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

This room is not terribly dissimilar to the first in which they awoke, albeit drier. Stark shadows gently waver against the damp, stone walls that intermittently pulse with faint, green lines. Somewhere beyond the alcove comes the thin sound of trickling water. Moss obscures the architectural details, though one might guess the vague shape of a bird atop the pillar at each end of the slab upon which he awakens. The moss is soft beneath his back, against his fingertips, and above--

Above, well. There is a gaunt, shadowed face looming, for one, and as his eyes travel down its owner's neck and arm, the futility in trying to follow the latter is brushed aside with an uneasy swallow, Adam's apple kissing a dull blade.

The unease grows, pulling the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile and quickening his pulse.

"We, uh." His tongue dips out, a nervous lick of his lips as his eyes seek the thinner man to whom he'd previously held the knife. There is a conscious effort to remain still while preparing to act upon the worst.

"We really need to stop meeting like this."

The gaunt face, looming, is empty. Eyes like ancient wells seem to spill over, pooling in the hollows of cheeks and throat. The man on the slab, his voice fractures the quiet, sets pupils to shrinking, sparks a sapient gleam. Like magnets held just apart, now released, their gazes snap together neatly.

As comprehension trickles in, the thin man's stillness becomes rigid; his knuckles grow pale; horror floods in among the shadows. He chokes his own gasp down to a hiss, slow and soft between his teeth, and just as softly and slowly eases some room between blade's edge and bared throat. Only when it's well clear does he permit the jerk coiled up in his arm.

The dagger's landing clatter is brief and blunt and his breath comes stuttering after it. His hands remain open and empty, his shoulders tight. The nervous darting of his gaze asks the obvious question: Did I hurt you?

Another second passes as he registers the clattering sound for what it indicates, followed by a heavy sigh of relief. Then, a weary chuckle for the ridiculousness of it all, eyes closing for a moment -- entrusting his immediate safety to the distressed question in the opposite pair.

Fingertips agitate the moss beneath as he says, voice relatively light-hearted in its resignation, "Second-guessing revenge?"

There is a gash in the cloth over his upper arm, the margins darkened with dried blood, but there is no fresh blood on the slab. No blood on the discarded blade. No blood of his own on the other man's hands.

The answering sigh is thin and sharp, no trace of levity, but there is a faint echo of relief in it. Arms loosen, hands drop. On the way down, his palm finds the edge of the stone altar, and there he leans, finding three points of contact more natural than two, though the shift in weight does little to ease his braced leg. At length comes his answer:

"Technically, this makes us even."

His voice has been scraped by turns of long silences and shouting and very little in between. Water dribbles somewhere nearby. He brings his hand to his belt, once again sticks his finger in the empty loop. No panic this time; he simply looks tired.

"At least we didn't lock ourselves in."

He pushes himself up into a sitting position as Viktor, still unknown to either of them, considers his answer. One leg bent at the knee, elbow propped on it and head propped in his palm, he glances down at the motion around the belt, then to the pale fingers brightly contrasting against the moss. No immediate lunge toward or away, ergo a positive sign that he holds no ill will from their initial meeting, right?

Flickering a cursory glance around the room, he asks, "Where's your friend?"

You know. The tall, mechanical, glowing and helmeted fellow.

He shakes his head in answer, lifts his shoulders: Hell if I know.

Indeed, the will looks to be more edgy than ill, easily attributed to having just woken up with a knife in his hand. Simmering at odds with his discomfort is the very human inclination to feel reassured by the familiar—or at least the recognizable. It's a face he's seen before, a voice he's heard, if only within these last—

—hours? Days?

(Oh shit, and Are you okay? and Stop, please! Kind reflexes, gallant acts performed without thinking. While he curled in on himself, this man burst outward. None were killed and the chains were broken.)

His hand leaves his belt for a loose gesture, led by his finger.

"Have you cleaned it?" That arm, the bloody one. He's wearing a little blood, himself, in blots down the front of his jacket. Tang of iron in his mouth.

His brows lift in mild surprise. Such an indifferent response to the lack of immediate support -- muscle, might, whatever one wishes to call the golem -- in the company of someone who'd nearly slit his throat. It's almost reassuring.

Glancing down, he shrugs halfheartedly. "No. It..." His stomach grumbles as he considers how to explain a wound incurred by a phantom. "It was some kind of magic. I think."

His gaze lifts, then, to follow the length of the other man's arm. Inevitably, his eyes land on the blots of blood on his jacket, flicking between each blemish like a morbid constellation. Grimacing, he scans his neck for evidence of an injury, his own fingers flexing in silent agitation. "I didn't... Is that from me?"

