The atmosphere has been tense in both cities ever since the new batch of refugees were shot down out of the sky. Natives and refugees alike will note that things are steadily growing worse and worse... until suddenly, the tension snaps. Chaos erupts on one seemingly ordinary night and will continue until early March, when it all comes to a head. The question is, as always... what will you do?
You may submit an AC-eligible thread set in either Olympia or Wyver for 1 OLYMPIA REP POINT OR 1 WYVER REP POINT respectively, HERE or HERE, so long as the thread involves your character complying with their faction of choice's goals and responsibilities.
As a note, faction compliance in this case refers to actions that benefit the faction in the long term. Meaning that while citizens might be revolting against one another temporarily, assisting their fellow people and business will be considered as faction compliance for the purposes of submitting REP. (For example, raiding the palace in Olympia would earn 1 Wyver REP, whereas helping put out the fires in the palace would earn 1 Olympia REP.)
You may write threads and prompts in both cities, but ICly, they should take place on different days.
Please also note that travel between factions is heavily scrutinized during the events of this log. If your character travels between cities, please report it here. EMBERS IN OUR BLOODLINES
CHAOS ERUPTS. The city hasn't been exactly peaceful for some time — discontented grumbles have been directed at anyone who exhibits even the slightest amount of pro-Wyver (anti-Olympian) sentiment — but now, the tensions have not simply worsened: they've outright snapped.
It wouldn't be unusual to start your day to the sound of breaking glass. Perhaps it's a neighbor's window, or if you're truly unlucky, it's your own. Regardless, it's clear that there are a number of people who decide that violence is the answer. Well-armed shops such as The Sharper are left alone, but The Silk Wyrms, The Wyvernest, and other smaller businesses aren't so lucky. Visit the tailor, and you'll find that someone has broken in and slashed many of the in-progress custom orders; at the dragon cafe, someone has set many of the miniature dragons loose in a bid to purge the city of anything tainted by Wyver's influence. Many shopkeeps are fearful that the culprits might return. They're offering good silver for anyone who will retrieve stolen goods, round up the missing dragons, or find proof of who the culprits were — and for protection in case the culprits return. Linger, and you'll be in a position to potentially stop a repeat attack when the rioters come back with torches and bricks.
Members of the Royal Guard have their hands full with the fights breaking out to attend to every instance of violence against the businesses. Shouting in the squares escalates into bloody brawls — and if you spend any time outside, you'll soon see why. There's a strange mist in the most populated parts of the city, which you may recognize as having similar effects to the waters of Flona Cove that lower one's inhibitions. It spurs those who would usually agree to disagree into shouting matches, and influences people who would normally shout into throwing punches. Members of the Guard, usually a mediating force, are joining the fray themselves.
Even you aren't immune to the mist's effects. Whether you're protecting your home or place of employment, chasing down vandals, rounding up escaped dragons from the dragon cafes, or even just observing what's going on with someone else, you're likely doing it much more aggressively than you typically would... but then, this level of aggression seems to be becoming Olympia's new normal.
SINNERS TO PLAY AS SAINTS. The theaters are miraculously untouched, but The Life and Death of Nithor the Exalted is no longer being put on. Instead, passers-by are being pulled onstage to play out other scenes from Olympia's glorious history. Those who don't want to play along don't have much of a choice; those orchestrating the scenes have people out in the crowds to bring people up by force if necessary.
The base scenario is simple enough: the noble Olympian puts the pathetic Wyvern in their place. Perhaps it's a fight scene: the Olympian comes out on top, of course, and the crowd roars for blood. Wyver weapons are only props, however, but the Olympian weapons? They're very, very real. Or perhaps it's a callback to when the Olympian people marked captured Wyverns with brands to assert their dominance — there is real fire, and real brands, on stage.
If you pass as Olympian, you may be pressed to perform. If you don't want to really hurt someone, you'd best learn how to fake it — refuse to play your part, and the crowd will very quickly turn against you. If you're too obviously not Olympian, or if they recognize you as someone who went off-script last time (and they have very good memory), you'll likely be pressed into the role of an unfortunate Wyvern. Hopefully your co-star is gentle...
Break a leg. Literally, as the case may be.
