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

[eyesite]

( ✨ he will always be the Eye's most special boy! ✨

the option that bondrewd has chosen is one that few among the Shard-Bearers have given themselves up to, and the fact that he has thrown himself into it so readily seems to john like something to remember for the future. he is tranquil in his utter openness, which is something that the Archivist can't even begin to comprehend; paranoia had been a common filter in his mind even before he had more closely linked himself with the entity that essentially comprised that particular apprehension. there is something about his mien that reminds john of avatars that he has either read about or personally encountered in the past — peter lukas' thousand-mile distance as he stared to the horizon and alienated himself from everything around him, simon fairchild's capricious affability to even those he would sacrifice upon an altar of vertigo for the Falling Titan.

john has only had a tiny glimpse into who and what bondrewd is at an essential level, but it's enough to remind him of the sort of mindset he had been in when he had gone to helen, fearful of what it is he found himself doing as he became what he is now. "when does the Eye make me monstrous?" it was the kind of thing he could only admit to another monster, ashamed of what any in the Archives might have thought if they had heard he half-wished himself eased of the burden of feeling guilt for what he did.

"why would it ever do that? when has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?"

even now, he's a man ruled by his sorrow and his guilt. he looks to the offered hand, takes a deep breath, and takes it.

the link that they form is stronger than even the strengthened Communion in the tunnels, surpassing even the sympathetic bond that john creates with those that he receives statements from. it's such a strong current that it seems to loosen the once-firm boundaries between where they as two different, disparate individuals end and begin; these borders break, and everything that they are rushes to flood the metaphysical space between in a rush that at first feels so overwhelming that the only thing he could compare it to is the times when he had purposefully (foolishly) opened the door to Knowing in his mind. he attempts to weather it, grasping firm to the core of what it is he wanted to share, the culmination of a story that had been playing out for years — perhaps ever since that cursed book had found its way to him as a boy.

but even still, there are ripples of everything that had led him to that point that filter past, impressing themselves physically and mentally as blooms of watercolor paint that were only diluted and drowned out by everything that followed: being unable to escape the gruesome burn on that selfsame hand he had reached out to take bondrewd's with, the feeling of hurtling through endless space while seated as they both are now, the hot and crushing embrace of the earth, haunting paranoia, flesh wounds, hands at his throat, an remote shoreline cut off from any hope of warmth or fondness, a false sun which shone with rays of the purest dark and which had crumpled in its own impossibility when held in his gaze — each of these are there and gone, there and gone, filtering through in blasts if sensory static as if the connection they form is a radio that is being tuned past them towards the proper channel.

he doesn't intend to, but this deluge of information is a preface: the vital indication that everything that he had suffered up until the most crucial point was just as important as it was, because it had breathed life into its possibility.

when he finally navigates them through the maelstrom to the heart of this storm, it's certainly no reprieve. it's the single worst moment of his life, but he grimly faces it, in a way desperate to show this to someone who might view it with the most impartiality — who might potentially validate him for what he still feels is a weakness, a cowardice, a decision everyone he cared for would hate him for. it doesn't matter where he brings them, or for what purpose. none of that had mattered. the only thing that mattered had been the words on the page, the ones that he had sprung like a trap the moment he had started to read them. it's a horrible, excruciating thing, to have another puppet your very voice to crow out his own victory, to point out each mistake you've made, every time you've been moved like a pawn on a playing board, even the times your own belief for what is right saved your manipulator the effort of putting you there yourself. bitter anger and hatred fans itself white-hot as his body remembers the words that it had formed against his will, and it teaches bondrewd how to form them as well: "you’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made."

if the Archivist's statement to this Effigy is architecture that they have built together, the incantation threatens to destroy it just as it had destroyed everything he'd ever known; it shakes the foundations, it rattles the frames, it thunders and it howls as it calls forth the Ceaseless Watcher and all of the other Dread Powers from beyond the veil to possess a once-physical world, rewriting natural law and replacing it with that which would treat every life complex enough to feel the thrill of fear as a resource to be raised and reaped, with no possible hope for escape.

and it had been his world. he'd realized that as soon as he'd regained consciousness to see the Eye that had spanned the ceiling of his dreams doing the same in the world he'd once called his own — when he'd realized that, for all the glorious fear and suffering that it drank in from all that lie beneath it, he could as well. a gift that the Eye had given its favorite and chosen: a place of honor at an endless banquet.

