faderift | war table: strangers in the mirror.

Entry tags:

war table: strangers in the mirror.

WHO: Closed to the gang
WHAT: Delving into the temple of Dirthamen in search of artifacts, Riftwatch finds that the temple demands more than they seek. But what else is new?
WHEN: Cloudreach
WHERE: Arlathan Forest, within the temple of Dirthamen, Elven God of Secrets and Knowledge
NOTES: OOC post.

You stand before it, a glow emanating from its smooth surface, a perfectly round sphere whose warmth bathes your face and hands in light. Around you are veiled faces in hoods, heads bowed in reverence, and a murmur of chanting echoes, overlapping, like the clashing of tides. Your hovered hands drift apart in a slow and elegant motion, and you can only faintly see it, the lines of magic you draw between your fingers, like faint golden cobwebs of shivering power.

They tremble between your fingers, they shiver, and they bend towards the orb. You must master it so it does not, in its wisdom and hunger, take from you what you're not willing to give, but you are well trained, you are beyond compare, and you will give only what you will.

The chanting rises, and the orb pulses with light. You focus, and the magic drawn between your fingers pulls away from it, arcs around in loops. It feels akin to reining a wild horse or mastering the lines affixed to the sails of a ship in a storm or pulling taut a bowstring.

And your control slips. Or you set something free. Either way, your hands come down on the surface of the orb, and it burns you alive.

...

The fading impression of this memory glimmers in your mind.

And nothing else. Where are you? What are you doing? Why do you wield this blade in your hand, or lay here with your bare throat offered to another's? You don't so much awake; you become aware of yourself, cold and aching and tired, and as you try to assess the situation and evaluate the motivations of the weary, filthy strangers that surround you, you wait for context to return, but it never does. You reach backwards for memory, for anything, encountering only the image of the glowing orb before you, and the way it had burned you with the things it knows when you touch it.

But there are more pressing matters to resolve.

After the initial confusion and chaos, all that is left to do is assess the place you are in, and decide what next to do. To escape, perhaps, or, some niggling part of you wonders, find the location of the glowing orb, which you know, deep down, is somewhere in this place.

The Temple of Dirthamen

Not that you know its name.

This place feels like an underground palace, sunken deep inside the earth, grand chambers that connect to one another with various passageways, tunnels, and staircases. Light sources come from your flaming torches or travel-sized lanterns hanging off your belt, or the occasional luminescence from green-glowing runic engravings on tiled walls, or the faint glow of a green miasma that lingers in hallways and chambers. There are walls set with elaborate mosaics, and great statues depicting twin figures, one of them cloaked in shadow and the other more detailed, and creatures such as ravens, always a pair, or the arching legs of a giant spider.

As intentionally built as it is, it is also half-wild. There are chambers that seemed carved directly into rock, and floors of rough natural stone. It is not, however, all intentional. You will find the frames of stone archways set directly into rough rock, or stairwells that lead nowhere but directly into cave wall, as if the earth had grown around it.

Despite this oddity, it is a beautiful and grand place, but clearly one steeped in ancient neglect, with flooded chambers, moss-riddled stairwells, crumbled stone, and the smell of rot and dust.

Traversing this place, however, is a challenge in and of itself, hostile to the strangers that crawl through its catacombs. Not only will you find whole pathways blocked with crumbled stone, or rooms that require you to swim through them to get to the other side, or a strangely angled corridor that forces you to climb up its craggy surface, the building itself is intentionally guarded against intruders in a myriad of passive ways. Traps trigger when a previously unnoticed puzzle is left ignored or incomplete, or doors refuse to open without the presence of a key in spite of there being no discernible lock. Some of these you may be able to solve, some will force you to double back.

You are also not alone. Out the corner of your eye, the presence of spirits dart in and out of the catacombs, and occasionally, you hear the ominous chittering sound of many-legged beasts that put you to mind of all those giant spider statues.

