Toxic Love: The Exalt Oracle

[beleos]

NOTHING GOES OFF WITHOUT A HITCH

You feel it, the moment that the Exalt oracle opens its eyes, like something that rips through your body from head to toe, something that feel like fire, wild. It sears into your veins, like acid and fire, something that triggers something that makes you want to run, or perhaps turn and face something head on. Before you can find what sets you off – if you could find it. Bearers know what this sensation is, it is different but the same at its core. The emotions, the feelings it sparks are different – but in the end, you know it for what it is: An Oracle.

Kenos groans from the awakening, like a part of a whole sparks to life, and though you do not know what it is that they want yet, you understand and know their existence down to your core. That feeling to attack or defend, perhaps even flee, does not leave you, but instead it fills your veins, you feel it thrumming, pulsing, like the beat of a heart – if one has one. With the sense of awakening, bearers know the shape of what comes next, they will be asked to act, to do. You do not know how it will happen, or what the Exalt will ask of you, but the knowledge that it will happen is borne from experience, not from the Oracle itself.

As you begin to move, to… look, you are not long for this day, it clouds your mind, a hazy, drowsy feeling takes over, the encroaching dark that threatens to swarm, crowding from the sides, taking over your vision – until… it fully takes over, and Bearers are put into a deep slumber.

---

When bearers awaken, it’s difficult to make sense of what your sleepy eyes see. Structures begin to swim into view, and they like tall figures looking down upon you. It’s difficult to tell what they are at first, but as you wake up, you begin to see, they are not people, or creatures, but long spore-like stalks. Some have ribbed overgrowths that you can see, and some end in growths that ripple and hang over, but have no “cap”. They tower over the bearers, like towering spires and buildings, on all sides, as if they were trapped in a ring of them. As bearers look around them they will notice tall green spires around them as well, and it takes a moment for things to really settle in. Mushrooms. Blades of grass. The springy moss about them is almost as tall as they are, low to the ground. There are pebbles that appear as boulders, and the thunderous steps nearby indicate an insect or arachnid walking by, far larger than you. There is a stillness to this space, like a held breath, and as the bearers awake, and regard one another, and then to the center of the circle is – a small effigy in the center.

It is here, the Exalt Oracle, and you feel compelled to regard it, before you are given a pang down to your core. It compels you – pleads, asks, begs, and demands, all in one – for what it wishes for. Precious mementos and precious items that they are missing. They have been lost, and they are somewhere within the Liosachán. It beseeches the bearers to return its items, and begs they be returned here to the circle. There are no words, but there is a pleading sensation, a feeling that these items are treasured by this Oracle.

You feel at your sides, your pockets, and find one item on your person, a weapon, a companion, whatever it is you would bring with you to the conflict, shrunk down to a tiny size with you.

Stay steadfast, bearers, and capture the flag Oracle!

SURVIVAL OF THE SMALLEST ( DAYS 1 - 5 )

Unlike the still, stale apocalypse that had been the setting of the Iconoclast Oracle, the greenhouse is lush and vibrant with activity.

The Effigy present within yearns to be reunited with what belongs to it, fixated upon the five items lost within the greenhouse. The swell of its longing fills all Shardbearers, urging them to take action, claim the items and present all five to it to attain victory for that Faction.

Over a period of ten days, Shardbearers of both factions will have to navigate environmental dangers, and the normal procession of time, as the greenhouse is going about its daily routine. Workers plod around like towering goliaths, weeding and watering and pruning the greenhouse's contents. The Liosachán's native population of fae begin to take notice of the newcomers in their midst, emerging from grassy mounds hidden in the natural landscape to spy and pry about the newness surrounding them.

Naturally curious, and equally dangerous, the fae of the Liosachán are Highstorm natives. They range in cool coloration, from soft violet-greys to deep stormy blues, and wear clothes fashioned from of goods pilfered from the pockets of workers, dropped on the ground or handcrafted from the environment itself. Wielding bits of copper tightly wound into blades and spears, they are a ferocious and cunning little people who seek to trick, trap and toy with Shardbearers. Direct violence is anathema to them, but violence that happens as a result of falling to one of their ploys is a badge of honor.

DAY ONE - THREE. The Effigy initially urges Shardbearers to build bases of operation for defense and practicality, as surviving ten days without supporting one another is a surefire way to meet a grisly, tiny little end. Resources must be gathered: gather food and water, prepare shelter, establish unity and organization and prepare to set off into the wilds soon.

For Shardbearers demonstrating particular selflessness, favoring the protection and defense of another, the Effigy responds warmly from the third day onward — rewarding them with a sign of their dutiful nature towards others in the form of fairy wings, the form of which are unique to the Shardbearer themselves.

DAY FOUR. The sudden thunderous sound of a storm begins. No, not a storm, the tumble and crash of water pouring down upon the greenhouse — the workers of the Liosachán perform their routines faithfully, after all. In watering the garden, the danger of the environment threatens to overtake Shardbearers and their work alike. Drops of water fall, their size equal or larger than even the tallest of characters, and trickles of water muddy the ground in the form of raging rapids.

The security of Meridian and Zenith's camps is even called into question, because as simple as the act of watering a garden is, it is a nightmarish situation for such itty bitty Bearers to be in!

DAY FIVE. By day five, the fae of the Liosachán no longer lurk and linger in the corner of one's eye. They make themselves known, having prepared a banquet below one of the mushrooms, within sight of the Effigy. A table draped in spider-silk lace awaits any Bearer who comes near enough, the sagging piece of driftwood polished to a gleam with golden sap, leaving it waterproofed and pretty to behold. A handful of corks serve as seating, with most of the fae draping themselves across scraps of cotton as though they are simply at a picnic.

They invitingly wave to Shardbearers, chattering brightly in their foreign, lilting tongue, waving tiny sandwiches and little clay pots full of jams and honeys, brandishing sugared berries that they bite into with gusto, staining their arms and faces in swathes of blue and red. They clearly are welcoming to whomever comes upon them, urging them to avail themselves to the bounty they have prepared. Perhaps some characters know better than to eat the food of the fae, recalling legends and lore about the mystical properties and implicit bargains made in becoming a guest. Perhaps some have no idea, and are simply hungry enough to dig in!

