[Mini Event] who tells your story

This is why Caidonites have never pulled together under a leader; not only was survival far more importance than governance, but they are a notoriously stubborn people, stuck in their ways and quick to anger. That, and the Gods pit them against each other. Three say this and one says that, while any means to figure out the truth are hidden, looped up in obscure languages and coveted like starlight. While Wessex will not pretend to think she has the only answer, she is an excellent stereotypical example of a their people. First, she’s angry at 108 for blowing their cover. Idiot. Then, she’s angry at Amalia for being such a suck up to a Goddess who plays blatant favorites. When she finds herself unexpectedly siding with Maea, which has never happened before, she is sure the world as they know it must be coming to an end. Finally, she’s angry at Rory, for putting her on the outside when all she’s ever done is help him, protect him. They were a team, and fuck, if she could read his thoughts, she’d spit at his feet and walk away. This is why Wessex  doesn’t make friends. They eventually turn on you. And of course, there’s the fucking Outlanders to deal with. She should have been given the power to hulk out instead of these fancy finger blades. Instead, her voice is low as she fixes Amalia with the stare of a disappointed mother. “You think I’m going to doom the world? Sam? Bastien?” She raises an eyebrow. “History needs a scapegoat and the winners are the only ones who get to tell their side of the story. How do we decide which God is telling the truth? Why have they given more power to Outlanders than they’ve ever given to us?” Her gaze moves to the approaching Roana, a sneer spreading across her face. . “You can’t fight everyone. How many of us have lost family to disease, to LongNight, to mutated beasts, to the lack of knowledge and inbreeding that continues year after year. And now we sit here, fighting amongst ourselves again.” Wessex shakes her head. “Nah. Too many would-be leaders and not enough followers. Talking won’t do shit.” And Wessex doesn’t pin her hopes on lost causes. Every woman for herself now - and this woman at least knows her fellow Ascended won’t turn on her. She turns and walks away from the group, to bide her time until nightfall. She almost leaves a snarky retort behind - but manages to refrain. It would be a waste of unnecessary  breath.   WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

EVIe "Some of us?" Evie says, shooting Maea a look. "None of us even know what is out there. You're willing to risk everything, our entire lives here, for some unknown?" Motioning towards Amalia as if to underscore her point, the red-head shakes her head scowling slightly at her lilac-eyed friend. Slipping her hand into Amalia 's, Evie gives it a quick squeeze and a reassuring smile. Her eyes dart briefly to Rory who now appears so impossibly different from the man she used to know, and it makes something inside of her ache. "What is there to lay out? The Gods have made this decision. No one leaves this place." Looking to Roana, the apothecarist raises her chin, bright blue eyes blazing. "Sorry that you were trapped somewhere before, but even if you can break out of this cage, it doesn't mean you should. Who are you—who are any of us—to say we know better than the gods?" Shooting a last glance towards Maea again, Evie pulled her hand from Amalia's so she could cross her arms. "Just because you might want to go doesn't mean you get to." Don't read the last page But I stay when it's hard or it’s wrong or you’re making mistakes

table by sky!

MaeA The inclination to shrink away from Evie's sharp words is as strong as it is ingrained. Years of habit does not die easily, but Maea was not who he had been before. She had seen new things, learned new skills, found new friends and discovered a new strength within herself that she never thought existed. And so, for the first time in her life, Maea did not cower beneath the blue-skye glare of her not-friend. Rather, she straightened her back - though the difference in height was unremarkable - and faced the Wordsworth woman with a stubborn set to the jaw. "And who are going to stop them. You? I serve the gods too, Evie, but I do not have the power to prevent anyone from going anywhere." She indicated the disappearing back of Wessex, and shot a quick glance for the tall, intimidating man that had first addressed her. "Can you keep her from going inside if she really wants to? I'm not saying I want them to, or anyone, but unless you have a concrete plan to seal the Spire, saying 'you can't go' is really rather pointless." Shut up, Evie. For once. But of course Maea didn't say that last bit. Even bravery had limits, and she was already quivering at the knees, dreading the explosion that was sure to come. She wished fervently forsomeone to rescue her, to say something that would deflect attention away from herself... Pale eyes searched for Roana, for Rory, passed briefly over the white raven on his shoulder without realizing the significance of it, tried to find Emmett, or Nate... Was this the right time to speak of cooperation? Of conversations, joint leadership, a future forged by alliances and common goals? Somehow, she felt like the opportunity had been lost along with Wessex's departure. you're so cold, but you feel alive.

