to take arms against a sea of troubles

WESSEX

Wessex lives fairly realistically; she knew she'd caused a stir with her words, but she also knew deep down that they were true, and people didn't tend to like the truth. She didn't like the truth of Amalia and Amalia didn't like the truth in the words of the Ascended. And being Ascended, well... it puts a natural barrier between herself and the Attuned and Accepted. She firmly believes that more than half of them would see her brought low and The Voice eliminated entirely, despite the fact that she's never done any of them ill.

They also fucking love Ronin. He's a good guy, sure, would probably make a decent King - but she didn't think he had the guts to make the hard choices that might have to be made. Having seen Zariah's powers up close, how they verge on the edge of omnipotent, her condescension, her inability to consider logic - there is no reason to assume that she won't fight with everything available to her. She'll fight dirty. And Wessex had no qualms with fighting dirty in return. If it's the only way to win, then so be it.

The rest of them, however...

Anyway. Wessex needs to check in and see what she's missed. A lot can happen in a few days. Into the Basement she slips like a shadow, unseen and unheard. The room is dark. Not a problem for her, but rather than lingering like a creep, she lights a lamp and takes a seat, listening for someone above - or any at the doors.

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper was grateful some portions to their resistance threads were complete: a leader and advisors chosen, one less restless piece to their sedition. What was to come next? Where would the insurrection truly begin? How would they be aligned, placed, into the threshold of revolution? Gods, how he had once thrived in the tempestuous edges of terror and treachery, contorting, distorting, weaving in and out of the furtive spaces, the meticulous fringes, sword raised, schemes chased, battle lines drawn again and again and again – and now he was uncertain of where they would all come together. For the present, he intended to drop off a few weapons in the basement, where they were at someone’s reach at all times, if one day they ended up breached, found, discovered by those they couldn’t trust. There were only a handful of daggers, some throwing knives, and two slender blades, but they would do in a pinch, and he had more available at his house should anyone have a request. He bid his affectionate greetings to Amalia, then headed his way down the stairs, lantern in hand, presuming no one else would be within the domicile, not without a meeting called – He stopped dead at the center of the incline, however, as a light shown, already cast into embers and ether. For an instant, he thought about intruders, about guards, about bestial, barbaric things already clustered in his hands, and he could throw them, harpoon them, savage them until the whole realm was silent. Except, if they were Zariah’s men, they likely would’ve already marched up the stairs and searched the premises, harking some command and demand from the Merciless’s ridiculous ultimatums. Perhaps it was one of their own. He marched further, inclining his head, tilting it when the form came into view. “Wessex,” he uttered by way of a deep, rumbling greeting, not giving away the gravity of his mercurial thoughts; finally reaching the bottom and taking his time, meticulously placing the weapons in designated corners. Then he turned his lantern light down to his side, out of her eyes, addressing her. “You missed our latest meeting.” Just a statement, not a direct inquiry as to where she was; if she wanted them to know, she’d inform them – and perhaps that was why she was amidst the cellar, waiting for an opportunity. Maybe it was something else entirely – he shifted, hanging his lantern along one of the hooks by the door. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

WESSEX

There are creaks and groans above her head as someone walks. A door opens, the light shines through, and Wessex turns to face it.

Deimos. She considers this as the light reveals his boots, his body, and then his face, ever carved in stone. They’ve always been on good terms, understand each other as warriors, but perhaps the two of them are too stoic, hold too many words in reserve for the day when it might be worth talking. Her blonde head nods in greeting and then she watches his work, appreciating the forethought. Safe houses. Stockpiling. If their clandestine spot is ever found, there will be hell to pay, but until then, they both know he has the right of it.

She is, however, visibly surprised when he says she missed their last meeting.

Having put forth her candidacy, one would think it is essential to have all the options present (and when she’d left, there’d only been one). She’s always shown up, to events both big and small, (did she not help clear this basement while weak as a fucking kitten?) helped when she could to the best of her abilities considering her daytime weakness. But even then… One missing doesn’t necessarily warrant postponement and they might not have been deciding important matters. She can’t detect any worry in his voice, any questioning or curiosity, no so good to see you, or where have you been, are you alright? Just a blanket statement. As a woman with a certain reputation, she might find his tone to be unremarkable, but from a - well, friend - it stings. Another surprise.

