[Pulling out one of the board games on the observation deck! Which feels rather trite in the face of, you know. Space.
But this one is called "Clue." And she is in desperate need of clues, so perhaps there is some hidden message within the contents, or a spell that will be revealed upon completion. Or something. Anything. Or what about this one, "Guess Who?"
[Her smile falters in the silence. Don't leave her hanging bro.]
Who knows! Maybe we'll learn something! [Perhaps she's laying it on a bit thick. Rosamund pops the second game open and frowns at the contents within. Flips up the little faces on the strange...abacus.] There must be a hidden meaning to this.
[ he will sit down in the seat across from her and start fiddling around with his game board, leaning in to inspect the little faces. ]
Lots of people ascribe hidden meanings to all sorts of ridiculous things. Amulets, altars, cards. So, aye, most certainly the secrets of the universe are hidden in this game for ... Ages 6 and up.
[ he is, however, setting up his board. so he's definitely going to play. ]
[Damn, she must have missed the fine print. Rosamund flips the cover herself to check.]
...Well. Children are made to learn things adults would hate to learn all the time. There may be a point to it yet.
I think we are to, uh-hum, let's see here. [She pries the instructions loose, reads them aloud, etc. The gist is quite easy. She looks dismayed all the same.]
Okay, this may turn out to be a complete waste of time, but you can never be certain until you've checked. I'm hoping some clue was left behind in here, or the workings of a spell maybe?
[ imagine if there really was a secret spell trapped into this game of guess who. he's leaning down to inspect the faces. this game would be easier if he could read minds again right now :/ ]
Only one tomb, lass. [ he fiddles with the game board for a minute, like he's debating if he's actually going to tell this story or not. ] We all came out of the Claret Orders, but there were too many rules, not enough contracts. It was self-limiting. So we struck out on our own. Went back to the town a few of us came up in. Br-- One of us, her mother lived there, hadn't spoken to her in a few years. A nasty hatchet of a woman, but she had a soft spot for her daughter and when I was a kid she'd let me sleep in her basement if I begged and wheedled enough and it was raining out. We figured, her house was big enough and we could hole up for a while, get our business sorted. Turns out in the time we'd been gone, her mother had managed to get caught playing stupid games with one of the gangs that run the town. The Jagentoth's don't take kindly to games, had her executed and put into their "tomb." Kept the bodies around as a warning.
We hated Reese Jagentoth and we figured the old wretch deserved a proper grave. Besides, she had a habit of hiding her best secrets close. So we robbed it. [ waving a hand. ] The Tombtakers.
[Though the pensive fiddling had her worried, she's pleased that he feels at ease enough to carry on. Though her posture remains perfect there is a subtle lean forward. All the better to take in the tale.]
Oh my goodness. How terrible. [About the loss of the mother, not the revenge taken. Which sounds rather lean in light of the circumstances.] I'm so sorry for your loss. And I think you did the right thing.
But, did they see any kind of justice for what they'd done?
Hooooooo. [She winces, paddling her hands on her lap.] That's a tricky question. In some sense, yes? But also, I don't think punishment should always be so severe. If someone does hurt you, or the ones you love, there is a right to fight back. And in some cases, you have no choice but to make sure they don't do it again.
[ he's really just flipping faces up and down on his gameboard now for no reason as much as fiddling with something. ]
Personally, I've never seen it. Justice is a fancy, trussed-up word for revenge. Eye-for-an-eye. A bit of a fairy story sometimes people tell themselves to live with it.
[ clicking down a face on the board. clicking another one up. ]
Not that there's anything wrong with a bit of good revenge.
[ he makes a soft noise at the stiffening, listening carefully to her every word - though there's something guarded, even cold, in the expression. the kind of expression you make when it's not the first time you've heard a similar speech and it still sets your teeth on edge. ]
Rosamund frowns, flicking down the portraits. It's not as if she would take it back. She meant what she said, and she wasn't trying to insult anyone. And what had soured him anyway? What's wrong with a little kindness?]
Well. I don't think I've ever gone purposefully to a grave to take things, but we have taken whatever might be needed when we win a fight. There was a bunch of treasure and magic artefacts in the spider cave, and we took the Baron of the Brick's mechanical carriage...
Oh. Do you suppose hot dogs count? [A beat.] We didn't know what the meat was made of at the time.
[ sometimes it's simply easy to put your foot through ice that's already ready to crack at the slightest pressure.
both eyebrows raise. ]
I say take whatever you need to make it to the next day. Hot dogs ... [ this is said with a bit of a question because he has no idea what a hot dog is. ] notwithstanding. That one sounds like just plain theft.
Oh come on. [She laughs and rolls her eyes a little. Okay, phew, we're good. That's wonderful.] I didn't even eat any!
Actually, it was lucky none of us did. [Save for the one bite Tim took, RIP. She leans in, hand to her mouth as she whispers.] We found out they used to be little boys.
[ rosamund you never had to tell anyone about that and yet, you did. lucien is making the ????? face so strongly he's forgotten about the game again. ]
... No, actually, no follow-up questions from me on that.
well, she can probably figure out someone else is approaching because the general psychic aura in this room gets so bad so quickly. a strong sense of the kind of skin-crawling paranoia of being trapped in a small space, and an exhaustion so profound the walls are probably moving. maybe someone should ... try sleeping? that's crazy. ]
[ considering the screaming in the bathroom, maybe this is the other side of the meltdown. the ball is rolling up. he ........... lightly kicks it with a foot. ]
Yes, but what kind of magic? [She's out of her depth here but hey, who doesn't like a good swim?] I was hoping to find some runes, or expose an enchanted artefact, or any old clue really. They had us in a very powerful sleep after all, to bring us all the way out here.
Are you... [Hmm. How not to pry too hard on this?] So how's things?
[ tapping his nails along the metal of the pod, observing it. ]
... In the rotted guts of Aeor, you can stand on a crest and look out - amongst the ruins of that ancient flying city there are brilliant specks of blue dotted across the landscape. When you get closer, you see that they're not lights, but shimmering bits and sparks of magic, still holding fast. The inside is perfectly preserved. A moment in ice.
Some are simply the failsafe on some mage's useless trinkets and baubles that he foolishly thought he'd be alive to retrieve in time. Some are people. Some are frozen in their panic, cowering and terrified. Some are calm, awaiting the close-by day they'd be pulled from the wreckage and rescued, having endured nothing but the passage of eternal time. A thousand years of stillness.
[ yeah, seems about right. he's also got a matchbook, so he'll strike one for her - holding it out. his emotions are ... bad. but muted, detached. the pressure cooker sensation of packing every feeling he has about this away to deal with at some other time. or possibly never. ]
[Bless him. Truly. She cradles it between her fingers, but it's clumsy form. The smoke is more refined than Pinocchio's cigars, needling at her nostrils. She watches the embers swell at its tip.]
Luke grated me. Too much trying to be kind, too much trying in general. Others seemed to like him. [ rude! don't speak ill of the dead. ] Dahut seemed genuine. How well can you say you know someone after a week?
She can't say that she agrees with the assessment of Luke. He'd been very patient with her, and he was affable. No underhandedness that she sensed, and if he was trying too hard it probably meant he wanted to right by people.
And Dahut, yes. Hard to see an ounce of subterfuge in that boy.]
Well. Dahut came here with Scien. I was wondering if Luke came with anyone.
[She puts the cigarette to her lips and breathes in.]
If I still had some spells, I could? [Peanut might not have been in the room when Luke passed, but maybe she witnessed other things.] As it is, I'd rather she not turn up hurt, or get taken away somewhere. She was really attached to him, she'll probably be lonely.
[And it's this thought that finally ekes a tear from her. Rosamund sniffs quick, wipes it, and tries the smoke a second time. It's more graceful than the first, but she still tapers off on an asthmatic trickle.]
She looks to him with bleary eyes. The tears came at some point, but he's been spared the graceless sight of them. She even laughs a little, though it's under her breath and brief as can be.]
I don't know. You don't think I made a fool of myself?
I think I let it blind me before, though. I was angry not just for their deaths, but also for Scien's loss. I didn't understand what really happened, or what all the clues were pointing too because...I'd assumed too many things.
It can blind, certainly, but it also can clear clouded vision. If you weren't angry about what happened, would you have cared at all? Or simply stood and waited for actions to happen to your person. It serves its purpose.
I think I would have cared no matter what, but maybe... [She bobs her head back and forth, mulling the particulars over.] I might have hung back? I don't know.
[She puts a hand to her cheek, eyes downcast.]
Honestly, I'm still very angry. And now that it's over, I don't know what to do with it.
[She does smile a little now. Jokes on her, women's clothes don't have pockets.]
You know, you have been so very kind to me, Lucien. Thank you. And I think you're right. Anger can be useful in the right doses, at the right time.
[She shrugs. Her insides still feel like they've been churned through glass, that won't change very soon. He's helped a bit though, and for that she's very grateful.]
I might think twice before slapping someone who can't hit back again, though. Maybe I'll wait for a fair fight.
[ gender roles are fucking terrible too, of course.
there's a moment where he's actually a little taken aback at the ridiculous accusation that he's kind, not something he's particularly known for, but there is a part of him that likes rosamund quite a bit. she's interesting. maybe somewhat naive, but she's not timid, not waiting behind a mask - she doesn't seem to be hiding who she is. he can appreciate that much. ]
If you insist. [ he shoves his hands into his pockets. ] Don't trust that everyone will wait to fight fair, either.
