he'd be unnoticed entirely, but unfortunately a poorly-timed attack of coughing makes it obvious what he's doing. So much for stealth.]

[04. wildcard]

[If none of the abovec prompts appeal to you but you'd still like a thread, feel free to plot something out with me beforehand or just throw something at me yourself! Hubert is going to be holding out as long as he can but will most likely be going Kenoma in the end; I'd love to make all kinds of CR before that happens to make the inevitable as dramatic as fuck, so hit me up through PM, at cerebrah, or through the game Discord if you want to talk things out \o/]

2

[expiera]

[It's hard to tell whether the dishevelled-looking man is asleep or awake, huddled in his own corner trying to keep himself isolated from anyone else. She doesn't catch much of it, but one statement - no, accusation, resonates louder than everything else.

"You should be dead."

Is it really the reason? Or is it an excuse? Suppose it doesn't matter, none of it is needed anyway for reaching out to someone in clear discomfort. It is so that he may be shaken from wherever his head has taken him by a cool and wet sensation on his forehead: a wrung and clean piece of fabric, now serving as a makeshift towel. It may be quite brazen of whoever's seen it fit to approach and touch him unprompted, but there's no force or hostility in the gesture, and he's free to turn away. If he turns towards the source, he'll simply find a woman with short hair better dressed than how they all were when first ushered into these caverns, a face he may vaguely recognize as a fellow prisoner who's apparently already accepted this "offer".

She watches him without a word, and will simply work to wipe the sweat off his brows if he lets her.

...]

moiraine damodred | the wheel of time | champion

[velvetoversteel]

i. the ritual

As the soldiers muscle her and the others towards the ritual circle, Moiraine fights back for the first time since she came out of the cavern. For as much as she spoke to some of the others about patience, about waiting for their moment to break free, about being certain they were not about to die here – she is done being herded like a sheep to the slaughter.

A whip wrapped around her throat puts an end to her brief moment of resistance with embarrassing ease. The soldier who administers it nearly looks as if he'll strike her with his fist if she keeps fighting back; it's fear she reads in his eyes, she realizes. Fear of the ritual, of her, of something else?

Her anger flames hotter when the whip comes off and some magic she can neither see nor sense forces her to her knees. She has time to glance around for a moment at the others near her, to realize a few of them have the same sigil that adorns the back of her own left hand, stained with drying blood – and then one of the black-masked individuals kneels down next to her and forces a vial of something foul down her throat. Moiraine coughs and spits, trying to get it to come back up, but to her pure unmitigated horror it almost seems to slither further down her throat instead. Violated fury mingles with something she would never admit aloud to feeling: fear. I will not yield, she thinks, focusing on that as if it will somehow make any difference at all. I will not--

It doesn't matter. The dark tide sweeps over her as it does all the others, and when it's done she feels immediately awful, as if her whole body has been dunked in something vile. In the aftermath, all she can do is kneel there, exhausted, almost too weak to get up.

i. kenoma sickness / communion

The illness comes on gradually, weaving its way into body and mind alike. At first, Moiraine almost feels all right, at least physically. Dirty and scuffed and desperately in need of a hot bath and a change of clothes, but she's undergone worse before.

After the first day or so, the symptoms start to make themselves known. Chills first, and then fever, blazing hot, though to anyone else's touch she'll feel cold as ice. That in and of itself drains her energy and makes her want to simply lie down and not move again – she tries to ignore it, gets up and moves about the cavern as and when she can unless someone very persistent coaxes her to sit down and rest.

Other things come later – she starts seeing things from her peripheral vision, people or places that shouldn't be there, flickers of the dread and despair she's been suppressing all this time. Rand is dead. Rand went to the Dark One. Rand broke the world again, he went mad, killed everyone and everything you ever loved, and it's your fault. Failure. Murderess.

She doesn't believe it. She cannot believe a word of it. But determination and anger vie with doubt and self-loathing, and sometimes it's not clear even to her which is winning. She certainly doesn't have the first clue that anyone else might be able to sense her thoughts or feelings.

iii. wildcard

( hit me with a PM or on the game discord if you wanna talk ideas! otherwise I'm game for anything c: )

sickness

[fingergunning]

:Who's Rand?: The question was echoed in his head along with the name that cropped up out of nowhere. He couldn't figure out if it was maybe some kind of flashback to a commercial or tv show he couldn't quite remember, but it was clearer in a way that memories often weren't. A voice not his own, definitely. In fact, it kinda reminded him of that posh woman, Moiraine. Crisp, accented, but weird, because he was pretty sure she was in another part of the cavern and it didn't have an echoey sound to it like talking in a cave had.

Maybe he was going crazy. Whatever they'd given him in that vial, it was messing with his mind pretty badly. Between feeling like he had malaria, the nightmares that he could see even when he was awake, and the skittering of things at the edge of his vision, he felt like he was on the worst acid trip known to man. :I'd rather be hungover on tequila than whatever this shit is.:, said more to himself than anything else, but likely to be picked up if someone was listening.

gen | boy's abyss | lover

[epiprocta]

i. communion

[ Aah, youth. Gen puts up a genuinely impressive struggle for the first two or so days, truly the embodiment of teenage rebellion as he throws himself at the Hylian guards blocking the exit like a rabid dog regardless of how many times they fend him off. It's ... well, it's pretty pointless. And honestly kind of disruptive and stressful to witness? Everyone's dealing with their own demons, after all, and it can't be pleasant having to watch someone snarling as they throw themselves at the guards for the Nth time, retreating just long enough to catch his breath and lick his wounds before trying again.

But he seems absolutely uncaring of how much the ruckus he's making might be bothering others, and the moment anyone approaches him -- whether to tell him to quiet down already, or out of concern (surely not) -- he immediately turns to them, bristling as he snaps, ]

-- back off!

a. [ general ]

[ Anger and frustration pour off him in waves, so dense that one can almost taste them in the air, bitter and acrid at the tip of the tongue. But it's all cut through with the sharper tang of ... fear? Sort of. Anxiety, maybe. Desperation, mostly. The sheer depths of those emotions are a little unusual, almost like they've been building up for a much longer time than the few weeks they've been dealing with All This. But those are all understandable reactions to this plight they're in, right? Constantly picking fights with those guards can't be helping matters much, and maybe he just needs to hear that sensible advice straight up. Even if the air around him ripples with a vague sense of 'You deserve everything that's happened to you.' ]

b. [ for those of THE LOVER legacy ]

[ But for a select few, the thoughts radiating off him are a little worse. Not in their intensity, but in their clarity. Because accompanying those roiling waves of anger and frustration and desperation are vivid hallucinations, each one terribly lucid despite barely lasting a fraction of a second. The claustrophobic crush of the interior of a small closet. The sounds of ragged breaths echoing in the ear, set to the backdrop of muffled sobbing. The warmth of fresh blood starting to dry sticky between the fingers. A pair of eyes staring with an intense, blank apathy, eliciting a breathtaking wave of despair.

That last one is the worst, somehow. The worst by far, strong enough to elicit a chill down the spine and a knee-buckling wave of nausea. Maybe it's some small consolation that that horrible sensation is a shared one, and Gen also has to shut up for a second to fight down the urge to empty the meager contents of his stomach. Misery sure does love company! ]

ii. affliction

[ Thankfully even teenage obstinance has its limits and Gen quiets down after a while. In fact, goes the complete opposite direction and retreats entirely -- finds some dark corner as far away from other people as he can manage, back against the wall and knees brought up so he can keep his head ducked against them, curled up as small as possible. Even shivering from the cold and from those horrible chills, he still wants nothing more than to be left alone now. He flinches the moment anyone draws near, just the sound of approaching footsteps enough to earn a hard shudder, but he refuses to raises his head.

It's only if someone lingers for a few moments too long or dares to say anything to him that he looks up -- just so he can fling the meager rations he'd scrounged for himself right in their face. Thanks to days of beatings and exhaustion there's no real force behind the throw, meaning his poor victim will only have to deal with the indignity of getting beaned in the nose with a rock-hard piece of bread. ]

You can have'em. Leave me alone.

[ His voice is low and hoarse and peters off into a stutter as his teeth chatter, but even with his face pallid and drawn save the streaks of black ooze etched down his cheeks and lips, Gen glowers like a cornered animal. He's tired enough that he doesn't want to start any fights, instead leaning towards bribery(?), but that doesn't mean he won't still lash out if he needs to. ]

iii. acceptance

[ He gives in halfway through the week. And honestly, it's a relief. No more chills, no more flashbacks, no more nauseating sensation of something slithering through his veins. Why the hell had he even resisted for so long? After all, it's not like that voice whispering in his ear had said anything wrong -- and why would he have any reservations about letting everything burn?

Gen is quiet as he lets himself be taken out of the cavern. Quiet as he listens to the Aion. Quiet as he takes the chance to clean himself off in the stream and pulls on a fresh set of clothes, quiet as he accepts a bowl of steaming hot stew, fragrant and inviting. But as he settles down around the warm fire, he casts a sideways glance towards the Aion's silhouette off to the side, then meets eyes with whoever else is nearby -- whether they'd already accepted Kenoma days before, or are just arriving after him -- and mutters just loud enough that only they can hear, ]

Creepy bitch.

[ Like, sure, he'll cooperate with her and he's glad he gave in, but she is a creepy bitch, right? Surely even the others who're out of the cave would agree with that. ]

iv. persuasion

[ It's only on the last day that he wanders back into the cavern, and only because he is bored and restless and tired of hearing those gentle suggestions that it'd be best to persuade the stragglers to give in. Sure, why not. He doesn't see the point in delaying the inevitable, after all. And so here he is -- clean and fed and watered now, properly dressed, booted feet padding off the uneven ground as he approaches one of the remaining holdouts. His movements are languid as he crouches down before his chosen victim, a tantalizing piece of dried meat dangling between his fingers but not offered forth. ]

Hey. Hurry up and get this over with. [ He says it casually, like he's suggesting someone hurry up and finish off an errand they'd been dawdling over. ] There's food and clothes outside, and they're making us wait. What's the point in still staying down here?

[ Is it to his meager credit that he seems to be putting minimal effort into the homework the Aion's assigned him? Maybe. Or maybe he really does think accepting the Regeant's words is a trivial matter. Gen heaves a small sigh before taking a bite of the dried meat, looking the other party in the eye as he eats. ]

It's not a big deal.

i.............ish

[lockedon]

[ Ah youth indeed. Impossible to miss the kid and his loud angry antics despite how many of them are crammed into this cavern, and how many of them are pitching fits at any given time. Whatever contaminate he'd been fed has left his body far worse for the wear, and the headache beginning to take up permanent residence behind his temples only serves to make him feel even more miserable.

The ends of his patience are frayed thin, threatening to snap at the slightest provocation. Even his seated position behind one of the crumbling thrones hasn't afforded him much sanctuary—not that there's much to be found here in the first place, and especially not when that kid is back at it again, rounding on some poor person foolish enough to step in.

He's never been particularly witty nor particularly wordy, so maybe it's not surprising that his retort, rough and biting, is about as short and emphatic as Gen's own outburst. ]

Shut up.

[ Hello?? Some people are trying to be miserable in peace here??? Youths these days, absolutely no respect. ]

howl (celebrant)

[galdorleod]

(1) communion.

It seemed plain as day to Howl that they were about to be sacrificed. Killed, that is to say. It made sense to him considering everything else that had happened — the death march, the poor clothing and meager food, the disrespectful treatment. And he tried to make it as hard for them as he could, kicking and yelling and spitting insults and making a scene. But, after two weeks of endeavoring to be as ungovernable as possible, his lanky body is weak and covered in knotting bruises. Even as they're forcing what must be poison down his throat, he only has so much resistance left in him... and it isn't anywhere near enough.

