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

gabranth || final fantasy xii || the champion

[judicatus]

i. sickness (cw: emeto)

By the time Gabranth is forced to his knees in the ritual chamber, the faded bruises along his jaw have been joined by much fresher wounds — raw abrasions patterning both sides of his face, dried blood caked at the corners of his lips and staining his meager robe — each one a mark of his resistance to whatever it is these soldiers would see done with him.

Each one a mark of his failure, as the darkness forces its way down his throat regardless.

His first instinct is to force the thing back out of him — to retch, to vomit, to do whatever it takes so long as it gets out of him — but the black, oozing bile that spills from his lips leaves him feeling no more at ease. Still, now that he's begun, he can hardly make himself stop; he heaves and he heaves, coughing up ooze in nigh-limitless amounts, clutching at the shard embedded in his chest all the while, until his body shudders and collapses from the effort.

His second instinct is to fight off whoever comes near, Hylician and Achamite and fellow captive alike, to use what very, very little remains of his strength to reject whatever aid would be proffered him. To those who linger too closely for just a little too long, he snarls out—

"Get back!"

—and with that cry comes an unbidden surge of psychic barbs, cascading outward from his own turbulent mind: Weakling. Traitor. Hound. Kingslayer. Kinslayer. Worthless. Worse than worthless; your oaths are as poison to those whom you swear. Would you serve another master, hound? Will you slide a dagger into their back as well? What can you possibly hope to protect, powerless as you are? What purpose is left for you to serve? What life is left for you to live?

But he can't — no, he can't give in, he can't let himself give in, not after all he gave in Ivalice — not after all he'd done in Ivalice — he mustn't, he musn't, he must not give in.

The effort it takes for him to resist, of course, takes its toll; for much of his time within the cavern, he can scarcely move, let alone get up to seek food or warmth or any other kind of succor. He lies huddled on the cold ground instead, curled in on himself as much as he can muster, grasping at the stone beneath him with newly-clawed hands when he can spare the strength to do so, grinding the newly-grown horn at his temple against the ground as though he might grind it right off. Small pools of black ooze gather beneath him, leaking from his eyes, his nose, his mouth, from the seams of flesh surrounding the shard in his chest, where it aches, aches, aches. And all the while, he murmurs:

"Don't come near... Get back..."

ii. wildcard

( for anything not covered by the above! gabranth will probably find the strength to lash out should anyone seek to provoke him, whether it's by actively picking a fight with him or just trying to offer him some help, but otherwise he will mostly be a sick lump. )

[lachtara]

Passing too close to such a writhing individual is not his intention. So Emet-Selch gives this one a wide birth on his way to regretfully consider the slop the guards had deigned to mistake for 'food'.

Then, words begin to rush into his mind. They trickle in one short sentence at a time; quick, accusatory, and not his own. It is enough to give Emet-Selch pause and he looks back at the individual sprawled out on the ground.

So he approaches despite the verbal warning. Emet-Selch crouches nearby and rests his arms on his knees. "Kingslayer. Kinslayer. Traitor." He repeats. "Such lofty accusations."

[perfectlygoodbird]

Meteion...feels dirty. If this ichor can leave a psychic stain, it has done so. Even separated from her sisters, it feels now...as if they never left her. Or as if they've returned with a vengeance, a little voice inside her head to whisper to her.

Do you still think they're worth it, even now? Look at how pathetic...

"Stop it," she insists. The brilliant blue of her feathers has dimmed slightly--or maybe it's just the kenoma sickness. As it is, the tiny girl snatches up an unguarded blanket, bundling it in her arms and walking with purpose towards the huddled Gabranth. He'd been kind to her. Despite...everything, now, Meteion isn't about to repay kindness with harm or abandonment. Even if that's what he seems to want...

Her mannerisms now likely seem like a crow scavenging a carcass--Meteion hops closer, attempting to swing the blanket over his prone form--but if he chooses to lash out, she'll fling the blanket more haphazardly at him, while hopping out of the way. If he can muster the strength to do so, at least.

