Into the Depths

[thewatchers]

INTO THE DEPTHS
Log Comm | Network Comm | OOC Comm | Navigation

Something was riding, an omen of great things to come. Focusing on this lead, the Academy sent a team to follow the Dullahan on it's ride.


A. Descent
The Dullahan was persistent, and the more observant that followed would realize that the Fae was intentionally leading them through the thin veil into the Outlands. The surroundings get gradually less and less normal, less familiar until they’re fully into a place that doesn’t feel touched by humanity at all. The air has a strange, salty tinge that can be tasted on the tongue as strangely bare, bleach-white trees reach up into the sky, reedy tendril-like grass crunches under the feet, with bizarre flat and fan-like protrusions rising up and jabbing into the air. Be warned, however; careless contact with any of these features draws blood, they’re all rough-textured and sharp.

Here and there, more and more as the dullahan proceeds, bodies are scattered across the ground and the trees. None are human; in many cases, some aren’t even approaching humans. But they are all dead, without doubt, their pieces torn and scattered across what must have been homes once and are now broken craters, like wounds in the world.

B. Ambush
The unnatural horse suddenly halts, all four hooves planted in the muddy ground, snorting heavily. The headless rider does not try to force his steed on- instead, he readies his weapon.

“Thy mulish persistence begins to become tiresome.”
Utultar’s presence warps the world around him, like a cloak. His eye gleams red, and the sky itself seems to darken. The Dullahan’s horse screams a challenge and charges.

“Begone from my sight, insects.”

His assault is sudden and terrifying; a series of blasts that seem to tear apart the world, hungry and malevolent. The force of their deployment alone, not to mention the impact, is enough to throw people around like dolls, scattering them far and wide.

C. Aftermath
The light was blinding, and it felt as though you were lucky to be alive after it - let alone being able to stand. The strange bleach-white forest seems to stretch on forever, somehow looking dark and gloomy despite their stark color and the lack of foliage. On the pearl-white mud rose small trickles of a blue-black inky liquid that seem to roll rivets into a trail. Perhaps it will guide you to the others who have been separated - it’s better to find someone quick, as it’s unlikely that the Herald is the only threat in this place.

At points, the strange fluid suddenly stops, forming a small puddle before solidifying, lightening in color and warping, leaving a mask behind, and a soft whisper swims in the briny air, the opening to every story known, a promise of power and safety. Without the mask, the strange air makes it hard to breathe, and even harder to think; eventually, the pull will be too strong to resist.

Wearing a mask makes things seem brighter and more colorful; the physical world wavers, to be replaced by strange patterns and symbols and the sense that you’re inside a dream, or a storybook - a place both real and unreal. Following them will lead you to your fellow travelers, whose masks and minds have created colorful storyscapes in which you can easily slip into.

D. Water?
Eventually, as you walk through your own stories and each other’s, you’ll come to the edge of a vast, blue sea. Something as large as an island, imprisoned by three massive chains biting into the ground, wallows uncomfortably, making pained calls that echo across that vast space. Even from a distance, it’s clear to see: it bleeds the same deep, dark blue as the ‘water’ that surrounds it.
It wants to be free, that much is clear. And for those who look closely at the scraps and ruins that litter this vast shore, they may find clear hints to this being’s true nature, and the benefits to freeing it:

-A great deal of Utultar’s power to make and maintain a large library of contracts comes from bleeding this creature and bathing in - and drinking - a regular, fresh supply of its blood. Freeing it will weaken him significantly, setting back his progress to usher in Nightfall.
-The creature is a primordial fae called Nammu-Ninsiku, and was the first to Contract a being on Earth. It has the ability to change or nullify one condition of any contract and will grant one such ‘wish’ to the ones who have a direct hand in freeing it by putting on the masks. This wish can be transferred to a willing recipient if both parties are amenable and the original bearer doesn’t want the responsibility. This wish may have an additional price, depending on the magnitude of the wish; the fae will inform the wisher if this is the case. It will never be anything fatal or too high to pay, but it may well be significant.
-The dead Outlands beings scattered among the coral forest were attempting to free Nammu-Ninsiku, and paid for it with their lives. The dullahan was just one of many of these beings and has been looking for an appropriate way to dispense revenge since the initial slaughter.

