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

[baltimores]

[ The air leaves Amos' lungs in a whoosh as Set blows into him, knocks him off of his balance. And he doesn't have any gravity powers anymore; is left to merely twist himself in mid-air, have his shoulder absorb his contact with the ground. It's an awkward landing, full of blunt pain as he uses his other arm to reach around for Set, grab what he can find.

Which, as it would so happen, would be his hair.

Amos fucking hates this guy; the holier-than-thou shit, the egging people on, treating people as playthings. He's known people like that and has had time for approximately none of them. Set may not have wronged him personally — wouldn't have been anyone he might have thought twice about — but drilling it into his head over and over and over, throwing pointed barbs at him where he could not possibly begin to understand him, means he's someone who has to be taken care of. He doesn't even give a fuck about the otter anymore, he just wants Set to eat shit, and he wants to be the one to feed it to him.

But Amos has to settle for grabbing a sizeable fistful of endless, endless hair, and — with Set on top of him from his mostly prone position on the ground — yank on it as hard as he can. ]

cw brief allusions to sa, some nail trauma

[redsoil]

[ He radiates that hate back. He hates Amos.

Is Amos not a human being? For one born to choose and choose again, he is too willing to throw away his right to choice, to hand his fate to others and envision himself as a mindless extension of their will. It is anathema, to Set. Set, who was born-made to function within parameters and have no free will, to wield power because of it. To watch humans, fickle and fleeting and full of their right to learn, choose and be unique unto themselves, exist. And then, there was Amos. Unquestioning, stupid.

He gets him down on his back, and cocks his fist to begin battering his body until it is just meat and blood, and he feels the fist gather up his hair. Until today, his hair was perfectly fine. In the eyes of some, long hair would be a perfect target, but with the ability to shapeshift into sand? Never a concern. Suddenly, it is. Suddenly, Amos's fist seizes him and in the heat of this fight, which was unlike any other ( because Amos is a danger — )

his hand is every other hand that has ever dragged him around by his hair, held him down, jerked him forward and backwards. It is a brief and unbidden shock that makes him cold, sick. And above all else, he must terminate it. No one can know of this, no one can know because he will have to kill them and if he cannot kill them, he must kill himself. The shame unbearable, the blame upon him alone for his weakness. ]

You are a failure of [ a god ] a human being.

[ He spits it, because snapping at Amos means he does not have to entertain those thoughts; snarling through his teeth as he abandons his desire to hit Amos and instead reaches up to drag his nails across the back of his fist. To claw at the red strands captured, snapping a nail or two in the process as he rips at the locks and seeks to quickly, messily tear himself free. ]

[baltimores]

[ He already knew he was a failure.

He absorbs Set's barb, because sticks and stones and he already knew. Amos is someone who grew up broken beyond repair, stunted and incapable of more. He will never blossom flowers like some of their counterparts down here have begun to; his fate is only to exist as a callused outer shell, layered over and over to protect the very meagre insides he has, the barely-there semblance of the person that he is.

The person who right now hates, and wants to dominate, and feels so much more alive than he has since this all started. Nevermind the bullshit Meridian was trying to poison him with, nevermind the Zenith he was able to absorb back into his system; this is him, and amidst that anger and hate there is the spark of life. Set's shock isn't enough to drown it out, his cold isn't enough to dampen it — because sometimes, when you've lived through something, you can build a tolerance.

It's a familiar blip of a feeling, and Amos chooses anger and hatred and life instead.

For all he can do with it, because now he has one busted shoulder on the ground and one hand suddenly forced to let go as Set digs into his flesh, blood-sap welling up as he loses his hold on him, Set's hair no longer attached to anything useful. Amos' face scrunches at the realization, teeth bared. ]

Tell me something I don't know.

[ It's a sarcastic thought biting across communion, impulsive and pithy, and then he jerks his upper half up with as much force as he can to try to headbutt Set. ]

[redsoil]

[ He loathes, in this moment. Amos is the most reprehensible human being, to him; he cannot be permitted to play god, to pretend as though his struggles for a better world are any more important or valid than the struggle of anyone else who had lived in their world. He is wrong, he must be wrong. Forget Meridian, forget Zenith. Forget that they are fighting before the eyes of their people, seeking some sort of conquest over the other — not by words, which are so inane and will never reach them, but by action. If he can win against Amos, he can bring him to heel. It is a mad thought, but he imagines that this man thinks the same of him.