“I was captured by the Fae for a few days. They handed me over to Zariah. I only just escaped.” She swallows the for now that follows the words, keeping the danger out of the room, if only for a couple minutes more. Wessex looks away “What did I miss? Last I saw the Fae were headed to the Spire.” What meetings, what accolades and rejections, what does she need to know in order to make an informed decision about the rest of her life?

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He’d had difficulties in forging connections in prior lives because of his silence, of his stoic qualities, of the reticence forgoing and circumventing over all the sentiments layered, lacquered underneath. Deimos had expressed his camaraderie, his fellowship with his kingdom by action – protecting and defending them, their efforts, their capabilities, but when everything was said and done – it really hadn’t mattered. It was a chilling arena, vast summits with his tilted crown and the endless, unwinding abyss, savage intonations with his promises of predilection, with no one daring to come near. Here, he’d been accepted, tolerated, to an earnest extent, uncertain when or where he’d become worthy of those efforts, extending them in turn. But apparently, when it came to mutual warriors, with their nonchalant facades, all the unsaid things buried and burrowed their way into the cores of their existence too, and they were left just as burdened as before. He didn’t ask about her health because she was strong and enduring, capable and of another nature. He didn’t ask where she’d been because it hadn’t been his business, not a being to pry, nor a creature to stick his nose into places he didn’t belong. The Reaper had no idea that it would sting, that it would hurt, that it would linger in that stead. His silence hadn’t held any lacerating intentions – just normalcy, fire-forged friends who could breathe in the same expanse without offending one another in the interim. Her news, however, intrigued him. The cool composure loosened for a moment, and he wasn’t as rigid, falling back into meandering along the basement, keeping his hands busy with sweeping, with picking up after the last meeting. She’d had several busy, interwoven days – snagged at the Fae’s hands (why – why would she intrude?), then being handed over to Zariah, escaping from her too (which was all the more intriguing, because how many of them would have to evade her claws soon?). “How did you escape?” His voice rumbled on the state of his curiosity, on the intervals of a potential story. Then came her inquiry – an expectation, but he didn’t think the Spire would be included in the juncture. Two separate tales, one he could spare, and one he was required to tell. “The Spire was a bit of a disaster – we went in to free the tulhaimnar. It did not go well, including Safrin becoming weak and wounded.” He left out the part where some of them nearly died, how they’d all been broken and barely stitched back together, how naught they did seemed to be very effective. His voice took on a deeper lilt, gaze landing somewhere along the walls, before pinpointing back to Wessex. “The meeting was for ensuring we had a leader. You and Ronin were put forth as candidates.” Then he wondered how she would react to the pending results, if she would ask why Ronin had circled back to proffering himself into the position – when he’d stalked off before. The world changed in such rapid paces – and with her absence, it might have been too much. “We voted as a group. Ronin was selected, with Jigano and Amalia as his advisors.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

WESSEX

Deimos leaves out anything that might have made her care about their dangerous escapade. Tulhaimnar? A thing of the Fae, who despise her. Safrin? Hates her too She reacts very little, but saves that tidbit of information for later. Not because she can do anything to affect a Goddess, but because it is useful to know the state of things.

It would have been easy to craft a half-truth if he had asked, but instead, the man focuses on what is maybe the most pertinent information for their the little group. How to escape from Zariah. She sighs, wanting to embellish it, forever wondering if she might have been able to make it out of the woods without the help of that commanding, exquisite Fae. In the end though, she sticks to the facts. Making herself look better won’t do any good here, won't help with any strategies Deimos might be able to come up with for the future. Sitting up a little straighter, Wessex begins to recount her escape. “One of the perks of being an Ascended is that at night I’m very agile and fast. And I don’t feel pain. She put lightning manacles on me but I broke through them. Ran into the dense forest. I think she hit me with some life drain magic, but it was poorly aimed, so it didn’t do much. At least that’s what I assume it was, since I felt a little weaker than before. Could have been a combination of lightning on my systems and that - I don’t know.”

