The Seeds of Unrest, Phase Two 🌱

[beleos]

UPROOTED

Time has not been kind thus far, and the future will be no kinder.

The slow passage of days to weeks has seen both cities increasingly ravaged by the untamed growth of the enlarging roots. Their size is enough to uproot buildings by their foundations, if not bisect them entirely where they push through unfettered. In the worst-hit areas, entire blocks are left abandoned - if even standing at all, displacing families and leaving businesses in ruins.

Cetina and Kathova have been in near constant contact with Bearers via Communion, feeding them information about which areas to focus their lifesaving efforts. Yima’s Manor and the Seat of the Tribune - despite their closeness to the Trees - have been fortified by your leaders and act as a base of operations for each respective faction. You will be able to return to either to find sanctuary from the chaos beyond, but the innumerable civilians are not so lucky.

Bearers are tasked with rescue and recovery efforts and requested to assist hands on the ground with taking refugees to temporary shelters. Survivors must be dug out of the debris. Those who are capable of healing will be enlisted to assist at hospitals and triage centers. Supplies must be gathered and harvested from areas that are collapsed and too dangerous for civilians to navigate. If you are feeling generous, you can go on search and rescue missions, as many people are considered missing in both Highstorm and Springstar. Some areas are completely cut off to regular foot traffic by the massive, winding roots bearing countless Blight-blooms. Citizens are succumbing to the Blight flower’s effects persistent from phase one with more and more frequency.

While both cities slowly succumb to a deepening catastrophe, the situation worsens.

STIRRING STORMS

As the days pass, inexplicable and unnatural weather occurrences will randomly plague both cities. They can last as long as a full day or as little as an hour before dissolving entirely.

• Flurries: this snow is tainted by the Blight, making the snowfall look like ash. Any organic matter it touches will be affected by reopening wounds, re-infection of illnesses, or re-experiencing injuries that may have healed over years ago.
• Thunderstorms: these storms carry a frigid rainfall and heavy cloud cover, making already difficult-to-navigate disaster zones harder to clear. As each thunder bellow crashes overhead, you might swear you hear a familiar voice reaching out to you in the fading rumble… one that sends a message - either from the future or past.
• Fog: dense clouds of thick, freezing fog will roll in randomly, making visibility even more precarious. In your search for survivors - or your companions, you may find yourself coming face to face with someone else, instead: a version of yourself (or a companion) from another timeline. You may also hear your own voice calling out to you from within the fog, attempting to beckon you further into the mist.
• General Note: Exposure to any of the above weather patterns will increase your Blight infection.

THE BLIGHT COMES FOR ALL

As if it were not enough to see the cities that have become your salvation at the end of the Timestream falling to collapse and ruin, the Bearers will slowly begin to realize their previous immunity to the Blight is eroding. They will begin to show symptoms of infection that increase into May’s event. ( For more information on the effects of the Blight and purification methods, please see the OOC Summary. )

Now that their last bastion - the Bearers - are just as much in harm’s way as everyone else, the populous’s efforts to formulate a temporary stop-gap solution are being rushed to completion. Time is not on anyone’s side. They will continue to work with those who have been kind enough to volunteer their resources and brilliant minds - collecting materials and attempting to figure out a way to avert their otherwise inevitable destiny.

ORDERS

Orders from your leaders will come as soon as infections among the Bearers have been confirmed.

🌙 YIMA will stress for all Zenite Bearers to prioritize their well-being and to avoid unnecessary exposure, to manage their symptoms as much as possible. They must fight for their own survival to bring in the birth of a new universe - and their lives are too precious to risk. Beyond that, she asks them to save what they can of their people and their most critical structures with the understanding that hard choices may be necessary.

🌞 CYRUS will implore all Meridian Bearers to prioritize the general population's lives and turn their efforts to save as much of Springstar as they can. He will note that Bearers have ways to help keep one another from suffering too much contagion and to coordinate their usages appropriately, to keep one another safe, and watch their backs.

ANOTHER EN-TREE-TY

The Tree of Life continues to sicken, yet - thankfully - the progression of the Blight is slow. Still, Bearers will find themselves occasionally compelled to take a moment to sit beneath its boughs and vibrant leaves, even as some begin to show signs of discoloration and rot. Any characters who sit with the Tree with the purple leaf they found on their person after phase one will find it warming to the touch, its veins laced with gold. This effect will be even more effective if taken into the cavernous roots beneath the Tree! While this may fill you with a temporary sense of calm, it doesn't seem to have any other effects... yet still, you are compelled, if not curious.