Some places you may encounter in your blind journey forwards:

THE QUEEN'S LAIR: You don't know how it happened, but the ground gives beneath you and whoever you are with, sliding without dignity down the abruptly steep angle of not-quite-smooth-enough rock. You land with a violent tumble upon surprisingly soft, spongy ground—fungus, moss, mud, deep puddles. As you look around, you see the large stone chamber you are in is lit with a sort of ambient bioluminescence of green miasma, showing up the sight of thick patches of cobweb strung between pillars, statues, hanging from loops from the ceiling. You see bundles blanketed in web, tellingly humanoid in size and general shape and, thankfully, perfectly still. The smell of dust and old decay in the air makes you hopeful that perhaps this place is more tomb than nest, until you see the way the giant cobwebs around you begin to sway. Looking up, through the miasma, the shadowy shapes of dog-sized spiders begin to pluck their way down. And you think you see, far above, the unmoving shape of a truly colossal spider resting high above. At least, you hope it's unmoving. You have two choices: take your chance in trying to scramble back up the steep incline you fell down, despite slippery rock, or brave the chamber and try to make your way in deeper in search of the gated archway on the other side that you will only know is there when you find it. Or the secret third choice of being eaten by spiders.

THE RED REVELRY: You and your companions, such as they are, find yourselves at the entryway of a great chamber. The walls glow with a faint blue-green light, only barely illuminating the wide open space. The open tiled ground is littered in debris, some of it crumbled rock, and some of it, ancient shattered skeleton, scraps of cloth, the evidence of many corpses that have long since decomposed to nothing but dry bone, dull jewelry, and the rotted remains of their clothing. Unpleasant, but unless you wish to yet again double back, the only way forward is through, and you do see another archway towards the back. However, the moment you step into the room, your mind fogs over. The room fills with golden light, laughter, music, and a swirling crowd of elven folk. You are in the midst of a revelry, and your heart feels light and joyous. One offers you a goblet of wine, another bids you to dance with them, another offers to share from a platter of fruit. The room is also surrounded by tall men and women of more serious demeanor, dressed in rich ornamental armor, dark cloaks, armed with curved blades, and you barely notice the sound of metal on leather as they all at once draw them. You do notice, however, as the screams begin, as blood begins to spatter, as the ring of guards begin to systematically cut down each reveler in arms reach. Now would be a good time to remember that none of this is real, but as you can't quite shake the immersive experience of a panicked grip to your arm or the visceral sensation of wet arterial spray spattering against your armor, it might be best to run for the next door before you find out otherwise.

Optional dice roll: A d20 roll of 16 or higher has you break the illusion, safely restoring the chamber around you to the dark dusty tomb full of unmoving skeletons. A result between 10 and 15 means you are still immersed in the illusion but you have your wits, and, with focus, are able to move through the figures as though they aren't there, but may still struggle. A result between 5 and 9 means you are too immersed, and the crush of the crowd is preventing you from running, and if a guard with a blade strikes you, you will be injured. You may need help. A result between 1 and 4: oh my god all of this is real and you're going to die unless someone drags you out of here. Otherwise, choose your own result, no dice no masters.

THE PATH OF THE SIGHTLESS: The broad hallway you approach is tiled with jade, with an atmospheric light coming down from the tall arched ceiling. Up ahead, the road is strange. The tiles are grey stone and then foot-square tiles of dull gold or similar metal. Upon stepping into the corridor, you will find that your vision is gone, cloaking you in darkness. To anyone else, standing outside of the corridor, they can see within it and you perfectly fine. What's more, any step you take that is not on one of the shining tiles, comes with a consequence: a psychic kind of torment that feels like a swarm of ravens invading your mind. They tear and claw, a physical sort of headache-like pain that becomes quickly overwhelming and paralysing, leaving you cold and shaking. What's more, this assault has things to say. Although you do not remember anything of yourself, these ravens seem to know. However, if you make it back onto a shining tile, or are close enough to one of the ends of the corridor to leave it, the torment will stop.

