Let's do the Test Drive Again

[wolof]

I. BEARING FRUIT (NEW CHARACTERS ONLY)

It starts out as a pleasant dream. You’re in your favorite place, with your favorite people. It’s a moment of idyllic comfort.

And then, it goes wrong.

The sky turns dark above, and as you look up, you see the black expanse of space spotted with faraway pinprick lights of stars. Yet, they’re not stars. You’re certain. They’re watching you. A billion eyes all looking down, and they spill forth as if sky itself was a dam holding back those dark waters. You reach back to the people you’re with, but they’re frozen in place. Their eyes are black, reflecting only the expanse of dark eyes.

So you run, even though you know you won’t escape it. You glance back and see it not overtaking, but consuming. The landscape around you is being devoured, and you can see it cracking apart. The world itself is breaking, and it cracks under your feet. You fall, and the billion eyes chase after you until the darkness swallows you whole. There’s agony as if you’re being ripped apart, and then—

You cannot see. You cannot feel. You simply are. Yet even so, impossibly, a woman’s voice speaks gently.

I’m sorry it couldn’t be saved. But, come, it’s time to wake.

You wake with a start, cradled by soft, velvety plants, and sticky with a sap that smells faintly of honey and iron. You can see the veins of the leaves that hold you, lit warmly and gently by what looks like a crystal embedded above you. Yet, it’s odd, because that crystal calls to you. When you reach out to touch it, it’s warm. Familiar. Important. You don’t know why, but you know you must hold onto this, because now it feels wrong for it to be suspended in these leaves. So, you pull it out.

The light starts to fade, but only in time to see as the leaves cradling you immediately start to soften and crumble, and with it comes a torrent of dirt. Soft, loamy soil starts to fill the space around you in the dark as you’re buried. Or, rather, you already were. You reach out through the dirt desperately, and your hands finds a root, so you pull while you clutch that precious crystal so close that it almost feels like it sinks into you (in your panic, you don’t notice that it does). You reach out again, and this time, your hand hits open air and plenty of sturdy roots around to grab.

From a seed you’re born, and like a sprout, you make your way out of the ground.

And once you’ve clawed your way out of the soft earth and the roots, nearby, you see the soil shift. Another hand comes up to grasp desperately for something, anything, just as you had been.

II. BOUGH-BREAKER, ROOT-QUAKER

There are new Shard-Bearers at the Tree of Life, and Yima has asked that their elders return to the Tree to greet them, to bring them forth and answer their questions. She warns that it will be unlike the last time, for the Dryad's presence has gone -- the root-caverns of the Tree are damaged, the previous actions of some of the Shard-Bearers have left it injured, blackened by ill intent. Be careful, Commune where you must, but be aware that the Tree has reacted to its injury and will seek out the space within your Communions to make its agonies known.

All will experience the consequences to the actions of the few.

Whether awakening within or descending once more into the cavernous, root layer of the Tree of life is precarious; passages are maze-like, with claustrophobic squeezes and sudden chasms. Worse yet, is the miasma that hovers in the atmosphere. It leaches into your eyes, your skin, the space below your fingernails and drags through your lungs with every inhalation. Images of explosions, of fire and the sensation of shrapnel tearing through you begin to spark like fireworks within your mind. The pain builds, souring as it does.

The ambiance here is revolting. Great chasms have opened in the environment, threatening to pour inattentive Shard-Bearers into the Tree's deeper underbelly. The cloying, dark vapors around everyone dull the senses, until those you may have entered with are gone, or perhaps new bodies have joined you in the rancid space. The miasma urges you towards your baser desires, your desperate violence, and even as the Tree's pain evokes a sense of desperate self-defense, your Shard warms upon your body.

Somehow, the Tree still seeks to Commune with all -- pressing its need upon you: a single flame. A roaring pyre. A chilled ember.

THE GAME IS AFOOT

The Tree of Life cannot communicate but in abstract images and sounds, but the general gist of its need is eventually grasped by all Shard-Bearers: the miasma present is the result of an attack upon the Dryad that once lived among the roots of the Tree. Actions taken by other Shard-Bearers have left the Tree in dire straits, deeply wounded and unable to prevent itself from naturally lashing out in its own defense as it dies. It cannot let go of those it has imprisoned, until they have revealed their nature to it - until it knows it can finally, finally let go.