CRITICAL CONDITION. With all the chaos, it's only a matter of time before people start to seek medical attention. However, along the way to The Sanctuary, they'll be faced with an almost insurmountable barricade. It isn't immediately obvious who put it up, but it's clear that nobody will be getting through it without significant effort.
Approach, and a voice will ring out warning you to keep back. It's one of the employees at the clinic; she has a crossbow in her shaking hands, and if pressed, she'll admit that they put up the barricade to keep out rioters. She understands that there are people who need their help, but the decision was made to keep themselves and their supplies safe so that when the dust settles, they can set out en masse and help more people than they could if they were raided.
If you're accompanied by someone with grievous injuries, or if you're terribly injured yourself, you may be able to convince her to let you in for a quick patch-up, but they're not giving any medicines out. If you need more supplies, you'll have to figure out another way of getting it — either by overpowering the woman on watch and raiding the clinic yourself, or distracting her so that other members of your group can sneak in and take what they need.
Making matters worse is the gigantic vulture-like creature, much larger than the birds in Murkwell Hollow... and much meaner. This beast doesn't wait for eye contact before it attacks: it swoops down out of the sky when people are gathered at the barricade, snatching up anyone it can grab in its talons, fixing on whoever's closest. However, if someone who killed a vulture is present, it pursues them with relentless determination. If not dealt with, it will attempt to eat the dead and the injured without discrimination. It can be driven off with high difficulty using weapons, magical abilities (except fire, which doesn't affect it), and the terrain to your advantage. It will retreat before it can be killed, presumably so that it can regroup and harry the next batch of people to get close to the barricade.
As it retreats it will drop feathers that can be sold to the Institute for study for 100 silver; one feather per character, please. Sales can be reported here.
PALACE BURNS. Chaos reigns for the better part of a week, and toward the end, it escalates past the point of rioting in the streets — the violence reaches Empress Simwe's palace. In the gardens where Olympians and refugees alike had lit lanterns in unity and remembrance mere weeks before, one careless (or perhaps not so careless) flame catches, spreading to the rest of the grounds and to one of the palace walls. The members of the Royal Guard, already stretched thin, are too preoccupied with trying to contain the blaze to stop anyone from pouring in through the breach.
It's an opportunity that looters and dissidents do not pass up.
Follow them in, and you'll find the elegant surroundings being torn apart. Many of the rioters are those who have it out for Simwe and are hunting for her. As she's nowhere to be found, they settle for the next best thing: setting torch to her portraits. Portraits of the late emperor, on the other hand, are left untouched. The vandals are incredibly vocal in their displeasure with Simwe's policies, and almost fanatical in their opinion that life in Olympia would be much better if Simwe had perished in her husband's place. They turn to violence when the frightened maids and other servants don't have the answers they want as they leave a trail of fire in their wake. Will you use them as a smokescreen for your own venture, or will you intervene?
Further inside, the sticky-fingered will find furnishings, clothing, jewelry — anything that isn't bolted down is fair game. In the library, the gilded titles of priceless books glitter on the shelves; in the wine cellar, Simwe's personal collection of extremely fine vintages waits to be sampled; a mirrored room furnished entirely with pillows is draped in lacy underthings; fragrant salts and bottles of perfume sit in a steam-filled bathing room; in the treasury, looters are hard at work squirrelling away silver and carrying off golden baubles. Nobody looks too closely at anyone's face unless given a reason to, but in the morning, heads will certainly roll. You could make off with your own treasure from the palace with none the wiser, or you could stop one of the looters — maybe it's even a fellow refugee — and turn them in to the guard to help restore some order to this night of chaos.
In the depths of the treasury, there is a group trying to get past a sealed door. They're an unpleasant, volatile lot, and they make a lot of noise about how if they can just get their hands on the heart of the legendary dragon, they'll be able to wipe Wyver from the map once and for all and put someone competent on the throne. After multiple failed attempts, they start offering a reward of 50 silver to anyone who makes an attempt at opening the door.
ABOUT THE DOOR: The inner treasury door is enchanted to stand up to all manner of assaults, both magical and physical. Any attempts to dispel the enchantment will fail, but characters are welcome to make attempts in exchange for cash. While minor force will be harmlessly absorbed by the shields on the door, anything of great strength will be reflected back at its point of origin — so be ready to dodge!
