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

[epiprocta]

[ Oh, he hates the taste of his own medicine. It had already been hard enough dealing with the incessant echo of his own thoughts, but when those unfamiliar red eyes flicker terrifyingly bright through the forefront of his mind, Gen physically flinches. Buries his head in his hands, fingers tangling through his hair as he fights back a low hiss, trying to will those thoughts away.

It's not until Dextera's fingers have almost made contact that he manages to collect himself enough to notice them ... and immediately recoils a half-step. ]

... what d'you want.

[ It's so obvious he's being deliberately obtuse, his anger further tempered by caution (and, to be honest, an escalating headache). Yes, he can vaguely tell that this guy wants to 'help.' But that doesn't accomplish anything. Doesn't amount to anything. Gets him nothing. Why the hell is he bothering to try? ]

[passio]

[ it’s a good, fair question, even if it comes from someone who is neither good nor fair. dextera doesn’t know what he wants. he’s simply drawn to the pain of others like a moth to the flame, throwing himself right into the core of it without a plan of what to do next.

he saw someone he knew, suffering, and he’s handed himself over like he can do something. none of them have been able to do anything for each other.

the uselessness does feel briefly overwhelming, and it shows on his face as he gazes at gen, his expression of shock like someone who just realized they’re in a hopeless situation. he thinks to himself now what, and has half a mind to pick himself up and stumble off like this interaction didn’t happen. he doesn’t. ]

…

[ there’s blackness dripping from the shard embedded in his arm, and he realizes he can use it to write. ]

Hurt

[epiprocta]

[ 'Hurt.' He'd already been tensing at the sight of the blank, overwhelmed look in Dextera's eyes, but Gen grits his teeth as he reads that word etched on the ground with that black sludge. ]

... is this about me fighting with those guards again?

[ It's true that he's earned himself a fresh batch of bruises from his impotent raging against the guards despite Dextera's warnings from last time. And from most other people, he might have expected some annoying lecture, a more tactfully-worded 'I told you so,' and already have a petulant come-back prepared for it.

But Dextera's silence and sparse wording make it far too easy for his mind to draw unwanted connections, and Gen swallows thickly before spitting out, ]

-- or what, you see someone hurting and just go running to them? [ He chokes on those last few words, his breaths coming shorter and sharper as he fights back a tight feeling in his chest. Tries terribly hard to stop himself from drawing parallels between this mute freak and someone he's been desperately avoiding thinking about. ] What are you, a dog?

[passio]

[ dextera can feel gen’s pain like his own, even if he can’t pinpoint the reason or the history behind it. it’s all kind of familiar, anyway—dextera is aware that his whole existence is easy to project onto, when his silence provides nothing to fill the air but someone’s own thoughts and conclusions.

he still has feelings, though.

being called a dog briefly raises some indignation in him, and his blank stare flickers—albeit belatedly—into frustration. it raises the memory of the archangel, looming over him just like this and asking if dextera is even capable of learning. at the time, it had felt like someone was informing him of the truth. lost and frightened and terribly guilty, dextera had taken the archangel’s flippant accusation as rooted in fact. the sickness makes the two figures blur together in his mind; with a rough swipe under his nose for more bodily ink, dextera takes advantage of this new mode of communication. ]

No

[ the way he writes might as well convey snapping at someone, an unusual little flare of anger. ]

[epiprocta]

[ It should piss him off that Dextera has the gall to get irritable when he's the reason behind the difficulty communicating. It's not like Gen wants to play this stupid charade of trying to parse what his gestures and one-word written responses mean. So who the hell is he to get mad about having his answer misinterpreted? It should make him mad, probably.

Instead, it's a strange frisson of relief that cuts through the distress coiled tight around his lungs, and Gen's next exhale comes ragged and harsh. His words softer, still tense but more muted as he mutters, ]

... so you do have a spine.

[ Fine. It's for the best this way. It's probably for the best that he keep this guy separate from that other person he's trying so hard to keep out of his thoughts. Even if a tiny part of him prickles with rueful longing, he stomps it out; clutches a hand to his face for one, two hoarse breaths as he tries to get a grip on his expression, before finally forcing himself to meet Dextera's gaze again. Oblivious to the way his aggressive posture's started to flag, now that he's permitted himself to drop his guard. ]

What, then?

