❪ event ❫ hour of ruin

[natha]

HOUR OF RUIN     Sometime after midnight, after preparations have been put aside in favor of drinks and rest, a thunderous beating of wings shatters the air — the High Dragon Ysverai, once again risen. The sound echoes high off Namarak Mountain, but travels easily to both Wyver and Olympia: scream after scream rends the still night, as though a creature were dying rather than being born again. Having only had days to plan their defense against the creature, Olympia and Wyver snatch up their arms. The Royal Guard and the Knightryders can be seen on their steeds hurrying through the cities, because Ysverai doesn't remain isolated at the mountain's peak for long. There are pictures of Ysverai in abundance throughout both cities, but the creature that circles in the sky looks nothing like the majestic creature spoken of in history books. Even from far below, wounds and lacerations can be seen marring what should be smooth scales, and blood falls with every beat of the dragon's wings. The damage becomes more clear when moonlight illuminates Ysverai, revealing the rotting dragon for all to see. The sight of flesh peeling away and thick blood where it oozes from his cracked, greyish hide is as frightening as the power he possesses. REASON'S TRANSCENDENCE     Mad from the anguish of his forced revival, Ysverai will show none of his renowned wisdom or compassion, mindless and seeking to inflict his pain onto whatever emerges in his path. His very presence creates chaos: animals (Olympia | Wyver) domesticated and wild, flee from the merest hint of his approach, panicked and stampeding in wild droves. The reason is obvious: organic matter exposed too long to his presence begins to rot and decay. A field he lands in rots and lies fallow. Buildings crack and crumble, their supports pitted and corroded as though they've been left in disrepair for years. Even the ground that Ysverai walks upon is tainted; a corrosive sludge bubbles up in his massive, clawed footsteps, the ground beneath him putrefied and toxic, oozing corruption. This sludge can be tar-like, poisonous and sucking people in like quicksand; panic, and you'll only sink faster. Prolonged exposure to Ysverai takes a mental toll on anyone in his proximity as well. Effects similar to those from being near his heart — selfish desires and lowered inhibitions — will begin to fester in those around him. Every time Ysverai roars, pain will run through all those that hear him — a pain not just physical, but of true, anguished heartbreak. Those who hear Ysverai will feel (to a degree of your choosing) a sharing of his pain, the agony of flesh rotting from their bodies, blood oozing from under their skin, and a terrible, incandescent fury — and beneath that, a gut-wrenching sadness. This effect is further enhanced by any exposure to Ysverai's blood, and being drenched in greater quantities will cause one to become more in sync with the dragon. Finally, Ysverai is aggressive, attacking anyone and anything that approaches. He starts by breathing out a smog, acidic and putrefying — characters caught directly by this attack will find that medicine and healing magic of any kind hurts them for hours after exposure. The dragon will ignite the smog to breathe fire, if sparingly. IN WYVER     Ysverai's shadow falls over the near reaches of Wyver first. Upon hearing Ysverai's cry, the dragons in Wyver become completely frenzied, turning against their partners among the Knightryders without the slightest resistance. Those familiar with dragons might deduce that they're in pain, though they don't show any sign of injury. The dragons knock their riders off their backs in midair and dive at citizens, jaws wide. Any attempts to soothe them will be long fought, achieved with great difficulty, and will see them retreat into a cowering state. It's not just the airborne Knightryders taking to the defense of the city however, and people on the ground are mobilizing as well. On rooftops across the city are cannons set to fire harpoons. And if the spearheads alone aren't enough to injure the beast, they're coated with a paralyzing poison as well. Unfortunately, the soldiers stationed on the rooftops are prime targets to the frenzied dragons populating Wyver's skies, leaving the cannons open for ordinary citizens to use should they choose. Left alone too long, and cannons may fall under the control of the few remaining radicals that had opted not to flee the cities to join up with their leader Raysc, choosing instead to wait for an opportune moment to unleash their anger on the people of Wyver. These radicals will need to be dealt with before they can turn the cannons upon Wyver's