aionlogs | EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE

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EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[As if anyone still struggling could possibly be left to dream in peace. Even those who no longer are, if anything; maybe he's just so tired that he no longer feels the pull of those dark whispers, however briefly? Or would it be warded by the budding of something different entirely, given time to grow the longer those still trapped in the throne room were left to fight and fend for themselves?

She's not given much time to ponder over the possibilities. What happened first? The faint prickling sensation on her skin as the man's ~~paw~~ hand attaches itself to the exact spot on her arm where a wound shaped like a sigil had been formed, or the awareness that despite how groggy and weak that sleepy request sounded, it's nevertheless not the first time she's heard that voice speak?

(It was a plea, then. It is not another plea, now?)

She did manage to wipe his chin clean, that hand now hangs frozen at the side of his cheek. Her free arm is equally statuesque under his (weak) grip, despite it weighting like a child who doesn't want to be abandoned over that of a man clinging onto a lifeline. Just wh... No. So, he, is...?

She is still, and she is holding her breath. The creeping realization that she's already stayed for too long sinks in further with every additional second spent at his side, yet she cannot find it in her to simply pull away, effortless as it would be to break his hold on her arm with how feeble his hold is. Just, why...

...]

[ ah, he's been freed from the embarrassing evidence of his undignified dozing, has he...? what a kind soul his mysterious benefactor has, cleaning him up and humoring his pleas for Five More Minutes, Mom, He Doesn't Want To Go To School Yet Please Don't Make Him........

...

when his request isn't met with denial and that hovering arm isn't withdrawn, Abel seems to take it as assent-- and a small, drowsy smile tugs at his lips in gratitude. suppose it's a little late to try and sneak that appendage he's seized back, now; the window of opportunity for ~~Ciel~~Elesia has passed her by, and now...

Abel is gently sliding his hand down her arm, loosely grasping her hand in his own to settle in his lap instead. perhaps he really had been having a dream that wasn't entirely unpleasant, because wherever his still sleep-addled brain has taken him... it clearly isn't to a dark, tumultuous place that spoke of a ~~shared~~ hollowness. a man surely couldn't have such a look on his face if that were the case, right...? ]

...are you tired? Maybe, 'f you want to...

[ his fingers give hers a tiny squeeze; maybe it's meant to be a tug in invitation to join him(??), but doesn't end up quite making it there where there's a disconnect between Sleepyhead and Hand Eye Coordination. l-look, she CLEARLY agreed to five more minutes, so don't get mad if he's still half asleep, okay........ ]

...

[Her breath finally escapes her lungs in a silent exhale let loose with pinpoint precision. This careless, carefree man, with that ~~punchable~~ silly look on his face, is really...

...

This Was A Mistake. Why did she ignore her gut feeling.

But given how much of her life had been mistake after mistake, what's one more atop the pile? He's got one of her hands hostage, but it's dead still in his lap, and she's still got her free one holding onto the towel, now withdrawn back to hover a few inches away from his ~~stupid~~ stupid, droopy face. He wanted five minutes, right? Alright, she'll do him that final courtesy. What's five more minutes of tomfoolery, after everything? Once it's up, however, after...

...]

[ it seems this man is collecting adjectives like they're candy (ah, he does have an insatiable sweet tooth!), huh? here he is none the wiser, his head settling to relax now it seems he has what he had been wanting after. her hand...? or is that merely like an anchor, promising that he has company?

it's a little funny, a little strange; the last time they were to share anything-- it was terribly cold, and empty, and shadowed by all the ugly things rattling around like skeletons in their closets, unsightly and innumerable. one would be hard pressed to see either of those people in these two, now.

'five minutes,' he'd said.

is it the longest five of ~~Ciel~~Elesia's life...? his smile seems to have begun to slip from his lips, but not for any discomfort or disquiet. it seems that Sleepiness is merely tugging at him once again, his request fulfilled; a man really ought to have a better watch of his back in these kind of precarious circumstances, right? he's in the presence of a stranger and nigh weak as a kitten to boot. but...

well. suppose it goes without saying... Abel's breathing is soft, and even for long as ~~Ciel~~Elesia humors him with her company. suppose the only hitch in all this is managing to escape, considering... ah, somehow-- his hold on her hand has become surprisingly firm, hasn't it... ]

[Ciel is a forgiving and patient woman, as much as she herself would never claim to be as she's not in the habit of collecting adjectives, unlike present ridiculous company. It's the core reason why she hasn't already pulled away, why she ultimately does accord the "five minutes" so pitifully bemoaned by this man whose height in feet may be more reflective of his age.