The idea here is that those with you will need to verbally guide your way through the corridor. If you are subjected to punishment for mis-stepping, the 'ravens' that flood your mind will pluck and claw at all the insecurities and fears you would have had if you remembered them. This is one way to get information about yourself, but as delivered through the bitchiest and harshest of critics. Your character will not be able to withstand it for long but will have difficulty hearing or moving, so feel free to assume they need extra assistance or manage to help themselves.

In general, feel free to find the kind of obstacles you might anticipate, such as ancient elven magic hopscotch, doors that only open if you pierce your hand on the knife-like protrusion where a handle should be, rooms full of wisps that taunt and mislead, platforms that require Big Jumps to get across or else you'll find yourself wet or on fire, Veilfire puzzle with tiles that ripple and shift, and so on.

There are also places of respite, ancient prayer rooms or barracks-like quarters, where you may discover the rations you have on you and get to know people who do not know themselves.

Strangers in the Mirror

Here is what you must bear in mind.

MEMORIES OF THE LIVING: Although you have no recollection of yourselves, recollection is not forever withheld. At any time, your mind may jerk towards an impression of something, clear as day. You may whole heartedly believe that you are recalling something of your own past, or it may be so incorrect that you are certain that this memory doesn't belong to you. These flashes come in moments of quiet, in looking upon the face of an ancient statue, or catching your reflection in a shining surface of water or metal or polished tile, or seeing the light in another's eyes.

If you happen to meet the person for whom these memories belong, you will know like a hook in your heart that this memory belongs to them. There is no way for you to give it the way you got it, for only the gods can parcel out memory and knowledge without the tools of language and writing, and so what you choose to do is yours to decide.

MEMORIES OF THE DEAD: There will be moments, likewise, when the memory of those long gone from this place invades your mind. However, they are not for you to know. At any point, you will find that you lose time, that a great stretch of blankness takes hold of your mind, and you come back to your own forgetful self in some other place, perhaps with entirely new company, performing some task you did not mean to begin: sweeping the floor, or kneeling before an altar, or sitting at a table prepared to eat a meal that is not there, or even once again about to slit the throat of a willing supplicant.

Use this mechanic to free up your character to pursue threads with others rather than only your home team. If you can also play out encountering someone in this fugue state or vice versa, in which they will be largely unresponsive, but seem to know their way around, completing their tasks, until they snap out of it.

And some general advice on your current affliction:

This is a fictional form of amnesia, so don't overthink it. Broadly, your character should instinctively know standard facts like what colour the sky is, even if they can't see any sky currently, or they may have an instinct towards certain skills they have practiced every day since childhood, like the yo-yo. However, knowledge of who they are, what their name is, where they've come from is completely lost on them.

More specific world facts like what the Chantry is, what a mage is, what a Ferelden is, you can be fast and loose with. If your character is deeply intimate with something like the Circle, they may roughly know of it in vague terms. Alternatively, if it's more fun if your mage doesn't even know that magic exists, then go with it.

Rifters from profoundly different worlds, like modern earth, can absolutely have a sense that they are in some kind of weird ancient world surrounded by old timey people. This is left to your discretion.

As far as what your character is like without their memories, again, this is up to you. They can be cluelessly the same, or exhibit hidden personality traits they ordinarily keep suppressed (or suppress ordinarily prominant instincts), or simply be fundamentally different without the burdens or highlights of their own lives to inform them. Are they friendlier? More vicious? Braver than usual? Less selfless, more? Whatever you like!

A Gift of Revelation

And then it ends.

Seemingly without ceremony, if you are far away from the thing that ends it. You feel a lurch and then it all comes flooding back: your name, your life, the mission, the people around you, the forward camp merely a few hours of travel outside the bounds of the temple you are in. You may be close enough to where you'd already started scouting before it all went foggy to make your way out easily, or you may be so immersed in the depths of the temple that your mission of trying to escape hasn't really changed, despite this context.

And yes, your sending crystal is still not working. Figures.