She isn't immune to the torrent of psychic jabs that tear their way from his mind; hers proffers one of her own, called up from millenia of travelling the sea of dark stars. Not a dare to think about the damage I have done...

No. Not here. Not now...

Meteion shakes her head, almost violently. "I can't. I won't!"

[semicharmed]

It's taken Matt some time to find his sea legs, as it were, here in this ocean of black and rough stone. Accepting that whatever the fuck they made him drink is in him, and isn't coming up, was part of it. Eating something and getting some sleep was another, even if the rations are meager and the sleep punctured by bad dreams. Now Matt's picking his way around the cavern, trying to check on his fellow captives.

His hand aches where they cut him, and his throat where the shard of crystal sits. Matt rubs at the side of his neck, his other hand feeling along the cavern wall for balance. The sound of a familiar voice stops him short.

"Gabranth?"

Matt doesn't see the claws. He notices the horn, but he can't quite contextualize it; he thinks it must be a rock or a food item or something. Matt kneels down immediately, wincing as his legs hit the rock floor, and reaches for Gabranth's shoulder.

Yuya Sakaki | Yugioh Arc-V | Lover

[hippocarnival]

[Communion]

[However apprehensive Yuya was about the ritual, nothing could have prepared him for the actual horror of it. He stares, speechless as the Achamite crumbles to dark, viscous sludge. To see a body just melt like that terrifies him. Is that--what's going to happen to all of them?

He staggers back and starts to shake. Seemingly from fright, at first, but then something else snakes through his body and at once he feels sick. Yuya falls to his hands and knees, bowing his head as he braces himself with gasped breaths against a tidal of phantom agony.

It hurts.

How could they do this to them? He didn't even do anything. He's barely existed before he was rounded up to be used for-used for--whatever this is.

It's the anger that comes up first, starting slow but rapidly hitting a boil that spills out of him and through the bond. It isn't fair. Isn't right. And it hurts, and he... hates them. The soldiers. That 'Aion'. He hates people like this, Anyways using others. If he had power again, he could

make them pay

Yeah, they wouldn't be calm if they were the ones having their insides torn apart instead. Just like--]

No... [he grabs his head in his hands. Not this again. He never wanted to be like this again.]

[Resistance | CW: Emeto]

[It must be days they're down here, right? Yuya isn't sleeping on any regular schedule, but he's sure it must be more than hours that have been passing. Some people seem to... change, during it. They leave, and the guard lets them through, and they come back in better clothes, better rested... clean.

He realizes, eventually, it must be a result of caving to this feeling. And it tries to lull him in, too, when he's weak, but he just... can't. What would they think, if after everything he went back to being that person? How would he even face Yuzu or Gongenzaka again, who believed so much in him?

It's cold, and he's hungry and sore. And yet, somehow, resisting the kenoma seems to get easier over time. Like there's something else inside of him, giving him the strength he needs when he just doesn't have it himself. Something he can hold onto. He doesn't know what will happen if he keeps fighting. Will they run out of time and be killed, or melt away into that sludge themselves? He doesn't know, but somehow... he's not that worried about it anymore. Somehow, it feels like things are going to be okay, as long as he believes they will be.

That's what he's telling himself as he's about the take a bite of stale, bland bread. But it doesn't get to his mouth before he lurches with a choking sound. It hits him suddenly, a pressure rolling up his chest, then throat, making it hard to breath. He tips sideways, pressing his hands (and bread) to the ground to brace himself as he retches.

And all at once thick black sludge passes out of his mouth into a gross pool on the ground, and Yuya has to heave it out in waves as it seems to stick to everything. After a few thick globs he's only coughing up specks of... whatever this is. He sits back, catching his breath as he stares ahead with wide eyes.]

Whoa. I feel better.