[she's doing her best to be polite about it. Waits some time, until she's certain most of the calamity has died down. She finds Lucien at sime quieter moment, sans company, and approaches warily.]
Hello...
[She offers him a pack of cigarettes.]
I don't know what kind you like but I thought maybe you might need some.
[ he's found somewhere quiet to chill out for a while, be by himself as much as he can be - it's kind of difficult to sit with your back full of holes, and his face still has the deep scratches on it, but he looks less bad off than before. at least all of it's sort of sealed up so he's not leaking.
he seems surprised when she approaches, but he'll reach out to take the cigarettes - nodding. ]
My thanks.
[ he's fiddling with the box, pulling one out - more to toy with it in his hands than anything. ]
[ he makes a face but then also winces when he makes the face because it hurts to make faces when you've scratched yours open. it's fine. he's not gonna argue that hard with a woman on a mission. ]
[She may have gotten her way but she'll hardly make a meal of it. Rosamund sets them on a table adjacent, dabbing some light alcohol on a cotton ball.]
Where's the worst damage, would you say? I'd hate to run out of bandages on scrapes if there's something nastier hiding away.
I'm not hiding anything. I'm not going to die some ignoble death by curling up in a corner and bleeding out, I'm well aware of my limits.
[ this is so stupidly defensive considering that's exactly what he tried to do but okay I guess we're pretending that didn't happen now. if he says it confidently enough surely others will start to believe it too. ]
Is it only ignoble if you die? What if you get infected with strange space diseases instead?
[Also blood isn't a good thing to lose.]
Right. Can you lift it up for me?
[It seems like she could get most of it without making him remove anything.
Once he complies she'll move to his back, gently cleaning the worst gashes first. There's a tiny "hmm" as she takes in the damage, just thoughtfully commiserative. She's not squeamish about this stuff anymore, and when you're just cleaning the aftermath the emotional heat of witnessing the act isn't there.]
[ what does this even mean. oh well, time to never find out because he's lifting up the back of his shirt for her - he doesn't pull it over his head because, horns, but that's probably better anyway. it's a mess back there, dried blood and the myriad swirling colors of the tattoos, criss-crossed with the medi-tape he's applied messily. ]
Aye. The others were fooling around. I-- [ well, he's about to blame them, but. ] Made a slight error.
What if you catch the one that turns you into a goat?
[Just kidding. Those probably are just spells. Unless?
She gives him a querying look from behind at the start. Then he changes tack. Takes credit where it may be unflattering, but due. Rosamund returns to dabbing with a smile curling the edges of her lips.]
That can happen. Especially with explosions. Sorry, this one might sting a little.
[And lo, it does, being a deeper gash than the last few. Better to get it cleaned up now than fester later though, and she makes quick and careful work of it.]
I'd heard it was some kind of crazy other lives you lived? As the, um— [Help] —Jonker and Goob Gop?
No one's dared to turn me into anything yet, and for good reason.
[ he would pizza rotate them. he ...... is not super stoic about pain right now. he is during a fight, he'd be a shitty blood hunter if he wasn't, but he's kind of a drama queen otherwise and shifts when it stings, expression tightening and then loosening again. ]
Kitewoman. Boops. And Goop? Gloops. Something. It was incredibly stupid. But I suppose one doesn't question the logic of a dream while you're in it. We believed ourselves prisoners, and that to earn our freedom, we had the choice of obeying or death. So we struck out on our question - to quell the source of necromancy in the region. Your common, shambling corpses and such.
[Sorry, she thinks it would be at least a little funny.
She does pull back if he winces too much though, waiting for the sting to subside. Her eyes flick up for a moment, over the winding tattoos above, some perforated by the damage. They're quite lovely, she thinks. Sinbad had had a few if she remembered right. Did they mean something in particular?]
Um... [She won't fight him on the names. Good lord.] Yes, shambling undead. I'd heard a bit about that. Dion said there was a wealthy man to blame. And did you succeed?
[Also forgive her.]
I just don't understand why your hair changed colour, too. Was that the style there?
I'm always tempting fate, wouldn't be different than my day to day.
[ he relaxes after a bit, reaching back to feel where the injuries are - it's probably better not to touch, but he wants to feel the damage. the tattoos are bright and numerous, and still dotted with the red eyes - though funnily enough, every injury is just shy of cutting through one of those. ]
Apparently. [ he's washed out some of the green, but some of it is lingering. he grimaces at the thought. ] As for the succeeding or not, I suppose that depends on who you ask. We certainly obtained this.
[ he'll dig in his coat pocket for ... a card. It is a United States of America Green Card. yay ... ? ]
Then don't be surprised when it catches up with you~
[He's so funny.
Of course the eyes drew her attention, red is an eye-catching colour in any circumstance. And now that she's moving onto the lesser cuts she realizes that these are exceptions to the broad spray of damage. Rosamund frowns. Her hand hovers over one, just for a moment.
She doesn't dare touch down. She moves onto the next gash, and then swaps to readying bandages.]
What's that?
[She leans to look while her hands are occupied.]
..."Permanent Resident?" Does that mean...could you possibly be going back there sometime?
if she's looking, the skin on the eyes is ... different. smoother. a weird texture that isn't quite skin, but not not skin either. but it doesn't move or glow or do anything but exist. ]
Not likely.
[ scoffing! scoffing. death to America. ]
Just means it was all for nothing. This, and a toy for children.
[ he does say this with the tone of a joke so. idk maybe they are all friends. or at least they all seem to have a handle on lucien's personality problems now.
at the tattoo question he pauses, pulling his shirt back down and turning his head up so he can try and catch the look on her face. ]
Some are meaningless, as far as I'm aware. I didn't put them there. Well - I chose none of them, really. But I expect you're asking about the eyes, aye? [ they are the most interesting ones, in the end. ] They mark me as Chosen, and through them I was granted gifts. I can read and sense minds, speak to others with the eyes, defend myself. Magic can't be used against me. [ a bit of a grin. ] That one's fun when you've got an uppity mage who thinks he can show off spells without any consequence.
If you didn't choose them, then who did? [She moves around to his front, ready to take care of the injuries there. Starting with his face, preferably, but she'll look to anything else more serious first if need be.] I mean, it sounds very useful. Being able to repel magic would be such a great advantage, I'm a little jealous if you don't mind me saying. Not of the whole — just the effect. Not the situation.
I know. Sometimes it does feel useless. But I do think it can help to say a little something or do little gesture, even if only to put that feeling into something. It's personal though, and everyone will do things differently.
Can you really forget though? Without magic to help?
Used to do prayers to the Raven Queen. Was part of the training, you see. Every day, on my knees, bowing and scraping. Asking her for her forgiveness, her kindness, her mercy. Maybe I wasn't always sincere, but I was dedicated. Never stopped her from taking her due, whether I was ready or not.
If I'm meant to say something, I'll say this. I don't intend to leave that soul here to languish.
As for the forgetting, I don't know. Only time can tell.
Frankly I wouldn't put my trust in any gods. Or fairies, or witches, or kings and queens. Maybe it's better to just put faith in your own self, and do the best you can with what you have. Thoughts and prayers don't have to belong to any higher power, I don't think.
[Rosamund may not like the cold, but the people here have outfitted them well. Enough so that she can spend the early morning crouching low and trail her fingers through the snow, examining the disturbances therein.]
It went east. I think one of its hind legs may have been injured.
So, it can't be too far. You up for a hike?
[Also she's got doe ears right now. They flick occasionally in the morning chill.]
[ he does not appear to have extra animalistic features at the moment, but he is wearing quite a few clothes. it's hard to say. he's kind of interested in her tracking, actually, standing back and letting her work - watching. ]
[ the first thing you feel is pain. The wrenching, wretched pain of skin loosening and freeing the parts of you that sustain life - you can see the magic around you, deep purple and vivid-bright - and you know you’ve made a mistake. She’s killed you. You’re already dead, your mind is just faster than your heart to realize it. Vess DeRogna - Archmage of the Assembly and traitorous bitch - had won.
No no no no— I won’t be made a puppet, I won’t be made hollow, not like this not like this—
But you don’t have time for objections more than that.
For a while, it’s dark.
Then you wake up.
You’re sitting on the ground, in a field - quiet. It’s evening outside, though you don’t recognize the star patterns above your head. There’s the remains of something being packed away around you. A … carnival, maybe. There’s a large tent, half-fallen down, a few caravans to the side. Half of everything is in piles - poles and crates, costumes tossed in heaps. Bits of paper float by on the wind. It’s calm, like the aftermath of a storm.
No one else is around, except her.
“Oh. You’re here? A little earlier than expected. Hello.”
There’s a woman, seated on a crate across from you. She has milk-white eyes, and is much taller than she has any right to be. Then again, when you take another glance, she appears perfectly normal. Smiling, but only a little.
She’s shuffling cards in her hands (two, no, more than two, four, eight, infinite … two), deep red with a golden decoration inked across the back. the ever-swirling ocean blue of her skin is hypnotic, making it almost impossible to know where to look.
“I don’t think I have all of you … do you know where the other part might be?” ]
[There's nothing quite like going to grab a quick croissant and feeling your skin peel off your muscle.
Rosamund is rattled the moment the memory overtakes her. She knows death, quite intimately at this point, but it doesn't make easy. Particularly when it slows down.
Same goes for the sudden wakefulness. The place is odd, she's never been to such a circus but can at least recognize the fanfare, even half disassembled like this. What draws her more is the woman and her cards. Nothing mortal about this.
