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

gamora | exalt | unharmonized (meridian lean)

[zenwhoberi]

i. exploration. (highstorm, springstar, location flexible)

[gamora is far from a stranger to desolation — and that is in no way a comfort.

she's seen it happen to countless worlds; her scattered memories of the last day on zen-whoberi had only been the beginning. balance, thanos had called it. correction. countless had been murdered at his behest — and many, over the years, as she'd secured her survival with her father's favor, by her own hand. what would his destructiveness look like, she'd often wondered in the silence of the night cycle, if she were to fail in her own private mission, and all six infinity stones were to fall into his hands?

as she moves through the cities now, searching for survivors that it's becoming less and less likely she'll find, there's a part of her that can't help but think: something like this.

it's a thought that grabs her by the throat and threatens to pull the air from her lungs, but she forces herself to keep going.

and eventually, she finds that she's not alone.

any form of surprise is carefully tucked away, leaving only a neutrality on her features as she regards the person she's come across. as she assesses (she's always assessing).

then:]

I haven't found much, [she says, before reaching into a pocket and producing a small, worn knife.] But I have this.

[somewhere, in the back of her mind, the voice she's never quite been able to silence tells her she's a fool, and deserving of her own destruction, for offering a weapon to what she can't wholly trust not to be a threat. but she's spent the past four years acting in direct spite of it; here, now, with a peace offering, she can choose to do the same.]


ii. roots.

[close quarters have long had a tendency to make gamora uneasy.

she can adapt, of course — had adapted in those first few chaotic months after xandar, when she'd shared living space on a small m-ship with four other beings. maybe she and rocket had found themselves in more than one yelling match regarding wayward explosives, and maybe it'd taken some time before she and drax didn't each have blades in hand waiting to be turned on the other, but something once seemingly impossible had become routine. in its own way reassuring.

but here, in the roots, among complete strangers with no real means of escape, that old unease takes precedence.

while others sleep, she finds a spot in the chamber to sit, continuing to keep her eyes open, fiddling idly with the one found knife that she's kept just for something to do with at least one of her hands. she twirls the blade over her fingers time and time again, watching the chamber around her for one single sign of anything that could be construed as suspicious. it's one thing to choose trust on the street; it's idiocy to choose it here.

open eyes, though, don't always see everything; senses, even augmented and honed, don't pick up on everything, either, especially with divided focus. when footsteps come close, her startle, with knife still in hand, is visible.

brief, but visible.]


iii. wildcard.

[closed starters for specifically plotted threads will go under this comment, and i'm also open to taking on more if you're interested! if you're interested in trading alignment energy, i'm also here to write a closed starter for that. please feel free to hit me up at lensflares, gamora's ooc plotting comment, or via private dm on discord at stardust#4864 if you have any ideas you'd like to bounce off of me! ❤️ ]

closed starters

[zenwhoberi]

> sebastian.

[zenwhoberi]

[among the people she's watching in the chamber, she finds one watching her.

in this small space, with everyone's eyes landing on each other at some point out of a real lack of anywhere else to go, he likely believes that he's subtle, that he looks toward her at random enough intervals that nothing will be connected, but gamora knows better. everyday she has ever survived has depended upon knowing everything she can possibly know about her environment — its subtleties and its shifts; trusting ground to be solid is what leads someone to their end.

(that's what had led to her own, too, hadn't it? thinking she had the upper hand, even for a single instant, and not accounting that the ground could shift under her feet.

it's a thought that continues to resurface, just like the man's glances.)

the blade twirling in her hand comes to an abrupt stop as she grips its handle tightly. her eyes tick up, hard, her jaw set in a firm line.

there's only so much she can endure, especially when her patience still has a tendency to readily wear thin.]

If there's something you want, [she practically spits, her voice laced with a venom she would've preferred to leave in the past, but still comes entirely too easy,] you can say it.

[cutlery]

[ Sebastian hadn’t been thrilled about this situation in the first place, but having descended to the roots and met the wrath of one very much grudge-bearing centaur… He’s a bit more on edge. Not unfairly, considering the encounter with Hayame had left him with one less eye in the encounter. A fair trade, perhaps, but only when you have Hayame’s point of view that they weren’t “even” in the first place.

