[SWE] The Festival of Fiat Lux!

and indeed, just think: in many ways, body and soul,

i have been more a battlefield —

Gods, everything goes to hell and then some. She tucks the blade that she’d won from the Loreseeker’s booth, Loren now gone and missing – trying to fight the mud monster that barrels there. And Phoebe is there too, trying her best to try and fend off the monster – but she can’t stop as her feet start moving. Parasol slung over her shoulder to try and ward out the sunlight that would weaken her, she tries to sprint toward the wall that comes shattering down.

She has to be careful now, isn’t that what everyone was telling her? That she’s queen now, and she can’t go striding straight into the danger. But she’s queen, and these are her people now, and she can hear the screams as the wall comes down, shattering and splintering across the thunderous crack that ignites it. But that’s not the one that reaches her ear first, Amalia’s cry – head turning, green eyes scanning, spotting her and Remi and Wessex as the Wraith arrives.

And Aoife, poor sweet Aoife who had made her face her fears after Ronin’s demise, of holding and playing with a small child. She wonders if Remi and Ronin had kept the gift she’d made them… Back before, back when things were simpler. When things were easier. Her heart breaks, it is breaking, as she turns from the wall – ushering frantic people away and away and away from the incoming danger.

But among the tears and the fear, everything is flying about, everyone is darting around aimlessly. And she needs them all to listen, to go if they haven’t heard or seen the carnage that’s begun. Raising a hand to the sky, she shoots a large firework out – aimed toward where people are running from, hoping that perhaps the boom would get more people to depart from that general direction. “Get those most vulnerable out, now.” She begins, gesturing for anyone nearby willing, her voice a rough demand of charge that she hasn’t used in years. “Healers, start healing those with the worst of the injuries and work your way up.” Green eyes cast in Remi’s direction with Amalia and the rest of them, before she looks over to the bodies. “Those with strength, start moving the bodies and get out of the way of the creature.”

And she starts moving, to Remi and Amalia and Wessex and Evie, watching as Wessex pushes down hard onto his lungs and Rexanna reaches for Amalia first, green eyes lighting up with that bright green glow as she scans the Shield from head to toe, snagging at a spot along her skull, a small frown forming along her face. “You’re okay, a small fracture along your head.” She says after a moment, eyes drifting to Evie then, wondering if the woman would make note to heal it after the worst were injured.

Nodding to Wessex, she turns those glowing green eyes to Remi and Aoife, spreading into the infrared part of her gaze, where she frowns, lip wobbling slightly as she reaches for the little girl, cradling her close to her chest, crafting a small blanket to cover the girl. “Go to the Outskirts. I can help carry him if someone else wants to hold… her. Keep them together.” She stumbles over the words, the emotions in her throat, in her chest, the tightness of how once upon a time she’d felt this too – her own. It’s a hole that can’t ever be fixed, a trauma she now shares with the Alchemist. A trauma that never leaves you the same again.

She understands, to an extent, why he doesn't want to breathe anymore.

— than a human being

REXANNA

shed every skin that doesn't fit even if they call you cold-blooded

unhinge your jaw —

Screams and ice and bodies flying, mud spraying, it reminds her of the Rift – reminds her of the horrors of Helovia when it fell, and her eyes seek out Deimos – body moving and mind racing, heart thundering and beating beneath her chest at a frantic, rapid pace. She takes a step forward, ready to spring into action – only…

Only, she doesn’t, not as the mud continues to fly, not as a rock or stick or something blasts into her from the side, rocketing her along the ground. She cries out, unable to anticipate what has happened, unable to shift and avoid the incoming attack. At first, she feels searing, terrible pain, teeth grit as a sob leaves her – a terrible whine hissing through her teeth. The air has been knocked out of her lungs, and when she finally manages to gasp for breath, to reach, to try and stand, she can’t.

Her leg is on fire any fraction of movement, burning and blurring her senses. Pain, terror, and anger seething through her as she pants enough to try and lift her head, to look to her leg and see what damage has been done. Does she even have a leg left?

Yes. Barely.