Whether you help the Guard put out the fire, steal from the palace, try and get past the enchanted door, or make attempts to stop the looters, your actions may have consequences later. Please report any significant actions you take here.
NOTE: Characters are welcome to steal a single minor, setting-appropriate item from the palace. Mod approval is not required. Any items of greater import in the palace are locked in a vault and inaccessible.
BLOOD ON MY HANDS LIKE THE BLOOD IN YOU
FOR GLORY. Meanwhile, in Wyver, the holiday celebrating Nithor's death may have finished, but the spirit is still high. The citizens, eagerly awaiting the results of the contest from earlier in the month, congregate at a large stadium in the East End on the morning of the 21st and encourage refugees to join them — not only will the contest winner be announced, but there will be a series of physical trials to select Wyver's best and brightest.
This yearly event is considered the true end to the holiday. They honor those who excel at the arts — whether they be standard arts or the art of combat — and with these trials, they will honor those who excel on the battlefield. King Shanrian himself speaks to kick off the festivities, holding a distinctly human skull in his hands the entire time he's in view.
 Everyone, join me in praising the winners of our citywide contest! I was, heh... quite delighted with the meat jelly dish submitted by citizens Clair and Frederick. Such creativity! Meanwhile, dear Shenya loved hearing the beautiful music provided by Diva and Tani Umenosuke. And as you all well know, his vote is my vote.
Now I speak to you on a more serious note: I encourage all of you to join the legacy of those who helped bring down the mad and oppressive Nithor. I ask you all to join the trials. Show the world that we are a people of honor. For we do not seek glory, but fairness, liberty, and truth. Citizens, do you have what it takes to represent your home?
Signing up is simple. Interested parties are to submit their name at the registration desk, and by high noon, the festivities will kick off in full.
First up is a tournament — to thin the numbers down and ensure that only the best of the best make it to the end, participants are matched to a fight until one side is incapacitated. The air is thick with excitement, and bouts continue all day and through the night. Vendors have set up temporary stalls to sell food, toiletries, pillows, and blankets for those who don't wish to miss even a moment of the action.
If you're participating, you will take part in three fights before the finalists are determined; if you are not, you will be free to watch from the audience or, if you're acquainted with people who are fighting, to go behind the scenes to assist them by bringing them water or medicine between matches or even just give them moral support. Either way, you'll notice a slight shift in the air as time goes by.
Midway through the preliminary matches, the atmosphere changes from enthusiastic to outright bloodthirsty. Observers who were content to see a knock out will call for blood. People will start to clamor for the losers to lose their lives, and audience members will find themselves itching for a fight. One wrong look and the fighting might not just be constrained to the ring.
Make it through to the finals, and your trial will be more focused on teamwork: after all, the assassins who took down Nithor had to work together to get their job done. Finalists are paired off to face a variety of beasts, some from Wyver, some from Olympia, and some from other, far-flung parts of the isles. There is no set number of winners — anyone who performs well will be honored with a prize of silver at the end — but the beasts are ferocious, and it will take coordination and exceptional skill to make it out unscathed.
Either way, it's sure to be a spectacle.
HEARTY DIETS. The city's atmosphere does not become peaceful with the conclusion of the trials. Wherever you turn, the people around you seem to be more combative than usual - and in this city, that can be quite the feat.
To mark the end of another successful set of trials, the shamans of the Altar of Volkkra make dragon's blood, which they partake in for one of their rituals, more widely available to the public. Most drink it straight, although there are some who take it mixed in with other drinks. Either way, the effects are the same:
Drinking dragon's blood will feel like drinking liquid fire. It will burn the entirety of its way down and leave you with a presence in your chest that you will carry with you for three days before wearing off. It is a warmth that seems to imbue you with the strength and confidence of the dead dragon. The adrenaline will minimize any great pains, and you will have the sense that the path you choose is right.
Unfortunately, there is a downside. The dragon blood will keep you restless until the effects wear off. Confidence will turn into mindless arrogance. If you and your companion both drink the blood, you will butt heads because you will believe the other is wrong. Additionally, you may experience the need to hoard. The shamans say it is a trial you must endure to learn not to overindulge, but to someone who has never drank before, the feeling will be overwhelming.