But they’ve had a few days at this point, and Sebastian had decided to repay that grudge more slyly, only as a demon might. Here in the roots with a game of claiming an Oracle afoot, that means winning, obviously. So, he’s been seeking out targets. It’s largely those of weaker wills that he’s absolutely certain he can tilt towards Zenith, but… There are unknowns too. He doesn’t know every person here.

It’s how his attention had come to Gamora, though his continued attention was at least not that at all. For better or for worse, he’s very earnestly interested in those that aren’t human, though… He’s still trying to figure that part out. There’s the green skin, obviously, but maybe there’s a world out there where humans just have green skin? Though he keeps stealing glances to try and get a better look at the markings on her face, to see if they ring as familiar to him, but— ]

Ah— Dear me…

[ But he’s caught, since even trying to not be obvious, she’s attentive, clearly. It’s good to know, for her unfamiliarity hardly excludes her from his plans. In the space of Communion, it’s a blush of embarrassment and even meekness that’s reflected in how he holds his hands up disarmingly. ]

No, I was being rude… Do pardon me. I- Well, not want, precisely… [ He coughs into a gloved hand as if to diffuse some of the tension he personally feels, then gives her a sheepish nod as he gestures to his own face to mean hers. ] The marks are striking. I have seen nothing like it, so it caught my curiosity. Clumsily, clearly.

[zenwhoberi]

[she's never entirely known what to believe about what had happened to her home planet after thanos had finished with it (and too afraid, at the end of the day, to confirm it for herself, even with the means and freedom to travel there), but the pieces she can put together are these: there aren't an abundance of zehoberei roaming the galaxy. the stares she tends to get, like the ones coming from this man now, aren't entirely to do with her reputation, one way or the other.

it should be, by now, an old song and dance (as peter would say), and gamora should be able to simply let it roll off of her. in other situations, she might, but everyone's on edge here, and the man, with this embarrassment and clumsiness he's trying entirely too hard to portray, makes that difficult.

and that's his comments about her marks, the visible scars she'll always carry on her face, notwithstanding.

her grip on the handle of her knife becomes tighter as she faces him now, unblinking. it's to her credit that she doesn't lunge at him, but instead keeps herself back, gritting her teeth.]

You wouldn't have seen them before. [it's cold and flat, and offers no invitation for any further elaborating.

the feeling reverberates through communion.]

But that's not why you're staring.

> cassian.

[zenwhoberi]

[it may be an old truth that there's no honor in retreat, but there's no honor in anything that had happened just now, either.

manipulators, exploiters, and everything in between have been frequent figures in the story of her life — and, frankly, she can't say she's surprised to find another one here, lurking in this chamber, just waiting for the opportunity to strike at the first potentially vulnerable soul he encounters. she's not surprised, and that's what has anger continuing to burn in her veins long after the encounter is over. a man like that, the thought sticks in the forefront of her mind, her teeth still gnashing together, doesn't deserve to live.

then again — that thought, as automatic in its surfacing as breath, is also the problem.

because there'd been no honor in her own behavior, either; she's better than this. she's better than such violence as a first response, better than leaning into the ghosts of the worst of her when faced with a conflict.

(no, she isn't. she isn't any better at all.)

in the aftermath, her breaths shuddering as they fight against a tightening chest, her priority is to seek out a corner of this chamber where she can be alone, where she can tend to her own wounds and catch her breath, set to work on willing her hands to stop shaking so she can wrap a piece of torn cloth over the gash on her arm.

of course, that empty corner isn't what she gets; a man is already here, and there's no honor in trying to get him to leave. so, instead, she says nothing at all, focusing on the hand, as poorly as she is.]

[diversionist]

[ the truth is that cassian hasn't often been alone down here.

hard to find privacy in these ritual chambers, of course, with every shard-bearer of their generation here. and he has spent much of the time jyn; of course he has, when their best scant comfort can be found in one another, when there's no one either of them trusts here more than the other. but neither of them are the kind to sit and wait for a situation to resolve itself. so they seek out the others, work to gain information, to trade energies, to do something. he's only here to catch his breath for a moment, really, try to collect his thoughts. so he feels a stab of irritation when he hears unfamiliar footsteps, a frown on his face as his head comes up.

but then he sees gamora, and that frown falls. it's replaced by the sharp attentiveness of a spy; he takes in her obvious distress through her shuddering breaths and shaking hands, takes in the fresh wound at her arm weeping sap. he watches her in quiet stillness for a moment, then stirs. ]

Here. [ he moves closer to her, crouching and extending a gloved hand. ] I can do that.

