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

marc spector | zenith, exalt

[vestments]

( plotting comment, closed starters below! )

dextera

[vestments]

( marc isn't thrilled.

in fairness, marc is rarely thrilled. he's not quite clear on what's precisely happening but, frankly, that seems to be a running theme for him here. he feels different — he's spoken often, made off-colour and offhand jokes about how he hears enough voices that anything that incites something similar has chosen poorly with him, but there's something different about it all this time.

he'd hated communion from the get go, hated the thought of anyone being anywhere near his mind, but now it feels almost as if he can't separate the voices, can't tell the difference for long enough to decide if feelings or thoughts are his or someone else's. at first, he's not sure if the doubt is his or not — his harmonising to zenith had been decided on a whim, near enough. it'd been a decision made simply because how could he, moon knight, choose anything else? he's not committed to the idea that everything's gone at the best of times, but nor is he committed to the hope meridian holds.

marc's familiar with the scent of death and decay and everything here, deep beneath the tree, smells the same. he thinks, quite suddenly, of khonshu. a deep voice, paternal and mocking all at once, that marc both misses and loathes. weak. it says he's weak for harmonising with zenith, for selling out the hope of saving marlene and jean-paul, gena and ricky and ray, crawley — all of his friends — for — what? clinging to a fucking moon god who hasn't spoken to him once, not here, not since—.

he exhales. pinches the bridge of his nose and casts a glance, low and furtive and wary, back around the chamber. his tie's still loosened from spending what felt like far too long in the oppressive heat of the sun, top few buttons of his shirt still undone. his jacket is — god knows, somewhere in one of the cities, probably, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. marc is no stranger to looking (being) dishevelled, and the events of the last few days have done nothing to help matters. )

—Shut up. ( instinctively and to marlene this time, though it occurs to him, faintly and distantly, that he hasn't seen her here, so how can he hear her? the utterance, a biting whisper, is punctuated by a lingering silence as marc realises he's not alone and he inhales, the precursor to a sigh that doesn't come.

he waves a hand. ) Shit, sorry. ( a beat and a crooked, wry, almost smile. ) Lots of — noise, right? ( or: not really, but there sure are a lot of feelings. )

[passio]

[ it’s remarkable that dextera still jolts like it could have been his fault, since no one has ever accused him, voiceless as he is, of being loud.

then the apology comes with a smile, and dextera’s tense shoulders drop a scant inch. he doesn’t know this person—though at this point, with everything that’s been happening around them and with the end of the world looming over his head for a second time, worrying about strangers should be the last thing on his mind. ]

…

[ his intention isn’t to commune, but the lines between them all have blurred, sharing emotions and thoughts, and dextera does have a particularly busy mind. guilt, fear, dread, zenith and meridian both twisting around one another as his heart wars against himself. who is this man? what is he going to do? what is he hearing? questions bullet through his mind, but all he actually does is… nod. it is noisy. that, he can agree with.

for a blank face, watching marc like a prey animal prepared to run, it seems as if there’s an awful lot going on. ]

SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY

[vestments]

( dextera's expression isn't anything he hasn't seen before: watchful and cautious and wary, and the silence that accompanies it isn't anything new, either. marc isn't sure if the nod is agreement as such — genuine and felt in kind — or if it's because he's not sure about marc himself and agreement, such as it is, is safer. less likely to incite a reaction.

marc doesn't know dextera, doesn't know the silence isn't a pointed decision not to reply, and marc — marc has never been good at comfort, at tempering and de-escalation. he lets the silence sit between them for one moment, then two. the guilt and the fear that dextera feels seems to match marc's, to the point that marc isn't sure if it's him or if it's dextera, or a tangled mess of them both (indeed, for as much as marc's personality, for as much as his sense of self is built on guilt and debt and duty, marc has never felt he has a monopoly on the feelings). his ability to empathise has always ebbed and flowed, but his interest in the stories of others has always relied on their willingness to share — marc has never been one to push, or even to ask except of the odd, scant individual he'd come across here and there, in dark alleyways and in subways as moon knight. their story in return for vengeance.