Dragon's blood isn't the only variety to partake in. This time of year, the blood of a variety of monsters can be found to drink; it's said that consuming a creature's blood will imbue you with that creature's power. Whether this is true or not remains to be seen — some insist it's a rumor, while others swear its veracity — but fueled by the confidence the dragon's blood has drawn out of them, the natives are very insistent that you try it out, and some may even challenge you to a blood-drinking contest.
There are some who say that they've managed to procure the blood of Olympians, and that ingesting it will sap the strength of the Olympian people and bestow it upon Wyver instead. Some Wyvern natives aren't willing to allow the blood of their most hated enemies past their lips and would instead use Olympian blood to paint out scenes of their destruction, either on the walls like the murals or on charms from the Altar of Volkkra, as it is said to have the same effect. If you're offered some of this "paint," it's probably better to accept. After all, refusal would be very un-Wyvernlike, and you wouldn't want to be marked as the next target for someone hoping to procure Olympian blood, would you?
FANNING FLAMES. Since the trials, natives have lit bonfires throughout the city as a way of showing support for their favorite contenders; the belief is that as long as the flames continue to be fed, the contender will continue to fight well. Even now that the trials are over, the flames burn bright. These contenders are Wyver's hope of victory over Olympia, after all; isn't it better to keep the fires ablaze until they've brought the Olympians to their knees?
But it isn't just wood that they're using for kindling. This time they want a more personal offering. Many of the natives will shed their own blood to throw into the fire, and still more roam the streets in search of people to feed to the flames. You might find yourself one of their targets if you've been too noticeably traveling between the cities on a regular basis, or if you've made the mistake of donning the Olympian colors of white and gold even in a subtle way. Perhaps you come off as a loyal citizen of Wyver, and they've tapped you to assist them with feeding a person to the flames — If you refuse, you might face scrutiny yourself.
Chaos is on the rise. It's a bastardization of celebration that has long since gotten out of hand, although few seem inclined to try and contain it. Those who do are mainly shouted down or silenced by other means, and if you're looking to assist them in quelling the unrest, you'll have to be subtle lest you wind up facing the citizens' ire.
Luckily, there is something to provide a distraction: a gigantic vulture-like creature, much larger than the birds from Murkwell Hollow, has come to hunt . When it descends, it makes to grab anyone with its talons, with one exception — if anyone who killed a vulture in Murkwell is nearby, it will ignore the others and focus its attempts on tearing them apart with a relentless, single-minded determination. If not driven off, the dead and the injured will become its next meal, and it has no qualms about diving into the flames to snatch up bodies, as it's unharmed by fire. It can be driven off with high difficulty using weapons, magical abilities (other than fire), and the terrain to your advantage, but will retreat before it can be killed so that it can regroup and make another attempt at snatching up bodies later.
As it retreats it will drop feathers that can be sold to the Altar of Volkkra for experimentation for 100 silver; one feather per character, please. Sales can be reported here.
BEASTLY EXHIBITS.The shamans of Volkkra, perhaps under the influence of dragon's blood, have their own way of dealing with the unrest. Throughout the week, those protesting the chaos start to vanish, and either from rumors or direct observation it will soon become obvious why: they're being brought to the main Altar of Volkkra, all the way up on Namarak Summit. If you have been attempting to calm people down, you might just find yourselves taken; otherwise, you can tail the shamans to the summit to find what's going on for yourself.
Those taken to the main altar are blindfolded and thrust into the labyrinthine halls without a flame to guide their way. Shamans guard the entrances and exits; inside, all light but that of the Eternal Flame have been extinguished. Other shamans, who take part in the rumored experiments, roam the halls with wicked-looking knives in search of new test subjects. If they come across you, you'll need to either fight or run.
It is possible to escape this, either by overpowering them or by using your wits. It's even possible to find your way to the entrance and fight your way past the shamans guarding it — but the when the first person sets foot out of the halls, the shamans call for backup. Menacing shrieks and roars sound from inside the mazelike halls, and strange, mishmashed creatures emerge from the darkness.