Nothing real.
She comes to, suddenly gripping at Lucien's shoulder. She needs to catch her breath. There's sweat at her brow and under her arms, and her eyes dart between striations in the tiling on the floor.]
[ oh don't worry, Princess Rosamund. It isn't over yet. there's no lucien there. and the floor is still the swaying grass of the glade. Or darkness. Or swirling stars. Or nothing at all.
The woman watches for a moment and then: "Hm. Once upon a time. No-- Twice upon a time."
There's a strange sense of timelessness happening - you are everywhere, and nowhere, and also a small part of you ... somewhere. all colors and songs and joyful life, while you are here. with her, watching you carefully.
"Now we can begin. Begin again, I mean. Would you like to see the draw?"
the woman continues shuffling her cards, before putting three down on the small table between the two of you. face down.
"Your past. Your present. Your future."
She turns the first. A purple-skinned tiefling child draws blood from his arm, filling a chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the great Sanguine Sanctuary. On either side, a dark-furred catfolk woman, and a tall, muscular blonde watch on, holding tight to either elbow.
"A terrible trade for magic ... but I suppose one has to make sacrifices."
She turns the second. A purple-skinned tiefling in a red coat, patterned and beautiful, spinning. It makes you sick to look at it. A red eye is tattooed across the back of one of the figure's hands.
"Empty. Free. Death-obsessed. Then again, you always were, weren't you? In another time and place, you'd be in another time and place."
She pauses, fingers against the third card and she hums before standing and walking away. You feel everything go dark again. Silence. Like when everyone has filed out of the theater after the performance, and you've been left here alone. Comforting, in a way, to be finally alone in the quiet.
there's a sound like a song, filtering through the silence. and before long (or not long? time isn't anything here) you hear the final notes of the refrain. A blade twists in your chest and
You hear footsteps. The woman is back, bending down to look you in the eye, smiling.
"Thrice upon a time. Can you believe it? Say, do you know what comes after thrice ... ?"
But you don't have time to respond. The purpose. The promise. THE VISION. OPEN YOUR EYES. A whispered command: wake up.
Rosamund, who in fact has no shoulder to lean on, is instead left with raised hackles over this very specific phrasing. She doesn't speak. It doesn't feel right in the moment.
The cards flip. She sees scenes she can't quite understand. Lucien, small and under watch. Lucien in the air, spinning, dreadful, empty. The woman leaves, and the air is stale. Too quiet. Too vast. A song rises on the air.
Then the knife twists in her chest and she nearly screams. The woman reappears and she knows no comfort from this presence, but listens with eyes blown wide in pain and horror.
Then it stops.
Rosamund wheezes. She claps a hand to her chest, checking, finding nothing. She looks around herself, pale and feeling a prickle of sweat along her hairline.]
[ haha. yeah. it was important to me, specifically, that rosamund get to hear that particular little quote. you were wondering what lucien's deal was and it seems the answer might be this: incredibly Princess-coded. oopsie!
lucien isn't far away, though his eyes are flicking around - panic - brushing at his own face, pressing at his eyes like the light is burning. the same sort of feeling of the horror of resurrection as it had been the first time. ]
[ no damage, nothing obvious except perhaps a headache. he blinks like he's not quite aware of where he is for a moment but once his bearings are back he's forcing himself to his feet, pressing fingers into the bridge of his nose. ]
I don't know that it's a woman. Or anything human at all. [ he tilts his head, thinking, but there's clearly some avoidance there to thinking about this at all. ] Cree always said that I had the glint. The attention of the gods, for good or ill. A raven will always spot a shiny coin. I spent years in prayer to the Raven Queen, Matron of Death, but she never once answered me in life, and only ever visited me to touch the hands of those I know. [ he rolls his shoulders, uncomfortable. ] Sehanine, the Moonweaver. Probably. Or the crazed, last mad visions of a dying mind. But the gods don't care for my life or yours. It is amusement to them, nothing more.
[ as for the splinter. he rubs his fingers at his temple. ]
During the time I was dead, a ... gnat. A parasite. A splinter took hold of my body. A piece of something seeking a puppet, and my corpse happened to be free. Cree was unable to resurrect me during that time - the body was up and moving, but my mind was elsewhere. You felt its death in the memory, same as me, I'm sure.
[me just gawping at your incredible turn of phrase]
I think I did. [The knife. Right? Her hand clutches where the wound drove true.] And were you able to come back? As yourself? Or are you...
[What would it mean, to find yourself alive but only in a place like this? She knows the repetition of her own lives, but though there are unexpected similarities between them she doesn't think it's the same. He may not have been expecting to be resurrected, or perhaps there were even more terrible fates waiting for him under the gods' watchful gaze.
And no one used her old body like a toy. She's fairly sure of that.]
I'm alive. Have been for a few weeks before all of this.
[ what would it mean, to find yourself alive in a place like this. life, death, life, death and life again - what comes after thrice upon a time?
he does a theatrical little sweep wide of the arms, red eye on the palm of one hand. ]
But `myself` is an interesting question maybe best left to the philosophers. I am something. I don't believe it is the same. I feel sometimes this is a costume I wear. Lucien is a part in a play that I keep playing because it is expected, because it is the only way to move forward for the time being. But part of me has been lost, part of me has been splintered, and the part that remains is sewn back together in haste.
It's strange, being here. I'm tethered to a body I thought I would not have to keep for much longer. It's more mine than it has been in a while.
[What a cavalier attitude he's painted on for her.
Actually, that's giving herself too much credit. Most of it is to do with himself, something to brush over the fissures and keep moving forward, stay ahead of the game. Out-talk the outsiders and dance wide circles around the lookee-loos, as he once so glibly called them.
Rosamund's head tilts as she listens, growing ever more still.]
Well. It's not ideal. [Fair ways off from it.] And maybe those parts of you are gone for good.
But...what is here, that's still worth keeping, I think. The old and the new. [And she'll chance moving forward, hand settling light on his shoulder. He can pull away if he likes, she's not going to be a bother.] I hope you'll let yourself stay tethered a while longer, Lucien.
there's a deep sigh out, the shoulder drops a bit, but he doesn't move away or anything. a bit of a wan smile. ]
No choice, I'm afraid. I've received some rather dire threats about the "universal soup" from someone who decided to leave shortly after making them, so I've got to stick around if only to make a point.
Really? [She looks to him perplexed. Then her brows pop high.] Oh my goodness, I think you're right? Normally I feel like I talk far too much about myself, I guess you've been spared the worst of it.
Well, one secret might be—
[Sorry, quick interruption, the memory void would like a word with both of you.
In the space they move to now there is a strange kaleidoscope of perception. They are two people watching a memory of six people, who are watching a memory of another person entirely.
And this one is so clearly placed within a book. The world around them is patchy, parts of it fully rendered as real life and others bleeding to illustration, ink on parchment, or torn out completely so as to leave holes. Lucien can watch Rosamund and her ragtag gang of misfits follow the view of a woman whose face cannot be perceived speak to a hag who remains clearer than reality itself. One who wished to erase her existence, and the other whose power makes her impossible to erase.
The hag speaks first, riding in a mortar and pestle in front of a hut suspended on two chicken legs. "So, you have come far to this place, riding on your horse. What is it that you seek?"
"Help. Understanding. I'm a proud woman. My daughters are badly injured and hated in our kingdom, as the princess is quite beloved, and the story has spread far and wide, her side of the story about how she was... treated."
"You did mistreat her."
"What?"
"Of course you did. You are Wicked Stepmother."
"I was not a wicked stepmother."
"I did not say you were a wicked stepmother. You are Wicked Stepmother. Don't you know? If you will agree to give me one favor of yours, binding, maybe I tell you why your life is so rotten." She grins, and it is bone-chilling. "I give you something now which will break you, because you have asked for it, and let this be a lesson to be careful what you ask for."
The woman agrees. They enter the hut and she is presented with a book: Cinderella. The woman grows confused. "Why are you showing me the story of my step-daughter?"
"This is the story you are from."
"Show me my story."
"You don't have a story! You don't even have a name."
"Yes I do. I do have a name."
"No, no, no. You might have a name in some frivolous way, but it's not important that you have a name. It doesn't matter that you have a name. You want to know why your life is ruined? Do you want to know why you hate your stepdaughter? You hate your stepdaughter so that we can love your stepdaughter, because the crueler you are to her, the more we like her. This is what you are."
Even without a face, the shock reads plain on the woman's frame. Her shoulders stiffen, her head turns slow. "I don't even have a name in my own story. I don't even have a name in my own story, and my own story isn't even my story." She pauses, thinking. "I don't know how I feel about that. Or maybe I do. Who makes these stories? Where can I find them?"
"You want to find them? You will have to sacrifice much to find them."
She replies in a low voice, "How about I start with my name? I so clearly don't need it."
And the Stepmother takes a knife, plunges it into her chest, and blood splatters all over the page in front of them as she moves to the next edition of her story, but out, beyond the world, move into the spaces between worlds.
A libary that stretches for all eternity. Books upon books upon books, each with lives led by the ink they were written in. The Stepmother surveys all with a chilling calculation.
"You made me to be evil. You made me to be a monster, and I never had a choice. Every bad thing that happened to me was planned from the start." She moves to the books. "I don't think I like your story. I don't think I like any stories."
