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]

[ Ground rules? Fair trade? Music to Zhongli's ears as he shifts so that can face Vash more directly.

Even better than focusing on the present, focusing on work and duty and a contract was something that Zhongli could absorb himself in wholeheartedly to drown out the soft and inviting whispers of his homeland. Yes, this was his comfort zone. His safe space. An image comes to mind of another young god, bright and full of life as she smiled brightly and tended to the others gathered at the assembly. The warm and welcoming god had such a love for humans and humanity, planting a seed deep within Zhongli that would grow and grow and grow to his own bountiful harvest.

In fact, he saw much of that smile in Vash's own---

Oh.

Oh dear, his thoughts were wandering again, weren't they? To the could haves, would haves, should haves that history's doors has sealed shut. She was gone. His world was gone. And Zhongli's attention should be thoroughly focused on saving this world now. There was no time for other distractions.

Zhongli clears his throat and crosses his arms as if he is steeling himself to this negotiation, but the small smile (strained as it is) gives him way. ]

Very well. I find your terms agreeable.

Though I shall warn you that I am a quite stern negotiator.

[ The last bit is spoken with equal parts truth and levity. For certainly Zhongli was very skilled at hammering out the finer details of a contract with people less amicable to fair trade, but also perhaps naively he does not believe that Vash would not ask for something that he would not be willing to give. (Nothing that might not already slip unbidden across the heightened communion.) ]

[zauneyete]

You know that this world has already robbed me of my vengeance, Set.

[ He says, sharp and biting in response, before Set moves on. Something bitter, and it is not just that Vander is alive, but something is missing, and Birdie Martinson took it. There are more cruelties in this world than just what Yima would commit, after all.

Unknowns are rife in his words. Set's words. He can feel them, see them. He does not say where this vision came from, of his brother and Yima embracing, or why -- but Silco knows that Yima embraces any who will join with her, and who best but a god of life to make her new world. Yima had tried to embrace him, too, and likely would have his daughter, or even Vander, if he'd spent much time there. Silco thinks it is the mark of emotions, that she does so, as if she wishes to manipulate the emotions of those that might sign on with her.

He does not know, because he has never allowed Yima to do so to him. Never embraced it. He fought it at every turn, and never allowed her to do so, unless it was to bestow power. But Silco was unusual to the rest of them. The rest of them found comfort in a maternal presence. The soft promise of darkness and night, the promise of power, and destruction.

Set speaks of standing in the way of his vengeance, and Silco would even now, even as Jinx's distressed sounds echo from behind him, even as he can feel the phantom of her over his shoulder, like the pressure of shadow and the knowledge that she was there -- how often had he conducted business with his daughter watching over him from the rafters? -- He could continue as if he didn't hear her voice, echoing everything Set said. ]

Few know that she exists, let alone -- anything else.

[ Let alone that she is Silco's daughter. Vander still claims her as his -- uses a name she does not, Powder -- and even Aetós does not know her real name. Powder is dead, he told the mage, and he meant it. Jinx was alive, and perfect, but when she'd been younger... she'd had a different name.

His fingers twitch against Set, but he does not pull away. Do they need contact, for this, to exchange energies? ]

If she would be in danger -- [ And she would, for she was Jinx, and if he thought that Set would not favor her... ]

-- Someone would only need someone to look after her life. As a herald of chaos and strife. She is strong, but we are human. We have no powers, but... she's brilliant, a genius. I mean it when I say she is perfect.

[ A wry smile, here. It's rare to see anything but sarcasm or the briefest of microexpressions from the man, but...

It's there. A flicker of something proud. ] Though she is also... impetuous. Whimsical. She would involve herself in trouble just to see what would happen.

You would love her, like you do that unruly beast, Hayame. That woman has nothing on Jinx.

[sharethememory]

[ Zhongli cradles whatever he has guarded between his palms tighter, so tight the leather of his gloves creaking is audible even in the din of this chamber. Hopeless? Desolate? Is that how Zenith looked from the outside? Is that what Diluc felt when he looked at Kaeya and Rosaria who swore oaths to a Lady who believed that Mondstadt was no more. Did the weight and hope of an entire nation rest on his shoulders, the whispered echoes of the people heard by only his ears?

Is that desolation also what Childe felt like in his last moments before Rosaria struck him down?