UNWILLING TEN-ANTS ( DAYS SIX - EIGHT )

The scuttling, scrabbling feet of ants crawling over surfaces, winding their way through this grassy playground, has become normal. Their feet thunder as they go about their business, and it seems to be a normal cadence to life here in the underbrush, in the greenhouse. It is normal, and it is has become nothing to really concern oneself with. They are ants, after all, what do they do, but work? Endlessly, continuously.

That is, until the heavy, loud sounds of their feet draw closer to whatever place that the bearers have found to camp in. Whether solitary or as a group, these workers are no longer content to simply ignore the bearers, but they are a curiosity, perhaps even a bother. You have disrupted their lifestyle. The sleepy pattern of obtain food, return ot the hive, and back out again now has obstacles. Now there are not simply the fairies, who live their own lives and existences, a part of the ecosystem, but now there are these tiny bearers. Fighting, working together, arguing and disagreeing.

You are disruptive to their way of life.

The ants have come to collect on this due, and some bearers that are vulnerable, or perhaps merely caught, are taken away, your weight so light compared to the rest of their burdens that they carry. The strength of these ants is overwhelming, incredible at this size, and try as you might, if you are caught in their strong mandibles, you cannot escape. An ant, after all, carries 1000 times their weight with those powerful jaws. You, bearer, are nothing to them.

They squirrel away the bearers within their hill, a complicated network of tunnels, junctions, and large spaces. Down within, where the air becomes stifling, and stale. The ants guard their pray, and you get the distinct sense that they see you not as people, not even as enemies, but as prey. You will be food – perhaps to the eggs that are gathered within this room, where you can see the stirring of new life, just beneath the surface. You may not have very long to live, if these little larvae get their mouths on you.

Or perhaps, your friends will save you? Once it is discovered that bearers are missing, the trail of ant prints on the ground is apparent – they are not stealthy creatures – and the feet lead from the locations of several kidnapped bearers toward the grainy ant hill that lies not far away. The hill itself swarms with life, with worker ants all over the surface, scuttling about, looking for the next meal for te colony. Or perhaps for more bearers to bring back for their young.

It will be dangerous, bearers, to save your friends. Should you choose to do so, you will be kicking the anthill, and the ants will protect what is theirs. Even if they just took it. Those bearers belong to them, now! Rescuers will find not only your average worker ant, ready to defend, but winged male ants will attack from above, and deeper, within the nest, near where the bearers are kept, lies the strongest ant in the colony: The Queen. Staggeringly large, strong, and vicious, when her subjects begin dying. She will do everything in her power to protect her colony, and that includes killing bearers, if need be. Or trying, at least.

Good luck rescuing your friends, bearers!

IN SMALL PACKAGES ( DAYS NINE - TEN )

The day after the ant-pocalypse brings with it the brush of recognition — the Effigy has foreseen the likely victors, and calls to them to approach it once they have suitably recovered. It judges them the ones whom are most devoted to what binds them, loyal to memory and remembrance, and begins to clamor for them to restore to it what belongs rightfully. Thus begins a full day of resting, locating last-minute items, shoring up defenses and preparing for the sprint to the finish line.

Certainly your rivals will not allow you to simply walk to the Effigy unassailed and unchallenged.

Eat, rest, ensure your fellows are close and bolstered, for tomorrow begins the final rally.

On the morning of the tenth day, Meridian Shardbearers approach the Effigy with its five items in hand. In the midst of the mushroom ring, the Effigy stands as it had in the beginning — arms outstretched and back bowed skyward, gnarled fingers seeking contact with that which has been lost to it. It awaits, it strains, and even as it does, it requires one last test of ability. From the shadows of the towering mushrooms, the rasp of scale and soft hiss of a great beast descends upon the fae ring.

A gleaming garden snake, with glossy black and green stripes, blocks the way between approaching Shardbearers and the Effigy.

Between its bright eyes, pressed upon its brow is a scattering of brighter scales that appear to be in the shape of a delicate, three-leafed plant with spiraling patterns for leaves. It braces itself against the approach, and there is no doubt that to claim victory, the serpent must be subdued. Though Meridian approaches with victory in hand, they have not yet attained it — their rival faction and this beast remain in their way.

MISSING LINKS ( THROUGHOUT )

As the Effigy desires to be reunited with what belongs to it, the swell of its longing stirs something more within all present Shardbearers.

With that foreign longing arrives knowledge: beyond the five items prized by the Effigy itself, there are other lost things within the greenhouse. Like a compass, each Shardbearer's mind points them in direction after direction, urging them to seek and explore. Implicitly, the thrum of comprehension fills your mind: these are things that do not belong to you, per se, but seek to have your hands ferry them home.

Amidst tangled brush, hidden under doffed acorn cap, tucked away in the belly of a fae's glittering den, lost in the depths of a puddle of spilled water that seems an insurmountable lake now, folded secretly into the petals of a towering, skyscraper-like flower, there are three additional items hidden within the tumultuous landscape that each Shardbearer feels a draw towards. Things that belong to someone else, eager to be reunited with them, but subject to whim.

Upon locating and retrieving one, the Shardbearer is filled with a sense of information — they know who this item belongs to, and they will know that they have a choice. Bonds are fragile things after all, and they exist to be enforced or abused, in order to advance a goal or to deepen a connection. How will you treat someone's precious bond? How will they treat yours?

NOTES

Here are some prompts to set the scene and foundation of the Exalt Oracle! — The theme of this Oracle is a loose edition of capture the flag, where the Effigy's items can pass through multiple hands within the ten day allotment.

— For additional ideas and fun, it is known that several Shardbearers have concluded their efforts to fulfill the Greenwood Yards' sidequest request.

— All details of the Exalt Oracle can be found here, and questions for the mods can be submitted here.

CODING

Comments

[sterngaze]

[When that explosion rips through the air, the shock coming from the camp’s opposite edge, Liem is less startled than his companion. Unlike her, he has made a temporary accord with a member of Zenith, with whom he has colluded briefly and exchanged some bits of information over the past couple days. The eruption is timed to suit their mission perfectly, and he is quick to take advantage of it.

A sudden hail of energy blasts announces the attention of a Zenith guard swooping upon them from overhead: a winged and clawed individual who he recognizes only after a moment’s uncertainty, busy as he is trying to evade the shots. He hasn’t spoken to Amos since before they were brought here, to Kenos. Perhaps, given the gloom and his own fey features, the man doesn’t even know whom he’s firing upon.

