The Seeds of Unrest: the Iconoclast Oracle

[beleos]

RUNNING OUT THE CLOCK

The situation is bleak.

The Blight - and the massive labyrinth of roots tearing both cities asunder, spreading deadly flowers wherever they penetrate - have progressed to a point beyond catastrophe. People are dying in rapid numbers. Bearers are having difficulty keeping up with the spread of infection - even among one another. The collapse of Kenos seems inevitable; a cure will not come in time. You can do nothing but watch as each new day brings further disaster, ticking down the seconds until it all falls apart.

And then, you feel something seize your Shard. As if physical fingers have wrapped around it, as if it is being clutched through you by invisible hands, you feel invaded. You feel wronged. But before you can panic, a voice enters your mind through Communion.

“Excuse the dramatics, but there isn’t much time for pleasantries. The Trees are about to hit the point of no return. But there's still work to be done. The Tree of Life will take you where you can find it: the Oracle and the creature causing all this mess. Fix this when you find them. However you'd like.”

Have you heard Aetos’ voice before? Perhaps it is the first time; perhaps it is familiar to you. Either way, the last thing you will remember is a confusing jumble: a spell of immense and incredible power, one utilizing the Tree’s strength to shelter you. The sensation of every cell in your body coming alive, yet seeming to break apart and render you into billions and billions of tiny pieces, all hovering in different times and places across all the different iterations, timelines, and realities in which you have ever existed. A voice that speaks not through words asking your forgiveness, unspeakably sad.

And then, there is nothing.

AWAKENING

Your eyes open, gritty with the feeling of a long, deep slumber.

Perhaps it takes a moment to shake off the heavy veil of exhaustion, to recollect what you were doing before you fell into this state of hibernation - but as soon as you do, you feel an immediate sense of foreboding around you. It is thick in the air, oppressive and pervasive, and you aren’t left long to wonder at its source. You lay beneath the branches of the Tree of Life, but as your bleary eyes focus… you see it. The Tree is all but bereft of life. Its bark has withered down to gnarled wood, the soft lichen dried up, and the grass that should be alive beneath you is long dead and gone. There is not so much as a single leaf on its decaying branches.

It has been this way for a long, long time... you realize this with a feeling of intense dread as you see it - the beautiful expanse of stars, of the cosmos, of universes scattered like starlight above the tree's boughs, gone. In its place hangs a sickly, ominously low-hanging, and dying sun ready to sing the end of everything.

You can't help but wonder how long Kenos has been in this state, but a sense of gratitude fills you as you realize that the Tree expended the last of its energies to protect you, the Bearers, during your state of rest. Had Aetos worked with the tree to see you sent here?

The next question comes quickly: how much time do you have left…? And can you find the Oracle before that time expires?

ABANDON HOPE (DAYS 1 & 2)

The cornerstones are still active and will take you to whichever city you wish to see.

Highstorm and Springstar sit like empty monuments to the cities that were once filled with life - yet the first thing you will notice is they are strangely absent the signs of the Tree’s overgrown roots, the Blight, the catastrophic damage that you can recall all too easily. Instead, each city sits as those they were summarily abandoned overnight, leaving nothing but their shells behind. There is a stillness in the air that is unnatural and unsettling. Despite the lack of any sign of the citizens of either city, you cannot help but feel… watched.

Something terrible happened here. Best you find the Oracle before something terrible finds you, instead.

The burning of a dying sun beats down on you wherever you go, unbearable heat sending waves off the aged cobblestone streets. Perhaps it is your instinct to seek refuge in the shade - but linger too long about the shadows and that feeling of eyes on your back, of being unable to breathe, of your world closing in around you will grow untenable and drive you back into the light. If you hope to explore the ghostly shell of your city in search of the Oracle - or to sate your curiosity, some problem-solving might be in order.

And while you acclimate yourself to your circumstances, you cannot help but note you feel wrong inside, somehow…

EXPLORATION

• If your characters choose to explore previously unreachable areas, please use THIS TOPLEVEL to report when they get there in the thread! We will get back to you with what is discoverable in that location.
• The following areas are off limits for exploration: below Yima’s Manor; below the Church of Heliopolis; Alenroux; Kowloon.
• The Great Trees of both Highstorm and Springstar are in a similar state to the Tree of Life and will not respond to Communion.
• Generally speaking, items will be of poor quality. Most will look as though they’ve aged thousands of years. Others will be in half-decent shape, but sparingly so. Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem like the whole city has aged at the same rate, so especially diligent rummagers can find worthwhile supplies. Please consider this should be rare and don’t go overboard!

NOTES

Here are some prompt reminders - see the full thing at the OOC Summary!

• Characters will have a diluted connection to the Zenith or Meridian.
• There will be periods powers are weakened or non-functional during days 1-2 (up to player discretion).
• The sunlight results in scorching; the shadows cause claustrophobia and fear while outdoors.

THE RITUAL (DAYS 2+)

The place you started your journey to Kenos is also where it seems it will end. As soon as the first Bearer makes contact with the Iconoclast effigy, you are collectively drawn to the roots beneath the Tree - like a pang sent through your Shard. Your objective has been found. The Oracle awaits.

Trusting Aetos seems like a fool's errand, but you must put your hope in the Tree. What choice do you have left? It's time to find what lies at the end of this.