They're angry, and they're willing to lash out at both refugee and shaman alike.
ABOUT THE MONSTERS: They are amalgamations of people and creatures from all over the isles, and each one is different. One might have the head of a Duldrum, the torso and arms of a man, and the lower half of a Glowing Snake; another might look like a Wispurr with a second head of an Unlucky Cat grafted onto it, and the abilities to match. The shamans seem to have been mixing and matching the features and abilities of both named and unnamed creatures as they see fit, and they've whipped them up into a frenzy — these chimeras crave blood, and will not stop until their targets are dead, or they are.
They can be killed with medium difficulty using your own weapons, supplies from the Altar, and any abilities you might possess; survive, and the shamans will let you go with 200 silver as compensation, having decided that you've proven your worth and that your strength may be an asset to Wyver in the future. If your character successfully kills a chimera, please report it here.
An AC-eligible thread in which your character complies with their faction's goals for 1 REP POINT FOR EITHER OLYMPIA OR WYVER may be submitted from this log. SUBMIT THE THREAD FOR OLYMPIA OR WYVER HERE OR HERE RESPECTIVELY BY MARCH 14th 11:59 PM EST.
We will no longer be providing overflow posts. In an event where the post hits CAPTCHA, players are advised to move threads to an overflow post on their character journals or create their own catch-all post. These threads remain eligible for AC, AC Rewards, and REP.
1 SILVER = 1 US DOLLAR.
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no subject
But ah. Here comes her part. Rosalind hesitates for just a moment, as the blood drips down and seeps into her shirt, but this won't end until she does what she needs to. The theater waits with baited breath, watching her eagerly, wanting to see her falter and fall and die.
There's something horribly symbolic about the fact she drops to her knees before him. She refuses to lie down, but instead kneels, her head bowed forward, her neck exposed to him. It would be a simple thing for him to swing that sword and sink that blade deep into her neck, but if he'd wanted to kill her, he already would have.
Mercifully, the lights go out. Whether it's due to the first stroke of good luck she's had or (as she suspects) the theater not wanting to push their own luck in terms of what their unwilling actor was ready to do. Rosalind gets to her feet in an instant, fingers wiping at the cut, smearing the blood there and glaring into the darkness. She can see the shape of him, anyway, even if she can't see in the dark as well as he can.]
no subject
He would wipe the blood off of his blade if it were his own, but it's only a borrowed thing. He holds onto it, loosely, in his hand. He gestures at her with his free one, seeing her shape clearly in the dark.]
Quick, efficient, and over. You can't say it wasn't worth it.
no subject
[The cut is steadily flowing, deep enough to need a proper bandage instead of naturally clotting. She'll need to take care of that soon, but she keeps her fingers where they are.
There's chatter from around them, stagehands and other actors, everyone getting ready for the next show. They're hardly alone, and she doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. There's something to be said for being in a crowd with someone so dangerous, but she thinks it'd be easier to pin him down if they were alone.
She steps in closer. He's so tall, and abruptly Rosalind wishes she had worn higher heels, that she might mitigate some of that difference.]
Answer me something. Just one thing, honestly and truly, given you just spilled my blood.
You offer me advice, good advice, advice truly worth following, personalized and blunt, and then in the next breath act as though you'd be delighted to see me humiliated. You have humiliated me, all for the audacity of wanting a proper answer instead of your usual half-truths. You think me inferior, you look at me as though I'm a child and too young to understand what you've been through, and yet you tell me anyway. You've told me about your past, your torment, your life . . . you speak with me, you cut me in such a way that it won't hurt as badly as it could have.
What is it you want? Not from home, not from your life, but from me?
You know what I seek from you. I won't say something as naive as it seems only fair, but I'd at least like to know where I stand with you.
no subject
Ardyn chooses perhaps the least amicable thing to do in a situation like this -- his lips curl back and he laughs, short and hollow, lost in the crowd.]
What is it you want me to say, Rosalind? Companionship? Friendship? These things were lost to me a long time ago, and I would be foolish to grasp at them now. No, it is as you told me earlier, perhaps. There is a flicker of understanding between us, similarities which we share that no one else would ever quite understand. I provide you insight into a life you have not yet settled into, a state in which we will someday share. And you?