Characters can decide amongst themselves how to deal with the threat of miasma. It's easy to figure out, as your shards will naturally want to absorb what's similar to discord within your shards, but just like with discord, holding hands, or joining together in some way will allow the pain to be shared amongst everyone in the group. There's no such thing as failure, but if a character decides for the group, there may be the opportunity for intervention…

• Characters may choose to take on the role of a martyr, accepting the Tree's miasma ( its pain ) upon themselves as the sole sufferant. They will experience excruciating pain and lasting effects, but will spare others from this trauma.
• Characters may also choose to share the pain among themselves, though doing so will require Communion to be shared between all parties -- this will result in the temporary collapse of boundaries and barricades, and emotions and memories may flow against their will into others.
• Characters may also decide to do nothing at all, whereupon their decision to take no action will result in the miasma growing stronger, denser and more cloying until they are rendered unconscious and ejected from the roots of the tree.
• Have you a choice unique to your character that wasn't mentioned? Might you try to heal the tree's pain, or perhaps harm it further? If you're making the attempt, make sure your group is aware and submit your record of action to the link included below!

This can be done in groups of 2 to 4 players, and three is a recommendation - if you can swing it! It’s more fun when you get into philosophical debates, right? Regardless, when your group comes to a decision, please record it here. These don’t have to be fully threaded out to be recorded, so the conclusion can be discussed OOC if you prefer. Actions can be submitted until JANUARY 9TH, after which a tally will be taken of decision and filed away for later, devious uses.

III. TWO CITIES, ALIKE IN DIGNITY BUT WE ALL KNOW YIMOMMY'S WHERE IT'S AT

Having just celebrated the dual-natured festivities known as the Year's End Festival and Qiasu, Springstar and Highstorm ( respectively ) are wrapping up the period of time where Kenos a celebrates unity and togetherness, coming together with friends and family, to be kind to others and share in one’s wealth - whether that comes in the form of knowledge, monetary gains, or the exchange of gifts and one’s time. While the core festivities are over, many of the residents of Kenos are still caught up in the celebratory mood; those who are not, have begun to fret and whisper about a rumor that has spread throughout both cities.

( Many more residents are attempting to get rid of their excess stock, and may attempt to pawn off kitschy goods and, strangely, unclaimed gifts for people they claim they have no memory of, or simply do not exist. )

With the new Shard-Bearers present or en route, it is Kathova and Cetina that approach the established ones, requesting that they form mentorships with the new souls to assist them with the integration process. To this end, they have both provided a centralized zone in both Highstorm and Springstar for a small, casual meet-and-greet to be held before the new Shard-Bearers are unleashed upon Kenos as a whole.

Additionally, as Springstar and Highstorm are holding their events on different days, it is possible for the knowledge-hungry to participate in both informational sessions -- the tones and opinions held by both cities are doubtless to differ, and some Shard-Bearers who have chosen to harmonize with either faction may even find their way to the opposing faction's session as well. After all, the year's end is still lingering in the air, and cooperation is the current name of the game.

SPRINGSTAR, αιώνιος ήλιος

In Springstar, the seat of the Tribune becomes available for such a forum. While a section of the building itself has been reserved for the meeting between fresh faces and experienced Shard-Bearers alike, the hustle and bustle of Heliopolis continues around them -- acolytes still gather their robes and tomes, hurrying from their quarters to lessons. A score of young militants march in step across the yard to the training grounds.

Tables draped in white-and-gold-trimmed fabrics fare filled with fare common to Springstar's warmer climate -- fruits and wines, savory smoked meats and roasted vegetables, a series of meze platters and souvlaki skewers have been lain out to encourage forum participants to snack as they speak. The atmosphere is light, ambient with informality and friendliness, though topics will inevitably stray towards philosophic, Springstar's meeting grounds are decorated with handsome chaise lounges and slouching klismos chairs in small, intimate groupings.

HIGHSTORM, луны-близнецы

Eternally in opposition, Highstorm provides the Manor's courtyard as the setting for their informational meeting. Here, formality is of utmost importance, with attending Zenith loyalists and residents dressed in beautiful, albeit austere attire -- they are, after all, standing before Lady Yima's home. A buffet-style luncheon is spread alongside one of the largest reflecting pools, wherein you may gaze and find your memories revealed in retrospect upon the water's surface.

