[SWE] The Festival of Lights

All of these lanterns, just for me...? Its fellows had their own dreams and vices. Sex, mostly, or being known, to have followers... Pah. Ludo needed none of that. For it had followers aplenty - just look at all those lights! Like the breath of a ghost, each and every one of the flames in the lanterns would flicker all at once, whether or not they were magically created. Abruptly, they would all snuff out. All. But. One. This lantern had... hands. As the world plunged into darkness and chaos punctuated only by the bonfire and the single light from Kalt 's lantern, the assassin and the child would feel something flutter about them, about their faces. Ribbons of soft fabric, or perhaps the brush of a hand...? Slowly, light began to return to the fields, each lantern igniting once more. But where Kalt and Theea had been standing, they were no longer alone. Ludo had never seen so much death wrapped around a mortal before, and it was beautiful. Kalt would find himself surrounded by bodies. Each one killed by his own hand, each one standing in silent regard before him. There was Harkon too, and Master, at the front, eyes pinned on Theea. What a wonderful turnout. LUDO Braved the forests, braved the stone Braved the icy winds and fire Braved and beat them on my own

The lanterns all flickered at once, and Kalt immediately bent down and took Theea into his arms, an overly cautious look on his face, as his eyes flicked all around them. Suddenly, darkness.       Kalt narrowed his gaze to the bonfire and the one lantern still alight. What was happening? Theea was absently squirming in his grasp, wanting to make another lantern with Ashetta and upset she wasn’t able to. She giggled at the feeling of something touching her cheek, but Kalt froze. This wasn’t okay.       As light crept back, the man lost his breath, and the little girl stopped moving around, looking at the surrounding area with wide eyes. They were severely outnumbered, something Kalt had never liked.       His sight landed on Harkon, a silent pain in that gaze. The man was the closest thing to a brother Kalt ever had. Gods, he had died… He didn’t know he had died, didn’t stick around after escaping other than to warn Orynth to stay away so that he wasn’t captured. He wished there had been time to get Harkon out, but he really wished the man had been able to escape the cells.       Every face in the crowd of over a thousand people was one that Kalt recognized. He knew every single one and remembered how each and every one had been killed. He even saw the face of the first kill he ever made as a child...that boy who was abusing the puppy. Every one of those kills brought out a sadistic pride in the man, but the one face that had him chilled to the bone wasn’t a face at all.       He stared down those hooded eyes, that faceless mask which haunted his dreams even when he knew the face beneath it. Without thinking, Kalt moved to the side, his arm extended out to keep a barrier between Ashe and the figure of their Master. Only...he didn’t seem to be looking at Ashe, rather at the little girl on the verge of tears in Kalt’s arms.       Silver Wing wore a look that was almost a sneer at the masked creature standing before him.       This was impossible, couldn’t be real, couldn’t.     “I didn’t let you touch her in Northwind,” he whispered, meant only for the figure in front of him, as he moved his hand so he was holding Ashe’s firmly, “and you won’t be touching either of them now.” Any twisted pride he felt in front of his numerous kills was smothered by the hatred and disdain he felt in the presence of his Master. ”What’s the meaning of this?” He demanded to whoever was around, fury in his voice rather than sentiment or fear.       Still, he kept his eyes locked on the man in the mask. He had taken his eyes away from one too many times in Northwind, and at that thought, he felt the scars over his back reopen once again from the whip that he wore at his side then and there. He fought - and thankfully succeeded - to keep the shudder that threatened him at bay, as he watched carefully. Kalt I  am flesh and I am bone, i rise up, ting ting, like glitter and gold i've got fire in my soul