Liem aims and looses the quarrel already loaded into his crossbow as he makes for cover, something like fire glancing off the shimmering armour covering one of his legs, another streak punching through to sear a hole in a wing. Despite his own fairy-like appearance, his instinct is not to take to the air but rather to withdraw into the shadows, letting the darkness obscure him from sight as his body becomes just as translucent as his shimmering wings.

Cover gives him an opportunity to make himself more of a threat, or in this case, a nuisance and a distraction, as he snaps an incantation that targets Amos once he comes within range (about six inches distant, at their present scale). The magic slams into the other man as a wave of pain, perhaps even enough to make shots go wide or his wings go clumsy mid-air. Certainly enough to get his attention.]

[warmare]

[Amos has a gun. Perhaps it had been lost, like her bow had once been, but now... it has been found, and would cause nothing but problems for them. She'd seen its work in the bowels of Aetos' laboratory when they had set out to rescue Vander, and resorting to a battle of the long-ranged against each other in a place like this with so many tents and such to hide behind... They didn't have the time for such things. Even as Hayame returns fire, her long arrows shrieking through the air aimed at the wings of the camp's defender...

She had spoken to Amos since coming to Kenos. She hadn't exchanged a single word with him before it. Despite those words... Amos had predictably left her crippled in the cup as he claimed the Bell. He and that shitty human brat had cloaked themselves in invisibility and stolen the Prism from her companion in front of her very eyes. And whether she was able to divorce their interactions on other days from their stances during the Oracle battles or not...

Hayame's remaining eye burns with the rage of the failures this man has forced on her. With the knowledge she had felt deep in her soul when theirs had intertwined to exchange the misplaced energies of their factions, that without a single doubt this man would hand over that Oracle to Yima and further potentially push her entire worl closer to a lasting doom. And that... that...]

Liem, get what we came for!

[Unlike her, Liem could blend into the shadows and moonlight, cloak himself in stealth far better than she was capable of. His smaller size could slip into tents and past other Zenites, but she- She would get this Oracle into Meridian's hands or she would dissipate trying. Even though she had promise to survive, promised Liem, promised Set, promised Claude... It isn't so easy to release the dedication she had been taught to feel for discarding her life for a cause.

So when Amos' flight falters in the wake of Liem's assault, when he dips slightly closer to the ground... Hayame calls out to her companion as she throws herself forward from a canter into a gallop and streaks past. Hooves churn up dirt before she leaps onto a pile of foraged building materials, scrambles on the ascent when the materials buckle under weight, kicks off of discarded toothpick lumber with her stunted, useless feathered wings flapping instinctively...

And leaps through the air at Amos in a collision course, arms outstretched to embrace him... and drag him down to earth.]

[baltimores]

[ He should not be surprised that Liem is the one with Hayame; it's been some time since he's last seen him, which would make his allegiance obvious (that, and his presence at the latest ambassador debate). The dedication, though — teaming up with someone as steadfast and certain in her convictions as Hayame...

Those are thoughts he'll have to analyze later. For now he needs to handle the two of them, stop them, kill them, ensure the objects Zenith has in its care are safe, go retrieve the other ones from Meridian. It's a long list, but he'll see it through—

Amos' flight falters under the weight of the pain he's hit with, one of his shots missing wildly before he stops firing altogether lest he hits something he really shouldn't. It's actually the sudden pain that allows him to dodge the first volleys of Hayame's arrows, sending him unexpectedly off course; then one, two hit true, his wings too big a target and him unable to dodge like this.

But he centres himself. Resumes his flight path. And, perhaps stupidly, meets Hayame head-on, ready to grapple with her and send them crashing down to earth harder than normal (he has plenty of reason to now believe he can take it better than she can, after all).

He just probably doesn't have the time nor distance on his side to make it as effective as he'd like this time — and certainly not if she's able to angle things so that he takes the worst of the damage. ]

[sterngaze]

[At first, once he has finished uttering the words of his spell, Liem reaches again for his quiver, ready to spend some of the last of his bolts on taking Amos down quickly. If he and Hayame work together, he’s confident they can close the noose of their sudden assault and incapacitate the man, even with his newfound flight. Then, they can both move on to the tent where their prize lies waiting, still beckoning Liem with the pull of his own magic. He’s laid hands on that wing before, after all. Locating its precise location, even hidden or buried, will be no trouble for him.

But… Amos is the type of man to go down fighting, possibly even after receiving injuries that would have incapacitated someone else. Liem doesn’t know the extent of his abilities, but he knows of his relentlessness, and the possibility that both Liem and Hayame might remain here, tied up in trying to put him down for good, looms large. Each moment they waste allows other Zenith to potentially arrive to see them off; the sooner they get their hands on the faerie wing, the sooner they can retreat in case things go sideways.

He doesn’t bother calling back his own confirmation; he’s meant to be avoiding attention, after all. Instead, as Hayame charges and leaps for Amos to pull him from the air, Liem continues on, hurrying from shadow to shadow, alert to the presence of any other Zenites who might be tempted to get in his way. He intends to make this quick, so he isn’t forced to leave his companion alone for longer than he must.

But when he slips inside the unassuming-looking shelter that hides the wing in question, his spell tells him that it has indeed been buried to keep it out of sight. This will take a little longer than he’d hoped. With a small noise of irritation, Liem kneels over the spot and sets about unearthing it from the soft garden soil.]

[warmare]

[Amos is most certainly the type to go down fighting. And for better or worse… so is Hayame. One day, she thinks, they will kill each other. Perhaps… perhaps not shatter. But a “death”… it seems inevitable. She’d had enough rage in her to be confident the one doing the killing would be her after he’d left her broken in the crumpled ruins of the cup with the Bell under his arms, and with his and that perverted brat’s invisible ambush of the Prism added atop that indignity…

Now she was sure.

Liem is off on the hunt… and the two left behind collide in midair with force, with fluttering wings and flashing hooves and limbs all grasping, seizing for a hold, that advantage in a grapple that could lead to a pinned shoulder, a strangled airway, a vulnerable place exposed once they hit the ground. But the second Hayame feels that grown-all-too-familiar sense of the air humming all around her…

She twists with a snarl, suddenly wresting from the “hip” and trying to jerk and hold the large (for a human) man in front of her, slightly beneath, the perfect place to hit the ground first and be an unwilling buffet for a half ton of jinbaflesh.]