He keeps his tongue clear of his teeth, and in the wake of the snarled words, his jaw is slack enough that he does not shatter a tooth when Amos drives up, smashing his face into Set's with enough force that it makes him see stars. His nose does not crumple, but it does smart; it bleeds, sluggish with crimson sap, and in the wake of his injuries, more flowers bloom. ( Even Yima's own blossoms, close to his ear, for he listens to her wisdom and authority and will not spurn her. He would never spurn her, given the choice. ) He rocks back, trying not to fall aside, trying to aim a slightly-dazed punch into that aching shoulder of his.

Within Communion, he slaps aside Amos's words because gtfo out of there, there are fists flying ]

How can you think you will make anything good, when you will poison the well simply by existing?

[ hm ]

[baltimores]

[ It's so easy to get caught up in Set's swirl of emotions because they're echoed, amplified between the two of them. All he has to do is bring Set to the ground, and whatever this is, he'll have won. There's no long-term thinking here, no plan, no knowledge of what this "win" will actually be — he is lost in the rush of combat and thankful for it, because it lets him think clearly.

The stray drops of Set's bloodied sap on his person; the sharp pain eliciting a wince as he connects with Amos' injured shoulder. His inability to roll because of it, to properly move, to get Set under him.

The faint impression of flowers, out of place, alongside Set's words; and in them, his answer. ]

I don't. But Yima trusts me, so I'll figure it out for her.

[ Nevermind all of the doubt he's experienced before this; before he and Hayame helped one another. Nevermind his voice questioning himself, his faith in her; the clarity of a fight brings more clarities with it, and now he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows what he is here for, what he is to do.

Amos attempts to grapple for— this motherfucker is not wearing a shirt— Set's bicep, to grab at it with his good (bleeding) hand, get some leverage on his person to try to flip their positions. Get himself on top, no longer clawing and scrambling from his back like a desperate animal on the verge of slaughter, but to put himself in place of landing the killing blow. ]

[redsoil]

— weren't you trusted, long before her?

[ Amos's bloodied hand is sticky upon his arm, and he digs his knees into the man's ribs like someone seeking to stay on a wild, bucking animal that will trample him if he is thrown off. He wrenches himself free of Amos's slick hand, and bashes him across the face once, twice with his fist. ]

Did someone not look to you and hope you would protect them? Fight for them, against even your own sensibility? Your own doubt in what you think you know as 'reality'?

[ Zenith will probably always hold Amos. He will have to be the first to go, because his gravity is intense and will hold true to the figure he has fastened himself to. It is not Amos's belief that anyone will be able to shake, but it will have to be people's faith in him that will need to be exploited, Set knows. Not everyone can keep up with resolve like his. Not everyone is as willing to give it all away.

When he cocks his fist again, he pushes at that slick hand to wrest free of Amos's hold, to try and pin him down and really,

just look at him. He hates this human, so much. Set, who wars with his own heart, who is perpetually trapped within his own divine parameters — hates him, because this man will poison Zenith's idea of a perfect world. He is the reason Set fully believes that their world is an impossible dream. Yima may have the power to make it, but it will be no better than the world any of them came from. So why? Why not just go back? ]

Was there really no one like that, Amos, that you could only find it in her?

[ He does not speak unkindly of the Lady. If anything, he holds a distinct respect for her. A fatal understanding. ]

[baltimores]

[ His nails try to dig in as Set cocks that fist back, only to scrabble uselessly down his arm, unable to get a hold. He can't move as Set aims and hits him, once, twice; the dam of his nose bursts, too-viscous sap oozing out of it, mixing with his beard as he's left dazed in staring up at Set. There's a black eye in the making, and Amos knows he needs to move, his legs scrabbling to give his core muscles new leverage, but between his shoulder and the new head trauma...

