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

[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. ]

[expiera]

[Don't forget. Don't you dare forget. Oblivion is too good for you. This cross is yours to bear, and you will feel its weight for as long as you live. You will carry it, forever, one world onto the next and as many as it may take before your penance may come anywhere close to being paid.

What is time anyway, to a creature impervious to its passage? Time erodes and swallows all, except you, another reminder of why you will never, ever belong. The meagre discomforts of your surroundings are nothing. You've been through worse. You know pain and suffering, intimately, for all you've given and received. Then why do you still feel cold? How do you explain this panic? What do you have to fear? What more could you possibly still stand to lose?

...

Don't let go.

Right. It would be beyond folly, hubris, and sin to pretend nothing matters anymore. There's always more to lose, you know that better than most, too. You cannot forget, avert not thine eyes. Face who you are, you don't have any right to run or hide. The stain on your soul plagues you as much as it drives you.

You reap what you've sown.

No rest for the wicked.

You know what you must do to carry on, don't you?]

[inutilis]

[ it might be terribly ironic in retrospect when Abel puts the pieces together, when he realizes with a haunting clarity that this deluge... this painfully familiar and achingly ruinous flow... is not entirely his own. but it washes in and out no matter how hard he might bid it stop, no matter how hard he tries to grope and grapple for silence, for reprieve; his fingers absently search for a memento whose weight has always been comfort in times of duress, but of course... it is not there.

instead, it continues unbidden; it is a voice not his own, but there are always so many. this... it isn't so strange, is it? one more voice to join millions teeming in an unidentifiable sea of them--

Don't forget. Don't you dare forget.
...will never, ever belong--
What do you have to fear?

There is always more to lose.

though he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes as if it will aid in killing the cacophony, all it does is successfully snuff out what remains of the fire's light, a hazy orange glow that could not seem further away. there is a pitch blackness behind his eyelids, and with it comes a sharpness, a firm... old, old swell that rises to crest like a wave. it is bitter, and acrid; it bites, acidic and burning, like a bile that cannot be swallowed back.

Carrying on means carrying all of it.

You haven't forgotten, nor will you ever... because sinners don't have that right. There is no rest, because you've forfeited it. There is no penance you could pay that would undo it, and even if there was... even if every living being reached out to you in forgiveness - you know you can never forgive yourself.

But you will carry on, and you won't forget. You won't forget who you are. You won't forget who you are. You won't forget who you are... you won't let them in. You can't.

it is becoming less and less a defiant, loathsome challenge... and more of a plea, because the very blurring of those lines, the encroaching sensation of someone, something is becoming more oppressive by the moment, and Abel cannot tell where he starts and they begin. just as old defiance had risen up so quickly, so too is old, terrible fear.

Hold on... weI just have to remember who... what, we--

--Who... are you? ]

1/2

[expiera]

[There really was no differentiating between the voices, she doesn't even realize there's more than one, a myriad at that, an impossible fact were her head truly her own and hers alone. Bearing the number of solitude, she has acted alone, been on her own, since the day she took on this name. Why would she ever have reason to consider otherwise? These ruthlessly self-destructive admonishments are entirely correct. She had been submerged in them from the moment her consciousness first began forming in this world. She wasn't afraid then, there was only numb acknowledgement. So where is it coming from, this terribly small and terribly human plea, this sense of fragile and ephemeral fear she thought she's long successfully killed in herself, over and over and over again?

It doesn't matter.

Something tears without hesitation, rough and hard like iron, cuts and stabs and hacks in a wild and sudden attempt to become distinct, to kill something inside oneself that should by all means be intangible and untouchable. It doesn't entirely succeed, not right away, and while the voice isn't stopping, it's also diverging from the cacophony of a 'whole'.

You thought you could do something. You thought you could still fight, undying as you are.

What a foolish, naive, and shallow wish that was.

You couldn't protect anything. You couldn't help anyone. You couldn't even apologize, in the end.

(Remember, who, what, we-)

That voice -- is female. It is not resentful or regretful, frustrated or angry. It is quiet, almost robotic, in how little emotion it holds despite its scathing accusations.

(Who are you?)

You have no miracle to pray to. No reason to live. You don't deserve to be -----. Isn't that right, Elesia?