[passio]

…

[ something likewise shifts in dextera. he doesn’t know himself enough to say whether he’s relieved or further pained by gen’s answer, but he feels different from before in any case. the fight flickers out of him, at least for now.

he wonders if there was any real value in approaching. the same as before, the only thing he seems to have done is exchange gen’s anger for his… whatever this is. his derision, his pity, dextera isn’t sure. gen is a separate person, but he also seems right at home in the silhouette of figures dotting dextera’s memories. the illness that they’re all suffering says as much, just like it tells him in a whisper that gen is seeing things in his mind, too.

dextera reminds himself that’s why he approached. he can’t do anything, that much is certain, but like has called to like.

a long pause, then he simply pats the ground next to him. he looks exhausted when he does it, like he’s commenting from above on his own unbelievable actions. he already knows gen does not want to accompany him. ]

[epiprocta]

[ Probably unsurprising that the silent invitation promptly earns a huffed exhale, then the sound of dirt gritting underfoot as Gen shifts his stance, as if ready to turn away and leave.

What is probably surprising is the fact that he doesn't.

He'd be hard pressed to say why he doesn't. Maybe it's because, silent as he is, Dextera's offer to sit doesn't carry any pity or condescension. Maybe it's because he feels weirdly deflated after that meaningless emotional peak that had defused all on its own. Maybe it's because he's just that tired. Or, more realistically, maybe it's a little bit of everything.

Regardless the reason, after a moment of silence Gen does relent. Not fully -- he doesn't draw any closer, doesn't take the seat next to Dextera. But he does slowly slump down to sit on the ground, crosslegged and hunched over so he can bury his face in his hands. Sighs heavily before mumbling, his words muffled into his own hands, ]

... you saw them, didn't you.

[ Those red eyes, he means. His first thought is that they're something that they all must have seen. But even as he says it, it occurs to him that his own thoughts have been flickering wildly, bringing back vivid flashes of memories that he's been purposefully avoiding. ... this isn't some sort of fantasy bullshit where they're seeing the stuff in each other's minds, is it?

-- fuck, it is, isn't it. Given the way everything here's been going, it probably is. ]

[passio]

[ oh, he sat.

dextera’s eyes widen only a millimeter before some sense of hesitance creeps up the back of his neck, and he’s back to that nervous look he was wearing in their first encounter. his eyes aren’t twitching, at least, but he does glance at the ground where he draws circles to keep focus. he truly expects that they’re both going to sit in silence and dwell on what they both saw but won’t speak about, and then—gen acknowledges it. ]

…

[ there’s always an unhappy mix of emotions in his chest at any time. he always feels shame, guilt, fear, everything under that horrible umbrella as if he was born to bear those feelings and nothing else. but, the things he experienced near gen were different. he was feeling someone else’s feelings from his own perspective—and it’s only his experience with the baroques of others that has allowed him to even begin to untangle the threads in his mind.

they were gen’s memories, but they felt like his, and they were his, but he knows they weren’t and so on and so forth. the red eyes were the archangel’s, but the cold gaze could have been anyone.

bringing guilt with him as he turns his head like a dog waiting to be punished, he nods in gen’s direction. slowly, just as apologetic, ]

I can feel things

[epiprocta]

[ He'd been casting a sideways glance at Dextera past the shadow of his hand, and when that dreaded nod comes, he gives a frustrated huff. Groans as he scuffs his hand back through his hair -- only to have his fingers snag against knots and tangles, unsurprising given how filthy he is after days of getting dragged around and getting his ass kicked by the guards.

It takes him a moment to (furiously) untangle his hand from his hair and look back towards Dextera. brow furrowed and jaw clenched. His kneejerk reaction is to browbeat and scare Dextera into promising not to breathe a word about anything he might have seen to anyone; even if there's no worry of cops or legal trouble here (probably?), he's not in the mood to deal with a bunch of people finding out about his secret.

Fortunately for them both, Dextera's written statement is jarring enough to distract him from that course of action. ]

... 'I can feel things.'

[ Not for the first time, Gen wishes Dextera could talk like a normal person, because what the hell does that mean. The wording implies he's not talking solely about what just happened, right? ]

What, this sort of thing happens to you normally? -- is this your fault?

dex won’t laugh at gen’s gross hair but i will

[passio]

…!