She shrugs. Figuring out what magics people have and how they work has never been important until now. “In the Greatwood, she called down a massive lightning storm, which managed to miss me, but I’ll never know what would have happened. A red-haired Fae woman appeared and was very angry about the damage done to the trees. She let me go… also weird, considering her kind had just imprisoned me in a pit. I have no idea what happened after that, just got the hell out of there. I think Zariah would have tried to kill me, otherwise.” She tries to keep it nonchalant, but the Abandoned woman’s pathological need for dominance has given the Ascended a healthy dose of not wanting to touch her with a ten foot pole unless it’s to take her down kind of thing. There is a moment of silence as she too, plays the omitting game, leaving out the part where she now seems to owe the woman two favors when she can’t even remember owing her one. So there’s that mystery to unravel as well.  

She absorbs the rest of the information in silence, biting the inside of her lip to keep from banging on the table in frustration. A simple nod as the walls go up again. “Anything else about Zariah? What prompted this meeting?”

And yes, that question about Ronin lingers in her mind. But first things first.

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He leaned against the table now, arms folded across his chest, attention riveted on the escape, on Wessex’s ventures, because at some point, they needed to realize, needed to know, what they were truly up against. What would Zariah use? How would she try to counter them? What would they need to utilize to stand half a chance? While most of them didn’t have an Ascended’s abilities, it certainly felt like a massive advantage against the Merciless; agile, fast, no pain reception when that was how the monarch reigned, striving to create horrors and oblivion, threats and omens. The lightning manacles were an interesting touch – he wondered if they were created solely for the outlet of anguish, or if they harbored something more, ceasing incantations, invocations, enchantments from those who wore their miserable chains? Zariah also had life drain magic; similar to him, death and death and death, and he breathed sharply, not wanting to draw any other patterns between him and the beast on the throne. But then the story went on – lightning storms called and heralded (and how were they supposed to combat that when it was put into play on a battlefield?), a red-haired Fae woman (Arduinna – collector of favors and debts?). “That is quite an impressive evasion,” he stated, obvious, but managing to garner a smirk, a snicker, for her efforts and exploits, that she’d managed to get away at all, that the unrelenting foe they faced wasn’t truly omniscient. “Were the manacles meant to suppress magic?” He inclined his head, tilting it slightly, a study, an examination, pondering if these were to be avoided altogether or if they could maintain their own. “You likely met Arduinna – who seems to play her own games. She was the one who let our group into the Fae village to release those captured. We owe her a debt as well.” Their tones were nonchalant, but anyone who knew these infidels, these warriors, these fiends at all, would understand everything brooded and brewed underneath. They couldn’t fall apart in the face of another – reserved themselves for later, shaking in their shadows, reliving the horrors in the middle of the night. In the quiet, they didn’t dare unfold; too many bruises, too many scars, too many things lost in tempests and endeavors. But on the subject of Zariah, he could fill her in on the latest sagas. He wished the list weren’t so long or brutal. He wished there were other things they could do but sit and wait for the next ax to fall. He wished he could be something other than this rebellious figure, brooding and stalking and biding his time – insurrection at his core, bleeding into his voice. His eyes ghosted to the ceiling as his memory rotated, revolving, trying to piece everything together. “Zariah threatened Ronin’s daughter. I have a strong suspicion she has manipulated or influenced Rexanna in some way. She is hunting Jigano – and intended to disband the Loreseeker’s Guild. Amalia offered to take his place. In response, the Merciless has now threatened her with an arrest if Jigano is not found.” Was he forgetting something? He balled his hands into fists, an ire of frustration pummeling and fissuring, extending and radiating from his essence. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

WESSEX

say] “Arduinna,” Wessex repeats, remembering the name of the person - Fae, it seems - who blinded Remi. She never got the whole story of what happened, but it’s almost like she doesn’t need to. Her observations tell her the woman is full of strong, powerful magic. She loves the forest. Why she would blind Remi, or save an Ascended, or lead a group of people to the Village is still beyond even her ability to guess. There is nothing in common, except that they’re all not of the Greatwood and she does seem to be collecting favors. For what? For the day when she can take over the Hollowed Grounds? Turn them all into her slaves?