as he had then, he laughs, simultaneously broken and euphoric. in the state they're both sharing, he doesn't even know if he does it aloud.

he hadn't spent much time in that world that he had made — the one that he himself had been used, as one might use a knife to slit the throat of a sacrificial lamb, to destroy. but it had been enough to know the extent of the horror he had seeded, and his own lack of faith that there was anything he could do to undo what he'd done. those twin motivators of despair and guilt return as slow-rising waters, threatening to drown them both.

i can't allow it to happen again.

it hurts him more than he can say to abandon his world and all the innocent people that had lived in it. but he is a person of fact, not faith — if he has no reason to believe he can deliver them from the Hell he'd made for them, why should he damn them to it a second time? wouldn't death be kinder? oh, he might not have faith, but he would still pray every day that Oblivion was kinder —

so long as i have any power to prevent it from happening, i will do whatever i must. no matter what it takes, or what it costs.

and there, the story ends. )

cw parasitic insects and yuck

[dawnlord]

But, it will happen again.

[ Bondrewd looks beyond Jonathan Sims, who sits before him and holds his gloved hand and echoes grief and cowardice into their Communion, into the awaiting mind of a man who no longer begins and ends. He is an untethered thing, calm as a dark pool into which even a cast stone cannot ripple upon; in Communion, he has even less to him, signs of life do not exist within the armor. There is no warmth that leeches from him, as salve to the ends of Jonathan Sims's fingers, no companionable comfort that exists for him to lean upon. There is only will, only undominated will, and sacrifice.

So, he looks at a point over Jonathan Sim's shoulder and points to it with his free hand. The one that does not hold fast to him to bind them into Communion, the one that draws attention to the thing he sees — always lingering, always looming behind him. The shadow of a frightening thing that likely cannot find purchase in Bondrewd's armor, for he no longer fears. He no longer feels. If Jonathan Sims thinks he is a man of fact, he pales in comparison to the man who directs his own gaze upon the Eye and flinches not an inch. Jonathan Sims feels guilt, and that drives him.

Bondrewd feels nothing, for the world he lost. A beautiful, bountiful world of horrors — and not a moment of grief echoes within him, not a fragment of regret, nor sorrow. ]

The thing you seek to starve — is it not there, following you? You say you cannot allow it to happen again, but you, yourself, are the vector through which it will occur.

[ That, in and of itself, is something he cannot allow. The Sovereign of Dawn sings light and dark in equal portions, the horrifying and distinct embodiment of true, relentless drive. Somewhere in his mind, his hands are slick with blood. A child gazes at him with dying eyes full of love. Delvers gasp their final words — mom, mom i'm sorry — before their bodies die and their minds persist, feeding life to parasitic organisms that will multiple, that will feed. Insects, insects, eggs laid within throats that weakly wheeze as larva hatch and feed and breed. They keep the host alive, they devour it from the inside out, where it cannot see.

That, Bondrewd presses upon Jonathan Sims. That, is how he views this man and his Eye. A nest, waiting to hatch. Waiting to infest the next world. ]

No matter what horrors you will bring, Jonathan Sims, you may rest assured that I will stand to protect all people from them. The thing that will seek the vulnerable of the world, I will stand against. Against you, yourself. Aah, you remind me of myself — before I was this.

[ And there, between them, the white-lit figure of a girl. Barely into her teens, with a guileless face that has known agony and love in maddening amounts; she wraps her hands around their joined ones, she lowers her cheek to Bondrewd's own and whispers: Papa is the strongest, my hero. The Dawn. ]

cw same...

[eyesite]

( bondrewd's presence most reminds of how it had felt to behold the impossibility of the Black Sun — its inconceivable depths had been constructed to capture most perfectly in their corporeal world Darkness in its essence, vast and frigid and all-encompassing (all-consuming). it had been horrifying to look at as so many other things he's seen in these last few years have been, but nothing else has been so simultaneously awe-inspiring (except, perhaps, when he had finally seen the Eye spanning the physical sky, finally having been crested with the Watcher's Crown). so close to the essence of what comprises bondrewd now, he can sense just as he had then that there is danger to looking further, to seeking deeper — it could destroy him fundamentally. it had done so before.