The black sludge is so overwhelming that Howl doesn't even register the disturbing remainder of the ritual. His chest feels tight, like an elephant is stepping on his sternum. The sensation focuses around the Shard embedded in his chest; indiscernible black liquid seeps from around its edges and stains the front of his dirty robe from the inside.

When the force keeping them in place disappears, Howl does not stand. Crumpled on the ground, knees and elbows grinding against the stone floor, he holds his head in his hands. He coughs and gags, still grappling with the sensation of his body being crammed with something foreign and horrible — but then he chokes, sucking in a sharp breath of air instead of forcing it out, and begins to sob.

And sob. And sob. Normally, weeping helps release and dissipate sorrow, and Howl is not immune to the relief that weeping can bring. But Howl's sobs do not lessen, much less stop. He cries harder and harder as the minutes tick by, crouched on his hands and knees, his face inches from the ground.

Every person I managed to trick into caring about me is gone.

His misery radiates out of him like a thick, poisonous fog. This despair was not created by the ritual — it's merely been set free, for everyone to feel and hear for themselves.

Bacon in the hearth. The toys in my bedroom. Spiders building cobwebs along the banister. Calcifer, Markl, Sophie... Never again.

It's a strange mix of sadness, distinctly childlike in how pure and acute it is, but heavily burdened by the failure and guilt that only adults know. The heartache of self-loathing. Howl is so immediately overwhelmed by the flood, and so incapable of handling it, that he's already drowning in the darkness overtaking him.

His communion's volume is figuratively ear-splitting, and while there are no other Celebrants present to confuse the feelings for their own, they're nevertheless so strong that they'd be hard to ignore.

(2a) long dark.

The first night is cold and miserable. The woeful cries of a wizard caught in the throes of despair echo off the domed ceiling for hours. Thin black liquid drips from the narrow gap between his palms and his face — presumably leaking from his eyes instead of tears, but for those who aren't able to catch a glimpse of his face or talk to him, it's hard to say.

But, of course, for as long as he cries, he can only go on like that for so long. At some point during the night, Howl's sobs quiet into pathetic gasps and shudders, until eventually extinguishing completely. He barely speaks to anyone who doesn't actively attempt to engage him. For the most part, he remains sat against the back of one of the enormous thrones, forehead either pressed against his hands or resting on his knees.

He doesn't move to accept the offer of food and water from the soliders, nor does he lay down to sleep. His embarrassingly sincere self-pity, once broadcasting at full blast, has plummeted to a buzzing whisper. Looking at him now, one would not be wrong to wonder if there's something seriously wrong with him.

(2b) acceptance.

Then, as the sun begins to rise on a new day, Howl seems to come alive again.

He raises his head from his hands, letting the back of his skull rest against the stone behind him. His face looks gaunt and sullen from hours of crying. The dark circles under his eyes emphasize his marble-like blue irises. It's unclear at first what Howl is looking at, as he seems to be staring up into space, but no — he's gazing up at the strangely patterned dome ceiling. The intense psychic agony he was wracked with yesterday is gone. And while his thoughts are quiet now, he's clearly deep in thought.

Then, finally, he stands. As he scans the chamber, taking in the people around him, the Martyr approaches. Following a brief conversation, Howl is free to leave. He turns and begins to follow her back towards the edges of the chamber, by the long, long path of stairs leading back to the surface.

Perhaps you're among the soldiers guarding the stairs, having accepted Kenoma even faster than Howl did. Or maybe you're still trying to resist, and maybe still willing to spare a moment of concern for him. There are only so many moments left to say something, as Howl is not wasting any time looking back.

( wildcard! )

((I was gonna do prompts for Howl being up at the surface again receiving supplies, and for coming back down to convince people, but this is already so long jadhkjsfkjsaf If you want those scenarios feel free to just tag me or poke me with your TL!! or, let's plot on plurk/discord if you want to first!))

2B

[lachtara]

Emet sits propped against one of the cold walls of the throne room. With his head leaned back and eyes closed, he looks like he could be resting after the recent ordeal. Though that is very much not the case.

He deigns to crack an eye open when someone passes close by. It's not difficult to recognize one of the individuals who has spent a considerable amount of time crying. They still looked on the fringes of it as they walk around in something resembling a daze.

"Oh. Finished your mewling, I see." He comments flatly before closing his eyes again.

abel nightroad | trinity blood | martyr

[inutilis]

[ the ritual... the ceremony... the inevitable all have been dreading is finally at hand.

Abel had been a relatively well-behaved and pliant captive in comparison to some of his fellows; he has offered little resistance and done what he could in the way of bolstering the spirits of their ragtag assembly of wearied souls. offering the occasional portion of rations or some (relatively) cheerful company was his choice of proverbial weapon, and the enemy was the creep of an exhaustion, of resignation. as long as they could hold on, bide their time, keep up their strength... surely something would break in their favor. surely something would give. the opportunity to tip the scales in their odds would arise; he had faith. hope.

...the protest bubbles out of him all at once as he watches the others subjugated within the ceremonial circle, their wills stolen from them as they are branded; demeaned. though he will not resort to violence, the priest fruitlessly struggles with a vehemence and vigor that might be surprising; considering he had been among the most docile, it is a marked change of pace. but the pot has boiled over; the last of his patience has eroded in the face of the danger his 'brethren' are facing with no telling what lies at the end of it all. if they don't do something now... if they don't do something now, then... then everything will be--

...

and then it is too late as their knees collapse upon cold stone in harmony. none among their number can fight the force that leaves them puppets on strings at the "Aion's" control. the thick, viscous liquid is choked down over and over again. perhaps they had imagined an end waiting for them in these ruins -- but it seems something is only beginning. and it is not pleasant for any. ]

i. a shared disease;

[ once their bodies are once more their own, the priest lingers at his spot knelt upon the floor, back of his hand lightly shaking where it rests against his mouth as he swallows uneasily. that was... disgusting, but the revulsion is not entirely physical and easily overshadowed by more pressing matters. the gravity of the situation -- and the terrifyingly familiar sensation of an unwelcome guest forced within -- isn't lost upon him, and he quickly decides the best course of action is also the instinctual one: to ascertain the fates of his 'friends.' his life will be meaningless if they're lost.

thus-- there will be a vaguely unwell, tall and silver-haired shape of a man making his approach should you look out of sorts or in need of a hand anytime within the first few days. Abel will keep it simple; few have the energy nor stomach for his usual antics, and he is self-aware enough not to try it. if you look sickly or shadowed about the eye, perhaps he is offering a bit of water. if you look like your suffering is a more internalized sort... then you'll find the solitude broken by another sinking to sit beside you in quiet companionship. he'll test the waters before trying for conversation, but there is a gentle probing in his eyes either way: are you hanging in there? even he knows better than to ask if you're alright... no one is, but he is determined to convince any who'll tolerate him: you aren't alright now, but... you will be. ]

ii. commune with ghosts;

[ the days drone onward. their numbers thin, and Abel finds himself trying to keep track of who leaves the cavern and in what state -- but his ability to multi-task or focus on much of anything at all is becoming rather deplorable.

Abel has taken refuge in a quiet, unoccupied spot amongst their little slice of home away from home. this miserable hovel of sickness and despair really is something else, isn't it? if the smell of gross people sweat and other things isn't enough, the palpably morose atmosphere that almost sticks to the skin surely must be... it's depressing, and maybe a man just wanted to get away from it all. or maybe he's feeling nauseous and shivery uncomfortable and wants to be left to his suffering in peace. that'd be valid enough, right?

but any who are masochistic enough to seek out their fellow man this far into their game of "kenoma chicken" can find the priest leaned to sit against a cold cavern wall; the normally and distressingly amiable disposition Abel should be known for is absent for now, his shoulders slumped as he studies some indistinct point in front of his feet in a good ol' Thousand Yard Stare. he doesn't look so hot, but... none of those who hadn't disappeared to greener pastures do. he's just one of many. but occasionally, something breaks the distracted glaze of his eyes; there is an old grief, the bleed of something... tired there -- before it's gone again.

are you here to give him a (probably needed) nudge of encouragement in his willful resistance? or are you here to whisper right along with those dark voices promising an end to all of this if he succumbs? should you try to get his attention-- well. results may vary, but please don't take anything personally!! no one is feeling themselves right now, after all. and what's the worst that could happen....... ]

notes;

[ ooc: feel free to initiate any empathetic links as you wish in either of these prompts!! for prompt ii, if you would like any kind of communion on Abel's part, please let me know! putting a cw here for suicidal ideation just in case. sometimes a very old space vampire just wants to die ok. additionally, if neither of these prompts work for you, feel free to hit me with a wildcard or let me know if you'd like a custom starter via PM, skordghoul, or in the game discord! i am happy to provide! ]

i. i have to sleep so this is garbage and short, sorrymasen

[lockedon]

[ What the fuck. Here he is, just trying to mind his own business while his entire body threatens to consume itself after being force fed something he can't even begin to guess the origins of, and some guy just up and decides to sit right next to him?

The gall.

His head turns an inch, already thin eyes narrowing further as he stares at the stranger who's chosen to invade his (admittedly self-proclaimed) personal space. Not a face he's familiar with, beyond the cursory flicker of recognition that comes with having all been confined in the same area for the past two weeks. One of the quieter ones if he recalls correctly, and it's that fact that stays his tongue and softens his tone from annoyed to merely tired. ]

What.

[ The waters are very rough and choppy around these parts, for the record. ]

kim dokja | omniscient reader's viewpoint | martyr

[salvageable]

I. COMMUNION BUT IT'S WHINE AND DREAD

[ Guess who looks and feels like complete and utter shit? It's Dokja, but so what considering everyone else is going through the same thing.

Maybe that's why he's tucked away into one of the farthest sides of the cavern, away from the others so as not to draw attention to the way he lies curled up on his side, gasps and grips his head like it's trying to split open. The pain is unbearable and there's so much of it as it overflows and pours out in thunderous waves, making sure not to leave any part of his mind untouched.

Then spills out to sweep anyone in the vicinity into its treacherous folds.

Why me? Why for someone like me? His thoughts repeat over and over. I want to forget everything. He suffocates on despair, feels it crush his throat and rob him of his breath. I want to disappear. Yes... yes. He should have disappeared. There had been so little of him left up until arriving in this strange new world.

His vision blurs and he slowly uncurls his hands from his head, dropping them down in front of his face as he stares blankly at his fingers the way he has been for weeks now.

It would be better if I didn't exist. ]

II. IT'S HECKING COLD

[ Who needs food? Dokja would rather have fire. He's been trading his rations for firewood, his appetite basically dead at this point with how unwell he is and how his body can't seem to stop shaking from both the cold and the sickness. The flimsy gown does absolutely nothing for him as he hugs his knees closer to his chest and tucks in his chin to try and warm whatever parts his breath can reach. The fire itself is small and in danger of going out, each flicker weak as it consumes more and more of the bits of firewood left.

Shit, he's going to have to get up and look for more. It feels like he's been in this stupid cavern forever... But despite the pain wracking his body, there's something else nestled inside of him alongside the darkness that pushes him to keep going.

It's about then that one of the soldiers comes by to pass around meager portions of food, and Dokja frowns at the fact that it's not firewood as it's handed over to him. ]

Hey, can I get firewood instead? [ he asks the soldier, but they're already turning and walking away. Dokja grimaces and turns to his fireside buddy. ] What a jerk, right?