(No, no. Childe had been under the influence of the Meridian and he had been ill, physically so when Zhongli had encountered him. Then Childe's thoughts must have been much like Zhongli's own had been - are right now. Full of hope and yearning and longing and the warm memories of those that they will probably not see ever again. Did he hear his family? His friends? Did he think of Liyue fondly before he was cast out by plans designed by Zhongli's own hand? )

Ah, perhaps Master Diluc was correct--- ]

I do not know if I would call them hopeless or desolate. But perhaps---

If it is true that the Tree is dead and those Shard Bearers we have lost will not return, perhaps... perhaps I would agree with you that it all feels so very hopeless.

[affal]

( it's a moment that makoto captures in the finely-woven net of his comprehensive attention, this young student of the political battlefields of Hell, where bereft of lethal violence demons wheeled and dealt around one another to maneuver themselves in and others out of power, all so they could sate their personal ambitions and settle their petty feuds. makoto is a ward of the Archduke J, and he is the very best of Hell's silver-tongued princes; if he could not only survive there, but begin an unprecedented climb to the upper echelons of their hierarchy despite his mortal beginnings, is it really so surprising that he might be able to read between the lines, placing careful verbal barbs in places he guesses might be soft and sensitive, just for this pivotal moment?

silco doesn't need to say anything, because it's enough for a demon to take note of. the faintest glint in his eye, like a knife catching the angle just right to glint off of low light in a darkened room. and then it's gone.

a feline smile creeps across the young demon's features, but he allows the moment to pass. he neither needs nor even wants to pry — this silent assertion is all he needs, a secret to keep close to the chest and perhaps a well-needed vote of confidence to the few meager skills he had picked up in Hell, which had started to feel so rusty and strange to him after the gaps in his memory and his time here in kenos had started to eat at them.

it's foolish to seek to make enemies out of others, after all, and he gets the sense deep in his gut that he does not wish to make an enemy out of silco. but there is never any fault in having something resembling insurance.

makoto's coin-like eyes flick down to the extended hand, then returning to silco's scarred face. so far, he offers him more of personal and professional interest than anyone else has — by that credit, he should be willing to pursue this, shouldn't he? even after discussing it with several individuals, he has concerns about the path that Meridian might offer him... )

In this way, I place myself in your care, Silco. ( he reaches out to take the proffered hand, a faint smile lingering along the line of his lips as he continues, lapsing for just a moment to his native tongue, ) Please treat me kindly.

[wolof]

I know.

[ She says, that there is something wrong in this world. She feels it too. She can see it, as clear as day. As Set is a Savant, she is an Iconoclast, someone who aches to rip the old and put together anew into a shape that was more durable. Reformation through destruction. She had done just that in her own world -- guided by Catherine herself -- and she would do so here, if she is allowed the place to it. She was also... somewhat a Savant, or there was the path for her to be so. Just like Set, she wanted to find the intricacies and pull them apart. Figure out what there was in there, and use it. They were a pair that worked in a way, the intercessor who would rend the world asunder to make it better, and the god that explored the mysteries within.

In a way, there were parts of the both of them, reflected in one another. ]

Is it a surprise, that a world that collects the refugees to it, would be stable? The fact that we are brought here alone is proof that this world is broken. This amount of power being brought to this world can only go poorly, unless we find a way to temper it.

[ Her fingers find the edge of his shard, and her thumb caressed it, instinctively. Akua's shard is apparent at her left breast, above her heart. A place that should be obvious, for though she was a villain, her heart was eternally on her sleeve. ]

I promised to make you who you are meant to be, Set. I will not step from that promise. My guidance is not kind -- has never been kind -- but I will make you who you are to help temper this world. Things are out of balance, and it is you who will help delve into their secrets, and rip them out, and bear them for the world to see.

[ A pause, and she leaned forward, if Set wished, he could touch her shard as well, for they were already close. Silco is probably somewhere like "gross" ]

What did you find, in this warehouse? What secrets lie hidden by our own faction?

[affal]

( makoto's smile is as slick as vaseline. )

We are both in good company, then.

( or perhaps it's bad company...

when you examine it on all sides, it's perhaps the most equitable deal that can be made down here. these energies plague all of them, regardless of which side of the coin they originate on — or, if she's as unlucky as he is, playing host to a minor war between the two being waged within one's own shard and body. to lose that which causes one the most pain and slowly Harmonize with what might offer their soul reprieve... she's right. there doesn't need to be any further ties of debt than that.

makoto would personally regard that as a "bad deal," preferring to have as many favors he could call in with others as possible, but he will make an exception this time.

he leans forward, studying her, curious. ) If I were interested... ( he cants his head slightly to one side, ) Which of these energies more plagues your soul? What is it you wish to rid yourself of?