Bearers descend, your steps echoing in the dark, cavernous space. Once brimming with life and vitality, the roots are now dried and brittle like the bones of some ancient leviathan that died long ago. As you make their way deeper into the earth, the deadened roots twist, leading you to a vast chamber deep within it; the air here is thick with the smell of decay, and the faint glow of luminescent fungi and mosses barely illuminates the space.

To your left, the Bearers will notice what has drawn them here - and the object of their search.

An effigy sits on the ground between two darkened tunnels. The effigy is made of gnarled, dead branches woven together in a humanoid shape; its hollow, empty eyes are sightless, yet you cannot help but feel it is watching your every move. Branded on its forehead is the Iconoclast symbol carved into the rough wood.

Once all Bearers are present, the Ritual will begin. Your means of exit have been sealed off, and you are trapped, slowly deteriorating together…

NOTES

• Bearers will have access to the Ritual Chamber which is a very wide, open space with the effigy situated against the far wall from the entrance. Several smaller tunnels off-shoot from the Ritual Chamber. They all run to dead ends; some are very small or narrow. This may afford you meager privacy away from the group.
• Once a Bearer steps into the Chamber, they can no longer head back out the way they came. They’ll find themselves automatically walking back into the Chamber as if of their own volition.
• For brevity’s sake we won’t list them out again here, but the complete description of effects Bearers will experience days 2+ is available in the OOC Summary.
• The effigy is impervious to damage.
• It Is Watching You.
• In a dead-end root tunnel attached to the Iconoclast’s Chamber is the Blighted statue of an Otter that may be familiar to some… Please see THIS TOPLEVEL for more information!

THE PURGE (DAYS 5+)

The sap has festered in your veins for what feels like days. It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed; this place has no sunlight. The effigy watches as you remain trapped, huddled together around it, unable to leave as you find yourself sick with the affliction of the Meridian, Zenith - or both.

And then… something finally gives.

Though it does not move and speaks no words, you feel the effigy offering you guidance. Knowledge. Much like the Tree speaks to you in impressions and feelings, you are conveyed wisdom you did not have before: a way to take what you want and rid yourself of what you do not. A way to make your convictions known to all who would hear them. A way to be known. To write your path in blood, be it yours… or theirs.

When all is said and done, only one force - Zenith or Meridian - will gain its favor.

Show it who you are. Show it what resolve looks like to you - and what you are willing to do to attain it.

NOTES

Here are some prompt reminders - see the full thing at the OOC Summary!

• You can Purge your alignment through various methods: Trading, Corrupting, or using the Effigy itself.
• All characters will understand the end goal is for everyone to Harmonize; the alignment with the higher rate of Harmonized Bearers alive when time’s up wins the Oracle’s favor.

NOTES

• A reminder that the Harmonization tally will take place on Friday, the 19th and be open through Monday, the 29th. The results will be released on Wednesday, the 31st OOCly.
• Don’t forget to submit any deaths to the Death Tracker, with a gentle reminder characters will remain dead until the event conclusion!
• Reminder to fill out the SETTING POLL ASAP if you haven't already!
• Have some MUSIC if you'd like. LYRICS here!
• HAVE FUN!!

CODING

Comments

[sharethememory]

[ Zhongli continues to lead them until they are tucked away in the one of the many sprawling side passages, the din of the communion certainly dampened but still present. There was no where to run from it, after all, cramped and waiting for ... something to happen. Unless their end was truly to be a slow and steady decay.

Zhongli helps Childe back into a sitting position, brows furrowed when the sound of Meridian influence does not abate but instead is amplified between the two of them. But that is impossible. When could it have happened? Just earlier he seemed to be bartering trades to stave off the Meridian energies. Shouldn't Zhongli have seen something if it had happened right under all of their noses?

He crouches down in front of Childe once more, hands folded neatly over his knees but with a tension in them that wasn't there moments prior. ]

Childe.

What happened to you?

[sharethememory]

Ah, do I look unwell? Perhaps I care not to hide it when others can catch my thoughts as easily as stray leaves left to blow in the wind.

[ He takes a seat next to Diluc, whether or not he has been invited to do so. This is where he has chosen to be, and thus this is where this stubborn old rock will be. Closer now and not bothering to hide his own thoughts, they overflow the space like too much water pouring into a cup.

Where do the dead go if the world is gone and Tree of Life is dead? Do they linger like dead gods who also had no path before them?

He leans in a bit closer to Diluc. ]

Still Meridian, are you?

FLESH AND OTTER!

[sharethememory]

[ Another image flashes of the statues buried up to his neck in the dirt of the ritual chamber. For here is an individual who believes that you can literally bury all of your problems and they won't come back to haunt you. ]

Alas, it seems that I have misplaced my shovel.

[ He digs the heel of his shoe against the earth - packed and scorched and the otter made of stone. That would be quite the task in the chaos of everything else that was happening around them. ]

But yes, as long as a handful of us keep our wits about us and stay close, it should not be a problem.

[fishfearme]

[The same pantheon? Sothis had claimed no siblings or peers, only her many children of both the Nabateans and Fodlan humans. Byleth had even asked if there were others like her, and she had dismissed the question without answering it. Not suspicious when it came to Sothis: being such a contrary, fussy little thing, she took exception to the randomest and innocent of questions.]