Her calf is sticking straight out from the side of her leg, twisted and warped in all sorts of terrible ways, and she hisses terribly against that too. She can hear distantly her mother’s voice across the crowd as she grits her teeth, another sob leaving her. For the first time, in a long time, she wants to cry out for her mother. Weak, pathetic, sad, pained. She instead reaches across that attuned bond to any out there, calling for the closest thing she has to a father. Deimos...! A pathetic whine followed by terrible pain, a bruised body, filled with anger too – anger at being broken, useless, stupid.

---

feel free to ignore her! Deimos is gonna come scoop her up!

— go for the throat

KIADA

my held breath fills the room with blood

hurting in ways I can't describe

Disaster strikes as swiftly and decisively as it had in Helovia. Hotaru can't say she expected it, has been lulled by the relative monotony of this new world, but when it comes - she reacts as readily as she ever has. Ice shatters all around her, mud flying and tangling in her hair, and instantly her magic springs to her fingertips like a sword. Only the opposite this time - her magic can't create large items, but she can make multiples, and she designs them in her mind to interlock together - five small metal shapes that form into a shield that she hefts above her head to ward off the shrapnel. Immediately her eyes scan the field for familiar faces, dark morality damning all others and lighting a fire inside to protect her loved ones first and foremost.

Rexanna is off to the side in a small cluster of people, and she can hear the reverberation of her powerful tone, the boom of her fireworks as people scatter and scream beneath the onslaught. And then there - dark hair, a face she knows as well her own daughter's - struck akimbo in the mud. Hotaru doesn't think, scarcely has time to breathe with how she shoves past the stream of people trying to move past her. There is only Kiada, and her legs cannot move fast enough but she forces them to nonetheless, hitting the mud hard and skidding the last few feet on her shins careless of the ice that rips past her thin leggings. Her breath catches hard in her throat as she moves to hold her body above Kiada's, using her shield and her own flesh to protect her niece from any further damage. And it hurts, it hurts, it hurts like a miniature sun burning beneath her skin to be unable to help. To have no healing magic, as useless and swept away by her grief as she had been the day Arya died over and over and over again in her arms.

Please Gods don't let this happen again. I can't take losing another child. "I'm here beloved," she whispers instead, and only by the grace of willpower and motherhood is her tone even. Tears are forced back, burning behind her eyes as she bows over the girl who has been like a daughter to her from birth. Ice slams into her back, cuts welts and lacerations through her dress and over her shoulders, but she scarcely even flinches. Golden hair cascades down, a gentle veil to shield Kiada from the sight of the wreckage around them letting her focus on Hotaru alone. A sanctuary, a face that projects nothing but love and safety, if only to fool the pair of them.  Though her forearm is deep in the earth by her niece's shoulder to keep her body as close as possible to take any further strikes, she manages to turn enough to gently thumb across one pale cheek. "Hold on, sweetheart. Deep breaths, take deep breaths for me. I've got you." And though she isn't Attuned - will never be able to share in the bond between Kiada and Deimos, is unaware of the call for help that has already been made - she lifts her head and screams for him as well.

my heart bends and breaks

so many, many times

HOTARU

RONIN

THE FALLEN STAR

Ronin wasn’t there.

But then Ronin is never there, is he? Since the longest night of his life passed by, when he held his daughter and let go of her mother, has he ever really been there?

The fights he has missed, the grief he has caused, the pain and hurt on his behalf or others - he wasn’t there for it - he is never there for it. A fool crowned king; a fallen star that never landed.

And now all of that culminates in the frantic beat of a heart through a ring on his finger, a beat that slows... slows...

The sky made material moves faster than his feet, and he crouches like a statue upon the nimbus as it sails across the fields, revealing muck and carnage, a swathe of brown slopping atop the Fiat Lux festival.

The beat upon his finger has stopped - or else it is too weak to register - and Ronin forgets to breathe as well. Soon he sees it - the bunting, the blood, the shards of ice, the moaning monster still oozing forth, the people running...

And the people who aren’t.

Ronin stumbles off the nimbus on legs too numb to do much more than hold him up. He sees Amalia, Evie, Wessex - Remi - and his lips part around his daughter’s name, a question, a plea.

Then he sees Rexanna cradling her, and there’s a blanket over her and she’s not moving, and Ronin swears, he swears he can feel the void punch through him, letting in the sucking blackness, filling him up and pushing him out.