[eyesite]

( the question elicits a grim smile from john; it's a very clever deduction.

of all of the Shard-Bearers on kenos, a very small number know fully what his title means, and an even smaller division of those know the truth behind it. the entity to which his continued existence is inextricably tied to, its true and fearsome nature, and what both of them had in concert (and against his will) done to damn his world to Hell on earth... these are all things he would prefer he could keep to himself. part of it is shame, yes, but there is also self-preservation instinct wrapped up within it, deeper than even he can see. what he had done to his world, he is technically primed to do again. if certain individuals got the shape of the truth of him and his nature, they might well decide that he continuing to draw breath is a risk they couldn't accept. )

Yes. Though it goes well past that.

( he clutches his hand into a fist and frowns. )

It's a bit of a misnomer, you know. "Archivist." It implies a certain level of separation from that which I might endeavor to "archive"... one that I don't have. ( the Archive was not something that he had left behind on his own planet in the bowels of the Institute's basement, enshrined to Magnus' success in ascending to become the Eye's pupil in the world he had helped architect — no, it sits right alongside liem here, in these caverns. ) In reading and listening to the accounts of others' fear, I inscribe them upon myself — I feel them just as vividly as if they had happened to me. And I carry them now with me wherever I go. ( he lapses into silence, and as he concludes his brief explanation, a healthy amount of bitterness creeps into his tone, ) The entity that I am... in service to, I suppose I should say. There are some that might call it a god. ( he frowns. clearly, he's not one of them. ) That is what it would have me do. And all Archivists before me.

[gravings]

[ There's a healthy spot of silence as Gray considers her options, followed by a slight lowering of her shoulders as she decides that resistance is futile. ]

I think you'll probably have to scold me.

[ For any number of things, actually. Gray feels like she hasn't been getting a lot right lately. She can feel that Rin is restraining herself, thanks to the invasive Communion that haunts them all. ]

[eyesite]

( he nods. ) Yes, that's correct.

( there is a certain level of uncontrollable sympathy that he can exhibit for those that have shared statements with him, particularly those that have submitted them to him willingly. it's simply an aspect of who and what he is as the Archivist. the process is not him delivering the fear and handing it off to the Eye to consume — no, he would be so lucky that his involvement was so off-handed. instead, in inscribing others' fears onto himself and feeling them with the same fervency as their originator, he becomes the mediator — he becomes the very substitute that the Eye "feeds" from through their indelible bond. he had read link's experience, and, in doing so, he had felt the fear and pain and despair he had felt in it as if they were his own.

it's hard not to feel a sort of kinship to someone after something like that. and then there was the added similarity in link's world — one that was on the brink of total annihilation, though, rather than the one that john had left behind (which had already toppled over the edge).

john... is not a good liar. he considers giving it an attempt, but when link poses the question and looks to him so earnestly, he can't help but reflect it at least in part. but he at least attempts to answer in a way that doesn't single him out: ) We're all going through Hell, and we all look the part. I might be more concerned if you appeared otherwise.

( a feeble attempt at assuaging him accompanied with a similarly feeble smile, but it's the best he's got.

the request, though... his smile fades. it's not that he's against the idea — he still has Meridian to trade. ) Yes... I - I think I am able to help. ( he pauses, then gestures to a level portion of the cavern nearby. ) I have some questions to ask you first, though, if you wouldn't mind. Would you sit with me for a moment?

[baltimores]

[ He hears the sound of thundering hoofbeats, and he knows he's running out of time. He feels Hayame's steadfast determination before he hears her voice, and Amos' expression evens out into nothing. An empty stare, still focused on Dextera, without so much as a glance in Hayame's direction.

Because he and Dextera are of the same aspect, so Amos feels him more than he does Hayame. And he thinks he's close. He's close..

He knows Hayame will kill him, and his life isn't worth risking on the chance he might convert Dextera. Hell, even if he succeeded, she'd probably just kill the both of them.

It's a moment longer before Amos dips his head and sighs. A second or two after that and he lets go of him entirely, as demanded of him.

It still feels so close though. It's almost tantalizing, in that way that he just might be able to add to Zenith's numbers. He just... might... ]

There. I let go.

[ His voice is flat and without inflection, no emotion other than hostility in it. Still, he remains facing Dextera. Hayame's form is in his peripheral vision, but as long as she doesn't make any moves towards him there's still a chance. He just won't know it until he sees it, maybe can manufacture it.