[ He offers a weak smile, the strain of it taking too much effort, but he doesn't care. He needs a distraction and if he passes out from the useless expense of energy then that would be great since anything is better than being conscious right now. ]

III. RESISTANCE BUT STUPID (cw: emeto)

[ He loses track of the days but it's becoming increasingly clear that the sickness is becoming less and less severe. Dokja feels it in the way his mind begins to clear and the strength that returns to his limbs.

It's all too welcome.

And then nausea hits him like a train and he staggers forward, a hand coming up to his chest as he doubles over and vomits out something that looks like nasty black sludge. Dokja stares at it, wide-eyed and stupefied, before he turns to the nearest person with his mouth agape. ]

You could throw that up this entire time?

[ What the fuck? ]

IV. WILDCARD

( got another idea? want me to come up with another idea?? i open my hands for anything! you can pm me or i'm available on discord at yuul#0420 and yuulshi if you'd like! )

wildcard.

[lockedon]

[ The seconds blur into minutes and hours, and the hours into days. The poison worms its way even further into his body, leaving behind aches, nausea, and an unshakeable chill that threatens to permeate into his bones. He does his best to warm up, pushing himself up off the ground to pace the perimeter of the throne room, hoping the movement will be enough to warm him, but inevitably he's forced to sit back down, his fatigue too strong to ignore.

Somehow, he ends up next to a familiar face, though it certainly wasn't his intent. It takes him longer to process the familarity than he'd like, and his greeting ("greeting") when he finally recognizes the man is nothing short of rude. ]

You look like shit.

[ But also, so does he, so this really is just pot meet kettle. ]

Father Paul Hill | Midnight Mass | Martyr

[vivificantem]

[Sometimes miracles come in the form of visions from on high, from the healing of the sick and the wounded, from the raising of the dead; sometimes they come in the form of an angel in the wilderness awakening something within you, something primal and shaking and shameless, something within you that knows no fear in the face of true holiness and all the terrible adoration that it inspires.

No, this isn't the first time this has happened to him, though the recollection is dim and vague at the sight of the dissipation happening directly in front of him. There's a familiarity to all of this that he isn't sure he likes, but is entirely sure that he understands.

I am with you. I am with you.]


I. Feed My Flock.

[While Paul still takes the food that's offered to him, just on principle, that doesn't mean he's doing anything to consume it; rather, he's finding those that are having a particularly bad time with dealing with all of this and giving whatever he has to them. Sometimes it's wordless - he isn't exactly having the easiest time himself right now - but usually there's something vague murmured to the person he's offering it to.

He doesn't usually stay in one spot long - there's something about this whole situation that's making him both unable and unwilling to remain too still, something digging at the back of his mind that won't leave him alone - but trying to take care of the others ensures that he has to sometimes; it's then that things are likely a little more apparent. The dark, oppressive aura of guilt that pulses off of him in waves, something that doesn't lend itself well to words but rather comes in the form of quiet images and words and sounds that seem to cling to your skin, soaking in like saltwater. An elderly woman with thinning white hair and glasses the thickness of shot glasses, sitting on her bed looking blankly out the window without seeing anything. A little girl drowning. A woman with short hair running medical tests. A young man with close-cropped hair actively bleeding out on the floor. The strict-faced schoolteacher feeding a dog. The prevailing sense that none of it matters, if any of it ever mattered. The notion that feeling that none of it mattered is irredeemable.

Images and thoughts that aren't your own, but you're aware of now. Do with them what you will.

Or just take the damn food. He'd appreciate it if you did that.]


II. Be Not Afraid.

[The inability to remain still comes with two exceptions: attempting to keep everyone more or less fed and in one piece, and times of prayer.

He finds himself centering more and more on that spot he occupied in the ritual circle, sinking to his knees and crossing himself more than once before settling into what can best be described as deep prayer; it's easier to stick to the words he's had memorized since he was a young child, platitudes to the Holy Mother and the Blessed Trinity as a whole, though some part of him doesn't expect anything to answer.

Until eventually, inexplicably, something does.

It's on a particularly low night, weakness consuming his body and black liquid seeping from his eyes - it's then that he hears it, not in words but in the way that one hears the voice of God. It's something that echoes in the depths of your soul, something that speaks through shivers and sheer trembling relief from terror and pain and the guilt-wracked guilt; it resonates with him finally, as whatever obstinance he may have held in his heart begins to melt away, and it honestly doesn't take long before the actual words set in.

And when they fade, so too does the misery, so too does the suffering; he doesn't have much time for the woman, though he acknowledges her words quietly and vaguely, and instead he returns to the surface just long enough to obtain clothing before returning back down.

Again, he settles next to whomever seems to need it, whomever is having a time of it; even if he's shoved or told to leave, he'll visibly refuse, and instead will remain where he is, running a hand through the hair of those receptive to it - or just too busy curled up on the floor to rebuff him a second time.]

It's all right; I'm with you.

[His words are low, calm in tone. The sort of thing accustomed to the comforting of others.]

The worst will pass. Your misery and your anguish and your suffering will pass; your pain will become your strength. But you have to allow it to. You have to make that choice, and you have to follow it through.

It's difficult now, but I'm with you.

be not afraid (eek!!)

[semicharmed]

[ At this point, Matt's curled on his side by the Visionary's throne, eyes closed and smudged with black. There's a shard of crystal on the left side of his throat, sludge oozing gently from its edges.

By now, he's run out of gods. Aphrodite, Hecate, Selene; Kali, Agni, Ganesh the remover of obstacles, Hanuman, Kama; Nephthys who comforts the dead, Bastet, Osiris. Maybe this is what Matt gets for being such a spiritual dilettante instead of just picking a team. Or maybe the gods of his world got snuffed out along with the rest of it.

His lips are moving, but the words are inaudible, only occasional syllables wisping enough weight to be heard: Par toi je change l'or en fer et le paradis en enfer; dans le suaire des nuages ...

Gradually, something penetrates the fog: a touch. Fingers in his hair. And after that, someone speaking in soothing tones. Matt's too disoriented to catch all of it, but pain will become your strength lands like a life preserver. Matt's eyes blink open. ]

... Uh. Hi, [ he says, with a wobbly smile--a ghost of his usual sheepish looks. Matt means to say something like, Thank you for noticing I'm going through it, or I really appreciate the kind words, but as soon as he meets this person's gaze, he finds all the anguish spilling out. ]

I just, um ... I can't reach anything? [ He's too scrambled to start anywhere but in the middle, with the most urgent point. ] I'm used to ... ever since I was a kid, I could reach out and I'd feel something there, like--life, and gravity, and strings, and--

And now I can't. So I don't know, what to ...

makoto | MADK | firebrand

[affal]

I: the throne room

( in the aftermath of the ritual, memories both distant and recent shatter like panes of glass and rearrange rearrange themselves in curious patterns, the shards still sharp enough to cut. he stands in his given place in the ritual place in array with the rest of the prisoners – then he kneels upon a similar circle drawn in far smaller scale on the floor of his bedroom, pressing a bleeding palm flat to the floorboards. that pain still itches and burns in the hollow of his hand. he looks down to it to see a symbol etched into the soft flesh there: he’d seen it where he’d first awoken and he’d seen it in this cavern as well, one of its wings partially broken off where the stone obelisk of the back of the throne had crumbled away.

he tastes the rise of bile in his throat before he realizes that something about those stylized wings reminds him of J. even here, in this alien place at the end of the world, that demon finds ways to inscribe his claim into him.

sensing a foreign, invasive force twist itself down his throat, coil in his gut, and then slowly suffuse throughout his being strips away every layer of congenial and civilized veneer he has. he is reduced to animal instinct, and makoto is not a creature given to running – he fights tooth and nail and he fights viciously, less out of rejection of what is being promised to him but out of the sheer principle of the thing, of refusing to lose the last shreds of himself and his agency that he still has. it doesn’t matter what the words promise him or the unspoken emotional force wills – even if it was anything and everything he’d ever wanted, he’d bite the hand that offered it to him, stubbornly refusing to accept anything that hadn’t been hard-won through his own efforts and conviction. )

a) ( any and all previously-observed sociability vanishes in the demon. he retreats like a wounded dog to lick his wounds, staring blank-eyed and with clenched jaw into nothing in the best of moments and curling in on himself to ride out the near-overpowering waves of influence in the worst. days pass, and makoto doesn’t seem particularly interested in taking care of himself. his formerly-white robe is spattered with the rusty color of dried blood and the black ooze that occasionally runs from his nose or crowds into his lungs until he’s forced to cough it up. he doesn’t bother to budge when the meager rations are brought down to the throne room, choosing instead to remain huddled where he is. the cold wracks him with shivers he seems content enough to ignore; he only seems to sleep in brief snatches between the rising tide of the illness that he battles within.

this pattern of isolation might make him into a beacon to kind-hearted souls misguided enough to try to extend a helping hand to him or individuals more predisposed toward simple, idle curiosity or less neutral or magnanimous aims, though fair warning to anyone who approaches: the moment he senses it, his body gives a sudden, jerking thrash – a long, thin, whip-like tail scours out towards the new presence, and makoto growls. or, well, he intended it to be a growl, but as it is it sounds far more like a choke. )

b) (cw: vore mention…) ( “most either cling to their hate until it overwhelms and ruins them or they let it fizzle out. they forget it and settle into whatever they’ve become. everyone who survives forgets their hate. everyone. even you will, someday, mako-chan.”

whether in part or in whole, through the feeble channel of communion that is beginning to assert itself through the fledgling aions, the words filter into your mind. the voice is patrician, refined, oddly lamenting – all attributes which feel mismatched with the overwhelming wave of fury that accompany them. their source is makoto, deep in the worst fit of illness he’s had yet. crumpled on his side atop his bedroll, which he had drug a good distance away from others, he claws ineffectually at his chest and the pale sweep of his throat, the memory of that dark, living liquid forcing its way down his throat still feels as present to him now as it had felt then. it’s accompanied by an overwhelming weight, bizzare in its simultaneous oppressive and messianic promise: give up, give in. it will all go away. the pain, the hatred, all, if you just let it.

he won’t. he can’t. at this point, it’s pretty much all he is, all he has left. the more you, the passing-by observer into this moment of inner turmoil, size up the nature of this unrelenting anger, the more you might begin to respect its construction. it’s not blind. it’s not aimless. it’s not capricious, dulling and flaring in haphazard bursts. it’s an armature upon which he builds something ambitious and potentially foolish – it’s a relentless core of energy that keeps him animated, perpetual. it’s a blaze that he keeps fueled to ward against the darkness of complacency and indifference, a fate he considers far worse than death. something rattles in this tentative emotional link, all of its lines leading to the linchpin that held all of makoto together:

“i refuse to forget until the day I finally devour you.”

as it stands, he isn’t aware enough of this connection of communion to obfuscate the determination and truth in those words. he also can’t block out a brief vision of violence: spattered blood, torn flesh, the slow drift of pale, plucked feathers. )

II: camp (kenoma)

( makoto might have joked that if the voice of the regent had started off promising fresh clothes and the opportunity to bathe with real soap, his struggle against the Kenoma might not have gone on for so long.

the options in fashion presented to him did not even begin to match the aesthetic he had cut out for himself back in hell, but beggars cannot be choosers, given the circumstances. he elects for a flowing tunic and trousers once scrubbed clean of their weeks of captivity. once he finds a short length of cord suitable enough to tie his hair back, he finally begins to feel like himself once more. so much so that, as he reaches both arms skyward in a catlike stretch, he senses something returned to him that hasn’t been in reach since he’d awoken in the shrine of the firebrand. grinning, he reaches out to it and revels in it, satisfied in the veracity of his choice.

any onlooker might notice an odd rippling beneath the tunic at the thin young man’s back before two huge, red-violet wings billow out from the trailing hem, like sails unfurling from the mast of a ship. draconic, with scales and clawed fingers, they seem to complete the motion of his stretch, reaching out to the fullness of their span before giving a few hopeful beats. for some reason, he can’t seem to catch the air in them properly – even as new to these wings as he is, they had not been so unresponsive when he’d used them to fly over the gate and into J’s mansion.

this partial disappointment leaves him all at once in a rush of a sigh. ) Ah, well. That would be too much to ask. ( he turns on his heel and just seems to notice you – whether you’re fresh from the caverns below, just getting used to the benefits of accepting the Kenoma like makoto, or have been here for longer than he has, he greets you with a wide, bright smile as he carefully folds the wings behind him. he addresses you with bright geniality: )

Good to see you’ve joined us!

