war table: strangers in the mirror.

[propulsion]

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.

Comments

[grindset]

He does fall quiet, but not in comfort. While silence is, to him, a natural state, the way they slip into it is not so companionable—it's tense, anticipatory, distracted by awareness of their circumstance. The spectre of his own condition hangs so close, it's impossible to push to the perimeter of his mind. It can't only be this place that's done it, as the things he's wearing weren't made here—but the rest? Could it be the ancient damp that's done it? The luminescent mist that swirls around their legs even now? A toxic spore sent forth by moss or fungus? It's impossible to say.

The stone feature looks like it was erected here in service to the water. A gift of nature, venerated. The torch has grown heavy at the end of his arm; his muscles tremble as he lifts it. Firelight slides across the bent arms, the bowl's rim, the water.

The rhythm of the body beneath him changes. It seems like fatigue—more than reasonable under the weight of another person, he could probably use a reprieve—and then, starkly, it doesn't. His own pulse raises to meet it. Just as he draws a breath to ask, he hears the softest, most sorrowful sound.

Brown hair pulled back, a grey streak. A spot on one cheek. Expressive brow and bright, dark eyes. Brimming with kindness. It doesn't make sense that he should fear for her—these memories aren't theirs, it can't be about her—but worry pinches at him anyway. That he knows her is one of the only things he knows about himself, and her love is one of the only things he knows about him.

Likewise in a hush, "What is it?" Leaning into the stretch of his neck, tilting his head, trying to see the downturned profile, "What do you see?"

[pathlit]

The question startles him into an honesty that might not have been quite as forthcoming. Glancing askance and immediately away, trying to blink away the heat behind his eyes, he says, "A-- A letter. It was a... a notice that my..." He grimaces, eyes clenched shut for a brief moment. The tears slink down his cheeks despite his effort.

He sniffs. Swallows, then inhales to steady himself. "It was a funeral notice," he says curtly, hoping to avoid invoking any fresh waves of sorrow. The misplaced grief and confusion abruptly coalesces into frustration; his shoulders tense, his teeth grit together. For a brief moment, he holds his breath, then releases it with an aggravated noise.

"Sorry," he mutters, still pointedly looking elsewhere besides his companion. "Got caught up in it is all."

And still does his gut churn painfully at the thought of his mother dying, but he can manage it. It didn't happen to him (unless it did, maybe that's why he's so troubled by this vision--)

"Any sign of it?" he asks, taking a step closer to the wall, hoping to focus on anything but that uncertainty. "Your stick?"

[grindset]

Fortunately for the emotionally bereaved, he can only lean so far without unbalancing, and the poor light doesn't afford detail, so he doesn't see much. To him it sounds like it's best he pretend he hasn't otherwise heard any telltale sign—or, if not best, at least courteous. He wouldn't want to make a big deal of it, either. That unhappy noise was growl-adjacent, too. Yes, he'll feign ignorance.

But a sliver of worry lingers. He's missing the facts of flood and Blight, those details that would forestall him wondering if the memory could be his own—if the two of them somehow made a trade. What if, between that family supper and now, he attended a funeral?

This check-in question's practicality effectively interrupts the momentum of his thoughts. Better yet, it offers the both of them an escape hatch.

"Ah... no. Nothing yet."

He hasn't been looking for it since they stopped, but a quick pass says it isn't here. In the interest of forward progression (despair can't catch them if they keep moving, right?) he tips the torch left.

"Let's go this way. It's more..."

The torch moves in a little circle as his fatigued mind tries to scrape together a descriptor.

"...glowy."

Sure.

He isn't wrong. It is, in fact, glowier than the passage to their right. While beautifully embellished in jade, it is devoid of sticks. It does, however, yield apparent success: beyond the next hard turn, their path opens to a great length of arched corridor, its floor tiled in grey and tarnished gold, and down at the end, dark and quiet as a statue, stands the machine.