Of course, you might just want to free it for being a creature in pain. It’s up to you.)

((OOC Post is over Here for questions or planning))

Chains are first come, first served! If you want to volunteer your character for a mask, reply to the relevant toplevel in whatever way suits your character best and treat it as a starter you can jump off of.

Comments

[thaumatrope]

The One Who Gives

[Within the forest are dozens of grand houses. Laughter trickles out the doors from those dressed in jewels and silk and faceless. They all direct to the same place, for this is a story with only one point.

A small shack farther within the forest, with a lock keeping something in rather then out. Inside is a beautiful shrine, decked to the brim with gold and red trim. In the center of it all is something wrapped in pure white silk and kept upright by more silk bound around it and four pillars. A mask of many colors adorns its face, white hair uneven but able to touch the ground. Otherwise there are no identifiable features.

The box of offerings is empty. Judging by the cobwebs, it's been empty for a long time. Yet there is nothing wrong with asking since that is their duty. So says the people.

So says the being's role as the protagonist.]

[silksoul]

[ The girl in red is drawn by the silk, more than anything else. Silk is a trail that will lead her to another life, a place she yearns for deep inside, more than anything.

But here, it binds. And that, too, seems wrong - but right.

The offering box is empty, full of cobwebs. That, at least, seems wrong. She wonders what she can give, and tears a strip of vivid red cloth from the bottom of her cloak. It tears, heartrendingly, but its colour is a shock, a burn. ]

Blind one, I have here some cloth for you. [ She folds it up and places it on top of the offering box. ] What will you give me in return?

[thaumatrope]

[It takes a moment before the being responds. It moves and dust falls from it's head. The way it speaks sounds like it hasn't in a long time. Curious for someone who seems surrounded by many and was asked for so much.

But it's its role. So it'll do it.]

...the place....you desire. Deep within your heart. To give you mine to find your own...a perfect place. That life, so long ago.

[It falls silent. Perhaps the girl in red must say if it is acceptable or not.]

[silksoul]

[ That feels like pretty words. There's a ring of truth to it, but it's not her truth. ]

Nothing can give me back my heart's desire. [ She doesn't know why she's so certain of this, but she is. The path home is tragic, long, filled with uncertainties. It goes through dark woods and darker places. It is not here in this house of silks. ]

I do not want your heart or your life, so I will ask you a question in exchange for my cloth. What is it that you desire? [ She follows the rules of the dreamlike world, unquestioning. ]

[thaumatrope]

[Pretty words countered with confusing words and there's silence from the being. They're surprised to be asked. Shocked, maybe.

It's been so, so long since they were asked. But they have the answer already from so many people, so it's an easy thing to say.]

I have none. I have none.

[But that's not quite true. Something beneath the layers and layers of silk moves and squirms, like a cat caught in a sleeve.

Let me out... is heard on the wind. Or maybe not. Maybe it's all in the girl's head? It depends if she wants to hear out something so hard to listen to. Even if it's just because very few are actually listening for it.]

[silksoul]

[ She draws her needle, or perhaps it's a nail, or it's the idea of a nail. A shimmering, pointed thing, the sharpest weapon in the world, able to cut away loss and fear, a plague, a god, walls and chains, burdens and duties.

It's only a weapon. The dream of a weapon, something made to cut and to kill. ]

Do you wish to be free?

[thaumatrope]

[It smells of many things. Silk and darkness. More, if they desired to look. They could make anything precious with words and that was what the people needed sometimes.]

I--

[The thing within them strains harder against the fabric. Something tries pushing off their mask and fails. Strange, for a thing that looks so delicate and like a stiff breeze could knock it off...

The wind whispers fierce, "Yes. One cut. Just one. My desire. One cut...just one..."]

[unpocoloco]

[He hates these houses. It speaks to the core of him, past the mournful fairytale, and maybe a little bit to that too.