Very well. I'll continue to sing. I fear it'll not be in a language known to you, though.

[Sothis had corrected his words when she had heard him sing it the first time (it turned out Jeralt pronounced some of the words wrong when recollecting it from Sitri's singing and, as a result, had given Byleth "an atrocious accent"), and it sounded like nothing in Fodlan or beyond it. A lilting language that was almost haunting and ethereal when raised in song, as if it was evolved through music alone.

His voice was already warmed and prepped, so Byleth rested a hand over his unbeating heart and closed his eyes as he resumed from where he left off. There was something inherently soothing about the song, that coaxed anxieties to settle and worries to seem a little less than they were - almost like a lullaby a mother would sing when soothing their child freshly woken from a nightmare.

(Because that is exactly what this song was - the one Sothis sang to her children, and who in turn sang it to theirs... and which only survived because Rhea had clung to the memory of it with a white-knuckled grip, had crooned it to an artificial vessel that she eventually adopted as her own daughter - because it was a failure in becoming her mother.)

How Set would feel about the song, though... that remained to be seen.]

[muchalucha]

[ She laughs again (at herself) as Cassian reaches out to touch her shoulders. She can tell that his reassuring words aren’t something that he fully believes in, but… Similarly, that’s okay. Much like he’s not able to believe that he deserves happiness, he might not be able to believe that someone can care so immediately and deeply for his story. ]

Good.

[ And, since Cassian is the one that reached out to her this time! She gently places her hands on his face, then leans forward to give him a quick kiss on his forehead. It’s just as warm and earnest, and also easy to pull away from if it’s too much, but— With that affectionate little gesture, it’s clear that this is something that comes from that deep well of love. It’s not maternal, more like a big sister doting on a younger sibling expressing their troubles, but it’s sincere all the same. ]

That’s all I ask, okay? And if you ever need help, you can ask me! Even if you decide that Zenith is the right path for you… I can still do what I can to help.

(1/2)

[affal]

( yes, he is the pitiable sort of creature, isn't he?

makoto's lidded gaze and carefully-maintained mask of incredulity do not falter, even as an irascible flame fans white-hot in his chest, just beneath the hollow of his throat; considering he has only ever hated the concept of God for being so willing — so neglectful — to allow something to be born into a world so incongruous with what it was, what it wanted, his dealings with set are cautious things built upon untrustworthy architecture, ready to collapse as soon as the slightest fault in the foundation made itself known.

in Hell, where violence was just another sultry pastime and the hierarchy of politics was the most dangerous threat to any demon's life, one would have to be a damn fool to believe the words of any silvered tongue at face value. he had learned that over his years working for datenshou, in his time plying the demon's trade, in every single interaction he had ever had with his master. but if a demon is a twisted variable, modular and changeable for the fairest wind, a god is an absolute. he gets the sense that set does not mislead him, and in this moment, he hates him for it — for the fact that he would so plainly highlight the crucial (and painful) differences between them, and what he says, belying such vivid privilege that it makes makoto paint the walls of his mind with a lurid scene of reaching across to grasp a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head back so he could drag a half-rusted blade, base and coarse, to rasp across his throat —

makoto has never had the privilege of choice. not in his life, in his death, or anything that followed. this facsimile of it he's pressganged into now is only insult added to injury; salt gratuitously rubbed into wounds that will never truly heal. )

(2/2)

[affal]

( for a long, silent moment, he studies set. and then he breaks the tension all at once, dipping his head and sighing uproariously, as long-suffering as a tutor whose pupil entirely missed the point of the assignment. )

Let me tell you what I have learned about power, over my four chances at life.

( he looks back up to set, and his eyes are as pitiless as ice, as cutting as diamond, wild yet resolute. ) If it's not something you were not naturally blessed with, it is non-transferable. Not a single ounce of the wealth or prestige I worked tirelessly for in Hell did me any good, not here nor in the place I was in before. A place where I am told I was given significant power, ( at the cost of himself, his agency, everything he is, but he's not going to into that right now — ) none of which followed me here.

( once again hurt, desperately furious at how unfair it all is, how much the weight of his wasted effort crushes down on his narrow shoulders, his mask slips. hatred seeps into his eyes; it's not necessarily personal. he hates set for exactly what he says he is, what he says he has, what he says he does. strength. utility. significance.

makoto has never had any of that, not in any way that lasted. not after all he's suffered, and how much he has sacrificed and given away.

he laughs, harsh and mocking and ever-so-slightly broken (if one knew how to detect the sound). ) Power is a mirage that I'm done spending myself trying to reach. ( especially when it's a moving goalpost. he is, despite his relatively few years, so profoundly tired. ) And choice is the same damn thing.

( the momentary flare of his anger and his bitterness fades, leaving him once again inert and cold, something barren and remote hurtling through space. his words resemble the same, ) Try again. ( or leave, thinking perhaps it had been a mistake to ask others to highlight their inequities, on top of how sick both Meridian and Zenith make him feel in his soul. )

[redsoil]

[ Though the memory of Hayame's pain and anguish as Sebastian neatly robs her of her eye rattles within his soul, as an ache he wishes to lay a hand on ( to devour? to soothe? ), he grinds his back molars subtly against it. Warriors would always be injured, would always be left with scars as proof of their shortcomings and the things that had failed to kill them; yet, entities such as he and Sebastian were incapable of scars. In any other circumstance, they would be pristine and clean. Which means he will gladly take in Sebastian's wretched appearance as an outlying vision, and choose to bask in both violent acts ( for the alternative is impossible for him, he cannot recoil from brutality — ): the one that Sebastian reflects upon, and the one Hayame has shown him. ]

While the Ennead view the passage of soul to afterlife as sacrosanct, I differ. Certainly, souls have a natural path to follow — but, I am not a stranger to the usefulness of the soul. And I have denied my fair share of them, for my own ends.