You’ve used that trick one too many times!

[He has mere seconds to decide whether to try and maneuver out from under her or cut the gravity magic and hope she bruises him instead of breaking, to affect how many moments it will take them to recover from having the wind knocked out of them and be back at each others throats.]

Fight me like a man, Amos- !

[baltimores]

[ They were too high up.

It's still tough to properly judge distance when you aren't used to being this small; from a normal perspective they would have smashed into the ground almost immediately, but with their reduced size and proximity above the ground she's able to get on top of him. He doesn't have the time to flip them around; certainly not with the determination that Hayame is holding him with.

He has the time to pull the chute, ensuring that when he smashes into the ground with Hayame nearly on top of him he's thoroughly winded, with a wing fractured on impact and bruises that will surely be decorating his body sooner rather than later. Amos gasps for air, running on autopilot as he reaches out for her, falling well short of gouging out her remaining eye or something...

But fighting like a man isn't important to him. Honour doesn't exist. There's only winning, and for that — as his hand closes around a foreleg, the part of her closest to him — he draws on magic, beginning to cast Fear.

He has no words for her. Not in the middle of a fight. But he can reach into her mind — and pull out the worst of it for her to see, for him to get a much-needed edge. ]

[sterngaze]

[As his companion risks life and limb in combat against one of Zenith’s most steadfast zealots, Liem digs a hole. He digs with his bare hands, not having any better tool at hand, and not wishing to risk damaging the wing in any case. Fortunately the soil is the soft, damp soil of a garden plot, and he is quite small, so scooping clods of earth out of the way is less difficult than he might have feared. He digs as quickly as he can, shoving clumps of soil against the other, innocuous supplies filling the tent, each passing second dragging on interminably.

Relief sweeps him when he finally glimpses a bit of wilted leaf wrapping, and realizes that the faerie wing was buried just enough to get it out of sight. Fortunately for him — and rather foolishly for the Zenites, he thinks — no one buried it far enough to keep the wing actually out of reach of snooping visitors. Burrowing a little deeper, he drags the leaf-wrapped piece of wing out from its hiding place and tucks it under one arm.

He knows without unwrapping it that it’s the same wing he came here seeking. Having got what he needed, Liem rises to his feet, the package fading to translucence as he does, and he heads back the way he came.]

CWs for real, jinba gets dark: slavery, forced amputations, forced breeding, SA, etc.

[warmare]

[Cutting his gravity sink might save Amos from being crushed, but the weight of their impact still brings them down to down to earth with force, miniaturized in stature or not. Hayame, too, has the wind knocked out of her in the process, struggling for a moment to orient, to resecure her hold on him in order to go for the throat or get her hands around his head. His cranium had to be thicker than that falsely named Zenith "King Undying" whose skull she had crushed beneath the roots for the Iconoclast Oracle, but surely she could apply enough force if she found good leverage. Amos' wings are shot, now broke, but her own grant no advantage even though they are uninjured, too small to reach and buffet his face to confuse or disorient, though they instinctively move at her withers as if trying to do so. She manages to get half-up, to begin to get her back legs under her-

And then Amos' hand lands on her foreleg and Fear takes hold.

The vision springs to life immediately, because there has only ever been one fate that haunted her nightmares, the one dangled over her head as a constant threat since she was a child old enough to understand the consequences of not being a good horse. At first glance, it depicts something that seems normal- a dun jinba that must be Hayame alone in a darkened stall. But the movement, the silhouette... it's all wrong. Terribly wrong. Ropes tied expertly hobble the back legs so that she cannot lash out and kick, they tether the neck to a slanted post, and they truss up her long ebony tail to bare the slick, wet nethers of a mare in the throes of a deep seasonal heat, unable to control her body's instinctual receptiveness to breed. Drool drips slow and glistening down her chin, the metal bit fastened in her mouth preventing her from speaking, eating, biting, closing. Even if she wanted to wipe her face and reclaim a tiny bit of dignity...

She cannot. She has no arms.

But that is only the base of her Fear. It cannot peak until the stall door creaks open and the grooms lead in the partner the stable master has chosen for her, a fellow Armless obedient, aroused by her scent, and selfishly willing to disgrace her. Hayame's eyes roll and her tongue slips uselessly on the bit, she tries to swallow her horror and disgust and summon the fire to fight, but there isn't... There isn't anything she can do can prevent the grooms from tightening her ropes with snide comments and encouraging jeers. She is nothing but a tool to them for advancing their wealth, nothing but a farm animal being bred so that their offspring could be added to the herd... but also a farm animal that had attractive human-looking parts. One of them slaps the stallion's rump and laughs, urging him to round her with foal if he wanted to keep going to stud instead of the battlefield. One starts fiddling with his trousers, debating might as well as he stares at her flushed and tormented face until a veteran gruffly advises him to keep his dick in his pants- that bit wasn't the type that would keep her teeth from biting in.

It's going to happen whether she wants it or not. The stallion is rearing up, his forelegs scrambling and clutching tight at her withers as he seeks a brace for his heavy weight and the right angle to get inside of her. Her body is going to welcome him even as her mind and hearts reject him. The bit is going to make it impossible to muffle her pitiful whimpers and reluctant moans, the same bestial, wild noises she'd always heard coming from the breeding stall when her own dam was led to the post. In her nightmares, the scenes usually just blurred into a horrible, twisted mess of no and anything but that, but this spell was about fear and she...

Outside of the vision conjured by Amos' spell, the sick image swelling in the mind's eye between them, Hayame's body has begun to go limp and trembling, her expression blanched with horror, helplessness, and all consuming shame.]

cw references to csa, child prostitution

[baltimores]

[ Amos is familiar with sexual slavery.

There are elements here he never had to face; he never had to be tied up or amputated (because he was too weak and small — fucking small — to fight back to begin with), could never be used to procreate. And though it didn't feel like it at the time, there was an end in sight; eventually he got too big and too old to be appealing and was shuffled off elsewhere, from warm body to eventual grunt.

Nothing wrong with being a grunt, really.