The Tree has offered you this gift for a reason. Perhaps you will find its use before long.

...As long as you - and Kenos - survive long enough to discover it.

CODING

Comments

[gravings]

[ Finally Arthur's gaze shifts to Mordred, if only because there's literally no other choice now. Gray would have expected King Arthur to have a good (and justified) amount of resentment for the knight that caused Britain's fall, but to Gray's surprise, the king may as well be looking at a brick wall. That unchanging expression, as beautiful as it is, makes her wonder if Arthur heard Mordred at all. By the latter's muttered words, maybe this is just how things are between them. Mordred is being her typical self, but considering whom they're facing off against, Gray has a newfound appreciation for just how brave (reckless) Mordred actually is. Arthur, on the other hand, seems unconcerned. ]

There is no merit in answering the barking of a ghost. You are already dead. But if you so beg to be laid to rest, then so be it.

[ Gray watches with cold, heart-stopping dread as Arthur draws something from within the depths of her old shawl: a small cube with an eerie face on it...

The cube falls apart. Readily, much more readily than it ever has for Gray, the Holy Lance emerges from its depths. Lacking the limitations of Gray's mortal body, Arthur handles the lance in its entirety without fear of strain or loss of control; Rhongomyniad rests easily in the hand of its true owner.

Knowing even a fraction of Rhongomyniad's power, Gray ought to be running at full speed. But despite everything, she's hypnotized by the sight of that lance and its ethereal weaving pattern. ]

[uproared]

[ Mordred has never once turned her back on the king.

The first time laid eyes on him, she watched until the rest of the parade hid his figure from view, her mother pulling her back into the shadows of the alley. When she was denied recognition, he left her to rage and scream alone in silent agony. And as she perished at the end of his lance, he walked away the moment her death was assured; ignoring the hand that stayed outstretched even as she fell.

Even now, faced with the very instrument of her demise, as her body trembles with the memory of old wounds, she refuses to back down. She'd sooner die, again — the only difference between now and then is the foolish girl behind her, who would stand even less chance against the power of a Divine Construct.

It turns out that difference is enough. ]

I told you to RUN! [ Mordred, of all people, understands being too hypnotized by the king to think about one's own mortality... but that's why Gray's hesitance angers her so much. Instead of facing her father's specter as every part of her rebellious soul calls for her to do, she turns, grabs the back of Gray's cloak, infuses her limbs with mana, and launches the both of them as far away as she can. There's almost no such thing as far enough, so Mordred just has to hope she's not worth pursuing further, or risking the lives of a city-block of people. ]

[gravings]

[ Mordred's shout jars Gray from her fascination like a punch to the head. She doesn't even get a chance to follow Mordred's command after all, because before she knows it, she's getting hauled up by the scruff of her cloak and blasting off with Mordred as her personal jet. Getting carried like a piece of luggage at high speeds is a bit more disorienting than she expected; she feels a bit sorry for doing it so often to Lord El-Melloi II, even if she never had any other choice on account of his weakness and penchant for attracting trouble.

The advantage here is that Gray can serve as a rear view mirror. To an extent, anyhow. The fog is still thick, so she only has vague movement and sounds to go by. With physics being what they are, even sound is hard to make use of with the speed Mordred is moving at. For a long, tense moment, they're left unbothered — and just when Gray thinks they might be in the clear, she gets a subtle impression of movement from below. ]

Mordred, under—!

[ She doesn't have time to finish her sentence before a grappling hook lunges like a viper from below. It's aimed impeccably at Mordred's legs despite the low visibility, threatening to tangle or snare her from the air. ]

[uproared]

Under? Under where?

[ ... Is what she gets about halfway through saying, before shouting expletives as she's slammed into the ground from a sudden loss of momentum, just barely managing to throw Gray clear from the impact. Considering that her own sword was stolen from his armory, she's intensely familiar with King Arthur's weapons, and she knows that a grappling hook was never among them — which, for some reason, only inflames her more; to know that this illusion isn't even imitating him right. ]

Damn you! Are you King Arthur, or King Cheater? [ As she struggles back to her feet, she calls to Gray: ] I've got this! Keep goin'!