There are few places to be seated in the Manor's courtyard, resulting in a milling of bodies as they flow and ebb between smaller gatherings, clustering in small-to-large groups with small platters and shimmering flutes of drink held in their hands.

RUMOR MILL

In both locations information passes between all in a forum, spread and disseminated among the masses - it's a good opportunity for city residents, faction loyalists and interested new parties to share and share alike. Once the meet-and-greet has concluded, twin missives from both of the faction leads are read out -- invitations for all present to explore the cities to their heart's content, and warnings about stumbling ill-prepared ( or at all ) into the Below, or worse yet, the Beyond.

No matter how conversations between player characters go, everyone will walk away with the following knowledge to ensure new players do not feel "behind" in terms of what has previously happened on Kenos TV.

• Cyrus, the head of the Meridian faction is a native aristocrat of Springstar, who provides characters with an iliachtida, or sunbeam. This item tethers a character to their world, ensuring it does not fully disappear. His stance involves the idea that, using Meridian's light, worlds can be restored and you may return home.
• In contrast, the head of the Zenith faction is Yima, who has been the head of Highstorm since - arguably - its inception. She provides characters with a Shard of that they love most, to protect and hold. Yima believes former worlds to be lost, and looks to the future instead.
• While Harmonization occurs as the characters' Shard ( literally the manifestation of a character's soul! ) accrues the natural energies generated by Meridian or Zenith, Discord is also as natural an occurrence -- a symptom, in fact, of that process. Discord is best reduced by someone from the opposite faction, and is also influenced by the Aspect of one's character.
• Cyrus likes enchiladas.
• Many individuals recommend the following locations to new arrivals, as a means of enjoyment, involvement or further information-seeking: Highstorm's Court at Yima's Manor remains a great area for reflection and self-discovery, while the Tomes - a series of libraries - possess a magnitude of amassed knowledge, both foreign and relative to yourself. Heliopolis, the capital of Springstar, is the core of government and administration, and houses many avenues towards involvement in the goings-on of the city. Likewise, the Psychagogía District is the beating heart of entertainment within an island known for its passions.
• Rumors of past exploits linger on the lips of many. Did you know that one of Meridian's Harmonized slew one of Zenith's before the eyes of countless bystanders? That there was an expedition of Meri and Zenite Shard-Bearers dispatched to Alenroux, and some came back brutalized! Did you hear that the Shard of a Zenite is being held hostage by the Meridians?
• The new marking that has appeared upon your character's body is known as their sign of Aspect, and supposedly correlates to the fundamental truths of their soul. A Shard also exists, and is known as the characters' soul itself.

NOTES

Welcome to Kenos! As a reminder, all new players need an invite to play in the game, which are now open.

This log is Game Canon. Any characters who are not apped to the game will disappear. If Cyrus or Yima are asked, they’ll explain that this happens sometimes, since not every soul has a strong tether to Kenos and sometimes return to the Timestream. They’re fine and may even return to Kenos one day, but for now weren’t able to make the full journey.

As a reminder, your character has a Shard somewhere on their body that encompasses their soul, so keep note of where you're sticking it on their person for reference! Additionally, they have a tattoo of their Aspect somewhere on their body. Please be mindful this Aspect will be assigned to you upon approval and whatever you choose for the TDM may be temporary (for new characters)!

For the Highstorm and Springstar prompts, both cities will be fully open and accessible to all characters once they are saved from their rather harrowing ordeal at the Tree of Life. For prompt ideas and any general information about the cities and what you can find there, please see the Navigation page and check out the locations!

FOR NEW PLAYERS:

When characters emerge from their cocoon/the ground, characters may be wearing their normal clothes, or they might be nude. Up to you!

At some point in the days after leaving the Tree of Life, new Shard-Bearers will have a dream, even if they're usually not capable of sleeping. All new players should read this post, since this details how they'll learn about both factions and their goals and should help them make a decision in which Faction they'd be drawn to.

New characters will not have access to any canon abilities on the TDM.