[zenwhoberi]

[reflex would tell her to draw back — and she nearly does, with a flinch. it's less than the offer from the man whose space she's encroached upon, and more to do with the voice in the back of her mind that's so much harder to suppress after... everything. the voice that reminds her of what happens when she's weak, especially where someone else can see, that tells her what she deserves for it.

she's weak; she's no better. she —

still refuses to look toward the voice outside her head, instead forcing herself to focus on her breath until it slows, to will her hands to stop shaking. or she tries, at any rate, to incomplete success; her breaths become steadier, but her hands make no progress.

useless. weak and useless. she won't get anywhere on her own with this.

it's with a frustrated, huffed exhale, followed by one last bit of hesitation, that gamora finally offers her arm. and, maybe a whole minute too late, a:]

Thank you.

[she hates so many things she is, especially in this moment, but maybe, most of all, she hates what can't be removed from her voice with those words.]

[diversionist]

[ the flinch isn't so unexpected, with how shaken she is. what's more interesting — surprising, someone who doesn't read people for a career might say — is how hard she works to calm herself down before answering him. is how far she gets, in calming herself down, before answering him. he can't say he'd do significantly better, if he had been upset that much.

in the space between her offer of her arm, and before she thanks him, he makes a soft sound of acknowledgment and sits down properly. takes the torn cloth and begins to fold it so the shape will hold better as a bandage, absorb more of her blood (her blood, her sap, it's all the same down here). his head comes up briefly when she does thank him, but he doesn't immediately answer. instead, he leans closer to get a better look at her wound, makes an assessment, and sets aside the makeshift bandage. he leans back far enough to get his fingers in the hem of his shirt and tear off a scrap, which he then lifts to her arm to clean the injury first. as well as it can be cleaned, anyway, circumstances being what they are. ]

What happened?

[ he asks, as he daubs at her arm. his voice is soft, but not pushy. there's no urgency to his curiosity — tensions are running high, and he could guess (or find out later, likely) if he had to — and he doesn't really expect her to answer. ]

[zenwhoberi]

[all things considered, she'd been the one to intrude on him; he doesn't owe her anything, much less kindness. and yet, nevertheless, he presses on. his hands are as soft as his efforts, careful not to press too harshly into vulnerable tissue.

the question he asks her as he works is much the same. it's probing, yes, looking for information because there are few here who aren't, but not meant to push; she would've done the same in his position. has done the same before.

(briefly, her mind flashes back to a clear day on xandar, when she'd waited for a ravager associate with an orb. here, now, the memory hurts.)

so she considers an answer. and, after a time:]

That man over there? [she keeps her arm still, but jerks her head meaningfully over her shoulder, indicating the direction where, across the way, that man still lurks. there aren't many places available for him to go, given where they are — and thus she doesn't make an effort to keep her voice, brimming with an edge of anger, quiet.] Watch your back with him. He's looking to use this situation for his own advantage.

[a kindness for a kindness. maybe that can work to repay a debt.]

[diversionist]

[ gamora doesn't bother keeping her voice down or her anger smothered, but the look cassian steals towards that man is the height of subtlety. old instincts: he cuts a brief glance with his eyes, moving his head as little as possible, doesn't stop cleaning her wound as he does. blink and you miss it. he doesn't seem surprised to hear gamora's warning — isn't surprised, in fact. sebastian had very openly introduced himself to cassian as a demon; and whether or not cassian quite believes it, he doesn't take the kind of person who makes an admission like that lightly. could be something, could be nothing. but you don't stay alive by erring on the side of nothing. ]

There'll be a lot of those around here. [ he says quietly, gaze on her wound. once it's been cleaned, he drops the scrap of cloth and picks up the makeshift bandage, refolding it to best wind around her arm. ] And more as time goes on. [ he doesn't recognize her, doesn't seem to have seen her in the time he's been here, so he hazards, ] They say the Oracles have the power to grant either faction's wish. No one's going to take this lightly.