So, he waits. Because he does not like Dextera, the distaste for him permeating the air around him via their shared communion; because it's Dextera's turn to give up something for him, and his allegiance is the only thing he has that Amos could want down here. ]

cw eyes eyes eyes

[eyesite]

( it's not so much john but the Eye that responds in kind.

it is subdued in this place, its grasp on its avatar and Archivist diluted and tenuous (not so much as the tunnels beneath the Institute, but damn close), but it is still aware enough to sense the presence of something like to itself. bondrewd's gaze intensifies on john like a beam of energy intensifying through a focusing lens, and it multiplies — the Eye does so on a sort of thoughtless instinct, resonating. this time, it doesn't even use its Archivist's eyes. no, those are still occasionally drawn towards the vision of the girl, distracted and still bafflingly human despite it all. instead, the Eye unintentionally flexes its possession over its own domain. though they might not literally, the empathetic impression of every single eye in the chamber around them being drawn as if by magnetic pull towards them to stare, unblinking, is enforced in a deafening chorus over their Communion. the real and biological eyes, yes, but also those either functional or symbolic — every lens, every optic, and every one of the eye-like whorls patterned in the patches of rough bark that have spread across john's skin. this has always been the Eye's method of near-omniscience in the worlds that is has played voyeur over: through anything that might resemble it, be it literal, functional, or symbolic, it can see and amass knowledge.

it has nothing to communicate besides its presence, its acknowledgement. it is not the type of entity that can offer much more, knowing nothing more than itself, the moment exists in, and what it hungers for — simple, foolish, profound.

john's attention doesn't return to bondrewd until he continues, looking up with something like shock (wounded shock?) as he does so. ) Meridian? ( something icy and familiar begins to creep along his spine: fear feels more familiar, more right there than anything else, regardless of how much it makes his stomach churn. it's not what bondrewd pledges to do. connected as intimately as they are by Communion in this state of mutual confession, he knows that the man doesn't lie. he knows that he truly means it, even though opposition springs to his tongue before he can even fully think it through. they all leave him as a condensed stream of consciousness, bereft of the order of spoken or written word: )

But - But you going to them now, it could aid them in reclaiming the Oracle — we would be one step behind in this struggle, we could very well lose it all, so what would your promise mean then?

( it's a real fear, one that lives so far on the horizon that no eye can see it, and least of all the Eye, ignorant of the concept of the future as it is.

but it belies another one, far more present. it lives and thrills within his heart now as a bird fluttering in vain within its cage, because he can sense more movement in the roots which bind bondrewd and the Oracle than just those that creak and groan with his impetus to reach out and put a hand to his face. they move in the earth around him, encircling him, and he can't — he can't move a muscle —

sorrow and the bitter sting of failure mix with a flood of dread as he's beset by memory, almost paralyzed as he is forced to recall his time spent in the Crushing Dark — )

I've... failed to reach you.

( please forgive him, bondrewd — he is still fresh on his path to Otherness, still shackled and weighed down by the burden of short-sighted humanity. )

[warmare]

[How she hates the sound of Amos' voice then- how flat it becomes. How empty. But there is no time nor place for anything but that passing thought. Hayame does not move any closer from where she has arrived, but her entire body is tense and ready, prepared in an instant to lunge forward and lay hands if she needs to.

Because Amos is right about something. If he forcibly converted Dextera now... she wouldn't hesitate to attack the both of them. And of the two... she would go for Amos first. He would put up far more of a fight than the owners of the two shards hidden in her clothing... but her hands have cracked skulls and spines since this accursed Oracle had given its conditions, and she wold not hesitate to try and crack more if need be.

In fact, if things carried on this way... She will have to start hunting more than just Meridian's traitors.]

Dextera, get over here.

[Her voice is a snap, one hand moving to gesture tersely to her side. The longer that weak-willed man stayed close to the overwhelming pressure of Amos' devotion to Yima and Zenith...]

Now.

[erbe]

[There is no immediate response for Quetzalcoatl, and it's not because Rin is hesitating. She's simply still caught. Overwhelmed by the the wealth of warmth and love that spilled over from the goddess. So much that she felt bathed in it. Completely surrounded and, for the first time in her life, a little content. Never, ever has she felt so much love. The love from her mother and especially her father never even came close. The love she wanted to have for her sister could have perhaps felt similar if circumstances were not as they were.

That love touches upon Rin's loneliness in a way she didn't anticipate. It prompts her throat to close up a little, and tears to well up in her eyes before spilling down her cheeks. Quetz's love is so much that Rin cannot handle all of it. It floods her and pours out in the form of tears.]