Your character will be offered temporary housing either at the Heliopolis district or Yima's manor for the first few weeks after their arrival. They will also be given a stipend for basic supplies like clothing and personal effects, and food is served in the cantina (Heliopolis) and at regular meal times in the Dining Room (Yima's manor). Once they Harmonize, they will get personal permanent chambers and a fancy retainer in their Faction's city. Wow! 🌈

CODING

Comments

[sharaska]

[ Vapors ooze around them like water, rolling over his form thicker and thicker now – whatever recovery he felt he was experiencing is beginning to reverse itself. He was disoriented upon crawling from the earth, and now gas has replaced that solid as a new form of matter seeking to crush and delude him.

Both other men are seemingly intent to waste their gift of clothing by not even trying to cover their mouths or noses, but one seems too far gone and the other has information they don't. Still... Fingers rake hair out of eyes that thin, free hand clapping down hard on Voryn's shoulder only a moment later. ]

Get ahold of yourself. You heard the man – we can both hear it plain as day. But just because it's asking doesn't mean you have to answer. [ Psionic abilities? It's possible, just like it's possible that his own perception is being altered to force him to perceive a gray man and a psychically willful tree. His head turns, narrowed gaze back on Silco now. ]

What's that mean, "it knows what it needs to do"? What does it need to do?

[sharmat]

(the hand that touches him draws out his willpower like venom. all at once, voryn grasps reality from where he's adrift in sensation and feels himself reorient. his rich outermost layer is shed with a jerk of limbs, then thrust at ocelot while he speaks to silco. this leaves him in a long black shift, bound tightly around the middle by patterned sashes that keep his white inner dress concealed.

it is both his gratitude and his way into this conversation now that he's of sound enough mind to actively participate.)

Come, take this, (voryn says. then red eyes bear down with ocelot's on silco.)

The dryad is dead, but do you not care for ancient things? The groups who wounded the tree should take responsibility for the collateral, but I can't imagine any of that matters to you. (they appear to be men and men lead short lives. tolerant, he offers his own perspective after silco is questioned.) I believe it needs to die and that it's seeking peace before it does. It may impart knowledge of this place. It is... tempting... to open my mind to it.

(voryn looks at both of them through occasionally heavy blinks at the tree's scorching communion.)

As we've lingered here overlong together, we are now our own faction. If we hesitate with a decision, the atmosphere will kill us.

[zauneyete]

That is between this abomination and I.

[ He said, sharply. Silco was, as ever, close-lipped about a great many things. He would not share what it was that this tree owed him, because nobody else knew. There was a shard, precious and perfect and incomplete in his carefully alarmed quarters now, nestled with metal and with paint splashed everywhere all over every surface. Silco wished, so desperately, that it would vanish, but it did not, and there were new people, and not one of them was worthwhile of his time.

He watched the other man take the jacket off his back, and give it to the other, and he blinked a single eye. He noticed the gas, of course, but how vile was it, compared to the poison he'd spent his entire life breathing? The fissures were unkind, smoggy, and he'd spent his childhood mining in the foul air, before they had been given air scrubbers and clean air. He was harder, resolute, and mean than any weak topsider could have been, and so he stood here, hands clasped behind his back, and he breathed normally.

Almost pointedly, as if to point out to them, that he was old hat at this. He did not fear this atmosphere. It did not smell like the toxins and pollution, like the lack of air, so stifling and worrying in how it felt. He knew what that smelled like, what it felt like. Instead, he smiled. ]

I was a part of one of those groups, you know. [ He said, flatly. ] We wrecked the inside of the tree, slaughtered the dryad, and I let a demon consume its soul, for the crime it committed. It was petulant and cruel, that we deigned to punish it.

[ It had tried to play with them. He remembered. ]

This tree should die, and if it's meant to carry on, it will do so in another form. Let it suffer.

[sharaska]

[ Proffered clothing is taken, shrugged onto his shoulders, and wrapped immediately around a body far too exposed to whatever toxins might already be infesting his lungs. His arm is raised then, unashamed to use cloth to filter what clogs his airways and claim back a tiny amount of respite in return. Both strangers offer their perspectives and knowledge, and a rare anger begins to spark inside of him. What he doesn't understand about his current situation could fill tomes but what he does understand, inherently, is the danger of their surroundings and their inability to delay answers to simple, direct questions with unnecessary prevarication. ]

Responsibility matters if we've got any ability or time to prosecute people who aren't stepping up to handle their end of the bargain. Right now we've got a problem and we need to solve it.