It happens simultaneously, the feeling of willingly letting go before sinking like lead into a unfathomable deep, and the decisive sense of separation that comes with a clean, complete split. As if surgically cutting off a rotten limb, as if purging away a body of infected and dying cells beyond any hope of repair. It must be disorienting, as much as it may be "liberating"; whatever that blurred the lines between two separate entities is no more, their respective weight no longer encroaching upon the other's with seemingly no other purpose than to feed each other's most heinous demons. However it was made possible, whoever that may have been, a link that never should've been --in so many ways-- is severed at last, leaving behind a vague and unsettling impression of intruding, having been intruded upon. Like some never before experienced sense of loss phantom pain, like leaving a part of yourself behind--and you can't tell whether that was the worst mistake of your life, or the most natural thing you've ever done.

...]

[expiera]

[No one could be blamed for struggling to process what just happened. Both time and distance are relative concepts, after all, so maybe one wouldn't notice signs of the Aion woman who led the sacrifice and her small attachment of soldiers heading... Further? Closer? To where we you are.

She asks something. The voice is different from the one "you" were previously hearing.

...

There's more movement. When the footsteps resume, they are joined by another. Bare feet hardly make any sound on the cold and hard floor of stone, but "you" know. It's beyond keen senses, beyond instinct. You already knew, from the moment that link slipped away from you to lessen your burden take a different path.

There's no sense, no use, no point, in seeking out another presence both hauntingly familiar and utterly alien. The head of ultramarine blue doesn't turn, solely focused on silently following the mistress of the ceremony out of these hellish caverns.

Out of the darkness, into the day. Into the night, out of the light.]

[inutilis]

[ Cielthe presence vacates with a suddenness, leaving a disorienting hollowness where it had been; the impression of a hand slipping right through his is hard to shake. Abel flounders for a few dizzying moments, attempting to discern what has just happened -- where is he--? no... who? who had he been, just a breath ago...?

who is he now?

he finds himself rigidly climbing to his feet where he had taken refuge against the cold stone of the cavern wall, frantically raking blue eyes over the faces of the huddled masses as if seeking out one in particular - though he does not know her face. he knows her voice; he knows the aching weight of grief and undying and being undone, knows he will find it-- will find her, if only he looks hard enough. one look in her eyes, and he'll know. he'll know.

he must look a madman, but it matters little. whether it is the draw of motion that steals his attention or something else entirely... a man still half-lost to a woman's voice piercing his haunting daydream calls out rather sharply before her footsteps can take her up the incline. it is firm, demanding-- no... maybe someone with keen ears would hear the true source of its virility in its desperation. ]

Elesia...!

[ it is the sole name, the sole sense of self one could pry from the depths of that swirling, chaotic sea of black.

and it comes out as a plea. maybe it's too late, but... one lonely soul knows its ilk, its kin. perhaps she had pulled back and away to sink into that ichor, but... his hand is still waiting, warm and inviting, if only she were to take it. he would pull her out, so help him God... he would. ]

1/2 returns from mcsuffering w/ur chicken tendies

[expiera]

[Were the circumstances different, such a frantic and pressing utterance of a dead name that hasn't crossed anyone's lips for a long, long time would no doubt draw a much stronger reaction out of the woman it must belong to. Under these present ones, however, after recollecting her own sense of self, herself, separate from a sea of voices threatening to swallow a fragile, ancient, and human fear she is sure now belonged to someone else, it barely causes a ripple on the quieted surface of a dark sea of pitch, midnight black. Who she was, who she is, don't really matter, not anymore. "To the Kenoma my body, to the Kenoma my soul." That was the sacrifice's last words, before breaking down quite literally in the Aion woman's arms. She's now agreed to serve it as well, just as the Aion and the Achamite have. It's only natural for monsters to stay in the shadows where they belong, and she's simply traded one leash for a different one.

The madman in the cave whose face she cares not to learn is left to plead by himself. His voice was... a little irksome, in how it echoes within the recesses of her mind even after she's crossed the cavern's threshold to step into a bright spring afternoon. With a faint shake of her head, she allows the cool air outside to ruffle through her hair and clothing. ...It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. She'll do as she is ordered, and that's that.]

[expiera]

[How long had it been, since? For those who remain confined underground and permitted so very little, time must've stopped mattering entirely. Nevertheless, the one who descends into its gloomy darkness today is not one of the usual soldiers. Cloaked in a hood that wholly covers the face, the feminine figure carrying a wrung towel and a small wooden bowl of water is rather unlike her peers who've also sometimes returned, but they also look far more spirited in contrast. Quiet and sombre, her demeanour would suggest she does not want to be noticed, yet she is here all the same, her pace slow but purposeful. She is here, because...

(...)