This blood red ink grows on the pages. There are other versions of Cinderella, other versions of these stories. The Stepmother reaches down into one and picks a little illustration off a page. Then eats it.
She moves through these texts and parchment and pages, having ascended to a higher reality. As that happens, she grows greater and greater and vaster and vaster, until she starts devouring things outside of her own stories.
She opens another book and sees an evil queen with a huntsman.
"Close enough."
She rips the Wicked Queen out and devours her with a snarl.
And the memory wipes clear. Rosamund stands pale and sweating next to him, hands shaking from the sudden vision.]
if he knew who that guy was he'd be invoking his name. this is a lot-- a lot to process both the concept of story and time and who this woman is, but ... he knows what folktales are. he knows what fate is, and what he does or doesn't believe about it. ]
Haha, thank you, thank you so much. I'm very sorry, I'm actually not single, hahaha.
[She threads her arm through Lucien's very pointedly and tries to hustle them along. Why did they draw such a massive crowd the second they got into this crazy mall?
Committed, monogamous - considering one of those certificates around here and everything!
[ he will confidently take her arm and then just use his free to start throwing elbows, pushing through where he can and dragging her along if possible. whispering back, though he's a terrible whisperer: ]
[Okay they have reached a break in the throng. Walking faster. There's a weapons store ahead, and a glittering jewelry shop, a bookstore. Once the crowd is out of the way she can see there's actually things worth buying here.]
Back before my kingdom fell I'd have royal guards and a retinue, usually a train of carriages. People would flock but they never got near me.
[ he will break away into the weapons store first. that's interesting. who doesn't love a good weapon. he does not object to the arm holding, she is free to do that as long as she likes - though he does look briefly confused and level her with a look. ]
... Pull the other one, it's got bells on.
[ HE THOUGHT THE YOUR HIGHNESS THING WAS A JOKE. i honestly thought it was funny if he never figured out she was a princess until she flat out said it. ]
[HELP IT'S BECAUSE I HAVEN'T GIVEN HIM MY MEMSHARE YET]
I'm being serious? [She gives him a little smile. Fond...you're such a goofus.] My kingdom may be in total ruin and I had to live in the woods for several months, but that doesn't change the past.
[But oooh weapons. Her eyes go big, be there any arrows here? She pats his arm imploringly.]
[What kind of a compliment is this? The brows, they are rising.]
Well. Thank you?
[She's going to assume he means that she is smart and capable and strong, not pampered and weak. Probably.]
Both at once? I'd be scared I'd cut my own arm off. [She points to the archery section.] I'm going to swing over this way, meet you back here in a few?
he really will just go stare at swords longingly for a while before giving up on the idea he could actually get out of here with them, coming over to the archery section. ]
Really? I could show you some tricks if you like! [Being unaware of the inevitable keychainification with weaponry, she's ringing up a sizable batch of arrows, a hunting knife, and a more mechanized modern bow, which had proved easy on the draw and very much to her liking.]
It was one of a few things I could make to fend for myself, while I was in the woods. I've never tried swords before.
he will stay in there quietly for a while, at least enough that things have like. sealed over and he's not in danger of bleeding out - sitting up and pushing the pod door open, taking a look down at himself to see how bad it is. there's still some punctures, and the lightning strike has settled into scarring more than anything, so the worst thing is still the Missing Eye problem. ]
[ dont say it like that. he'll take the hand (affection week) and haul himself up, sitting at the edge of the pod and looking over himself. With his one eye - that part has been pretty well healed over, but it's going to need a replacement or a patch. the other large injury is the lightning strike mark that runs up a leg and across his torso, all the way up to his neck. ]
On me? Oh, um. I have treats for all the pets on board, and I brought some cookies for while I was waiting. I was going to offer to take you somewhere, if you're up to walking. If not I can grab you something? The concourse is just a hop and a skip away!
[She will help him to his feet and unfortunately keep his arm for the duration of the trip. We're either walking with her under your shoulder for support or linked up like it's a courtly promenade. Your pick.]
[ he will accept either - though is less likely to object to the Courtly Promenade. He can actually walk alright, his legs aren't that injured, he's just mostly tired and can't see very well. ]
[Court style it is. She will walk him to the Galley, which at least still has decent food. Trying to down a junior chicken burger in the concourse might not be what a healing stomach needs.]
What? [She looks to him, alarmed.] As visions, or as themselves?
well he's coming to find her wherever she is - apparently in the medbay. a classic for a reason. he's just busting up in here, already smoking, so that's great for health concerns. ]
[Rosamund grimaces. She gestures at thin air, then drops the hand back to her lap.]
I feel like...myself, but filled with despicable things. I feel like everyone is watching me and I feel like everything I do is wrong, and everything is aggravating and I don't want to be near anyone.
It's all right. I didn't have enough letters to give to everyone either. And things were very strange, on both of our sides. You don't need to say sorry at all.
[ she did, he remembered that. rat-membered, even. ]
Better. [ he'll admit to that much. ] I imagine there will be much to catch up on, however I believe at least we are seeking a closure fast approaching. The threat of killing each other might be off the table for the moment.
Yes, I...I was very much worried about things changing so suddenly. Is that cruel to say? [That no victim was claimed should be a cause for celebration. And she was happy, truly. However:] I feel like there'll be a price to pay for not following the plot. So to speak.
there's a moment where lucien seems very surprised, and then he huffs a soft laugh. it's just very reminiscent of a past he was so sure he was leaving behind when he first arrived. how strange to decide to be mortal again. ]
I threw the journal away. I do not know if you saw it, or knew it's significance, but. Well. It was a thing, I suppose.
Me? [She looks at him, taken aback.] Oh. Um. I'm not sure, actually. I was telling Dahut this, before we all came, but I'm not...I'm fairly certain my story's about to end. In a good way, maybe. But, an end.
Well. That's the point I was whisked away from. We'd — my friends and I, we found a way to reach a place beyond our world. Where we might find a way to take control of our lives. Write our own stories.
And we had to fight very hard for it, but I think we've won. I think the spell worked. I just don't know for sure, because I woke up here. But if it did, then...I'm probably starting my story over again. Just, maybe a little wiser, this time.
[ it sounds like a faraway dream, in a way. to take control of your own life, write your own story. at least see your ending through. ]
... I don't know what will happen, if we'll die here or be wrought into pieces at the mercy of this thing, but if we somehow succeed and are allowed to return, then I do wish you success.
[ he'll let her take it, flip through it. The info is all posted but I'll put it here for reference too:
once they hit the atmosphere of the planet (aka mingle time) lucien may open this particular book to find that it looks to be a journal written with care. the journal details a very long space expedition of a scientist - solo - who has stumbled upon a beautiful planet that welcomed them with open arms. this journal was gifted to them upon first arrival, as they'd wanted to record more of their findings.
the first several entries detail just general pleasant interactions with the locals, some of their first few nights there that were beyond their imagination. they have some drawings of various flora that you'll be able to find on the planet no problem in great detail with plant-part labels and everything. there are some mushroom-looking/tall myconid people that also seem to be drawn in here as well.
however these entries begin to peter off and turn just into drawings of pink, wave-like patterns (the ones he could see before when first looking at this book). they're very clear at first but then begin to become more erratic and impossible to decipher, like they were trying to pour out every last thought on their page that could have been possible. the journal is truly just devolving into wave-like scribbles at the very end, all of which seem to translate now that you're in the proper atmosphere of this planet (weird). they says i'm so hungry, i'm so hungry, i'm so hungry over and over again.
how did this book even fucking end up in a bookstore? well. no one could read it, so it really did just seem like a whole house of leaves-type affair. very edgy. very appealing.]
I could only translate it as of this morning. I tried before, but nothing would go through.
[Her expression takes several shifts as she leafs through. First perplexed, then pointedly intrigued. Then a frown. Raised brows, a cock of her head, mouth twisting to the side.]
Ooooh. Oh! Uh. Hmmm. [She flicks a page and double blinks, shaking her head.] Welp.
[She claps it shut and her lips thin into a perfect line.]
So, this is cursed. If not literally, then certainly figuratively.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WEEK 0: First Saturday
But this one is called "Clue." And she is in desperate need of clues, so perhaps there is some hidden message within the contents, or a spell that will be revealed upon completion. Or something. Anything. Or what about this one, "Guess Who?"
Guess Who indeed.]
Care to play a round?
[Please say yes.]
no subject
Sure. Alright. Not as if there's anything better to be doing.
no subject
Who knows! Maybe we'll learn something! [Perhaps she's laying it on a bit thick. Rosamund pops the second game open and frowns at the contents within. Flips up the little faces on the strange...abacus.] There must be a hidden meaning to this.
no subject
Lots of people ascribe hidden meanings to all sorts of ridiculous things. Amulets, altars, cards. So, aye, most certainly the secrets of the universe are hidden in this game for ... Ages 6 and up.
[ he is, however, setting up his board. so he's definitely going to play. ]
no subject
...Well. Children are made to learn things adults would hate to learn all the time. There may be a point to it yet.
I think we are to, uh-hum, let's see here. [She pries the instructions loose, reads them aloud, etc. The gist is quite easy. She looks dismayed all the same.]
Okay, this may turn out to be a complete waste of time, but you can never be certain until you've checked. I'm hoping some clue was left behind in here, or the workings of a spell maybe?
I don't know. Let's just play.
no subject
[ imagine if there really was a secret spell trapped into this game of guess who. he's leaning down to inspect the faces. this game would be easier if he could read minds again right now :/ ]
Does the individual wear glasses?
no subject
No. [Selects one for authenticity.] Does yours have red hair?