[zenwhoberi]

[as far as gamora's concerned in this moment, that man should know exactly what he is; she'll warn as many people as possible, and she'll raise her voice about it until it's echoing off the walls. anything to prevent someone like that from gaining any kind of upper hand.

then again, if what this stranger, the one cleaning her wound and wrapping her arm with a skill that makes it clear he's done this well more than once, is saying is true, that man is, in fact, far from alone. she doesn't have a reason to doubt him, either; it would make sense, given everything else she's seen and heard in pieces, and what he's shown her is genuine kindness, not a favor he's obviously trying to cash in on.

her choices are limited, and her trust isn't something readily given; she can take a chance on both of them here.]

So it's a game, [gamora says as she turns her head back, then, slowly, carefully, still doing her best to ensure her arm remains steady. the anger hasn't fully left her voice, but it's changed form; it's blunt and worn now, suggesting of something old. familiar.] And whoever wins has all the power.

[where has she heard this one before?]

[diversionist]

[ he looks up from his work at her tone, at the sense of her in their heightened communion. not just her anger but her weariness, her familiarity, is real. ]

Yeah, [ then, ] that's always the game, isn't it?

[ no matter where you are. no matter what the sides are. there's always a struggle, and those are always the stakes. he can tell that she knows this. ]

[zenwhoberi]

[for the first time in several minutes (or an eternity, she can't entirely tell for certain), something filters in to her awareness other than anger, than guilt. it's —

recognition, which she doesn't even need the closeness of their minds to understand. not when his question, and his actions, say everything.

not when it's there in his eyes.

it's enough for a quiet admission of her own, that speaks to something well beyond her actual words:]

The only one I've ever known.

i, highstorm

[vestments]

( marc's met gamora before. it'd been a brief thing given the way that marc solidly, absolutely does not go into space but for special occasions (indeed, two of the handful of instances had been tangentially moon related), but it'd been enough for gamora to not leave a lasting impression per se, but an impression.

(the second time marc had encountered gamora, he'd had no idea who she was and had needed to be prompted by spider-man, and that—
—well, that had left slightly more of an impression.)

he thinks there are differences — age, maybe? — something that doesn't quite marry the woman in front of him with the woman he remembers but then, he hasn't always been the most trustworthy in that regard. he meets her gaze, his own expression not quite as neutral as hers — it's not that he doesn't trust her, it's more that his default expression, his default state of being, is encompassed by a pensive frown.

as she speaks, both his posture and expression relax (minutely), and he looks towards the small knife she holds out between them. he eyes it, just for a moment, lips quirking momentarily.

in another life, he'd trusted her.

he holds up a hand and gestures loosely at their surroundings. it's not that he doesn't appreciate her wariness of their situation, but in much the same way that marc's the first person she's encountered in A WHILE, so too is she the first person he's encountered. )

I appreciate your optimism. ( breath of a pause; sidelong glance, questioning— ) Gamora.

[zenwhoberi]

[it's not as if hearing her name out of the mouth of a stranger is the most unusual thing to happen. her name has followed her almost everywhere she's ever gone, hissed with rage or spiked with venom — and none of that has been undeserved. more recently, though, it's come to her with some form of regard, which she can't say she believes she's earned. both are uncomfortable in their own ways, and she finds that she likes it best somewhere in between, in the space that familiarity occupies; when it's mumbled sleepily into her ear early in the day cycle, or reaching her in an exasperated yell from halfway across the ship, that's when she thinks she can most easily exist in her own skin.

familiarity, wholly unexpected, is what makes her take pause now; familiarity out of the mouth of a stranger.

her offered hand, with the knife on her palm, doesn't move, remaining outstretched between them, as gamora's eyes tick up, studying the stranger without blinking. they take their time, carefully noting every detail — but there isn't anything that sparks recognition, apart from the fact that he appears terran.

she only knows one terran notably (and that thought doesn't come without an ache), but even so, that doesn't give her much to go on.

finally, with all other options exhausted:]

Do I know you?

ii

[wolof]

[ Weakness is a dangerous thing to any Praesi. In the belly of these roots, Akua Sahelian is weak. Weaker than even when she had been powerless upon arrival. Here, she can feel her gift just out of reach, and the incessant dark whispers of Zenith plague her every turn. She feels the need to give in, just accept it. Know that Cyrus and Meridian cannot bring her world back -- if some backwater continent deserved her attention at all -- for what did she even know of the rest of Creation? Little, for she'd never traveled beyond the great seas.

She recognizes weakness in the other bearers, too. She had been long-trained to do so. She had known what it was to seek out weakness, or uncertainty, because it was required.