[He tilts his head at her, then reaches out to feel at the cut on her throat. If she does not pull away, his fingers will run across the wound, staining his skin red.]
You're interesting. Someone like me, but not. Perhaps there is camaraderie in that, but if you expect me to treat you with undue kindness because of it? Then you're foolish. However, let it be said that I was far from being cruel to you just now.
[He drops his hand, gesturing at her.]
I'm being quite helpful, actually. Perhaps you only do not see it, once again blinded by that pride of yours. Still -- you wanted me to tend to that wound? Or do you wish to stand around and bleed on the stage all day?
no subject
[It's a snarl, spurred on because of her poor bruised pride, but it's also the truth. She was hardly seeking out his affection. Simply information, because she finds she can never get a solid reading on him. But she doesn't pull away as he runs his fingers against her, though that makes the cut sting and bleed faster.]
Go on, then. Fix what you broke.
[She tips her head back. Whether she means for him to do it right here or to lead her off-stage is debatable. Perhaps she's just irritated enough that she's not inclined to give any offer of direction or help.]
And tell me . . . since you seem so convinced of it. What would you have done if you'd been seeking to be cruel? Both now and in our bet. Because I refuse to believe there wasn't a hint of sadism there.
no subject
If my aim was cruelty? You'd lie bleeding on the stage-- No. Actually, not quite. Gravity would pull you down, a deeper cut seeping and oozing from your wound, but I should keep you at least on your knees, displayed for the whole of the crowd to see. Hold you up by your hair, maybe. And they would roar in excitement, in fiery satisfaction at seeing you that way. Prone and vulnerable, all for the sake of a scene in a play. And I would only laugh.
[He grins. How easily he recites all of this. Yes, that sadistic streak lives in him, alive and well.
So perhaps it's a bit disturbing how quickly he shrugs and instead motions at her to follow him. They'll not do this here.] We'll return to my place. Perhaps now that the citizens have scented blood on you, we'll be fortunate enough to make it there in one piece. I can tend to you better in private, without so much disorder swirling around us.
no subject
She supposes, too, it's a positive thing that he could have done all that, but he didn't. It speaks highly of something, though whether it's his mild interest in her or his own apathy towards making the effort is up for debate.
Tugging her shirt's collar up, she presses the fabric tight against her skin. The blood soaks there immediately, staining white fabric a dark red, but it's not as if this shirt wasn't ruined before, thanks to her arm. Leaving the theater is a surprisingly easy matter, given how they were both shoved into the roles. But the Olympians are content to leave them be now, and so soon enough they're in the streets, Rosalind walking just half a step closer to Ardyn than she might normally.
She reaches for him, catching his arm, her expression tight but not furious.]
Teleport us.
[It will exacerbate her wounds, but it'll take far less time.]
no subject
Whatever you like, then.
[So goodbye to this crowd, and the violence that they leave in their wake. Ardyn will focus, and one moment they’ll be standing where they are, and the next — they aren’t.
To be fair, it takes a couple of “stops” for Ardyn. But eventually, they blink into existence in his living room. She should recognize it well enough.]
If you can, refrain from bleeding on the furniture, hm?
[But he’ll not stop her from sitting. Already, he’s detaching himself from her, under the pretense of going to find a few supplies to tend to that cut.]
no subject
He can tend to that, too, if he's going to play doctor.
It's a fairly hideous wound, though it's fortunately been treated. Black stitches are neat as they climb up the inside of her arm; blisters and burn marks outline it. It's gone bloody again, not least of which because she keeps exerting herself.
Odd, really. The only other time she's been here, she'd been through hell, and yet Rosalind finds herself sighing softly and fighting the urge to close her eyes as she sits on the couch. Slipping off her boots, she curls her feet beneath her, leaning heavily against the cushion, watching the doorway where he'd disappeared.]
This would have been a good week to have gotten your regenerative properties. Mm . . . though the other powers came in handy as well.
no subject
He looks at her other wound, though, far worse. A line of stitches crawling up her arm, its vicinity looking blistered as if it were burned. He nearly exhales in faux exasperation.]