They would normally be surrounded by silence and misery, but since this foolish noodly creature seems all but too happy to blissfully doze off once more, they are instead surrounded by silence and... ~~???~~ silence, just surprisingly less disquieting than the kind one would expect, down here where it usually smells of sweat and despair.

Five minutes is five minutes. He may not be counting, but she is. And once it's up...]

[The man is getting his face unceremoniously wiped. Starting at the forehead, down the left temple to the cheekbone, then same to the right side. The towel is then dexterously flipped to fold the dirty side in while bringing another clean one out, before the bridge of his nose is somewhat roughly rubbed down--to make sure it's properly cleaned, of course. After that, it's the jawlines on both side, and finally, the towel is titled to a different angle before scrubbing over his mouth.

...There. His face is now irrefutably, irrevocably, unquestionably mopped ✨squeaky clean✨. Now instead of being sloppy, sad, dirty, exhausted, and drooling, he's just sloppy, sad, exhausted, and not-as-dirty anymore in the face! Small improvement, and every little bit counts~~???~~!

Good thing she's hooded, hm. If he wakes up from that, maybe he'll mistake her for a ghost or something?]

--ss... ster.

[ it is a not-quite-fully-formed word that leaves him half-way through getting his face indiGNANTLY wiped down like he's FIVE YEARS OLD (do NOT need any commentary on accuracy, ty,) hello?? HELLO?? what is happening, right now.....?? ma'M this is a ~~Wendy's~~ Despair Cave,

...a better question would be why he's just wrinkling up his face with a meager fidget, and yet not making a single move to stop this?? as if it's just A Thing That Happens, and he's been Trained not to resist........ ]

--'ster. Mi... Miss Esther--

[ ah.

--ah.

it's definitely serving to wake him up, it seems; blue eyes are now beginning to properly open as ~~Ciel~~Elesia abruptly rubs that towel over his mouth, cutting off whatever ??? he had been about to say with a strangled noise of protest-- ]

[

brackets empty no ~~thots~~ thoughts ]

Ah.

[ .... ]

You-- aren't... a-ah.

[ ah.

yes, this is all around the towel shoved about his mouth, in case you were wondering, ]

[What a convenient thing that Ciel had never been addressed by a word that may rhyme with "---ster", her role within a certain Holy organization entirely military in function. She remains stone-faced during the Rousing, brought upon at last by her own hand. Now then, her only subject of concern:

Is her other hand free?

She'd like that back now, if he would so please?

In the meanwhile he can stare vacantly at the hooded but distinctively feminine figure crouched at his side, almost like a statue with how still and silent she is (who is also holding a towel shoved about his mouth, yes). Where should he stare? Whatever, tbh??]

[ oh, what? are you asking about that hand? the one that Abel is still -- subconsciously -- gripping in his lap with an odd sort of firmness to it...? surely that one isn't of any concern. nope, no, no, seeing as how it's clearly his property now. mmhm.

...he is, at least, beginning to realize that he has been ???ing in his sleep, because there's a towel in his mouth, and there's the feminine shape of a woman clad in a hooded cloak that hides her features, and yet he still somehow manages to pick up the quiet air of displeasure, somehow, despite having no body language on which to base this claim? hm. perhaps it's an instinct, well-honed over the years. mm. ]

A... ah? Mmn?

[ he isn't capable of saying all too much with the towel shoved in his face, but you know what

honestly

that might be for the best for all parties involved, ]

[...

With almost palpable reluctance, the towel is removed from his facehole. It's followed by a faint (yet oddly sharp??) clearing of throat, along with a not-so-subtle tug in his ~~paw~~ hand that may clue him in at last over the fact that yes, he's currently stickily grabbing onto something that doesn't belong to him.

Well?]

[ uh,

.......it appears Abel is still shaking off the last cobwebs of sleep clinging to him; he's blinking at the shadowed face of the woman sat before him as if he isn't quite sure what in the world is happening. considering how utterly disorienting everything has been thus far, suppose waking to find himself in the company of someone who hadn't been there when he nodded off, is just a bit...... ]

Ah, did I...