But the rest of it he knows, helpless and trapped in a dark room with someone who will use him and merchandise for just about anyone with money or access or both to sample. There have been times throughout all of this world hopping when he's felt as though he's back in that room. He would not wish it on anybody.

So as he rights himself from under Hayame he catches those intimate impressions of her worst nightmare, as it progresses and he can experience it for himself, a thought slips through his mind and across communion, instinctual and unbidden: ] I'm sorry.

[ And then he reaches out to take Hayame's dominant arm and wrench it out of place, aiming to dislocate her shoulder, make a part of her useless for real. ]

1/2

[warmare]

[When the topic of their pasts had first been breached, that idyllic seeming day in the back garden of a small Springstar restaurant, pollen heavy in the air... Hayame had only suspected what Amos might be avoiding alluding to because she had been avoiding speaking of it, too. She hadn't mentioned her own experiences with it, not beyond the passing references to breeding stables, dams, and hunts. In Horos, now Kenos... people could not simply look at her and know those truths about her life simply because that was the lot of all of her kind. She got to pretend she was a bit of a person and not just a tool. That she'd always been. In the icy Hall of Mirrors on the Scorching Isles, though... she'd been far too angry, far too violent with his doppelganger once he'd met her gaze from pinned beneath it to pretend any longer. They'd parted in the cold with a certain quiet understanding.

But that understanding wasn't enough if an Oracle was at stake, was it?

It's over with, he'd said. All we got is to keep moving forward, he'd said. But now, under the influence of his spell... it isn't over at all. Not for her. Not anymore. The fear born of watching her dam and the other broodmares be led to the breeding stall, of watching what happened to the yearlings that failed to make the cut in training, of catching glimpses of nobles sampling the "wares" before auction... it's happening now.

I'm sorry, one of the grooms whispers in Amos' voice. The stallion on top of her locks his hands at the joints of her right arm, scrabbling for purchase to cover her, twisting hard- and Hayame screams in pain both in magical vision and in reality as her shoulder is wrested harshly from the socket.

... But that's not right, is it?]

[warmare]

[How did Armless wrench each other by the arms? Why would the grooms allow a stud to damage a perfectly good broodmare that way? The injury creates the tiniest crack in the logic of the spell, and through that crack... Hayame seizes desperately at the first brightness that she sees: the light of the divine blessing that a god of war had bestowed upon her in exchange for the violence and battles she has given up to him in worship.

Something howls to be let loose and get revenge, full of rage and hurt and power and overwhelming, overbearing menace. In an instant, Hayame's pupil dilates with focus through the pain lancing through her shoulder, returning to her body with a sudden rush of oppressive weight. But it isn't gravity, it's an aura, one that rips the Fear spell to pieces as she pulls herself free of it and cloaks her body like a sudden blast of heat. But it isn't the heat of flames, it's the dry, suffocating heat of the endless desert.

The same desert that had kissed her hair, staining one strand of her ebon dark mane crimson. The same strand that seems to gleam now as the dark pinprick of her pupil finds the person causing her pain, forcing her to see and live the fate she had sacrificed everything to try and avoid... and the moment she locks on he will feel behind her an oppressive, overwhelming sense of divine depth and power. It is a divinity that is not hers, a mere borrowed scrap of a god from another world gifted from war god to warrior-

But scraps were enough to overwhelm a mortal. As the full weight of her freed consciousness narrows in on him, her pained, horrified expression twisting into one of betrayal and feral rage, the aura swells fit to bursting as if to say fear? He wanted fear?

Fear me.

Hayame's uninjured hand suddenly slams into Amos' head from the side and fists in his shortly cropped hair to try and twist him away from her dislocated shoulder, her lips pulling back in a fanged snarl before she hauls back to gather force and then cracks their skulls together in a vicious headbutt.]

[baltimores]

[ There are no limits when it comes to Oracles, the most important things they will likely ever encounter in their lives. She should know that. There was an understanding between them there, as much as there was about anything else.

And Amos had found himself nearly broken, likely at the mercy of harsh hooves and a body that could easily best his. And he wants to live. And the cost he inflicts on others to achieve that doesn't always matter.

Except when it does, after it's too late to take back; hence a brief apology, and then... right back to it, once he's asserted his own safety, his own victory—

Amos has never been to a desert before. Not in the traditional sense; no hot sand stretching across the horizon, sun beating down mercilessly. He has never experienced divinity; has no reason to believe anything like gods exist, despite the proclamations of certain Shard-Bearers among them. It's bizarrely egotistical bullshit, arrogant decrees by madmen—

Set is a madman. Communion with Set is the only place he's felt this kind of oppressive, grainy heat from.

He does not feel fear. Not since he was a kid, and even then, it had worn off.

Something is wrenched up from impossibly deep inside him, and Amos is left slack-jawed, his heart hammering in his chest as he falters, would stumble to the ground thinking he's stroking out or having a heart attack or something but for the way Hayame's hand grips him, keeps him upright, and his disorientation only grows as she slams her skull into his. He sees stars; he sees nothing, and it is terrifying.

All sense of logic and being leaves him, because he knows exactly what comes next — and for it he turns into a thrashing set of uncoordinated limbs, head throbbing and no rhyme or reason as he swings fists wildly, just hoping to connect, to fight off the inevitable. ]

[sterngaze]

[Liem hastens back through the Zenith camp as quickly as he dares, darting from shadow to shadow to avoid any Zenites who might still be lingering about, or newcomers who might be coming from the scene of the explosion. He does not trust the camp to be entirely abandoned, even now; there is always the possibility of those who are simply less likely to jump headlong into a conflict, witnesses who may prove troublesome even if their skills don’t lie in combat. He avoids contact with all of them, but breaks free of the thick of camp as soon as he’s able, returning to the outskirts where Amos and Hayame are still locked in their violent contest.

For a moment, when he catches sight of them again, his eyes narrow and he takes a half-step in confusion, hit with the vague sensation of heat and sand and the impossible vastness that makes him think, Set? Had the god joined them while he was seeking their prize in Zenith’s camp?

But no — he looks again and see that it is still just Hayame, grappling with Amos with only one of her arms as he brings his own transformed limbs to bear against her. He was right to suppose that Amos might take an inconveniently long time to subdue, and now — with Hayame apparently injured and the faerie wing within his grasp — they should leave as soon as they can.