[pathlit]

Something about the left. The green shard in their left palms, the leather band with a blue crystal on his left wrist, the glow of the left path.

The construct-friend.

The sigh he releases is one of obvious relief. Reuniting said construct with the man on his back will free up his mobility. Their efforts to escape can be more efficient. (He won't have to feel like he needs to hide beneath his own skin.)

But as his gaze wanders from the construct to review the area beyond which it resides, his relief cools into suspicious trepidation. Why does this corridor look so terribly different from the rest? Is this the entrance to another enchantment?

The possibility rankles. Without consulting his cargo, he turns and starts down the path they've just crossed, scanning the ground, side-to-side, pointedly hoping to find the control stick for said construct -- that they'd simply missed it the first go-around.

[grindset]

Sitting up a little on his companion's back, craning to look, he blinks hard, strains his bleary eyes to the gloom beyond the lit passage.

He, too, feels some faint physical yearning upon seeing the construct's distinct form. To detach from this man and return to directing his own locomotion is high on his list of immediate desires—but it does look terribly different, the corridor. Though it wears the same plant matter in its cracks and edges, and much of the stone looks familiar, some extra effort went into this section. Why?

Eyes flick, brows crease. Thoughts turn over. Watery light falls from some indistinct source, motes drift. Their mistrust builds nearly in unison, such that when they pivot to retrace their steps, that he hasn't been consulted doesn't register as a possible complaint. It's simply a wise move.

That is, he assumes this is a prudent double-check for some missed detail, that should they not discover something shortly, they will return to the machine. When they turn that corner, he assumes the sight of the statues, now a symbol of deep grief, will prompt their turning back. When it doesn't—

"We've already been here."

[pathlit]

“Something’s not right,” he says, pausing only to readjust his hold on him before entering the right-sided path, scanning every vertical and horizontal surface with the same level of suspicion sprouted by the other corridor.

“There was a room with an enchantment,” is his explanation, knowing that it must seem absurd to walk away from the construct— from an advantage. “Made me think I was at a— a ball, some sort of celebration.” The edge in his voice dulls, just a tiny bit. “It felt so real— real enough to actually hurt.”

So, the search for another route… but the lack of any glowing stick thus far is not promising.

[grindset]

Indeed, it is not promising in the least. Every step past that unspoken boundary is like the scrape of a whetstone across his temper, its surface already worn by pain and fatigue. With lips pursed, he exercises a conscious reminder to steady himself: They know each other. This man is, or was, his friend.

One edge dulls, another gains a bit of bite:

"Nothing here is right."

That ornamented hall may very well be a trap, but it may just as well not be; there's no way to be sure without somehow engaging it. Each step, each scrape, puts more space between him and the one thing in this dreadful place that has granted him any true feeling of security since he awoke—

"What makes you think this corridor is any less dangerous than that one?"

[pathlit]

An exasperated sigh in response to the first statement (no shit); a roll of his eyes in response to the second. On the heels of an emotional rollercoaster of remembering such a tender, desperate moment from the man on his back and the death of a family member not his own, but felt too keenly the opposite -- on the heels of the shitshow that is this apparently haunted fucking temple, his patience is woefully friable.

"I don't," he snaps, pointedly continuing to look for device that controls the construct-friend. A crumbling statue barely taller than his knees; a clutch of mushrooms bearing a faintly rosy glow; the skeletal remains of a moderately-sized rodent. "I don't know and neither do you."

[grindset]

On any other voyage, in any other context, these features might be fascinating. Charming, even. He might stop to record a note or a sketch—like he's tried to do during those few times he had possession of that satchel and the notebook inside. He'd first opened it to a stranger's scratchings, decided to make a contribution—intending to note his condition, what little he knew of the circumstances, landmarks to avoid and those to follow, in case anyone should discover the book later and be helped by it—and found his own handwriting a match.
He was very thankful to be alone, then.

And he is thankful not to be alone now, though his company is starting to sound like a prick—

"That is precisely my point. Should we not at least examine it before we go roaming aimlessly around?"