I —

[Tohsaka can't help but sniffle as her voice wavers. She hates this. This moment of weakness she thought she was prepared for.]

Just a moment.

[Quickly she scrubs at her cheeks and and eyes with the heel of her palm. A sad attempt to dry them and collect herself. Was she wrong? To pick the side that she had? If she chooses Meridian would she be embraced by such love?

Even if she was, did Rin deserve it? No. That is what will ultimately calm her. Rin had always received so much by chance that... it wouldn't be right to accept such boundless love.]

[erbe]

Are you blind?

[She asks him with a sharp edge to her voice. Of course their factions play a part in it. People have been trying to kill each other over it, they've been stuck in this chamber like caged animals because of it. If Rin weren't such a coward herself she'd muster the strength to take Vash out herself. At least... that's what she thinks.]

[erbe]

[Honestly with zombie armies and having to deal with "heroes" like Dark, why even entertain bringing a world like that back? Such things were better left behind.]

Ah... but wouldn't you be happier with Yoko in a new world? Imagine being able to live with her without the zombie threat. You could take her to places like they have here. The gardens, the library, or you can even find a nice beach to take her to.

[sterngaze]

[For Liem, for whom accepting care is difficult and asking for it is almost impossible, the unapologetic way that Set presses his aid upon him is both a threat and a relief. Something about receiving care from anyone instils in Liem a sense of ticking time, a keen anxiety that obsesses over the inevitable moment when that care will disappear. He would rather deflect offers of assistance than come to rely on them too heavily, especially if his faults might be what ultimately push that person away.

But in this moment, he is so terribly grateful for the curl of Set's body against him and the grip of his hands on Liem's cool ones. He feels as weathered and dried up as this abandoned city, so desperate for contact that even Set's presence simply resting beside him threatens to make him giddy. His warm solidity is pathetically comforting.]

You have such a way of looking at the world, Set.

[To see their fight for the Oracles as an opportunity, rather than just a trial. To hear Liem's struggle and say with such confidence what they must do to address it. Much of the time, when Liem says anything with confidence, it is a false mask constructed to disguise his uncertainty, to make him seem like someone strong, someone worth placing trust in.

He feels a little assailed by the gentle contact of Set's mouth against his hand. His breath sticks, for a moment, in his throat. What is he meant to do with such a gesture? How is he supposed to keep setting these little moments aside where they won't unstitch him, when Set is so pitiless in wielding them like this?]

I hope you find something, too. Whatever it is that you need.

[dawnlord]

No. It is not failure, even if the Oracle would have you believe it.

The Oracle demands immediacy, not patience. To reach someone, you must have time, Mister Sims. Time, and effort. You are not a man who will not put in the time, nor the effort, and that is why you have not truly failed. Not with me.

[ Bondrewd is a Herculean presence, unfathomable and still. The roots threaten Jonathan Sims and he does not recant, instead reaching across the boundary of their minds to him. The Eye looks upon him, sharpens as it gleans and knows of him, and he glances up. Into the maelstrom of vision, eyes in every corner, watching one's most personal and private of terrors — and, he has nothing he fears. Humanity has long been shed from him. If anything, he might register? as another type of Avatar. Progress is all he cares for, heedless of righteousness, heedless of ethic, heedless of the inherent value of life itself — he drags it all behind him, marching on mechanical autopilot towards the future.

And he nods, acquiescing, to Jonathan Sims and his Eye. ( How adorable they are. ) ]

— for I did not ask you to prove yourself to me. I asked you to let me hear from you. It would not do to have you punished by this Oracle, for something I do not consider failure. Not when you are so earnest, and adorable.

[ While he cannot hold onto John any further than where they have clasped hands, in Communion, he is able to rise. The hulking, dark shape of him — a swaying, elegant tail that flits in the peripherals of vision like an overlarge predator, the heavy tread of boots as he takes step after methodical step. The impression of his hands, enveloping John's shoulders from behind. Steadying him. Steady, young man. ( You will not falter. At heart, you are true. ) Even though he will select Meridian, and potentially rob Zenith of an Oracle — Bondrewd soothes(?). He is but one man, after all. One man, among many dutiful Shard-bearers.

also because we didn't sign up for an effigy failure before diving into this so (steps to the left and plays with Intent)...... ]

Meridian still has time to find their way to Zenith. If we abandon them, or treat them carelessly, we will forever alienate them. We must bring their hope to us in a way that is not forced. In that, you will achieve true, replicable and total victory.