[gravings]

[ Gray doesn't skid too far before she manages to right herself and stop at a crouch. She reaches for Add and braces for Arthur's arrival, but before she can bring out her scythe, Mordred's voice stops her hand.

Despite everything that King Arthur is, Gray itches to join Mordred in the fight. But it's clear as well that Mordred refuses to fight with Gray nearby, as perhaps rightly she should. Body of Arthur or not, Gray is still a mere human. This might be how her mentor felt every time he had to swallow his pride and let someone else do the fighting for him. ]

... Please be careful.

[ She says that with a bitter taste in her mouth before moving to quietly withdraw. Mordred will definitely not be careful, but things are out of Gray's hands now. The best she can do is monitor from afar — thought maybe not as far as is strictly safe for a battle between a Servant and King Arthur.

Meanwhile, the blonde girl that is Arthur wastes no time continuing the offensive; it seems she intends to waste no more time than is absolutely necessary on Mordred. With a burst of magical energy, she whips the line of the grappling hook back in an attempt to drag Mordred forward — even as the grappling hook disassembles and reforms swiftly into a broadsword adorned with an assortment of eerie, wide-eyed faces. Though the weapon shares a familiar blue-and-gold color scheme, it's decidedly not Excalibur. Even so, its blade has a taste for spirits, and Arthur drives it at Mordred with cold calculation. ]

[uproared]

[ This time Mordred lets herself be dragged in by the grappling hook, ignoring the voice in her head screaming that the sword now beginning to form means death, death, death. At the last second, she jumps up and over the king using her mana burst; turning in midair to face him again, and digging both hands and heels into the pavement once she lands, finally coming to a stop a few dozen meters behind him.

Scowling under her helmet, she summons Clarent to her hand and uses it to help stand back up, trying not to noticeably wince at the bruises she can't afford to heal right now. At least the real King Arthur never played dirty (read: did something unexpected). For a moment she considers asking if Gray has any ideas... before remembering she's the one who told the other girl to run. Great. ]

Tch... so what if I'm a barking ghost, anyway? Better than a fake that doesn't even know it's a fake.

[ Her Noble Phantasm could put an end to this one way or another, but it'd cost her life and the lives of anyone still in the vicinity. The former she'd willingly give up for the sake of a pyrrhic victory, but despite all the evidence to the contrary, she's still a knight. She won't sacrifice uninvolved civilians — which means she has to win without her one advantage, all while knowing that if she dies, Gray won't have anyone to protect her.

Double great. As Clarent's blade starts to dye itself red, she wonders if it's even possible... but knows that she wouldn't back down even if it wasn't. ]

Whatever you were gonna say to the mouse, O fake king, you can say to me instead. That face of yours [ of ours ] has done enough to her already.

[gravings]

[ Arthur straightens and turns to Mordred, expression as clear with focus as it was before. This time at least, it seems she deems Mordred's words worthy of response. The broadsword remains a broadsword, the Holy Lance left under its seals. She rests its tip elegantly to the earth, the sword forming a perfect vertical. ]

Your effort is misguided, Sir Mordred. It was not I who meddled with that girl's fate. What do you believe you are protecting her from?

[uproared]

[ What's she protecting Gray from? From becoming like her; so captivated by the king's majesty that she's unable to move beyond it even in death. Gray should live a life as separate from King Arthur as possible, no matter what an impossible task that might be, when she was born to become him. But then, Mordred was born for something too, and she... well, she still did exactly what her mother wanted of her, but for her own reasons.

That's what she thinks, anyway. What she says is: ]

Who knows? I don't need an excuse to kill you, just like you don't need one to kill me. So let's end this already... father.

[gravings]

[ Arthur doesn't seem surprised by Mordred's refusal to elaborate. They come from an age where deeds were king and words were optional. As Mordred wishes, the sword gives way to the lance beneath; there will be no swordplay or repartee, only killing blows.

Even if Arthur isn't quite as one might remember him, Rhongomyniad sits in his hand with familiar ease, the lance's ribboning weave elegant and nearly alien in its construction. He makes no move forward, only watching Mordred in wait without expression. ]