and yet that just conversely makes him want to know more. longingly. desperately.

he doesn't need to move or shift to know exactly what it is that the man points out. of course he would not be blind to it; of course the finds the one frightfully obvious inconsistency in john's convictions, one that no one else in kenos has bothered to point out, even knowing the nature of his existence and what he ultimately plans to do. at first, in response, he goes just as still and cold as bondrewd is. he's known this all along, of course. and it's not just the Eye — if it were just the Ceaseless Watcher, the devastation that he might bring would be just as impossible as any of the solo rituals had been prior to magnus' successful gambit. no, they might not be aware as their foolish counterpart is, a part of john as it is, but each of the other Dread Powers are all written into his flesh, his bones (or lack thereof), his psyche, their Marks inert but still present enough to seed their existence in kenos and beyond.

he is, just as jonah magnus had painstakingly made him, a bomb, primed and ready to bring them hurtling back into horrific manifestation once more.

he receives the impression of sensory information that bondrewd gives him to make his point, and his reaction is immediate and graceless; his grip tightens on the glove, a choking sound frightened from his chest to lodge in his throat. before, the Corruption hadn't featured in the thesis statement of john's entreaty because it is still perhaps the most harrowing and formative of all of his Marks — until kenos had wiped clean the slate of his nightmares, he had been haunted by the dauntless corpse of jane prentiss as it climbed out of the incinerator, a charred and perforated husk still a writhing mess with the worms that had made her their home, that had given her her twisted purpose. as his heart races with sudden fear, this image collides with the one that bondrewd shares with him. god, he can feel both of them. his shoulders bow as his skin crawls, his expression screwing up in horror and disgust; the dozens of scars all over his body from where the worms had had to be dug out of his flesh light up in twisting agony. )

I know!

( he manages to get it out as he weathers through this wave. it does, as all do, pass. and he's able to look up to see the source of another faint voice, the vague impression of a young girl lending her small hands to where theirs are clasped before them.

a daughter?

he feels compelled to give his answer to them both. ) I know. I... I don't have any reason to believe that I can be separated from the Eye and the other Fears, the way that I am now. If that truly proved impossible... yes. I am making a world that I wouldn't - ...that I couldn't belong to.

If that's something you would help to guarantee... I would entrust it, at least in part, to you.

cw our cute yucky eyeboys

[dawnlord]

[ Below the purity of the flowers that bloom from his person, the stone-rough roots that weave through his armor and tether him to the Effigy itself, Bondrewd still breathes. A calm, even passage of breath that suggests he is not at all fearful, nor daunted, by the existence of that which follows in John's wake; they are all the trappings of humanity, the things that plumb the limits of the human mind and gather what they seek on eldritch limb, corpse-weepers plucking offal from a split skull and shrilling their mimicry — the last, pleading words of their prey. A lure, to draw in the next thing that they would eat. A nest, full of lures, full of predators.

Below the flowers, the impression of Bondrewd's own gaze intensifies. Fixates, locking tight upon John as he flinches and cries, battling the haunting horrors of his own experience. The eye that peers out from between the cracks of his helm, looks upon him is not human, peering through the white flowers; a singular eye, with many irises. An eye that parts, as if the cornea itself were a lid beyond which another eye — irises, writhing tendrils — truly gazes from. A lens focusing. Vision clarifying.

He does not let go of John's hand, clasping it firmly, silently, all the while. ]

As Blessings and Curses coexist, maintaining one another. So, too, do Fears and Hopes.

[ Ironic, was it not? ]

Naturally, I will assist. To do so, I will go to Meridian, and I will learn of them. I will manufacture Hope — their message, made Zenith's — and assist this faction in reaching a new era. Safeguarding all, so that they may experience the warmth of a new, great Dawn. Mister Sims, no matter what becomes of you, you may rest assured that I am sincere.

[ The white, ghostly figure of the girl moves with him. He strains at the bindings of the Effigy state, if only to reach with his free hand to the side of John's face. To enfold the man's temple and cheek within his palm. Alongside that hand, rests the delicate, tiny palm of another. ( Prushka, Bondrewd's mind echoes, the flower of the dawn, his daughter. Perhaps I was to hasty, to decline retrieving you. You died where you wished to be, and I had no use for you — until now. Will you work with Papa once more? ) ]

— should I find way to allow you to reach the Dawn, as well, I will deliver you. Should it be impossible, I will also ensure you never touch it. Does that assure you?

cw eyes eyes eyes

[eyesite]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've... failed to reach you.