[pathlit]

"Before?" he scoffs. "Look, I'm just examining our options, okay? Maybe we find your construct's control here. Maybe we don't have to cross through that corridor. Maybe we don't find anything and have to go back, but--"

--but that is definitely a dead end ahead, fallen rubble so old the moss and fungi grow on the surfaces that jut out. And still no glowing control stick.

Or walking stick.

Scowling, he rolls his eyes (again) and turns around, annoyed and disappointed.

[grindset]

That's that, then. Decision made.

Though in a sense it wins him this trifling argument, he can't actually take pleasure in finding only a collapse dating back to ye olden days when what they could really use is a way out of here. One may note a distinct absence of smugness in his grumbling reply as they reverse course:

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather tunnel through?"

Only bitching at each other can sustain them through these trying times.

The torch is hanging at its lowest yet, meanwhile. He hasn't bothered to try raising it in some minutes, and won't—not even when they once again come to the accursed statues, though the glimpses of luminescent carving and jade inlays in the passage beyond kick up a little anticipation in the hollow of his belly.

[pathlit]

“If we’re entertaining the unlikely, then I’d rather eat.”

The remark is more begrudgingly resigned than anything else. Pouting, even.

But, he thinks, if this path was blocked and there were no other apparent exits from the alcove in which they’d awoken, then perhaps the corridor in jade and tarnished metal could be relatively benign. How else would they have reached the alcove besides crossing that very same corridor?

Unless there was an unorthodox entry point in said alcove. They hadn’t really looked.

But, no. That wouldn’t explain the construct’s presence on the opposite end.

As he considers these things — as his suspicion dampens — he notices the drooping of the torch. It’s position reminds him of why he’s carrying the other fellow in the first place. Biting his lower lip, he tries to glance at him over his shoulder, but they’re just too close to really make out much besides the general idea of him, so he continues until they’ve reached the glowing corridor again.

“You, uh… You. Mm.” Brows furrow, a brief inner struggle of genuine concern conflicting against potentially aggravating their current arrangement by addressing said droop.

“Do you want to readjust? I could, um. I could carry you a different way.”

[grindset]

Interrupted by indecisive muttering, he holds the breath he'd drawn to speak, eyebrows ratcheting toward a frown with every dithering syllable, until a question finally wriggles all the way out.

"What way. No. Why? No. Don't worry about me, just," he's reaching his beleaguered arm forward, giving the torch a few sluggish wags toward the tiled path ahead, "Onward."

Annoyingly, his directions are promptly undermined by the need to cough, after which he hastily attempts to resume like nothing happened—

"The machine had—" Wow, no. That croak made him sound about a hundred years old. Clearing his throat, trying again, "It had my satchel last time, so if we're lucky, there's a little food waiting for us on the other side."

[pathlit]

Don't worry about him when he's making those noises and probably cannot walk without some kind of support? A dubious facial shrug accompanies his muttered, "Whatever you say."

Eyeing the tiled path, skeptical of its bi-matieral theme of no apparent pattern, he steps forward onto a stone tile. Two things happen immediately: 1) everything goes absolutely black, and 2) a relentless clawing of his skull, like the worst hangover he's ever endured rendered a light tap on the head in comparison, as the shrieking drowns out all thought: killer, liar, failure--

He staggers back with a choked noise, nearly throwing his passenger off with the sudden, violent motion, but his grip on his legs is tight -- likely uncomfortably so. Adrenaline rushes through his veins; he's acutely aware of the thudding pulse in his ears, the sound of his own heaving breaths, and the sight of the tiled floor ahead of them, the point of his shoe kissing its perimeter. His mind is a whirlwind of confusion and guilt, and to the latter, he suddenly remembers the other man's presence and immediately hunches forward again.

"Are you okay?" he asks, clearly distraught, still distracted by the sheer dissonance in the sensory shift with that single step.