It’s sick. He is sick.

His feet take him away from the fight, away from the carnage, from dead husbands and children, and into the growing dark.

And Ronin isn’t there now either. Maybe he will never be there again.

now don’t you lose hope

I swear I never dream that we’re alone

I swear I still believe but I don’t know

Y'know how when you have two horses that are buddies, and you take one out for the day, the other slowly gets more anxious until at dinner time it's like "OMG whErE is Izzy. Did he get eaten by a bear?!?!" Well, Cass still had an equine mindset, and Hotaru had been gone for, like, hours.

I'm sure everything's fine, she told herself. If I just maybe see her for a few minutes or whatever, then I'll be able to go home and stop worrying and stuff.

And then she got to the festival, and the universe proved once again that she could never be too paranoid.

Now, running towards monsters was a very, very bad idea. Cass tried to make a habit of literally never doing it, like ever, but her mom was probably about to get eaten or something! (GOD, Mom. Like really? Again?)

Tripping every twenty meters or so, Cass awkwardly approached the festival grounds at top speed, "I've gotta find Hotaru," she announced, skidding to a halt in the mud and scanning for a shock of blonde hair.

C A S S

Abasi

You tell me what you want and I'll tell you what you get

One moment he was talking to Loren hand in hand, looking about to see what he'd do when he was left to his own devices (possibly try and sample the festival foods here, compare them to home?), the next moment it was chaos all around him, screams and people running...Abasi stared at the mud, the ice and the....large...fish??? All coming towards the festival and felt an uncomfortable surge in his belly as he was reminded of the few times they had been unprepared for the flooding of the Nile in Egypt.

In all the mess, he felt some scratches on his legs as shards of ice passed him - no large amount of harm had been done though, so he knew his role was now to help. Loren was a healer, so surely his lover would also be staying to assist the wounded. Abasi's powers were only light, but he would make himself as useful as he could.

At least if he could not help the living, he may be able to eventually help bury the dead.

"Anyone with small injuries, come to me!" He yelled, leaning down to sort the small scratches on his own legs so he would be in good mind to help. "I can heal you so you can get away swiftly." Perhaps to some it would seem silly to cure scratches and bumps in the midst of a panic, but Abasi knew two things: even the smallest wound could seem huge in the midst of a chaos and that the healers treating more serious injuries did not need to be bothered by those with ones he could handle.

Adam Some things you do just to see how bad they'll make you feel Sometimes you try to freeze time 'til the slots are a blur of spinning wheels Adam was pleasantly drunk, happy after the silly game of Spin the Bottle (even if Oia had ripped out his heart and stomped on it) and ready to meander around some more until he was tipsy enough to be sleepy, at which point he planned to go back home and nap until hopefully Pet might appear for some lazy kisses. All in all, a perfect day. Plans rarely went the way they were made, but it seemed this plan would be completely thrown out by the chance of fate; as the yells and screams began, Adam whirled around on the spot, completely confused. Was this all a bit of the festival? He did not remember it being an element last year...and people didn't look to be having fun. He could see people laying on the ground, blood, a man cradling a child...nope, this was definitely not fun. He'd never been any good in real crises. Small time arguments and little scuffs, sure, but an actual emergency? He found himself frozen, which is likely why he then felt a hard something hit the side of his face, the cut leaking blood down his cheek. "Ahh, fuck." Guns weren't going to help. Making sure Coffee was by him, Adam did the only thing he could think to do, what Rexanna had instructed - he lifted the body of a child by him (still breathing, just about, thank the Gods - he wasn't sure he could take it otherwise) and tried to find a healer. Once he was sure they were ok, he'd try and take as many of the kids as he could back to the village. But I am just a broken machine And I do things that I don't really mean

The white sheep of the family

Loren legs pumped even as his mind went numb. Everywhere he saw the shards of ice—his ice—and the mud, mixing with blood in too, too many places. Seeing Oliver by the fallen Jigano, the summoner skidded to a halt, nearly falling over in the slippery mud in his haste. Laying a hand on the bard, the Launceleyn sent healing magic coursing through the white-haired man.

Then Loren was off again. He had to keep moving—

because so many of them were unmoving, gods

—knowing there were more in need of help. Hearing Rexanna's voice echoing over the Fields, he angled himself towards it.