[ Though Voryn offers a possible solution, at the very least, and Ocelot is just as tempted to urge him to try. ]

And you–! I asked you what it needed to do, not what grudge you have. This guy's right; we're all three here together and we need to do something. If the only information you feel like offering is reminding us this is your fault, then you're operating for yourself and your emotions and should stand down. We can debate philosophy later.

[ That hand falls on Voryn's shoulder again, this time squeezing once, tight. ] If you think you can communicate with this thing, make it a two-way street, I say do it. We're here as your back-up... or at least I am.

[sharmat]

As I have sympathy for it, I will not let it suffer. Its seed healed and preserved me, human, so I owe it a debt. Its ancestors will remember yours.

(though brief, as voices rise in disagreement and the tree sends them visions of fire, he is sent back to the war. waiting for a decision to be made on his behalf damned him once. his fate lies in his own hands now, and he won't wait again.

ocelot's hand returns to encourage him, but voryn, walking out from beneath it toward the base of the tree, has already committed himself to the pain. his short march leads him to a bare and exploited part of the tree of life's root system whose hairs and filaments have been stripped away to reveal an interior coated in suberin. the great thing's waxy flesh hides its vascular bundle from his unhesitant touch. while it doesn't feel as strange against his fingers as the seeds' sap they as newborns are coated with, its alien consciousness shoves into the recesses of his mind like a violation, suffocating him with miasma.)

I believe I will survive this... but I cannot be sure. If I should die, I can only ask you to burn my body and honour what remains... (it is intended for ocelot as silco's respect for the old and dying may be the same for the old and dead. this, above all things, he cannot risk.

it's difficult to speak. still, he must.)

Great Tree... I am Lord Voryn Dagoth of the Sixth House, General to the First Council of Resdayn... I will take your pain into me until you may die free of despair. (the men are given one, ready nod. when his voice raises again, it is for words in the commanding language of the chimer:) Druha en almeshi am hagil muhr!

(as the last syllable is spoken, the miasma shifts in the gloaming of the root depths, no longer spreading but concentrating its flow. in the centre of his forehead, the eyelike ruby shard pulses. possessed by the agony in his skull and unresponsive lungs, his whole body seizes, sending him to his knees.)

[zauneyete]

[ Did Silco roll his eyes? He actually did roll his eyes, and leaned against the side of the tree's walls, casual. He had no place in this, in healing this thing. He remembered being trapped beneath the roots, the poison that swam in their vision as he and his daughter cut their own hands off, the way their vision had swam to blood loss, watching Jinx cut her own hand off, forced her to fall, knee deep from the first moment into misery, and now the tree pulled its punches with this new blood.

It's weak. It can do little more than reach out through communion, and Silco, in all of his violence, and anger, turned his attention toward the tree, instead of responding. He wouldn't explain what the tree had to do. That was between he, and it, and the shard so precious that he wouldn't let anyone else see. Few even knew what motivated Silco -- he preferred it that way -- but in this moment, he looked the naked, formerly naked man in the eye, and his lip curled in a cruel smirk. ]

Oh, don't worry, when you die, I'm sure your new friend will be happy to take your shard for you. Let's hope that there's a place you can be buried in, if that happens.

[ He was affected by the toxin, of course, but he refused to show it. This was like breathing the old toxins of the fissures, but instead, with the tree's miasma open and flowing toward the man, he considered -- Would it take his hatred now, feel it? He was clumsy with such things, and perhaps if Sebastian were here, he would encourage his Master to pump that violence and hatred toward the roots. It is tentative, but beyond the miasma, lurks something... violent, and hateful -- the carefully held control flagging, as he thought to aim it like a knife for the tree. ]

[sharaska]

[ Steely blue eyes are fixed on Voryn's retreating back, brow knotted with concentration – no, with anticipation. He's in agreement with his new ashen companion that whatever is happening here is a potential threat to their very lives, and as such whatever the outcome of his actions here might be is critical. And he can't die here... he won't.