Set is speaking, and it takes a moment for Amos' linguistic abilities to catch up with him. He stares up through narrowed eyes as Set brings his fist back again but leaves it hovering over him, glare meeting glare head on, hatred consuming his own gaze. The fuck is Set stopping for—

The fuck is that question—

His nostrils flare as he fights to bring his knees up, the only thing on Amos' mind being to retaliate, to win this fight, but something in Set's voice gets to him before he can. ]

She's dead.

[ The someone else like that, and oh. For a second Amos stops, dumb shock on his face that he'd said that out loud, identified a specific person. Someone he's never spoken of in his time here — not to Gen, not to Misa, not to anyone. With that realization comes a renewed rage, face contorting in bloodied fury, and he finds that purchase he was looking for with his legs, brings his foot squarely up — right into Set's nether regions. ]

[redsoil]

[ Honestly, he would love to sink his teeth into that admission, but with Amos driving his foot between Set's legs — well, thought goes out the window. Were he not diminished to human quality, he would rid himself of the issue by converting to sand; even his bare skin was better than armor, but only when divinity coursed through him, and Meridian alongside it. It sucks, to suddenly, violently, know what it actually feels like to be kicked there. To know that it is winding, but ultimately — not the worst pain he's been in.

Still, it SUCKS!!

It does drive him off of Amos, puts him against the ground gasping and breathless. A keening sound rasps between his gritted teeth as he holds himself low on his stomach where the pain actually builds, nausea rolling up through him in a wave. Briefly, his mind scatters throughout their violent, locked in Communion like wind dashing a handful of sand, of ash, through the sky. And then it sharpens, hones in. He needs to cope, to push the pain aside. Forcefully, he does. He does not bottle it up, but instead draws it up into his chest, spreads it through his collarbones and into his throat —

he hopes Amos is coming at him again, because he's readying for it. Silent, thrumming with pain ( curiosity ), and loathing ( curiosity ). ]

[baltimores]

[ Set leaves him, his weight removed from his person, and Amos knows he has to take the momentum he's created while he can. Get back up, get himself on top of Set, strike him in the face and, unlike him, not stop until there's no more reason to strike—

He's in the process of pushing himself back up when he feels that violence through Set's end of communion. Knows what it is for it to sharpen after, too. An intimate understanding, one he comprehends as though it was himself feeling it—

But his body cries for him to stop, and with an unceremonious puff of air, Amos ends up back on the ground. He rolls away from Set, just to put some distance between them; stares at him with cold eyes. Tired, narrowed eyes, as his chest heaves and he finds himself unable to deliver what they both want.

It's after a long moment of glaring that he speaks again, voice rough and laboured and just a little exhilarated. ]

You're a piece of shit, you know that?

[redsoil]

[ What he understands implicitly, is that when Amos falls back to the ground, it is over. No matter what anger he continues to feel, no matter what sustains his momentum as they set their fists upon one another in an effort to defeat one another, to prove themselves right and stronger — that anger flicks away, the moment Amos's body gives out. ]

I know.

[ He does. Perhaps like Amos, Set has no illusions about what he is.

( if, in the pit of their still-painful sense of one another, the war-god turns his eyes and ears away from the thing amos had said, he feels he knows amos will acknowledge it and discard it, too. it is not something set should have heard, nor did he want to. but he did, and perhaps one day he would be able to use it as a precise blade against the other man. such is war, after all. ) ]

I suppose Meridian needed one, too.

[ imagine him and amos on the same team lord almighty ]

[baltimores]

[ Amos laughs. A singular, quiet bark of a laugh, but a laugh all the same at Set's insinuation. All of that, and now the two of them, exhausted, have resorted to I know you are but what so am I. It would almost be charming if he didn't hate Set, if his hackles didn't rise when it came to people like him. People who treated others as playthings, who acted as though they were above it all...

But maybe Set doesn't quite fit the bill as much as Amos thought he would. Hence a laugh; an uptick of his lips in what is an unmistakeable smile. One that reveals teeth, one that's a little feral, but still a smile.

And it's not like he's about to get up any time soon, so it's not like he's promising any immediate violence. Just. You know. That was funny. ]

Guess so.

