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

abel nightroad | trinity blood | martyr

[inutilis]

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

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

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

...

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

i. a shared disease;

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

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

ii. commune with ghosts;

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

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

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

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

notes;

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

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

[lockedon]

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

The gall.

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

What.

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

excuse u... u serve me something delicious and call it garbage? how very dare

[inutilis]

[ Abel full well understands that not everyone is amenable to company right now; there are some who prefer seclusion and solitude when in pain or discomfort, and there are those who might want a distraction from the misery. suppose he won't find out unless he tries, right?

there is weariness in the stranger's voice when he replies, but... that Abel got any reply at all is something, and he'll take it. his smile is soft as he looks over his companion, trying to gauge how he's holding up. ]

I have to say... I didn't have 'ingest some extremely gross wiggly liquid and then get stuck in a cave forever' on my bingo card for what this 'ritual' was going to be, personally... You, sir? Maybe you had some kind of prophetic foresight? ...No?

[ an attempt at conversation -- at something approaching lightness; it's all he can offer. disquieting as all of this is, Abel has a feeling that dwelling on how distinctly horrible it is won't do them any favors. ]

one man's garbage is another man's delicious meal i suppose.....

[lockedon]

[ To that, he has a simple reply, said succinctly as he closes his eyes for a brief moment. ]

I don't like bingo.

[ Never liked bingo, never liked casinos, never liked anything reliant on pure chance rather than skill. But everything up until now has been at the whims of fate, any useful skills he might have been able to use all nullified by the guards and their whips standing perimeter. Which leaves him here, seated on the cold ground, trying resolutely to ignore the nausea coiling in his stomach as he engages in idle conversation with a complete stranger—though he supposes they're all united here in their mutual suffering. ]

And if I had any sort of foresight, I wouldn't be here.

[ What a rude rude man....but once again, there's not much of a bite to his words, tiredness overtaking his usual cynicism. Even his ears are drooping forward, the most visible sign of his physical (lack of) well-being. ]

i - a shared disease

[lachtara]

It's not difficult to notice those who are troubled by the situation. Sounds of weeping, aimless lethargy and retching are proof enough for that.
 
He, too, felt the despair after they were afflicted with the contents of that vial. The deepest all-consuming despair that would shatter hearts and twist souls. The same despair that he'd lived with for thousands of years. It spurred him to live through the endless procession of days, watch empires burn, and send loyal followers to their death. What others found horrifying steeled his motivation. Whatever happened to his world - the visions of it being gone which precluded his arrival - he would find it and it would be whole again.

For the moment, he resigns to being propped against one of the throne room walls with the poor excuse for a bedroll draped over his lap. Emet-Selch's head is rested against the wall behind him and he looks to be resting. A rest that is promptly interrupted by someone kneeling at his side. 

He cracks an eye open at the stranger. Not someone he knows, but they seem to be offering him water. How kind. Emet-Selch lets out a large sigh through his nose and closes his eyes again. "Can you not see that I am sleeping?" He gripes.

grandpa.......... grandpa do u have any games on ur phone

[inutilis]

"Ah... my, you know, this might be the most verbose conversation I've had with a sleeping man? You have quite the skilled tongue, don't you my friend?"

Abel's quip is light-hearted and comes surprisingly easy despite the air of something outright morbid, the spirit of decay and suffering heavy everywhere around them. And though he keeps his voice soft as not to disturb others who are trying to get whatever there is to be had in the way of rest, it's impossible not hear the note of friendly amusement.

He holds the cup aloft again in quiet offer.

"Maybe you ought to whet that tongue, sir? Sleep-talking can dry the mouth, you know."

phone is very much thrown in a river tbh

[lachtara]

That response coaxes Emet-Selch to open his eyes and give the stranger a look that mixes exhaustion and irritation. "...Very well." Without breaking eye contact he takes the bottle in a manner that could only be described as aggressively petulant.

Then, he takes a generous sip of water. It's been a while since he's had something to drink and it is unexpectantly welcome to feel such a flood of refreshment. "Is there is a good reason you would want to wake me? Or is this simply a gesture of your natural 'benevolence'?"

ii

[goldendeceiver]

[ Yes, Ernesto can appreciate the need to steal away for a moment to suffer in silence. It's the only reason that Ernesto is this far into the ruins himself right now, having spent some undetermined amount of time shivering and miserable with his own tumultuous thoughts.

The ironic thing is that it's hunger that finally snaps him out of it, and has him slowly shuffling back towards where there are still soldiers with meager rations gathered. He's barely been eating in the past several days, thanks to the constant nausea coiling around his stomach, but there's only so long a person can go before the discomfort becomes too strong.