[Anyway.]
So you've done a little adventuring, I take it?
no subject
No.
[ humming when he's asked about adventuring. ]
Aye, some. I suppose I'm in charge of a little operation we call the Tombtakers.
no subject
[Sounds like a good place to get cursed a billion times. The dead should probably be respected.]
Or sorry, maybe that's a silly assumption.
no subject
Only one tomb, lass. [ he fiddles with the game board for a minute, like he's debating if he's actually going to tell this story or not. ] We all came out of the Claret Orders, but there were too many rules, not enough contracts. It was self-limiting. So we struck out on our own. Went back to the town a few of us came up in. Br-- One of us, her mother lived there, hadn't spoken to her in a few years. A nasty hatchet of a woman, but she had a soft spot for her daughter and when I was a kid she'd let me sleep in her basement if I begged and wheedled enough and it was raining out. We figured, her house was big enough and we could hole up for a while, get our business sorted. Turns out in the time we'd been gone, her mother had managed to get caught playing stupid games with one of the gangs that run the town. The Jagentoth's don't take kindly to games, had her executed and put into their "tomb." Kept the bodies around as a warning.
We hated Reese Jagentoth and we figured the old wretch deserved a proper grave. Besides, she had a habit of hiding her best secrets close. So we robbed it. [ waving a hand. ] The Tombtakers.
no subject
Oh my goodness. How terrible. [About the loss of the mother, not the revenge taken. Which sounds rather lean in light of the circumstances.] I'm so sorry for your loss. And I think you did the right thing.
But, did they see any kind of justice for what they'd done?
no subject
Justice ... ? You believe in that sort of thing?
no subject
But then some people go so far.
no subject
Personally, I've never seen it. Justice is a fancy, trussed-up word for revenge. Eye-for-an-eye. A bit of a fairy story sometimes people tell themselves to live with it.
[ clicking down a face on the board. clicking another one up. ]
Not that there's anything wrong with a bit of good revenge.
no subject
Maybe it's like a fairy story. And maybe life is always going to be a bit more complicated than that.
That doesn't mean that things like hope, or mercy, or even justice aren't real.
[She sets to scanning the array of faces again, softening some.]
Personally, I've found the little acts of kindess matter most when the world is at its darkest.
Is your person wearing a hat?
no subject
Aye.
no subject
Rosamund frowns, flicking down the portraits. It's not as if she would take it back. She meant what she said, and she wasn't trying to insult anyone. And what had soured him anyway? What's wrong with a little kindness?]
Well. I don't think I've ever gone purposefully to a grave to take things, but we have taken whatever might be needed when we win a fight. There was a bunch of treasure and magic artefacts in the spider cave, and we took the Baron of the Brick's mechanical carriage...
Oh. Do you suppose hot dogs count? [A beat.] We didn't know what the meat was made of at the time.
["We" being exclusively Pinocchio.]
no subject
both eyebrows raise. ]
I say take whatever you need to make it to the next day. Hot dogs ... [ this is said with a bit of a question because he has no idea what a hot dog is. ] notwithstanding. That one sounds like just plain theft.
[ a clear joke. ]
no subject
Actually, it was lucky none of us did. [Save for the one bite Tim took, RIP. She leans in, hand to her mouth as she whispers.] We found out they used to be little boys.
no subject
... No, actually, no follow-up questions from me on that.
no subject
[hahaha okay yeah she should shut up and play the game maybe.]
Your turn?
[And so they carried on playing Guess Who but found no Guess Clues within. Tragic.]
WEEK 0: First Monday
Three days here, and nothing to show for it. Nothing!
But where is the stray thought coming from?
There's a little bump from inside (and an echo of a bruising forehead.)
OW. You dummy!]
no subject
well, she can probably figure out someone else is approaching because the general psychic aura in this room gets so bad so quickly. a strong sense of the kind of skin-crawling paranoia of being trapped in a small space, and an exhaustion so profound the walls are probably moving. maybe someone should ... try sleeping? that's crazy. ]
Looking for something in particular?
no subject
Rosamund sits up out of the terrible glass coffin she'd been inspecting, one arrow in hand and pink patch on her forehead from the collision.]
Lucien!
[A polite shock emanates from her. Both to have company and to feel such a dour wave pooling off the man. Is he on the verge of a meltdown?
She quickly covers with a smile, battling back her own frazzled nerves.]
I'm, um. Well. Trying to figure these things out. [She pats the pod hood, as if it's a point that could be missed.]
no subject
Magic, of some sort.
[ thanks captain obvious. ]
no subject
Yes, but what kind of magic? [She's out of her depth here but hey, who doesn't like a good swim?] I was hoping to find some runes, or expose an enchanted artefact, or any old clue really. They had us in a very powerful sleep after all, to bring us all the way out here.
Are you... [Hmm. How not to pry too hard on this?] So how's things?
no subject
... In the rotted guts of Aeor, you can stand on a crest and look out - amongst the ruins of that ancient flying city there are brilliant specks of blue dotted across the landscape. When you get closer, you see that they're not lights, but shimmering bits and sparks of magic, still holding fast. The inside is perfectly preserved. A moment in ice.
Some are simply the failsafe on some mage's useless trinkets and baubles that he foolishly thought he'd be alive to retrieve in time. Some are people. Some are frozen in their panic, cowering and terrified. Some are calm, awaiting the close-by day they'd be pulled from the wreckage and rescued, having endured nothing but the passage of eternal time. A thousand years of stillness.
So probably something of kin to that magic.
no subject
Rosamund can only imagine the sight. But it's not so unfamiliar. Another tomb of sorts, if we're taking his merry band's namesake for a spin.]
That's exactly what I'm afraid of. [She looks back to the cursed things.] I mean, they're practically coffins already.
Was that your home?
no subject
[ shoving his hands into his pockets. ]
Suppose I lied when I said it was only the one tomb.
[ looking at the machine again though. ]
Time is more easily manipulated than the mages would have you believe.
W0 - FRIDAY
when he sees her, he'll offer the pack of cigarillos out for her to take one. ]
no subject
Rosamund plucks a cigarette from the box. She takes a shaky breath.]
Thank you.
no subject
Doesn't make sense.
no subject
What has, so far?
[She purses her lips.]
Did you know them well?
no subject
Luke grated me. Too much trying to be kind, too much trying in general. Others seemed to like him. [ rude! don't speak ill of the dead. ] Dahut seemed genuine. How well can you say you know someone after a week?
no subject
She can't say that she agrees with the assessment of Luke. He'd been very patient with her, and he was affable. No underhandedness that she sensed, and if he was trying too hard it probably meant he wanted to right by people.
And Dahut, yes. Hard to see an ounce of subterfuge in that boy.]
Well. Dahut came here with Scien. I was wondering if Luke came with anyone.
[She puts the cigarette to her lips and breathes in.]
hu-KAAF-KAFF-KAFF—
[SWEET JESUS]
no subject
Try to breath, lass. [ he looks at the pack. ] These aren't even the cheap kind that'll try to kill you.
As for Luke, no one else matches his profile. Think he's all alone.
no subject
H-how does Pinocchio do this?
[Then again, he doesn't have lungs. She gets herself back under control, fist to her mouth in case she starts up again.]
No, he had his bird. Peanut. I...I haven't seen her, either.
[will there be a third body.....................]
no subject
he blinks, because he actually didn't think about the bird, but, you know. good point. ]
Planning on questioning it ... ?
no subject
If I still had some spells, I could? [Peanut might not have been in the room when Luke passed, but maybe she witnessed other things.] As it is, I'd rather she not turn up hurt, or get taken away somewhere. She was really attached to him, she'll probably be lonely.
[And it's this thought that finally ekes a tear from her. Rosamund sniffs quick, wipes it, and tries the smoke a second time. It's more graceful than the first, but she still tapers off on an asthmatic trickle.]
W0 - SUNDAY
... Don't let them take your rage from you.
no subject
She looks to him with bleary eyes. The tears came at some point, but he's been spared the graceless sight of them. She even laughs a little, though it's under her breath and brief as can be.]
I don't know. You don't think I made a fool of myself?
no subject
Think it's more foolish to pretend this place doesn't make you angry. That rage doesn't serve a purpose.
no subject
[She fidgets.]
I think I let it blind me before, though. I was angry not just for their deaths, but also for Scien's loss. I didn't understand what really happened, or what all the clues were pointing too because...I'd assumed too many things.
no subject
no subject
[She puts a hand to her cheek, eyes downcast.]
Honestly, I'm still very angry. And now that it's over, I don't know what to do with it.
no subject
Then keep it. Use it later.
[ ... ]
If there's a time when there's nothing else to keep you going, burn that instead.
no subject
[She does smile a little now. Jokes on her, women's clothes don't have pockets.]
You know, you have been so very kind to me, Lucien. Thank you. And I think you're right. Anger can be useful in the right doses, at the right time.
[She shrugs. Her insides still feel like they've been churned through glass, that won't change very soon. He's helped a bit though, and for that she's very grateful.]
I might think twice before slapping someone who can't hit back again, though. Maybe I'll wait for a fair fight.
no subject
there's a moment where he's actually a little taken aback at the ridiculous accusation that he's kind, not something he's particularly known for, but there is a part of him that likes rosamund quite a bit. she's interesting. maybe somewhat naive, but she's not timid, not waiting behind a mask - she doesn't seem to be hiding who she is. he can appreciate that much. ]
If you insist. [ he shoves his hands into his pockets. ] Don't trust that everyone will wait to fight fair, either.