[ His breathing deepens as he brings a hand up to his head, feeling for any new bumps where Set hit him; touching the drying sap-blood that came out when his nose got broken. Amos doesn't take his eyes off of Set, just in case, but his gaze is less hard, more wary. Like watching a predator you just caged to make sure it's not about to get out. Not just because of the faint possibility that Set may attack him again — though he doubts it — but because Set knows something about him now. Vaguely, but it's a detail Amos wanted to keep to himself. Has successfully kept to himself his entire life, until now, and he doesn't like it.

Also can't do anything about it but hope that Set didn't hear, that Set will forget, that it will never come up — but now he has to prepare himself for the possibility that it might.

He's not sure what he'll do in that case. Only thing he can really do here and now is... ]

If we've only got one each, then we're not doing so bad.

[ They've got more than one each, and surely both of them know it. Still, it feels like as close to a truce as they're going to get here. Until Amos gets his wind back and can get up and walk away; until Set goes and does whatever it is he's going to do, all under the eyes of that fucking effigy.

Maybe in a different world under different circumstances they'd work well together. Or just keep doing this over and over and over again. Either or. ]

[redsoil]

[ Sometimes, what one needs most in their greatest time of need — is someone inspiring. Inspiration need not be a grand thing, a positive thing; one needs not look to a hero to feel the surge of emotion needed to stay true to a path, sometimes what one needs is a bastard to hate. There is a purity in hatred, that he feels. The true hate is reserved for someone in his life that even his hatred for Amos cannot compare to. If anything, he despises Amos because he feels that a man like that should never have been born, if he was only going to squander his humanity.

It is still a hatred he can set aside, shut down, ignore. Like a switch, he can flick it off, and speak with the man as if they had not just spent their time beating one another bloody, snarling and wrathful. He echoes the laugh, Amos's shotgun burst of something that makes him think — why can you not be human — with a rasping, nasty thing of his own. He draws the mantle of capriciousness back around his shoulders, to hide where he had perhaps,

briefly,

sought to know a man through battle. ( She died. )

He rests on his back, daring to punt his heel into the unaffected belly of the Iconoclast Oracle as if to scold it for its stupid game. He hate-loves this game, he hates that they have been made to tear at one another's minds pathetically. After all, he has done the same to humans in his own time — made them weak and desperate, and made them fight for his uncertain favors, permissions, attentions. Now, though... well, he wants to be a little better than that, but if he must do it again? He would. For his home, he would do anything. ]

Someone has to be the monster so that others do not have to be.

[ He refuses to open his eyes and look at Amos. He does not want to see if the words resonate with him, or mean nothing. Like this, he can pretend both paths are true, and all things are possible. Even if for he and Amos, they are not; even if they have locked one another into a figure within their minds that they must conquer, to survive. In that way, are they not one another's monsters? ]

[baltimores]

[ Amos would agree that he probably never should have been born, and yet, and yet, and yet. He could have so easily died a meaningless death in his youth and spared a lot of people for it (but that might have left some of those he did care for vulnerable, and that's not a pleasant thought) — and yet, and yet, and yet. Here he is now, lying on his side on the ground, continuing to watch Set even though he will not reciprocate.

Set is a piece of shit, but he does not come anywhere close to the top of the list of people who have hurt Amos. Rather, it's more that he needs to take care of him before Set hurts someone else — because Amos is positive that he will, sooner or later.

But that doesn't mean he can't take this moment of being sated, of swallowing the troublesome lump in his throat and watching Set give the Oracle itself a childish little kick. He can sympathize more with the action, less with the intent behind it.

His eyes flick back to Set's closed ones, his voice quiet in agreement. ]

Yeah. [ Someone has to do the dirty work. It isn't something to be proud of. Or even ashamed of, either. It simply is. ] It's not for everyone.

[ But it is, apparently, for the two of them. Amos sighs before rolling on his back, splaying himself out as much as his battered body will allow for comfort.

He doesn't know what it means for him to apparently have something in common with Set. Doesn't like it, because the man — god — whatever the fuck he proclaims to be — is everything that a good person shouldn't be. It's just that now, he's being forced to look into the mirror; to be reminded that he won't be a good person, either.

And it would be frustrating — but after their brawl, he's too at peace to really let it bother him.

Let that come later, if at all. ]