And then he saw Remi and Aoife—gods no, please, anything but that—no, there were others helping Remi, the summoner needed to focus on the rest, those who still needed care, those without such loved ones. Abasi was fine, thank the gods, though even that the Launceleyn couldn't focus on right now.

Instead, he focused on the queen. "People might be trapped under the mud. You need to organize search parties." His voice was distant, tinny, barely audible through his ringing ears, through his swollen tongue. Although he knew he must look a nightmare, faced bloodstained, muddy, and bruised, his expression was eerily calm.

Raising his voice as best he could, though it was still oddly muffled, he called out. "Bring the worst of the wounded to me!"

If they dared, after what he'd done.

He banished that thought, and set out to making the area suitable for healing. Calling upon his magic once more (haven't you done enough?) he washed an area clean of the mud with water. Then he created five of the largest buckets he could and filled them with fresh water so that those without his powers (what little good they did) could at least start washing wounds. By then, people with injuries had begun arrived, and after checking they were severe enough to warrant his attention, he laid his hands on them almost without looking, a clinically detached expression on his face.

His head hurt, and he objectively knew he should heal himself. But there were others much worse off, and he didn't know how much magic he had left.

And it didn't hurt nearly as much as his soul.

Will blood tell

Coding base by Sky!

legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them

hides the pain, suffering

The reverie faded on a stunned shroud, as if the music, the tones, the contentment was siphoned off and away – lifting his head to survey the scene, ponder over what was occurring, collective gasps and drones filling the void, the absence of music. The monster in the foreground, rumbling forward, muddy, mired, and holding something, crashed, beckoned, and suddenly the bewildered contortions in his mind broke away – and then there were only screams, only shrapnel, only wounds, only the reverberations of so many other events and experiences in his life.

Invasions, war, crusades, all warped and entangled in his memories, clustered down the back of his throat, one series of disasters from the next – and he could feel his heart ricocheting through his chest, his breath coming in shortened gasps, ghosts flickering at the corners of his eyes. Turning his head only encompassed more carnage, more ruin, more abominations, and for a moment he simply couldn’t move. It’d been like demons. It’d been like hell. It’d been like friends falling, begging, pleading for their lives, and nowhere to go. It’d been like a cacophony of noise and panic, of pandemonium and slaughter.

Then the inherent, muscle-born memory kicked in, the haunting poignancy faded away, and there was only the multitudes of mayhem before them all. He maneuvered, abandoning the catapult, catching Zuriel’s gaze and nodding, fluidly bounding together over the fields, listening to the pouring of demands, commands, and outcries, narrowed eyes trying to pinpoint any of his loved ones, and then others that required some aid. Through the distractions, he didn’t notice the icy shards raining down in his direction until a familiar lacerating, stabbing, blinding sensation ripped and tore through his upper arm, blood instantly trickling down along fabric and flesh; ripping it out of his muscle in irritation, gnashing teeth, clenching jaw. He didn’t have time for this. Another assaulted his hip, not as petulant, but enough. All of it was enough.

Then he could hear Amalia’s cries. Kiada’s voice. Start moving bodies. Get out of the way.

Visions of fire, of screams filled the void again, and he shook them off, away, intrepid once, maneuvering as best he could throughout the onslaught, directing a few in the direction of the sanctuary, while he forced panic away from gripping his ribs, his soul. The apprehension and consternation still curled and coiled – until he had to shut everything off, Reaper influences, detachment and apathy when it truly couldn’t embody him any longer. He could see a crowd gathered nearby, Amalia’s familiar form there, alive and whole, uncertain about the others in the midst, and then there were a flash of blonde hair, a scream of his name (Hotaru?) somewhere nearby, and then Kiada-

He didn’t allow despair or torment or anything else puncture through his shuddering inhale, exhale; time slowing down as he ran towards her. Like eternities, like eons, like decades, like opposing lives, as if he simply couldn’t get there fast enough – and then at her side, near Hotaru, kneeling down in the muck, taking in the damage, thoughts of her mother and LongNight’s debacle bristling into his entity. “I have you,” was all he could utter, threading his arms underneath her form, ignoring the agony in his arm, in his hip again, Zuriel’s horn glowing, glowing, glowing, attempting to heal as much as she could. Her eyes might have turned to him, and he shook his head, more importance placed on the Harpy, gaze bearing over who else might require aid, bringing her up towards his chest, cradling, protecting, shielding.