[ Which is to say. ]

I have no intention to save him, or meddle in the contract between you. He chose his path, and he knows what end awaits him.

[ He does not waver, nor lower his voice. Silco is probably nearby, but Set does not mind.

Though the passage of the soul to the afterlife was sacred in Egypt and other communities, Set truly could not find it in himself to struggle with the notion that he ought to safeguard any mortal's soul when they had chosen the route they wished it to take. He owed it to the women he had slaughtered to return them, because they had no choice in becoming his weapons. Silco freely chose, and in that — was the crux of his opinion. That Sebastian Michaelis was a valid option to be chosen, and one who ought not to be denied his earnings. ]

I am a devout pupil, you will find. You may even find it a challenge, keeping up with me — now, settle in and brace yourself. I will take all that remains in a single, clean sweep.

[fireballer]

[diluc is indeed having A Time. all his trauma that he thought he had come to terms with tormenting him near constantly no matter what distraction or grounding techniques he uses. the knock comes as a surprise, but he welcomes the distraction.

...rosaria is probably one of the last people he expects.

quietly, he steps aside to let her in, expression the same as usual but his disposition just screams Tired.]

Apologies for the state of my home. [he may have taken out his frustration on his furniture a little.] ...am I right to assume you are here to trade? [he kinda hopes so because he wants this shit to end.]

[redsoil]

You asked me what I found in the faction of my choosing. I answered. I said I was not here to curry your favor, or press you into service of either. You could die here, Unharmonized. That is a choice you may make, too. I will bring your Shard to the Tree if you ask it, and give you another chance — free of the burden of this Oracle.

[ A god is absolute, purity of might without the wretched, expended effort of the powerless to attain it. He was born-made for it, crowned in it, filled with it as more than birthright — as evidence of the world's authority, of reality and causality. Because he exists in Kenos, is it not proof enough in the eyes of others that reality as it was has gone no where — that it has simply been misplaced? Not everyone puts stock in gods, though. Atheists and the secular-minded spurn him readily, but they will not for long. Not when he attains prestige, not when he stands above them all in dark, abyssal glory and demands of them their unfaltering faith.

And then, he will devour all he must, to seek his goal. For he is not a brilliant god of honor and light, but something bleak and blood-soaked, his divinity dark and diabolic, and his attitude that of a half-mad narcissist. Makoto is not wrong, to loathe a creature such as this; Makoto, who has crawled before the memory of a god that would not save him or love him, must now meet another god who would speak to him of power, of that which he has lost.

He does not begrudge this creature. ]

Or, do you wish to end the cycle? I can do that for you, too.

[ Set will not offer just one option. He offers every one that is within his power, because he has it. For Makoto, for those like Makoto, he has it. With his eyes wide, the same shade as his hair — that setting-sun scarlet, the lurid splash of blood, the beautiful color of someone's innards, of fire and ruby-red madness. The manner of god he is is not a god of people, nor a god that absolves and coddles. He is a god of disorder, one that exists to rattle the hearts of those who think they are resolved; to confuse those who think their minds honed, think their confidence unfounded.

Not a thing he offers is for a faction, distinctly. Each thing is for Makoto alone. ]

Or. If you do not care for the past, or the future, then what the now? Fix your eyes here. Upon the one who embodies all you seem to scorn. Am I not a brilliant enough target, that you would want to have me brought low before you?

[epiprocta]

[ Gen just gives her a look like she's asked him a very stupid question. Which she kind of has, in his mind. His response is perfectly deadpan at first: ]

I already gave you one. [ Because his first thought is that that's obviously what she's griping about? The fact that he hasn't split the loot on this expedition at a precise 50/50 with her. ] What, you want another pack? These taste like shit.

[ It's only after he says that response with zero brain-mouth filter that he realizes what Rin actually means, and scowls. ]

-- and what do I owe anyone else? Not even like these're gonna be worth trading for much.

[ Since they taste like shit. Obviously. ]

[appeale]

[ words alone would be incapable of reaching Rudbeckia—even a person's actions aren't enough to truly take root in the barren, frozen soil of her heart. but the Communion between them is nauseating in its intensity and it's impossible to doubt a man when she can feel for herself how fervently he believes, how honest he is in this moment about his desire to help. it's not a guarantee of anything more than that – as with anyone, she's sure he'll turn his back on her the moment he finds her lacking...

but it's like John has struck her as he might a tuning fork, and she has no means to keep the resonance at bay. his faith amplifies her doubts, his doubts amplify her despair, she sinks deeper and deeper into the dark until Meridian's light seems impossibly distant. does she really want to chase that light, though? no, it's not even a question: she knows she doesn't. it's just something she has to do. she knows, too, that she will never belong with Meridian no matter how hard she tries. after all this, how long will it be until others realise the same? they'll doubt her loyalty, they'll turn against her, they'll throw her out and then she won't have anywhere to go. ]

I'm tired. [ it's a pitiful croak of sound – and then Ruby's expression collapses under some intangible weight. she ducks her head to hide behind her curtain of golden hair and coneflowers. ] I'm really, really tired. I don't want any of this, but I can't survive on my own, and I just— I thought Meridian would be easier...