And what other sort of trouble are you getting yourself into? My, my, do I look like a doctor to you?
[Still, he takes a seat next to her, setting things down on a nearby table.]
Since when did tending to one wound become two?
no subject
[She doesn't have energy enough to muster her usual wry look. But she tips her head back, indicating he ought to start at her neck and work his way downwards.]
And you look like a former healer-- and, more importantly, a man who knows what he's doing. Such men are in short supply lately, have you noticed?
[That doesn't actually answer the question of what had happened, which she's certain he'll notice. She's very good at avoiding things, but she doesn't have the two thousand years of experience he does. Still, she can avoid it for a few seconds longer, at least.]
no subject
But first, she'll feel the sting of disinfectant. He presses the cloth to her without much hesitation.]
Of course. Most of them are too addled with bloodlust to care on this day. Also! You didn't answer the question.
no subject
They're burning people alive in Wyver-- Olympians, those who don't fit in, so on and so forth. And demanding blood sacrifices from the loyal citizens.
[How had she put it to John? Simple and precise, reporting the facts, not the emotions.]
I was selected for the former. A man I know, who frankly shares your sense of humor and sadism, decided he'd be kind enough to save me. He cut my arm open, far deeper than he needed to, and offered my blood. He made to throw me onto the fire, but at the last moment, he hesitated, then drew me in close and said that to kill me so quickly would be a waste of a body.
[She stares flatly at the wall, ignoring his gaze. Her tone is almost bored, dull and reciting fact as though they happened to someone else.]
And then, as they closed in, he insisted I was to be his and his alone.
[. . .]
So you were right, I suppose, in that what you did to me just now was practically a kindness.
[But it does explain why she'd reacted to him the way she had. Oh, pride had been a large part of it, yes, but she might have been a little more pliant if it had been an isolated incident.]
no subject
Yes, he had been stuck in Wyver for a day or two. Scented fire in the air, saw people drenched in blood. Sacrifices, monsters in labyrinths, the whole nine yards. And here in Olympia, it was hardly any better.
Still, he's rather unbothered by it all. Inconvenient, but he comes from a world that is already falling apart. Crumbled into nothing in the darkness -- this was all part of the process, and even before that, war and chaos was no stranger to him.
The part that seems to spark his attentions is description of this stranger who would harm her to free her. Labelling her as his own, and he arches a brow at that.]
And did you tell him that you were already married? [A chuckle.] Who was he?
no subject
His name is Tani. Insufferable, but interesting. Competitive. And apparently eager to toy with me, just to see what I'll do.
[She doesn't know why she's telling him, except that she's tired and he is, for better or worse, sometimes an ally.]
. . . I suspect that the next time we meet, my pride will once again get the better of me. I don't take well to people having that kind of power over me.
no subject
[And this Tani (he commits the name to memory) perhaps was aware of it as well. Obvious, if she's under the impression that he wants to toy with her, just to get a reaction.]
So, then, the next you meet, you should do the same to him. You've some of my power; use it, to make him feel the way you did. Take joy in it, and you shall be even.
[An eye for an eye. Such is how he's operated for a very long time.
Speaking of eyes-- he holds up a needle when he's done cleaning her wound, with no thread through its own eye yet.]
You'll need a stitch or two, by the way.
[Don't worry, it's all sterilized. Probably. But this is also just his home, and not a clinic, so she is literally going to get a bright blue silk thread for her stitches, because beggars can't be choosers.]
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[Funny, how she absolutely accepts that he'll be stitching her up. Should she be more wary? But it seems only natural, and frankly, she's had enough of being frightened for the day.]
. . . make them small, please. I've no desire to be garish. Shall I lie back?
[She's hardly a doctor, after all. Whether he still practices it or not, he'll know what's best when it comes to healing. Rosalind thinks on what he said, then adds:]
And which power do you mean, hm? Blasting him? Or tricking him into thinking I'm someone else? The former seems a bit obvious; the latter, though . . . if I could find someone of his from the pods, that might work.
Or perhaps I'll just threaten to throw him to the wolves. At the very least, I did hit him.