III: what demons do best

( ooc: this prompt is for anyone who wants successful or unsuccessful temptations to Kenoma! )

( makoto was accustomed to the sensation of human desperation. its sound, its shape, its color. it was what had called him back to earth when people, driven by fits of greed, wrath, envy, betrayal, lust, or despair, had managed to find their way through all the steps to summon a demon to their aid. the way that makoto attended them was simple enough. he would promise them their heart’s desire in exchange for their mortal soul, and then he would bind them to the satisfaction of that contract – he would name a small condition, and upon its delivery, he would grant a taste of what it was they wanted most. breadcrumbed by these tantalizing “rewards,” he weakened an already desperate heart until, upon the completion of the contract, it was already more than prepared to collapse at the slightest touch. it had actually disappointed him to find how easy it was to reap the soul from a living person – and not just that, but to get them to a point where they seemed all but eager to relinquish it to him.

he uses intuition now to sift through those that remained in the domed chamber of the throne room and find the one he stands before now. he stoops to kneel before them and, if allowed, will reach out to delicately frame their face with his fingertips, guiding their gaze to his – those bizarre eyes, like chips of ice floating in pools of blood, are oddly beatific in their generosity, his words as flowing and sweet as milk and honey: )

Poor thing. Do you truly wish for your fight to last forever?

IV: wildcard

( for any options not outlined above or alterations to them, etc. whatever you want! if you want to hash anything out with me, please feel free to reach out via pm or at lycanthropic! )

ii

[galdorleod]

[ Howl had already recognized the young man for what he is. Or, at least, he had strongly suspected it, already being familiar with the demonic tint to his psyche. Howl said and did nothing at the time, electing to observe from his privileged position among those who'd surrendered early.

But this is different, now. They're up above, enjoying dinner and leisure after such a very hard day of babysitting. And the magnificent display of wings is just what Howl needed to strike up a conversation. When Makoto turns to greet the eavesdropper, he'll find Howl beneath a tree, his elegant legs crossed comfortably, with a half-dozen apples in the grass next to him. More than a single ration's worth. ]

Oh? Well — please, excuse my tardiness.

[ Smiling, his pale, marble-like eye move to his wings again. They're impressive. Demons don't look like this in the world he's from, but he's certain that he's looking at one. ]

Don't let me interrupt. That stretch looked quite satisfying.

childe • genshin impact • firebrand

[vapour]

Instinct is a strange thing. You cannot touch it, feel it, smell it, or hear it

---

but you must trust it.

[ Childe puts up an incredibly valiant resistance to being force fed the vial contents, the strange maternal insistence of the Achamites infuriating him far more than anything the soldiers could pull. Even so, when push comes to shove, he can only do so much, especially when on his knees and the vial contents seemingly having a mind of its own.
Even as the ceremony proceeds, Childe is frantically attempting to find a weakness in the supernatural bonds he and the others are held down by, only for his attention to jerk suddenly in horror to the center of the circle as he involuntarily catches sight of the ritual sacrifice— the breaking apart of that body like black primordial sludge before it drops into the ritual lines and surges towards them.

Shit shit, is all he can think as it stays and overwhelms each one of them, and even he has to flinch and turn his head as if he had to protect against some coming onslaught. The tidal wave of darkness envelopes him, deafening him momentarily to everything and everyone around him, stuck only with himself and his thoughts. It's going to drown him he thinks, and whatever is inside of him makes sure he has no chance of escaping— that's he unsubtly aware of his existence and its until death comes.

— and then it's gone. Childe gasps as if having been deprived of oxygen under restless currents that wouldn't allow him to surface, one hand grabbing his chest as he coughs violently (but nothing seems to come out.) Swallowing the air greedily, the Harbinger only finally looks up as he feels some semblance of focus return to him, blue eyes staring straight at the one they referred to as the Aion as she speaks of their time to find their truth.

Childe has every intention to go after her as soon as he can stand, but he finds that she has too much of a headstart for him to catch her initially. Instead of running after her, he simply stands there, jaw tight as he glares at her back even as the trembling rage he tries so hard to control starts to growl and pull at its weakened restraints. ]

we live in a world where

---

the Strongest win.

[ it's a toss up whether the physical manifestations of his mental state or the emotional chaos are more seasoning , but it's undeniable that the dark thoughts and feelings of being absolutely unhinged from sanity and reality hit others unlucky enough to be sensitive enough to any accidental projection. They'll feel as if they're desperately reaching for something to hold onto, but there is nothing to pull them out and they simply sink into the emotional trench like mud. Disassociation flares to their defense, because if they don't feel humane or sane, then the best way to know things are still fine is that it's all because sanity and humanity don't apply to weapons. That's all they are, that's what they live and breathe for— for that next thrill of clashing with other blades or tearing through armor and flesh, the splatter of blood clinging about them like a mantle as testament to exactly what they are.

And what's wrong with that? What's wrong with being a weapon? Better yet, what's wrong with being only ever seen as a source of chaos and destruction. They are a destroyer, and this broken world may be good enough for them to thrive, but it's not a world good enough for anyone that they hold dear. (And they do hold some dear, despite this being in direct contrast to their current mantra of self-identity.)

For Firebrands, it doesn't matter where they are, they may hear it or at least feel its suffocating presence as if were right next to them. At best, they can simply ignore it, acknowledging something unstable and dangerous present but not actively on the prowl. At worst, they might be dragged into the madness, confusing it for their own thoughts or watching horrific things play out— things they've done that would label them (or others, if they are shielded by their world's faith in their heroism) as a monster.

It's much the same for those of other Legacy, although they have a less likely chance of being dragged so deeply into it and an easier time separating it from themselves if they are.

These bouts come and go, but the source is difficult to pinpoint even when it's overbearing. Despite the frantic, obsessive violent nature of these thoughts, the individual projecting them shows no outward suffering and is rarely around in the open. That isn't too say that these things don't get louder, more terrifyingly tangent as one wanders closer to the source (to the edges of the rings where the shadows are blackest.) They'll find Childe— perhaps at his worst, completely unidentifiable (except to one individual). Childe will look to them, and his appearance will immediately change back to someone recognizable as one of them as he realizes his thoughts and feelings are being exposed. Childe may scowl or he may take a smile that doesn't show reach his eyes, willing to play being nonchalant to his sudden company. ]

Hmm, seems like they've really messed with us pretty good.

when one must choose between

---

Nothing and Everything.

[ It's not that it's easier to give in that he ultimately does it.

The Kenoma speaks harsh truths, but truths nonetheless. Whether or not he believes in them isn't the point, either. He made a vow to climb to the top and become powerful enough to tear his own world down. He would stop at nothing, and it would be a shame if the Traveler was not there to cross weapons with him. Someone has to be the hero, afterall. Every hero needs their villain, afterall.

Heroes need to survive, though. Sometimes, they just are too stubborn to know what's good for them. They think they can withstand anything, or that dying trying is the only way to go, without realizing that might mean there's no one left to fight for those who can't in their place.

It's not a big deal, in the end, the Regent reminds him of the Tsaritsa— almost sounds like her, even— and that's where he belongs. He needs to take his place in this world, especially in terms of making sure the heroes survive to fight another day. When he's allowed food and water that he wasn't allowed prior to his acceptance, he wastes little time with it. He eats some, but is insistent to keep the broth and gets as much of it as he can before heading back into the ruins and down the stairs. It's there that he'll look for those that are the worst off (or have nothing in terms of rations/provisions to keep away the cold) to attempt and assist through their sickness and suffering. He'll offer them water and broth that they can hopefully keep down even if suffering bouts of nausea.

Depending who you are depends on whether he attempts to persuade you to give into the Kenoma for your own wellbeing or not. Those that shine the brightest, however, he won't even bother. Those are the people he needs to count on to get powerful enough to stop them, should he and any others be somehow wrong in all of this. He doesn't believe the Kenoma is wrong, but he understands well there is no black and white that shows the right or the wrong here. The end goal currently seems the same to him besides the methods. The "wrong" are simply the ones that will lose, in the end.

( There is one, though, that he gives the hardest time to, regardless of knowing she's not going to give in. ) ]

[traversal]

[ lumine's starting to lose track of the time, days and nights blurring into nothingness as they continue to linger and languish in the cavern, wracked with pain that seems to know no rest. the voice whispering at the back of her head doesn't help either, urging her to give in and let, to accept its so-called truths while excruciating pain ravages through her body. it's not the most convincing speech, especially in the middle of what feels like a terrible bout of flu in the middle of an unforgiving winter.

and so, she tries her best to remain conscious of her surroundings, even when moving and breathing physically hurts her; she can't lose here, after all, not in a freezing cave that's far, far, far away from the world where her brother was. surviving is only the first step in returning to teyvat. besides, one needs full awareness to realise the kind of additional torture their captors are indirectly inflicting on them.

... like the paltry provisions that can barely feed all of them, much of which has been hoarded by those who can. she's only managed to get something, but even then, lumine's offered it to someone who needs it more instead, leaving her empty-handed as she returns to her corner of the cave.

something that she's hoping to deflect when childe finds her, clearly looking much better than how she's feeling and carrying more substantial rations than the one she's just fought over. there's only one reason for that, a reason she refuses to acknowledge and regrets failing to mitigate. ]

There's someone down there who failed to get any rations earlier. [ she gestures vaguely somewhere behind her as she shuffles past him, one hand against the cavern wall to keep herself from tipping over. ] They might be in need of something to eat by now ...

amos burton | the expanse | lover

[baltimores]

> kenoma sickness
(cw: allusions to past csa)

[ He'd thought all of the talk of ritual was about human sacrifice. This is so much worse.

After an attempt at resisting is swiftly and brutally brought to an end, Amos retreats into himself, as he had during the first journey from the shrine. The vial forces him back into the real world, and while at first he gags, as he becomes more aware of the sensations he's feeling he finds himself leaning into the Achamite's touch. It's instinctual, a muscle memory from decades ago coming back to the surface, and it. Almost makes things better.

He watches with blank eyes as the Achamite's body breaks down before him, feeling nothing.

And then he feels everything, and he screams.

Communion is hell. Amos has spent a lifetime learning to cut off his emotions, cauterize them, bury them so deep down they're unrecognizable to him. And now everything has come back to the surface, and it's too much. He's beyond terrified, and it seeps off of him in waves, leaves him hunched in the fetal position, head tucked into his chest. If his body is shaking, it's either from the chills that come with affliction or with sobs — or both.

Whenever he takes a chance at looking up, he sees. Himself, in a basement. This is nothing more than a different kind of basement. And shadowy figures, much bigger, much stronger, approaching him as they come back in. Again, and again, and again. He whimpers, and tries to retreat back into himself, and finds he can't. Not anymore.