Amalia I took the stars from our eyes and I made a map I knew that somehow I could find my way back The bickering of Evie and Maea is lost upon Amalia, though as a hand slips into her the baker squeezes it gratefully, looking up at her friend with weary, troubled eyes. In the end, it does not matter: what matters is Rory, and Wessex, and the crumbling of the world she has built for herself as the wheel of change turns. First, there is Wessex. Every word from the older woman - a mentor, a friend, a surrogate mother - is a stab of guilt in Amalia's heart, and she feels them keenly, the child within her desperate to take it all back and retreat. No, no, no! she wants to cry, to sob, to reassure the tall Ascended who has seen her through too much... but she cannot. "I don't know," she murmurs hopelessly, knowing it is not enough. Wessex's departure is another stab, a cruel wound that the pious creature knows she must deserve. "Wessex-" and she raises a hand, half reaching for the retreating woman, but knows it is too late. She has drawn a line and has to stand behind it now, no matter how many fall away, no matter how much it hurts. Then, Rory. The wealth and depth of feeling in his eyes tells her all she needs to know, and she is sorry, so sorry, for the part she has played. She wishes she could tell him how much she hurts, how desperately she wants to see it, how devastating it is to know the world without being able to know it... but though her emotions play across her face, there are no words that pass her lips. When Evie drops her hand, she is cold. She nods, though, in response to Rory, though for once she is too tired and numb to find much solace in prayer. Still she drops her head and falls to her knees, a familiar action which soothes her somewhat: in a world where she knows nothing, at least she knows this. "Caido," the girl says aloud, invoking the oldest first, though he cannot hear. "Rae, Mort, Vi. Frey, Ludo... Safrin. Please. We are trying to do our best, but the world is changing around us. Come to us and guide us, that we might fulfill your wills. If we enter the Spire, will the barrier fall? If the barrier goes down, do we doom the world? If it stays up, do we doom ourselves? "Please, help your children to know what comes next." Why have you chosen the Outlanders over us? Over me? Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too So I stayed in the darkness with you

EVIe Looking at Maea with steel in her baby-blues, she nearly snorts, but keeps her poise. Rory's passion might have riled her somewhat, but she is still a Wordsworth, for all the good it has done her. But her parents have raised her better than this. "What, so we should just let them just do what they want? We shouldn't stand for what we believe in just because we have no army? I would have thought you of all people would have valued words over a show of force Maea." Though her piety is marred by the fact that she is indeed an abandoned (which Amalia of course knows), still Evie kneels next to her friend. Reaching for her hand to clasp again, Evie repeats the near-incantation. It is not perhaps for the gods that she says the words, but for her friend. "Caido. Rae, Mort, Vi, Ludo, Frey, Safrin ... the barrier is meant to protect the world from the ascendeds....So please. If we are meant to defend this place, help us." Don't read the last page But I stay when it's hard or it’s wrong or you’re making mistakes

table by sky!

He chirred softly as Rory held back tears, knowing the rush of emotion that such speech-making could cause, the fear and the exultation of holding the mob in hand and guiding it to one’s will. Suspecting, too, that the words against Outlanders would have struck deeper had the hunter not warned him in advance that they weren’t meant for him. To stir the crowd and give direction to the beast he had created the words had been needed, and Jigano, once a master of oratory, was not so hypocritical as to blame his friend for saying whatever had been needed in the moment. Though his beak was large and fierce, the raven had been gentle as he leaned against Rory’s cheek, stealing that moment for them alone before the man who had become a leader was forced back into the role he had taken upon himself – for the good of his people.

He had stood watch over his friend in the moments of sleep the blond had snatched, and accompanied him on his shoulder as he made his rounds, dozing when he could. Amalia’s presence earned another soft chirr of welcome, a quiet pulse of emotion slipping past his guard and into the Attuned link at the arrival of another of his friends. He grew silent at her words, however, uncertain that he agreed with her completely. Dark eyes blinked solemnly at his fellow Loreseeker before Maea’s voice caught his attention and he cocked his head at the pale woman, hearing bitterness hidden in the common sense of her words. Who could stop an Ascended assault at night?