Liem also has only one arm free, given that his other is still occupied with holding the leaf-wrapped package at his side. But it seems like Amos has forgotten all about him for the moment, occupied as he is with the jinba warrior before him. While he flails at Hayame, trying to land a blow, his back is wide open. And Liem isn’t remotely above taking such an opportunity.

He could draw the dagger at his hip, drive it between Amos’s ribs and leave him while they escape — but that would be a waste of perfectly good lifeblood. With Hayame down to one usable arm, they’ll be in a tough spot if anyone else shows up while they’re trying to make it back to Meridian’s camp. He could use a bit of a boost.

So instead, Liem stalks between Amos’s broad, moth-like wings and lunges to hook an arm around his neck, pulling him back and away from Hayame, trying to throw off his balance as he tugs him against his own body. And in almost that same motion, as he jerks Amos’s head up, he brings his own head down — to the exposed side of his neck, aiming to sink long, sharp fangs into his jugular.]

[baltimores]

[ Flight has never been an option, and he grew up to the point he could utilize fight, so that's all he has, all he tries to do to get out of this, kill the ones hurting him, what else was he even doing here it doesn't matter he just needs to get to them—

Amos chokes out a cry as something is suddenly wrapped around his neck, as his body is jerked along with it. He reaches up to desperately try to pry whatever it is away, trying to jerk his head around to see what it is that has him — Hayame had yelled Liem's name earlier, is that Liem? — but by then there is already a sharp, stinging pain plunging into the exposed length of his neck, and he lets loose with a roar of pain, of desperation, functioning wing flapping wildly and legs kicking out from his prone position and—

And darkness rushes in quickly, and Amos has little time to think anything but this is it before all of him goes slack, eyes sliding shut as his body slumps against Liem's, unconscious. ]

[warmare]

[Hayame's vengeance is swift and appropriate. Amos forced upon her the grotesque and violating fears of callous use and helplessness that had shaped her entire life since birth, and in turn, she dredges from his own past the long forgotten ability to feel terror. With only one usable arm she cannot properly strangle him or crush him, they clash violently and chaotically. Her menacing aura, the proof of Set's divine blessing earned through aggressive offerings, swells and bursts, the effect already well sunk in, leaving her to follow through with lashes of hooves, snarling, snapping-

Biting.

Liem has returned. He must have the Wing. Liem comes up behind the man, and Hayame expects the slip of a dagger, the stab of a crossbow quarrel held tight in a fist. It is underhanded, but Amos was underhanded, and for the sake of the Oracles... honor becomes slightly less important. But what happens... doesn't even seem real. There is the briefest moment of relief when the other man uses his leverage to pull Amos away from her, it allows her to finally finish surging upward onto all four hooves, her useless wings beating as if to help her in the movement, her dominant arm hanging badly dislocated and limp from her shoulder, but then-

Sharp teeth sink into Amos' jugular.

Liem is biting him, No, not just biting. Biting would be one thing. He's drinking. She can see his throat bob along with swallows of thick, body-hot lifeblood, it wells up around his mouth and dribbles down his chin, and Hayame... is frozen. She's not breathing. The world stops, almost as abruptly as when Amos' fear spell had taken hold of her. But now Amos is the one who's helpless, his body begins to pale and sag and when Liem pulls his fangs free...

Blood splatters over Hayame's horrified face.

Amos' body hits the ground. It's just them standing facing one another, crimson stains dripping down her cheek and from the corner of his lips, and nothing will come out except,]

Liem... ?

[sterngaze]

[Amos must have been sorely pressed already, because Liem expects more resistance than he gets when he grabs the man from behind. He is panicked, he can tell now, and not thinking clearly. It seals his fate all the more easily when Liem sinks his fangs into his neck and the hot spurt of his lifeblood floods his mouth, his grip on the man strengthening with each greedy swallow. He feels Amos struggle, and then go slack against him.

As though Liem is stealing his very strength from him and making it his own — and in a way, he is. By the time unconsciousness closes over Amos, the weight Liem is holding up feels to him like a child’s. But he is still not particularly gentle when he lets the senseless body fall to the ground.

Ever since the faerie banquet, the pale blue of Liem’s eyes has been a strange, pearlescent white; but when he meets Hayame’s horrified gaze, his eyes burn red.]

I found it.

[He adjusts his grip on the leaf-wrapped shape at his side, stepping over Amos’s bleeding-out body to draw closer. Without the other man in the way, he can see that her arm looks dislocated, but it seems unwise to take the time to reseat it here.]

Can you run like that?

[warmare]

[Is she still hallucinating, seeing visions of her worst fears come to form in front of the one eye she has left? No, she had broken that spell with her own will and then shredded the rest of it with Set's divine blessing, and so what stands before her, Liem, dripping Amos' blood from his mouth with eyes burnished red... It must be real.

Even though it cannot be.

She cannot have known this man an entire year and never known that he consumed the blood of others. It is impossible. She had always known... of course she had always known he was not human, not with those ears and those eyes and that unnaturally pale skin, but she had just... She had assume he was some sort of elf, perhaps? No, she hadn't even really considered a label. He had just been... not human, like her.

But this... ? It suddenly strikes her, there standing stupid and dumb on the outskirts of the Zenith camp that they really should be fleeing from, where she had encountered someone with a similar underlying scent. That man, though, he called himself a-

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Everything shuts down except the mission, their duty, the need to get the Wing out of there. She can only allow herself to consider can she run?]

Ah.

[Whether she can does not matter. It will be painful, but she will. Another day, she surely would have extended her hand to him. Liem is the only man she has ever let willingly onto her back, and in a situation like this, she would normally offer the honor and expeditious speed again. Except she doesn't. Her eye flicks to Amos, slumped on the ground. Will he die? Should she care, after what he did to her? Hayame's pupil dilates. The blood drips further down her cheek.

Still in shock, she turns. The Wing had to make it to camp in Meridian custody. The Zenites would soon realize something was amiss. Despite the pain of it, she grits her teeth to muffle the whimper when she grabs her right hand and forces it backwards, back until the fingers can weakly grab onto the girth she wears to align her body for full speed running. Grabbing the other side with the left she clumsily throws herself into a canter, cold sweat beginning to break out on her skin immediately as each hoof fall jars her wrenched shoulder.