You still harbour the memories that you were given unbidden, even if they've lost their bright shine in the void, and you will still feel that sense of knowledge for whom they belong when you meet them next, if you are unable to work it out on your own.

Once out, the warmth of the Arlathan Forest greets you, and your crystal begins to flicker back to life once more. Truly, they don't pay you enough for this.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As you blink yourself into a void-like awareness of your very being, you find yourself in a cold, dark room, water soaking up through your boots. The chamber is small, dark, lit with burning orange torchlight with smoke that funnels out of dripping grates. It is half-flooded, six inches of murky water dark and inky, with the sound of running water filling their ears. One door leads out, a metal gate that has been chained closed.

You and the strangers around you all come to in a circle configuration, facing one another, with four on their knees, and four others standing behind them, in the following configurations:

Viktor is on his knees, with Jayce behind him, an old, chipped dagger held to his throat. Marcus is also kneeling in the water, offering his throat to Ellie behind him, who holds the ceremonial blade in place. Opposite them, kneeling, is Petrana, who wakes to the sensation of rusted blade held to her throat by Vanya, standing behind her. Lastly, to finish the circle, Redvers kneels in wait to make his sacrifice to the blade being held by Clarisse, standing behind him.

There is no lingering urge to make any deadly mistakes, everyone becoming aware of themselves peacefully, finding themselves posed but very much in control of their own will. And of course, with no memory as to how they got there.

Petrana de Cedoux would handle this moment a particular way.

Maybe not intentionally, but moulded by experience and long habit — she would hesitate, she would hold. She would focus herself upon de-escalation, acutely aware of her own limitations and the unknown quality of threat. She would be cautious, first, not unfamiliar with the sensation of a weapon so close to her own bared throat; she would think several steps ahead, think of preparing herself for them, think of what needs must follow.

She would be afraid, and she would swallow it.

The woman who wakes, a blade in a stranger's hand pressed to her throat, knows none of what would lead her absent self to those urgent conclusions, remembers none of the swift, urgent calculations that have become second nature. The blade is at her throat and panic rises underneath it and she throws her elbow, narrow and sharp and with all the force she's able to summon, directly behind her into Vanya's groin, using him for momentum to dip her head beneath the blade and scramble away from him through dirty water on the floor, a sudden riot of wet sounds.

The people who know Vanya Orlov might, from time to time, wonder if such a deliberate man is shaped mainly by innate temperament or by long training. It's the sort of question that would generally be impossible to answer, but classic fodder for the nature-or-nurture debate all the same.

However, there evidently is an answer after all. When Vanya comes to himself, it takes him a moment to evaluate the situation. The moment would have passed sooner than later, probably, except that Petrana's elbow finds its target first.

He doubles over. Two instincts, then, without thought: To hold the knife tighter, rather than drop it. To yell an expletive that nurture seems to have scrubbed from Vanya Orlov's vocabulary in public settings. He's trying to straighten even as he still sees stars, the need to assess what is going on pushing him past the immediate and arresting amount of pain.

The woman who does not remember what she has become — considers, seriously if briefly, going for the knife. Whatever attempts he's making at righting himself and gaining control of his situation — if not the situation — he is clearly struggling in the wake of impact, and her instinct is to press the advantage while she has it. On the other hand,

the grip he has on that knife looks not inconsiderable, and venturing back within knife-distance looks ill-advised. She settles instead for backing all the way up until she feels the cold, damp firmness of the wall behind her and saying,

“What is the meaning of this?”

with the kind of bred-in confidence in deserving an answer that she doesn't need to remember anything to call upon.

Finding himself without a sheath for the knife, he carefully slides it through his belt, where he can keep the hilt in place with his elbow while displaying his now empty hands. (If it incidentally makes it a little harder for her to make a grab for it, that's not the worst thing.)

"On Andraste, I don't know. I know it sounds mad." He doesn't try to close the distance she's created between them, only sparing a rough glance for the other pairs. "But I truly don't know. And surely if I were going to lie, I think of something less idiotic to say."