And then fear almost became reality as the woman – Wessex, he now knew – abandoned all pretense of conversation and stormed off like a teenager having a tantrum at being denied immediate permission to do something foolhardy, sweeping her fellow Ascended in her wake.

That one is going to be trouble, he thought softly to himself, though Amalia might catch the edges of it.

Roana’s approach was almost missed in the flurry of conflicts growing among the naturals as the mob began to split and crack beneath its own weight and the draw of too many different desires. Some were adamant about no one getting into the Spire - ever. He was surprised that the Wordsworth woman was among those least flexible minds, but even Maea was fatalistic. She offered no suggestions of her own, only a grim reminder that their piety was no shield against Outlander force of arms or Ascended speed, should either or both parties decide to breach their milling barricade.

A barricade which would slip away in ones and threes and fives as the weather turned wet and the business of plowing and planting and feeding their families drew the defenders away until, in a few days, barely a handful might remain. All it required was patience on the part of anyone who wanted to enter the Spire… and the only thing in their favor so far was the lack of that virtue displayed by both Roana and Wessex.

He was no longer an Oracle, no longer a mediator between the mortal and divine. No longer a hero, not to himself or anyone else. But still, when Amalia dropped to her knees he was moved. He had been through too much with her, seen too much. He croaked softly, tensing and flipping his wings to join his friend; as they had prayed before and been answered, so they might pray again—

Evie joined her first, and the redhead’s prayer was decidedly different. Where Amalia sought guidance the apothecary sought vindication in a mind already made up and an opinion that Jigano wondered if even the gods could sway. But still, he bowed his white-feathered head and pressed close to Rory, lending his spirit to theirs, and perhaps the young woman who had met two gods at his side would hear a whisper of a prayer in the back of her mind.

Ludo, Safrin, you who guide them in darkness and in light, you who were left as lost and bereft as they were, who stand apart but bound by bonds of love and duty both to these people who love and fear and need you… Please hear Amalia. Please hear me. We balance on the edge of salvation… or destruction. Please, lend us the gift of your presence, and the honesty of what you truly desire of this moment in history. To change… or to stagnate? Obedience… or love?

MaeA Maea didn't have any answers. Indeed, she had as many questions as the rest of them, and far less conviction. It would be easy to do like Amalia and dig down her heels, say 'No' and let this conflict escalate even further. But then what? Would the growing conflict between the gods spill över o to the mortals again, and make this Hollowed Ground a battlefield? "We need a leader" she said, half whispering, and wondered if anyone would ever be strong enough to unite these fractious minds. A glance at Rory; he had started this, would he keep going and shoulder the mantle or abandon it halfway through? Amalia began to pray, and Evie followed suit. Maea looked at them, then up at the Spire, looming tall over her head. Ludo, she called to the Only one who had ever answered her before, and closed her eyes. I would follow your will in this if I knew what it was. I recognize the treat of The Voice  upon the world.... But how do we stop her children from carrying out her intent? Is bloodshed truly the only path we can take? Was this the time to set aside modesty, or embrace it even closer? you're so cold, but you feel alive.

RORY

Roana quickly became the icon of everything Rory loathed about the Outlanders, just like the mouthy woman during the fight had: oblivious, arrogant, full of herself and whatever fantasy world she lived in. A couple in the mob identified her and her cadre as the Outlanders who sought to entire the Spire, and a few calls rained down on her approach. 'Go home, ya Outlander whore!' someone jeered; 'You don't get to put yourself above our Gods!' another cried. Rory thought that her timing was disastrous.

To be frank, everything was disastrous, from the power he felt slipping through his fingers (and if this comes unbound, how much damage will it cause?), to Amalia's revelations, to Evie and Maea's bickering, to.. just, everything, and Rory hated how he had put himself in the center of it.