[Wildcard]

((You can reach me at monochromic or the game discord if you want to plot anything else! Yuya will be trying to share supplies and comfort and encourage others through the keroma, aside form feeling very sick and miserable until he expels it.))

communion

[coerthantorment]

[Yuya's hatred and anger is something that tugs on Estinien's attention, blending with his own waves of fury and teetering lack of self-control. It's a while after the ritual, and his initial outright panic is finally beginning to fade. Yet, to feel such similar feelings coming from that boy in particular, that boy that helped him back in the camp...

Estinien looks at him, flummoxed. It takes him a few moments to grounds himself enough to even be able to speak, but when he does, it's with a sort of startled urgency.]

Boy.

Caitlyn Kiramman | Arcane | Champion

[superbshot]

First Contact: (Closed to Vi)

[Throughout the ritual, Caitlyn had been standing in largely numb silence, confused and unhappy about it, but uncertain that she would even be able to fight back effectively. Observation and vain attempts to puzzle out what was going on were the weapons she had on hand right now, and she hated it. She'd glared defiance at the soldiers, and she'd nearly punched the Achamite that had come to her, but resisting would only wind up getting her hurt, in the end. She knew this, and so she simply stared in silence.

Afterwards, with the feeling of something vile crawling through her very soul, Caitlyn shambled towards a corner, intent on sitting, on thinking this through, and on resisting. The creeping sense of evil that skittered at the edges of her thoughts, and she knew...for an absolute certainty...that this was not to be trusted. That this was the antithesis of her entire being. Gritting her teeth, she leaned against a wall to watch and wait, and that's when she spotted her.

Hoarsely, Caitlyn called out, stumbling from her standing position towards Vi.]

Vi...! Vi, is that you?

Kenoma Sickness/Communion

[Caitlyn had expected to feel ill, and the nausea and aches were all symptoms she'd...but the horrible sensation that was different. It felt so overwhelming that staying upright was hard for the first hour, walking even harder. Despite this, grit and determination were two things that she had in spades. She was not going to give in, not to this, nor to these soldiers. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Forcing herself to walk, she moves from group to group, looking for people similarly suffering, approaching them with a weak nod.]

...We can beat this.

[Alternatively people nearby, especially fellow Champions, might find themselves dealing with foreign thoughts. An imperious looking woman and a fatherly looking man feature prominently, offering unkind words of doubt. Sneering, cold, even hateful, they stare down at a young girl.

We never should have let you out of our sight.

All you do is cause trouble.

You're a disgrace to the family, and you've brought ruin to Piltover.

It's your fault we're dead. And it's your fault we're at war.

Nearby, a woman that looks a great deal like the child shifts in her sleep, tossing and turning. Clearly she could use a hand.]

A Helping Hand

[Caitlyn, despite her struggles, is not one to sit idle. She looks for those that need food, those that seem to be struggling, and she goes to them with what she has gathered. She has no particular pattern here, other than seeking out those that seem huddled and cold, or those that seem the most lost, approaching with what she hopes counts as a warm smile.]

...Hey. I've got some food. And a blanket we can share, if you need.

[On the other hand, anyone Caitlyn spots squirreling away food or supplies in a cavern cranny may find themselves being confronted. She's a very tall woman, and she's waiting at the mouth of it for the would be hoarder, looming a little with her arms folded.]

...Don't you think you should be distributing that to those in need?

Wildcard

[Want something else with Caitlyn? I'm happy to accommodate! Hit me on plurk at intercession, or PM me and we can plot something out. I am happy to match brackets or prose too, so tag with whatever suits you.]

helping hand

[coerthantorment]

Caitlyn may recognize Estinien as someone who seemed to be on the same page as her early on, waiting and watching for each time the soldiers would bring out some supplies so that he could be there to stand guard and make sure it was distributed properly. Despite the terror feeling his control slip away filled him with, it only made him more determined to fight. After all, he'd been here before, and he would not make the same mistake twice.

Yet, as more time passes, it feels harder to deal with rather than easier. As each hour grinds by, the probable futility of their struggle becomes more apparent. He sees the first of them be approached by the "Aion" and removed from the cavern, only to come back on the side of their captors, well-clothed and rejuvenated. What creature lurks inside of them, he wonders? What sacrifice have they made for their relative freedom?

