[Mini Event] just the way of things

archebold Fear is the price of imagination Wessex? Dead? Well...that was unfortunate. He did so favor the strength she exuded, though perhaps all that mattered little now that she was no longer around. Had Archebold been able to sigh he would have done so, instead his eyebrows merely lifted at the words Remi had spoken. Help of the Ascended to escape? Well, wasn't that just the bees knees. He had thought to linger behind, though seeing as he was the only Ascended here at the moment, and the mention of their help being needed...well that just tickled his pickle and he had a sudden interest to learn more. Walking stick tapped along as he weaved through the crowd, either politely or by simply walking through someone when he stopped just before Remi ….'Sad Eyes' he inwardly dubbed the young man. "Curious as to how we may be of assistance...there are no visible openings through the barrier and apparently the last of us to attempt to fight this guardian of the spire saw an abrupt end. However...like it or not, we are in this together. Whatever it is you will be needing of me..." Archebold paused to look over the others before fixing his dark eyes on the alchemist. Bowing his head slowly. "...speak the words. I will be there, my friend." The latter stressed subtly, as if it were such a foreign idea for Archebold to claim anyone to be anything other than means to feed...an attuned no less...but there was the sad-eyed young one, mentioning an eventual need and Archebold would express his desire to aid any way he could.

He remained stoic where he stood in his grey uniform beside Ashetta and listened. His eyes flickered across every face in the room, remembering some and committing new ones to memory. He tried to let the sight of Alistair and his new mask not take a toll on his psyche, but he couldn’t help the feathering of his jaw at the sight of the mask.       The name Ludo rang through his mind, having heard it from Remi and at the festival where he last faced his dead Master and his numerous victims. He didn’t want to move, remaining statuesque where he and Ashe has occupied, choosing not to follow her into the conversation.       He hadn’t personally faced the spire demon, or whatever it was called, so he didn’t have any information to add to it, but he was a fighter and a damned good one at that. He had a fast mount thanks to Kysma, he had a sword able to cut through anything thanks to Remi, and his magic was pretty effective, able to literally change the molecular structure of anything inorganic. So, if the rumors about the creature’s inside are true, he just might be able to lend a hand there. KALT

RexannA just how far would you go when the drugs aren't hitting home? Rexanna had been late to the meeting, but she hadn’t been too late to not hear about the death of a person named Wessex and the demon at the spire. The name rung some kind of deep chord within her that caused her brows to lift slightly, and she glanced at the crowd to see if she spotted familiar faces. When she did, she offered a kind smile to Alistair should he look, before making her way to stand beside Deimos. Her arm brushing up against his in a silent greeting as she nodded her head to her old friend. Of course, she could have gone and stood by Alistair or anyone else, but she had promised Deimos to remain by his side and when she noticed him standing all alone, she needed to make sure he knew that promise was kept. She clutched the quill bundle that Remi had gifted her, head shifting to listen while they talked when an idea struck her. That beautiful girl Edrei she had met, spoke of the creature not liking fire, and another raven-haired woman Rex hadn’t met who stood beside Kalt before mentioning it didn’t like lightning. So, what about fireworks? Perhaps she could distract the monster enough with the giant booms and cascading colors of flame that the others could work? She looked to Rory whom she hadn’t met yet, and to Remi with a small smile. “Distraction might be helpful?” She purred through the crowd, turning to her pad of paper and her quill to write. “I have firework magic, it might be enough to distract it if it thinks fire is raining down on it?” She wrote large enough that others could hopefully see before moving closer to the light and holding it up for Rory and Remi to see, and anyone else that might be interested in her reasoning. unwind my veins like rope. a kaleidoscope, detach until we choke.

coding

Kiada found that it was easier to keep herself in her avian form these days. Less likelihood of having to talk to people, and it made it easier than having to explain. Yet she heard about the meeting, and flew in, in between the door opening, to perch on a chair in the back. Her scarlet gaze drifting from person to person, lingering on the man she met named Remi who spoke of their adventure to the Spire and she clacked her beak in agreement. Yet a woman spoke of fire magic and it panged something deep in her chest and she scowled as much as a bird could, shifting her feathers uncomfortably at the mention. Others spoke, of lightning and fireworks and she pinned the woman with a dark scarlet stare, trying to figure out if it were possible for others to have a similar magic to the one her mother had for so long in all the lands she’d found. Still, she remained silent, her eyes eventually leaving the woman to move toward the front of the group and waited patiently for any other information that might be said. KiadA you think i'll be the dark sky so you can be the star? i'll swallow you whole.

coding

R O N I N

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Wessex was dead. A new god - literally a New God - had been discovered by name of the Voice. Ludo had advised them that the Spire and the Ascended were keys, perhaps, to their freedom. And the Spire Monster burned. The information filtered through and into the ex-soldier in waves, Ronin standing quietly by as others joined them to listen, to speak, to add to their growing pool of knowledge. He nodded to Edrei, flashing her a quiet smile.