The poet travels where he's told, because he seeks to fulfill a wish and this, he's told, is the way to grant it. He reaches the shack in the woods, pushing past the lock with a frown before he takes in the shrine inside. He feels at once as though he does not belong, not in the way of the houses that would not want his ilk lest he played the right song, but in the way of disturbing a grave or a beautiful and honored being.

Yet, for all the shrine and that feeling, it does not seem there is much honor here. The person is bound, and it bothers him that the laughter of those parties echoes in his ears while this one was left to rot. He goes to his knees]

Giver grand, there is a longing in my heart that cannot be helped. I have travelled far and followed all paths to you, and yet I see you have nothing. Will you allow me, a humble músico, to honor you with song?

[thaumatrope]

[It is a little while before the being stirs. They cannot see him, not in the way one person sees another, but they can hear him. Just like they've heard everyone else.

So they answer.]

Song for desire. A long road home...yes. Play and I will give you part of myself to help you along the way.

[It is what must be done, after all. No matter what it is he must take from them, they have to give it.]

[unpocoloco]

[ There's a pause on his part, a moment where the sadness on his face isn't entirely due to the mask of grief he wears. But then, without further answer, he begins to play. The sounds ring out in the empty space, caught on nothing but silk and webbing.

A song spills from him, not the sort he would normally write or sing, but a song befit of a fairytale, and born of it too. ]

Darling, I am weary, for you see I've travelled far
In all this time of wondering where you are
I heed all that you carry, knelt within your palace gold
Between the bars your wings never unfold

You've sung for the weeping,
The kind and harsh souls too,
You sing for me so sweetly but,
does so no one sing for you?

Songbird, songbird,
Who sings for you?
Do you know the feeling of the sky
The depth so brilliant blue...

[ And he sings on. ]

[thaumatrope]

[They listen to the song and seem to almost bend in on themself, lengthening their form just to hear him better. Commit it to memory.

They claim they do not want anything. But clearly something within them might.

Once the musician finishes singing his song, they finally speak up.]

My eyes. My eyes for your song, to light your way back home. Claim them when you are ready.

[It would mean removing their mask....but that's completely fine. It's not the first time their mask has been taken off. This man would be no different.]

[unpocoloco]

[ He notes the way they lean, not an impassive listener at all. Wanting, longing, a feeling he knows so well. The song ends and then they make their offer.

Their... eyes...?

The musician hesitates, a sort of fear turning in his guts. He stares at them a long moment, and then rises back to his feet, stepping to them, reaching out for that mask. His fingers settle on the edge of it. ]

...A light home is worth more than I can pay. I cannot take your eyes, Giver. Instead, I ask for your company. Will you allow me this? Will you journey with me?

[thaumatrope]

[They do not stop him when he reaches for their mask. It is his desires to do what he wishes with them. But he stops.

They're confused.]

I make poor company. [The people outside wearing gold and jewels sought company with each other once they stopped being what was needed.] Do not worry. My eyes will be returned to me until they are needed again. Take them.

[It does not hurt anymore.]

[unpocoloco]

I can't.

[ He draws his hand back. ]

I can't hurt someone like I was hurt.

[His brow furrows, almost as if confused. He was hurt differently, wasn't he? Or is it that all pain is pain in the end?]

You are certain you won't join me? I've seen no fault in your company yet. Only understanding, perhaps.

[thaumatrope]

I cannot leave.

[It is not just the bindings nor the lock on the door. The people outside were far more effective at keeping them in then any sort of binding. They were a being of immense power but held fast under the water of desire and love.

Yet...yet still there is a voice on the winds. Quiet and the musician may mistake it for the creak of wood. But it's loud enough for him because he has heard it before.

"Let me go...let me go..."]

[unpocoloco]

[ His brow furrows still. He might have given up, bowed his head and conceded. And then he hears it, that voice, and it cuts sharply through the dream, just shy of rending the whole thing open.