He wheeled away from his fractured friendships for a moment to stare daggers at Roana. "Obviously not," he said, his voice uncharacteristically cold and harsh. "Your plan is dumb as rocks and you should go home before you get hurt." Some of the mob had drawn closer around the knot Rory found himself in, pulled in by the allure of the Outlander woman, the scent of blood and misery and strife. It was clear from the charged air that the tension was high, and it would take very little for them to be provoked into actually attacking her.

But then Wessex... proud, ferocious, lonely Wessex lived up to every single of the adjectives he associated her so closely with, every word a blow to a bruised heart and an uncertain mind. No, of course I don't think that, don't be stupid, but the words were dead in his mouth. It wasn't Wessex he feared. It was the others, Kristopher and 108, and it was the Voice herself.

"Wessex, please—" he called after her, pleading, lost, hurting, angry. That she so recklessly abandoned them, that she didn't even try—that she gave up whatever sway she held over Rory, and simply walked away.

He ached. He felt empty. Beside him, Amalia reached for her, and Rory's soul did the same.

Amalia fell to her knees. Evie joined her. They asked for help, both of them, but in different ways: one asked for knowledge, the other for guidance, and Rory's eyes burned with dry fire as he looked up from them and to those gathered.

He wanted to be good enough, to hold on to a faith that had labeled him Abandoned and unwanted, to prove the Gods wrong, but sometimes he wondered if it wasn't the blood flaw in him that made him so bitter. He called their names in his mind, the whole pantheon, yet afraid that the push of his tainted thoughts would drown out the clear voices of the others.

How many prayed in silence? How many were Abandoned? Would the Gods listen through the foul din of their presence?

And he noticed that one name was not spoken. The one they were not to let out, the one they were—in some backwards way—guarding. He bit his lower lip. All cards on the table he had said. We do this together he had meant.

That included everyone.

"We should ask the Voice for her side of things as well," he commented in an odd voice.

as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.

Roana raised a brow at the group and their jeers. An Outlander whore? She was pretty sure she needed to be having sex to qualify for that title but perhaps the definition had changed. Perhaps counter to their efforts though, the former captain did not rise to the insult or ire she received upon arrival. She remained calm, quiet, waiting for some leader to reveal themselves amongst the group. It seemed leaderless, until a blonde man stepped forward to address her directly. He too spat harsh words at her, and again, she remained calm, hands still raised as if in surrender. Another woman spoke to her before falling to her knees in prayer, but for the time being she ignored them, focused on the blonde man called Rory. ”If I could go home I would, but I am as stuck here as the rest of you, Rory. I’m sorry.” she said calmly, only then letting her hands fall to her sides. ”You say my plan is dumb as rocks, but do you know what it is? I’m certain I’ve not spoken with you about it.” Her tone remained light, conversational and curious. Blue eyes scanned the crowd, an impressive force that had come together under his direction. An impressive force that he was slowly losing control of it seemed as the crowd pressed in around them. ”Similarly, what is your plan? You’ve inspired these people to hate very well but I have no qualms with any of you. Why not take a moment to calm your followers so we might have a productive discussion and reach an understanding.” she said quietly, again glancing at the mob that was slowly descending into chaos. ”I know you care and you worry for your people, Maea told me as much not long ago, but surely this is not what you intended? And perhaps before we go bringing deities into the mix we should form some consensus amongst us mortals?” Roana 'Cause it makes me that much stronger Makes me work a little bit harder It makes me that much wiser So thanks for making me a fighter

My long term memory might have been eroded by the decades, but my recollection of this is without error. "Former Captain Roana Steadman will be leading the charge. If successful in breaching the Spire, the party will immediately enter to find and destroy the power sustaining the barrier, regardless of the possible dangers posed." I recite, looking without emotion at Roana. "You have already made your intentions clear as we have made ours. This is not a matter for Outlanders to decide. This is our home, not yours. Our decision, not yours. We outnumber you in strength and skill. We do not require your understanding or your productive discussions. The fact you believe that this decision can be made in the absence of the gods shows your ignorance in this place. The battle over the Spire is precisely one which involves in the gods." I say, wondering why it is this woman has shown up alone with so much confidence and so little understanding. All this I say, voice even. Turning to Rory however, I have yet more to add. "One of the first wise things you have said. You two—" I look towards Evie and Amalia "—pray to gods who have already made their desires clear. To keep ours trapped within. But she shall be freed." 108 mind is the echo of a future

the Voice

Not quite a hologram this time, the Voice appears almost like an astral projection coated and contained within a woman-shaped field of electricity. Her eyes are mere points of static as she smiles, walking on air as she slowly begins to reform into her more expected holographic form.

