THE ADVOCATE ORACLE - A RIP VAN WINKLE IN TIME

[beleos]

Sweet dreams are made of Bliss

As the twilight falls, and bearers begin to tuck in for their evenings on the night of the 15th of March (OOC time) and whether they tuck themselves into bed fully, or simply drift away in the middle of their dinner, work, indulgences, or what have you; bearers will fall into a deep, deep sleep. Perhaps you slump in your chair, or you wrap your arms around a teddy bear, or partner, or cup a precious shard in your sleep, it doesn’t matter, because as you drift away, into a sleep that seems to tug you under like the undertow itself, a question will echo in bearer’s minds: “If given the choice, would you show compassion in the face of adversity?”

It sticks with you, even as you fall into a dreamless sleep. As if it rotates in your mind, over and over, letting you worm over that. You know for certain what it is, that it is the calming, soothing voice of the Oracle, reaching out to you across the ether, telling you – promise you – that if you accept its promise, you will find that the Oracle could be in your hands. That thought leads you to dream of something else – of home, or your loved ones – of what you are fighting this war for. Even as you dream, you feel a presence next to you, and unlike the Harbinger’s winding, rough digging, this is more akin to a friend, who is asking you soft, coaxing questions. Things like: what was your childhood like? What were your friends like? What did you do? You cannot help but think of them, think of your home and your loved ones. Of where you came from, and how it made you what you are.

The advocate seeks to understand you, and where you come from. You can feel it, that overwhelming Acceptance and love from it, even as you reminisce, compelled to answer the multitude of questions, you can feel something building behind you, around you. “Don’t you want them all to understand this?” the impression is given through communion, and you cannot help but answer: yes.

Click your Heels together, Dorothy!

As you awake for the first time, it’s alien, the world that meets you. New smells fill your nostrils, new sights, the gravity is perhaps different than you’ve gotten used to on Kenos, even those slight shifts enough to make the world feel wholly different. You remember the advocate’s words, and it wants you to feel what it feels. Understanding. Compassion, and perhaps there is a sense that doing so would hurt yourself in turn, if you understood too much. That is the advocate’s way, after all, isn’t it?

You feel an inexorable, slight tug in your chest. Something subtle and gentle, the slightest of sensations, that gives you a direction. You know it, your mind only just now comprehending the advocate’s confusing impressions via communion, that there is something of this world’s… Soul/center/heart or whatever word you want to use for it. Something about this world that will help you along your path, and help you with the results you so desire. You know it will not guarantee a victory, but surely it will help. Especially as your numbers dwindle from world to world. You are left with an impression from the Advocate -- if you die, they cannot bring you back. There is apology in this, but alone, one oracle is limited. Only united, can they truly change your fate.

The lingering presence of the advocate starts to fade. You know this is a bearer’s world, if not your own. You look around, to see perhaps a familiar face nearby? Or perhaps you are alone. Does it matter? You know that this place belongs to a bearer, but whether they are a friend or an enemy, one has to begin to determine that. You’ll need your wits, you’ll need your strength and resolve to make it to the end of this, won’t you?

After all, as bearers were recently reminded: this is War. This is not simply the fate of this world, but perhaps all, as it will require you to find the answer to this question. So you start to move, you start to look around, explore, and search. For the soul of each world, for the bearers that lie dreaming within, and your foes that will seek you out. Stay steadfast, for the way out will come, if you make it to the end. The longer you spend in each world, however, the more the shadows look darker, and deeper. Hungrier. The more the spaces seem smaller or compressed. As if there is something gnawing away at the sides, making their way to the heart.

Around the world in 60 seconds 12 hours

When you find yourself at the end, when you close your eyes – only a blink, but it hangs, as if the momentary motion is enough to suspend you into a suspended space before. You can see the two options stretched out before you – metaphysically – the impression of it. A long, long shadow cast over one. As if there is a presence hovering over and above, like waiting jaws, ready to strike. In the other, there remains…nothing. It is not pleasant, it is not comforting, it simply… is. A sense that there is now a lack of anything, almost like it had never existed before.

Does this world have value? You can feel the Advocate ask. Do you want to give them a chance to live? Or does should this world cease, is there nothing here to save?