Truthfully, the graceless figure hunched over himself with his back against the wall could probably be described as more of a hindrance than man, large and lanky and seriously barring the way especially in an unconscious state. There is obvious tenacity and resilience in his frame, however, and for a second, she seriously considers simply passing him by. She only looks for the most weakened to tend to, and if he has the strength to remain seated with his head lolling slightly in his sleep, then surely, he can continue hanging on his own.

Yet she cannot chase away a niggling something she cannot describe, a senseless impression that this folded beanpole of a human being isn't a creature to be left alone. It's both curious and a little off-putting; what's the source of this inexplicable magnetism, at war with her own gut feeling of this will be trouble? She can barely see his face with how his dirty long silver bangs are curtaining his eyes too, and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that she herself is wearing a hood.

...

Ultimately, she comes to quietly crouch at the dozing man's side. She'll not take long, she tells herself. Just a glimpse of his face to make sure he's okay, then she'll be on her way. Maybe leave the wooden cup full of water by him, she can get more from the surface. Then she can put this uncharacteristic restlessness gnawing within her at rest, and not look back again.]

3/3 i lied and you saw nothing

[expiera]

[The regret is immediate.

Craning her neck to peer through his messy bangs reveal to her the fact that he is drooling a little is drooling a little, but more importantly, he bears a uncanny resemblance to a certain priest who first walked the Earth she knew some 800 years ago, whose image she recognizes thanks to memories embedded in her that are not her own. That man was calculating, aloof, and bereft of human understanding. This one is sloppy, sad, dirty, exhausted, and drooling.

Frowning before she even realizes she's already acted, she's unfolded the towel to gently wipe away at his chin. Just a few seconds to clean his face, she'll be done and gone before he knows it. She just... REALLY can't leave it alone now that she's seen, and not doing anything will only eat at her and make her feel worse. Geez... What is it with this man?]

👀👀👀👀

[inutilis]

[ this sloppy, sad, dirty, exhausted, drooling creature has the uncanny affinity of being able to drop off just about anywhere, and it seems being hatched from some kind of crystal cocoon, hauled cross-country, fed gross sludge-slime and subsequently spending the next few days in some kind of sickly, hallucinogenic haze hasn't put a dent in that.

...not that he'd intended in nodding off, per say; he has been taking to becoming reclusive when he feels his strength waning, not wanting to be a source of concern nor trouble to others. suppose the weariness of the day had caught up with him when his discomfort had abated enough that the quiet worked its magic, lulling him off to an unceremonious dreamland. what is he dreaming about...? suppose one will just have to use their imagination, but he seems rather thoroughly Asleep, doesn't he? y-yes, well. the drool certainly might indicate as much.

even so-- it seems that part of him is still on guard, wary despite his impromptu descent into slumber. the silver-haired creature slumped over in a less than dignified manner is stirring a bit as someone is kind enough to make some (hopeless) effort to clean him up some. but he doesn't come around right away-- not fully, at least. as if his dreaming has a life of its own, as if it is stubborn, still trying to keep some grip on him-- he takes a deeper, slow inhale in, hand lifting to clumsily but delicately reach and touch her arm wherever his fingers might happen to fall. ]

...just-- a... a little longer? Five more, ah...

[ the drowsy mumble is a bit hoarse in the way of a man just coming to, and it's clear the Sleepyhead is, indeed, Sleepy; he doesn't quite realize whose company he's in, for starters. whether he's mistaken CielElesia for someone else... or mistaken where he is entirely is anyone's guess.

but his fingers might be just a little bit... plaintive in their grip, somehow. like a silent request, one that might simply be a repeat of one from several nights prior. maybe she can still hear it; maybe she's already pushed it from her mind with willful determination. but... suppose it's no surprise he has kept that candle burning, regardless.

no one really wants to be alone, do they?

monsters, it seems, are no exception. ]

😩🙄😒

[expiera]

[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...

...]

👁👁

[inutilis]

[ 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 CielElesia 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........ ]

[expiera]

...

[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...

...]

[inutilis]

[ 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 CielElesia'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 CielElesia 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... ]

1/2

[expiera]

[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...]

[expiera]

[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?]

1/2

[inutilis]

--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 CielElesia abruptly rubs that towel over his mouth, cutting off whatever ??? he had been about to say with a strangled noise of protest-- ]

[inutilis]

[



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, ]

[expiera]

[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??]

[inutilis]

[ 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, ]

[expiera]

[...

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?]

1/2

[inutilis]

[ 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-- ]

[inutilis]

[ --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, ]

[expiera]

[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??]

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

[inutilis]

[ 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--

... ]