It's in those moments he raises his head that small transformations should be visible — eyes completely blackened, possibly drawing attention to how his skin has started to go a little grey as the blood in his veins blackens as well. It keeps his eyes deadened, but with his body language and the force he feels everything he thought he never would again, it's impossible to deceive anyone, least of all himself.

He doesn't even make an attempt for any supplies, all of his energy spent trying to suppress everything that he no longer can. Wasting away seems like a much better idea. Until he hears those whispers, and — he accepts what's happening to him. Again. There's no other choice, it's best to just go with it, so he does. ]


> acceptance

[ He feels amazing.

It's not the best he's ever felt, but compared to where he just came from, it's beyond incredible. Amos leans into that feeling of endurance, of returning strength, of what feels like. Community. Understanding.

His eyes go back to normal as he ascends from the caverns, though his skin stays a little greyed, a slight desaturation. He practically inhales the food he's given, and otherwise, he'll sit back, grateful to be away from all of that. He might catch the eye of someone else resting in the camp, and nod at them. ]

If I ever have to go through anything like that again, it'll be too fucking soon.

[ But he doesn't, not now at least. And the suggestion that he can help others leave that feeling behind strikes a chord in him, so Amos agrees to go back down.

He might approach someone still in the thralls of it and, looking — feeling — much better than he had the last time he was down here, meet them on their level. Crouch down if they're on the ground, stay standing if they're still upright. Make eye contact. And, voice soft; gentle; earnestly, painfully sincere, ] You don't have to keep doing this. It's a lot easier if you just give in to it.


> wildcard

[ or whatever! arii#6412 or cadiai for any plotting. ]

acceptance

[goldendeceiver]

[ It's rarely immediate, but Ernesto has seen a number of people make the exact decision that Amos has already made, to give into the voice now whispering venom from inside of them, and to beat a hasty retreat to the promise of more comfort and ease.

It's funny, because something about this all rings painfully familiar to Ernesto, and he'd picked to stay on the side that would leave him miserable and struggling then too. The difference was he struggled to understand if he was doing the right thing or not then, while he's relatively sure that logically he knows what the right thing is in this case.

The problem is the wrong thing seems so much easier right now.

That's probably why his laugh sounds so broken and bitter when Amos comes to crouch in front of him, making such a heavy choice sound simple and easy. The smile looks more genuine than his laugh sounded though. ]

It probably would be, but I guess I'm more stubborn than I realized.

Majorita | Disgaea 5 | Firebrand

[killandrecycle]

Communion-1

[The once proud girl had been broken. Throughout the entire forced journey, she had kept her pride. She planned what she would do to these insolent fools who dared treat her like this. They would not die slowly, and she'd laugh at them as she made them pay. When one died, their body would begin to kill the next.

And yet now here she was, curled up in as tight a ball as she can manage, shivering visibly underneath a poorly fitted robe. If she is even aware of the people around her, she doesn't show any indication of it. Her mind is not focused on what was happening to her now, it was in the past. The first time she lost everything. In those days she was as powerless as she was now.]

I can't live like this again...

[The sound of her own voice seems to startle her. She sounded so weak. So wretched. Pathetic. She did her best to stir her pride, to remind herself she was none of those things, but it didn't seem willing to respond. So she simply lay there, shivering on the floor.]

Communion-2

[She had decided she wasn't going to let herself die. She could plan how to deal with the situation later, but first she needed to survive. Without her magic to use, she was forced to resort to the sort of tricks she'd discarded many years ago. As slowly and quietly as she can manage, she approaches the nearest person that has food. That food, it will be her food. All she needs is just a moment to grab it. But as she moves, a powerful fear grips her, spreading out from in an emotional wave that would surely be intense enough for her intended target to feel. And when they do, they'll discover a wide-eye girl who had very visibly been trying to take what wasn't hers.]

Acceptance

[She had resisted simply out of a fear of what was being done to her. Eventually, it became too much for her. The pain, the dark thoughts, the reminders of her past, it was easily enough to beat down the resistance of a girl who already tended to give in to her darker urges. Why should she even bother? She had nothing, this meant there was nothing she could lose.

Besides, the voice in her head was right about everything. The world was trash. She had already believed this, and had been given no reason to believe otherwise. She looked around the caverns, taking in the faces of the people around her. Most of these people would probably die soon. But not her. She wasn't going to let that happen. No matter what she had to do, she would do it. As the suffering started to fade, and she unsteadily got to her feet, her pride began to return. The fearful, somewhat helpless expression she'd worn nearly constantly began to fade. As she was approached to be escorted out of the cave, it was replaced with a cocky grin. With barely a glance to spare at anyone else, she moved to the surface, and the mildly superior comforts it had to offer.]

communion 2

[perfectlygoodbird]

[Oh, Meteion feels it, that fear--knows it well, even before can sense who it comes from. It's akin to what she's felt herself. On this trip. Since being birthed to this world (and that was as strange a sensation as the entelechy has ever felt, truth be told!). The normal brilliant blue of her hair and feathers has dimmed, and she frowns a little, but more in confusion than anger.]

Who are you? What do you want?

[Though it's fairly clear. She wants the food. Meteion glances at it and considers making a move towards it, but it's of no use to her--she acquired it to give to someone who needed it, and clearly, this girl does. Fighting for it both isn't in her nature, and would be silly to do--it might get ruined, and while that might please their captors, it would certainly do no good in the long run.]

ESTINIEN WYRMBLOOD | FFXIV | FIREBRAND

[coerthantorment]

I➔ The Ritual

The trouble with having fought every step of the way here is that by the time they are pulled down to the cavern, Estinien has already exhausted himself. By the end of their stay in the upper ruins, abuse from the guards has become a daily and nightly affair, often bound at night instead of being allowed to sleep properly. His jaw, wrists, and ankles are lined with bruises and abrasions from the number of times he's been whipped.

And now, it seems like it will have all been for nothing.

He can't stop this. As they are all dragged to the ritual circle, he is fearing the worst. They're going to steal their minds, he thinks. It will be just like the Tempered, only there will be no one to save them in this world. He struggles one last time before it happens, brought to his knees by the ritual circle as that rancid potion is forced down his throat by some masked thrall. He snaps his teeth at them, resisting until the very last, and it makes no difference at all.

As this so-called 'Aion' effortlessly snuffs out the life of the being in her arms, the Kenoma washes through them. The rest happens in a nauseated haze. Their captors are retreating, and the bonds have disappeared, but he can feel an entirely new form of imprisonment crawling through his mind. Hatred and despair turn in his gut, and the familiarity of it all is momentarily too much.

He drags himself across the stone and screams in a moment of pure panic.

II➔ Communion & Transformation

The initial delirium passes, as all things do, but the darkness coiled in his gut has stays with him - and it's brought other unpleasant effects with it. The tips of his fingers have sharpened into blackened claws, horns and spikes breaking the skin of his shoulders and back, tearing the remains of his clothing to shreds. It clearly pains him as he staggers about, blood mingling with the black ooze that seeps from each wound, streaking down his cheeks from eyes that now glow a hazy red.

Yet, he can't quite bring himself to stop. He's on guard like a feral creature in unfamiliar territory, and the waves of emotion surging from him give exactly that impression. There's a kind of malevolence to the way he eyes the other people in the cavern, searching for the ones that are seemingly making things more difficult for the others by hoarding supplies or bringing their damned Kenoma propaganda down here from the world above.

Traitor... Thou shall not escape judgment...

If you have stolen away supplies you may find Estinien's thoughts in your head as he approaches, harsh whispers in an inhuman tongue that can be understood nonetheless. He's seemingly forgotten about the soldiers imprisoning them for a moment, instead focusing on either fellow prisoners or on new Kenoma inductees. People he thinks he can hurt.

After all, what can one do in a moment of such helpless suffering but find someone to punish for it?

III➔ Resistance

Thankfully, those darkest of moments don't consume his entire time in the cavern. No, eventually he finds his center, and is able to begin fighting back with the clarity he needs. Though horns and spines continue to puncture his skin, he turns his thoughts to preserving rather than destroying.

Whatever task those still holding on may be doing, Estinien may quietly appear alongside you to help. Defending firewood, organizing food for distribution, or simply trying to hold on... he knows that those who haven't yet broken will only have a chance if they work together. If you seem like you're having a particularly bad moment with the Kenoma, he'll try to do what he can to bolster your resolve.

"We cannot succumb," he says. "I've tasted such darkness before, and there is no hope in it. The only way we'll leave this place ourselves is if we fight them together."

In his chest, he can feel a flicker of warmth. He holds onto it desperately.

IV➔ Escape Attempt

About five or so days in, Estinien can't stand simply surviving anymore. As foolish as it is, he tries to plan an escape. Having spoken with his closest comrade and come to an agreement, he begins probing the line of soldiers, looking for a way to slip through.

The longer he does it, the bolder he becomes, and perhaps he even makes it as far as slipping past the first smattering of guards. Unfortunately, they aren't the only ones guarding this place now, and the dimness of the caverns only does so much to shield him from their sight as he slinks along the rocky walls.

V➔ Wildcard

Anything else I didn't include! Estinien will be doing all the usual things while in the cavern: sitting around looking miserable, trying to make sure people have food, struggling to stay warm. Feel free to catch him in one of those moments, or anything else that seems reasonable.

IV

[devilmancrybaby]

"Oh, it's you again."

Luo Binghe has stepped out of the darkness to block Estinien's path. He looks in much better shape than the last time they spoke -- not to mention in better shape than those of his fellow captives who are still struggling to resist the Kenoma. There's a faint crimson gleam to his eyes as he smirks up at Estinien.

"Surely you must know you won't get very far."

silco ⑊ league of legends: arcane ⑊ visionary

[zauneyete]

[ Rituals and pageantry weren’t the sort of thing Silco had ever found himself keen to indulge in – as sparse as it had been, before his arrival here. It was easy, when the entire line descended down the sharp staircase, to identify what one would call a “ritual site” when it came into view. It started to come together – at least a bit – with the first slice against his flesh -- blood was involved in these things, right? Even more so, when something burned and slithered, a path all it’s own against his skin. Gritted teeth, a soft hiss, but no other reaction. He barely even blinked, with the eye that could. A second realization, seeing who was closest to him (and the fact that they'd woken up in the same room,) when he was shoved into place by the soldiers -- who hadn't forgotten his resistance. He looked…small, in his robes, that now dingy-white robe, that felt and looked all wrong. Although there was a want to flee, he didn’t attempt it. It’s easy to see what would happen, and this wouldn’t be the right moment to seize the upper hand, if needed.

It’s not long, to question what’s happening, before that sick liquid appears, and it’s like choking, when it slithers in his mouth, his throat. Worse than anything he’d had, even in the poisoned rivers in Zaun. There was no escaping it either, with the Achamite trying to stroke, and soothe him. As if he didn’t know how to survive when being drowned. He could still breathe through his nose, hissing breaths, as it started to slither into him – he shoved bodily, a shoulder at the knees of whoever it was trying to touch him, a violent, hateful look crossed a scarred face. Gritted teeth, he swallowed, if only to get them to stop their attempts to make him feel good about whatever they gave him. Early as he swallowed it, it felt like an eternity before they left, finally leaving him be.