After a brief detour to the general vicinity of that telltale growl, his attention follows line of sight, drops to his own front. Minor relief: no more staining than expected. He shakes his head.

"This one's yours."

With a steady yellow eye on the man on the slab, he lifts his chin, puts his fingertip below the very spot so tenderly kissed by a dull blade. It's the smallest pink mark. Barely a scratch. A consequence of delicate skin, asserting itself in his awareness every time a bit of sweat dares touch it. As he settles out of this brief display, he plucks at the fabric around his throat to confirm it's still damp, recalling an earlier ablution; they can't have been here too long.

"I had a satchel." He says this in part to preempt the man's reply, wincing or otherwise. "It could be anywhere, but... it's likely with the construct. My friend," he adds, dry.

That's where he found it before.

The faintly pink line of irritation displayed on a bared neck ought to be, by most accounts, anticlimactic, but his heart skips a beat anyway. The movement of his fingers grabs his attention, openly staring with parted lips curved downward as he listens (somewhat) and considers why it is that his apparent response to the flimsiest injury he could possibly bestow upon another is vague unease (mostly).

Probably the general fuckery of the complete lack of recollection in a maze of variable peril.

"Does... your friend have a name?" he asks, recovering on the tail end of the question with an arched brow. Do you remember it? he means.

Yes. Probably that.

As to the question, the meaning is taken and instantly disliked. It triggers a sharp look and a snipped counter.

"Do you?"

He doesn't, himself, but that's beside the point—

The movement is slight, but undeniable: a physical recoil, both brows upshot. Wow, it says.

“Okay,” he says. Then, gesturing with a cant of his head, “Guess we should find them.”

Indicating that he means to slip off the altar, really, and to (hopefully) not be alarmed by the action given that this guy’s hair isn’t the only prickly thing about him.

On his feet, his shoulders roll as he stretches, briefly working out the stiffness hinting at time spent long enough reclined on a hard surface. Cracking his neck, taking his time — giving the other person time to retrieve the discarded knife if he wishes, because he’s sure an attempt to retrieve it himself will likely spike suspicion or fear.

He doesn't seem alarmed. Shuffling stiffly along the altar's edge, he makes room for the man to disembark, looking down to make sure he doesn't tread upon the dagger. It lies well within assumed reach, and he does eyeball it further, but makes no attempt to bend for it. Instead he gets his shoe behind it, gives it a nudge along the mossy bricks to set it up against his toe like he's going to kick it, and then doesn't, as though having this negligible command of it is enough for now.

Making no further movement toward the proposed course, he works his lips against his teeth, clearly turning something over among his thoughts.

"Do you? Have a name?"

—is markedly less biting.

His initial response is a noncommittal hum, a sly glance askew to witness the footwork and take another step away to convey intent (or lack of it).

“Probably, same as you and everyone else lost here.” Finally, turning to face him properly, he says, “It feels like I’m supposed to be looking for something— some… dangerous, wondrous thing in gold. Sound familiar?”

Edited 2023-05-04 19:44 (UTC)

Regardless of intent, or lack thereof, that very literal reply receives a sidelong glower in return as he slouches deeper into his lean on the stone. The fact of it is, he isn't disposed toward any answer at the moment. The most this guy can hope for is to land somewhere on the lighter end of the annoyance spectrum—

Which he achieves, neatly, by changing the subject.

In the thin man's eyes is a sharp gleam of focus on a soft field, like he's trying hard to remain engaged while the rest of him recedes. Like he's leaning against a current. Considering the question enables him to pull himself a little closer.

"Yes... whenever I... in each new space, I find myself anticipating. As if one of these chambers holds something important. Do you think that's why we're here?"

A half-shrug and a sigh, followed by the carding of his fingers through his hair. "It's not a baseless conclusion, but the..." A vague circling of his wrist, fingers up. "The recurring black-outs and compromising positions aren't exactly compelling. It's like we're being haunted."

Regardless.

Stepping closer to a moss-covered pillar, he carefully retrieves one of the few torches in this particular space and holds it out for the other man to take. "I've caught glimpses of things I don't remember. People and names I don't recognize. I." He chews his lip a moment, eyes falling. If both hands had been free, he'd be rubbing the stone on his left wrist.

"I don't know if they're real or not, but they're not mine."

That much had been obvious when he, in the memory that felt so much like it belonged to him, with the ghost of agony shooting up his left forearm, had been addressed as Miss Poppell.

The torch extends to him, lends a warmth his skin doesn't possess of its own, reflects a lively light in his eye that simply isn't there. He doesn't reach for it, only casts his attention past it, deliberately, to the one offering.

"So have I."

Pain and resignation, the relief of a beloved shape left untouched. It's a precious thing that he shouldn't know.