...he assumes. Maybe he's a bad liar, but he hopes if so it won't undercut his point.

How plainly unconvinced she is— obvious. Equally so: that I would think of a less idiotic lie than this is more compelling than any other argument he might have made for his truthfulness, in the moment, and her suspicion ... if it doesn't decrease, per se, then maybe she reconsiders her angle on it. The direction of her ire. The fact that she is no more certain that anyone else who was kneeling is on her side than anyone who was standing,

or of anything else, actually. What is this place? She doesn't know. Where was she meant to be—

she doesn't know.

“What do you remember?” she demands.

Golden threads whipping wild and free, an orb offering a give for a take. It takes and takes and--

--oh.

Like the bleary haze of waking from an unintended nap, he blinks several times, rolling his neck and shoulders as his peripheral nerves remind their brain of their position. His feet are cold. Why--? Because his boots are wet, is the deduction when he wiggles his toes. Gross.

Looking down, he finds not the cause of his wet boots first but a figure kneeled in front of him, chin held up by the fingers of his own left hand. Their skin feels terribly cool against his. Furthermore, he finds his other hand to be holding a dagger, its blunted, chipped edge whispering against their throat.

Oh. Oh, he is awake now.

"Oh, shit, I don't--" falls hastily from his lips as he withdraws a half-step backward, the sound of water rippling as his motion disturbs the surface. His right arm is held close, instinctively keeping the weapon close to his body to discourage the possibility of unintentionally harming another.

This is also the reason he doesn't automatically drop it.

"--are you okay?" he asks, honestly concerned enough to drop into a kneel beside them, water rippling further with the added mass. Unthinkingly, he places his hand on their bony shoulder.

Edited 2023-04-10 05:12 (UTC)

They tremble between his fingers, they shiver. His hands come down.

He is quiet as the knife leaves his throat with one minuscule scrape of blade's edge, a whisper of palpable sound that would ring if the room were silent. The closest shave of his life.

He is still as the water sloshes around his legs, his shoes full, a dull pain fading in beneath the hard, thick frame of his right knee. His awareness of it spreads through the rest of him, all ache, none of it a stranger.

A stranger kneels to him, and he looks, first to the earnest face, then to the knife's dull gleam, held close to the body like a secret. It casts a shadow on the heavy cut of his brow, on the deep-set eyes bright and sharp in their bruised sockets. Bony shoulder goes tense, rolls in movement, hand to hip. He feels an empty loop of leather; his finger goes in. To the water, then, dart his eyes and his hands both, to slosh around in panicked efficiency—

The roll of his would-be sacrifice's shoulder prompts him to release it. Startled by his sudden action, he draws his hand back in a fist that relaxes instantly. Glancing down at the murky water, how the orange flames flicker across its disturbed surface, he asks, "Did you-- Did you lose... some..."

The question trails off into a muted daze as the dark reflection of his figure coaxes forth a scene not dissimilar to the murkiness of now, a dark cavern where the pockets of violence now mimic the pockets of violence then, the assailants grotesque, but expected. Pulses of light, acidic green. A sudden, searing heat in his left hand. Two pale orbs rooted in inky black staring back at him as the pain pulsing through his arm mirrors that of his heart.

A soft gasp as the memory fades, clutching his left forearm close, hunched over the water that splashes against his legs as the scuffles continue.

Edited 2023-04-11 05:37 (UTC)

Don't, says the lean of his body, raised shoulders and suspicious brow. The relief of the stranger's wandering attention speeds his search. Something bumps, rolls away from his fingers. They snatch, miss, try again, catch and close around it. He sits down on his hip, in the water, and lifts what he's found: a metal rod, like a handle without a toolhead, luminous blue symbols etched up the length of it.

"Come," he says, in a ragged hush, while the inscriptions brighten in silent reply. His eyes are fixed on the man beside him—but the words are not for him. "Hurry."