It isn’t fear on his face, when this Aion released the darkness, slithering and dissolving one of the attendants. She died, her remains spread out, but Silco didn’t care what happened to the remains – even if he should – no it was with hunger he kept his eyes on the figure who could reduce a human to ash with barely a thought. ]

⏵ Down With The (Kenoma) Sickness (cw: drowning, eye trauma)

₁ gatherer
[ Almost immediately after the ceremony, after that burning, piercing sensation had started and finished, Silco had started to move. Being underground was nothing new for him, and even though this was no mine, he had instincts that were hard-wired, beyond the years of cushy living running an empire underground. He remembered hard living in the mines, coming up from nothing, a smuggling operation – things he wouldn’t dwell on, couldn’t. He gathered what he could – quick fingers nimble and automatic. Enough for him, maybe a little more. Fire would be valuable, but he sneers at the thought. Let those who can’t stand without scramble for those scraps. It’s easy, to sneak, to grab. There isn’t much to go around, but perhaps this will be useful. Bartered for water, for firewood. Food was small, and easily taken, the others were not. It’s possible, he may find something supposedly unattended, and reach for it – is it yours? He doesn’t look like much, and it’s quite likely you could take him in a fistfight.

Or is it that you saw he had more? Eventually, by day two, Silco has a small recess, where he’s set himself up at. He doesn’t have… much, but certainly more than an under-nourished looking man in his mid-forties should have. Perhaps enough for two people total, but that’s more than enough to last a while. He’s starved before, he knows how long he has. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to look bashful about it. He, in fact, looks proud, if you catch his mis-matched gaze. If you’re hungry, he probably won’t take pity, but he could take favors. ]

₂ symptoms

[ It was quick, when his eye started to throb again. Silco would say it’s time that he needed an injection, but it’s likely more psycho-somatic than anything else – not that he knows that. Not very long, in the grand scheme of this cold, lonely existence that they’ve all been subjected to thus far. It caught him off guard, how much it hurt – a shock like being dunked in cold water, that throbbing, pulsing – like his eye was infected all over again.

It’s involuntary, the way he doubled over, gasping, either from pain or from the inability to breathe. His fingers clutch at his neck, trying to scramble at his neck, trying to peel invisible fingers away. The voice whispering in his ear is so familiar, just like that day all those years ago. Just give in, let it all fade away. It can stop, that pain, can’t it? All that one has to do is just simply let yourself fade away –

Violent and red – it’s not voluntary, the projection outward – a lashing out. Stab – A knife buried, satisfying and sick in flesh, his fingers tight squeezing the handle and it’s so satisfying. Stab – Stab. Violent bursts that cut through the occasional chills – like he’s being dunked and drowned in a river, before another violent outburst. Fingers involuntarily wipe away streams of black oozing from his mouth, his ears, nose, and eyes, a slick sensation, dripping, before it dissipates almost without him realizing it’s gone. ]

⏵Acceptance is either the 5th step or the 1st

₁ surfaced

[ It’s almost ironic, that by asking Silco to just give in, it was simply a delay of the inevitable. The world had never been good enough. He’d tried to change it, bit by bit, but what world would be fit? People betrayed, they backstabbed, there was nobody who could be trusted. The violent emotions swirled enough – and it’s only a matter of very little time, before it’s accepted, that darkness. The repeated spikes of violence, of the need to simply lash out, and the darkness settled, bit by bit – like cresting and breaking through after a fever, the haze lifted.

It spoke to him, those words, he felt. Hadn’t he said the same thing? Time, and time again, Zaun would need to be reborn – and if Zaun was gone, what world was left? None but which could be crafted, honed. His fingers had built one undercity up. Why could he not do so again, remade in the image he’d already planned for Zaun? And if he had to burn a universe to do so? There were worse prices he could pay.

Clean clothes, soap, food? That’s what was waiting? Creature comforts, all. However, Silco – skinny though he was – hardly was the sort that would say no to food. You didn’t grow up with nothing, without learning to never turn your nose up at hot food. Particularly after the time spent with so little. You may find him by the fire, if you’ve also accepted the Kenoma. Perhaps wandering. It’s not long, that he settles in, “regaining strength”. Silco was not a particularly strong man, but he couldn’t stay still. This was…boring enough, that he had a mind to just hurry up the process, eager to stop stalling. ]

₂ cogent

[ Underground was where Silco was comfortable. Too much time in the sun up top left him feeling raw and exposed, where here, he could walk in the shadowy spaces, find the places that others dwelt. His gait was more confident, more sure, with the stone under his shoes – yes, shoes, a pleasure he never thought was a large deal, yet here it was. He breathed in, smelled the…rot, the disgusting displeasure.

It smelled sick down here, and weak. There were still so many – convulsing, confused, sick masses. Did Silco care? Of course not, he didn’t know these people, didn’t care that they were suffering. That they were weak. But they cared, didn’t they? That it hurt, that their bodies were so in flux.

It’s on a stone, nearby, that he finally piped up, slowly picking the dirt out of his fingernails, a multi-toned gaze appraising whoever comes by. Dressed in the new clothing and shoes, it’s not much better than the white robes, but it’s real clothing. He’s still somewhat dwarfed by the folds, but it’s an incredible improvement to the sullied white robes they’d all been wearing previously. When he spoke up, it was almost too smug. ]

Really, quite unpleasant, isn’t it?

⏵Wildcard!

[ You want to do something else? Feel free to hmu on Plurk at hundreds or in the game discord! ]

2

[coupris]

[Kim has been walking the perimeter of the cave in a half daze, just to keep himself moving. It helps with the cold a bit, but with his thoughts more. Taking deliberate steps and creating a mental map of the space, even without his sight, acts as white noise over the whispers of all his failures scraping at his brain stem. The ritual space is relatively level, so he hasn't tripped over much, other than his fellow survivors writhing on the ground.

The helplessness in knowing there's nothing he can do for them only amplifies the whispers into jeers. When one comes from outside of his skull, Kim almost jumps in surprise, his hand instinctively diving for a shoulder holster that isn't there. After a moment, the voice registers, though the shape it comes from has changed color.

Lines crossed, indeed.]

This is a waste of your time, isn't it?

[His words are even frostier than the air in the cave. Silco wouldn't be the first to try and goad him over the edge, but after their conversation on the cart, he was sure it would piss him off far more. Still, his voice is more rattled than before, his posture hunched, and he's completely blind to the malformed buds protruding from his shoulder blades and against the back of his robes.]

sayaka maizono | dangan ronpa | lover

[destage]

[Sayaka's never been more scared in her life.

It's an obvious fact as the ceremony begins in full; for all of the positive front that Sayaka has tried to put on, even in the midst of this terrible, awful mess, there's no mistaking the way she's simply gone pale and practically shaking in response to the situation at hand. She's been on a stage in front of hundreds of thousands of people, and yet the uncertainty, the dread in all of it has made Sayaka go quiet, close in on herself, and her steps are shaky as she cooperates. Surely, it can't go that badly if she does that much. Compliance is easy, after all; she's used to it.

Unfortunately, she's not exactly used to what comes after.]

ration-ality (and lack thereof)

[Sayaka has been utterly sick to her stomach ever since they took those nasty vials. It's not enough that she's been eating pretty limitedly in general; whatever appetite she's had is long gone after all of that, after trying to find a place to hide and just collect herself. Try not to cry, really; crying has been quite tempting since she arrived here, but she has an image to present. Or at least try to; nobody's having a good time over here, but Sayaka still wants to retain some level of pride here.

It's why she seeks out supplies; she might not be able to get much, but what little she does get is at least in part due to her being observant. Quick, really, when the situation calls for it. But it's with that same quickness, that same sort of carefulness that Sayaka seeks out others who may not have been so lucky.

So, you may have a visitor, if you haven't been so. She's holding out something you likely need, out of what little the guards are offering.]

Here--you weren't able to get anything, right? Take mine. [Sayaka's smile is almost warm in this desolate place.] You'll likely need it more than me.

[She says this despite her own rather tattered robes (from tearing pieces off to patch others up) and her own poor state; she's hoping, deep down, that it helps someone.

Of course, she is also pathetically easy to bully out of her supplies too--she may be dealing with the aftermath of that, just kind of at a loss and trying to lick her metaphorical wounds a bit. It's fine; compliance will surely win out in the end, right...?]

acceptance (?)

[Of course, that tends to leave Sayaka particularly susceptible to all of what's happening to them. Particularly so; as time wears on she seems to become more and more sickly, weaker even. Weak enough that she has to take what little she can, despite wanting to make a good impression on others to survive. To be good. To be safe, and most importantly, alive.

You might hear it in stray thoughts, if you happen to wander near her; a seeming mantra in her mind. Keep calm, smile, be polite seems to be something she's making a conscious effort to keep on her mind, but those aren't the only thoughts that afflict her.

Stop being so useless. Get up. What are you good for if you can't do anything?

(to lovers in particular, they might be able to see the image of many different men--distant figures, faces barely recognizable, and while the disparaging words seem gentler, they're no less strict and implying that sayaka cannot stay idle)

The thoughts are perhaps even more wretched than usual towards herself, though they do seem to spur her into action. Into seeking people out again and again, if only to provide what little she can grab for herself.

You might also find her just generally sick; coughing and trying to huddle in on herself to try and keep warm. She's durable enough, but all she feels right now is weak. Weak and sickly, and as you get closer, you might honestly just find her curling in on herself and crying as she gets closer and closer to a breaking point.

Perhaps she could use a bit of convincing, all things considered.]

wildcard

(writing at 3am is such a bad idea, but i wanted to get this out...anyway, if you wanna hit me with a wildcard prompt feel free to hmu!! my plurk is cityescape if you wanna add/contact me there!)

acceptance;

[inutilis]

[ though Abel didn't intend on sneaking up on her, Sayaka might not have heard him coming considering how small and insular she's become, huddled up and releasing pent-up misery in the way of tears.

...the sound breaks his heart, tugs at every chord in his chest in a very painful manner; he hopes not to startle her as he gently, lightly, rests a hand at her arm to try and get her attention. ]

Miss...?

[ his voice is soft; Abel is a tall but not particularly intimidating creature, especially considering all of them are unwell and going on weeks of manhandling. hopefully she isn't frightened; his eyes are bleeding his concern, an empathy to see her so low. but he cannot -- does not -- blame her for letting it out, nor feeling it keenly. this... is horrible, and he hates it. he hates to see this wearing them all down, one after the other.

she doesn't deserve this. no one does. ]

koriel xii (dextera) • baroque • lover

[passio]

I. communion/transformation

[ this is a baroque.

that’s all dextera can think, while the kenoma sickness burns through his blood as if trying to expel everything that makes him, himself. the knowledge that it’s wrong is what keeps him from succumbing to it immediately, even if those familiar calls to despair and the aion’s promises have a place in his heart. this, whatever this is, wants him to distort.

the scar on his hip proves as much. it throbs, aching as if it’s newly made, and every day it twists and spreads to cover more of the side of his body with a blackness like tendrils of ink, peeking up past the collar of his robe to his neck and beneath the frayed hem to his dirty, bruised knees. his hand seems to stay constantly knotted in the fabric sitting just over his hip, whenever he isn’t using it for something else.

he doesn’t look as bothered by it as he should, instead placidly dragging himself anywhere he needs to go in order to stay out of the way of others. what he lacks in affect, however, is more than made up for by the psychic projections screaming from his mind.

with fellow lovers, this manifests as a hallucination that he eventually can’t resist. whether they’ve accepted the kenoma or are still trying to fight it off as he is, he breaks somewhere halfway through the week and throws himself at their feet. there’s one fleeting word to be heard through the unstable communion: brother!

with all other legacies, he manages to keep himself outwardly collected. he looks a bit like a dying animal, but few people look much better than he does, and he doesn’t have the self awareness to really be conscious of it. but his emotions and the ceaseless cacophony in his mind are nonetheless thrown out to the world: a guilt that could crush someone under its weight, a sin that cannot be forgiven, memories of dying dozens of times.

his private thoughts have never been truly private. ]

II. resistance, offering

[ dextera has died of starvation plenty of times. he’s died of cold, too. even though he knows his physical limits should have been reached by now, he hasn’t died from either in this cavern. that doesn’t mean he wants to put other people through what he’s experienced. even though his stomach growls, he realizes that he’s hardier than most and the uneven distribution of supplies means he should be the one to take the fall.

when he does get a portion of the tempting stew served by the soldiers, he draws a shaky breath… and offers it to someone else instead, anyone who looks smaller, weaker, or simply human. ]

III. resistance, consuming

[ when he gets the chance, in order to fill his stomach, he goes for the scraps he can finagle instead. bones from the soldiers’ animal kills, intestines if he can get them, strange creatures crawling on the walls or cracks in the cavern—he squirrels it away in his robes and finds a private place to eat those instead.

the bones splinter between his teeth, and he grimaces as he turns his head and picks out shards with his fingers. he’s trying to be polite and keep out of the way of others so they don’t have to see his shame or the various ichors and mess dripping down his chin, but there’s only so much secrecy allowed in this place. not to mention, his robes are horribly stained. still, like with his stew, he’ll share if someone really wants to partake. ]

IV. wildcard

( surprise me! i’ll also be tagging around, but if there’s something you’d like to plot, or if you want a unique starter, or whatever, feel free to contact me here or at pavaal!!! )

i feel like i'm legally obligated to pick bone-ding.........