--

Deimos scoops up Kiada and Zuriel is working on healing her!

and death that spun them

DEIMOS

MELITA

One moment, they were whirling, twirling in time to the music, and laughter pooled, rang, cascaded from her lungs, beckoning siren antics filled with flower petals and daffodil airs – a time of joy after the sorrow, after the anguish, after every other god damned thing –

Gone within a moment, within a collective gasp, within a chilling rankling down her spine, head snapping in the direction of cacophony and terror. Because she’d gone through this before, even if they weren’t mud monsters. Because her world had fallen apart at the seams once, amongst false gods and pariahs, amongst their cherished deities, people, places, loved ones, split into pieces and portions of dust. She wanted to scream but nothing came out – an impulse to look for others, for her hands to clench around her staff, to reach out for Fangorn and run.

Her mother was already gone. Her sister was already gone. And now – how many more of them would suffer?

She raced forward, uncertain what she could do to assist, uncertain of how to do anything except fight. She would have, she would have, she would have, if she’d been close enough, if she’d been capable of seeing Sunjata in its clutches or Phoebe striving to save, but then there was only volleying mud, ice, and rocks, flying, blistering shrapnel rampaging forth. The honeybee youth, distracted by a crowd growing nearby (was that Remi and Aoife? Were they okay?), sought their notions, their expertise, directions hailed and hollered all over the place, when a stone pummeled her, square in the shoulder.

Its size, its speed, its ferocity walloped her, and she was down on the ground, within the muck, the stomping feet, within an instant, a fiery pain brandishing through her bones. Broken? Was it broken? She thrashed for a moment, irritated, annoyed, and agonizing, the anguish suddenly splitting over her senses, overwhelming, overflowing through her mind, her breath shortened, as she rose to sit up. Not fast enough, not quick enough, hand shaking towards her shoulder, unware, not processing anything else around her. And was assaulted, sieged upon all over again, another weighted rock falling upon her shin, a resounding crack and expanding echo of agony, torture, and torment blistering through her soul.

Not here suddenly crackled within her. I’m not going to die here. Not like this.

Trembling, shuddering, she wouldn’t be able to get up or stand, forcing herself to at least crawl, wind like a snake through the earth, maybe find someone who could heal – she could hear Loren screaming in the distance, she could see a multitude of others somewhere nearby, but there were others far more barbed and maimed than she. She ground her elbows into the soil and moved, snarling, growling, crying, screaming, Fangorn hissing and grumbling nearby, attempting to get anyone’s attention, but the girl’s brow furrowed, not about to be done in.

--

Melita’s crawling through the field with some broken bones.

You're all gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun

my whole life is mine, but whoever says so will deprive me,

for it is infinite.

Before Amun could even respond to Wessex, everything went fucking insane. The ice wall shattered, and a wall of mud and sharp objects crashed over the festival. His eyes widened, but there was nothing he could do to get out of the way. Unlike Wessex, he couldn’t teleport, he barely had any speed to him at all, and his luck in Caido had been pretty rotten so far.

So there was nothing he could do to stop the sliver of ice that sliced through his left hip. There was even less he could do to stop the block of it that crushed his right hand. He was swept along in the mud's wake, sent tumbling to the ground. Though he didn't feel pain, he immediately did a scan.

What he found was...not great. Still, he levered himself to his feet, grabbed a pole from a fallen stall, and started limping away from the carnage.

by being moved I exert my empire,

making the dreams of night real

AMUN

WESSEX

the wraith

There's far too many people around the alchemist now, people who all pile their magic into the man without checking to see if it's what he needs. But what does Wessex know, other than the fact that there are others who still need help and there are plenty of hands here to do what she's been doing - but only so many who can hear like she does, can work like she can right now.

All she needs is a finger to bring the person out from under the mud.