[ whatever he'd been about to ask is cut off as he FINALLY realizes what that weird tugging sensation is, eyes flickering down to where his ~~paw~~ paw is grubbily holding....... hers, and-- ]

[ --he abruptly releases her with a soft noise of awkward fluster, pulling his ~~paws paws back toward him as if recoiling from something burning, ]~~

S-- sorry!! I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I-- I mean, that I had taken your-- um,

[ this is going so well, ]

[The woman's chest visibly heaves, and her shoulders slump with it. For better or worse, it didn't sound like a sigh, just a controlled exhale.

Normally, she'd apologize for disturbing him from his sleep, especially considering how comfortably he clearly looked despite their circumstances. But after this STICKY PAW INCIDENT? That makes them even, so she doesn't owe him anything. Edging back to put more distance between them now that she's FINALLY free, she's starting to rise to her feet, as if preparing to leave. Is she just going to dip? Sure looks like it, now that he's finally done being needy and clingy on complete strangers!! They've never spoken or seen each other's faces before, misplaced attachment issues much??]

[ a-ah. well, it's... it's probably not surprising that she wants to Get The Hell Outta Dodge after being unceremoniously pawed upon, but... Abel is watching her withdrawal with a growing sense of confusion. she's... eerily quiet, isn't she? and he still can't see her face. ]

...A-are you alright, miss...?

[ how had she managed to get that cloak? ...ah. does that mean, then-- that she is one of those who have already--

... ]

[Once again, she knows, logically, what she should be doing: stand up, turn around, walk away, and never look back. He can find out about that wooden cup filled with water left at his side on his own, later.

Once again, she goes against her own common sense, because apparently she simply can't help herself:]

Worry about yourself.

[Not accusatory, not reproachful, simply plainly said. With that out, she turns her back to him with every intention of taking her long-due step in the opposite direction. She's far, far overstayed her welcome, and every fibre of her is aware.]

[ ...there's something about that voice that pulls, tugs at him. it's familiar, isn't it? but for a moment, he can't quite pinpoint it... like an itch, something tickling at him from the base of his skull. where does he know that voice from again...?

but that thought is pushed aside for the one that had come before it. there is no sign of exhaustion nor fatigue in her mannerisms as she rises fluidly, nor does she seem disquieted or harangued by the Kenoma's sickness. the cloak, her composure-- then this means... ]

--wait.

[ a soft, but hasty request. (it seems he's been making a good deal of those, hasn't he...?) Abel is leaning forward as if preparing to lumber after her. ]

Please, would you wait a minute...? You... have we met, before?

[Which 'God' should she offer her thanks to, that he hasn't gotten his ~~paw~~ grip on her again in a thotughtless attempt to stop her? The idea is almost humorous.

One step away from him taken.]

No.

[And it's the truth. They're strangers, through and through.]

[ ...she's intent on leaving.

but that itch is still there, and her refuting that they've met before-- it just doesn't sit right with him, somehow. considering he's already all but sure that she has already accepted whatever the Kenoma had offered her... letting her go-- it feels like a grievous error of judgment.

he's fumbling a bit clumsily up to his feet, leaning a hand awkwardly against the cold and rocky surface of the cavern wall, and maybe she had counted her blessings about him keeping his paws to himself too early. though she's taken a step away from him... he's in possession of particularly long and lanky limbs, isn't he? ah. how unfortunate for her; he's gently reaching to grasp for her elbow in hopes of once more coaxing her to halt her retreat. ]

--Please, miss. You... why did you, ah...

[ was she trying to help him? ...why?

why does he feel so certain that letting her go would be a mistake? ]

[He may be long and lanky, but she is small and lithe. He would be sorely mistaken to think her easy to catch, but while he fails to find purchase on her elbow, it would seem that he does manage to cling onto his inexplicable gut feeling, somehow: he'll find himself snagging cloth, which is coincidentally linked to her hood. A small, tentative tug confirms his grip; she could keep walking, but if he doesn't let go, then she would have no choice but to leave even more behind.

...]

Let go.

[It's not a request.]

[ Let go.

she means the fabric he's managed to entangle in his fingers, of course. but somehow-- those words tug at something else inside of him. that impressively stubborn itch blooms into all-out recognition, now, and ~~Ciel~~Elesia gets her wish. his fingers loosen, the fabric of her cloak freed as a quiet realization sweeps him.

this woman... she is the one, who...