[ it hadn’t, until now, occurred to dextera that all of this could somehow be his fault. the accusation seems unpleasantly reasonable considering his own history, and for a moment, his breath gets caught in his throat. he destroyed the world, after all—there’s no reason that this isn’t some awful new creation of his, one that he doesn’t even recall making.

—luckily, reason catches him before he can dig too deeply into that train of thought. although he’s not incapable of creating a new world, there’s no reason he would have made a place like this. there’s no reason he would force everyone to suffer. he has the capacity for cruelty, but not always the imagination to follow through.

despite the quiver of panic, he belatedly shakes his head. he squeezes his arm, forcing more of that ichor out like he’s letting a wound. ]

Other people
Here

yes good thank you because he deserves it

[epiprocta]

Stop that.

[ Tired as he is and with his mind still in such disarray, his actions are more thoughtless, and he still can't completely untangle Dextera's spacey demeanor from the person it reminds him of. And so Gen gives that cranky admonishment as he reaches over to slap Dextera's hand away so he'll stop squeezing at his arm like that. ]

It's gross to look at. Already feel sick enough as is. Don't do it on purpose.

[ He only thinks to offer that lame excuse afterward, as he looks away once more. ]

... yeah, there's ... something going on. [ What a lame way of putting it. But completely unused to these sorts of supernatural goings on, he can't think of any other way of describing these events. ] Been feeling weird things since they started this whole ritual. Figured they drugged us with something to make us see things.

[ But now it doesn't seem so simple. He's loathe to admit it, but the way Dextera puts it feels much more apt. ]

wash your hair nasty!!

[passio]

Huh?

[ dextera does stop squeezing his arm, mostly out of surprise that someone would bother to keep him from doing it. it’s convenient, and since it doesn’t seem to actually be blood, he didn’t make the leap to it still potentially reading as gross. the soft noise he makes in question is just enough to hint at what he might sound like if he could answer in words instead of bodily secretions.

placing his hands in his lap to keep from picking or squeezing or poking, even if only for a moment, dextera nods to gen’s assessment. he has vague memories of doctors speaking around him, pumping him full of something to some end, and it had seemed reasonable enough that this was the same. there’s the distant beep of a heart rate monitor in his memories, shared through their legacy bond without dextera’s knowledge or permission.

he nervously glances from gen to his own arm, like he’s afraid of getting scolded for writing again. ]

…

that's why he went to kenoma, so they'll let him out so he can take damn shower 😔

[epiprocta]

[ The lack of movement or reaction has him glancing over, eyebrow raised, and Gen stares for a moment before realizing Dextera's balking, like he's afraid of getting yelled at. Of fucking course.

He heaves a sigh after a moment, shoulders slumping as he waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. ]

-- whatever. Do what you want. Just take it easy. Feel like I'm gonna hurl if I have to look at too much of that black shit spilling everywhere.

[ His own shard is embedded at the hollow of his throat, peeking above the neckline of his robe, sparing him the sight of the steady drip of black oozing from his veins. But it definitely hasn't been helping in keeping his ragged clothes clean, the fabric patchy with black stains by now. Gen scratches distractedly at the half-dried, sticky mess dribbling down his collarbone before finding his words again. ]

... those eyes. Was that a real person? The red eyes.

[ Knowing that should help cement what's going on with the weird, foreign thoughts and emotions flickering through his head, he figures. ]

[passio]

[ after a moment’s consideration, it’s not impossible to understand why someone wouldn’t want to see him do that when they all feel like garbage. they all look like garbage, too, with their formerly pristine robes covered in the filth of captivity. ]

…

[ dextera lets out a short, troubled breath when gen pursues the matter of the eyes. it mutually answers their questions about all this; whether they want it to or not, secrets are being shared.

he reluctantly nods. but the reason he had thought of them in the first place was the fear and stress he had felt from gen, and he wants to ask about that, too—although he’s plenty aware that gen is not likely to answer, nor is he likely to be happy about being asked in the first place. ]

[epiprocta]

[ Yeah, of course it was someone real. Stupid question, now that he thinks about it. That overbearing, breathtaking feeling of worthlessness that had accompanied those red eyes had been far too vivid, far too painful to be anything but real. Gen shivers as he recalls that feeling, takes a deep breath to forcibly tamp it back down.