And though you are compelled, required to answer, you know this question for what it is. Short-sighted. Both, in the end, will lead to its destruction, but which will you choose? Will you allow the world to continue, even with that long shadow cast, like a hungry beast with snapping jaws; or will you erase it from existence and spare it that oncoming apocalypse?

Catch [???] Winks

The last world’s fate decided, bearers float in an endless sea of stars. You can see them all, spread before you. Intermittently, they wink out, swallowed into the darkness, consumed as the shadows, that inky-black nothingness grows ever-larger. It looks upon you, bearers. It is nothing, but you have its attention, and your blood runs cold, your limbs frozen. You cannot move, you cannot speak, you cannot breathe. You feel it, the power of being drawn into it, like it wants to consume you. Like it knows you.

T̸̢̼̯͓̬̘́̀̋̆͊h̷͔̣̱̝͍̬̣͕̄̂͗̆͒͌͜ͅẹ̶̱̩̅͒̿̇͠ ̵̭̹͇͖̔̀ṃ̸̢̧͙̟̼̜͌͆̍͝͝ͅo̴̟̞̓̆̇̐̆͊̽͆̂̀r̶͈̺̮̠͙̗͌ę̸̤̻̈́͐͂̓̊͐̂͆ ̵̡̛͎̩̳̤͔͚̱̼̆̒̓y̴̺̞̹̺̝̤͂ǫ̷̡̣̱̥͊̈́̓͑̕͘ű̵̼͜͜ ̶̨̨̝̟̘̱͇̲̻̪̊͂̽̈̒͊f̴̱̐͌̌̓̋̔́̀͝i̶͖̤͎̬̝̦͒̂g̸̳̰̟̀̓̽̈́̐h̸̼͍̮͎̊̅͗͊̈͋̽̀͘t̴͔͚́̓,̷̨̧̱̠̙̠̙̱̒̍̽̾ ̷̖̰̼̬̟͐̊̂t̶̖̄͂̅̃̍͐̊̑̅͜͝h̴̢̛͙̪̞̫̝̺̋̅̿͛̇̚͝͝ͅͅȩ̶͉̤͍̠́̈͑̏͋̚͘͝ ̸̢̨̧͚̖̤̪̬̪̀̉̐͗̂͆͑̚̕̚c̴̠̩̳͎̲̪͔̟̈́͂̉͑́l̶̡̲̻̣̘̏́ͅo̶̢̧͔͈̬̳̰͈̝̻͌̋̆̃͒͗̏͘ş̴̪̺̣̥̎̽̿͗̒́͛̕̚̚e̴̺͍̤͖͂̇͑͂̋͂̆̾r̴̨̩̈́͋͠ ̷̧͚̲̩̖̋͒̉́͗y̶̘̖̝̑̈͊ǒ̵͚̽u̵͎͍̇̀̏̊̕͝ŕ̷͎̜̘͙̀̋ ̶͇̲̝̞̖̝̣̘̝̬͋d̷͔͈͔̀̿õ̴̝̯͇̹̘̏͗͜ö̵͚͓͆m̵͉̦̫̥̦̞̫͐̆͐̿͊͒͌͋͜.̷̼͈̻̥̜̾̏͐̾̐͆͘͜

You gasp, as you startle awake, and open your eyes for the first time in a long time.

CODING

Comments

:catscream:

[faceripper]

[ Fane looks back towards Drizzt as he speaks, and as has been the case every time since he'd (foolishly, perhaps) undone his manacles, he feels the phantom tightness in his chest that's... Troubling. He's not so ignorant to his own feelings to not know what it means, but it's terribly, terrible inconvenient. He'd had this burgeoning feeling in getting to know Ifan, and it's the same now. His heart wars against what he feels he must do.

He watches the touch of Drizzt's hand against his hand, and he feels the reflexive spark of bitterness that always happens. He was never someone that desired touch all that strongly before, but now...

He draws his hand away, but it's gently, not a flinch. He reaches into the bag at his side and starts to rummage through it. ]

...It's beautiful. It's not what I imagined of the Veil, and I don't think that's exactly what this is. But it feels similar.

[ He sees what he's digging for, and he feels just a bit shy to grasp it, but... After a pause, he pulls out a glove that's been repurposed as a bag. It's the best protective barrier he'd had at hand, so he reaches into it and pulls out— A Shard. It looks familiar, because of course it would. It's so similar to the one Drizzt has, after all, and Fane's bony hands barely obscure it.