She nods, simply thinking about Deimos’s revelations. Another thing to tuck away and ask her Lady about.

The two stoics brood together until he brings up the cause of the meeting, and to be honest, she finds it difficult to believe that’s the cause of the meeting, though nothing brings people together for a cause like threatening babies and children. Poor strategy on Zariah’s part, showing her cards too early and making a powerful enemy. At some point fear becomes anger, and she wonders if the brat of a Queen realizes where the line is, whether she knows she’s pushing her new subjects too far. It’s too fast. And it’s going to blow up in her face. Already, she's lit the match and lined up the powder for them. All they need is that one move to set it all on fire.

Either way, Wessex predicted that would happen. She wants to leap up and point in Deimos’s face, crow that she knew it would happen and why the hell can’t they see her ability to contribute? But that would require admitting that she wanted - nay, almost needed something from this little group of popular kids power players that’s formed, and she would never be able to do that. So instead, she picks up on a little tidbit, digging further. “Jigano? What did he do, talk too much?” Wessex scoffs, half-joking. And half-not.

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame It was interesting to witness how they circled back around to silence, how she picked and chose what she wanted to listen upon or give out; waiting for anything acknowledged about the manacles but to have the subject ghosted away, only pressing Arduinna’s name into the forefront. The Reaper’s mind was too full of too many others to worry needlessly on Arduinna’s eventual favor exchange; he’d contemplate more on it when the rest of the world wasn’t falling down, when he was barely keeping to the surface of the fathoms tightening around them. Then nothing but nods; his brow arching only slightly, giving away naught in particular either. They’ve always played their parts well, the rarely-indulgent, nonchalant beasts, capable of wielding weapons but not tongues or discourse, saving it for other times, other measures, when their blades couldn’t do the talking. He didn’t wind his way into Wessex’s scoff or attempt at joking; he thought it was mostly mired in the truth of her predilections. Though the Reaper had his own bones to pick with the Loreseeker, he wasn’t about to impart those predilections here and now; reserved for moments out of the basement, without others ears pressed to the floors. The beast did tilt his head at her reaction though – perhaps the woman had become irked at the lengths of speech Jigano often entailed, or the meeting prior, full of petty squabbles and skirmishes had simply drawn her away from ivory and sagacity. He didn’t pry any further into the mess, had no intention of drumming up past motions and maneuvers, everything done, completed, fallen back along the wayside as more and more and more events continued cropping up. “He did not join the enlisted.” Perhaps he had his own reasons for the sedition; Deimos had not chosen to rebel then and there – a military motion was easy, descending straight back into something he was comfortable within. His insurrection was deeper, greater, than being incapable of wielding his pen across a page. Then he prodded a little, seeing how much she’d be willing to give away. “What were you doing with the Fae?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

WESSEX

When you’ve lived half your life with your cards close to your chest, when the person you’re having a conversation with’s girlfriend doesn’t know if you should be alive or dead, when it feels like everything has been thrown back in your face - yeah, you might lean towards reticence. Silence. Forever going over a vicious debate in your head and always ending up somewhere along the lines of what’s the point? and they’ve already made up their minds and we’ll end up on opposite sides anyway. Because experience has taught her that this is the way things are, this is the way things forever will be due to her Ascension. She can only ever take care of herself.

Even when care starts to creep in. Even when she begins to grow fond of others - the firecracker Melita, devastatingly beautiful Rexanna, kind, kind Rory, Deimos himself, and yes, even Amalia, for their shared history is hard to erase - she doesn’t truly believe it will last. Not with all of them. If Rex ascends, they might have something; but if she stays with Bastien, it might never be what it could be.

Pessimistic. Fatalistic. Realistic.

For some, their loyalties are inherently divisive; those devoted to the Old Gods, those who consistently receive their favors, and those devoted to her Lady will never trust each other. Not truly. And in knowing this, in knowing that one day she might be called upon again to do the work that needs to be done, work that her ‘friends’ will probably try to stop… it makes things so much more difficult. So much so that even when they can unite behind a cause, it inherently feels like them vs. her.