"I plan to kill it," he said, his tone frank and without bravado. He glanced betwen Remi and Rory, stepping forward and glancing back to Ashetta to nod to her.

"I met a goddess here too, since we are on the subject." Ronin addressed the gathering crowd. "Safrin. She assured me of her assistance, and gifted me with something that should apparently prove useful against the monster." So saying he held up his left hand, wrapped in the gauntlet so recently obtained from Safrin. The pendant against his chest felt warm, and he smiled softly.

He arched an eyebrow as Rexanna held up her sign, able to make it out - just. He smiled and gazed back at Remi. "I was going to mention projectiles and bombs to you in the hope you might create something, but this might well work better."

He didn't even spare Archebold a glance, though his fists clenched silently as the Ascended addressed Remi.

Isla watched quietly from the entrance where Ronin had come in from. The infirmary slept for no man, so she would only be able to linger for a few moments. Still, the information delivered was damned important - particularly that tidbit about the Voice. Isla had some thinking to do after this. A lot of thinking, actually. And then a walk to take to the Underground. "The creature's bite is venomous," she called, to add her two cents in. "I have collected a sample of it from when the group returned from the last fgiht and I'm attempting to create an antidote, so we are better equipped to deal with that if it happens again. Any help anyone can provide is more than welcome." Isla didn't look at Archebold either, but for an entirely different reason. Her neck prickled with the memory of the manor, and she swallowed hard. Isla the flesh is weak

 

M E L I T A

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Melita had been late, lost in the withering columns of daylight and patterns of snow, tracing over what remained of ambient hours, skipping, hopping, and leaping between frozen banks and specious rime. So she came into the threshold, winding along the aperture, like a wild fury of tangled, savage curls and harpsichord wishes, emboldened whimsy and gnarled, knotted thorns, a blissful effervescence stoked upon her features, her face, blissfully unaware of the shattering knowledge dragging its onslaught towards her.

She should’ve expected it, in a way. She’d lived through two other iterations of malice and menace, of murder and mayhem, shoved headlong into vices and venom at a tender age, had grown alongside barbs and swords, talons and claws, wept with loneliness, collided with despair. Determination and valor had blossomed out of her every effort, the seething, treacherous torment, the war-torn movements, desperate to prosper beneath a brutal thumb, a nefarious hand, a tenacious, binding grasp. Why wouldn’t it be here, amidst the fronds and feathers, alongside the beatific pinnacles, the rasping, grinding unknown?

Death. Monsters. They were always within her reach, but the name it felled shocked her, made her gasp, a quiet, nearly inaudible thing, caused her eyes to turn down, away, across the ancient, arcane floor, so the rest of the world, the crowd, couldn’t see the comprehension persecute her again.

Wessex was gone? How was it even possible? She’d barely known the woman, but had seen enough, witnessed enough, to believe in the layers of strength, of fortitude, mired in these hills and woods. She’d been firm, inflexible, unyielding – the honeybee child couldn’t even fathom how another soul had ripped and torn her apart. But then she remembered her thoughts as they began to part - I’ve known monsters bigger than you, and the weight made her swallow hard, throat suddenly coated with bile, with shame.

The warrior had been more than a speck of dust, more than a canvas of ash and soot. They all were. They were lines in the sand and movements across the sun – buildings carved from the wake of their hands, from the fury of their might, battles and crusades forged from the keen edge of their determination. They were beautiful and blistering, caught in a mortal ring, and it irked her, irritated her, that it’d all been cast aside so quickly, so readily. The notion hammered down, deep in her heart, in her soul, over and over again. Do something had been her anthem in the Rift, for years as she crawled amidst the shadows and ruins, as she scaled wall after wall, conquered sorrow after sorrow. Her voice was suddenly an echo, a boundless, intrepid thing, too daring, too bold, too feverish, but fervently laced with the ferocity of her intentions, yearning for them to hear her. “I would like to help,” was an audacious, burning thing. She half-expected them to ignore her; too young, too inept, too ignorant, but damn, she could fight, she could scheme, she could buy time when there were others better than she.

stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires

The smile he procured for Remi was brief and distant, sad, only there as if to say, it's quite alright, it's not the first time, and won't be the last—

He passed the Spire regularly, and nothing ever happened, but the place was steeped in death.