One minute, Ashe was standing at Kalt and his daughter’s side, glancing between them and to Vervain and the still unconscious Remi .. and then like a mighty wave of billowing blackness, each and every lantern at the festival winked out all at once. Her breath left her, her eyes darting about her as she felt that little hand leave hers - swept up by her father. With a ring of steel into the suddenly silent and dark festival, Reckoning came free from its scabbard at her back, and she settled back into a defensive stance. She tried to see better, could hardly see her mother crouched on the ground beside Remi, and.. Gods, right beside, her, and she couldn’t see Kalt or his daughter. Her heart started to race, and it was instinct that had her eyes locked on the bonfire, on.. On a single lantern still lit, hands pressed into the sides in the same colors smeared over Ashe’s face and shoulder and chest. Then all the lanterns relit, all at once, just like when they had gone out. And the sight that stood before Kalt, before her at his side…    For a second, the assassin thought she’d been plunged into another one of her night terrors.. But she only recognized a few of those empty, dead faces that stood around them, but they were not hers - not her kills. Her heart was racing in her chest as her eyes drifted from one lifeless body to the next, to.. Harkon? Her breath halted, but the senior assassin that had once trained her  wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at Kalt, at the little girl in his arms. Her eyes moved on, and then the entire world halted.    It was the dark, cruel, harshly shaped mask of Master that she set her gaze upon.    ”No,” she breathed, her eyes going wide. She couldn’t take her eyes from him, from the familiar form of him and the gloves on his hands and those dark eyes she could hardly make out from within that mask. That fucking mask that haunted her every breath, awake or asleep. All the horrors of what her life had been could be traced back to him, no matter who they had gone through. She didn’t look to her mother, to anyone else - not as she stood face to face with that masked demon. She didn’t realize she was shaking until her sword began to waver in her grip.    Her eyes flashed to Kalt for only a second as he stepped in front of her and spoke in a tone she barely could hear, and her eyes narrowed. What the fuck was he talking about? Master had certainly taken his fair share of flesh from the Assassin in Blue - whatever he wanted, demanding and taking and ordering - a fact that Silver Wing knew quite well. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her as she turned her gaze back to the ghost of her worst nightmares. Their worst nightmares. Everything she had done, that Kalt had done, everything done to them.. All rooted under that mask. ”I killed you once,” she growled at a near whisper from just behind Kalt, and the savagery in her tone was enough to mask its tremble. ”I’ll do it again.”    Ashe shifted, and a massive black wolf moved forward from behind the other assassin. Master wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at the little girl in Kalt’s arms, but her golden eyes were wide with wild energy. Her pelt bristled and her ears were pinned forward, lip curled back to bare sharp teeth in a snarl. Lightning was rapidly crackling to life in her jet black pelt, lighting around her paws, emulating her erratic heart. Fire from lanterns and bonfires alike were leaning towards the she-wolf in the immediate area, sparks and embers drifting towards her.    She could taste the blood on her teeth, running hot and thick down her throat, could feel the toughened muscle of a heart in her jaws. A low growl was rumbling deep in her chest as she stepped out , uncaring that neither Master or Harkon were looking at her, that none of the endless sea of bodies were her kills, she didn’t fucking care that this wasn’t meant for her. The wolf could taste the vivid memory of that blood and flesh, could feel that chest ripping open beneath her paws and the sizzle of lightning as it aided her. Her growl increased in volume, and the muscles of her hindquarters coiled - ready to lunge for that masked demon. Ashe

ronin A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets Things had gone from calm to chaos in a matter of moments. The second the lights went out Ronin had risen to his feet, all conversation and thoughts of breaking bread and making lanterns gone. There was something ominous about the blackness, something solid, and while it was punctuated by the bonfire and a single, solitary light, he still couldn't make himself feel at ease. Then suddenly they could all see again, and a crowd had gathered around a stranger and... Ashetta. Old habits never really died, and the soldier in Ronin reared its head as he cut through the festival to reach the people standing silently around Kalt and Ashe, and as the wolf appeared with bared teeth he held up his hands, standing just a few feet behind the two of them. "Wait," he said quickly, his voice carrying across the crowd. "This doesn't look... right."

Rory

So it began.

The lights flickered, and the hairs on the back of Rory's neck stood up as a chill traveled down his spine. With a shiver he withdrew from Wessex and Koel, hurrying back towards his lanterns as they all went out—

—a sea of darkness, vague outlines of bodies, and somewhere to his left, a single, breathing glow—

So his lanterns had not been chosen; his eyes strained in the dark as he stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn't make out who stood next to the lantern, or what it even was—but it wasn't like that was any different than usual. Then, just as abruptly as they had gone out, the lanterns all breathed back to life. Rory, trying to not let the familiar weight across his heart drag him down, had planned to do as he always did: quietly collect his lanterns and head back home, deep in thought.

But not tonight.

The spirits crowded behind him, around the bonfire, swimming in the sea of people, like translucent strands of a tapestry woven into theirs; a merging of worlds so many of the Naturals longed for, that glimpse of lost loved ones.

Never before had Rory seen so many spirits called by Ludo.