This is what starts to break him more than anything else - his frustration at his own impotency, and the boiling anger in his gut as seeing them, one after another, leave to join their oppressors. Suffering in solidarity he could stand, but to see them so easily take up arms to aid those that had done this to them...

Traitors. Cowards. Wicked creatures.

It's a voice that speaks from within him, deep, ancient, and furious. Its tongue doesn't seem human, but its intent is clear. It speaks of his anger. It speaks of his want for justice and for revenge.

He can't stand it. At some point, it becomes so nauseating that he can't stay on his feet anymore, curling up against a bit of wreckage. His body as changed, as if to match the ugliness of his anger - spines pierce his skin and horns peak through his hair, clawed hands gripping at what remains of his clothing. He's shivering with the effort of holding it all back, and when she approaches, he looks up at her with reddened eyes. It takes him a moment to find himself in it all.

"...My thanks," he says and looks down, as if in shame. He knows how he must look to her.

communion

[edgevassal]

[He tells himself it's because having to deal with some stranger's damage is annoying. That's even partly true; he does not know or care who Caitlyn is, nor does he know or care about her parents. Nor does he feel sympathy for its own sake: it would be much shorter to list out the members of his cohort from Fodlan who do have good relationships with their parents. Disappointment simply comes with the territory of expectation.

Still, he would be lying if he insisted he was completely unaffected by the display. It's uncomfortable, if nothing else. He's also not inclined to be compassionate or patient about it, so he solves the problem the most expedient way: by tossing a cup of water on Caitlyn when her dreams get particularly loud.]

Wake up.

First Contact

[fistcuffs]

[ She’s been lying on her side, curled around the black spreading poison in her stomach, her chest. She can feel it flooding every space in her veins, radiating out through the bruises they’d left on her. She’d fought them, and it hadn’t been enough, and what else is new these days, honestly. She’ll be angry again when her head stops spinning.

It’s Caitlin’s voice, that impossible voice, that pierces straight through the dizzying, cloying, blackening haze. Because Caitlin’s supposed to be dead. She’s supposed to be dead like everyone in the world is supposed to be dead.

She pushes up to her knees; hot and cold, suddenly, in a way that has nothing to do with the sludge in her veins. And she sees Caitlin, even more impossibly. And stupidly, that makes tears spring to her eyes. ]

-You’re here?! [ A stupid thing to say. She lurches to her feet. ]

A helping hand

[intermingled]

[ At first, Spock had tried to take less. Less food, less warmth. He doesn't require as much as humans do to survive and he has spent his life thus far learning the discipline to ignore pain and discomfort as merely things that exist in his mind. Now, he finds his mind failing him and his body needing more than he is used to it needing, so when she approaches him where he has seated himself with his back against a large stone, he doesn't turn her away. ]

I will only take what can be spared once others are taken care of.

[ His voice shakes from the cold, but his gaze is steady. He is uncomfortable, but he will survive it. He has no choice. ]

wildcard

[expiera]

[It must be a familiar come-and-go to those still forcibly trapped at the site of the ritual now, ever since people started leaving the cave here and there by their own "volition". They've been coming back down too, in much livelier mood and dressed in better clothing to spread the good word, which may in hindsight make the quiet and sombre figure of a hooded woman stand out more in contrast despite the fact that she clearly doesn't want to be noticed. Not sharing the high spirits of her peers, she may have been witnessed a few times already giving water to the ones struggling the most, yet administering her care with as little said as possible and only answering when she's spoken to first. Is this the first time another blue-haired woman catches sight of her? Or maybe the second, if not third?

Nevertheless, Caitlyn has never been approached, and it doesn't seem like the hooded woman is aware that she may be watched, maybe for some time already at that. She has just stepped back down into the caverns once more, carrying with her a wooden bowl and a damp face towel she is holding close to herself to make it subtle. She stops briefly once she is out of the soldiers' line of sight, scanning the dimly lit caverns for any isolated figure huddled onto themselves. Who, today...?]

helping hand

[deushexmachina]

[Arms wrapped around his knees, huddled within earshot, he hears her. His throat tightens, the shuddering hope electrifying his body enough to render him momentarily breathless. It wasn't impossible—his own presence proves as much—but the improbability quivers him.