To any of the people around Remi, Wessex says, "I'm going to start searching for people. If the magic doesn't work, keep doing this." Standing up from the body, the Wraith steps away, scanning for any signs of familiar people. After a moment. Her eyes stop on Melita and her prone, crawling form. They widen (cause fucking hell, that ain't good either) and she raises her hand, calling out "Loren! Abasi! Someone over here!" as she wades through mud and over debris to get to Melita.

To hold her, if the girl will let her.

she's pullin' the trigger

cause it's me and the moon, she says

and i have no trouble with that

The white sheep of the family

Loren’s head snapped up at Wessex’s call. There was no patient currently before him, but he was loathe to leave the healer’s station. So he simply cast his eyes about until he spotted the former Queen. And with her, a battered looking body with a shock of red hair.

Melita. From here, he couldn’t see the extent of her injuries, but they looked bad. Biting his lip, he raised a hand, and a bolt of sky blue light shot from it. His healing magic flew over to the redheaded woman and sank into her wounds, targeting the worst of them, though maybe not healing them completely through some quirk of his magic or maybe just his exhaustion. Still, it should help.

Will blood tell

Coding base by Sky!

Phoebe

I've been very hopeful so far
Now for the first time I think we're going wrong
Hurry up and tell me this is all a dream
Or could we start again, please?

Chaos. Utter Chaos. And it was in part because she had not been strong enough. None of them had. In the end, even after Frey evened the playing field, they had failed to save anyone from the mud monster. The Festival was ruined, and lives were being lost at a rapid pace. Covered in mud, exhausted from the exertion, Phoebe rushed through the carnage, searching for the boys. "Pim! Go get my supplies from the college!" she shouted to the pink dragon, who flew off quickly to get what she had asked for. "Cormac! Rhett! Jax!" she shouted over the din, praying they were alright.

What she found was far from it.

They could have easily been missed in the debris. But one little arm caught her foot, making her stumble. Brown eyes widened, breath catching, as through the sheets of ice that buried them she made out three little blonde heads. No! The midwife fell to her knees, tugging and digging up sheets of ice with a renewed strength she had not known she had, summoning it up from some place deep in her soul, pushing her body to its very limits. A sob caught in her throat as the last piece of heavy ice was tossed aside, and there lay the three boys huddled together, Cormac on top, having tried to protect his brothers, Rhett's glasses as cracked and broken as his bones, and Jax still clutching a sugary treat. It had been quick. It had been near instant. They hadn't stood a chance, their little bodies far too weak and small to bear the blow of ice falling upon them from such height. A sound Phoebe had heard before, but not ever quite made herself, broke through her lips - a mother's cry at beholding the death of her children. Gently she scooped their limp forms into her arms, cradling them against her chest as she sobbed into muddy, bloody blonde hair. Not again, not again! Her precious nephews, her own flesh and blood, as close to her own sons as she had ever known, gone in an instant.

Because she hadn't been strong enough.

She did not know how much time passed as she held the bodies of the triplets, crying with abandon, before a nudge pulled her from her spiral of mourning. She looked over to see Pim, bag of medical supplies in his maw, staring at her intently. Then the din of cries and screams around them broke through the haze of mourning. Others still suffered. Others still died. Cormac, Rhett, and Jax...their rest was with Mort now. There was nothing she could do. But there were those who she could help, and now was not the time for her to neglect that duty. She steeled herself, hiding her heart and pain behind iron doors of strength she pulled from Pim. She carefully pulled the boys out and laid them next to others who had fallen, gently covering them with a cloth before looking around to see who she could help.

A voice calling for a healer breaks through the din - Wessex if she placed it right - and Phoebe went running in the direction. Seeing Melita so hurt was shocking, knowing how strong the girl was, but it was no time to falter. "Let me see her." she said, an undertone of command in Phoebe's voice. It wasn't usually her nature to be so forceful, but now was not a time to be timid. She had to take charge. Quickly she worked to see what might be wrong, the musical stethoscope in her ears as she listened for where the issues in Melita's body were. "She just has breaks. I can set these for now so the Abandoned healers can tend to more life threatening wounds. Once set you can carry her out of here." Phoebe said to the former Queen, already grabbing the supplies she needed to set Melita's broken limbs.

But then of course magic suddenly appeared from nowhere. Phoebe looked to see the caster, and glared at Loren in the distance. "Loren! Focus on the dying, not the injured!" she shouted, command in her tone.