”What’s the meaning of this?” a stranger's voice demanded from the center of the spirits, and what had drawn his concern and Wessex's ire reignited. No Natural was ignorant of the Festival of Lights.

It had to be an Outlander who had made the lantern Ludo chose; an Outlander who was so steeped in death the ghosts almost seemed to outnumber those gathered. And Rory, peaceful, calm and quiet Rory, felt something like fire sear his veins.

"Stop this nonsense," Rory said, but somehow it was so much more than that: it was cold and loud, a command without being a shout, and his eyes glittered dangerously in the firelight. Something strange was going on, the sparks and the lanterns leaning in towards the growling center of the ghosts; Rory wriggled his way through the crowd towards Ronin, Ashetta and Kalt. "Ludo favored your lantern. Ludo granted you the wish we all have: to see our dead ones again." His voice was a dead thing in his mouth, his heart a dead thing in his chest. They had seeped like poison into their Festival, reaped its highest prize, and defiled it with their ignorance. The violent promise throbbing in the wolf's body made something dark and foul-tasting uncoil in the back of his mind.

"Are you happy now?" he demanded of Kalt, of everyone, something fragile threatening to break in his voice.

And somehow, the vilest thing of all was his own anger.

Wessex’s emotions are funny things now; rage is still easily accessible, still lives deep in her flame-licked belly, ready to burst forth with both senseless abandon and cold calculation. Lust only tickles her now and then - at the sight of a long-legged girl or a particularly roughshod guy, two extremes who would have kept her busy for hours on end. Hunger and Thirst are a memory, Weariness present when the sun rises, and Love - well, love was never a true companion anyway. Wessex is loyal. Wessex has allies. Wessex is logical, and there is precious little room for affection. However. If the Ascendant woman had a big ‘ol organic heart, it would be smiling for Rory. It would rejoice in his indignation, sing to see him stand up to the Outlanders, and this night would plant a seed between them. As it is, well, she isn’t mad because her lantern wasn’t chosen. It never is - and probably never will be - as she has forsaken the Old Gods and isn’t the arts and crafts type. Her sister is dead; no  point in reliving what has been lost. But for others, this is a poignant, hopeful affair. The Outlanders don’t deserve it. Wessex follows Rory, drawing knives from hiding places as she slinks along, fluidly slipping through the small gaps between the gathered. The leatherworker doesn’t need protecting, but the wolf looks like it’s about to rip someone’s throat out, and she’d rather it not be her fellow Natural. She shoves someone aside and takes up a spot immediately to his right, still vaguely angry, but more observant and collected than before. They're a team, of sorts. “Leave.” she hisses to the two Outlanders who have their hackles literally and proverbially raised. “They won’t follow you.” WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

What pretty little webs this one wove about himself. So sure of himself, so confident, so protective. And yet, the bodies upon bodies upon bodies around them spoke more of the killer than the guardian. The masked figure at the front of the crowd of memories lifted a finger to his lips, as if to silence the brat before him and to dismiss him back to his sado-masochistic pleasures. As he did, the whole host mimicked his gesture - ironically just in time for Rory and Wessex to make their appearances and add their indignation to the mix. And as they spoke the army of dead ones seemed to swirl and dissipate, dissolving to smoke and shadow and ribbons of fabric that brushed and stroked at the onlookers. Eventually only Master remained - Master and Ludo, though it hovered between Rory and Wessex, masked face tilted as if curious. "Death comes to all of us," Master's voice rang out to Kalt. "You cannot resist dancing with it. You never could. I am patient, and I will wait for you." For all of them. Then he disappeared as well, like sand pouring between fingertips. Ludo too was gone, but in its place, at Rory's feet, stood a lantern. Ornate, with a white candle burning within. The Festival of Lights was over for another year... and what an interesting one it had been. This concludes the SWE! Feel free to post a final reaction post with your characters - the thread will remain open for a further week before it is archived off. Kalt received a visit from Ludo - how lucky! Rory , however, seemed to tickle the god's fancy in truth - he has received a magical item! Please check his profile for more information. LUDO Braved the forests, braved the stone Braved the icy winds and fire Braved and beat them on my own