He looks back to Drizzt and pauses. Like those manacles, this feels like maybe something he shouldn't do. But he offers it to Drizzt all the same. ]

...I wish I would have seen the Spine of the World. It sounds beautiful too.

[ And implicit in holding this out now... He'd seen Drizzt's city and found it a bad place, to say the least. ]

[twohand]

How did you imagine the veil, hm?

[ Drizzt's tone is warm and sweet, his interest in Fane a brilliant little mote of genuine sentiment. He has no ill-will in him towards the scholar, though disappointment still wars within him now that he's aware of his participation in the weapon that had burned the Manor to the ground. It is a complexity he lives with, day to day, rather than thinking too hard on it — he wants to give Fane the benefit of trust and forgiveness, after all.

Especially because Fane had vouched for him, taken him protectively under his own mantle as a Meridian-aligned Shard-Bearer just before Zenith had attacked the city. It must have looked bad for him, to have done that. ]

I could show you my memories of it, any time. Communion offers such a colorful and intense way of immersion one another, and even if we're... not adequate to one another, I wouldn't mind braving Discord to let you see whatever you want.

[ Fane has something in hand, though. A delicate, four-pointed Shard that looks just like his own, moon-pale and pretty; he reaches for it with both hands, curling his fingers through Fane's to gently leverage it into his palms and oh, oh. Oh. It feels more than familiar, it feels like him. The casual presence of himself rests against his skin, and prickles in the depths of his mind like a siren call and a warning all the same. It makes him feel nauseous and longing all at once. ]

Fane. [ Slowly, he looks up through pale lashes, expression bereft and punched out all at once. ] I felt this in the Lake. You... you dove for it?

[faceripper]

[ Fane considers the question and the offer to share with a pensive hum. The Veil is… difficult to explain, because he’d spent mortal lifetimes trying to find the words to describe it. Their words feel so clumsy and ill-fitting to the power and beauty of it, so he does stumble a bit over that. Indeed, if he could only show it to Drizzt, that would be better, but he only has his imagination there.

…It’s why he goes with the practical, ultimately. Even if he’s a researcher of the arcane and the impossible, he still prefers easy, tangible things, in a way. This Shard that he’d collected is actually convenient in the fact that it’s kind of both. ]

Oh, “dove” makes it sound more dramatic than it was.

[ The soft expression of surprise makes Fane retreat to what he knows best: biting, dismissive sarcasm. He waves his other hand lightly to match his tone. ]

No, I simply walked. There are some benefits to be had when you’re in this state, at least. No lungs means no drowning. It’s not the first time I’ve just waltzed my way along the floor of— Well, the last time it was an ocean, but the point remains. And anything that dwells in the depths isn’t so interested in you when you’ve nothing for them to eat.

[ …Of course, what he’d seen at the bottom of the lake was far more grotesque than the Joy sinking. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise with how brutal Drizzt’s city seemed to be, but... He’d felt nothing when corpses from the ship en route to the Joy had floated around him. Stepping down into those macabre depths had been much more sobering, and it’s nothing he’s inclined to speak of readily. It’s not for himself, though. That’s a horror he’d readily bear rather than tell Drizzt more of it. If he knows what’s there, then the stories surely had to be enough.

He draws his hand away, but his attention remains on the Shard in Drizzt’s hands. It’s potentially because it’s easier to look at than his face. ]

Well, I was hoping it was the world’s, but… It wasn’t. [ He would have crushed it, and it would have been the only one. So far, it’s the only one he’s consigned to the Void too. ] I… did not know what to do with it. Nor did I think that was my choice to make.

[twohand]

Bit dramatic to just take a stroll into a lake, too.

[ Underpinning all of Drizzt's gentleness is a sweet sort of sarcasm, the kind born of ribbing one another over long, warm meals and habitual yarn-spinners recounting tales of glory at increasingly false heights. ( Regis, he can remember sighing, belly warm and back braced against the strong line of Wulfgar's side, that silver tongue of yours will forever get you into trouble. To which the halfling would merely gesture with open hands and spread arms to the figures around him and cry: Of course! And why else would I keep your company, if not to bail me out in a pinch! )

It stings, like dawn through the glimmering dew in a sunny vale; beautiful to look upon, and fleeting. He is not a very good elf, sometimes, forgetting that his longevity means he would always, always have outlived the Companions of the Hall. That he is still a young thing, however old and tired he feels.

