faderift | OPEN: Kirkwail

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In that instant, when the spirit hears the name it's shaped itself to and echoes back warmth, Myr understands with sudden clarity what bonds spirit healers to their partners. It's not knowledge he's ever wanted or sought and it sits uncomfortably in his chest: That, that feeling of acceptance of what was and surety in the object of belief--things he's felt only in extended supplication to the Maker-- It's there any time one might want, with a spirit.

He does not trust it, isn't sure he likes it for all he's glad of it in this moment. But for all that the spirit that echoes Sarenrae doesn't set his teeth on edge the way others do--

Because it's brought a look to Six's face he hasn't ever seen before; because with her, the spirit's presence seems wholly, deeply right. He looks between the two of them once more before touching hand to heart in the spirit's direction. "She is lovely--and fits well at your side."

There is a flicker of movement in the stacks. Myr makes the mistake of letting his eye be drawn and glances over just as a wet and smacking entity, like a living cancerous pile of viscera, pours itself down the shelves in a sickening tide. He flinches with his whole body, averting his gaze and fisting his hands in his robe to keep them occupied.

Six knows, logically, that it's not truly Sarenrae. It's not the same God that she had known at home, not the being that had guided and supported her for years, but it is a mirror image, a reflection, nothing more than that. There is no doubt in her mind that this spirit is doing something good and that is what makes her feel better; it makes her feel as though she can have faith in this spirit rather than deny it as one of the ghosts milling around the Gallows.

It is Faith, similar to the one she had seen of Christine's, who had defended her from despair. Six holds her had up and does not let herself feel any shame because there is none to be given. Perhaps she should cast down the false image of her God, but she thinks that Sarenrae would understand. She would recognise what is being done here.

"I fit well at hers," Six corrects gently, shaking her head. "Sarenrae is a bright light, the holy fire, and she seeks redemption for anyone that is willing to accept her hand. If not then they are given her judgement." Turning her head, she follows Myr's gaze, frowning sharply and stepping forward, armour clinking.

"They will not harm you." She moves forward, lifting her blade, and Sarenrae comes to her side, wings aloft. "Do not let them sink into your mind. I am here and I will protect you."

It isn't what it was then, Myr reminds himself, putting all the considerable focus he has into that. Into listening to Six's reassurance, and noting every single thing around them that makes this different from Hasmal Circle of four years past. He's awake and lucid; he'd been nightmare-wracked then. This is Kirkwall's library, not Hasmal's forecourt. There is no crowd of defenders or fleeing rebels; there's only Six and an echo of her god. This isn't then.

This isn't then. This isn't then. Myr swallows thickly and shuts his eyes against nearby motion as the thing draws inexorably closer. Draws itself up in a way that hurts the eye and wavers there as a fleshy peduncle as Six steps forward, tipping the top part of its mass to and fro as if considering her. It does not come any closer but neither does it retreat.

"They didn't." Myr's voice is little more than a husk even for all the effort he's putting into not shutting down. Not running again. Trust Six. Have faith. This isn't then. "They didn't hurt me. Last time."

He'd done all that himself. "--What else does she ask of you? Sarenrae. Tell me again."

Six does not understand the depth of this, she thinks. The haunting Adrian had given her was nothing compared to what Myr was suffering from - it's clear that what is happening to him is a depth of pain that she cannot fathom. The guilt that eats at her for one life was something she could overcome; not that she thinks herself somehow stronger than her friend, somehow more powerful in spirit, but because she knew Adrian so deeply and intimately she could not allow the spirit to hurt her for long. It was not real; he was not real.

At least this is something she can do. She does not have the powers she once had, but she has a mirror of her God at her side, a mirror of something worth her respect and trust. Her head tilts up as she watches - and for a moment, blazing with the sun of Faith at her side, she looks the Paladin she had once been. Her head tilts, her sword is raised, and she watches, making sure it does not come any closer, making sure it does not dare to press too harshly on Myr.

"And they will not this time, either. I will not allow it. You do not deserve to suffer and I shall guard against what you cannot fight." Facing demons or spirits is difficult enough; facing ones that know you...

Turning back, her voice softens, her eyes flicking between him and the spirit.

"That I guard those that cannot guard themselves. That I redeem those that can be brought back to the Light, and harm only when redemption is no longer an option."

OPEN: Kirkwail

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