defenders. IN OLYMPIA     In Olympia, the gryphon partners of the Royal Guard react with immediate hostility to anyone showing signs of Ysverai's influence. Their keen senses allow them to pick up the smell of Ysverai's blood and they attack anyone with so much as a drop of tainted blood on them. Those who bear lingering effects of Ysverai's mental attack and who remain in sync with the dragon after hearing Ysverai's cry are also targeted and must face the gryphons' wrath without mercy or restraint. The gryphons must be disabled, for Olympia will not look upon any injury to their prized steeds lightly. However, the gryphons also show some resistance to Ysverai's cry, which is a great boon in battle against the dragon — gryphons that have lost their riders will be available for use, able to carry two passengers at a time. The people of Olympia aren't planning to restrict their offense to pure brute force, and the mages of the city can be seen across Olympia wielding enchanted chains, using telekinesis in the hopes of restraining Ysverai and assisting in the airborne troops. But like the decaying buildings and wildlife, Ysverai is warping the magic around him, the chains faltering as they approach him, whipping back toward the city instead to cage whoever happens to be closest. It's not just the enchanted chains either, but other magic might behave erratically in his presence, as if the very essence of the spells have been corrupted. VIRTUOUS VERSE     Both cities realize they need to seek survival rather than victory against Ysverai, switching gears to carry out diversion efforts and evacuation plans. It falls to refugees to continue the offensive while the Royal Guard and the Knightryders devote their attention to ensuring the safety of the citizens as they flee. With official forces stretched thin, civilians and refugees alike will also need to step up to help herd citizens toward safety among a maze of collapsing buildings. Others will need to see to gathering resources for the evacuation, and while gathering non perishables is easy enough, it's considerably harder to wrangle livestock into cooperating amidst such chaos. Those fighting may be asked to act as bait for Ysverai. Chatter through official troops speaks of a switch in strategy: the objective now is capture the dragon's attention and draw him away from the populous cities and towards the South Outpost. Whether or not it's possible to defeat the dragon remains uncertain, but there's no question that it will be easier to battle him without worrying about civilians. THE RAGE     Luckily, the dragon is indiscriminate in his rage, and easily lured so long as a suitably infuriating target is before him. It doesn't take long to draw him to the South Outpost, but the trail of destruction he leaves in his wake is vast. Once there, the combined forces are greeted not just by Ysverai, but also by the appearance of Ysverai's master. How bravely you've all come to meet your doom! Great heroes, one and all, ha! I welcome you, bring your best. Show me the power that's protected Olympia and Wyver, all that you have to offer me, whatever pitiful excuse for valor you seek to cling to when the fear has you cowering in your beds. All will be for naught in the face of Ysverai's might! Let history witness the day the glory of war is reignited — the day that Wyver remembers its fangs once more! Come, Ysverai, last and greatest of the High Dragons! Come, and restore Wyver to its rightful place! Come, fulfill the promise as our protector that you could not in life! Raysc lifts a gleaming device as he issues his command. Red lights blink and blood, the same oozing liquid that drips from Ysverai's many wounds, runs in clear tubes through the device. Ysverai rears back as Raysc makes adjustments to a control panel — and then lunges forward, mouth agape. With a single swallow, Raysc meets his end. Raysc's attempt to control the dragon has only enraged him further, spurring Ysverai on to new heights of fury. It's become more vital than ever to face the dragon and take him down here and now. A few effective strategies are learned from research efforts and observed while defending Olympia and Wyver: goading the dragon into breathing fire will hurt him, burning him from the inside out, and attacks to his joints, eyes, wings, and exposed bone are effective. Ice is a natural repellent to dragons and can be used defensively or to weaken the dragon's hide. Healing spells will also react unnaturally to Ysverai's flesh, hastening his decay. However, while concentrated efforts will lock him down, Ysverai cannot be permanently killed in this state — his flesh constantly rots and spawns anew. Attacking him here is to