[grindset]

That's gratitude for you. In the moments before they move ahead, as he executes a minor squirm of adjustment, he both considers keeping for himself whatever rations they may find and expels that line of thought outright. Deny food to the unfed? It's simply too ugly a notion to entertain, even unseriously.

Well past the point where swapping the torch between his hands will provide any appreciable relief, he maintains only enough effort to hold it safely away from their bodies, though skirts that limit in his fatigue. Could drop it—would love to drop it—but who knows what's beyond this corridor? They may need it later.

Shared balance shifts, a marginal sway back to gather momentum for the way forward. They go.


In the dark, he sucks a loud, sharp breath in through his nose. In the dark, his body goes rigid. In the dark his hand tightens into a claw, pressing blunt points of fabric to the flesh beneath, trembling in stiff flexion.


Retreat nearly dislodges him. The torch falls, gutters, keeps burning where it lands. It was burning all the while. The dark simply denied it.

A whisper, all breath: "Let me down." It's not a request, nor does he offer any choice; his body is already loosening toward a controlled slip to the ground. "Let me down," is brittle with urgency—

[pathlit]

The urgency in voice and action prompts him to abide before he’s even aware of doing so, dropping into a crouch, relaxing his grip.

“Easy, easy,” he’s whispering in return, pivoting to face him in the absence of his weight. He holds a hand near the other man’s side preemptively, hovering — not touching, expression creased with worry.

To focus on the distress of another is a welcomed distraction right now.

And he is honestly worried. His reluctant companion was frail enough before this… challenge.

[grindset]

Separated, seated, bones on stone, a hand hovering. He gets both his legs straight and his palms flat on either side, cold soaking in, wilting over his own lap. Stiff leather and precisely wrought brass and surgical steel prevent his slouch going as deep as it could. It pulls at him, inside and out. The sharp and shallow meter of his lungs slows to deliberate depth.

Seconds. They were in it for mere seconds. A breath returns to the air in slow measure, nigh silent across his lips. He turns his head faintly toward his companion without lifting it.

"Good to try again?"

[pathlit]

A spark of incredulity gusts past his throat. A beat later, it’s followed by the mirthless exhale of a laugh. No, not really, says the thrumming of his nerves, the fading sting in his temples, the fear of utter blindness chasing each blink, but what other choice do they have?

They must move forward — but they can troubleshoot. Attempt to, anyway.

Reaching for the fallen torch, he holds it high to assess the path. Stone and metal. Still no apparent pattern. They’d started, roughly, in the center.

During this quiet assessment, his palm settles on the other man’s arm. A brief moment later, he offers him the torch and says, “I’ll start from one side and work across.”

There has to be a path. They must have crossed it to get here. They just need to find it. (Unless they hadn’t and simply cannot remember the terror, but—)

[grindset]

It helps, that hand. Steadies his course. Stills the water. Through renewed calm he can see down to the stone sunk deep in his belly, this small, cold thing, impossibly dense. That's what the dark gave him, what the rustling rush and scratch left him with. They were in it for only seconds, and that was plenty long enough—and this man is about to submerge himself willingly.

As he takes the light, an unthinking bump of fingers knocks something loose, and without applying a moment's care to whether or not he should, he says,

"I saw her. Your mother."

The butt of the torch stick sits on the ground by his leg, tilted away. By the way it leans, the looseness of his arm, his light grip, it appears he'd rather drop it. A grim stare scans across the floor ahead of them; he's sure his brain is consuming information, but it's stuck in processing. He can scarcely focus.

"She was untroubled. She was... happy to see you."

[pathlit]

All efforts to galvanize himself against the dread of onslaught cracks upon hearing the initial admission. He frowns, doubting himself; perhaps he’d heard incorrectly, perhaps the man is so weakened he now speaks nonsense.

Then, more. His grip tightens a fraction. The crack splinters. His attention flickers over him, as if he might find clarity anywhere else, as if he might find some smaller thing on which to solve rather than the pressing matter. This person who displayed such moxie just a minute ago now looks so frail — as if the darkness had stripped what little reserves he’d possessed.