Hope sears his veins, bright enough that the purple shadows recede from his fingertips.]

Cait? [Jayce turns, he sees her aiding another tragic individual. He stands on shaking legs. Blood drums against his ears.] Caitlyn.

communion

[theorems]

[The afflictions have taken hold of nearly everyone. Viktor recognizes them on sight- having dealt with them all on a more regular basis than most, he would assume. Body aches and weakness were just a Tuesday, to him. It was difficult, as it always was, but the level of accustom he had to such things made navigating them just a half-step easier than the rest of this situation.

But the chills. The cold. He felt it, bone-deep. The only part he couldn't shake off, the only part that he truly feared would kill him, if he didn't find a solution.

Suddenly, a vision in his mind of someone he's really only had passing interactions with, and all of them when trouble was happening for Jayce. Cassandra Kiramman, of all people. But why-

Her husband now? And next... their daughter. Caitlyn. She's being scolded.

Viktor looks around, knowing there's no reason he should be seeing this. It isn't for him, after all. Sure enough, the huddled form of what is unquestionably Caitlyn is only steps nearby. He tries to ignore the visions, for the sake of her privacy... but he can't unhear those last words- it's your fault we're at war.

What war?

He shuffles without aid to Caitlyn's restless body, grunts from the effort while lowering himself to both knees. With an unsteady hand placed on her shoulder, he begins to give her a little shake. Viktor knows his fingers must feel like ice, and somehow, Caitlyn's warmer than he is. Perhaps from all the tossing and turning.]

Caitlyn.

Cid Garlond | Final Fantasy XIV | Artisan

[youngprodigy]

I- Sickness CW: emeto/ body horror
[The moment the foul substance touches his lips, Cid protests, refuses to swallow. He can feel it crawling down his throat like a vilekin, and he gags, spluttering as black flows from his lips, his eyes. He nearly collapses on the floor of the building, vomiting up more of the black sludge.]

Gods...!

[The worst is yet to come, no sooner has he managed to get to his knees do spikes down his spine emerge through his clothes, leaking black and red, and Cid screams clutching at his back, even as red covers his palm.

The Calamity was your fault. Your fault your fault your fault.

Even as the spikes still seem to bleed black and red equally, his hands move to clutch at his temples.]

What... this isn’t...


II – Exploration CW: body horror
[There are moments when the transformations subsides, when the transformations vanish. He can almost act normally, then.

The journey is hard. The lack of proper meals, the cold... it’s exhausting in ways Cid isn’t used to. The ritual, horrific and beyond anything he could conceive of, leaves him shaken, agonized. But he’s stubborn. Freedom through technology. No, he can’t give in. He refuses. Even with the bleak thoughts flooding his mind, he can’t. One of the only thoughts keeping him sane is Nero— not a thought he’d find comforting under normal circumstances, but he has no doubt the man would offer sarcastic commentary. “The mighty Cid nan Garlond can’t handle a hike through the woods?” or somesuch antagonism.

There’s more they can do than wallow. He must. He must.

When it becomes clear he’s not about to be restrained again, he stoops down to clear away one of the shards of the ceiling carefully, staring blankly at the strange lines on the shard. He’s not exactly world-traveled, not like Himeka, but he knows with confidence he’s never heard of or seen anything like it before.

Anyone approaching him, who hasn’t already caught a glimpse of him on their trek to this place, will see the third eye prominent in the center of his forehead. It certainly stands out, even considering how strange of a situation they’ve been in.]

Where the hells are we?

[It’s muttered to himself more than anybody who might overhear.

Or, perhaps you find him doubled over in pain while he’s examining one of the sigils, hands clutching at his hands as horrific spines and horns sprout across his head and down his spine, leaking black that vanishes almost as soon as it touches the clothes he’s wearing.]