WEEK 1: Thursday
Hello...
[She offers him a pack of cigarettes.]
I don't know what kind you like but I thought maybe you might need some.
no subject
he seems surprised when she approaches, but he'll reach out to take the cigarettes - nodding. ]
My thanks.
[ he's fiddling with the box, pulling one out - more to toy with it in his hands than anything. ]
no subject
Did you make it to the medical bay at all?
no subject
no subject
[Now's the time to bring out her second gift!
It's first aid supplies.]
Is there somewhere more private you'd prefer?
no subject
... Here's fine.
no subject
All right.
[She may have gotten her way but she'll hardly make a meal of it. Rosamund sets them on a table adjacent, dabbing some light alcohol on a cotton ball.]
Where's the worst damage, would you say? I'd hate to run out of bandages on scrapes if there's something nastier hiding away.
no subject
I'm not hiding anything. I'm not going to die some ignoble death by curling up in a corner and bleeding out, I'm well aware of my limits.
[ this is so stupidly defensive considering that's exactly what he tried to do but okay I guess we're pretending that didn't happen now. if he says it confidently enough surely others will start to believe it too. ]
The back. Got the metal out, but--
[ he hasn't gotten into the pod yet. ]
no subject
[Also blood isn't a good thing to lose.]
Right. Can you lift it up for me?
[It seems like she could get most of it without making him remove anything.
Once he complies she'll move to his back, gently cleaning the worst gashes first. There's a tiny "hmm" as she takes in the damage, just thoughtfully commiserative. She's not squeamish about this stuff anymore, and when you're just cleaning the aftermath the emotional heat of witnessing the act isn't there.]
Did something blow up?
no subject
[ what does this even mean. oh well, time to never find out because he's lifting up the back of his shirt for her - he doesn't pull it over his head because, horns, but that's probably better anyway. it's a mess back there, dried blood and the myriad swirling colors of the tattoos, criss-crossed with the medi-tape he's applied messily. ]
Aye. The others were fooling around. I-- [ well, he's about to blame them, but. ] Made a slight error.
no subject
[Just kidding. Those probably are just spells. Unless?
She gives him a querying look from behind at the start. Then he changes tack. Takes credit where it may be unflattering, but due. Rosamund returns to dabbing with a smile curling the edges of her lips.]
That can happen. Especially with explosions. Sorry, this one might sting a little.
[And lo, it does, being a deeper gash than the last few. Better to get it cleaned up now than fester later though, and she makes quick and careful work of it.]
I'd heard it was some kind of crazy other lives you lived? As the, um— [Help] —Jonker and Goob Gop?
no subject
[ he would pizza rotate them. he ...... is not super stoic about pain right now. he is during a fight, he'd be a shitty blood hunter if he wasn't, but he's kind of a drama queen otherwise and shifts when it stings, expression tightening and then loosening again. ]
Kitewoman. Boops. And Goop? Gloops. Something. It was incredibly stupid. But I suppose one doesn't question the logic of a dream while you're in it. We believed ourselves prisoners, and that to earn our freedom, we had the choice of obeying or death. So we struck out on our question - to quell the source of necromancy in the region. Your common, shambling corpses and such.
no subject
[Sorry, she thinks it would be at least a little funny.
She does pull back if he winces too much though, waiting for the sting to subside. Her eyes flick up for a moment, over the winding tattoos above, some perforated by the damage. They're quite lovely, she thinks. Sinbad had had a few if she remembered right. Did they mean something in particular?]
Um... [She won't fight him on the names. Good lord.] Yes, shambling undead. I'd heard a bit about that. Dion said there was a wealthy man to blame. And did you succeed?
[Also forgive her.]
I just don't understand why your hair changed colour, too. Was that the style there?
no subject
[ he relaxes after a bit, reaching back to feel where the injuries are - it's probably better not to touch, but he wants to feel the damage. the tattoos are bright and numerous, and still dotted with the red eyes - though funnily enough, every injury is just shy of cutting through one of those. ]
Apparently. [ he's washed out some of the green, but some of it is lingering. he grimaces at the thought. ] As for the succeeding or not, I suppose that depends on who you ask. We certainly obtained this.
[ he'll dig in his coat pocket for ... a card. It is a United States of America Green Card. yay ... ? ]
no subject
[He's so funny.
Of course the eyes drew her attention, red is an eye-catching colour in any circumstance. And now that she's moving onto the lesser cuts she realizes that these are exceptions to the broad spray of damage. Rosamund frowns. Her hand hovers over one, just for a moment.
She doesn't dare touch down. She moves onto the next gash, and then swaps to readying bandages.]
What's that?
[She leans to look while her hands are occupied.]
..."Permanent Resident?" Does that mean...could you possibly be going back there sometime?
no subject
Not likely.
[ scoffing! scoffing. death to America. ]
Just means it was all for nothing. This, and a toy for children.
no subject
Perhaps the meaning was the friends you made along the way?
[Are they friends...
Regardless, she's finished with his back, patting his arm and urging him to lower the shirt.]
Lucien, if this is poking at something I shouldn't be, just say the word, but. [She frowns.] Do all these tattoos mean something?
no subject
[ he does say this with the tone of a joke so. idk maybe they are all friends. or at least they all seem to have a handle on lucien's personality problems now.
at the tattoo question he pauses, pulling his shirt back down and turning his head up so he can try and catch the look on her face. ]
Some are meaningless, as far as I'm aware. I didn't put them there. Well - I chose none of them, really. But I expect you're asking about the eyes, aye? [ they are the most interesting ones, in the end. ] They mark me as Chosen, and through them I was granted gifts. I can read and sense minds, speak to others with the eyes, defend myself. Magic can't be used against me. [ a bit of a grin. ] That one's fun when you've got an uppity mage who thinks he can show off spells without any consequence.
no subject
If you didn't choose them, then who did? [She moves around to his front, ready to take care of the injuries there. Starting with his face, preferably, but she'll look to anything else more serious first if need be.] I mean, it sounds very useful. Being able to repel magic would be such a great advantage, I'm a little jealous if you don't mind me saying. Not of the whole — just the effect. Not the situation.
What was the situation?
W1 - FRIDAY
no subject
Then again, who's to say what they'll learn after this one?]
nyquil
I don't know if what we have on board is justice, to be honest.
Did you know him well?
no subject
I believe so.
He knew me well.
no subject
Were you roommates? How did you meet?
no subject
Here. same as you and I.
no subject
I remember you seeing you speak last week, it looked like you got along. Can you tell me more about him?
no subject
There's always so many words. Prayers and memories and thoughts and such, but it all feels useless.
Maybe the best thing to do is forget.
no subject
Can you really forget though? Without magic to help?
no subject
If I'm meant to say something, I'll say this. I don't intend to leave that soul here to languish.
As for the forgetting, I don't know. Only time can tell.
no subject
Would you like some company at least?
no subject
I'll be best on my own tonight, I think.
no subject
The offer will always be open though. Even if you don't want to talk. I'll be here if you want me.
WEEK 2: Thursday
It went east. I think one of its hind legs may have been injured.
So, it can't be too far. You up for a hike?
[Also she's got doe ears right now. They flick occasionally in the morning chill.]
no subject
Alright. Lead the way.
W3 - MONDAY
No no no no— I won’t be made a puppet, I won’t be made hollow, not like this not like this—
But you don’t have time for objections more than that.
For a while, it’s dark.
Then you wake up.
You’re sitting on the ground, in a field - quiet. It’s evening outside, though you don’t recognize the star patterns above your head. There’s the remains of something being packed away around you. A … carnival, maybe. There’s a large tent, half-fallen down, a few caravans to the side. Half of everything is in piles - poles and crates, costumes tossed in heaps. Bits of paper float by on the wind. It’s calm, like the aftermath of a storm.
No one else is around, except her.
“Oh. You’re here? A little earlier than expected. Hello.”
There’s a woman, seated on a crate across from you. She has milk-white eyes, and is much taller than she has any right to be. Then again, when you take another glance, she appears perfectly normal. Smiling, but only a little.
She’s shuffling cards in her hands (two, no, more than two, four, eight, infinite … two), deep red with a golden decoration inked across the back. the ever-swirling ocean blue of her skin is hypnotic, making it almost impossible to know where to look.
“I don’t think I have all of you … do you know where the other part might be?” ]
no subject
Rosamund is rattled the moment the memory overtakes her. She knows death, quite intimately at this point, but it doesn't make easy. Particularly when it slows down.
Same goes for the sudden wakefulness. The place is odd, she's never been to such a circus but can at least recognize the fanfare, even half disassembled like this. What draws her more is the woman and her cards. Nothing mortal about this.
Nothing real.
She comes to, suddenly gripping at Lucien's shoulder. She needs to catch her breath. There's sweat at her brow and under her arms, and her eyes dart between striations in the tiling on the floor.]
Lucien...
no subject
The woman watches for a moment and then: "Hm. Once upon a time. No-- Twice upon a time."
There's a strange sense of timelessness happening - you are everywhere, and nowhere, and also a small part of you ... somewhere. all colors and songs and joyful life, while you are here. with her, watching you carefully.
"Now we can begin. Begin again, I mean. Would you like to see the draw?"
the woman continues shuffling her cards, before putting three down on the small table between the two of you. face down.