She sees someone she does not recognize, fiddling with a knife, and she approached. Her steps on these softened roots do not click like they do on stone, but the woman shifts against bark, intending to announce her presence. Her fingers on the bark, her dark skin almost looks like it could blend with it, if she stood still long enough, as the...corruption from the tree takes greater hold of her. Flowers blossom between her braids, and spill out, each petal dark as night, barely visible in dim light. Her lips quirk into a slight smile, and she held up her hands, as if she were begging restraint. ]

You looked alone, over here.

[ She said, drawing near. ]

Can you also not sleep?

[zenwhoberi]

[she thinks: she should've been more aware.

the jump in her heart settles back into something even within moments, the blade in her hand is still, steady, and her breath doesn't change, but even so, what she's shown this woman is too much. if there's a knife waiting behind her back, then gamora deserves to be its target for being sloppy enough to allow someone to sneak up on her.

(in the early days, she'd considered the utility of remaining, had feared what it might mean for her edges to become dulled, even if she couldn't deny softness being a welcome feeling. later, she'd grown accustomed to letting her guard down in pieces, until it'd been nothing at all to wake up next to another person, limbs entwined, even so much as a dagger far out of reach.

a voice at the back of her mind, one that she hates, wonders if that had been a mistake.)

but there's no weapon — at least, not one that gamora can detect through her ocular implants in the dim light; there are only raised hands from the woman with flowers in her braids, accompanied by a smile. an intentional gesture.

it's one she follows in turn, making sure that when she pockets her knife, she does so visibly.]

No.

[that's said quietly, with a slight shake of her head. quietly, and far from unkindly. after a beat, she adds as an invitation, shifting over to make more room if the woman wishes to sit:]

It seems to be going around.

[wolof]

[ The woman pocketed the knife, and Akua lifted her eyebrows, as if she was implicitly questioning if the movement was wise. Perhaps it was, but perhaps it wasn't. Without her gift, Akua was certainly as weak as she looked. The woman did not sport muscles, or even appropriate clothing -- dressed in a now dirty but still clearly red-colored dress.

She moved to sit next to her, almost primly. She looked like she was best suited for a court, or someplace where politics thrived, not... this. ]

We are plagued, it is to be expected. Either by our own goals, whom we aligned with, or our pasts.

I assume that the intention of this is to tempt us, to see if we will hold fast to our convictions, or fall prey to our weaknesses, whatever we may consider them.

[zenwhoberi]

[it's not in her base nature to trust; how could it be? maybe it had been once, when she was a child, but her memories of that are scattered at best, powerless against the cold corridors of sanctuary that had been the only place she could call home for nearly twenty years. for all that time, life had been a fight, with nearly every other living being cast as her opponent. wariness had been forged into the foundations of the weapon that thanos had made.

no, trust is something she's had to learn in the years beyond that life; learn, relearn, maybe different in name but the same in practice. and she tells herself, with all the conviction she has to muster, that she's done the right thing — even as the woman raises her brows at her in question.

the knife remains carefully tucked away as the woman takes a seat, as gamora watches her, taking in more details (she wouldn't look out of place on xandar, is one thought that comes), carefully considering her words. something approximating half a wry smile tugs on the corner of her mouth before dropping again.]

This kind of torture never works as well as they think it will. [her voice is calm as she says it, as certain as one could be.] It's their weakness.

[then, after a beat, so she doesn't have to dwell in the thought:]

You've aligned?

[wolof]

Yes.

[ She admitted, even as she wrapped her arms around her knees, and looked at the bronze bracelet at her wrist. She sniffed, as if there's humor there. ]

Or I had, but my connection to Meridian feels as far away as my gift does.

[ It's a test. She may look wound upon herself, but her eyes are searching, body coiled. She may not be an expert in combat, but she knows enough to make a stand if needed. Her mother had spared absolutely no effort, to make sure her daughter would have been the greatest Dread Empress since Triumphant. She'd had the wealth of education that any Praesi could have asked for. So she waited for a moment, to see if the woman would lash out, or take the opportunity.

Akua Sahelian does not say things simply to say them. It is all well, and truly targeted.

After a moment, she says: ]

If they wanted to change my alignment, there are better tortures, than merely making me feel for them, or simply taking my gift away.

I find that a weakened, caged animal, often bites back, if the opportunity presents itself.

cw: thanos....