[lachtara]

Even while not on the throne, it was natural to keep appraised of what happened in Garlemald. All the important details were considered and all the potentially useful people were noted. So it is with some measure of interest that he takes notice of someone who would fall under the category of potentially useful.

Emet-Selch crouches by his side and folds his hands over his knees, watching as the man writhes in some manner of pain. He, himself, has not come out of the ordeal faultless either - there are several noticeable abrasions and scuffs over his person - but he seems to be of stable mind compared to those around them.

"Where are you, indeed," He asks without asking.

sickness

[intermingled]

[ Spock's own body is protesting, his limbs shaking as he's hit with a dizziness that seems to come from within his own mind. He cannot seem to catch his breath to even attempt to meditate through this, but as he sees Cid nearby he has to wonder if he's now hallucinating.

His mind feels stretched like a spring uncoiling and he wonders if it will ever be right again, but then he remembers his sister's final words to him before he left.

Reach back.

Right now, he can only take it literally and he crawls closer and reaches to touch Cid's shoulder. Perhaps it can anchor even one of them. ]

I am here.

[ The desperate emotion in his voice almost shocks him as if he's heard someone else speak. ]

Yoo Joonghyuk | Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint | Champion

[regretsor]

I. Communion
[These thoughts aren't new to him, but they feel like they come at him harder than he ever experienced. Dark thoughts that slowly clawed through his psyche. He had always crawled through it before. His mind had always been rather brittle though.

Living more than one life and experiencing tragedy after tragedy had left the man broken.

It felt like he was sinking; being pulled down by gravity into an abyss. The man was probably the most docile than he had been since arriving. Quiet and unmoving with eyes unfocused as he looked forward. He wasn't staring at anything in particular. It would be more accurate to say that what he was looking at couldn't be seen by anyone else. It's a stark difference from the stubborn man constantly getting into trouble with the Hylicians.

It's a heavy weight that settles on the psyche. It's more than just a lifetime of despair that's almost suffocating. It gets worse and worse the closer one approaches the regressor, though the man seems to be actively secluding himself.

The thoughts that come are painful. If I had been stronger. It will be better next regression. I couldn't save them. It rolls out like raging waves. The guilt and regret of a man who couldn't protect what was closest to him. It follows with the despair of someone who had become so tired. I want to finish all of this. I don't want to wake up.

Although he turns to glance at whoever might come close, there's no recognition in those eyes.

I want to die.]

II. Transformation
[He slams a fist against the wall of the cavern, not caring about the sting from it or the way it makes his knuckles bleed. It's honestly a lot better feeling than the way his entire body feels on fire.

He leans against the cold surface and the chill is actually comfort for whatever is happening to him. His jaw aches as his canines grow longer and his teeth seem to become sharper. More dangerous. His head is pounding and he barely registers that he can feel the flick of ears. Large wolfish points that blend with his black, wavy locks twitch and swivel with every sound. His nails become more claw-like and the skin of his hands seem to be dyed black.

A distortion of that lone-wolf persona and mentality that he had taken on mixed with his slowly weakening grasp of his own humanity.

Yoo Joonghyuk doesn't move from where he's pressed himself against. He does snarl and glare at anyone who approaches. Gold eyes look at the other suspiciously. His mind is still a jumbled mess. The effects of the Kenoma Sickness was still ravaging his psyche and it was keeping him too on edge. Too tense. His hand twitches if people gets too close. Sharp teeth are bared in warning. He hasn't attacked anyone, but he seems on guard and probably not against lashing out if he feels like he's being threatened. The paranoia in his mind ramped up to 100 as it tries to stave off the despair that was trying to sink poisonous claws into his thoughts like a disease.]

What do you want? If you don't need anything, go bother someone else.

III. Resistance
[Maybe his appearance is misleading. The dark appearance and the heavy weight of his past might make one think that he'd give into despair and darkness easily.