"Your past. Your present. Your future."
She turns the first. A purple-skinned tiefling child draws blood from his arm, filling a chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the great Sanguine Sanctuary. On either side, a dark-furred catfolk woman, and a tall, muscular blonde watch on, holding tight to either elbow.
"A terrible trade for magic ... but I suppose one has to make sacrifices."
She turns the second. A purple-skinned tiefling in a red coat, patterned and beautiful, spinning. It makes you sick to look at it. A red eye is tattooed across the back of one of the figure's hands.
"Empty. Free. Death-obsessed. Then again, you always were, weren't you? In another time and place, you'd be in another time and place."
She pauses, fingers against the third card and she hums before standing and walking away. You feel everything go dark again. Silence. Like when everyone has filed out of the theater after the performance, and you've been left here alone. Comforting, in a way, to be finally alone in the quiet.
there's a sound like a song, filtering through the silence. and before long (or not long? time isn't anything here) you hear the final notes of the refrain. A blade twists in your chest and
You hear footsteps. The woman is back, bending down to look you in the eye, smiling.
"Thrice upon a time. Can you believe it? Say, do you know what comes after thrice ... ?"
But you don't have time to respond. The purpose. The promise. THE VISION. OPEN YOUR EYES. A whispered command: wake up.
And then the light pours in.
You're back.
Be free, Rosamund.]
no subject
Rosamund, who in fact has no shoulder to lean on, is instead left with raised hackles over this very specific phrasing. She doesn't speak. It doesn't feel right in the moment.
The cards flip. She sees scenes she can't quite understand. Lucien, small and under watch. Lucien in the air, spinning, dreadful, empty. The woman leaves, and the air is stale. Too quiet. Too vast. A song rises on the air.
Then the knife twists in her chest and she nearly screams. The woman reappears and she knows no comfort from this presence, but listens with eyes blown wide in pain and horror.
Then it stops.
Rosamund wheezes. She claps a hand to her chest, checking, finding nothing. She looks around herself, pale and feeling a prickle of sweat along her hairline.]
Lucien?
no subject
lucien isn't far away, though his eyes are flicking around - panic - brushing at his own face, pressing at his eyes like the light is burning. the same sort of feeling of the horror of resurrection as it had been the first time. ]
Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck
no subject
[She gets up and runs to him, immediately checking for damage. These were only memories, but he sounded legitimately hurt right now.]
What's going on? What do you need?
no subject
That's-- I don't know what that was.
no subject
It looked like it was all about you. Your life...those cards had pictures of you.
no subject
It's-- my death. And my return. And the time in between, where the splinter took hold.
no subject
The time in-between...so that woman? [Some sort of inter-planar figure no doubt, or a powerful sorceress who could make the trip without injury.]
What do you mean, splinter?
no subject
[ as for the splinter. he rubs his fingers at his temple. ]
During the time I was dead, a ... gnat. A parasite. A splinter took hold of my body. A piece of something seeking a puppet, and my corpse happened to be free. Cree was unable to resurrect me during that time - the body was up and moving, but my mind was elsewhere. You felt its death in the memory, same as me, I'm sure.
no subject
I think I did. [The knife. Right? Her hand clutches where the wound drove true.] And were you able to come back? As yourself? Or are you...
[What would it mean, to find yourself alive but only in a place like this? She knows the repetition of her own lives, but though there are unexpected similarities between them she doesn't think it's the same. He may not have been expecting to be resurrected, or perhaps there were even more terrible fates waiting for him under the gods' watchful gaze.
And no one used her old body like a toy. She's fairly sure of that.]
no subject
[ what would it mean, to find yourself alive in a place like this. life, death, life, death and life again - what comes after thrice upon a time?
he does a theatrical little sweep wide of the arms, red eye on the palm of one hand. ]
But `myself` is an interesting question maybe best left to the philosophers. I am something. I don't believe it is the same. I feel sometimes this is a costume I wear. Lucien is a part in a play that I keep playing because it is expected, because it is the only way to move forward for the time being. But part of me has been lost, part of me has been splintered, and the part that remains is sewn back together in haste.
It's strange, being here. I'm tethered to a body I thought I would not have to keep for much longer. It's more mine than it has been in a while.
no subject
Actually, that's giving herself too much credit. Most of it is to do with himself, something to brush over the fissures and keep moving forward, stay ahead of the game. Out-talk the outsiders and dance wide circles around the lookee-loos, as he once so glibly called them.
Rosamund's head tilts as she listens, growing ever more still.]
Well. It's not ideal. [Fair ways off from it.] And maybe those parts of you are gone for good.
But...what is here, that's still worth keeping, I think. The old and the new. [And she'll chance moving forward, hand settling light on his shoulder. He can pull away if he likes, she's not going to be a bother.] I hope you'll let yourself stay tethered a while longer, Lucien.
no subject
there's a deep sigh out, the shoulder drops a bit, but he doesn't move away or anything. a bit of a wan smile. ]
No choice, I'm afraid. I've received some rather dire threats about the "universal soup" from someone who decided to leave shortly after making them, so I've got to stick around if only to make a point.
no subject
[Flashbacks to the Baron of the Bricks and his delicious stew.
Okay but that is less important than the rest of the sentiment, and Rosamund returns his smile. Warm though, and with a soft crinkle of her nose.]
Sorry to say but I'm a little glad to hear it. I'd miss you if you left so soon.
no subject
[ no the soup is important. he does a soft snort too. ]
You know, get the feeling you know a lot of my personal issues, but somehow I don't know that many of yours. I'm owed a story. Or at least a secret.
no subject
Well, one secret might be—
[Sorry, quick interruption, the memory void would like a word with both of you.
In the space they move to now there is a strange kaleidoscope of perception. They are two people watching a memory of six people, who are watching a memory of another person entirely.
And this one is so clearly placed within a book. The world around them is patchy, parts of it fully rendered as real life and others bleeding to illustration, ink on parchment, or torn out completely so as to leave holes. Lucien can watch Rosamund and her ragtag gang of misfits follow the view of a woman whose face cannot be perceived speak to a hag who remains clearer than reality itself. One who wished to erase her existence, and the other whose power makes her impossible to erase.
The hag speaks first, riding in a mortar and pestle in front of a hut suspended on two chicken legs. "So, you have come far to this place, riding on your horse. What is it that you seek?"
"Help. Understanding. I'm a proud woman. My daughters are badly injured and hated in our kingdom, as the princess is quite beloved, and the story has spread far and wide, her side of the story about how she was... treated."
"You did mistreat her."
"What?"
"Of course you did. You are Wicked Stepmother."
"I was not a wicked stepmother."
"I did not say you were a wicked stepmother. You are Wicked Stepmother. Don't you know? If you will agree to give me one favor of yours, binding, maybe I tell you why your life is so rotten." She grins, and it is bone-chilling. "I give you something now which will break you, because you have asked for it, and let this be a lesson to be careful what you ask for."
The woman agrees. They enter the hut and she is presented with a book: Cinderella. The woman grows confused. "Why are you showing me the story of my step-daughter?"
"This is the story you are from."
"Show me my story."
"You don't have a story! You don't even have a name."
"Yes I do. I do have a name."
"No, no, no. You might have a name in some frivolous way, but it's not important that you have a name. It doesn't matter that you have a name. You want to know why your life is ruined? Do you want to know why you hate your stepdaughter? You hate your stepdaughter so that we can love your stepdaughter, because the crueler you are to her, the more we like her. This is what you are."
Even without a face, the shock reads plain on the woman's frame. Her shoulders stiffen, her head turns slow. "I don't even have a name in my own story. I don't even have a name in my own story, and my own story isn't even my story." She pauses, thinking. "I don't know how I feel about that. Or maybe I do. Who makes these stories? Where can I find them?"
"You want to find them? You will have to sacrifice much to find them."
She replies in a low voice, "How about I start with my name? I so clearly don't need it."
And the Stepmother takes a knife, plunges it into her chest, and blood splatters all over the page in front of them as she moves to the next edition of her story, but out, beyond the world, move into the spaces between worlds.
A libary that stretches for all eternity. Books upon books upon books, each with lives led by the ink they were written in. The Stepmother surveys all with a chilling calculation.
"You made me to be evil. You made me to be a monster, and I never had a choice. Every bad thing that happened to me was planned from the start." She moves to the books. "I don't think I like your story. I don't think I like any stories."
This blood red ink grows on the pages. There are other versions of Cinderella, other versions of these stories. The Stepmother reaches down into one and picks a little illustration off a page. Then eats it.
She moves through these texts and parchment and pages, having ascended to a higher reality. As that happens, she grows greater and greater and vaster and vaster, until she starts devouring things outside of her own stories.
She opens another book and sees an evil queen with a huntsman.
"Close enough."
She rips the Wicked Queen out and devours her with a snarl.
And the memory wipes clear. Rosamund stands pale and sweating next to him, hands shaking from the sudden vision.]
no subject
if he knew who that guy was he'd be invoking his name. this is a lot-- a lot to process both the concept of story and time and who this woman is, but ... he knows what folktales are. he knows what fate is, and what he does or doesn't believe about it. ]
... Are you alright?
no subject
[And after a tense beat.]
...I'm sorry. That's not a very — forget about it.
WEEK 4: Tuesday
[She threads her arm through Lucien's very pointedly and tries to hustle them along. Why did they draw such a massive crowd the second they got into this crazy mall?