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

[dawnlord]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[eyesite]

( the Eye cannot comprehend that which has shed everything capable of feeling fear. perhaps it for the briefest of moments it attempts to understand bondrewd in the framing of kindred — that which is Fear consists of fear, but can you necessarily it fears it itself? — but that is discarded as soon as it realizes that it doesn't work. to one of the Dread Powers, bondrewd is unassailable, completely without purchase for their many hooks and barbs to sink into. after long consideration, this ends up resolving into something along the lines of disinterest or even revulsion; dimly acknowledged by john, linked to it as it is, though certainly not emulated.

bondrewd's words do, in part, assuage him. they settle his panic that he is about to be punished for the fault of not swaying him back to his place at Zenith's side; he reconsiders himself and the space around him and finds that perhaps it was just the roots continuing to creep along bondrewd's effigy that had felt in motion before, his own momentary paralysis still induced by the state of persistent, exaggerated Communion.

(he puts aside being called adorable, which is something he as a grown man doesn't really know what to do with...)

his instinctual response to someone steadying him and guiding him isn't a positive one — after all, there has never been anyone in his young or adult life who has personally guided him to anything but personal and universal ruin. but the shared sympathetic connection that Communion provides is hard to argue with; he would be forced to admit to himself that he cannot sense any machinations or manipulations belying the words and impressions of support that bondrewd extends to him. )

Do you really believe something like that is necessary? That - that it's even possible? ( john hasn't even been here for very long, never posing anything more than a threat to confidential information among Meridian, and even still he has suffered serious injury and death at their hands. perhaps his vision is just (ironically) limited, but he cannot seem to see bondrewd's vision.

it's not the only thing he shares that feels somewhat incomprehensible to him. the fondness, too... john wouldn't claim to have had a challenging or troubled childhood, but his relationship with his grandmother had never been what any might call warm. he is grateful to her for the part she played in raising him, but it had been perfunctory at best. this sort of encouragement... it's strange, and almost disconcertingly so.

it probably says a lot that this is more disquieting to him than any acknowledgement that bondrewd would, in the same breath that he patted him with familiar fondness, slit his throat to ensure the safety of others. it's something he has always worried others might not have the strength to do (even though, far in his own clouded future, not even martin's hand would stay itself —)... )

...I don't know what I've said or done to earn that belief.

But if you will do what you've promised to me... Yes. I will do all that I can.

[dawnlord]

[ Sorry, Eye............ you got some real #freaks out here.

Bondrewd's sincerity is absolute, divorced of objectivity and immersed in scientific pursuit. Methodical study, field work, the meticulous thrust of himself into all forms of experience so that his conclusions are irrefutable — he must be Meridian, even for a moment, to truly be able to arrest their movements in the future. To still their hearts and calm their minds, and show them a better, brighter path. Zenith resembles the dark, the cold of the night, but it is a path where they can finally lay down their old burdens and choose new lives, where they would not be before.

He must be Meridian, he thinks, to be heard. Especially in the wake of this.

( And also, in burning through Zenith's energy, he recognizes how hasty he was not to do this from the beginning. Not to hold fast to all he had done, the responsibility he had first and foremost to the Ido Front, to the Abyss, to all who had died and the little ones in the Garden — the first Garden, where he laid them to rest. Not because they were dead, but because they had transformed irreparably and needed a cool, gentle place to live the remainder of their short lives.

He must examine this world, closely. ) ] I do. After all, the answer to all those who suffer is to love them.

[ he's gonna duel quetzalcoatl in the Love Arena ]

The Lady's vision for us all does not require we turn our backs on those who shine, only that we are irrevocably successful. More than that, if we cannot understand their motives, we will only ever clash with them. It is better to step alongside them, and guide them. We all are worth the love we can share.

[ He speaks of love, but the obvious distance between his ease of expression and understanding it and the stark, black hole of nonexistence, of the lightless depths of the Abyss, of the altar upon which he had placed his own heart and soul and carved it from himself for progress — it is obvious, that articulate as he is and honest as he is... he is divided from himself, perfectly precise and alarming. A man capable of severing his consideration and adoration, to ensure progress above all else.