[ It's just science, really! You cannot argue with scientific method, and the fact that if you cannot replicate a victory, it is not a Fact. Just a Fluke. He rests a hand atop the crown of John's head. And pets him, like a calm, older sibling. A father, at best. Perhaps a friend, who looks upon Jonathan Sims with undeniable fondness. Frightening fondness, for Bondrewd would still set this man upon an altar and cut his throat, to ensure others were safe, thriving and free. ]

I believe in you, Mister Sims. Will you entrust your vision to me, too? If you do, you and I cannot fail.

good lord it's Devil Time,

[redsoil]

[ ( In the back of his mind, subsumed under the intoxicating might of the cruelty of the sun — like his grandmother's eye, seeking to immolate those who do not bow their heads and present their praise — Set knows, something is wrong about him. He prides all on their ability to choose, has always spoken more about the freedom of seeking answers to the questions held in the depths of a heart. Why, then? Why can he not find his way around the urgent need to sear Meridian into the body of others? Why has he become that which will strip away will, and force them to yield?

That is not how lasting bonds are made. That is not how to truly win the hearts and minds, by force. Set wins wars because he is smarter than others, not because of his peerless strength of arm. He learns the rules, and manipulates them. He is patient in between the spaces where he presents as impatient and tactless. Brutal, in his sincerity. )

Yet, he will do everything in his power to bring Caren Hortensia to heel. For she desires to ache, she wants to suffer — to be slaughtered as a martyr upon a foreign god's altar, as the highest form of bliss and suffering. Who is he to deny her what she wants? As a god, is he not meant to reach down among people and assist them in reaching what they desire? Even as a war god, he can perform such a trifle task. And that is why Meridian demands he take her by her hair and draw her up, high onto her knees if she wishes to chase-flee the crisp agony. ]

Could Meridian not be the truest service, Caren? Regardless of the ends we all chase, to be among those who place their faith in the teachings of their past and weep, countless hours of weeping and clawing at themselves and the world to hold fast to their faith — is there not a better place for you to be, among the penitent who seek to return home to bleed until what they owe is paid? Among the other martyrs who have already died, and could escape their fate but elect instead to return to the embrace for the deliverance of all?

[ They are questions, and they are the spears upon which he pierces her. The hot pulse of Meridian seeking her palms, her feet — like nails, like wood grain below her back and the heat of the sun bearing down upon her. Set precedes the Lord, in any capacity, but does Meridian not evoke the true calling of one's faith?

He nudges at her hand, as she claws at him. Wrenches her up a little higher and whispers across her brow ]

All wish to attain victory, but imagine who you will be among them if they lose — I have met Meridian's Hieropoios, and you could be far more for them than her. You could deliver us, Caren. You must know of our suffering, and know it intimately. How can you say you love us and wish us well if you do not immerse yourself in our mire once more?

[ Adding, as he smiles against her skin. Breathing Meridian into her, slow and indulgent. Praise, praise. A higher calling. ]

Besides. An evil god like me needs a good girl like you at his side. You would mean so much to us all, if you helped temper my appetites.

[ i cannot believe i typed that and that i literally just said "hey caren, you could fix him (she can't) (but Temptation)" ]

shields the eyes of the oracle

[redsoil]

Then, why are you sitting here so pathetically? You are a proud son of House Dagoth!

[ Honestly, he does not expect Voryn to start wrenching at his own clothes, but Set reviews the task for what it truly is: Voryn, seeking better leverage and fluid movement, by shoving aside pretty fabric for mobility. It is one of the reasons Set wears so little, beyond simply culture. One cannot find easy purchase upon bare skin, and the majority of his body and accoutrements upon it, normally, will give way to fluid sand. He is a brute, but his agility and evasiveness are fearsome as well. Not here, though. His own hair is a hindrance, his body tires and weakens.

He bleeds and yelps, hostile and fury-driven, when he is savaged by the other. One of his legs ends up tangled in the robe as Voryn discards it, and he rams ( petulantly ) his knee into the man's solar plexus the moment he decides to come down upon him and fight back. How dare he! ]

Even if this is the end of the world, you ought to be standing tall!

[ ow

He yelps again. ( And Voryn ought to know, that Set is not at all silent partner in anything that is done. Stoicism? Only when he truly must, and not in the heat of battle, when he is all animal call and battle cry and war song. The hot call of rebellion, seeking the ears of others who would take heart in his red-tinged promises. ) He is bitten, and he drives his knee against into Voryn's belly with a frustrated noise. ]

— I am only trying to help! You insane bastard, calm down and look at me!