Liem has... Liem has spells. Wings that work. Liem can keep up. Liem can-]

[sterngaze]

[As Hayame continues to stare at him, Liem’s mouth and the skin around his eyes tighten slightly: masked irritation, or perhaps hurt, unspoken in the face of her obvious horror and disgust. He watches a bead of dark crimson blood slide down her cheek, and knows from the feel of dampness on his skin that his own face must be wet with Amos’s blood, smearing his lips and dripping down his chin. He hadn’t had the time to be neat about it, and besides, there really wasn’t any way to avoid a little mess when biting into such a major vein.

He knows perfectly well that Hayame is no stranger to gore, but as expected, this is too much for her. Too deviant, no matter the circumstances.

Well, they have little time to waste on such concerns. When Hayame lets her actions answer his question for her, gripping the girth behind her forelegs and throwing herself into a canter, Liem takes only a brief moment to speak a word of magic, gesturing with his free hand to shape the spell. Then he too is running, his much lighter steps carrying him in her wake, catching up to her in a way that no two-legged man should be able to manage.

And they dash off through the undergrowth, leaving the bloodied body of Amos Burton behind them.]

cw: vomit

[warmare]

[Hayame has killed people. She has cut off their heads and displayed them in the marketplace of Venera. She has seen dead bodies, rotting on the side of the road. She has seen wild jinba brought into the stables with infection raging in what was left of their arms, and she has seen yearlings lashed to the flensing post to be made Armless in front of frightened stable-bred jinba who needed to learn who the masters truly were.

But there were things that could still affect her. Things that had nothing to do battle, with the violence necessary for victory and honor that she has trained herself all her life to ignore. Things like that spooky little black colt butchering humans in his hut and smiling as he offered her a freshly cut slice of human liver with blood smeared about his mouth. Things like the feel of ropes, binding, heats, burning, grooms jeering, a stallion pawing at the earth. Things like Liem swallowing hot, fresh blood gushing from a man's neck.

Hayame runs. She almost forgets how much it hurts to run, how each step jars her shoulder and sends pain lancing up her neck and down into her ribs. The path they had decided to take on their retreat is a meandering one, designed to throw off pursuit and not lead directly back to the Meridian camp. She remembers it with no problem, she leads them to land covered with moss so thick it obscures the distinct hoofprints she tends to leave behind, they forge a "river" of garden run off...

But Amos' Fear spell still follows her. The bite of the bit in the corners of her mouth, the feel of being exposed and unable to cover her shameful state with a trussed-up tail, the humiliating fear sparked by the scent of male in her nostrils, the unwelcome, dominating weight upon her body, forelegs grasping, squeezing-

Her legs falter. She stumbles over something, a rock, a root, she doesn't see it, she doesn't care-

Hayame jerkingly slows her pace in a sudden turn, her right hand slipping weakly from the clutch in the girth and hanging uselessly from her shoulder as she braces her weight on the left, panting far heavier than a woman in her peak physical condition should be over a run, sweat lathered on her dun coat and cold on her skin. She is pale, and Liem still smells like Amos' blood, and though she looks over to the man to make sure he is still there... His eyes are still red.

And Hayame has enough food left in her first stomach that it suddenly comes up, and her hand isn't enough to stop it, beginning to retch noisily against the tree trunk.]

[sterngaze]

[Perhaps it is the red eyes, burning against that backdrop of black, that finally unsettle the contents of Hayame’s first stomach. Perhaps it is that, when she looks back at Liem after their hurry through the winding trail they’d plotted for their retreat, his chin is still dark with streaks of drying blood, but the skin around his mouth has been licked clean. Perhaps the smell invading her keen nose is too much for her with the constant jarring of her injured shoulder.

Either way, Liem stops when she does, watching with a small frown as she retches against the huge trunk of a garden tree. Glancing down at himself, he is greeted by spots and stains of the blood that had trickled down onto his (admittedly already ruined) clothing as they’d made their escape. He must be a mess, but still, Hayame’s obvious disgust makes resentment prickle at the back of his throat. He welcomes it; he’d rather feel that than the hurt.]

We’re far enough, for now.

[He speaks coolly as he leans down to tuck the leaf-wrapped wing into the moss, hiding it amongst the spongy greenery. With his hands free, he scoops up some dew clinging to a lush frond and uses it to bathe his face.]

We should reseat your shoulder. How did it get dislocated?

[Amos was a strong man, but even so, he wouldn’t expect him to be able to cause Hayame such an injury. But, perhaps it had happened during their fall to earth, when she snatched him out of the air.]

[warmare]

[It's all of it. It's his red eyes, his blood-crusted face, the lack of blood on his lips, the stench... and it is Amos' spell still haunting, clinging, wormed into her mind to remind her that anyone... anyone with magic could just make her live the horrors she'd spent her whole life trying to avoid.

She does not empty the contents of her first stomach cleanly. It's a messy, wretched affair, noisy and cyclical. Each time she thinks it might be done something else sets her off- the scent of blood or the scent of her own vomit, and she's gagging again, first expelling chunks of berry, nut, and flower petal and then mouthfuls of stomach acid. When she has none of that left it's just dry, her throat burning, her entire body seizing with the effort to try and expel something else, each expulsion accompanied by a trembling hitch of her tail.

But as sick as she feels, her previous meals have moved through her mid-track and into her second stomach, and she has no physical capacity to vomit up those contents. She's left sweating and shivering from the exertion, panting heavily and pressing her forehead against the tree trunk as she struggles to think, to come up with some answer for it all. His eyes... his eyes had always been queer, that pale blue on black, it isn't the fact that they were red that was wrong, it was that they became red like he'd sucked the color of Amos' blood into his body in a way that stained the entire thing-]

Amos had... had a spell...

[And in her confusion, she simply answers him. Like she wasn't reeling, like she wasn't a minute away from shouts and accusations and the stab of betrayal sinking in-]

It made me... it reached into my mind for something...

[She can't say it. How could she say it, those humiliating, disgusting things. If it were to a friend, perhaps, but to a man who she'd just found out she did not know at all- ?]

Something sick...

[She tries to pull a makeshift flask from her sash, to get it open and drink to clear the vile taste from her mouth.]

I was helpless...