[lockedon]

[ Unsurprisingly, the rations they're given isn't nearly enough. It's intentional, of course; if they were warm and full-bellied, it would be so much easier to resist whatever's crawling through their veins and poisoning their bodies. A fine line between amplifying their suffering without tipping them over to the brink of death.

There are some people fighting over scraps, and others lying on the ground as they slowly accept their fate. Then there's this guy, tucked away in one corner, steadfastly working his way through a handful of—bones? Eustace blinks, caught off-guard by the white fragments littering the floor next to the young man. Factually speaking he knows there's nutritional value to be found in them, but practically speaking? It's still odd to see. ]

Do they taste good?

[ It's beyond stupid of a question to ask, but maybe he's a little delirious by this point after so many days of internal rebellion. ]

Eleven | Dragon Quest XI S | Martyr

[bearshermark]

[What begins as trepidation and unease as they're lead down toward the "throne room" morphs swiftly into terror by the shackle of magical energy dragging them all down. He's cooperated up to the moment, but now refuses to drink until he isn't given a choice in the matter and its force upon him.

Eleven's throat burns, his eyes water, and he throws what he can of his weight against the unwelcome touches while he spits in vain on the ritual floor.

Then he watches a body dissolve into black liquid, spreading through the ritual floor, and for a long, bone-chilling moment, is certain they're all going to be sacrificed in much the same way.

Moments later, he almost wishes for it, screaming as darkness awakes within him]


1. Sickness

Eleven loses his surroundings. He writhes on the floor, sickened and retching, physically trying to purge the corruption from his body. Tears spring to his eyes as unwelcome sensations spread through both mind and body as though they seek to remake him.

"You won't," he promises the unseen force with a snarl. He grits his teeth and clutches at his chest over the shard embedded there. "I'm still.. Yggdrasil's. You can't have me." His eyes flash yellow. "I am light."

But the darkness is insidious, whispering in his ear, crawling under his very skin. His chest aches. Memory flashes through a sense he doesn't understand.

You were light, the presence cajoles. No longer. Accursed Darkspawn.

His breath catches and his eyes finally snap open to the solid world, seeking an anchor in a nearby soul.


2. Resistance

Cold and hunger plague them all, but it's a type of suffering he'll take over the untold wretchedness that threatened to swallow him more than once. Even still it disturbs him, recalling the worst of sensations with a shudder that has nothing to do with the lack of warmth. He's more clear-eyed now, steadier if still prone to running to cough up blackened saliva as his stomach seizes in another fit to purge it from his body.

Once he's regained himself, Eleven settles next to someone that looks cold or still struggles with the effects of that sinister poison.

"There's still light," he assures tiredly with a shiver. He spares a half-hearted glare for "the Aion" and those that have embraced their illness and now turned against the rest of them. "We'll find it."


3. Wildcard
[Anything adjacent to these prompts that doesn't quite fit, or another idea altogether? hmu! Any format/tense is fine! I'm happy to match]

1

[perfectlygoodbird]

"Eleven!" Meteion is alone at the Innocent's throne, and she does not like it, so it's a simple thing for the entelechy to scuttle and scurry her way over to her friend and brush hair out of his eyes. She's not well off herself, having suffered a similar fate, but for the moment, her concern is for others.

For a moment, she wrings her hands together, but steels herself and takes one of his hands in hers, fingers curling around his palm.

"You aren't alone here. I'm with you, I promise!"

Jake Jensen | The Losers | Champion (CW: gore)

[fingergunning]

i: The Ritual

At least the dreaded period of waiting was over. Maybe he was a little ADHD, but having to sit and just wait and do nothing without those goddamn whips coming out had been driving him nuts. He had no laptop, no phone, no books. Nothing but other people that he wasn't sure if they thought of him as suspiciously as they did their overseers.

Not that the waiting being over meant that all was well. He was pretty sure shit was about to heavily hit the fan, and when he saw the few attempts to struggle against it or avoid going being cut short by those weird hinky whips, he opted not to make his own attempt. There were others here that looked as capable as himself who weren't getting anywhere. He could fight, but it wasn't entirely where his strengths lay- those had been pretty much stripped from him when he'd arrived.

He didn't like being herded like a sacrificial goat, and he could feel that nervousness in the pit of his stomach, a sour taste in the back of his mouth as bile rose up when the unfairly hot lady came out to do some weird mumbo jumbo. He was forced to his knees and this position and that feeling of sick dread was a little too familiar for his liking. It hit deeper this time, because he wasn't surrounded by people he was comfortable dying with or for. He was in the shit this time and he had no idea how he'd managed it on his own. He tried to turn his head to the side when the vial came, to keep his lips pressed closed; he didn't want poison or hallucinogens or whatever they were going to feed them before they probably killed them, but it was no good. Something that felt like a demonic slug found its way into his mouth and he could feel himself gagging and trying to bring it back up while it seemed to fight to go down. The hair stroking and soothing little sounds somehow made it worse.

That wasn't the end of it, and something weird happened that he wasn't fully paying attention to, wanting very much to vomit the mass back up. But it was too late. He just had to sit there and hope that it was either some fast acting poison or that whatever it did to him, he could ride it out. Breathe in, breathe out. Wasn't the first time he'd been captured, probably wouldn't be the last. It wasn't a gun at his head, but it had the same effect. It pissed him off and actually made him quiet for once.

ii: Kenoma Sickness - Communion

He hadn't even noticed that he wasn't thinking of the room and the woman and the gunk anymore until he caught the scent of burning chopper fuel and pork. It bothered him so much that he knew that humans smelled like pork when they were cooked. That his stomach had grumbled with hunger before he'd vomited when he'd seen those little charred bodies. He felt the bile rise up again, but nothing came out as he hunched over, one hand on the ground, the other at his ear to block out the whistling sound of the missle before it struck the chopper full of kids they'd risked their lives, reputations, and place in the world for. The chopper that was supposed to be carrying them. They were supposed to be hit, not the goddamn kids. That had been the first time he'd seen Cougar cry. He hadn't noticed the wet on his own cheeks as he'd stared at a dismembered hand missing a finger, as charred as the bear it was still clutching.

:Our fault. My fault.:

Was it, though? They'd painted the target for an air strike. The kids would have been blown to pieces if they hadn't gone in.

:Still were. And for what? You saved nothing. You changed nothing.:

Bullshit. They'd stopped Max- hadn't they?

:One tyrant falls, two more take his place. You can't even protect kids. Useless.:

Jensen folded over, head resting on the ground as he tried to slow his breathing. Fuck, what had they given him? He didn't want to think about that epic fucking failure in his life.

iii: Resistance

It was others. It was him. It was them together that managed to push out the dark sick feeling that had him wanting to let himself succumb to the lies. Something a little warmer. Not that he was warmer; his clothes were in desperate need of a wash, but the water was needed more for drinking than hygiene. Hell, he'd been through this before. Barracks reeked of ass, feet, and the worst parts of B.O. by the end of a tour. Even when they had access to toiletries. The familiarity of the shittiness of his situation actually helped to lift his spirits a little. Even in the middle of a world like this with magic black goo and brain chatter, shit still smelled like shit. He could almost whistle over it.

Instead, he opted to try to meet up with and help mete out rations to anyone that seemed to be suffering the fate of not giving in like he and a few others were. The ones that weren't leaving with a wave and equipment to carry them on their way to wherever the hell they were going. He wanted to go- Jesus, he wanted to get out of here so bad and the stink of old fear and bodies. But he wasn't going to do it alone. Couldn't. So he had to try to find people to make a plan with. He didn't mind following, but only if the idea was sound and not suicidal-- okay. That's a lie. He'd totally do something suicidal as long as there was a .1% chance he'd make it.

iv: Wildcard

[OOC: Anything and everything in between or outside of this, I'm happy to play with. Feel free to PM or ping me on plurk if you'd like to chat things out first.]

iii

[bearshermark]

They didn't give him anything. Eleven thought he understood; he hadn't cooperated with the ritual, openly spoke of light, and where he'd like to be the one helping with supplies, he found himself in the pitiable position of needing them himself. He was mindful that he must look terrible; hair lank and robe smeared with dirt, blood, and that awful black substance.

But neither did he have the pride to chafe at such things, instead accepting the offering with a tired, grateful smile. There were others making their rounds, though with a will to subdue and he watched them with a forlorn frown, wondering if there were something he could do now that he was beginning to recover at last.

This man at least, had shown some kindness.

"You rejected the shadow?"

Jinx | Arcane | Firebrand

[contentsunderpressure]

The Ritual

[ Jinx struggled against being force-fed the foul liquid, but it did little for her case. For all her thrashing about and whining, nothing changed. Nothing was something that she had thought about a lot during the waiting. Whether the world has been reduced to it, if everyone she knew and cared for, at her hand or not, has been bathed in the very concept of it, and if the thing crawling down her throat like a vile insect may do the very same to her.

At home, she may have answered such indignity with violence, explosions, and violent explosions. But she barely had the strength to move against the horrible things being forced on her, let alone employ her usual brand of resistance. She held out as long as she could, but eventually, even the firecracker that was Jinx gave in.]


Sickness

[Jinx spent most of her post-ritual experience keeping to herself, looking akin to a caged animal that paced about her confines and mumbling to herself. She felt so alone, the phrase “everyone has abandoned you” rattled over and over in her mind, a thought she simply could not shake free.]

“Shut the hell up!” she yelled, well really at herself.

[Her voice was loud and carried heavily. After she stopped yelling at herself, Jinx fell over and tried her best to resist the feeling, but even that was in vain. As thoughts of those dead, gone, and worse all danced in her head. She may have been a near embodiment of chaotic glee, but this was not fun in the least.]

Physicality

[During her throes, Jinx's physical form began to match her chaotic emotions. Randomly shifting over time into a nonsense of shapes and colors that seemed to ebb and flow with her yelling.]

Acceptance

[The words conveyed by the Kenoma made sense. The world is a terrible place filled with suffering and worse. Such a sentiment resonated with Jinx to an almost absurd degree. She had been abandoned so many times, lost to the world and others, and left to crawl at the bottom of the world with nothing but herself to rely on.

So why not give in? Her pain was already beginning to fade and things seemed more, clear, somehow. So as per instruction, she would be asking the others in the area if they had heard the good word.]