It's the opposite though. He had been struggling all this time and still was struggling. Maybe it was out of spite. He resented the treatment from the Hylicians through their entire pilgrimage. Hated how they were just to accept their fate. He had always been resistant to being the plaything of others. Had aimed to become powerful enough to transcend human limits to fell even stars. It's more than that though. At his core, he was always meant to reject the Kenoma. They were just never compatible to begin with. A regressor who couldn't witness the finality of an end and merely return at the beginning instead of feeling the embrace of death. Despair a constant companion, but also accompanied with hope. That singular goal to make it to the end.

He still had something to protect.

A warmth grows in his chest as the time passes and starts to relieve him of the pain that has been racking his body. Still, he's exhausted. He's still struggling through whatever ailments has a hold of him. Survival was touch and go, but he's managing. Yoo Joonghyuk struggles a bit as he sits up from where he's lying. He feels incredibly weak and he hates this feeling. Their treatment had been nothing less than foul; trying to force the scenario into them accepting whatever ailed them. He groans a bit as he finally sits up right. Brows furrow a bit as he scans the cavern even as his head pounds.] There are less people than before. [He knew the numbers had been dwindling with time. Saw a few of them leave the cavern. It was mostly an observation said out loud to himself.]

IV. Wildcard
[Feel free to hit me up with a personal starter if above options don't work for you. You can also contact me if you want to work something out and I can write something up for you. I can be contacted through DM, Plurk, or Discord (kiehl#6497).]

ii

[salvageable]

[ Considering the small amount of resources they're being given, Dokja had left Joonghyuk's side to see what he could trade or gather. He's not gone for very long, and when he returns, it's with a couple rations of food that he turns over in his hands with a frown. They're practically scraps... Nothing a person in their right mind would deign to eat, let alone glance in their direction.

He isn't given the opportunity to fret about it for too long when he hears the snap of an all too familiar voice, and Dokja hurries over to place a reassuring hand on the shoulder of whatever poor stranger had come across Yoo Joonghyuk's temper.

With a quick "I'll take care of this", he watches as they leave before rounding on the regressor. ]

Geez, is that how you've been talking to the people here? Really, you're—

[ The rest of his nagging dies in his throat when he sees the changes that have taken over Joonghyuk's body, and Dokja's mouth drops open as his eyes first settle on the pair of ears, then drop down to the newly acquired tail. ]

... What happened to you?

communion.

[lockedon]

[ At first, he thinks the despair threatening to close his throat is his own. It wouldn't be the first time in so many days that the darkness of his past has surged up from the recesses of his mind - or even the first time in so many years. The constant wish for death, the guilt that comes with being the lone survivor unable to save those he loved....they're all feelings deeply familiar to him that resonate within his heart.

It's only when unfamiliar words roll through his mind that the pieces click into place—or don't, in this particular case. Regression...? He looks up, brows pulling together in confusion as he tries to sort through which thoughts are his and which are alien thoughts intruding on his mind. Harder still is trying to pinpoint the source of the unfamiliar thoughts crowding into his mind. It's a futile quest, one he gives up on after only a few moments in favor of a more efficient method.

Namely, by pushing back.

Cut it out. There's a frission of annoyance behind the words that fades quick enough.There's no point dying here. Not when he's sure most of them have too many loose ends to tie up still. ]

ii - apparently dw ate my comment i'm so upset

[aquaveiled]

[ She needs more. She has to retrieve more, those are the thoughts that repeat in her mind. They're low on supplies and with so many disappearing, turning into those monstrosities--

--wait, was that here? Yes, it's everywhere. Wherever they go people seem to give into despair and their worst fears, becoming the selfsame demons they had hoped to flee from. But for the few that can be saved, they need supplies and it's up to her to see that they are taken care of, isn't it? It always is.

She sees someone huddled over beside themselves, clearly irritable. Instinct tells her he's hiding something...mayhaps guarding something. Something that she needs.