He probably would have walked right past Abel's hiding spot if it weren't for the fact that he recognizes the man.

Vaguely.

The change in the demeanor is so great, that for a second Ernesto thinks he's looking at a stranger, before the recognition slowly dawns on him. Part of him still wants to keep walking, to settle the pain in his stomach, but he forces himself to kneel down in front of the other man, concern clear on his face. ]

Father?

🐶

[inutilis]

[ --ah...

Abel's head lifts with a start upon finding himself addressed and his little bubble of solitude no longer so solitary. but instead of displeasure or irritation at being bothered, there is instead a minute flash of relief. ]

Mr. Tequila?

[ yes; he would be hard-pressed to mistake those ears and that earnest face for anyone else's. Abel is hastily scrubbing a hand over his face and shifting a little in some attempt to regather himself, the smile tugging at his lips not the most convincing he's ever given in his life, but-- hell, everyone gets it. they're all Suffering the same sort of trial down here. ]

...Are you-- ah. I mean... [ 'okay?' the answer is no, isn't it? 'Tequila' doesn't look well at all, and Abel knows why. ] ...I'm sorry, I know this is wretched. Are you hanging in there...?

ii / handwaving some kinda very brief i-ish interaction if that's ok!

[galdorleod]

[ From where he stands on the stairs, among the soldiers and other Aions who had given in to the darkness, Howl notices the solitary man huddled against one of the far walls — and recognizes him. Not by sight, but by psyche. He's one of several people who had tried to approach him while he was stuck in the throes of despair, wailing and refusing to eat. Howl had completely ignored him at the time and it successfully lead to him leaving him alone, but — he'd still felt that genuine willingness to help. He'd rejected it, yes, but he felt it all the same. And, recognizing the woeful figure now from his perch among the surrendered, Howl feels compelled to do... something, say something, maybe even try to convince him to let go.

His shoes clack softly on the stone floor as he approaches. The closer Howl gets, the more the man's broadcasting thoughts come into focus, like someone turning up the volume on a record.

Howl stops in front of him, standing directly within the thousand yards of his thousand yard stare. ]

Still trying, are you?

that is more than okay!! 🤝

[inutilis]

[ the sound of footsteps making a slow but unmistakably steady approach draws Abel from wherever he had been distracted inward; blue eyes slide to meet the face of the man who comes to stand in his line of sight -- and the dichotomy of his appearance compared to the last time Abel had seen him isn't lost to the priest at all.

thank God, is the first thought that wiggles its way through the stupor. thank God... this man had managed to pull himself from whatever dark place had claimed him; those anguished cries has been genuinely awful to hear and he had been beyond consolation.

...but Abel's relief is short-lived, because though his brain might be a bit more sluggish than normal, he isn't entirely without his wits. his fellow captive's miraculous recovery from his misery wasn't because he had successful fought off the sick, coiling invasion from within.

ah.

the priest's expression sinks. 'still trying,' he'd said... and Abel understands. ]

...What have you done?

[ the question doesn't leave him in accusation, but grief.

what have you done, Howl...? ]

ii

[traversal]

[ lumine doesn't seek him out specifically, passing by him instead on her way back to her corner of the cave with the daily provisions she's managed to grab. it's not much, just stale bread and broth to soften it up, but it's the first meal she's going to have in days, the first meal she's hoping she can keep down in days.

... or, well, that's what she'd hoped, her steps pausing and her gaze flickering towards the figure slumped against the wall. a part of her can almost hear someone scolding her for putting someone else first above herself, but that's all set aside when she finds herself approaching him, footsteps quiet and slow.

he's not dead, is he?

she'd like to ask if he's feeling well, if he's sick in any way (they all are, but still), but it doesn't seem like he's up for any kind of conversation. instead, she simply kneels down on the ground, setting the bowl of brother and bread next to him, and gives his shoulder a gentle shake. to wake him up, to call his attention, to tell him that he can have her food.

because she's not hungry, not at all. if anything, she dismisses the quiet growling of her stomach as a sign that she might just throw something up again—hopefully, not on him. ]

[inutilis]

[ maybe it is the shade of her hair -- or perhaps it's something in the kindness behind her ministrations, but the man Lumine has stretched a helping hand toward looks up from his daydreaming as she lightly shakes him, stirred from his daze. something vaguely bewildered crosses his features as if he's seeing someone else, for a moment--

--before whatever specter there'd been is gone, and there is a woman whose familiarity is fleeting.

the confusion lingers a beat, an uneasiness reflected in his eyes that slowly gives way to recognition. no... whoever he thought he saw isn't here, but...

whoever she is, she's brought with her the smell of food despite the look on her face that suggests she is feeling just as unwell as everyone else. maybe even more so; her pallor is poor, and... though it's hardly the kindest of distractions, it does manage to give him something to focus on. ]

Ah-- I'm sorry, miss did I... [ say something...? was he disturbing her? had he been dreaming? he feels like, just a moment ago--

...but it can't be. he swallows the thought, watching her in a quiet befuddlement and growing concern. ]

i!