[ it might have been easier if she were anyone else. the way that her life in Britannia ended was plenty of proof that she can't follow on the protagonist's heels. she's not a good person, and whatever wretched curse plagues her will never allow her to pretend otherwise. she doesn't deserve better. she simply wasn't born good. and it's unfair, and it fucking sucks, and she hates it, she didn't do anything wrong, she just— she just wants—

she thinks, again, of that young woman on the balcony above the burning city. a new world won't save her, maybe at this point nothing ever could, but. wouldn't it be nice to know that it was all gone? Cesare, the Pope, the people of Romagna, even Iske. Rudbeckia de Borgia's entire life. in the novel, it never made sense that Cesare would have told Rudbeckia to kill Iske's sister. what did he have to gain from it? the only thing he wanted was to complicate her marriage plans; a war with Britannia was one that Romagna could never win. Rudbeckia is the one who watched the slaughter and laughed like it was something she'd waited her whole life for, accepted her death without resistance, wrote the most satisfying ending that a doomed villainess could be allowed to have.

Ruby wonders if, in those last moments, she felt relieved. ]

Would you really help me?

[ she was wrong. Zenith is easier. it is so much easier to just give up. ]

[fireballer]

[so wise, zhongli. if diluc has to have his mind on display for anyone to read into, at least it's zhongli. he's come to tentatively trust him and his calm, grounding presence.

though it seems it's a two-way street as zhongli's thoughts creep into his mind. damn. deep. though it makes him wonder...is venti's spirit just lingering around? the thought comforts him a little, helps battle against the zenith energy soaking into him without his consent. he thinks of the bard, of what he represented. freedom, compassion, kindness. he thinks of the melodies venti would play on a particularly breezy day.

...ahem. he got ahead of himself there.]

Trying to be, anyway. [a shake of his head.] I just have to stay focused on what's most important. I cannot get distracted by these... influences.

[a sigh.]

Glad to see you're still alive.

[sterngaze]

[Unfortunately for Sothis's ego, she is now the third deity that Liem has knowingly met while in Kenos, and at least one of the previous two was actually a god he'd already heard of. It doesn't help that, although her mannerisms are completely different, she still just looks like Byleth, who isn't especially imposing by Liem's reckoning.

So, while Liem's wariness is now touched slightly more plainly with respect, he is still a far cry from awestruck, or even just overtly surprised.]

I will keep to this agreement. I have no desire to make trouble for you or Mister Eisner.

[Liem waits for the god in Byleth's form to strip off a glove, then extends his hand carefully, presenting his shard at her request. He will keep it steady as she applies Byleth's blood to it, though he does tense slightly at the foreign contact. Regardless, he will press the bloodied pad of his own thumb to Byleth's shard when she offers it, smearing dark sap over the brilliant surface.]

[redsoil]

[ He finds Jyn Erso agreeable, charming in her terse and direct way.

Over time, he has become drawn to the company of women. Certainly, he holds himself apart from others, but he does not toy with them the way that he toys with men; he does not think of them as prey, as stupid things that can be manipulated if he only finds the right strings to tug ( and even then, he does not manipulate every soul he meets; it is just easier to think of his actions as manipulation, and hide his truths behind a lie ). It is easier to place his trust in women — human women, mortal women — because he has come to understand their innate pain.

Jyn is a small woman. She must have had to fight twice as hard as anyone else, man or tall, to survive. As she agrees to take his Zenith, he parts his mind before her with that thought in mind: that he finds himself glad that she is sharp, blunt, and that she has survived. He squeezes her fingers in his own, and

( Was I not your friend? Your confidant? You should have come to me, first! Isis is feral with rage, unappeased in her hatred of him. Brilliant, blue eyes regard him divorced of the familiarity of the love they had once shared; You killed my humans! They did nothing to you, I did nothing to you!

She did nothing for him, either. His wife, betraying his trust. His sister, betraying their bond. His mother, betraying his pain — her starry-skies opening to sob, to rain down the heavens for her missing daughter. Isis, lost to the world. Isis, who had fled her own tyrant of a brother. Isis, who suffered alone in the land of humans. Not for him. Women, who he had loved. Women, who had slowly carved away at pillars of community, pillars of strength, pillars of solidarity. )

He hates women. He loathes them. Revulsion fills him — Jyn Erso is within him, and he thinks already to throw off their connection as it dips towards such maddened feelings. Abandonment. Rage. Betrayal. The expectation that he make up to the women of the world for what he did, and his acknowledgement that he would. He would suffer their wrath and agony, and he would not think — why was I unworthy?. Instead, he spreads Egypt before Jyn Erso. Boundless desert dunes awash with the splendor of another woman's existence.

Of Ra, with her feral gaze and carnivorous mouth. Peerless and untouchable, preening over the grandchild she clearly favored. Of Ra, who warmed the expense of the desert — his own form — and left him clutching at her image in the dark, gathering her light to his core. The same as he gathers Meridian to him, from Jyn. He spreads the Nile before her, the sunlight glimmering upon the perfect blue of the water. A cormorant standing still in the rushes, poised to strike the fish that begin to gather in the shadowed shallows.