It's easy to fall into warm familiarity with Fane. He's not a hard man to want to draw close to, in his layers of cloth and inscrutable face — it makes Drizzt want to study him more, since he does not have facial muscles and skin to assist him in understanding Fane's moods. Nor does that stop him from trying. ]

I think that one was near to Narbondel, then. This one... ah, this one being in the Lake must mean —

[ She drowned me, he thinks suddenly, shocked by the fact that he feels surprised or pained at all. It must have been Malice who had done it, upon his birth. Or perhaps later on, a rival had overcome him. Perhaps Briza, or cunning Maya.

Drizzt's eyes briefly unfocus, his mind swimming like a low drone as he thinks: Or Vierna. Zak. ]

I was [ hated? used? spurned? bred for death? ] lucky to acquire the skills to survive my birth family, because I was not "a proper drow". You may have seen, but... my kind worshipped a goddess who molded us through generations to hate and isolate, for her pleasure. I still found ways to love them. And to survive my love.

[ "Surviving" his love is integral to him, sad as it seems.

Ever-so carefully, he reaches for Fane's hand, to draw it back to the delicate shard in his palm and encourage him to touch it. Then, to touch the one higher, set at the center of Drizzt's own brow — and from there: the purity of sensation. Gratitude and affection. ]

— actually, it's funny... [ And he rifles through one of his own hip satchels, drawing forth the onyx statuette of Guenhwyvar from a cushioned, velvet-lined pouch and with it... a Shard. One that echoes Fane's own, too. ]

I thought the same thing as you, of this. Dear friend, might I return it to you?

[faceripper]

[ Drizzt’s sarcasm is met with a little “hmph” but even short, it’s easy to hear the smile in it. Drizzt isn’t wrong, for one, but this is the kind of gentle ribbing he does take well. Lohse and Sebille had always been much more pointed in how they gave Fane a hard time (which he very much deserved), but this gentler sort is another little trait that reminds Fane of Ifan. He might have a type, but he’s very much ignorant of it…

But Drizzt’s explanation makes that warmth invisibly fade. It’s not a surprise, exactly. It’d been a brutal place and one that Fane really had no context for at all. Rivellon may be a shithole and its people ignorant jackasses, but they still weren’t Drow. Or rather, proper Drow, now that Drizzt puts the point on it that he’s indeed not like them. ]

I did see. It was…

[ He starts to say, and there’s open concern in his voice, but he doesn’t interrupt further. Reflexively, he doesn’t know how Drizzt could find way to love them, but it is only that. When he considers it just a moment more, he understands. When he’d first mulled over the idea of saving his people, it had occurred to him that it was all his people, even the ones he’d disliked for stakes that now seemed petty. Even his King that had wronged him so. It’s different, of course, but there’s a similarity he sees that quiets the first impulse.

Fane’s mind is movingly quickly, since he’s not sure what to say to it either. He’s sorry that Drizzt had to live in a place like that or that he’s glad that Drizzt was not a proper Drow. That of all the worlds they’ve visited so far, that was the only one that Fane had decided to let go.

But those uncertain thoughts are set aside when Drizzt guides his hand. He’s confused at first, since he doesn’t understand the gesture until he moves his hand to his actual Shard. It’s a case where the sensation itself isn’t even necessary. He feels the gratitude and accepts it with ease, since that part is simple. He’d returned it because it seemed like the right thing to do, and he would have done so for most Shard-Bearers. But the affection…

He moves his hand so that he can grip Drizzt’s hand gently, if only for a moment. He has affection of his own, but he’s a bit afraid of letting that be as open and earnest as Drizzt’s. So, it’s a touch given in return. It’s not the first time, but again, he wishes so badly that he could feel the other man’s hand. So, he’s a bit glad that it’s brief. The sting of lacking that connection never seems to abate, and so he readily turns his attention towards— ]

Ah.