"If we all came in search of something dangerous, wondrous... such things are often protected. Perhaps we're being neutralized." He breathes in shallow puffs, blinks like he's only just remembered it's necessary. That little raw mark prickles for the salt on his neck. "Or— or this, the lost time, the visions, these could be symptoms of the object itself."

It's a logical, well-thought out answer. Unfortunately, as the flame illuminates the gold in the other man's eyes, his voice grows vague, mingling with the distant sounds of what his mind supplies as industrial.

It's narrow back here. You're small, but the surrounding clutter juts out at the path in tricks of perspective. You're afraid to be clumsy. A little cut could become a big problem; a clatter could bring a worse one.

You saw them days ago, couldn't spare the time, couldn't get back until now. You hope someone like you hasn't come along since. Here's that old chair, the upholstery shredded, the batting pulled out. Here's a snarl of wire left to corrode itself useless because no one wanted to untwist it—

There.

You sway as you kneel around your stiff leg, you lay your stick down, and you bend to see into the hole. There they are: two little metal spools, still clean enough to reflect light, one still wrapped in a tangle of thread. Beyond them is a lump of batting, of shredded fabric, paper, yarn, hair and other scraps of urban detritus. You reach in. The first spool is easy to take; the second won't roll for the nudges of your fingertips, so you grasp it and pull. Out it comes, the thread with it, and the batting, and the six babies, small and pink, bony and soft.

A splash of panic, not for yourself, not because you know what the bigger version looks like and how many teeth it has, but for them. You try to pull the spool free without upending them, pressing and tugging, afraid to be clumsy. One of them utters the softest squeak.

Scrape of metal, somewhere over there. Scrabble of clawed feet. Heart swollen with guilt, you cup your hands around the batting, try to keep it all together as you push it back in, the tangled spool tumbling with it.

In contrast to his blank expression, his grip on the torch is white-knuckled. A sharp gasp signals his return to the present, heart thudding painfully beneath his ribcage for the guilt of disturbing the nest and the sharp, undeniable truth that kicked up his pulse.

This is a memory and it belongs to him -- the other man in the room, the man with the gold resting in his sunken orbits. Those were his hands, his panic, his guilt. The knowledge is as much a certainty as the blood pumping through his own vessels.

Abruptly, he looks away. Again, he thinks, as his palm covers his face in the well-practiced attempt to self-soothe. This is the second time words and sounds, smells and sights have entered his mind through the simple act of catching this man's eyes. Two out of three instances. A sixty-six percentage rate. Correlation does not imply causation.

... but perhaps it's for the best that he avoids eye contact with this person for the remainder of their time spent together.

Flickering firelight reflects between them. Gold and bronze. Two mirrors, facing.

You're twenty-five, a fact you know keenly because you wouldn't be here to see it if the Dean's Assistant hadn't broken several laws with you in a single night to prove the viability of your dream. The first Progress Day since then is nearing its conclusion, night skies glittering with the final rounds of fireworks. The crowds are thinning; the vendors are packing up. A thin haze of smoke mixes with the lingering scents of savory and sweet, and it makes your stomach clench.

You're nursing a belly ache courtesy the gluttony of too many pastries, though you insist it was the last danish (hastily shoved into your mouth before Heimerdinger's yearly speech) that pushed you off the edge of satisfaction into regret and not the dozen or so creams, custards and other sweets that had preceded it. Your partner, the soft click of his soles and cane against the pavement as common as your own for the amount of time you've spent together in the past year, doesn't sound terribly sympathetic to your woe.

Pointedly ignoring his lack of support (and verbalizing the action), you invite him to join you for dinner at home. More specifically, to join your mother for dinner; you suspect she may be more forgiving of your declination due to said belly ache if you present him in your place -- and you say as much. She likes him, your mother, and it isn't any wonder why.

You like him, too. He's brilliant. Resourceful. Sharp.

(And tender, but you skitter away from dwelling on it.)

You're openly pleased when he accepts.

When your mother welcomes him with heartfelt warmth and lifts a brow at your excuse, pointing out the smudge of fruit preserves near the corner of your mouth, you glance at him and swear that he smiles. Despite this betrayal, fondness stirs in your chest.

You smile back.

In unison, in less time than it takes for his to hand tuck in among layers of jacket and vest and find the flat of his abdomen, they drift and return. That gasp—distinctly not his own, now—is stark against the quiet.

Queasy satisfaction. A bloom of affection for her crinkling smile and for the vulpine shape of his own eyes.

A year.

The collapse is not immediate—his good leg loosens beneath him, his elbow buckles, and the brace and altar, while failing to keep him upright, each offer enough support to slow him down. It's relatively quiet. Easy to miss with, say, a hand obscuring one's line of sight.