Which only leaves the question of whether those eyes had been something this stupid ritual his showing him, or if they're really something Dextera remembers, and ... well.

That answers that, doesn't it.

-- what had Dextera seen of his, then? He almost doesn't want to know.

It must be pretty transparent that that's why Gen's quiet for a moment before abruptly asking, as if hurrying to drive the subject of conversation away from himself: ]

Who was it. [ No, more importantly. ] ... why were they looking at you like that.

[passio]

[ dextera doesn’t really want to answer the question. what he wants to do is inquire about gen in kind, since the only way he’s ever truly gotten to know people otherwise is by killing them and prying their secrets from their soul. it may not be polite to ask about a person’s traumas, but that’s a matter for a different day.

as it stands, refusing to “say” anything will only end this conversation and the two of them will be no better off than before. maybe offering something about himself, something that’s easy to answer if not unpleasant to talk about, will make gen more likely to open up in turn. ]

…

[ well, the question seems easy to answer, but when he actually needs to condense the archangel to a handful of words, the task nearly becomes impossible. ]

Leader [ …is what he goes with. ] Doesn’t like me

[epiprocta]

[ Leader of what? He gives a dubious frown, but that question is laid by the wayside when he sees what Dextera writes next. ]

'Doesn't like me.'

[ Gen gives a low scoff as he stares at Dextera, almost accusatory. ]

Bet it's not that simple. You don't look at someone like that just because you 'don't like them.'

[ Not that he'd know what it's like exactly; he'd made plenty of enemies back home, but even those had never reached the level of genuine loathing. The look in those red eyes had been truly chilling, and while it's not a direct parallel, Gen at least understand what it takes to elicit that level of emotion.

He won't pry right now, though. Tactless and brusque as he is, he knows that some things aren't meant to be spoken of so easily, and if Dextera isn't going to offer any elaboration first, he'll save it for later. Gen drops his gaze as he sighs. ]

-- just don't make me see it again.

[passio]

[ it would provide some incredible insight if dextera could figure out what it is beyond not being liked that makes the archangel hate him so much. everything he does seems like a personal slight against the archangel for reasons he’s incapable of understanding—and so, from dextera’s perspective, it’s that simple only because he has nothing else to say about it.

when gen decides to drop it, dextera nods. he feels like he needs to apologize for showing it, but when he lifts the pale plane of his arm to write that out, he hesitates. he’s learning gen; an apology would probably just annoy him. such is the conclusion he comes to, and why he spends a beat longer than should be natural with an inky finger pressed to his skin.

he looks between his canvas and gen’s face, now clearly considering—nervously, of course—what he can get away with inquiring about in response. so focused is he on what he wants to say that he doesn’t think about how to say it. ]

I felt sick [ and because his arm is not that big, he has to wipe it off to continue the sentence— ] When I saw you

[epiprocta]

[ The wait's fine in this context. Gives him a little more breathing room to try and organize the tangled mess of his thoughts. Even the obviously-incomplete first half of Dextera's answer is met without much reaction, and it's only when he sees the second half that Gen scowls. ]

Like you're in much better shape --

[ Ah. No. -- right, of course. Dextera's not talking about how sickening the lot of them must look right now, is he? Gen's expression darkens and his words peter off as he realizes what Dextera must be referring to, eyes narrowing before he averts his gaze.

At least Dextera doesn't have to deal with any explosive anger this time. Mostly because Gen's just too fucking tired to get mad about something that's already a done deal. Instead, Gen's quiet for a moment before speaking up again; he doesn't look over at first, keeping his eyes fixed on some indistinct spot on the ground as he mutters, ]

... what was it? The blood?

[ That's what would make most people sick, isn't it. That vivid memory of his hands dripping with blood. ]

[passio]

[ dextera thinks for a moment. all those image had mingled together into one indistinct picture of gen’s traumas, but he doesn’t think it was specifically the blood that had drawn illness. his own immunity against the viscera of life was hard won, and he thinks gen isn’t so quick to nausea either.

no, it was something else. ]

The fear

[ if he can call it fear, exactly. it had felt somehow even more pressing than that word could encompass—it was the same sensation altogether that the archangel instills in him, and that’s why he worries. ]

[epiprocta]

-- I wasn't afraid. [ The derision with which he says that word, accompanied by an irate glare, makes his kneejerk sentiment clear. Minegishi Gen isn't the type to waste energy on fear because he's tough and strong and willing to do whatever he needs to do in order to survive this place. There's no way he would have been afraid. ] I was just ...