Himeka approaches, the kenoma having taken it's toll on her as well. Her scales have lost their luster, turning pale and colorless. Her hands and feet have turned black, the kenoma slowly dissipating as they move up her limbs. Her hair has turned from a vibrant red to a more subdued version, her normally bright pink eyes now gray, skin stained from the kenoma leaking out of her eyes and nose. She's a mess, but she isn't letting that stop her. ]

What are you hiding there?

Himeka Sui | Wanderer | Closed Prompts

[aquaveiled]

[ ooc; I'm going to be primarily tagging around in other TLs, but if you want to thread and aren't doing one feel free to give me a ping on discord or doggystyle! I'm happy to write starters. ]

Meteion

[aquaveiled]

In the days since they were forced to imbibe that awful black substance, tensions have only risen within the ruins. And understandably so, haunted with visions of her own failures, the ever-present dread that after all they had accomplished, Eitherys may still be destroyed, if it hasn't already--Himeka can only imagine what is plaguing everyone else around her. Well, at least the ones that have not incidentally broadcast these thoughts...

She tries to keep hers wrapped up. Reminding herself that this is yet another obstacle to overcome, no matter the way her bones occasionally give up, feeling like liquid beneath her skin. Or the fact when she bites back tears, they're speckled with blackness--this too shall pass.

It has to.

That's all the more reason to look after one another. Meteion is, of course, someone that is difficult to ignore. Himeka knows that even if the situation were different she would see fit to keep an eye on the girl, but she would be lying if she said that the fate Meteion inevitably bestowed upon their universe didn't weigh heavily into that equation.

So she makes a point to keep checking in on Meteion from time to time when she isn't succumbing to some new awful side effect. Seeing the entelechy trying to make herself useful, Himeka sees it only fit to join in. She kneels next to the bird-like girl as she smooths out an unclaimed bedroll next to a few others, offering Meteion a tired smile.

"You've been keeping busy...haven't you?"

Emet-Selch

[aquaveiled]

If the waiting before the ritual had been trying, the waiting after is pure agony. Before her thoughts could get away from her, imagining potential scenarios and unlikely victories in their attempts to overcome their keepers. She could reel those back in and return to waiting and observing. But now? It feels as if her mind is not her own.

For once, she is put off her food. An uncommon sight considering how sacredly she seems to hold both the consumption and sharing of it no matter the situation. But when she looks down at her rations all she can see is spoiled, rancid mussels, dripping from their shells. Back in her childhood, when the harvest had gone so horribly wrong--beds and beds of bivalves boiled alive in their shells due to a surprisingly warm current that year. Sui-no-Sato went hungry, carefully rationing out what supplies they did have, only for that very summer for disease to run rampant throughout the insulated community...

Himeka quickly rolls up the package and shakes her head. Though she knows--she knows it isn't real, her senses are doing their utmost to convince her otherwise.

Instead, she stands, looking around for someone who may benefit from her change of stomach instead. Himeka does a slow double-take when her gaze settles on Emet-Selch. She hesitates for a moment, unsure of what to make of...their unique circumstances. Of his, in particular. But right now he suffers with the rest of them. So she approaches and holds the package out with little premable.

"It's important to eat before battle," she says. Hopefully the joke makes up for how haggard she actually feels.

misa amane | death note | lover

[lifespanned]

( i'm only tagging around this time and won't be top leveling, but i am doing closed prompts! feel free to hmu with a pm if you'd like one and and i haven't hit your top level yet 🙇‍♀️ )

luo binghe

[lifespanned]

[ It's not quick, and it's not painless, whatever this process they're going through is. At first, all the suffering had seemed aimless - there was no end in sight, and no real reason for them to be enduring it. That is, until Misa started hearing them. That voice, those promises of a new world. So far, it's all been vague, strange whispers whenever her mind gets a break. Just enough to keep her longing after that explanation she's been aching for.

She crawls to the closest person she can recognize, trembling from fever, eyes a bit wild from the non-stop delusions. ]

H-Hey, I've gotta ask you something, it's really important. I feel like I'm going crazy... I'm hearing things...