dextera is none of those and whilst marc has and does find enjoyment in the fear that moon knight causes, here, he's not moon knight. he's marc spector. he doesn't mean for dextera to be wary, though he supposes it's inevitable.

you know, given everything.

edges, the vague shapes of questions, then, and he offers— ) Spector. ( spectre? ) It's been a hell of a couple of days, huh? ( hell of a life, actually, but that's neither here nor there. )

ALL GOOD

[passio]

[ dextera can at least make sense of what must be going through marc’s head; he’s not a mind-reader and doesn’t want to be, but the heightened sense of empathy between them all and a simple understanding of how people tend to react to him both go an extraordinarily long way in knowing they’ve mutually made each other a little uncomfortable.

what he would like to do is just nod again and run off, but they’re all in bad shape right now. if marc is trying, dextera ought to try in return. ]

…

[ which means establishing the major thing here, preferably without immediate communion considering what was just complained about.

dextera forcibly relaxes his body language, somehow in the process looking even more stiff than when he was actually tense in the first place, and then he touches his throat with a meaningful pause as he meets marc’s gaze. the gesture brings with it a sense of apology, and deeper resentment, but the latter is not something dextera has intended to convey to a stranger.

then he drops his hand and nods again, properly answering the question that was asked without scrambling away in the next instant. ]

[vestments]

( the resentment — rather than the sense of apology — goes a long way to communicate dextera's meaning, and marc's eyes widen, surprise mixed with realisation and a pervasive sense of 'oh, fuck'. briefly, suddenly, apropos nothing (he thinks), he thinks of echo (maya), thinks of how he'd made a mess of communicating with her at the best of times. it's not that she and dextera are similar, not at all, it's more that marc has never been good at communication full stop, less so when he needs to make a concerted effort.

(memories of echo are strange — distant, hazy, like they exist as part of another life entirely. marc had been marc, but none of what he'd done was anything he looked back on with fondness. identity crises are nothing new to him, but that'd been the first time (and last, hopefully) he'd ever found himself impersonating other superheroes.

officially, it'd been tame by his standards, but it hadn't been anything anyone else had looked upon kindly, either. after everything he'd done in new york, after running away to mexico and returning (jake, not marc—), it'd been another question mark against his conduct, against his sanity.)

truthfully, he wouldn't really blame dextera from deciding to nope out of the interaction — it's precisely what marc tends to do when he's in the middle of something he'd much prefer not to be. instead — or rather, whilst marc would also like to dip out of this whole thing now he's made it AWKWARD, PROBABLY, he doesn't. he inhales, lets his gaze shift away from dextera. with echo, all he'd managed to do was off-colour jokes, attempts at humour (never a strong point) and relating (just as poor) that'd fallen thoroughly flat.

he waves a hand, slightly dismissive, intended to convey 'don't worry about it', but caught up more in the feeling of not knowing how to respond. there's not a lot he can offer in kind — 'did you hear that?', or 'let me know if you see something dressed in a suit with a skeletal bird head' are questions he knows not to ask, questions he's taught himself ponder only internally. once upon a time, he'd thought new york to be made up of sand and pyramids, its cops to be jackals, and the subway to be a passage to—god knows, actually. a metaphor, he'd decided eventually, belatedly.

he's not convinced now is any different, truthfully. he's not convinced about any of his feelings, contrasting and conflicted as they are, and he's not used to asking. )

Spector, ( he says, then, and it's accompanied by wryness, the mental association of 'spectre', as if it's a private joke that only marc's in on.

(marc spector was a ghost, you see? he'd died, and then he'd been brought back.) )

[passio]

[ dextera can’t catch any of marc’s thoughts. they aren’t his to see, but the roots have cracked them open enough that it’s like hearing a conversation in the next house over. he knows marc’s mind is aflutter with memories that do and don’t belong to him, but he can’t make any real sense of that besides the vague sensation of familiarity. dextera, too, has been other people; he’s wanted to be, at least, so much that he became them and they became him, too.

he doesn’t want to think about that, though. if he tries to pick apart too much, he’ll expose things he doesn’t want to. he tries to tune marc’s emotions out accordingly, responding only to the introduction now given. ]

…Dextera.

