[SWEET ROSAMUND!!! Gently places them on the ship for now... he's not exactly settled here, all things considered, but at least he's not on 100% high alert like he is planetside. They can be somewhere uncursed, like the arcade!! He actually looks pretty happy to be in here.]
Do you want to learn to play some games, Rosamund?
[TRULY HE IS. WHAT IS THIS SHIP. HE'S NEVER SEEN 90% OF THIS STUFF. But at least some of the places here are things that he understands, like video games.]
Yeah, there are lots of fighting games. But there's racing games, and some sports games... and music and dance ones too, though I'm not as good at those. [He's too fucking jock he probably plays Valorant]
((cw: body horror, plant gore, eye gore, squelching noises))
Oh, I do like music and dancing! I'm actually quite skilled with the harp, if there's anything like that around?
[Her understanding of video game capabilities and appeal is very limited.
But that hardly matters, because the arcade vanishes behind the tear that swallows them whole.
The shift in tone couldn't be more stark. From chrome and searing lights to parchment and ethereal glow, the rift that overtakes now sends Luke into a fantastical battle. The platforms are of books, pages swirl in mystical eddies below. Atop a tower lies an enormous crystalline inkwell, the liquid swirling slow in the air above it.
All around are combatants. Beautiful young women, closer to the ink. Midway there is an ungodly-sized frog, a cat in boots, a wolf in a red cape. A puppet and an eldery man, and then Rosamund, closer to the entrance.
From beside the levitating ink, a pallid woman in black lace calls out to her as she holds her spell in place.
"I expected no one more than you to understand."
Rosamund is quick to retort, "I expected no one more than you to want to live."
And for that, she is blasted with a wave of magic. Rosamund falls atop the tome she stands on. Death is inevitable, her middle gouged, already going pale.
A tiny thing comes to her side, a little woman with wings and a kind face. "Princess, is it your time to rest, or do you want your story to continue?"
Rosamund's nearly gone. Her breath barely carries the sound. "I don't think it's my time to rest."
And--he'd seen this, hadn't he? Or something very close to it, back when Temenos and Harley had found her dead. But that's an entirely different experience from living through it. Luke is used to pain--lived at its mercy constantly before his time here--but this sort of pain is particularly unique. He's used to seeing horrible sights, but this is a special kind of horrible.
He catches his breath when it ends--and his hands automatically come up, as if to preemptively steady her.]
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Week 7, Monday
Do you want to learn to play some games, Rosamund?
no subject
Perhaps? I did see some before. Nodd played this little one where two flat people were fighting each other...
no subject
Yeah, there are lots of fighting games. But there's racing games, and some sports games... and music and dance ones too, though I'm not as good at those. [He's too fucking jock he probably plays Valorant]
((cw: body horror, plant gore, eye gore, squelching noises))
[Her understanding of video game capabilities and appeal is very limited.
But that hardly matters, because the arcade vanishes behind the tear that swallows them whole.
The shift in tone couldn't be more stark. From chrome and searing lights to parchment and ethereal glow, the rift that overtakes now sends Luke into a fantastical battle. The platforms are of books, pages swirl in mystical eddies below. Atop a tower lies an enormous crystalline inkwell, the liquid swirling slow in the air above it.
All around are combatants. Beautiful young women, closer to the ink. Midway there is an ungodly-sized frog, a cat in boots, a wolf in a red cape. A puppet and an eldery man, and then Rosamund, closer to the entrance.
From beside the levitating ink, a pallid woman in black lace calls out to her as she holds her spell in place.
"I expected no one more than you to understand."
Rosamund is quick to retort, "I expected no one more than you to want to live."
And for that, she is blasted with a wave of magic. Rosamund falls atop the tome she stands on. Death is inevitable, her middle gouged, already going pale.
A tiny thing comes to her side, a little woman with wings and a kind face. "Princess, is it your time to rest, or do you want your story to continue?"
Rosamund's nearly gone. Her breath barely carries the sound. "I don't think it's my time to rest."
"Then I think—"
Then the decision is taken out of both their hands.]
no subject
[But he's cut off as he's pulled into the memory.
And--he'd seen this, hadn't he? Or something very close to it, back when Temenos and Harley had found her dead. But that's an entirely different experience from living through it. Luke is used to pain--lived at its mercy constantly before his time here--but this sort of pain is particularly unique. He's used to seeing horrible sights, but this is a special kind of horrible.
He catches his breath when it ends--and his hands automatically come up, as if to preemptively steady her.]
no subject
I'm all right, [She says hurriedly, patting a hand to his, nodding quickly.] I'm all right, Luke. Are you okay? I'm sorry.
[For the unprompted show of gore. And the madhouse battlefield beyond, too.]