Of the echo of a mother, made of stars, who only once — just once — trailed stardust in her wake that he gathered in his own palms. ]

[affal]

Yes. And perhaps that was a mistake.

( yes, and he does say it peevishly, the little brat. this is perhaps an occasion of makoto being animated by memories and illusions of how he believes he should behave, keeping in his mind's eye the image of the most powerful demons of Hell (an image he would have to force himself to admit is J, and only J) and doing all that he can to emulate it down to the very marrow of his gifted bones. perhaps he might have been interested in such a reply from someone who had faced the same harsh realities that he had; for someone who knew, just as he did, that "choice" was a lie sold to those without the power to affect others and their own situations — it's smoke and mirrors, a cheap and feeble justification of cruel artifice that, if they didn't have a direct hand in creating, they certainly didn't want to send tumbling down.

he has never had a choice in any of the shit hands he's been dealt; the only one he had managed to claw, scrape, gnash, and tear away for himself had been that which he had come to find when he realized his only true inherent value. not as a heart, or as a mind, or as a fierce and unending torrent of passionate determination (though perhaps J had treasured him for these things as well, even if he had never successfully communicated it in a way makoto had comprehended and accepted): it was as a body, which was ironically the only thing he possesses that wasn't actually his. how did he trade himself and spend himself away, and to whom, and for what? these are the only choices he feels he had ever truly made for himself.

it's why he asks for trade. he asks for something substantial, something quantifiable, something he considers real. devoid of the perception of power that would have very literally made him powerful in Hell, this is the only thing he has left to him, the only thing he values.

his eyes narrow to bloody gashes as set describes his other so-called "choices." his anger rises again, another wave to batter an already-distressed shore. he leans forward at his first set of questions, lip peeling away from inhumanly sharp teeth in an expression of indignation. )

If I wanted that, I would "choose" better than you.

( the only thing more infuriating to speak with a god about than power is death. as if it's a concept he would ever know to fear — or to crave. at least not in the same way a creature such as makoto (or perhaps even as J) might. at this point, makoto isn't even really sure if taking set up on his offer would work. he had chosen death when he had summoned and contracted with J, and he had denied it to him. and even when he had rejected his presence in kenos with everything that he was, as scoured as he was from his experiences in horos, he had still subconsciously formed the spiritual scar tissue necessary to survive here. he feels as though he will persist, no matter what, regardless of what it is he wants.

but, in truth, he doesn't want to die. the only time he had ever wanted to die was in his utter despair, trapped in a world that damned him as a sinner and a criminal and a deviant and a monster before he had even done anything wrong, unable to see any future for himself. he likes to believe he has changed, since then.

but if he wanted someone to take him in hand, with sorrow and compassion and pained understanding, to end him once and for all — that individual would not be set.

he continues — and set could have no idea of what sort of ground he treads upon, how thin and treacherous this ice is. how fathomless and deep the waters below are, having welled up and filled this vacuous space by the force of sheer spite alone. though easy to incite, there are very few things that will cross a line to where makoto moves entirely without thinking, and this is one of them; his hand snaps out like a striking snake, hand entangling in the golden jewelry ornamenting his neck and shoulders, pulling makoto himself bodily closer if the god himself proves immovable.

and as he does so, a flash of an image presses itself into his mind through the turbulence of Communion: a man not necessarily unlike set in physique, his long hair somewhat curled and platinum blond instead of deep red, head crested with scything horns rather than the mask of a divine animal. in this fleeting image, this brief memory, the demon smiles at him knowingly (perhaps even challengingly), his pale flesh torn and bloody, body tearing away into gore. ) For that, there is already a sun in my sky, ( one that in every way he navigates by, which he is unable to ever escape, ) ...unless you are offering yourself as a replacement.

( a single, harsh laugh. ) And besides, ( he says, tongue razor-sharp, ) It's men who are meant to offer themselves up on altars to the gods. Isn't it rather obscene to propose the opposite?

[zenwhoberi]

[it's not humor that turns one of the corners of her mouth up ever so slightly. not really. there's humor, and there's the gallows approximation of it, hollow in its imitation; the latter is what she's known for most of her life, and that's what someone like him knows, too.

(people like them will always recognize each other.)

she counters, light,]

What, this isn't your idea of pleasant?

[and it's followed by a long exhale, one that drops her shoulders as it does her arm after he finishes tying the bandage off. in its aftermath, with the anger in her mostly worn down, she's — tired. it creeps now into her voice.]

Some things get better. A lot of things don't.

[there's more she could add, that a part of her wants, more than anything, to add. but she thinks of wind and falling snow, of a sinking realization she'd been sure was her last, and she allows silence to fall.]

[cutlery]

[ Sebastian makes a thoughtful noise, since Set’s use of the soul interests him, naturally. It’s not something that can be hidden at the moment, but he also doesn’t ask. It’s their unique form of respect at work, for the answer isn’t necessarily something he’d want to reveal in current circumstances… But it’s also clear that he will ask later.