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The world churned back into its disorder and melancholy. He forgot the weight of the unknown as it transpired before him, as voices became murmurs, as the breath seemed to leech away from his lungs, cling back to gallows, throb in his heart. Death sung its sultry tune in the awakening of bodies, ghosts and wraiths, straining, clawing, sliding their way in serpentine machinations. Another had been chosen in the midst: honored in his test, in his task, by the exposure of wraiths and phantoms – for half a second, had the Reaper even managed to make a lantern, he wondered if they would’ve come. Would they have screamed, yelled, and hissed at him? Would the bodies of his adversaries rise and stare, glare, as menacing as they’d been on the battlefield, kill or be killed, swords drawn, bloodied, then the last lingering moments as their hearts ceased to beat? Would his parents have been there, amongst the crowd, not dead by his hand but perhaps just as well, smoldered, driven to cinders, to ash and dust? Would his friends have been there, stuck in their smiling, smirking, snickering compositions, haunting him because they couldn’t have been saved? Would she have been there, the gentle, assuaging, comforting rain, then gone in an instant, returned to heaven while he stayed in his own personal hell? Perhaps it was just as well that he’d never be chosen, abandoned and desolate, forlorn and absconded, for he wasn’t sure he’d be able to face them. He wasn’t ready – tied, knotted, and gnarled – but his eyes kept taking in the legions of specters, selected from their tombs and catacombs, fascinated. His ears caught the tension in conversations, the discourse rising and falling, the malice and menace buried deep in those not favored. Ludo and his granted schemes and wishes, Ludo and his trivial foils, Ludo and his wares – and those who couldn’t control their intentions and emotions. There was a shift in the air, a threatening constriction and rigidity floating along the eldritch ether, something akin to an incoming battle, an oncoming rush, a fervent, ardent passion sizzling – animosity, acrimony, wretchedness brewing. Ordinarily he’d be a part of the mess, a weapon of revolution and sedition, but he had no dog in this fight, ignorant and inept, useless and depraved in the scheme of things. But at the very least, this experience, this encounter, had led him further out of the unknown. {Just wrapping up!}

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}

As one, the figures lift a finger to their faces, and Wessex finds the gestures rather… eerie. The movement seems to fall in line with the Natural’s indignation, but even so… There’s a tickling at the back of her neck that makes her wonder first, who the figures are (there’s so many!), second, why Ludo chose the Outlander and his consortium of shades, and third, why they are so threatened by dead spirits. There are things that go bump in the night, things that can kill and carve and decimate - but even in Caido, the dead stay dead. Death comes to all of us... Wessex frowns again, the lines deepening in her stone-wrought face. This isn’t usually how the night goes. And again, her anger rises irrationally towards the Outlanders: they who come, but do not ask, who take, but do not give back. She imagines it is only a matter of time before there is a clash. At least Rory got a present. That’s nice. Wessex glances down at the lantern and offers a small shrug. It’s probably useful for him, and pretty, too. Maybe it will be a consolation prize of sorts to the leatherworker. She looks for his gaze and offers the blonde man a sharp nod and a clap on the shoulder before turning quietly on her heels and dissolving into the darkness, lest anyone say or do something else that might provoke her. Wessex has had enough restraint for one night. Best not to test her any further. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

Rory

Not much else happened—

He stood there in a sea of ghosts telling the world to hush, and then.. there just.. wasn't a whole lot else: just Wessex by his side, both guardian and partner, a shadow he had no doubt could easily reach across his head to eat anyone who approached.

And between them was another. Masked, its face hidden behind bone white porcelain. Ludo itself stood between the Naturals, head tilted, and Rory's brain read it like an animal: curiosity. Like an old bear in a forest glade, listening. Like a wild thing watching the tame, and wondering.

Then it was gone, along with the figure that had remained to deliver its ominous message, but something else had arrived. A lit lantern stood between his feet, its color and aesthetic reminiscent of Ludo's—and honestly, who else could be responsible?

Wary and tired and curious all at the same time, Rory picked the thing up. He tried to stay away from the Gods, and Abandoned as he was, they rarely sought him out. That Ludo would leave him a gift, and without an obvious reason.. well, let's just say that he doubted it'd turn out to only be a gift. It was pretty, though.

Then he felt Wessex's gaze upon him, and met it with surprising steadiness. He returned the nod, was surprised by her parting touch, and watched her melt away into the swell of bodies.

Well. He had nothing more to do here. Besides, he was acutely aware of Ronin in the crowd, and though he was bitter about tonight's proceeding, he didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of the man. Silently Rory followed Wessex into the throng, going to collect his mortal lanterns and his thoughts and his heart and go home to the safety and comfort of his animals.