protect civilians, keeping him busy to avoid mass destruction elsewhere. Therefore, the battle is one of attrition, a matter of a race against time. You must destroy his flesh faster than it is able to regenerate to have any hope of victory. Finally, when Ysverai is weakening, little more than bones with a few last vestiges of rotten meat hanging from a skeleton, the pathetic remnants of the last High Dragon takes to the skies. His wings are barely intact enough to carry him, yet desperation lifts him, higher and higher, until he lets out one great, earth-shaking roar. A roar that carries across the battlefield, sending all who hear it to their knees. A roar that shatters the swords in soldiers' hands, that rends apart the very air itself — Ysverai's last act, a great curse upon El Nysa, to bring down the sky. AND THE WORLD STOOD STILL     The terror of Ysverai's destruction hangs overhead — a tear in the sky, darkness pouring through, tendrils reaching down towards El Nysa to swallow up the planet in the dragon's final act of revenge. And yet nothing moves. A halo of brilliant light surrounds the rift in the sky, holding the grasping, hungry tendrils in check. And on the planet, not a creature moves. Not a blade of grass stirs. You're not able to even draw a breath. No matter where you are, not even the heart in your chest is beating. Everything has stopped — time has come to a standstill. In a wash of light, an aurora of transport, you find yourself delivered to Thesa Station. Darma stands before you, her expression solemn, perhaps even grim, though that may just be a trick of the station's harsh lighting. She explains what has happened in short order: planetside, time has been completely frozen. We have seen the birth and end of worlds. The rise and fall of civilizations infinite times over. We have seen all threads of possibilities that could have lead to this very moment... Or should have. Perhaps you might doubt our sincerity when we say this comes as a surprise to us, as well... Special technology has been used to blind us. To this day, we only know of one region capable of creating and utilizing such technology... you will find this technology in a city known as Nadril. We understand that you have created a life down in Wyver and Olympia, but now we must ask that you put that life on pause. We ask you to travel to Nadril and find the original Refugee, and with him, answers. As you will discover, he does not wish to speak to us. It is no matter. By now it is too late to keep the Nysan public unaware of our existence. We commend the efforts of those who wish to protect their comrades on the battlefield below, but a creature like poor Ysverai, twisted and warped, given unnatural life with terrible magic and technology, does not simply go down with manpower. Please, leave Ysverai to us. Time on the planet will remain stopped while we determine how to deal with the dragon. For now, rest and recover your strength. We have returned, and soon, there will be new refugees awakening. Perhaps you might like to prepare yourselves to greet them? I'm sorry that I can't answer more questions, but for now, all our attention must turn to finding a way to stop what Ysverai has wrought. A bank of monitors behind Darma displays the battlefield below: Ysverai's frozen, looming figure and the breach in the sky, and the Natha's halo, holding the destruction back. Though time passes normally on Thesa Station, El Nysa remains frozen, and all Refugees are unable to return to the planet until Ysverai's menace is dealt with. Luckily, with the Natha's return, full functionality has also returned to the station. The lights and environmentals are back to full power, access to all areas has been restored, the cafeteria is serving its normal offerings, and there's no evidence of any glitching or malfunctions. Doubtless, the period of rest is much needed after the hard-fought battle. For now, with time on El Nysa at a standstill, there's little else to be done but enjoy the reprieve aboard Thesa Station. FINAL OOC NOTE     Characters that reach an AC length action thread in this event will receive 2 rep for all factions, including Natha. Note that while these are split up for ease of processing, players may submit for all three. OLYMPIA | WYVER | NATHA Players can expect this event to run three days ICly before everyone is teleported to Thesa Station! From thereon, all characters will be grounded at the Station until the Test Drive Meme later this month. QUICK NAV premise ● faq ● lore ● map ● npcs ● bestiary taken ● atp/emp ● application ● rep/acp ● quest bulletin calendar ● hiatus/drops ● modbox [ FULL NAVIGATION ] elnysa nysalogs nysaisles nysaooc elnyan