Elsewhere, nearby: a turning helm, a rising light. Mechanisms spinning up. Heavy footfalls fill the corridor, raise ancient stone dust, crush fragments of debris.

The passing seconds see his glower take on a questioning tint, the rod tight in his hand.

"Fucking blood magic, Dickerson, really?"

—and other sentiments expressed by the various figures in the memory may be muted by the veritable kaleidoscope of arcane energies snarled across the flooded underground cavern in which the Rift is located. There's something innate in it, as if the owner of of the memory considers the cacophony of information (like observing the chaotic backside of embroidery) surrounding the Rift as perfectly average, but to the uninitiated it's dazzling.

"Has it worked, Mister Dickerson—?" the owner of the memory calls. Then the Rift at the center of the cave pulses bright hot and the anchor in her left hand answers it with a searing bolt of pain.

The rest of the memory is considerably more jumbled than it started: debilitating pain, the clamor of close voices. At some point the Rift is closed, maybe, in a vortex of liquid arcane filaments being sucked back into the Fade? "What happened," and "Miss Poppell?" and the world slanting bizarrely on its axis before two bright disk eyeballs appear to stare down at her across the smudge of someone's shoulder. They hang in a dark shape all shit through with filaments of magic, dark threads roughly assembled into the shape of a cat.

Cold water up to his thighs, knees aching from resting on them. Darkness, flames, faces. And then the cool metal edge of something up under his chin and when he swallows he can feel the way it is sharp.

The first thing he sees is that the looming figures that wield knives over those kneeling in front of them are considerable-ish figures and so he can imagine the person behind him being of probable greater height and strength than he—maybe?—and when that first chaotic splashing occurs directly before him as the woman he'd laid eyes on kicks into motion. So does he, in short order.

More out of fear than anything else. His hand goes to the arm holding the knife to him, a harsh clasp that yanks. Something he learns quickly about his own instincts is that fear doesn't mean retreat, but attack, and so that clasp doesn't loosen, aims to twist them around and perhaps drive that person down, clumsily and splashily.

There is a rawness to this world, a chaos of beginnings. For all the peacefulness of awakening, it doesn't stay that way.

There's no time to think. She has a knife to his neck, the man on his knees in front of her, and he moves to defend himself. The reflexes that kick in mark this as far from the first time this has happened. She relaxes her grip to flip the knife in her hand, a spin that slices a hot furrow on his forearm.

They stagger, the two of them, through the water. Teeth bared, she fights him. All sharp elbows and bony knees and quick fists. Like he's tried to scruff a cornered feral cat.

If she gets the opportunity, she'll spit in his face.

The knife scrapes thick leather stretched over metal buckled to that arm, but knicks exposed hand on the downslide harsh enough to evoke a grunt from him. Water churns around his knees as he pushes back up to his feet, and flinches his chin down at the strike of spittle against his face as she twists and hisses.

Another violent splash of water as he muscles down, tries to drive her backwards. There is wall nearby, and the mounted flaming torch. They can see each other in fits and starts; him, a severe twist at his mouth that bares teeth back at her, the tug of scarring.

And her, smaller, defense and attack in the same hasty scrabble. Confusion pulls taut at his expression.

"Stop," he growls, without stopping, intent to twist or knock the blade from her hand.

Spray dances up from their feet as the girl scrambles backwards, near-graceless and moving on reflex and desperation. He's got a good grip on her, and has the advantage of weight. She doesn't want walled or trapped in any way, and when the man tries to twist the blade from her hands she clamps her fingers down on it all the harder and tries very hard to knee him someplace tender.

While he's confused, she is scared.

"You stop!" she snarls at him, as if he's the one who attacked her. "Let go of me, you chickenshit-"

Edited 2023-04-10 21:21 (UTC)

It immediately feels wrong, this fight, having gone into it adamant he would be defending himself from someone who wished to slit his throat; now he finds himself throttling the skinny wrist of someone with fear flashing beneath fury in her eyes, snarling at him to let her go, and it smarts in an instinctive way that he almost lets go. He doesn't immediately, because she does have a knife,

and a knee, rising sharp. It doesn't aim completely true, but true enough.