[ just as laden, his introduction given through communion; he was the twin on the right side of the bed, so, dextera. ]

How long… do you think we’ll be here?

lottie

[vestments]

( ugh.

overwhelmingly, steven's thoughts on this — all of it — are displeasure. marc's managed to get them into a mess (again) and has decided, abruptly, that he's not quite capable of dealing with it.

strictly speaking, steven doesn't exactly blame him: this isn't pleasant, and whilst pleasantries have never been marc's thing, the creeping feelings of dread sitting deep within the pit of his (their) stomach shifted everything, turned it all on its head. marc has never been anything but emotion, sharp, pointed volatility with a tendency to collapse in on itself. marc does not deal with change well, does not deal with a loss of control well.

and speaking of control, marc's been doing his usual thing of 'I'm struggling, so I'm going to take control of everything', which has left steven's understanding of circumstances murky and muddled — which mostly means that his hair's a mess, he needs a shave, and he's not convinced that marc quite understands that even if highstorm experiences perpetual night, that doesn't mean he doesn't need to sleep.

the suit is — well, it's serviceable but it's very much marc's. moon knight had been all of them at various points in time but if steven had to put a number to it, he'd say that at least 80% of the time, it was marc. 15% of the time, it was jake and maybe 5% of the time, it was steven. mr. knight, though? that was all marc. it fits, it's a nice suit, the only outfit of marc's that marc has here, which goes a long way to explain why he wears it so much, but it doesn't make steven comfortable.

steven doesn't know exactly what's changed — there's no indication, no lingering remnant of realisation beyond the awareness that something doesn't feel right. the city's startlingly, worryingly empty, hot and humid in a way that steven thinks marc would be a lot more suited to dealing with — he was the one of them who'd spent time in iraq and egypt, sudan and south america, wasn't he? he loosens marc's tie, unbuttons the first two buttons of marc's shirt, whilst the jacket's draped over an arm (and frankly if this heat keeps up, it's going to get left somewhere and marc can worry about finding it later.)

the city's empty and steven doesn't give another thought into ducking into the next building he comes across. the door's ajar which, as he comes to a stop several steps inside the building and his eyes struggle to adjust to the sharp shift in light levels, he thinks he ought to have paid a bit more attention to. for the first time in what feels like hours, steven hears the movement of another person. he blinks. (still can't see much more than vague shapes and shadows—.) )

—Hello?

[oomfies]

[ Truthfully, she isn't used to having actual events affect her life. Lottie's been convinced that if it hasn't happened in the year or so she's been coerced (trapped? Forced?) into being apart of other people's problems, it certainly won't happen now. The worst that's ever happened to her is being reborn (the first and second time), and losing her hand (regrowing it). That's it. Everyone else's drama has always been just that: their drama. Even the plague, the blight, she hadn't been concerned about. After all, if she can't get sick, why should she care?

Now, with both cities being barren, she can see why she maybe should've done something.

(With the sun beating down on her back, she wonders if there was anything she could've done to change this. If this was always meant to happen, somehow, the universe's cruel way of ending the longest running joke of a 'battle'.)

Her magic only partially works— enough to glamour her shape to where she doesn't look as fucked up as she feels. The sudden shift in weather, in everything, has left her body in disarray. Her allergies are making it difficult for her to concentrate, and she's so stressed that she has hives. The rest of her senses being diluted doesn't even matter at this point, either, because there's nothing to smell. Nothing to hear. Walking through each city — a careful, arduous task — is eerily silent, uncomfortably so, save for the sound of her shoes hitting the pavement.

It's why she barely catches those footsteps wandering into one of the nicer looking buildings she's planning (read: trying not to have a breakdown) inside. What gets her is that hello, because even if she can't quite place a name to it, she knows that voice. What did she call him? Godguy? Egyptdude? Dirtguy? She rubs at her face, growing frustrated she can't even recall something that's meant to make her life easier. So she tries standing up, manages the movement successfully as she tries to make out the shape of him. ]

..Hey?