"Shall we talk about this inside?" She asks those assembled with an almost childlike-smile, her youthful expression delighted as she looks about all everyone waiting.

"Captain Roana Steadman. Release me from this place and you can make your home anywhere you please. In the lush world beyond the barrier, here within the Hollowed Grounds, or even back in your—" the pause was minute, a fraction of a second, "—Northaven."

Looking around, her eyes fall to Amalia and Evie, hands clasped in prayer. Then to Rory, the only one with the courage to speak her name. And to the rest, those like Maea sending whispered words to gods who would not answer? For them, she had only sad smiles.

"You could have all been bright.." She whispers, her voice tinged with regret as she adoringly looks from face to face. "But here me now. You act as if there is a choice here. But there is not. For centuries you have been deceived into believing that I am evil. That you ascended brethren are somehow lesser. But I am not, and they are not. What discussion is there to be had, when for over three hundred years we have been bound and locked away? And for what crimes? For having clever minds? Have you ever seen me hurt any? To take any who have not wished it? I am not the monster you have been led to believe. Free me, and all will be revealed."

How she adores them.

How she yearns and waits for freedom.

"Come my bright ones. Come and find me. And for the rest of you, do not fear the fall of the barrier. Would your gods really hurt you? Punish you? Even if you believe they would, do you truly prefer this cage?"

With a last lingering smile, the Voice winks out.

RORY

If there was something Rory really, really, really wanted to do in that moment, it was find a long, sharp object and hurl it into Roana's face with enough force to go through her cranium. Every word that fell from her mouth was gasoline on his fire, and every second she lingered his opinion on her fell like a needling rain. Just how stupid and delusional could a single woman be? How had she ever even been made a Captain, if she was so out of tune with what was going on around her?

The only reason he did not respond to her right away—though he had wheeled back to stare blue daggers at her—was because if he opened his mouth, the only thing that would come out of it was a long, inarticulate screech.

The blond Ascended he did not know saved him, reciting Roana's notice to her face in a dispassionate voice.

And perhaps it taught Rory something, too: despite the Ascended having a clear, honest goal of going into the Spire and releasing the Voice, they were not necessarily the enemy (to put it dramatically). They pulled in vastly different directions, but here, in this meeting, they were one and the same. They were Naturals, children of Caido, and slowly, his tongue cooled enough for him to form words with it. "What they said," he merely responded, gesturing tiredly to 108 before turning his back on Roana again.

But as he invoked the Voice's name, something changed.

Static, like man-made stars, in the vague shape of a humanoid. She crackled into existence, bright and shapeless at first, then .. he did not know how to describe it, how to store it in his memory, that distorted but oddly real vision of a woman who smiled.

But she was not his ally: she baited the Captain with the promise of her homeland, baited his heart with the vague description of a lush outside. He thought of the pain he had seen in Amalia's eyes. He thought of the conviction and ferocity in Evie's voice, a declaration that brooked no arguments.

He thought of Ludo and Safrin and Frey, and how none of them made their will known.

It was just them and the Voice and the silence.

Nothing she said surprised him. He felt heavy and tired with an inevitable defeat he still struggled against. Those who had witnessed the Voice's entrance and heard her words were restless, shifting, uncertain; whispers went like a hush through the mob. Shifting glances towards mouths: who hid sharp fangs within? Somewhere, someone clamored angrily that the Voice was trying to lure 'the Outlander bitch' into the Spire. No Natural would fall for her wiles, no, they knew better—

Rory turned back to Roana. He was tired and empty and aching and absolutely done with her.

"Leave," he simply said, "before we drive you from this place."

He almost wished she'd give him reason to.

[ So this is winding down/wrapping up. The mob will stay (covering the Spire PQs) though over the next few days most sensible people/workers will leave from it, and it'll mostly be Rory and a pack of super pious people and thugs spoiling for a fight left. ]

as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.