[lifespanned]

[ Misa here happens to have just enough energy in the reserves to be crying— this situation is awful. Worse than any of the times she's had close scrapes with death, mostly because of this not being a quick and painful death, but a potentially slow and painful death. It's been a while since she'd been afraid of what could happen to her... but she feels the weight of it here, and the uncertainty of what horrors await them after the ritual is what ultimately breaks her down.

When he comes by gently to offer her some water, she's already scrubbing at her eyes— the tears blackened with the Kenoma ailment, which she hasn't even noticed on account of keeping her eyes screwed shut while she has her mini-meltdown. And with the world's biggest, loudest sniffle: ]

No, I'm fine....! [ Then, as if to convince herself of the very fact, she says something louder, and more determined. ] I'm going to be fine... I'm not gonna die...

[inutilis]

[ oh, Misa...

...this girl looks so very small where she's curled up into the world's most miserable ball here on the cold cavern floor, and Abel's heart pangs with a visceral sort of ache to see her this way. the black smear of the Kenoma's influence bleeding itself out of her is no more reassuring nor comforting than the sound of her tears, and just serves to further drive home that she is in a decidedly bad way.

Abel is delicate, gentle, as he sinks to kneel in front of her; he sets the cup of water down next to him, deciding that the need he should attend to first is the emotional one. it's obvious she is desperate for some kind of equilibrium, and who in God's name could blame her? this is horrible, and feeling lost at sea is far too easy, right now.

he settles his hand carefully at her forearm, trying to coax her to look at him. ]

You certainly aren't going to die, miss.

[ as long as he isn't batted or pushed away, he will try to gingerly give her arm a tiny squeeze of reassurance. ]

I know it's hard right now, but-- please look here, alright? I want to show you something. Can you do that for me...?

∞

[expiera]

[This world is not good enough, it bleats. A better universe awaits, one forged by your own hand, and all you need do is first bring about this broken reality's end. It croaks.

It's all a terribly unfunny joke, isn't it. Worlds are beyond the concept of good or bad. Just as nature's only will is to stay beautiful, and humanity's only will is to persevere, worlds... simply are, and anyone ought to be over their heads to pass judgment upon an entire world.

Especially when there shouldn't be - no, there isn't any place in it for an abnormality, a contradiction, a curse, a freak, a blight like you. A monster that wears a human face, a thing whose very existence disturbs the natural order of the world as all other living beings know it. You are outside the cycle. There's nowhere you belong, only spaces that tolerate you for the usefulness that you bring them. Look at all the blood, look at the world you've already destroyed. Isn't it just the most unfunny, sick joke, for a miserable creature like you to have any say in how any world should be shaped?

...Ridiculous. This nauseating voice is ridiculous. You know your place. You know it better than anyone, not only because no one else possibly could, but also because you're the only one left who's capable of understanding the true gravitas of your sins. For all the nothingness it promises, it is, as a matter of fact, not as keen a critic of your irredeemable deeds than you yourself are. You don't need to hear a single word from it to know what you must do. You knew from the very beginning, didn't you?

...

(Is this resistance, or is this acceptance? The line feels... awfully thin, for some reason...)

You're just sorting your own thoughts out, that's all. WYou'll never let yourself forget what you are, and as ugly and unsightly as this image you keep retracing over and over again may be, it lets you stay true to (y)our wretched and unforgivable self.

(...)]

[inutilis]

[ it is early, yet, in the cycle of suffering.

one might think that meant the voice speaking from a place personal and often times buried would be quiet and require time to gain strength. if they harbored such a notion, they would be wrong; in all the quiet moments -- and sometimes, even in the loudest ones... it finds its voice with a haunting, all-encompassing sort of strength and voracity.

the lines have blurred. late night (is it late night? there is no real telling of time at the base of the cavern, and that adds to the disquieting sense of detachment and disorientation) in this cold, dark place whose meager warmth tends to fade as firewood dwindles in supply, someone sits, or lays, or huddles in solitude. is it two bodies, or one...? it seems the sense of self has grown fuzzy, gotten lost somewhere along the way.

but the pervasive gnaw that leaks out from an intangible source does not care for the hour, nor the solitude, nor the tremble of a bone-deep cold that speaks to a sharedhollowness. resignation; apathy; understanding; despondence. (is this defeat? ...has he lost? --no. no; he hasn't, has he...? the stab of panic, of an urgent, desperate effort to find himself, root himself, comes up empty.)