[ She calls out, recognition seeping into her voice as she squints in his direction. It's barely lit in here — all the lights, anything functioning that would count as modern day living are effectively gone. No sink works, no stove, much less a bulb, so she can only tell it's him from his silhouette. However, he might be able to see the vibrant green coloring her hair, how it sways in a ponytail as she ambles closer. Or the distinctly summery look to her (yes, she is wearing shorts and sneakers, a loose tank top tucked into the waistband). ]

I thought you died or something!

[vestments]

( his eyes adjust though not by much. it's still very dark in here, but the sounds of her moving become louder, more deliberate; her voice is — familiar? familiar-ish? recognition that's vague and not quite steven's, formless and amorphous. green hair. steven frowns and it's more clearly thoughtful than the near-permanent frowns marc tends to wear, though it shifts into vague surprise as she tells him she thought he was dead.

(not him, he supposes. marc. the body—

ah. lottie.)

he's always hated attempting to navigate marc's life, marc's messes. he's willing to concede it hadn't exactly worked out well when their personal life had been his (mostly), their social life had been jake (mostly), and their — extracurricular life had been marc's, but it'd been sufficient for long enough. it'd been a form of balance they hadn't quite been able to hit on since and by now, he's out of practice.

steven can't imagine he's told her much about himself — deliberate or not, marc has always done an incredible impression of a man with no interests, no hobbies, and very few joys in life. a benefit in this situation, maybe, because steven isn't really sure where to start with it: I thought you'd died, and he almost comments that it wouldn't be the first time.

he glances towards a window — not helpful, the outside world is much the same as it has been for the last god knows how many hours: desolate, empty, aged. )

So did I, ( he settles on, wry agreement and dry amusement. ) I haven't met anyone else.

[oomfies]

[ Marc hasn't told her much about himself. Arguably, she hasn't told him much either, and that level of detail — to her — is to be expected. She remembers how guarded and absolutely insane she was first arriving, and while Marc has been fairing considerably better, she can't imagine a willingness to share much of anything for at least three more months. Or, with the way things are going, who fucking knows.

Any sense of normalcy she's managed to scrape together has been thrown out of the window, and she is feeling infinitely more exhausted. Has a lot more tension in her shoulders as she sees the unfamiliar way Marc's lips frown (she chalks it up to him having a heatstroke, because his suit). She barely catches the outline of it when he looks towards the window, the light from the sun blaring into it faint and durable. ]

Really?

[ She says, not because she doesn't believe him, but because out of all the people to run into, she's his first.

..Actually, in the grand scheme of things, she's probably the safest option. Same faction, vaguely familiar with each other. Who knows if anyone else is still ready to kill each other with all this other shit going on. She rubs at her face, feels how dry her skin is with how oppressive the heat has become, even indoors. ]

I've seen other people, but.. It's this sun. [ She gestures to the building they're both inside. ] Everyone's probably holed up somewhere waiting it out.

[vestments]

( she's tense and, incredibly, doesn't become less so the more steven speaks, and idly, he wonders what the fuck marc did or said to her to make her so wary. (he doesn't put it down to her having become familiar enough with marc to be able to pinpoint differences in body language, in their ways of speaking.) he looks her over, contemplation pulling at the edges of his features as she expresses her surprise and then he shrugs. )

That's probably why you're the first person I've seen, ( steven points out, not disagreeing with her assertion, and he looks back towards the door as if in challenge, to see if anyone else at all is going to burst in and join them. he's aware, quietly and sinkingly, of how small the darkness makes the space feel. dimness has a way of doing that, he knows, has a way of making even the largest of spaces feel suffocating. he's always put it down to the quietness, the stillness.

steven isn't convinced that waiting it out's quite the right thing to do, but frankly, he's not sure what else there is to do. building hop until they find some kind of answer? answer to what? and then what? still— )

If I'm going to be forced to take a siesta, I'd much prefer it to be on my terms and not— ( he matches her gesture at the building. "somewhere like this". )

[oomfies]

[ No people can, or will, burst out — no one is particularly thrilled to get touched by the sun. Lottie discovered the unfortunate side effect of that when she stuck her arm out a bit too long (losing and re-growing your limbs tends to make the crazy, impulsive, side of you flourish to unreasonable degrees, when danger lurks at your every shadow). After he agrees, Lottie isn't quite sure what to do other than.. Let him make himself comfortable?