He snatched his hand from the lantern, lost, seeing Remi's hand move but coming nowhere, and this was neither the place, nor the time. So Rory locked his fresh hurt away, became only the bearer of bad news, an unreachable and distant thing. Amalia's voice cried out in the silence following his words, and he met her eyes for a moment, but she wouldn't find what she was looking for in them. Wessex was dead, and he would not lie to her, or offer false hopes.

Then Remi went on, speaking of how they had found one of the New Gods, and freed it, then spoke of meeting Ludo. And that explained the trio of birds and their foolish adventure to the top of the Spire. Rory let out a long, slow sigh. Others stepped up, offering help, insight, one woman calling for the demon's death and had Rory had hackles, he would've raised them. Anger got you nowhere where this thing; a riot was the last thing they needed. A woman approached, writing something on a sheaf of paper and holding up for them. Rory tried reading it for half a second before giving up—between the lighting and her handwriting and his state, there was just no way he'd decipher it.

And Ronin, poor, stupid, brave, confident Ronin, he spoke of killing the demon. Blessed by Safrin. Rory raised his hand to his face, slender fingers massaging his brow and temples, the urge to scream at them all rising. Isla called out from somewhere. And Melita, the child Wessex had turned down, spoke out, and he couldn't help but to think she would've been proud of her.

Lightning and fire didn't matter. He couldn't let himself believe they stood a chance against the thing.

They were all mad.

The least he could do was try to stall them, to give them enough time to come to their senses, and if not—well, he could try to keep them from doing something damned foolish. Their confidence sickened him.

Wessex had died to the thing. Couldn't they understand how dangerous it was?

"At least wait until Flowerbirth before you throw your lives away," he said, voice dead, face dead, soul defeated. "You'll stand a better chance without the deep snows hindering you."

Remi didn't know Rory well. Hardly at all even, but the urge to reach across the palpable space between them and touch—hands, lips, cheeks—if only to force away the sorrow and heartbreak. But could he even do that? Was it hubris to think those thoughts, and just wistful naivete that the blue-eyed man would even stand for such? Of course it was. And so instead of trying to repair what it was he saw shattering in Rory, the alchemist just allowed something inside of himself to break as well. Perhaps one day one of those fragmented pieces of himself might just be the right size to heal his friend. The echoes of agreement and offers to assist temporarily boosted Remi's spirits, until Rory spoke up again. It wasn't the first time that talk of upsetting the dangerous equilibrium of this place had been met with chords of disagreement from the leatherworker, but he'd never seen Rory so animated before. Remi's glance towards the blonde was far from condescending or judgmental. Rory was right of course that waiting was the better option, but...that had never been the Northaven way. And though they were no longer in Northaven anymore, it was hard to break some of those habits no matter how much sense it might make. Remi's pale stare tried to find Rory's, to offer—what? consolation? understanding? affection?—whatever his boyish features might have expressed, it wasn't as much as what he wanted to. Clearing his throat slightly, he looked back to Ronin. "Rory is right. The snow is doing us no favours." And you have a baby on the way he thought silently, no doubt not needing to remind the ex-captain of that. remi Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning And I find myself careening in places where I should not let me go

His hiding place might have allowed him to hear, but he could not see and the frustration of it was enough to make a slender fox squirm in the confines of stone and plaster where he had tucked himself, safe from notice by those who wouldn't understand. Some voices he knew - Edy, Isla, the pup - others were unknown to him, new and strange. And there were more bodies moving and breathing than speaking in the large area. They spoke of assault, of magic and weapons, a glorious battle to make the bards sing--

Except the bards tended to leave out the screaming of the wounded. The stench of spilled bowels, the slip of filth beneath weary boots. The twisted limbs and broken bodies, slack faces and empty eyes that accompanied such things. No one wanted to hear about that. But he had seen enough destruction to know the price of such grand gestures.

And, in the end, maybe that's what it would come down to. A grand melee, an overpowering force of mortals against the Spire's single defender, relying on sheer number of bodies to slow it, even stop it, so some lucky few might gain the supposed entrance of the key to their cage. But... perhaps there were other ways. Violence tended to be the first thought of the strong, he'd noticed. Those used to winning with it rarely considered that there might be another way, using other strengths than the merely physical--

Rory's voice didn't ring out so much as fall, leaden, into the momentary silence, and the little fox froze, ears pricked but holding his breath. So much pain--

He'd heard enough. He had enough to redouble his efforts in the library and perhaps be Remi's kind of fool, as well. For now, though, there was something he needed to do. Squirming, twisting, he managed to back himself out of the dead end he'd wedged himself into and back into the night. It was cold, overcast still -- dark, with neither moon nor stars to light the way.