Matt Jamison | Visionary | OTA (cw: assault discussions, likely some body horror)

[semicharmed]

ritual
[ It's not that Matt doesn't care about the person who's disintegrated. He cares, it's awful, even if they seemed to want it. But that concern pales next to his immediate, physical reality: They put something in me.

He can feel it in him now–penetrating his lungs, thrumming like a second heartbeat. Shaping the shadows behind his eyes. It feels like the photo negative of the way breath and spirit move through him when he's casting a spell. God, if he could just cast a spell, any spell, he could feel like he was doing something, like he was connected to something. He reaches out for every god he can name and every prayer he can think of, desperate to hook his psychic fingertips onto some shred of connection--

Great friend of the dead, I offer my praise.
Rider on the night boat, granter of renewal,
I call to you, O goddess--

Aphrodite, subtle of soul and deathless,
Daughter of God, weaver of wiles, I pray thee …

Om Kali om, Kali om kaliomkalikaliplease–

In these first days, Matt can be found lying in the shadow of the Visionary's throne. He doesn't appear to be doing anything, at first. But as you draw closer, you may notice that his breath is coming in regular patterns, steady enough to count by. A hand on his stomach, a hand on his chest. In through the nose, hold, out through pursed lips. ]

communion (cw: discission of assault)
[ Even sleep provides no relief. Matt's dreams are slick and black. The liquid oozes down the walls, just as he could feel it sliding down the walls of his throat, covering the familiar posters of the club until he can barely read the band names. Matt stumbles into a room thumping fuzzy with bass. Bodies writhe on the dance floor, glistening with sweat or something that shines like it.

Of course, you can be in a crowd full of people and still completely alone.

This is a dream he's had before, in some particulars. The solidity of a body against his back, hips roiling. Fangs grazing his neck, copper breath at his nape. In real life, Matt was pliant, shocked, electric with fear. Part of him wanted it to happen, he just didn't know where 'it' would end or if it would. And part of him thought what he's thinking now:

I'm not gonna die like this.

Matt spins around, striking out with his nails and a flailing arm. He has next to nothing by way of strength or combat training, but in this loud fragment of dream, he's fighting for his life. ]

wildcard
[ Did we talk about something you don't see here? Want me to tag out to you? Questions, comments, random ideas? PM or hit me up at artistformerlyknownas.

As a content note, I'm not planning to tag out with any of the content in the "Communion" prompt, aka Matt stuck thinking about his awful vampire ex. Nobody will have it sprung on them or have to engage with it unless they specifically want to explore that! Ok ilu buhbye. ]

ritual (de lo habitual)

[perfectlygoodbird]

He's breathing. That's good. That means he's still alive. Meteion doesn't know this man, not like others she's met along the journey to the ritual site. But to say that she'd be distraught were he to succumb was the tip of the iceberg.

She reaches out a hand, dropping to her knees, but stopping short before actually touching him, brow furrowed. But then she clasps her hands together, closing her eyes.

Can you hear me? He seems to be so deep in trance--Meteion's seen similar things before, but she's uncertain. Would touching him wake him, or make things worse? At least if she speaks to him this way, if he doesn't want to be disturbed, it would be simple enough to cast her out, and she'd know to leave him be...

Vicious | Tales of Crestoria | Wanderer

[bloodsins]

[Needless to say, Vicious doesn't take kindly to this ritual. While before he's only ever picked fights because he was bored and was usually only smacked around a little for his defiance, this time he actually attempts to fight. It doesn't go well - without his powers or a weapon, he's basically useless - but not fighting at all simply isn't an option. He's forced through the motions and it's only afterwards that he's seemingly calmed down.]

I. COMMUNION

[Though he's calmed down after all of that and tends to keep to himself, he won't mind company if you want to join him at any point. Unfortunately for him, things are never easy for Vicious, and it's entirely possible you might end up subjected to his thoughts instead! Fellow Wanderers look out, but anyone is certainly welcome to end up dealing with his thoughts.

See? It's pointless. People will always be people, no matter the world. Why suffer them here? Why bother, when you could just embrace it?

You might also feel a spike of emotions - anger, hatred, despair - before it simmers back down.]

II. TRANSFORMATION

[Vicious fights it - it's like everything else in his damn life, out to kill him and entirely relentless in doing so. It's not going to kill him though; if the Enforcers haven't been able to, then whatever the hell this is won't either. Of course, that's far easier said than done, and battling with his own inner demons - his hatred and rage and everything else that makes him Vicious - certainly isn't easy.

So perhaps it isn't really surprising at all when the shift happens. It seizes him suddenly, causing him to grip his left arm in pain, though that passes quickly. What's left behind doesn't fade, and that's far more of a problem. Starting from his fingers, there's dark discoloration, with said fingers having sharpened into claws. It looks a little something like this. Which is truly unfortunate, given that Vicious would greatly prefer for it to not look like that.

It takes him a moment to finally tear his gaze away (once he's certain that it isn't what he thinks it is, that he still has control) and raises his voice. Hey, you. We're having a conversation now!!]

So is this crap doin' anything weird to happen to you or am I just lucky?

[Ignore that he doesn't sound nearly as dismissive and chill as he probably should; he might be a little worked up about this.]

III. ACCEPTANCE

[Though he does continue to fight for what feels like an eternity, eventually there isn't any point in arguing any further. Putting an end to the world sounds pretty damn good, actually. Given everything he's seen and experienced, why wouldn't he want to burn it all down? The Vision Orbs and Vision Central were never the main target of his hatred in the first place - it's people who are the problem, and people will continue to be people everywhere, regardless of the circumstances. So sure, let's remake the world, let's find something that'll maybe be a little less fucked up and awful. He can agree to that.

And just like that, he doesn't have to fight anymore. He doesn't need to lie to himself that the world is worth fighting for. He doesn't need to pretend to be goddamn Kanata, insisting that everything will be just fine even without a plan or any idea of how to actually fix things. That was never his place anyway; Vicious does what he wants to do, and what he wants to do is to stop suffering.

Though he does feel the need to do something to help out this cause - he can actually be a part of something without being hated on sight! fun! - ultimately he knows he's going to be damn useless in convincing anyone of anything. So instead he'll be hanging out with the others who have given in an accepted Kenoma. At some point he'll join you, holding up a hand in greeting.]

Hey. So uh...

[He waves a hand in the general direction of the temple and the people still suffering down there. Then he decides that he doesn't want to ask and he doesn't want to deal with anyone else still down there, and changes direction entirely.]

They said we'd be getting some other clothes, yeah? You know where they are?

WILDCARD

( Feel free to hit me up on pokerap if you want to plot something specific out! )

iii

[expiera]

[The short haired woman he approaches is, as it so happens, carrying a laundry basket of freshly washed linens. She looks him over, gives a passing glance towards the direction of his wave, and ultimately just... Gives him a small but friendly smile.]

Yes, of course. I can show you where they are.

[A beat.]

Have you thought about washing up first? New clothes feel better to wear when you're clean.

Kim Kitsuragi | Disco Elysium | The Martyr

[coupris]

I. THE RITUAL

[Though he'd stayed mostly compliant on the road, the realization that they were being corralled spurred Kim into action, grabbing the arm of the closest person and insisting that they make a break for it. Within seconds, his throat constricted and he was pushed to ground. He summoned all the will he could to stand, but just as he was able to at least prop himself up on his elbow, the darkness moved in. Kim tamped his mouth shut, but an Achamite swiftly gathered him up into her lap. Her body was as cold as the ground, and her embrace comfortless. She clutched his face in the steely grip of one hand, squeezing until he couldn't stand the nails digging holes into his cheeks any longer and came up for air. She shushed his panicked gasps and pushed the vial against his lips. He had no chance to sputter against it before whatever it was wormed its way over his teeth and down his throat. The Achamite retreated, leaving him on ground, gagging and trying to force it back out again. Without anything to see, with nothing but the sounds of others suffering in his ears, he could focus on nothing but the way it seemed to wriggle into all of his organs, in defiance of all biological sense. Kim didn't see the woman dissolve, but at his core, he sensed it, shuddered at the knowledge of it.

Before any symptoms set in, Kim is still trying to collect himself, reeling from every skin crawling moment of unwanted touch he'd just experienced. In the cave, he can see even less than the blur of the journey, and it left room for every other sense to be overwhelmed. The sigil on his arm itches like a rash picked up out in the weeds, and he can't shake the sensation of the whip around his neck.]

II. SICKNESS

[While he managed to barter most of his rations for firewood, Kim still cuts a pathetic figure, sitting atop his bedroll and curled up near the flames. This was the kind of cold that, while he was in Processing, brought in more bodies off the streets than violence. He'd never curse at snow getting into his boots again.

He doesn't call out to anyone to join him, but he won't chase away anyone who tries to share the fire, either. Instead, he seems fixated on it, the light dancing in his tired eyes taxing his already overworked retina. When he focuses on the light, he can almost shut out the images bouncing tauntingly around his skull. Comrades bleeding to death, alleyway executions, oil fires razing old neighborhoods, suspicious looks from passers by, and faces twisted in mocking laughter-- any of these things might pulsate from his mind and into another's without him realizing.

Revachol was fucked long before you got spit onto its shores, binoclard. And it sure as hell didn't ask for your help.

The thick city accent he doesn't quite recognize prompts Kim to stab the stick he's been using as a fire poker directly into the crackling wood. A few embers scatter, singing his already dirty robe. Kim breathes deeply through his nose, but his jaw is set, teeth almost audibly gnashing the thoughts away.]

III. RESISTANCE

[He doesn't know how long it goes on like that. Every so often, when a violent thought digs so deeply into his brain, he almost vomits at the weight it slams into his conscience. The dark stain of whatever weeps from the crystal embedded in his side continues to spread across his robe. He notices the shapes of people starting to slip back to freedom, but the sense of that liquid void follows them like a specter. Sometimes he wonders if it's the Pale, but no. The Pale had something in it, was birthed from someone, but this-- it came from nothing, wanted nothing, and would make him nothing if he just stopped fighting.

Kim promised himself years ago that he would never allow himself feel like nothing again.

So despite the shakes, the fever sweats, and the bone deep chill of the cave, Kim refuses. The defiance starts to keep him warmer than the fire. The good memories join it maybe a day later: The howl of the wind when driving the Kineema with the windows down, the glowing pride when he'd been promoted to lieutenant, his first real kiss stolen in a quiet corner of a basement party at university.

Finding the highest point just outside the city, and sitting on top of the motor carriage, watching traffic and lights pulsate like the breath in Revachol's lungs.

Après la mort, la vie à nouveau.

A mutter of the old RCM motto on his lips made Kim's stomach suddenly lurch. He doubled over and sank to his knees as the blackness that entered him finally expelled forth from his mouth and hit the floor of the cave with a disgusting splortch.

Kim spit away the lingering acid taste on his tongue and panted with deeper breaths than he'd been able to take since this all started. As they slowed, one could almost mistake them for silent, relieved laughter.]

II

[superbshot]

[Caitlyn had done something of the opposite, bartering her firewood for food, knowing that at least she had her little coterie of friends here to share warmth with...but that didn't help with the restlessness. Despite the cold, despite the shaking and the nausea, she needed to move. To do something. That was the only way she was going to beat this, whatever it was. She knew that in her heart of hearts, and so she wandered. Moving from fire to fire, until she came to his.

Taking a breath, she settled down at arm's length, her focus turning onto the flames as well. She hears some of the thoughts, just some, enough to know he's suffering. So, she does the only thing she can think to do. Tearing off a hunk of bread, she holds it out to him without taking her gaze from the flames.]

...Share with me.