As the silent distress ebbs and the echoes of a furtive search amongst the discarded softens, he becomes painfully aware of the quiet surrounding them. A prick of panic; does he know?

Reluctantly, for the fear of judgment, he lowers his hand to his side and begins to turn, weight adjusting as if this is not an overthought action. (It is.)

“Sorry. It happened a—“

The excuse (which is also the truth) tumbles into candid concern upon finding him (and he still doesn’t know his name) crumpled on the ground. Instinctively, he lurches forward, dropping to a crouch and reaching out to grasp his upper arm. “Hey. Hey,” he hisses, the worried urgency blatant, the decision to avoid eye contact instantly tossed, “you still with me?”

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

By reflex or accident, he's sat himself down in a graceless fold, variously stiff in body and loose in limb, like a doll left hastily posed. His hand remains half-buried in the rumple of his jacket, pressed over the fading ghost of good-natured ache. Instead of an unfortunate topple at the waist, the kindly grasp nudges his balance toward a lean against the stone block.

A sidelong glimpse of this man's face, which practically radiates a plea for good news, spurs him into blinking his eyelids even and closing his slack jaw. Though still shy of focus, he's present enough to nod: yes, he's here.

"Just need a moment," he says, with effort, in a reedy hush. "Just tired." Tired, sore, everything hurts.

His lips remain parted after, not merely to breathe, but in suggestion of some further thought's sluggish coalescing, while a hand's warmth soaks into his arm. I know you, he thinks. I know you, and you know me. Knows his mother, knows his home, knows how desperate he once was, knows the deep warmth of his gratitude. Admiration. Partnership.

He's present enough to consider, too, that something so close as this might prove somehow useful—and so, like that little opportunist sneaking amongst the discarded, he elects to slip it in his pocket for safe keeping.

Nodding wordlessly, he shifts his weight back to offer more than a sliver of space between them, though his hand remains on the other man's arm. The metal of his leg brace glints in the firelight, catching his attention as it wanders down, and prompts him to glance about their immediate periphery in search of the walking aid he assumes must be around somewhere.

It isn't anywhere easily visible. Beyond this room, perhaps. With the construct friend, hopefully.

Eyeing the hallway beyond, its curved path faintly illuminated in pale green, he says, "Let's find your friend and get out of here." Then, attention falling onto the hilt of the discarded, dull knife, he releases the other man's arm to retrieve and offer the blade to him, hilt out. "Hang onto this in case we need it. Can you walk?"

His answering silence strains the limit of a pause before at last he accepts the weapon's handle. With unhurried dexterity, the dagger turns over in his hand on its way to that same spot in his belt as before, when he'd first snatched it up in the gated room. That was defiance; now it's concession. As he tucks it in, he tips his head in demurral.

"If I stick to the wall, maybe."

An appraising look to that same passageway drifts to the floor around them, how the stones lie, what seems manageable. Inside him, the memory glows. Does this man, this not-quite-a-stranger, know? On some level, does he remember? Is this why he's so attentive?

To imagine himself stirring, hauling himself up by the altar's edge, that alone feels like an exertion, never mind the doing; with a slow reach above his head, his lips pressed taut and his breath snagging on effort, he tries it anyway.

Hm. Not an ideal answer. Also not surprising.

With doubt written across his face, he watches the attempt and decides to interrupt it before it might even consider reaching completion. His hand lands upon the other man's wrist, gentle, but firm in its purpose: Stop.

Setting the torch down on the altar, he then turns to offer his back to him, kneeling. "It'll be faster," he explains.

It'll spare whatever energy you've got left, he doesn't say, for when it really matters.

Stop, and whatever momentum he'd built disperses with a touch. Surprise edges out annoyance, overtakes it completely when the guy turns around—a hand up would have been expected, but this? Faced with such open invitation, the alternatives being what they are, his mouth closes into something like a shrug.

Fuck it. Why not. It's not like he's heavy.

It takes a minute to get situated. His hand pulls on the muscular ledge of a shoulder; soft scuffs of a shoe; metal knee guard scrapes moss from stone. It's an awkward sort of crawl and some squirming part of him is grateful no one else is here to watch it.

"You'd better hope my friend isn't the jealous type," he mutters, much closer now, as bony arms mount broad shoulders and space shrinks toward warmth.

Sooner or later, the metal brace is going to be pose some minor yet constant level of irritation, he thinks, but this is still probably the most pragmatic option for reasonable travel currently available to them.

His arms wrap around his companion's thighs, situating his hold. "Oh, yeah," he agrees, partially rising, "because that's definitely the priority here. Grab the torch, would you?"

memories of the living (and dead) - for viktor

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