[consolation]

About myself? I wouldn't know where to start. I do not think there's much to say.

[It's reminiscent of a conversation she thinks she might have had once. It would have gone nothing like this one - a pretense of normalcy, contrasted with this refuge in absurdity. She's never had much to say about herself, and yet doesn't she always end up talking more than is necessary on the subject?

Caren has fewer of her own wounds to treat in this world, despite everything. At the very least, her body does not regularly tear from the inside, regardless of how rotten the hearts that seed the world between universes happen to be. The pain is constant, nonetheless, except in times like these, when it is replaced with an entirely different discomfort.

She has also been blessed with few scars that memorialize her devotion to her work. Her body remembers the wounds nonetheless, and under the influence of the sap those old injuries wreathe like the chlorophyll veins of a dying leaf. The skin on her limbs is papery and less opaque to match, visible when she moves the right way and her sleeve pulls up.]

Will it soothe you? Let's see, then. I fear I have left behind an incomplete work and that I did not do enough with the miracle of being alive.

[She should not have lived this long to begin with, and in the grips of this infestation, an uncertainty that has always festered grows more toxic.]

[sharethememory]

There is too much Meridian influence affecting you. I know that this is unprecedented but surely trading energies will help resolve this matter, and I have enough Zenith to spare.

[ Enough to share without tipping himself dangerously back into Meridian territory at least or so Zhongli tells himself. It's dangerous and foolhardy for perhaps the both of them since it goes against the spirit of the intended exchange if they both wish to remain Zenith at the end. But any potential loophole was still stepping within the agreement, and Zhongli's tumultuous mind is providing him with no other valid alternatives.

(Except one. There is always that one, but for now Zhongli does not let that register unless it is a last resort.) ]

Give me your shard and let me fix this.

[ Because surely Childe could not want this, could he? The Meridian energies within him were violent and forceful, enough to make him physically ill. Surely that was a sign of resistance. (It had to be. It had to be.)

But the lingering doubt is still there - that perhaps Childe had be lulled to Meridian's side with the promise of the rebirth of Queen and country. It was an understandable want as Zhongli had tempted more than once to fall in line with Meridian and their promises of all the things that he had ever loved. So certainly Childe could be persuaded. Childe had the right to choose.

(Except then he would no longer be on Zhongli's side, something that seems an impossible hurdle to overcome at this moment and he's not sure he can attribute all of this messy desperation to the effects of being in this cramped space.) ]

[sterngaze]

[For a moment, pain blinds Liem with the force of sheer panic, making him clutch helplessly at the blade now jutting from his chest. He can neither pull it out nor drive it properly home, but simply clutches at the hilt as his blood slowly coats it, and as he struggles to breathe around the knife now piercing between his ribs. His legs may not buckle completely, but Hayame's grip does keep him from staggering against her with the sudden bloom of pain.

Perhaps she feels it too; he can't keep his thoughts from spilling out in those last moments, carrying his pain and his helpless desire to do something, anything at all to make her existence easier despite his weakness. Regret surges as soon as he registers the stab of the blade, for the simple reason that he realizes that he was right after all, and it will still have to be her hands that end his life for him.

Not enough. He can't summon the will even for this.

With a snap, his trembling body goes limp, held up only by the sick and unnatural connection of body and the head that Hayame still grasps. For a moment, she is simply left holding a corpse, whose hands slacken and slump from the knife still jutting from its ribs.

Then it lightens, crumbles into a pale ash that rains upon the ground only to evaporate into mist. The only solid things to clatter onto the earth below are the eight-pointed shape of his shard, and a knife that is still wet with his blood.]

[redsoil]

[ What Silco passes to him, is nothing short than a way to unmake him. Unfortunately, Set has also passed to the man the means to unmake him, as well. There is no victory in admitting what they will see, when they pass Meridian and Zenith energies between them. There is only the fact that they can do it, while they choose to, rather than when it is wrested from them and revealed like someone tearing secrets from their bodies and casting them to the winds. Few know that she exists, let alone — anything else.

Silco's daughter. The girl named Jinx.

