Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2019-05-15 11:04 am
faderifting) wrote in faderift2019-05-15 11:04 am
Entry tags:
- ! open,
- alexandrie d'asgard,
- bastien,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- darras rivain,
- isaac,
- julius,
- kostos averesch,
- matthias,
- nell voss,
- wysteria de foncé,
- yseult,
- { anders },
- { athessa },
- { charles vane },
- { ilias fabria },
- { kenna carrow },
- { lakshmi bai },
- { leander },
- { magni an forleif o talonhold },
- { thor }
EVENT: TRUTH BOMB
WHO: Anyone
WHAT: TRUTH BOMB
WHEN: Bloomingtide 15-17
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC information. Use appropriate content warnings in your subject lines, please.
WHAT: TRUTH BOMB
WHEN: Bloomingtide 15-17
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC information. Use appropriate content warnings in your subject lines, please.
It’s an ordinary day—so not a very pleasant one. The weather is dreary and muggy, and the day’s lunch is a soup that’s a little too watery and bland. The griffons are being their usual level of noisy and swoopy. The work is its usual level of urgent and difficult.
But in the storage rooms, something wiggles. Then it hums. Then it pops.
Outside of the storage room, there’s no actual sound, no shift in the wind, and no visible sign of a change. But the pop might be felt—like the moment something finally clicks, or two ideas suddenly fit together, except the opposite. In the heads of everyone in the fortress, something is suddenly not connected quite right.
The first sign of what’s gone wrong is that someone immediately stands up and tells the cook how bad the soup is.
A lot of people’s days are about to get exponentially worse.
But in the storage rooms, something wiggles. Then it hums. Then it pops.
Outside of the storage room, there’s no actual sound, no shift in the wind, and no visible sign of a change. But the pop might be felt—like the moment something finally clicks, or two ideas suddenly fit together, except the opposite. In the heads of everyone in the fortress, something is suddenly not connected quite right.
The first sign of what’s gone wrong is that someone immediately stands up and tells the cook how bad the soup is.
A lot of people’s days are about to get exponentially worse.
Matthias || open, close-to-middling
During mealtimes, the dinning hall is always found to be full of commotion--so that's not changed. But today the air feels different. And the commotion is different, too.
"Oh, piss off, would you, the food's not even that bad, you've not had proper bad food--at least it's fresh, isn't it, not grown eyes or chockablock full of insects--you're all a load of spoilt children for carrying on like this--what're you looking at, wanker, eyes on your own plate--"
Matthias grabs a breadroll off the table and lobs it at whatever person he's determined to be looking at him the wrong way. He's not done. His next volley is a handful of soup, which is only lukewarm, lucky for him, so it doesn't burn his hand--and he needs it to throw at his target, anyways, so even if it was hot he'd still weaponize it--no matter if it runs down his arm and gets all over the innocent bystanders.
It's a food fight, is what it is. Madness.
ii- ferry dock.
Evening is closing in, drawing its curtain and purpling the sky. The shadows get longer; the water looks darker. Across the way, the lights of Kirkwall proper are glittering.
Tucked into his hiding place, Matthias eyes are also glittering. It's not even that ingenious of a place to hide. He could be found fairly easily, if someone was really looking. There's a post of of stone with a beam driven into it, and a lantern on a hook on that beam. The post has barrels grouped around it, clustered tight like chicks around a broody, and Matthias is tucked among them like a foundling, scrawny enough that fits. He watches the lights, he watches the water--he watches the ferry, bobbing at the other dock, the one that would let off in Kirkwall. He waits.
And then, when it's dark enough, and it seems that no one else is around: he unfolds, emerges from his hiding place, his dark cloak helping to hide him but doing nothing to disguise the shape of his staff, which he has (as usual) strapped to his back. But he can't very well leave it behind, can he? So he's got it, and he grips at the strap that holds it in place as he stands at the edge of the dock, a few moments too long, screwing up his courage, and then--with a splash--jumps in to the water.
Of course, there's likely a guard posted. So what.
iii- courtyard.
"Hey, fuck you!"
Matthias, sodden and damp, is in trouble. This might actually be his third attempt to swim for it, so it's proper trouble this time. But he seems disinclined to be cowed, at all, by this danger, and is complaining, loudly, as he's led dripping across the cobblestones.
"Fuck you, you fucking fucks--hope your fathers dicks rot off and your mothers go to early graves out of shame for what you've all turned out to be--I'm allowed to leave if I want to, this is bloody imprisonment, just 'cause-- I don't even bloody well know any secrets, all right, and besides, I thought we were all about freedom and all, aren't we? Not this, this is idiotic, I can leave if I want--"
All this and more as he's pulled away to cool down somewhere. But not without a fight, which, as he breaks free--he's not tied up or anything, just being frog-marched along, and perhaps that was the mistake--and hauls off to punch the face in of one of his captors. Or a bystander, even. Might be anyone, really.
III
"If you ruin my face I'll bury you," comes the perhaps too-frank admonishment, and Benedict tosses his hair, straightening out his robes. "You can't leave, we're cursed. As usual. When are we not cursed."
no subject
Still. As his punch gets batted aside, he feels the immediate urge to punch, again. Withstands it, at least for the moment, and lets his sulky glare stand as his first act of retaliation. It's not as effective as perhaps it ought to be. Soaking wet, he looks like a drowned rat. Even so--
"You couldn't." This prick? Bury him? Better have tried and failed, obviously, because Matthias is still here. "If we're cursed, why are they not trying to break the bloody curse, instead of quarantining us, keeping us locked up--no one keeps me locked up--"
no subject
Glancing the boy up and down, he scoffs. "What is there to lock up, anyway? They could just feed you to the cats."
no subject
And to make it worse, this particular wanker--who is likely some Someone, Matthias has seen his sort before, all swotty and jumped-up and looking down their noses, well good for him, see how far it gets him--thinks that he's funny. Matthias sneers right back at him.
"What's that s'pposed to mean, anyways. Is it an insult? Not a very good one. Been cursed with shit-for-brains, have you."
no subject
Seemingly impervious to the insults in respond, Benedict at least isn't having that good of a time talking down to the fighty lad.
no subject
Sullenly, he grabs at the bottom of his shirt and twitches it, trying to shake some of the water from it. This method might be more effective if he wasn't completely and utterly soaked through. There's enough water on him to fill a wash basin. Stray droplets spatter the paving stones and also Benedict.
"You're seriously all right with just waiting about for someone to fix the problem for you?"
no subject
"Oh, I-- yes. Yes, I am."
no subject
This is not really much different than what he'd say under normal circumstances. Matthias repeats the twitching movement with his shirt. This time, it's more deliberate.
no subject
"Have fun."
no subject
And even as Benedict is turning away, he's flicking more water at him, obnoxious. This time he tries aiming high, shoulders, hair--hair would be best, he's got nice hair, such a shame to see it all damp--
no subject