For a moment, he remembers; the classroom, the destruction, the crying out. He remembers searching, being unable to find, and fearing what might be done while horrors filled his mind.

He's tugged back to the moment, but the moment is no longer the same. Everything feels tilted off its axis. ]

...Why can't you leave?

[He's looking around the room, looking for something sharp enough to cut silk. ]

[thaumatrope]

[The answer is the same from both the being and the voice on the wind. A statement that explains and condemns them both. For the first time in ages they speak as one, two people with the same voice.]

Because they love me.

[And because they are loved, they stay. And because they are loved, they're bound.

But it looks like Héctor's in luck. Someone's left a knife behind. It's pretty bloody and there is a dark energy humming from it.

A desire. To leave, to hide...to kill.]

[unpocoloco]

[He looks back at the door, with its lock. He looks at their bindings, at the dust and the webs and the empty box.]

...Do they?

[ It doesn't look like they do.

He freezes when he spots that knife, afraid and uncertain. Did they...? No. No, they offered their eyes and-- well, that thought is even worse. He swallows hard and reaches down for it.]

If they love you, then they will not mind if you go. Not so much to stop you. Surely you'd like to see the world. Surely they'd want you to have what you want.

[ He goes to that first bit of binding, levelling the knife at it. ]

And if they do not, perhaps they don't yet know how to love.

[thaumatrope]

This is love. I am loved.

[It's just the way it has to be. The people outside told them that they were loved and so they were. It was fine.

Yet despite their words, something under the silk begins to bulge and fight against the tightly wound fabric. Not to get away from the knife...but to hold the silk out so Héctor can cut it better

More and more what's under the 'skin', it will force more silk forward. Take them apart, tear it all apart.

Let them go. Please, God, let them go!]

[unpocoloco]

[ He frowns. He's confused. He wonders if the being before him is not allowed to say anything else.

But they shift and squirm like a butterfly unable to break its cocoon. He must. He must help. And if they truly want to stay, then they will. There will be no need for bindings. There will be no need for locks.

He takes the silk he cuts. One piece after another, he cuts it away.

His heart pounds in his chest. If this should result in his death, it won't matter. He'll be with his girl all the same. ]

[thaumatrope]

[With no words given to them, the being falls silent. They're completely defined by others and desires. If there are no words then there's nothing to say.

But once he gets far enough an arm bursts out of the cocoon, then another one. Covered in horrible wounds they may be, the arms start tearing at the silk with the ferocity of something that has been trapped for so long and been given the chance to escape.

And finally, finally, they break free. The mask the being was wearing clatters to the ground and shatters as what was contained falls out. It's...not pretty. It's someone who's been cruelly tortured and bound for so long it's clear that they can't move their legs. A featureless mask made of leather has been bound to their face by belts and globs of blood drip from their chin. Something else is keeping the mask welded to their face....

Their wings, once beautiful and full, have been carved to pieces so they can't get away and are nothing but bones. Their white hair is matted and much longer then it should be.

They claw at the mask, trying to pull it off even if it tears their fingernails apart. They can't quite form words so they do the next best thing and scream.

It's a sound he's heard before.]

[hawkwardness]

[He's wandering. He knows no matter how far he goes, he'll always be able to find his way home. But his home is a tree now, not a house. Home is where the heart is, see.

The more elaborate buildings don't seem welcoming, any more than the people inside. They're nothing like the one he grew up in. The shack is, on the other hand. He goes in.]

Hello?

[thaumatrope]

[The being is silent for a moment before speaking up.]

Speak your desire and I'll grant it for you.

[Or rather, they'll give him something that'll help make his desires a reality. He just needs to say what it is.]

[hawkwardness]

[Desire... What does he want? He asks himself the same question and his mind goes blank. Nothing. Nothing at all

So he chooses not to answer, eyeballing their little shack with jerky little motions of his head. Very birdlike indeed.]

Are you a prisoner?

[thaumatrope]

[The being tips its head to the side as it thinks of the question given to them.]

I am not. I am loved.

[That is what the people outside say to them so it must be true. But that's not the point here.]

You have no desire?