[ Strange, then, how he can't seem to figure out how to end that sentence. What was he, then, if he wasn't afraid? There's an uncomfortable, telling pause before he manages to summon an answer. ]

... it's ... from when I was younger. What you saw. Mostly. [ The closet. The blood. The distant sobbing. Only the eyes are a recent memory. ] ... that's all.

[ Lame. He knows it's lame even as he says it. ]

[passio]

[ luckily, dextera isn’t the teasing type, and certainly not about something like this. he’s not going to push gen to admit he’s afraid—dextera has already attributed it to that, and gen’s faltering answer suggests they’re on the same page about it without needing to puzzle out the perfect word. ]

…

[ dextera inhales slowly. the closet, the blood, the sobbing. those are not things someone should experience in childhood, and yet… and yet, something about gen’s description resonates with him. the scar on his hip aches, and his exhale is more shuddering than the breath he took in. the blood, the sobbing. the fear.

he holds his own fingers tight enough to hurt; they twitch in his grip, trying to relive some distant memory he has no substance for. he can’t write anything for that moment, so he just nods. ]

—…

[ when he manages to compose himself again, he still doesn’t know what he wants to say. what he does instead is pry his hands apart from one another, and tentatively reaches out. he doesn’t touch gen’s wrist, but it’s clear that’s what he’s thinking about. his fingers hover in the nearby space. ]

[epiprocta]

[ This feels ridiculous.

He'd never intended to let anyone know about what had happened back then; those were all secrets he'd meant to take to the grave. But everything's long since spiralled out of his control, even before he ended up in this place, and now some stranger who can't even tell him his name knows something fucked up happened when he was younger. ]

It's not -- [ 'not a big deal,' is what he starts to say. But he can't even pretend that's true. ] -- I'm ... [ 'I'm fine.' Also untrue. Gen's not so lacking in self-awareness that he'd pretend that hadn't affected him in a lot of ways. ] ... it's ... whatever. I can't do anything about it now.

[ But that doesn't come out like the stoic statement of strength he'd meant it to be, does it? Gen wearily scuffs a hand through his hair again, probably something Dextera might start recognizing as an anxious tic, before he looks over when he spots movement. ]

... what?

[ Maybe it says something, the fact that his first thought isn't that the attempt to touch his wrist is meant to comfort him, but is instead Dextera's attempt to do ... something. So Gen brusquely offers his hand forth for whatever it is Dextera wants. ]

[passio]

[ gen is obviously just a teenager, but he seems all the more like it when he tries to find the right way to brush off the memories accidentally exposed. it brings nothing consciously acknowledgeable to mind in dextera, but there’s the faint glimmer in him of something he once knew how to do. the order of malkuth accepted all sorts.

it doesn’t feel like the knowledge of how to be kind to someone, though. that sensation and the urge in him now are disparate. his hand pauses above gen’s, and then he briefly shakes his head as if to dismiss the thought that he’s trying to give or take or even write something. ]

…

[ instead, he just gently touches his fingers to gen’s pulse, the most delicate thing he can muster. he holds his gaze there for a long moment—relatively speaking—before looking up to meet gen’s eyes as a punctuation to the gesture. ]

[epiprocta]

-- huh?

[ He expects something to come after that shake of the head. An explanation, or some action, or another shitty round of charades accompanying another hastily-scribbled word. But no, there's just the gentle pressure of Dextera's fingers coming to rest against his wrist.

Gen's pulse is still a little quick, their circumstances making it hard for him to fully relax, but it does slow a beat as that contact is maintained. And though Gen doesn't exactly welcome the gentle touch, he doesn't shake it off, either. Just stares at it dubiously for an extended moment before looking away, as if silently granting Dextera permission. ]

... don't tell anyone. [ Not like he even really thinks Dextera is a gossip. But he's trusting Dextera with this small favor. ] Nobody was ever supposed to know that stuff. Until I die. [ Or actually: ] ... just forget it all, it's nothing to do with you.