[ Ironically, that lament is rather quickly follow by being glad for his state, because he’d surely blush to have this “gift” follow those feelings. But he laughs for the ridiculous coincidence of it, and he reaches out to grab his own Shard and inspect it. It’s a different shape, like it was meant to be set in a slightly differently shape inlay on his skull, but the color is identical. ]

I fear reading too much into the fact that we found each other’s Shards, but— Ha, what a silly thing. I imagine you had no more pleasant a time on Bloodmoon Island to obtain it than I did yours.

[twohand]

Mm, the Island wasn't the best representation of your world — but, it was part of it. Raphael and I tried to find your world shard, but I ended up with this one instead.

[ Which is to say, they worked together to find something, and Drizzt had been fully prepared to have to fight the devil if he turned out to want to lay his devious little hands on any part of Fane's world, or soul. He didn't have to, in the end, but he'd been ready to put the only other individual from his realm to the blade, both for Fane and for his own goals. His relationship with Fane was part of that difficult task, after all. Something he wasn't keen on destroying or sacrificing, but — only because the idea of "saving him" was still aligned with having him.

He peers at Fane's Shard, eyes traveling from its shape to the one embedded in his skull. Drizzt might not be a Savant, but he was curious and sought to understand all that he could. ]

I'm well-versed in demon-slaying, which made it a little easier to navigate. I thought we would make a go at the Advocate... but, there was a little kitty that coaxed me to the tombs instead. I put as many to rest as I could — I had to, with what little information was available to me, it was important to act.

[ He's not one to hesitate, after all. If he was wrong, he pays penance deeply and truly, and lives with the consequences... but he does not hold back from making a decision, just because he doesn't have all the information. That had led his plea to Meridian, after all. A call to do something difficult, for the sake of the people. ]

What do you want done with it?

[faceripper]

[ He’d frown deeply if he could to hear that Raphael was involved, but it just makes him all the more grateful that Drizzt had been the one to have it in the end. Whether his world or his Shard, the idea of Raphael having either unsettles him just a bit… But it matters not, he thinks. It’s in his hand now, and that’s what matters. ]

It’s a miserable place. I couldn’t begrudge anyone if they decided to consign Rivellon for that island alone.

[ What to do with it… That, he doesn’t know. So, he explains the story of Bloodmoon Island first, as if that would give him extra time to think about that bigger question. ]

It’s worse still for being able to see and talk to the spirits there. Not one of them has a happy story, but I suppose that’s to be expected from a land where the island itself was essentially possessed. Why they buried an elf there when her soul was tainted, I don’t know, but it was a worse place for it. I can only be grateful that she at least knew the name of the demon possessing Lohse. I was hoping for more when I meet her again, but no such luck.

[ Fane sighs, though he’s also skipping over part of the explanation here… The giant, sick looking tree in the center of the island was the elf, but surely, Drizzt knew that. He at least looks elven to Fane. His home was a strange place, but much like Drizzt hadn’t seen all of Rivellon, he assumes the same in reverse.

Or: cultural differences aren’t something Fane picks up easily.

He looks back down to the Shard. It hadn’t quite given him the time to get to a better answer after all. ]

…I do not know, though. I feel as if I should keep it, if only because I do not understand it. Destroying something you don’t understand is the mark of a fool, but I am suspicious of it.

[twohand]

Well. Were I to condemn your home for but one experience I had with it, I would be a hypocrite. I mean — you saw Menzoberranzan.

[ And surely Fane was of the mind to treat Drizzt's difficult homeland the same way as he was going to treat every other world! 8)

Gently, he cups his hands around the back of Fane's own, folding them around bone. There is nothing to the man, he's full of holes and made of a too-slender existence that incites the most protective urgency within Drizzt. Fane is curious and driven, wonderfully intelligent and creative — and he worries for his mental wellbeing all the time. There is something painfully fragile about it, like one truth that does not align with his goals will shatter him into pieces. ( The thought of Fane falling chokes the drow, seizes his throat in a hot fist and staggers him. He cannot let that happen. )

He can imagine the agents of Lolth treating a surface elf the way that Fane describes; torturing them through life and death, until their longevity was a cursed stain upon all that touched the land they were left to poison. A bit like most drow, he thinks. ]

Why suspicious? It feels like you. So faint and small, but I could tell it was you.