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[And it's not like there's been much of a chance to buy more, what with the state of things now. He threads it through the eye, deft and quick about it. He leans forward, shaking his head at her question to lie back. This is fine; a quick job, for he meant it when he said it would only be a few stitches, and not all along the cut.]
Just stay still.
[He's done this many times in the past. Long, long ago, sewing up small wounds like this on himself. On others, when his magic had run him ragged and empty, but he still felt the need to aid in some way. Eyes focused, like he is now, as the needle pierces skin, moves from stitch to stitch. Quick and unerring.]
Find someone in the pods -- someone of import to him. A lover, or a hated enemy. A family member. Someone that might incite emotion to see again. And with that emotion, it's yours to mould as you see fit, if you can manipulate it in a clever manner.
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[He's not unnecessarily cruel, but needle piercing skin deep enough to make a proper stitch hurts. Rosalind's eyes close, her fingers clenching as she fights the urge to wince.
His fingers are warm against her skin as he stitches her up. Large, large enough that he could wrap them solidly around her throat if he wished. Her eyes open, flicking over his face. It's odd to see him so focused (though there's always that faint smile there, maddening and mysterious).]
This-- this is what I meant by being a teacher.
[Had she said that, or only thought it? It hardly matters.]
Look at you, offering a plan of attack for me to use.
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A teacher. [He echoes the word, the idea, as if it's a novel thing.] Teaching you how to be a proper immortal, hm?
[Properly miserable, maybe, but if she came to him for advice, he would give it. That camaraderie he spoke of, tenuous as it may be, did indeed exist in his mind via small degrees.]
Well, this plan of attack grows more useful the more you know an individual. What they love and what they fear. I don't know how close you might be to this man; who knows? Maybe just blasting him would be more effective. Yet far less interesting.
[A beat.] Our bet -- back when you cheated -- did you practice being me in front of Prompto?
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Ah-- of course I did. He wasn't happy about it, frankly, but he dislikes any link between us, no matter how tenuous. In any case: it wasn't the first time he'd seen me as you.
[With a thin smile, because she's sure he'll be amused by this:]
I used to travel either as you or Robert when I moved between the cities. Much safer. I was sitting around, disguised as you, when he spotted me the first time.
But yes. I disguised myself, I questioned him, he did . . . well. Not that well, frankly, and I suspect even worse when the proper trial began.
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[He leans back, done with the stitching part, and cuts away the excess silken thread with a small pair of scissors he had also brought over.]
His experiences with that particular talent were less than pleasant for him, I think, back home.
[He thinks of how disconcerting it must've been for him. How much he must trust Rosalind to have agreed to it.]
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[She hardly knows the full story, but she does know part. Rosalind sits up properly, her fingers automatically going to her collarbone to feel the stitches there. It's only one or two, but still she grimaces.
Her arm next, and she offers it. This, at least, won't take much: just some disinfectant and a new bandage, but that's tricky to do when you're working on your own arm.]
. . . I have no doubt he likes me for myself, though I think he has a tendency to give me far more credit in some areas than I deserve. But I wonder, sometimes, if he doesn't try and understand you by understanding me. A cosmic ghost, he calls me, and I told him I wasn't so very different from you.
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So once again, he works. The sting is prevalent once more as it touches her skin, especially in places where it still feels raw.]
He is very impressionable. Whereas your weakness is your pride, Prompto's is an eagerness to trust, all of this housed behind naïveté. And a few other insecurities. [Ones that run a bit deeper, words that have been used against the young man, back on Eos.]
And I'm sure he disagreed with that. [He shrugs. To be fair, he never did anything to discourage it -- as much as he hates assumptions tossed against his character.] If he's trying to understand me by way of you, it's only out of some morbid curiosity. You'd do well not to encourage it from him.
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He suggested it.
[She meets his gaze.]
He told me he would never forgive you for what you did to his world, his friends, but that his lack of forgiveness didn't mean you couldn't try to do better for yourself here. That he couldn't try and understand you.
[She might well tell him that it's a hell of an effort, though. Rosalind is still puzzling it out, and she thinks Ardyn is more inclined towards telling her than Prompto.
She curls her fingers, her nails digging into her palm as he cleans off her wound, and adds:]
But he does have an eagerness to trust. And, I think, to see the best in people, no matter who they are.
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