... ]

[Easy, isn't it? He doesn't have to think about it. He has no fault nor responsibility in this, so it's simply best to let go. Something inexplicable, impossible may have crossed a few days earlier, but she didn't ask him to hold on then, and she's not about to start now.

No sense crying over spilled milk.

Without another word, she takes another step. Then another, following that.

Whether she's aware of the weight and significance of his silence, she really does not appear to have the slightest intention of lingering at his side ~~any longer~~. He's already realized even before this, hasn't he? They chose differently, so that automatically puts them at odds.

It doesn't matter, what she was doing before. He's let go, once, twice, thrice now. So let go, this'll be another fading daydream before long.]

[ letting go might be a life skill Abel should've learned a long long, long time ago.

...but he hadn't.

the fabric of her cloak slips through his fingers as his attention is stolen elsewhere, a revelation thoroughly distracting him from one task to another. the last time he'd seen her, this woman had been ascending the incline toward the Hylician guard - and then making her way beyond them to a place Abel could not follow in more ways than one. he had felt it, he's sure... the moment when she had been the one to let go.

Abel may not be the steadiest on his feet; there is something terribly ironic in being the most human he's been in centuries, here and now, but it doesn't stop him from taking a stubborn, willful step forward to bridge the broadening gap between them. his fingers that have loosened on that fabric now reach once more, fully intending to grasp at whatever he can find. ]

--Elesia?

[ that is her name, isn't it--? one so quietly uttered among the nightmarish chaos, one so surreal Abel still isn't certain what had been real and what had been some kind of shared madness.

...no, he isn't very good at letting go at all. ]

[Two steps of her part, and it only takes him one to catch up. Perhaps something can be said for being a lanky beanpole, there are advantages to being a whole foot taller than the hooded woman he's never met in person before until this very moment. He can't see her eyes narrow, but they do as she resolves to walk faster. There's nothing for either of them here.

He catches her cloak once again. This time, his purposeful, seeking grasp tugs the same moment as she tries edging away in the opposite direction, resulting in a flutter of fabric that inevitably sees the hood pulled back--before it is cleanly removed from her head.]

...

[It reveals short ultramarine blue, a sight he may have seen in more than just a feverish nightmare.

She does not turn around. For a moment at least, she is still once more.]

You have the wrong person.

[The hood falls flat in his curled fingers, and she's walking away again; she's opted to remove it entirely, leaving it in his hand since he doesn't seem to understand let go no matter how clearly she says it. Let the dead remain buried; if he wants to chase after ghosts, then she will have no part in it.]

[ ...it is her.

there's no mistaking it once the cloak is displaced. he had seen this person that night, and whatever it was they'd experienced-- it had been her... he knows it as surely as he knows his own name, his own face, can identify his own sense of self. ]

It was you... it was.

[ Abel's fingers grip the loose fabric of the cloak, though its owner has long since shrugged it off and left it with someone else. and though he doesn't make another step to chase after her, neither does he seem to be relenting, either. he's still holding on, even if there is nothing physical to grasp.

but whatever stubborn hold Abel might have, it isn't born of some needling wish to be proven right, nor because he needs to know the identity of the woman whose crushing descent into the Kenoma he'd observed in a very personal way. it's a sort of niggling worry, instead-- and perhaps, in some small part... a fearfulness. not of her, but for her. the path she's chosen... ]

...Please, you don't have to-- ah. Run from me, like I'm some kind of...

[ well. that bit trails off a tad awkwardly, and perhaps he chooses to leave the rest unsaid. ]

I just-- I don't understand.

[ 'but I'd like to.'

...Abel holds the cloak aloft in a peaceful gesture of surrender. if she truly wants nothing to do with him, then... perhaps that's understandable considering what she's been through. having her privacy so violently invaded-- purposefully or otherwise-- is a hard pill to swallow. what he had been privy to (and willfully chooses to believe was one sided in retrospect) should never have been given involuntary voice.

he isn't here to take away any more than has already been taken from her. that really would be cruel, wouldn't it? and suppose... if she doesn't want to take what he is giving, then-- he cannot, will not, force her. ]

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why. why do i fail at basic html. how do i never notice, either???????

re: the more things change the more they stay the same... 🤔

help......... 😩

rubs ur old weary back, there there

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