Comments

[punshots]

[ He shoots a cursory glance her way. ]

Yeah, well...

[ You shouldn't be.

But of course, he can't say that. He could never so callously throw someone's concern back into their face, even if he doesn't deserve it. He'd been so close to believing he did, maybe, not so long ago, but for all he's grown and learned to let others share his weight, how can he possibly burden someone with something as impossible and devastating as this?

He approaches it, as he does with difficult things, from a distance, indirectly. ]

The Natha...they're pretty incredible, aren't they? They stuff they can do...it's great, and...terrifying.

[ Things like bringing people back from the dead. ]

[originallutece]

[She's clever enough to hear that he's beginning, at least, and so doesn't press him. The story might need a little nudging from her here and there, but he's at least made the decision to try and tell her, and that's enough.]

Oh, yes.

[A soft agreement.]

I've never seen its like before, and considering who I am and what I've seen, that's certainly high praise.

. . . terrifying, though. That's an interesting word.

[punshots]

Is it? [ His voice is a little tighter. ] You said it yourself—they've got a power over us that we can't do anything about.

[ Their loved ones in stasis. This power they have to give and take life as they please, it would seem. It's unnatural, and somehow, this latest experience of his is the most unnatural of all, with which his very consciousness wars. ]

Why do they even need us, with the things they can do?

[originallutece]

A good question to ask. You know my views on altruism; I doubt they've brought us here solely out of the kindness of their hearts. But nor do I believe we're nothing more than cannon fodder to them.

[She says all this evenly, still staring straight ahead.]

Did they hurt you?

[punshots]

[ Even if she doesn't try to meet his gaze, Prompto casts his eyes aside, letting them fall on his shuffling feet. ]

No. They didn't.

[ Did she know? About this particular talent of the Natha's? He wouldn't be surprised if she did, but in his experience, he only knows one other besides himself who has gone through this. X'rhun had died only to return a few days later. Alisaie had seen him go, and that was good enough for Prompto to believe it, but still it...

It shouldn't be possible. Had it happened to others? Did the Natha make their choices, in who to save and who to not, just as they had when the Storm came? ]

[originallutece]

Who did?

[And now her voice dips into something colder, a two word sentence that begs for an answer.

Who hurt him? She’s no crusader, full of bloodlust and eager to go on a rampage, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t protective. Rosalind’s mouth goes thin, her stomach twisting in slow-burning fury. Who did, who touched him, who hurt him, and how dare they? How dare anyone touch something of hers, something precious and kind and bright, better than herself, humane and empathetic and sweet— and who would be so stupid? Who could possibly delude themselves into thinking they could do such a thing without facing retaliation? ]

[punshots]

[ Call it a nervous tic, call it a flesh-memory, a visceral, gripping fear, but as she asks that question, Prompto's hand tightens in his shirt, right below his sternum. There's a scar there, a recent addition, though by appearance it looks like it has been there for ages. Even so, it's new to him, as are all the memories associated with it, with that simple, straightforward question.

He swallows thickly, his gaze still not lifting from the floor. ]

Some of Rasyc's goons. Got, uh...got the better of me.

[ What a hilarious understatement. ]

'm fine now, though. [ He is quick to add, even if that much is evident. ] Y-you should've seen the other guy...

[ He didn't, but he can make a damn good guess about what happened...after. ]

[originallutece]

[Her eyes drag over him, inspecting him for injuries and coming up short.]

. . . tell me what they did to you, Prompto.

[Said slowly, because she's starting to see the outline of this, but she won't jump to conclusions.]

And what you did to them in return.

[punshots]

[ Something in the tone of her voice tells him that she's nearing the idea of this thing, even if he won't spell it out for her. He winds his arms tightly over his chest, like he's holding in his heart, like he's afraid that straying too near to the truth will undo even the little bit of healing he's done so far.

He stops walking, in a shadow cast by the dim starlight. ]

I...didn't do anything to them in return. [ Because I couldn't.

He swallows. ] Alisaie did.

[ Well...maybe he doesn't know that for sure. They haven't addressed it, but he knows her. Her revenge surely would have been swift and terrible. ]

[originallutece]

[Good, she thinks faintly. Good someone retaliated, at least, and Rosalind hopes without a trace of pity that Alisaie's revenge was both bloody and swift. But though she'd like to linger in those thoughts, that's not the real issue here.