She whispers to him:]
What is with all these people?
no subject
[ he will confidently take her arm and then just use his free to start throwing elbows, pushing through where he can and dragging her along if possible. whispering back, though he's a terrible whisperer: ]
Not used to this?
no subject
[Okay they have reached a break in the throng. Walking faster. There's a weapons store ahead, and a glittering jewelry shop, a bookstore. Once the crowd is out of the way she can see there's actually things worth buying here.]
Back before my kingdom fell I'd have royal guards and a retinue, usually a train of carriages. People would flock but they never got near me.
[Also she has not released his arm.]
no subject
... Pull the other one, it's got bells on.
[ HE THOUGHT THE YOUR HIGHNESS THING WAS A JOKE. i honestly thought it was funny if he never figured out she was a princess until she flat out said it. ]
no subject
I'm being serious? [She gives him a little smile. Fond...you're such a goofus.] My kingdom may be in total ruin and I had to live in the woods for several months, but that doesn't change the past.
[But oooh weapons. Her eyes go big, be there any arrows here? She pats his arm imploringly.]
What are you looking for? Let's go all out.
no subject
[ he is a little distracted imagining her retinue though. ]
Think the woods might suit you better, no offense.
[ WOW. but he means that as a compliment. ]
Used to using two swords.
no subject
Well. Thank you?
[She's going to assume he means that she is smart and capable and strong, not pampered and weak. Probably.]
Both at once? I'd be scared I'd cut my own arm off. [She points to the archery section.] I'm going to swing over this way, meet you back here in a few?
[shopping montage!!!!!!!!!!]
no subject
he really will just go stare at swords longingly for a while before giving up on the idea he could actually get out of here with them, coming over to the archery section. ]
Never was a bow person.
no subject
It was one of a few things I could make to fend for myself, while I was in the woods. I've never tried swords before.
Week 4: Thursday
Yet Rosamund has stuck by his pod until the timer dings and he is done cooking like a nasty rotisserie chicken. She sets her book aside and peers in.]
Lucien? Are you all right?
no subject
he will stay in there quietly for a while, at least enough that things have like. sealed over and he's not in danger of bleeding out - sitting up and pushing the pod door open, taking a look down at himself to see how bad it is. there's still some punctures, and the lightning strike has settled into scarring more than anything, so the worst thing is still the Missing Eye problem. ]
Better worse.
[ well. dead? sure. ]
no subject
All right.
[She gets up and proceeds to close the lid back on him.]
no subject
I need a break.
[ stubborn ... ]
I'll get back in after.
no subject
If I catch you running around later with all the same holes in you, I'll be very upset Lucien.
[But fine. She relents and instead takes his hand, in case he needs help getting out of the pod.]
Do you have any sort of appetite?
no subject
[ dont say it like that. he'll take the hand (affection week) and haul himself up, sitting at the edge of the pod and looking over himself. With his one eye - that part has been pretty well healed over, but it's going to need a replacement or a patch. the other large injury is the lightning strike mark that runs up a leg and across his torso, all the way up to his neck. ]
... What do you have?
no subject
With...flesh, I hope.
[There's no saving this.]
On me? Oh, um. I have treats for all the pets on board, and I brought some cookies for while I was waiting. I was going to offer to take you somewhere, if you're up to walking. If not I can grab you something? The concourse is just a hop and a skip away!
no subject
I can walk.
[ stubborn ......... ]
no subject
If you say so.
[She will help him to his feet and unfortunately keep his arm for the duration of the trip. We're either walking with her under your shoulder for support or linked up like it's a courtly promenade. Your pick.]
no subject
It was-- Some of the dead were there.
no subject
What? [She looks to him, alarmed.] As visions, or as themselves?
...Who?
W4 - SATURDAY
well he's coming to find her wherever she is - apparently in the medbay. a classic for a reason. he's just busting up in here, already smoking, so that's great for health concerns. ]
Awake?
no subject
Also she's still laying down in the med pod. The opposite of him this week, he couldn't wait to get out and she can't bring herself to leave.]
I suppose. [Her eyes roll his way. She watches the smoke curl away from his cigarette, listless.] What do you want?
no subject
[ He'll find somewhere to sit, nearby. ]
What does it feel like?
no subject
no subject
Do you feel like yourself?
no subject
I feel like...myself, but filled with despicable things. I feel like everyone is watching me and I feel like everything I do is wrong, and everything is aggravating and I don't want to be near anyone.
no subject
We'll fix it. We're working on it.
no subject
[Her teeth grit. She scraped her fingers through her hair, catching on the briars. Giving them a bitter tugs.]
I'm not going to wait for anyone, you know.
W6 - SATURDAY
he is coming to find her ... ]
I think ... I owe you an apology.
no subject
[Okay sorry her hand is instantly on his arm. Feeling a little touch-starved and shell-shocked still.]
What for? I don't think you do?
no subject
I meant to contact you, after everything that happened.
no subject
[She smiles, head tilting to the side.]
It's all right. I didn't have enough letters to give to everyone either. And things were very strange, on both of our sides. You don't need to say sorry at all.
no subject
[ WHY. ]
no subject
And what a rat you were! Eunhyuk couldn't keep up with all the poppers on the floor.
no subject
[ threat. ]
You're feeling well, then?
no subject
[Scien had even given her a stink eye for protesting but anyway.]
Better, for certain. Much better. Yourself? I know so much has happened, but we could only see bits and pieces.
no subject
[ she did, he remembered that. rat-membered, even. ]
Better. [ he'll admit to that much. ] I imagine there will be much to catch up on, however I believe at least we are seeking a closure fast approaching. The threat of killing each other might be off the table for the moment.
no subject
Yes, I...I was very much worried about things changing so suddenly. Is that cruel to say? [That no victim was claimed should be a cause for celebration. And she was happy, truly. However:] I feel like there'll be a price to pay for not following the plot. So to speak.
no subject
I was thinking the exact same thought. So I don't find it cruel, I find it practical.
At least we get to face it together.
no subject
And she'll cup one cheek with her hand as she kisses the other.]
And thank goodness we will.
no subject
there's a moment where lucien seems very surprised, and then he huffs a soft laugh. it's just very reminiscent of a past he was so sure he was leaving behind when he first arrived. how strange to decide to be mortal again. ]
I threw the journal away. I do not know if you saw it, or knew it's significance, but. Well. It was a thing, I suppose.
no subject
[And beat to bloody pulps for it, too.]
But good. I'm glad. Better it's out of any hands, much less your own. You've been through far enough, I think!
no subject
I imagine that isn't a unique circumstance here. [ but speaking of ... ] Where will you go next?
no subject
Me? [She looks at him, taken aback.] Oh. Um. I'm not sure, actually. I was telling Dahut this, before we all came, but I'm not...I'm fairly certain my story's about to end. In a good way, maybe. But, an end.
no subject
So, you're seeing it through?
no subject
Well. That's the point I was whisked away from. We'd — my friends and I, we found a way to reach a place beyond our world. Where we might find a way to take control of our lives. Write our own stories.
And we had to fight very hard for it, but I think we've won. I think the spell worked. I just don't know for sure, because I woke up here. But if it did, then...I'm probably starting my story over again. Just, maybe a little wiser, this time.
no subject
... I don't know what will happen, if we'll die here or be wrought into pieces at the mercy of this thing, but if we somehow succeed and are allowed to return, then I do wish you success.
I imagine you'll win.
no subject
But he's very sweet to be so encouraging. She smiles at him, patting his arm.]
I really did miss you, Lucien. You know that right? [There's a beat.] But thank you. Every little bit of luck counts.
And I hope the same for you, too. What might you be doing, should you go home?
W7 - MONDAY
You should see this.
no subject
What? That old thing?
[Okay but actually though, very plant forward it was, no? She reaches for it.]
What's going on, Lucien?
no subject
once they hit the atmosphere of the planet (aka mingle time) lucien may open this particular book to find that it looks to be a journal written with care. the journal details a very long space expedition of a scientist - solo - who has stumbled upon a beautiful planet that welcomed them with open arms. this journal was gifted to them upon first arrival, as they'd wanted to record more of their findings.
the first several entries detail just general pleasant interactions with the locals, some of their first few nights there that were beyond their imagination. they have some drawings of various flora that you'll be able to find on the planet no problem in great detail with plant-part labels and everything. there are some mushroom-looking/tall myconid people that also seem to be drawn in here as well.
however these entries begin to peter off and turn just into drawings of pink, wave-like patterns (the ones he could see before when first looking at this book). they're very clear at first but then begin to become more erratic and impossible to decipher, like they were trying to pour out every last thought on their page that could have been possible. the journal is truly just devolving into wave-like scribbles at the very end, all of which seem to translate now that you're in the proper atmosphere of this planet (weird). they says i'm so hungry, i'm so hungry, i'm so hungry over and over again.
how did this book even fucking end up in a bookstore? well. no one could read it, so it really did just seem like a whole house of leaves-type affair. very edgy. very appealing.]
I could only translate it as of this morning. I tried before, but nothing would go through.
no subject
Ooooh. Oh! Uh. Hmmm. [She flicks a page and double blinks, shaking her head.] Welp.
[She claps it shut and her lips thin into a perfect line.]
So, this is cursed. If not literally, then certainly figuratively.
WEEK 7: Saturday
Lucien! Are you all right now? I'm so sorry!
no subject
I'm fine, I'm fine, no need to worry about it.
no subject
I know that's very silly to say, but still.
no subject
However. A frog? Really?