--there is a shiver. some little, tiny flame of fear, of resistance -- a kernel of stubborn, willful denial. it could be easily lost in this overwhelming sea, perhaps. but maybe...

maybe it's not. ]

ii

[baltimores]

[ As soon as he was feeling well enough, as soon as he'd realized he could help others if he went back down, Abel had been the first Amos sought out.

He almost hadn't recognized him at first, his first friend here a far cry from the man he'd talked to on the road, who had coaxed him out of himself, told him that he's maybe still a kind person, that there was hope for him yet. And when he had realized it was, indeed, Abel he had found, haggard and with an expression on his face he hadn't been expecting, Amos had felt... he couldn't put a name to it. A kind of despair, but different from what the Kenoma settled in him. It's tinged with. Shit. Affection, maybe.

So he goes to join him. After a moment, he takes Abel's hand in his, interlacing their fingers. His voice is quiet, soft when he speaks. ]

I'm sorry. I know you were with me earlier, except that time, I couldn't... [ He swallows, something thick in his throat, completely different from whatever had been in those vials. His own personal lump. ] It was worse, than when they first came for us. I know you tried. I appreciate it. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you that then.

[ And then he waits, content to let Abel respond at his own pace, if he even does at all. It'd be hypocritical not to. He gets it.

For his part, though, Amos looks a hell of a lot better. He's cleaned up, he's wearing proper clothes, he's managed to eat something one could consider edible. He's had the chance to rest. Even though his skin has a grey tinge to it, it's the most alive he's looked since he got here. He has no problem with doing what he did to reach this stage. It's over, it's done with, and he wants it to be the same for Abel, but first, he'll wait. ]

[inutilis]

[ there has been a cloudiness, a fog, something that has fallen over him and obscured his vision in fits and starts; it isn't so much anything physical as something repeatedly pulling him inward. a distraction; a niggling voice, one that has been plaguing them all since that thick, viscous sludge had been forced down their throats. the things it whispers are personal for each, but there isn't a one among them that doesn't know what it sounds like.

...Abel is stirred from his stupor by the press of hands, fingers twining with his own-- and for a brief, harrowing moment, blue eyes sharpen with a terrible clarity, a fear-- though not of whoever has reached out to offer him human warmth. that fear is of something else, and seemingly short-lived... because as soon as the priest realizes who is crouched before him, his expression immediately falls into one of relief, of gratitude. ]

--Amos, [ it comes out in a slightly hoarse and breathy exhale, and those fingers are being squeezed with all Abel's got. the light tremble in his hands isn't entirely from nerves, this time -- but his grip is surprisingly firm despite it. ] Don't-- don't even think of apologizing, I'm just... I'm so glad you're alright. You scared me half to death, you know that?

[ unreachable and lost, so lost it had been genuinely terrifying... Amos had sunk to a place that Abel could not follow. after their promise to remain together, it had almost felt like some sort of loss not to be able to pull his friend back from his despair.

but... he's managed to climb up and out of it, managed to claw his way back to himself, right--? Amos is... surely, this means...

... ]

Are you... really alright?

i

[salvageable]

[ When isn't Dokja looking like he's in need of a hand as I dunk on his appearance for the nth time.

But, no seriously, he doesn't look good. His head is lolling to one side as he blankly stares at the cavern floor. The normal mischief and thoughtfulness lighting his eyes is no longer there, replaced by a dull, empty gaze. He's eerily still as he sits against the wall, his mind waging a war of wills. Every time he thinks he's broken past the surface, more voices appear to drag him back under.

The effort to lift his head when someone sits down beside him feels monumental, and Dokja has to blink a few times to focus his gaze. At the sight of the familiar face, he forces the corners of his lips up in greeting. ]

Abel. [ He sounds exhausted, but he huffs out a small, hollow laugh. ] Making the rounds today as well?