That is the man who pats John's shoulder, reassuring, in their Communion. ] Your world is painful and dangerous, Mister Sims. Your wish appears to take the form of a wish: to save as many people as you are able to, even it means to condemn others — I believe in you, because I am the same. Precisely the same.

[eyesite]

( it's not as though bondrewd's desire for the rigor and thoroughness of the scientific method is something entirely alien to john — for many years longer than he had been Head Archivist there, he had been a researcher at the Magnus Institute, and he had prided himself in his own comprehensive approach at pursuing following up on the various statements, artefacts, and other bizarre situations came their way to deal with. he had actually been perhaps a little too proactive at times, and especially when it came to the books from jurgen leitner's library that had either been mentioned in various statements or those rare enough occasions when one of the books had actually passed through their hands at the Institute. for obvious reasons, those had always incited him to action in a way that ill befit the aim of the Institute itself. theirs was a mission to "record and study, not interfere or contain," or so elias had told him multiple times even prior to being appointed Head Archivist. ironic, then, how hands-on his job eventually ended up becoming, but magnus had ever been cautious in introducing him to such dangerous situations gradually, wary that burdening him with too much knowledge or putting him under too much pressure too early on would overwhelm him and waste a perfectly good and useful resource for his theorized mega-ritual.

bitterly, and not for the first time, john wishes that he hadn't been so characteristically difficult to kill, but it ultimately didn't matter. either he would have been used as the focal point of that ritual or some other poor sap would be eventually set up into the same position. since all the other rituals were doomed to fail, it had just been a matter of time and opportunity for jonah magnus.

and the Web had delivered john so perfectly to him, just for that cause.

it's an assertion that he can sense to the marrow of his bones that bondrewd believes, but... it doesn't resonate with john's personal experience. the Fears certainly couldn't experience such affections, and their agents similarly had typically viewed their victims with a sort of... indifference, at best? and contempt, at worse? or perhaps amused bemusement, in the instance of simon fairchild.

though perhaps it was (ironically, considering what this conversation had triggered within him) the Corruption that seemed to utilize human emotions of togetherness, of intimacy, of belonging to solidify its grasp upon its avatars. it seemed that those afflicted with severe loneliness either succumbed to it, drawn in to the Lonely itself, or they were preyed upon by the Crawling Rot — he recalls a man devoted to giving all that he was to a monstrous beetle and her kin, another who had wept maggots when telling him of the dark places he had searched for love and acceptance, a young woman who had felt the sharp sting of rejection when she hadn't been chosen to become a part of the monstrous amalgamation that a dog named Agape made of her cult, and, of course, jane prentiss. a woman who, without strong guidance in her life, heard the singing which emanated from a wasps' nest in her attic, and who had lived to become a well-loved home for thousands upon thousands of Filth's children.

love, like anything else, is something he must view with wariness. it is just as susceptible to perversion. )

If you believe strongly in that as a prerogative... then I am in no place to deny you. I want Zenith to be open to those that might feel doubt, but... try to mark those that will not be shaken from their desires to pursue Meridian, no matter what it costs them. They will only become exponentially more dangerous to us the more threatened their victory becomes.

( for some, conflict is inevitable. he has never liked that reality, but it's a reality nonetheless. there is nothing he could have done, there's not a single Goddamned word he could have said that would cause any number of agents, avatars, or monsters from coming to claim his life. it wasn't a matter of understanding. it was that they had their own unique and individual goals, and the Archivist had posed an unavoidable obstacle to them.

the same would be the case for Meridian and Zenith, unavoidably, always.

he becomes almost brittle at what feels like — praise? he isn't certain. it doesn't entirely feel accurate to him, not through his own lens. he doesn't believe that he is a creature meant to be able to help anyone at all; neither his form nor function are conducive to it, and despite his best efforts, he feels he can only deliver those he reaches to help to a worse fate. so his input in the Communion is silent for a long moment, fraught with the thorns and barbs of this internal perception. )

I am not so noble, Bondrewd.

I just - I can't bear to consign them all to torment once more. Not when I am the one making the decision this time. Not... not when I don't have the believe that I could find any other way to deliver them from it.

That's all.

( said simply as his consciousness begins to try to pull itself free from the roaring current of this strengthened Communion. )