Really, if he's lost, that's the thing she should do. The thing she wants to do, because it's not like him staying here is a threat. In a way, it's a benefit — after the last time something supernatural happened to them Marc proved himself to be especially capable (read: levelheaded to Lottie's resigned insanity). She's about to unzip her bag and offer him.. Something, she doesn't know, she can't see half the shit in it really, until she hears— ]

Siesta?

[ She parrots. Then, after a pause .. Just bursts into laughter — then strained, painful, coughs. ]

How many siestas have you been to here??

[vestments]

( he does make himself comfortable — it's not in the same way that marc would, marc who barely knows the meaning of the word, wouldn't know stillness if it punched him in the face. steven eyes the ground disparagingly and, faced with no other option, sits. cross-legged, comfortable in himself, in his skin in a way that marc rarely is, and he looks at lottie, not entirely displeased when she laughs though it gives way, swiftly, to something bordering on concern when she starts to cough.

the question ("are you okay?") doesn't get asked, not yet, in favour of a light-hearted, dismissive wave of his hand at her question. how many siestas? none, and thanks to marc, it's not strictly because siestas aren't a thing here. )

I haven't spent much time in relentless sun, Lottie. ( look at him! this is not the pallor of a man who sees any degree of sun (sadly). a touch quieter, a smidge more to himself— ) Much to my shame.

[oomfies]

[ She clears her throat a couple times, face morphing between displeasure and obvious annoyance. But not at him — really, seeing Marc like this is kind of fun. Maybe he went insane with the heat and decided to try living a new way? Because he's sitting criss cross applesauce atop the dirty ground instead of ram rod straight beside her. ]

Yeah, you are kinda pasty white.

[ She (cheekily) agrees, after a moment. Lottie's skin, if it were normal circumstances, would glow. And okay yes, half of it is from the body shimmer, but she makes sure to get her sun and to make sure she looks healthy (look, is the key). Like she loves to go to the beach and actually loves sweating! Now, she's probably looking the wrong kind of sun-kissed— sun-slapped, maybe? Sun-assaulted?

There's a beat of silence, a purse of her lips as she considers something. ]

..That was the one downside of Highstorm, probably. [ She offers, ] I started getting all pale, too.

[vestments]

Tch.

( pasty white. steven remembers when they weren't pasty white, when the body — marc, because why the hell would marc ever try doing something that improved his life or made things easier? — spent actual time in actual sun, in the outside world in clothes worn not because 'people find it intimidating' (or not solely, anyway. fatigues had been a choice). their lives hadn't been any better then (before moon knight, before khonshu, before all of it, when marc was still throwing himself headfirst into denial and self-loathing but deciding to take the approach of 'well, if I'm going to be awful, I'm going to be awful and resolutely not think about any of my actions'), but at least they hadn't been suffering from a vitamin d deficiency.

but how does he navigate this conversation? marc's barely bothered to make friends (no, he hasn't bothered to make friends), and though that's nothing new, it means he'll have mentioned a net zero of any revealing details about himself other than his name (and even that's only a maybe). the comment he wants to say remains unsaid, remains a peevish, petty thought — "it's not highstorm's fault, lottie. marc just has an unreasonable aversion to being a productive member of society."

what he offers instead is a beleagured— ) —All work and no play, and all that. ( but anyway. ) How long have you been in here?

[oomfies]

[ The only thing he's ever mentioned is something something his god friend, something something different hobbies? Overall, remarkably little in the grand scheme, which means Steven trying to sell this charade as Marc can feasibly work. Is working, for a myriad of reasons, including that it serves Lottie no purpose to question why he is the way he is (if only it were that easy..) when all this other shit is going on. Which he kindly pivots to, and she squints her eyes in thought. ]

Um.. God, I don't even know. A while? [ She guesses. ] It's so hard to tell time without a stupid watch.

[ She walks closer, closes some of that distance to just lean against an island of some kind (she doesn't know if this was somebodies house, or a store, because it is absurdly dark). ]

I left mine at home and haven't.. I guess I haven't even thought about getting it.

[ A beat. ]

What about you? Have you been just.. Wandering around outside?