Wessex nods again. They’re back to short answers. While she can’t personally blame Jigano for not wanting to join the Army, she can imagine that the results are troublesome and the consequences stretching farther than anyone ever intended. “Sounds like a mess. What about that open forum thing? I just saw it on the Board.” Leaning forward, she indicates that she wants to hear everything. And in return, the blonde answers his question about the Fae. “I was in the Greatwood, trying to find the source of the Stonesong. Turns out they are violently opposed to Ascended being there. Even more so than the rest of you.” Referring, of course, to several of them being captured by the Fae last season.

“Found out I can read Fae, though. So not an entirely shitty situation.”

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He had no devotion to any gods – ever – the segment of celestial beings and himself never forging a connection: his were to people, to his own broken, brindled soul. They were to Amalia, to Rexanna and Kiada, to flickers of family he could hold onto and impart within when the notions had once been so long gone and fruitless; Remi, Jigano, Rory, Wessex, all clambering together when years before he’d been nothing, nothing, nothing, a detached, forlorn figure, waiting for the right moments to be consigned to his personal oblivion, hell and hell again. He wouldn’t turn against them unless they did the same to him – the thought wasn’t even there, not caught in his snares, not layered in his brutality – barbarity had only ever been for those who made themselves his enemies, his adversaries, his rivals. The woman before him wasn’t any of those things. But their spiral on information gathering continued, escalating to the open forum, to the whirl of vitriol, vehemence, and hostilities dragged on by gaping mouths and tacticians. “That was another mess,” he sighed, eyes drifting along the ceiling as he replayed the scene in his head. “There were several who made loud, callous claims towards Zariah,” but the slight smile on his features indicated the spectacle might have been amusing, for only so long. “But their words fell on deaf ears. She always had something to refute, or a way to finagle around the answer. A politician. A manipulator.” His fathoms reached and riveted back to the Ascended again. “At one point she allowed for a Natural advisor, saying Rexanna could be the Outlander one. You and Rory were nominated.” His jaw clenched, a deeper exhale loitering through his frame; the smile long since disappeared. “Then she took that away too.” Dangling hopes and threads; pondering if she proffered the notion simply to watch the looks on their faces when she snared it back – a power play, old as time. It was minor along the state of all the other things she’d managed to hiss and snap. It was intriguing to find Wessex’s kind was even less welcome in the Greatwood, especially considering their initial greetings by Delah and company when they’d come to grab their allies. He didn’t know enough about all the sizzling contortions and connections from god to god, from new to primordial; the notion that spurned his interest was her final sentence, the depths of his fathoms coming to light. “Anything of worth?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

WESSEX

Well. That’s a lot to take in. Quite the event she missed, and whether that’s a bad thing or not, she doesn’t really know.

Unfortunately, while Deimos may see more eye-to-eye with her on some things, while they can stand shoulder-to-shoulder and know the other is skilled and loyal enough to have the others’ back, she is not sure about the others, especially given the conflicting news she’s just received. Fortunately for Deimos, Wessex isn’t the shoot-the-messenger type.

There's a noticeable change about her after he finishes talking about Zariah's meeting. Tight-lipped and all of a sudden rather grim, the older woman shakes her head. “Just some stuff about the fae’s history as a people.” Interesting if you wanted to try and manipulate them, but she imagines Delah wouldn’t be so susceptible to that - and the Sea of Branches group is virtually unknown to the Grounders. All of a sudden feeling like it’s time to go, Wessex pushes herself up off the chair and straightens her clothing. When she looks back to Deimos it’s with a peculiar expression: almost as if she regrets having to say the thing she is going to say next, is hurting, but is also resolved. It’s a break up, and they aren’t even dating.

“Thanks for catching me up. I’m going to make a second safe house in the Outskirts if you wouldn’t mind helping with that. Couple of nights time. Good luck with the rebellion. If you need help, ask and I’ll be there, otherwise, I’m out.”

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all