[ Even through his wretched pain, on the moments he'd snapped back into consciousness, he'd noticed the other man checking in on the others. ]

[inutilis]

[ Dokja....... babby,

Abel's expression has gone soft in the way of both gratitude and fondness as Dokja speaks his name; good... then at least he's with it enough to recognize the priest. there is no small amount of relief in that, because he has to admit... his friend looks to be in a bad way, and if he had been so far gone as that--

well. suppose he simply has to give his thanks he doesn't need to contemplate such a terrible predicament.

a cup is being guided into the other man's hands, though Abel isn't releasing it right away; he will help Dokja drink if it looks like he's too weak to make due himself. ]

I have to say... you look as though you've had better days, friend. I'd ask how you're feeling, but that "please put me out of my misery" glaze in your eye says it all for you, I'm afraid...

i. a fellow martyr

[bearshermark]

[The presence is welcome- pathetically appreciated, even- as it gradually unmoors him from that terrible internal world. Slowly, awareness returns to his eyes and his limbs unfreeze enough to shift and meet the stranger's gaze. He finds he knows what the man is trying to say without speaking, and far too languid from sickness to question the means of it.

The hoarse sound from his throat before he manages words himself would be embarrassing if he had any leftover pride]

Light, and faith.. [It's meant to be a question as doubt tries once more to drag him down, though neither force manages to gain ground]

[inutilis]

[ Abel can see this stranger is struggling, and who could blame him...? there has been no shortage of pain and illness in this place, even before they'd made it to their end destination. the travel here had been long and unpleasant for most, all the more harrowing for not knowing what would happen once they reached where they'd been led.

suppose they found out the hard way.

the priest is quiet for a breath, absorbing the almost too-soft mumble leaves the stranger's lips. light and faith...? ]

Faith... [ ah, the irony of such a subject being levied to a man of the cloth isn't lost on him, but Abel tucks that away for now. his friend here needs a distraction, and perhaps getting him talking about this will do the trick. ] Do you mind if I ask what you have faith in, sir...?

i. slides in late with starbucks

[affal]

( once, when investigating his mentor's past, makoto had been saved by that very same object of his revenge. makoto had managed to come across the demon's elder brother in the slums, and he had forced them into a situation where makoto's clever tongue could not circumvent the power of physical might. when enough of his blood had spilled, a rune that J had placed upon his tongue had activated — the result had been to make him violently ill, expelling a magical projection of his master that (temporarily) obliterated his brother to disparate atoms.

it had been yet another moment in which his hand in makoto's life had felt invasive, in which he had been controlling, coddling, and detractive of what little agency the new demon still had available to him. he had hated him for it in the same way he had hated him for everything else, and that is the memory that fills the gaps in makoto's mind that aren't already filled with the sensation of the choking, viscous liquid that they had been forced to drink.

except unlike that protective rune, which projected outwards into the world, this was a seed that had been planted into each of them. he feels it twist and coil in his gut, inducing a wave of light-headedness and nausea. makoto is not quick or eager to get up from where he kneels on the ritual circle, even after his shackles are released. what's done is done, and despite what a vengeful little creature he can be, he doesn't feel as though flying at the woman that had instigated it or any of the retreating soldiers would be any more constructive than trying to figure out what was going to happen now.

the storm that would come to plague them all for the moment only brews on the horizon, clustering at the edges of his thoughts, heavy and cumulative... but as of yet not breaking.

his pale eyes glance up at the approach — a familiar figure he would have to crane his neck to near-breaking to get a proper look at. as it is, he attempts a smile, but it's a shoddy and pathetic sort of thing. he considers a laugh to try to go with it, but it would be an even worse showing of it, so he abandons that thought for now. )

Apologies, my friend. ( his hand clenches around the symbol that still burns in the palm of his hand, almost in-time with the odd pulse that seems to emanate from his chest like an alien heartbeat. ) This is not the outcome I promised to you.

( though, in retrospect, the Kenoma might be considered a club and what they're about to suffer through could be considered some kind of hazing... hm... )

holds my arms open wide..... for you & starbucks 😊

[inutilis]

[ there is no mistaking it; Abel is not precisely the same man who had been spitting idiocy while seated by a campfire. maybe there is something of him in the eyes, but... this one is far more sober, and the rigidity of a churning anxiety is written in blue eyes instead of the healthy glimmer of dark humor.

but even all this isn't enough for him to be completely bereft of said humor -- nor is this situation so grim enough he cannot appreciate Makoto's quip, because there's something of a dry sort of smile tugging at the priest's lips despite himself. the taller man is similarly coming to terms with a crawling sense of taint, of unwanted invasion-- but it seems his concern lays outward.

as he crouches down to meet Makoto's gaze, there is a naked concern writ over his expression; it is set in the very tension of his shoulders, as well as the hand that cautiously stretches to his similarly afflicted friend in some gesture of support. ]

...You know what? Once we get out of this mess... I've decided you owe me one for pulling the wool over my eyes, and I'll see to it you buy me a very stiff drink at the very least.

[ 'if you don't laugh, you'll cry.' or maybe groping for levity is all they have lest the gravity of the situation make itself readily apparent.

...what has happened to them, Makoto...? ]