It tugs at the heart in a manner different from his words. It prompts him to support the hand that barely supports the torch; to wrap his warmer palm around that colder, thinner hand in unspoken concern.

“In that?” he asks, referring to the jaded corridor. Nothing good has come from that — not for either of them, he’d thought.

[grindset]

As he shakes his head, he darts a look aside to their nested hands.

"At the fountain."

To touch an arm is one thing, but hands are familiar enough to be distracting. More evidence for some subconscious inclination, perhaps—people simply don't touch strangers like this, do they?
Maybe he does.

"In light of the risk you're about to take," and that moment of misery over a piece of news that likely wasn't his, "I thought I should mention it." A shallow shrug lifts, lingers, falls away. "In case you might find that knowledge fortifying."

[pathlit]

Hopeful curiosity swells between his ribs. With notable effort, he swallows it down to inquire later, but the sentiment -- the care behind it -- lingers in the wry smile on his lips.

After a gentle clap of his arm, he rises, hands withdrawing. "Didn't happen to catch my name, did you?" he asks lightly, stepping to the left side of the hall. The distance ebbs some of his guilt in withholding the admittance that he'd seen a moment from the other man's life as well. Later, he tells himself. This isn't the time.

[grindset]

"There were no introductions. One can only presume you already knew each other."

One last shred of humour before it begins. The weary bluntness of tone only heightens his deadpan delivery here.

Stirring where he sits, that spot still glowing on his arm, he begins some effort to scrape himself out of this listless sprawl he's put himself in. He can't see the floor from down here, and if this is some kind of trial, the variation in tiles might become relevant. It may also be a misleading detail. Either way, he ought to be looking.

"Call out the results as they... as you feel them. Good or bad."

Not only for his own observational benefit; call and response may be grounding for the both of them.

[pathlit]

The deadpan quip earns him a snicker in return. A fraction of it, inevitably, is due to renewed nervousness. He's doing this. He's going back into that.

As it just so happens, he needn't call out the results when he steps onto stone. Psychic assault is immediately evident to the onlooker in the rigidity of his stance and the air sucked in through clenched teeth. Blindly, he staggers laterally; each step feels harder to make, as if pushing through the lactic build up in drained limbs. One, two, three.

The sudden hush of the fourth.

He waits another second, anticipating, but hears nothing more than his own labored breath and feels nothing more than the thudding of his own heart. He ignores the innate desire to collapse into a crouch, to kneel just for a moment's rest, because it is always harder to get back up again.

They need him back up again.

Instead, he lifts his hands to his face, fingertips pressing into closed eyelids, to ground himself. Exhaling, he holds his breath for a beat, then deeply inhales. "Good!" he exclaims, perhaps a little louder than necessary, because the absolute darkness makes existence feel questionable. Beneath him lies the closest of the tarnished gold tiles.

[grindset]

As foot touches stone, he's waiting to see if it triggers a visible change in the light. The first time wasn't merely a case of that strange overhead luminescence winking out—had it been so, the torch would have made up the difference, but it was as though there was no torch. While he could feel it there in his hand, to his eyes it was simply gone.

So as foot touches stone, and the light changes not at all, he sits right up, ready to announce what he sees—but likewise sees the strain involved, and dares not compromise it. To accomplish something even as simple as this while under so much psychological pressure, to weather it without giving in to the instinctual urge to flee it, must take incredible effort.

The first standout tile is coming. His attention flits between feet and head, question and answer. The resultant pause is all tension, all but silent—and then relief for that decisive report. More than relief, though, is the spark of eager restlessness that propels him to rise.

"Fascinating," he says, as he begins his own comparatively trifling, but still unpleasant, trial of climbing to his feet. "I can see you. You've stopped on one of the," scuffing, scraping, a breath hitched in effort, "one of the metal squares."