Fuck it.

His other hand comes around like he really is trying to scruff her, finding hair and collar as he hauls in closer with a sudden surge of intent while keeping that knife twisted away. Here, her back against his chest, arm grappling around up under her chin (and the smell of smoke, suddenly, but that must be merely the run-off from the nearby torch, hissing and crackling) in a lock—

"I have her," is a harsh bark into the room, loud, and he does, caged close with the knife angled in such a way it is weaker in her fingers than it is in his, threatening to come for her throat.

Here, whatever instinct is keeping Ellie fighting splinters into rage and panic when the man grabs her hair, grabbles her close and presses her back to his chest. She screams, fear and rage both as the man yanks her head back to bare her neck. The knife nicks at her throat when she struggles and she's forced to go still. She sags against him, one hand still on the knife and the other wrapping around his forearm, grip weakened because hold shit her fingers- her fingers are missing-

The scream dies off into too-fast breathing and a terrified hammering of her pulse, her short fingernails scraping at the man's wrist, digging in for what little purchase they can get.

The shout by her ear fades, and as she sags into the grapple holding her, the touch of a rough-edged blade at her throat, her gaze swims around. The motion of the water and the flicker of flame means all reflections in the inky black around their knees are warped and fragmented, but she sees the shape of herself, a half-slice of her face lit in orange, in flames, and then,

that the house is on fire is not surprising or especially urgent, at this point of your recollection, except that it adds to everything a shorter time limit and a constrained number of exits. At the moment, the way out is behind you. Ahead are flames, and two of the kitchen girls somewhere beyond them, crying.

The agreement to help them has been largely tacit. So is the plan: a marble pedestal, home to some priceless statue, to heave over and make a bridge through most of the fire consuming the rugs and falling beams.

Yseult, a mask pushed back up into darkened hair, sets her back against the pillar, ready to push. "It's surprising," she says, a note of dry skepticism in her tone, "that a man willing to risk his life for the dozen servants in this house cares so little about the many that will suffer if your client succeeds."

"No one is paying me," ends on a grunt, as you shove back against the pillar in time with her, then pause to allow for the crash– "No one is paying me to let them die."

Her unimpressed look only has a second to skewer before she focuses on the more immediate problem and runs across the pillar ahead of you, nimble as a cat on a fence. It takes a leap to pass over fire that it's not long enough for the pillar to bridge. And for a moment–for the first time all night–there is enough flame-filled space between you and Yseult that kicking aside this tenuous partnership and making a break for it might work.

Another moment might not come. It's a lot of money. The client will kill you. Inés will kill you. If you make a choice now, you could have made a choice every time before.

You'll have to make a choice every time after.

Across the creeping flames, Yseult is watching you hesitate. The math of lives lost versus gained works out in favor of giving chase, if you run. She’s right. And she has very blue eyes.

You dart across the pillar, less prettily. Leap. As soon as your feet hit the ground you're both walking. You shed an outer layer of ridiculous Orlesian fashion and toss it into the fire. It won't stop the paint melting off your face, but it makes it easier to remove the thin leather journal (such a small thing, to cause all this fuss) tucked into your vest. You hold it out to her without looking, focus ahead on the door trapping the girls.

"If anyone asks, you beat the shit out of me," you say.

It feels like recollection, it feels like she lived it, the slightly ungainly but good enough leap after a blue-eyed woman she has never met, but did meet, must have met,

for all the same reasons it doesn't feel right either. But Ellie will come back to the present in a matter of seconds, the hold on her no less firm.

Edited 2023-04-11 05:38 (UTC)

TEAM B: Petrana, Redvers, Clarisse, Ellie, Viktor, Jayce, Vanya, Marcus

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addendum: the memory

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Memory please!!

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hey hey clarisse

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memory pls

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