No one should spend such a night bleeding and alone in the dark.

Ghost-silent and blending with the snow, Jigano trotted back around to where a black horse had been hitched. He approached cautiously, raising his nose to sniff hers in greeting before trotting around to her side and gathering himself. He jumped, springing high enough to catch himself on the saddle and find his balance as he curled down there, a lovely white foxfur with two eyes slitted mostly closed, to wait for Rory's return.

You’ll stand a better chance without the deep snows to hinder you... He’s not wrong. But what Rory’s forgotten is that they can use the snows to their advantage now. And that’s the difference between the kind, mournful man and Wessex. Wessex sees Deepfrost and it’s a challenge to make her better, not something to hide from; if you can run through snowdrifts, if you can jump, or fight in the cold, if you can push through that soul-draining weariness, you can do that and twice as much when the weather is pleasant. But it’s not just that. They’ll need some more help. Wessex stands in the big doorway of the temple, having conveniently missed the tears and fuss about her death. She wouldn’t have wanted to see the maudlin display, anyway, preferring the fire that races through the group of people - Natural and Outlander alike. The irony, of course, is that while Wessex was in her first life, she tried to call a meeting of the Naturals and no one but a wolf-shifter showed up. Turns out she can accomplish a lot more dead than alive. It’s a weird thought, but it won’t stop her. She feels fucking awesome - almost as if nothing can stop her (except maybe that fucking Spire Monster). A small flex of her fist sends the long, sharp talon shooting out of between her knuckles, and she can’t help but grin deviously at the living weapon she’s become. There’s no disarming her now. “You’ll stand a better chance with me.” Wessex calls out to Rory, pausing a moment for the inevitable shift of heads before using the talons to pull her hood down. Same blonde woman, sans scars, same arrogance, just a couple of undeserving upgrades and a desperate need for some new leather armor. He can keep the knife. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

Kalt narrowed his eyes, taking in what everyone was saying. He was there for information primarily, not aiming immediately to make himself known, but if he had something to add that might make any kind of difference, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to speak up. Then again, he didn’t favor revealing his abilities to everyone. Oh, well.       A blonde woman then made her appearance and a rapid deduction told him that this was Wessex who was apparently back from the dead. A huff of a laugh escaped him briefly. ”I’m with her,” he chimed. She had been killed by the creature, so if she was somehow back from the dead after facing it, the assassin definitely wanted to have her on the team to bring it down.       ”Ain’t you supposed to be dead?” He asked, brows furrowing with wider than usual eyes. ”How in five hells are you standing there right now?” KALT

R O N I N

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Poor, brave, stupid Ronin felt the weight of his decision to push the fight, and Rory's reaction told him just how well it was going down with some. But he couldn't - wouldn't - let it lie. Were they meant to live and die in fear of the Spire and the creature that guarded it? Naturals these people may be, but for fear to become complacency spoke of generations of futile attempts.

And yes, perhaps their try at this would be just as futile. But they didn't have the experience of that to draw upon - until they did, he would give his all.

"Of course," he said. "Going after it in the snows would be more deathwish than anything. Flowerbirth it is." He smiled faintly at those who wanted to help. "There's one more thing," he said. "When we faced the creature last, it was injured enough for one of our group to notice that it doesn't seem to be organic..." Here Ronin glanced sidelong to Ashetta. "Whatever it is, it could have been made, rather than born..."

He was actually about to excuse himself when the door to the Temple opened, Ronin's blue eyes flicking up to see an unfamiliar woman striding inside. He didn't know her as Wessex, but another in the group seemed to, and believed she ought to be dead. Ronin glanced to Rory , hoping her appearance might be significant enough to spur him from his depression.

edy stage direction: insert some heavily audio-engineered pop beat heard at least 3 drinks in Fucking what?! The sound of the door opening behind them made the Launceleyn girl twist painfully in her seat. Clutching her ribs which were still a healing mass of hellfire and aggravation, she gaped openly at the hot tall blonde standing there just as casual as anything. "Uhh..." Edy murmured awkwardly under her breath, dark eyes scanning about a bit frantically to make sure she wasn't the only one seeing this. Pursing her lips in that annoying duck-face sort of way, Edy returned her stare to Wessex, eyes alighting on the places where she'd seen the woman torn to shreds as if expecting seams to start bursting at any moment. "Hey again." She said with a childish casualness, pushing some of her hair out of her face and trying not to grimace too much as pain ricocheted through her ribs.