Rosalind comes to a halt. She's standing more in the light than he is, and she looks at him, pale and huddled in on himself, his expression hidden by the soft shadow. For a moment she thinks of reaching for him, but pushes away the thought. Not yet, not until she's certain.]

Prompto . . .

You died. And they resurrected you.

Yes or no?

[punshots]

[ It's such a simple statement, really. It shouldn't be hard to address, except that it's been a week and Prompto can still barely fathom his own beating heart. He remembers what it was like. His body shutting down, everything starting to dim and fuzz, the moment he knew, lying in Alisaie's arms, bleeding while she sang to him, that he was dying. That there was no coming back. It wasn't a question of acceptance because it was what it was, and at the end of his life, he didn't want to have any regrets.

Except it wasn't the end of his life. They brought him back, almost like it never happened, except for the scars on his body and mind. A flip of a switch, and such a profoundly devastating change is just...reversed.

It isn't that he's not glad to be alive—of course he is, but it's not that simple, it's never that simple, and even hearing the words leave Rosalind's lips have him seizing up, blinking away tears that come hot and fast as he hides his mouth behind a hand.

He can't look at her, and he sure as hell can't speak. Gods, he's so ashamed, to have died, to have left Alisaie alone, to have left all of them alone. But still, he manages a nod, barely there, but distinct enough for Rosalind to know that she has landed right on the money.

He's been granted life so many times when he didn't deserve it now. ]

[originallutece]

Don't.

[She's painfully aware of the irony as she gently tugs his hand from his mouth. She, the queen of stifling her emotions and forcing herself to be strong. But that's different; that's her. Prompto is . . Prompto is so full of life, so expressive, so wonderful in his emotional honesty, and it's painful to see him doing the same things she does.

She holds his hand, her slender fingers wrapping around his, her thumb brushing soothingly against the back of his hand. She doesn't look at him, but rather does him the courtesy of keeping her eyes locked on her fingers.]

. . . it's horrifying, isn't it? Dying. You sit there and you know it's coming, and it's agonizing. Every moment, every single second stretches out into hours, and you know there's nothing to be done, but still your mind desperately tries to find a way out. Because there's a part of you that thinks that even now, this can't be happening.

[She smiles thinly, entirely unamused, half caught up in her own memories.]

Surely not to you. Surely you were-- were always meant to be immortal. Death was always so far off as to be something never to fear, and yet here it is.

And suddenly you're filled with all the things you wish you could have done, that you thought you would do, back when the future stretched out before you. Getting married, growing old, accomplishing this and that . . .

[Her thumb moves steadily against his hand, and she thinks about how he's married now-- still in his first year, but surely he's thought about what's to come for he and his wife.]

Having a child . . .

[That's a quiet admission, and one she moves past quickly. Rosalind finally looks up, meeting his gaze, her eyes tired.]

And then you wake up, and nothing makes sense anymore. You can barely believe it, because how could it be true? You think perhaps some miracle happened, perhaps you were saved at the last second, but sooner or later you have to accept the reality.

You died. I died, once upon a time. And now the two of us are changed, for better or worse, because of it.

[punshots]

[ He's not prepared to shove down as much emotion as this brings on—he never could be, for how it has torn him up inside, how it haunts his every moment and alters his every word. No matter how he may heal eventually, he is forever changed now, and no matter how he tries to hold it in, the signs of his turmoil are everywhere on him. So really, it's a mercy that Rosalind takes his hand, that he doesn't let him fight that losing battle. It saves him the heartache, and she doesn't try to force eye contact, which saves him the shame. His gaze drops down to their joined hands as well, her fingers to which he holds to like an anchor to keep him afloat, rooted to this spot.