Incredulously, punch-shocked by the whole situation, he feels he has entered some parallel dimension. One, where he hears something hidden in what Silco says and cannot fathom that he means it. He cannot mean that hidden thing, he cannot be asking that secret, unspoken thing. His eyes widen, pupils thinning like a startled cat; Set has always been far too expressive, unmasked and bare-faced as he is. He wishes he had his mask now, and instead all that he has is the vague alignment of his fingers to Silco's. What a hilariously wretched pair they are. Two men who can undeniably understand one another, and who would be so undoubtedly powerful if only they were able to unify on one side or the other. ]

— honestly, I was suggesting you eliminate the Lady and the threat she also imposes upon your daughter. You cannot be suggesting what I think you are.

[ The wry smile catches him. He does not think of who Silco could have been, if he had not been thrust into the waters and commanded to die for — for what? What could even inspire Vander to turn upon someone his life was already irrevocably bound to? What threat could Silco have represented, that death was the only way to handle him? Certainly, Set sees death as the only way to end him — but, it is born of the muddled respect he has for an implacable man. He only thinks of who he is. A difficult man, but one that Set — oddly admires. ]

If I were to, [ he swallows, and hostility ( how dare you, audacious human ) blooms briefly within him, ] look after her life, you would be asking me to abandon my own child in favor of yours. If she can only exist in Zenith's future, I cannot do that. But. If you think, for a moment, that Meridian's victory [ there is no 'if' between them, only deals to be struck, ground to be covered ] could also be a life she thrives in, destroys and runs heedless and free throughout — you know I would love her like my own.

[ Chaos. Strife. If anything, Jinx sounds more like a child of his than his own son — whom he wanted a long, beautiful life for. Because he would never ask his child to change his stripes, and he was born of a gentle mother. Anubis would never survive Zaun, but neither would he yield to the ideal of Piltover. Perhaps that was why he reigned now as the god of death itself, haunting and harrowing to deal with. ]

Silco. As you describe her, I is impossible to think I could not love her, in the way that you would never love my own child.

[consolation]

[A demon is a demon regardless of where it originates. That is what she believed, when one revealed himself among Zenith's ranks. That may still be true, but as what remains of all the broken worlds converges in such a small spot, it's surprising the many ways that evil manifests itself.

Set's great sermon is like watching the birth of a devil in his words. It is not surreptitious or hidden, the way true devils disguise themselves. It's like a parade. If she was not disconnected from the phenomenon of her birth, his actions would surely manifest themselves into her now. How would that spiritual damage show? Sand might pour from her mouth or the plantlike coating on her skin might begin to wither. Or maybe she might even blossom more, paradoxically, a testament to the power Set once sought to outrun.

luckily she can take psychic damage from the corruption just fine instead

As a god, Caren does not follow his divinity even as she acknowledges its existence and speaks to him of godhood. If he insists on being devilish, however, there is nothing that prevents him in his infiltration. Even at the worst of their relations, Meridian has never been an enemy to her. They have been sleeping, dreaming, hopeful, naive. They have needed to wake up. She has also been dreaming, but of something much different.]

You are mistaken... [Her voice is keening, breathy, as if a bolt of smoke from her lungs from being burnt alive. Though he has much to say, her words are labored: She can only hold herself together for so long and maintain the strength to push back against him.] I don't need them to see me in any particular way... but if their hope fails, no one should journey to the end alone.

[Even him, who has stated his intention to do exactly that, in different words. She pities him, too, greatly in this moment. And though she has closed her eyes, it must show in them, though maybe he's come too close to her now to actually see it. In pitying him, she recognizes that his actions are not entirely his own - or at least that his methods are not of his own choosing. He will consume her utterly if this persists; she will be taken over not by demonic energy nor possession but by Meridian. He will be painfully transformed by the revelation.

Because it is so easy to accept to projection he's forcing onto her, it is equally painful for her to try and resist it. He truly wants to have her at his side without her choosing? She thought he was beyond such measures.]

Please-! [Sudden, hurried.] I can't take much more of this. Have you even convinced yourself yet, Set?

[consolation]

Right. But you must, at least a little, because you have to believe something exists to want to destroy it.

But I don't do a lot of philosophizing, either. [A brazen statement for someone of her nature - but ultimately true. It isn't as if Caren has often thought herself destined for a deeper meaning.] I understand your point.

[That might even be another way in which Silco and the otter are not dissimilar - at the very least, Mr. Tibbs had seemed resistant to the hopes of all Shard-Bearers, regardless of their actual wants or aspirations. It was enough simply that they wanted to achieve something that drew so much of his ire, as as hope is if anything the last remnant that survives when everything else is dead.]

I must discard my selfish wishes for what's to become of him and think of what is better for all.