[In the vision. In reality. Helpless to stop the grooms from jeering, the stallion from mounting, Amos from taking advantage of her fear and-

Ah.

The berries from her meal had made the vomit between her front hooves red.]

[sterngaze]

[The cool dispassion with which Liem regards Hayame on the tail end of her episode ill befits the patient, conscientious man who had grown close to her over the past year. As she shivers and leans sweatily against the tree, he rises to his feet, but instead of approaching to help her with her flask, to open it for her so she needn’t struggle to do it one-handed… He simply watches.

That way, he needn’t contend with her flinching back from his aid like it comes from the hands of a demon.]

But you broke free of it. You made him fear.

[With Set’s aid, though he doesn’t know entirely how. But he had seen clearly enough how panicked Amos had been as he ambushed the man mid-struggle. He was not acting with the same military focus that he’d had when he first swooped upon them with that energy weapon of his.

Circling around, he comes to stand on her injured side, though some distance away yet, well beyond the stain left by the contents of her stomach.]

Come away from there, and I will help you regain the use of your arm.

[warmare]

[Maybe... maybe this isn't Liem after all. Hadn't she told him over the campfire not a night before this raid that she had caught a Zenite (that pathetic, perverted, irreverent brat who had wronged her, wronged Set, now wronged Liem-), stealing his form to invade their camp? When asked how she had known it was not him, when she had claimed that it looked and sounded and smelled exactly like him...

Had she not averted her halved gaze with slight embarrassment to need admit that even though it was because... because of many things, like the way Gen had pronounced her name and his posture... it was primarily because he had been cruel to her. That she had extended her hand to touch him in concern and he had rebuffed her. The fact that she had confirmed it by pretending to confirm an appointment that night for her to read with him, that "Liem" had failed the test by giving any answer except "since when did you learn to read?"... That had just been the nail in the coffin.

And now she's staring at red sick up splashed on the mossy ground between her dirty hooves and Liem is... Perhaps this was all a trick, perhaps he had been ambushed himself when retrieving the Wing and this was a spy ready to follow her to Meridian's camp and take all of the objects they had gathered for victory...]

Ah. I did.

[She did. She'd shredded that spell to pieces, she'd struck fear into his heart with her own powers, with the newly gained blessing of a war god that she could use to cloak herself in power and unfathomable menace, so why- ? Why did she still want to be sick, feeling herself choking on her own tongue, the saliva she couldn't stop ripping down her chin, the bit cutting into the soft flesh at the corners of her mouth? Why could she not erase that disgusting helplessness even though she'd come out the victor-]

He should have known it would... [That it would be... that it would be that, and-] ... He cast it anyway...

[No. She would have... but Liem, technically, had struck the last blow. Liem, his teeth sharp and blood welling up around them, his throat bobbing with swallow after swallow... But there's no time. She cannot do this here, she cannot let herself demand answers now, they must... they had to get the Oracle object to safety, she couldn't fight like this-

A sudden curse bursts out of her as her long struggle with the water flask ending in the damn thing falling unopened from her shaky, non-dominant hand and rolling slightly away. Hayame suddenly jerks a hoof to kick dirt and rotting plant matter over her vomit, burying it in case they were followed before she turns to Liem, goes to him for his assistance in resetting the right arm hanging limp and twitching from her injured shoulder.

But she isn't looking at him like an ally or a healer or a friend.

She looks at him like a monster traitor.]

[sterngaze]

[Ah— She isn’t able to open that flask after all. Liem watches it slip from her fumbling fingers and bounce away, and perhaps he feels just a little vindication about that when she turns to him with that scathing look burning in her single eye. Whatever aid he might usually offer her, he cannot imagine lending it in the face of that look, which he is more familiar with than he ever cared to be. He had offered his aid for years to the people wearing such a look, even so — but of late, he has not found within himself the charity necessary to overlook such slights.

Yet, he still says,]

You will need to kneel if I am to aid you.

[Because they must still take the faerie wing back to camp, and because there will be other trials even once they reach it. Hayame will be a poorer ally, to him and to every other Meri, without the use of her dominant arm. And she is much too tall for him to manipulate that joint properly from where he stands.

It is probably best to keep talking, he thinks. Hayame still looks unwell, regardless of that harrowed stare she aims his way. And he does not want to talk about himself.]

I did not know he had such magic. Are you surprised that he would wield it against you? I would not have assumed anything was beneath him on the battlefield.

[He knows little enough about Amos, but he still recalls snatches of their conversation on the beach, so long ago, another world away: Someone better than any of us... that's who you follow, right? ... I'm not exactly a good person, so most people are better than me.

A man like that doesn’t care about his own honour, when he’s fighting for a cause. That kind of mindset belongs to someone who would do whatever dirty work was necessary to secure victory.

He knows that intimately enough, himself.]

[warmare]

[She should do what she'd managed to do at the Zenith camp. She should shove it all done in favor of the mission. She should keep talking about Amos, not Liem, she should save that for their own territory, for a better moment. Hayame knows that. She should just kneel and find something to bite down on so that she wouldn't let out more than a grunt when he shoved her shoulder back into the socket.

But she can't answer Liem's question and honestly tell him why a part of her was surprised that man would wield that spell in particular against her, even though Liem was right in saying that surely Amos was the type who would use any and every method without shame in order to secure a victory. She can't because unlike Amos... She had honor.

And in the icy halls of the Scorching Isles... She had promised that she would not reveal the similarity in their upbringings that they'd discovered. He'd seemed to agree to the same. A mutual destruction pact. One where she kept getting betrayed, time after time, and yet she couldn't stand to let go because without him... she would be alone again, with no one else who understood that part of her. Not that way.]

You did not know...

[Not being able to answer smoothly, having to consider her reaction... makes her consider everything else. Makes her legs lock up and refuse to bring her to Liem's side, fully. Prevents her from going down on her knees to kneel and bring her shoulder into proper, leveraged reach. Stops everything.]

You did not know?

[She means to ask about Amos, but it comes out far different than she intends, even though she is very aware his words had been meant as nothing more than commentary, a distraction. How, how could she have known Liem longer than she'd known Matsukaze, and yet still-

Her one eye finally locks on to his... mouth. Her pupil contracts.]

- You reek of blood.

[And not in the way one did after battle.]