For now, he nods. His interest can at least give way to the softer cooling of his concerns. ]

Good. It would be a shame for you to ruin things out of a misplaced sense of… [ He trails off half-playfully, then shrugs. ] Well, I do not know. It could be many things that drive it. I shall not assume and simply be quietly grateful for your prudence.

[ Since, truly… It would be a shame to lose such a fun companion over something so minor as a single Covenant. But with that thought and mind and the task at Set’s hand, he cant help but breathe out a laugh. It’s a bit ironic, but he knows precisely what this is. He trusts Set. In his way. ]

…But, yes. Let us get this over with. Do pardon me for any reflexive reactions, if you would.

[passio]

[ dextera has a few ways of casting a shadow. first and foremost, he’s got more of a physical presence than people might first anticipate, but there’s also now the huge gun he lugs around on his back; practically an extension of him, it serves a purpose now, giving ruby a length of darkness to revive in.

he would do this for anyone, but ruby in particular… she apologizes, she’s clearly weak, and he recognizes her as a fellow meridian. she needs his help. ]

…

[ he crouches, silently offering his hand to her. ]

purge-era wildcard-ish

[passio]

[ dextera has been circling makoto the entire time they’ve been down here. it’s not his duty to attend to makoto and they both know that, so he’s been keeping a watchful distance both out of respect for makoto’s individuality—plus to hold back his emotional communion, which has grown overwhelming even in his own head—and, truthfully, a personal need to curl up and wait for it all to pass.

it has not passed, and it has only gotten worse. the world is making demands of them now.

the pressure on his shard has become painful, even though he’s chosen. perhaps it’s discord, or more likely, it’s his natural tendency toward self-flagellation that is punishing his body now—hunger and thirst are things he’s accustomed to, but this ritual has been such a terrifying whirlwind of pressure from all sides that he can feel himself falling apart at the seams. he wants comfort, he wants his brother, but there is no one down here who can be that for him. instead, he busies himself with worrying about the future.

conversion isn’t his style. he doesn’t expect that he can sway makoto, so he’s surprised when he finally breaks to approach him—with increasing dread that this may be their last time to speak, zenith’s victory—that makoto still hasn’t harmonized. ]

…

[ the surprise shows on his face, even pale and tired as he is. ]

You’ve been fighting all this time?

[appeale]

I...

[ even now – in a situation that cannot possibly get any worse, when she is already so certain she's going to die here – Rudbeckia can't bring herself to explain. while she usually skips ahead to accepting her punishment just to minimise the pain, knowing that she'll only suffer more if she's accused of lying or making excuses, that isn't what holds her tongue in place. she simply doesn't have the strength to cut herself open, to offer what honesty she can spare, only to have it disregarded as unimportant.

how could she possibly explain it? I really didn't mean to. there's no way anyone would believe her, even though it's the truth. I'm tired. they'll tell her to stop complaining, that she's not the only one who has it hard. I don't want to be afraid of that place anymore. she's nothing but a selfish coward, ruining the hope for everyone else. and so what if she is? why is it her responsibility? she didn't ask for any of this; she doesn't want it. she's tired of everyone being so hostile towards her for a meaningless ideal that she couldn't care less about.

despair rises in the Communion like a flooding room with no cracks to escape through, and Ruby makes no effort to stay afloat. it's a thick, bitter taste. ]

I just... gave up. I'm sorry.

[ that doesn't mean she wants to die like this. her body language and intentions both portray a prey animal preparing to run. ]

[eyesite]

( perhaps he should be grimly grateful for all of the terror and harrowing ordeals he had weathered while working in the Archives prior to coming there — they had, after all, at the very least prepared him for situations like this. not to say he's entirely prepared, of course; the intrinsic horror of their situation does not escape him (he might actually be the one best-equipped to see it, to feel it, to have a finger to its very skipping pulse each second of every day), but he feels strangely removed from it. by this point he has traded much of his Meridian energy away and has felt assuaged by the sensation of Zenith which flows in to take its place. being trapped in these tunnels is not ideal, yes, but he is certain it could be far worse. even though his body seems to remember its need for food and water, these needs scratching at the back of his mind seem like dull and distant echoes from the true hunger that the Eye imposes — having taken not only silco's statement but also having read link's prior to aetos' voice calling them all out from their version of kenos, he's rather satisfied in that regard.

so he is, perhaps, insulated from many aspects of how terrible things have gotten down here. or perhaps, after recovering from his own death recently, he has felt only barely tethered to his own sensibilities of humanity — it makes it harder to feel all of those things, running fraught throughout the Shard-Bearers as they are. it makes it harder to care, but for those he already has a vested interest in or those that intersect with his very specific ideals.

he hasn't met this young man in person, but he is one of those people who falls under these specifications. he is drawn to others who hail from worlds and backgrounds similar to his own — those that had already ended, by most's approximation — darkly intrigued by how they sought to deal with it. and, more often than not, how it differed from his own.

link doesn't look well. really, that's a bit of an understatement, but having likely seen glimpses of him in the last few days, he can tell he has only gotten worse. john's feeling of human sympathy might be dulled by his Discord and everything else, but he still feels a pang of something resonate in his heart for the young man; he has already tasted his fear, felt it for himself... it's a bond, to him, stronger than even Communion, and it is far more difficult to drown out. )

We've spoken. You - you offered your fear to me, when I asked. ( always a weird thing to say, but it's the truth. he steps forward, rounding around so that he is slightly more illuminated by some dimly florescent fungi nearby.

even though he does so, his eyes still seem so dark; pits of shadow carved out beneath his brow, endlessly deep and ceaselessly watchful. ) Link, are you - ah, well, I know you're not well. ( he frowns slightly. ) Is there anything I can do to help?