And then he listens, while those tears slip heedless down his cheeks. He hadn't realized it at first, but...she is the perfect person to talk to about this, isn't she? She's died before. She knows exactly what it's like, and that moment she describes is imprinted on his heart indelibly. It's funny, how what could have only have been a handful of seconds had seemed to stretch into eternity. It had been so sudden, so violent, he hadn't a chance to prepare for death at all, but it struck him down, all the same, and in those final moments, he'd thought of those very things, of the life he had lived, and the life he would no longer live.

Except that he is alive. He's here, and he's glad, and it still feels so wrong.

He lifts his eyes to hers, eyes twisted with wretched agony, but his voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. ]

Does it get easier?

[ Will he ever stop feeling like he shouldn't be breathing? ]

[originallutece]

Yes.

[And given who she is, how blunt and honest she is, he'll know she's telling the truth.]

Just as any great change in your life slowly becomes mundane. It will take a while-- a long while-- before you grow used to it. It will prey on the edges of your mind, and come to the forefront when you least expect it. And at night . . .

I stopped sleeping because of the nightmares.

Unfortunately, you can't take that route. But they'll abate, sooner or later. And you'll realize at some point you barely think about it anymore, save for when people discuss death. Because that's when you'll remember what you've gone through, and what it was like, and how little idea any of them has.

[She pulls one hand free, reaching to cup his cheek and stroke her thumb there, wiping the tears away.]

But it isn't a curse. Dying was awful, but the chance to live again? Savor it. Savor the fact you were given that chance.

[punshots]

[ He leans into her touch, hiccuping wetly, but he starts to calm through her answer, her reassuring words. For all Rosalind doesn't see herself as a warm and comforting type, she has so often known just the thing to say or do to bring him peace. She doesn't sugar coat it, doesn't tell him it'll all be fine because it won't. But her emotional honesty means more to him than any hollow optimism could. X'rhun aside, Rosalind is the only person Prompto knows who has been in his position before, and while it's a terrible, terrible thing to have in common with someone, he cannot help but be grateful, at least, that her experience can bring him hope. That she made it through such an unspeakable thing gives him the courage to believe he might, too. It will never fade completely. There will always be a shadow at the corners of his mind. But perhaps...it will stop feeling so wrong, and he won't feel like he's taken something that doesn't belong to him, again.

After all, this isn't the first time Prompto has been granted a life that he was never meant to have.

He was given this chance, and he won't waste it. He may not think he deserves it, but damn if he won't claim it, all the same.

He takes in a shuddering breath, trembling beneath her palm, but a gentle, warm curl appears at one corner of his mouth. ]

It'd be a shame if I spent my whole second life crying, huh? [ A breathless chuckle as he wipes the butt of his palm across his eyes. ] Thank you, Ros. You have no idea...how much it means to me to hear you say that.

[ Coming from anyone else, it wouldn't hold the same weight. But from her...it's different. ]

[originallutece]

I'm glad it helped.

[She really is. Her hand stays pressed against his cheek for just a moment longer before she pulls it back. Rosalind still stays close, though, fairly certain neither of them are ready for their usual distance.]

How long have you been sitting on this, Prompto?

[Or perhaps more accurately, how long has he been alive this second time?]

[punshots]

[ It takes more thought to answer than it should, but these days have run together, especially without a rising and setting sun to keep time, and both he and Alisaie have spent more than their fair share of time sleeping. It can't have been long, however.

Brow pinching, he susses out an answer. ]

Uhh...four or five days, I think? Kinda...been out of it.

[ He's still out of it, but he feels more alive with every passing minute he doesn't disintegrate or otherwise give up the ghost. ]

[originallutece]

And who else knows?

[She doesn't have to know, but she likes to have as much information as possible when it comes to those she cares about.]

. . . this must have been difficult for your wife.

[Difficult, that's one word for it.]

[punshots]

...Not many. [ And he'd like to keep it that way, if at all possible. He's glad some people know, but it...it's better that it stays on the down-low. ] X'rhun. Krile. Might be some others who're suspicious, but...yeah.

[ He takes a deep, rattling breath, gaze turning downwards again. ]

Didn't help that it...happened right in front of her.

[ And that Prompto had died in her arms. ]