[zenwhoberi]

[she can extend trust — but it doesn't mean she'll let her guard down. not completely, at any rate. it'd be a mistake to underestimate this woman, she thinks, and it's a mistake that many would make; they'd fixate on her crisp appearance, on her demeanor fitting of a diplomat or a politician, and they'd dismiss her as any form of threat potential in seconds.

but gamora knows better. glinting in the low light, there's a ferocity visible in the woman's eyes — the same that's reflected in her voice. there's much more to her than can be gathered in an initial glance.

it'd be a mistake to underestimate her, and there's a reason not to get complacent — but there's also, at the same time, more of a reason to not regret her decision to trust.

for a time, she just listens, considers; notes: meridian, gift. more than that, though, she notes something familiar. enough that, long after the words have died out, she has her own quiet offering into the silence.]

The first time I lost a fight, my father locked me in a sensory deprivation chamber. [there's a shudder down her spine at her own use of the word father, but it's the only one she has without making this skeleton of a story more than she wants to tell.] No food, no water, nothing but my own thoughts for three days. He thought it'd break me down, give me the disadvantage I deserved against my next opponent. But the instant he let me out, I attacked him directly, and I made sure it bled.

[tilting her head, she glances back at the woman.]

He was a fool.

[it's said with more certainty than she actually feels, because the truth is — thanos been a step ahead of her at every turn; he had, in fact, known exactly how to break her. the thought goes down sharp and bitter when she swallows it, but she makes sure none of that shows on her face.

there are better tortures.]

[wolof]

[ Her eyes are probing, looking at the woman before her, who speaks of solitude brought on by her father, as punishment for losing a fight. Her lips quirked, in a sharp smile, at the thought of her making her father bleed in punishment, and it's all so very...familiar. Akua's mother had not put her into solitary, but she had chosen other ways, to sharpen her daughter. In Praes, they had a saying: Iron Sharpens Iron. ]

Any parent who would refuse to recognize the strength that they force into their children with...delicate lessons such as those, is clearly a fool.

[ "Delicate" she says. ]

Three days is quite a long time, for a child.

[ It does not sound like torture to her, anymore. How could it, when her very soul had languished in just that? Nearly a year, trapped in a cloak, left in solitary, only pulled out when she was of use. She knew what it was, to be left alone for so long, to hear only ones thoughts and nothing else. It had been a punishment to her, but to a child who lost a fight? Little motivation to do more than lash out. ]

And not quite effective. [ A shrug. ] It is a shame, when we emerge greater and more terrifying than the fools that tried to shape us into weapons, hm?

[zenwhoberi]

[it's surprising to her, the ease with which that story leaves her — because it's one she's barely told before; nebula had been present for it, of course, so she knows it by default, and it had taken years before gamora had found it in herself to tell it to peter.

then again, in some ways, it isn't surprising at all; understanding tends to draw even the most reluctant of things to the surface. this woman, who's name she doesn't even yet know, doesn't regard her with shock, or even pity. the look in her eyes, the tone in her voice, the shrug with which she casts off her words — it's all familiarity.

questions form in her mind, but remain unasked; she would never probe too deeply about something like this, especially without consent.]

A shame for them, [she says instead, with a light hum of her own, with the ghost of a wry smile pulling on the corners of her mouth, too.

shifting just slightly, she turns to face the woman more directly, offering an outstretched (knifeless) hand.]

I'm Gamora.

[wolof]

[ The difference between them, even now, is that Akua would speak of her childhood proudly. Lady Tasia Sahelian had put her daughter through every cruelty she could, because it was expected. Because that is what Praesi did. Because that, she had thought, was how she would become the Chancellor, and power behind the throne to her daughter's Dread Empress.

As if Akua would have ever let her control her, truly. As if the Iron she'd sharpened her daughter against would not cut her just as easily as any blade.

The poison her mother had consumed had been a kinder death than she had deserved, and kinder than Akua would have levied against her, after the death of her father. ]

It is a pleasure. I do not think we have had the opportunity, before now.

[ She held a hand to her heart, over her shard, a heart that glimmered in the dim light -- her dress cut low enough to show it off -- and she offered: ]

I am called Akua. At least, in this isolation from the rest of the world, we are at least not alone, hm? Although it could be considered just as bad, to be trapped together as one, given the... personalities within, hm?