( he certainly owes the young man for his kindness in sending him a statement. )

[sharethememory]

[ Ironically, it is those stray thoughts of Venti that manage to pull Zhongli momentarily out of his own melancholy. Ah Barbatos. Did he finally manage to make new friends before the end of it all? Is that why he had come so cheekily to Mondstadt and invited himself over on Lantern's Rite? How fitting - as he seemed to be the loneliest god of all though he bore it all with that infuriating smile of his.

Lonely.

Yes, all of them were dealing with their loneliness here in one way or another. ]

I am grateful that you are here, too, Master Diluc, and as strong-willed as ever. I do not know how long I would have wandered had I not found you.

[ As Zhongli leans his head back against the dirt wall behind them, he carefully shifts his hands to not jostle whatever he has carefully cradled between them (quietly criticizing himself that the owner would not want to be handled so delicately). Small and precious - it glints a dark ocean blue even in the low light of the cavern - the shard of a Bearer of Kenos. ]

[eyesite]

( he breathes out a sigh that... isn't necessarily relief, because while twice might not indicate a pattern, his gut instinct tells him that it teeters dangerously on the edge of perhaps becoming one. but he knows relatively little about what happened on kenos prior to his arrival, and even less about this "horos" world where many of the other Shard-Bearers were prior to coming here. perhaps it's just an unfortunate similarity, though completely random in its occurrence. )

Yes... ( he grimaces. ) One would hope.

( there is truth to what liem says, john knows. there had been good and relatively upstanding institutions of religion that had offered strength and fellowship and peace of mind to people all over the world, though he knows through his own line of work he had only ever seen the most perverse applications of faith. the agents of several of the Fears used such things to manipulate people into following them; those devoted to the Desolation formed the Cult of the Lightless Flame (who had even gone so far as to create a Messiah for their purpose, even if she had guttered out and died before she could bring forth the Blackened Earth for them), and maxwell rayner had been leading the main body of the People's Church of the Divine Host for his own efforts for the Dark for centuries now. perhaps the frequency of his personal dealings with both groups have soured him on the concept of late, but only because he had grown tired of seeing the terrible aftermath of people who were preyed upon in their desperation, manipulated with misconceptions of faith to draw them away from the world at large.

though, in the end, how different is the Magnus Institute from either? he had always tried to ignore how the employees outside the Archives had looked at him after he had been named Head Archivist, but especially after he had returned after he had woken from his six-month "coma." one might not be incorrect in saying that the Institute had worshiped fervently the pursuit of what they perceived as truth, as fact, and john had been one of their most devoted priests.

he is silent for a moment — though liem finds sanctuary in this topic, he finds it an unwieldy and cumbersome one. but he is still happier to answer than he is to lapse back into silence which might turn inward and result in more suffering. ) I've had belief in what I could neither comprehend nor fully explain for a long time now. ( since a cursed book had found its way to him as an eight-year-old boy, an encounter which had nearly ended his young life. ) Even then, I sought out reasons, I sought out answers... But, belief and faith are two different things, aren't they?

...In the same way that you speak of it, no, I don't think so. Since then... it has gotten very difficult for me to have faith in much of anything, because that which I have proof for — which, which I am proof for — are the sort that you wouldn't want to have any in.

( he had once wondered if the Fears had counterparts. if there were conscious manifestations of terror and pain, were there the same for hope, for compassion, for what the heart screamed out for when faced with their worst nightmares, to deliver them?

no, is what he found out. there aren't. or, at least, it has never been recorded that there are; none has ever intervened to save a single human soul from the Dread Powers that preyed upon them. ) Let's just say... far too often I've both read and seen the very worst that can happen to people, and yet I've never seen a single miracle. It... makes it too difficult.

[appeale]

[ in the echo of his words, she hears Cesare's voice. his warm moments, his gentle chiding, the things that frightened her just as much as his violence. and with that on her mind, the awareness of someone else's irritation directed at her spurs her into action. she scrambles upright, on her hands and knees, half-expecting to see her brother and thinking for one split second of madness that the red eyes belong to her husband instead: ]

Signor... Archangel?

[ she remembers him. he'd shown himself to her back then, as though he were offering shelter; that patient demeanour and compassionate speech so reminiscent of any priest. he had made her uncomfortable in that sense, no more than that. another face to avoid amidst all the others.

now the sight of his wings causes her to shudder, curling towards him and in on herself like a child. there's a fresh nausea that crashes over her, a fear that would be too vague and complex to unravel in any other situation — but with the state of their Communion as it is, no boundaries to separate their thoughts, the picture is clearer because Archangel experiences it himself. fear of something familiar. the image of God and His saints, feeling watched and judged and found wanting, lashings from sharp tongues and blunt instruments, expecting that someday Hell would open up right beneath her—

would she be free of all that, in a new world? ]

I'm sorry. I-I know this is unseemly. [ she slides her thumb past her teeth, presses down on her tongue for a moment and then releases it with a shivery exhale. ] I'm trying...