Miasma seeps into his pores as his chest swells with each inhale, and again his vision blurs, accompanied by a ringing in his ears. Only this time the ringing doesn't taper into nothingness but rather steadies into a solid pattern, a distinctive beeping and whirring of hospital machines. His next breath in smells antiseptic and the words Voryn speaks sound foreign to his ears but recognizable. Greek. He's back in Cyprus, there's cold tile beneath his feet instead of porous earth, and he can see the foot of a hospital bed poking out from behind a curtain. It's him–

His step forward is halted when he hears a sharper, far more bitter voice cutting into the hazy mirage that's been created for him, and it's Silco's presence he can credit with bringing him back to a world he doesn't want. The acidity in his voice is something he can feel in his own chest, hard stare turning on him. There's anger there, at first, though it sharpens into something much more akin to realization when he sees the concentration on a warped face and feels a new viciousness stinging the air like electricity. Only the source, this time, isn't the tree that's currently crippling Voryn. ]

Hey... [ His voice is rough now, refinding his purchase on reality. ]

Hey! What the hell are you doing? [ He doesn't wait for an answer before he's moving, agile and quick to close the distance between himself and Silco. His arm is immediately wedged between them, thrust against his windpipe to force him back against that gnarled tree. ]

You trying to get us all killed? You let him finish what the hell he needs to do, whether your emotions like it or not... I told you to stand down!

[ The words are emphasized with a sudden jerk back, only for him to cock his fist for a rapid jab to the right of Silco's face, then a follow-up to his solar plexus. Something to disorient him and break his concentration for whatever sickness he's spewing into the communion between Voryn and this creature seemingly intent on doing them harm. ]

cw: miscarriage mention/mild body horror, i'm sorry this is so dramatic idek

[sharmat]

(the nightmare voryn experiences lasts seconds before the men's fight against the tree of life's root concludes. in it, his hands are coated in ash and blood, and he looks up from them into a beating heart. it is set in the chest of a miscarried star whose bronze face looks forward as it speaks.

Loyal Dagoth Ur.

he can only stare at it with boiling eyes. then the star's amniotic fluid encounters the air, becoming lava as the mountain pours its pain into the fissures that become the foyadas of his home. he weeps the aqueous humour of his corneas as the ceiling opens up to the blinding light of day, rubbing ash and blood and tears into his skin where they mix and take root only to flow out and swallow him whole in their tide. on his abandonment by the tree of life which appeared to him in the only way he might be able to understand it, voryn, nails cutting sap into crevices around his shard, howls.)

Traitor! Murderer!

(he falls back off of his knees to arch in the soil and sphagnum, unaware of all parts of his body but the front of his skull.)

No, no!

[zauneyete]

[ Silco's so clumsy with communion, so unpracticed, that it's almost idle, unintentional the way he did it. Like a child, thinking a bad thought, and their hands smash something as they consider it, but Silco felt no shame as he levied that knife against the thing -- reminded it who had been here. It had been perfectly happy to send voices through the caverns, sent his daughter deeper into the roots, manic, explosive, and the destruction left in her wake was... perfect in every way, and Silco wanted it to stay. He wanted it to suffer and feel her effects, for if she wasn't here to rock this world to the core, he wanted the vestiges of her touch on this realm to remain, preserved in amber.

His thoughts, his concentration, the hatred he felt toward this world and existence, were practically one with the miasma, one with this sickness in the tree. Perhaps the toxin had him as well, but he does not see it as that. It barely burns in his already scarred and touched lungs, decades of living underground in the smog and gray left him not immune, but resistant to the effects. His mine, however, still lingers on what he has lost --

Until an arm pressed to his neck -- a choked gasp -- blood chorused in his hears and his fingers scrambled for the knife he kept in his holster. His mind immediately took a no less hateful, but more violent turn -- was it? -- before it fell back, and his jaw screamed with fire, than his chest. His knife whipped out, and his lips curled, almost dangerous, nasty. ]

Oh --

[ He said through a raspy cough, and though his eyes flicked to Voryn, he would offer no assistance as the man practically tore himself apart at his shard. ]

Bad idea, friend.

[ His knife -- the smaller of the two, with an engraving on the blade: “Che la mia ferita sia mortale”—”May the wound I bring be fatal.” ]

I've been brawling since I could walk.

[ Silco is not muscular, or strong. What he is, is fast, and mean, and driven. He lashed out with the knife, a quick jab, then a second, with his words, toward the man's middle, than arm. Ocelot, he has no way of knowing, is likely far more adept at fighting than someone who works in administrating a drug cartel bar. ]

[sharaska]

[ Voryn's cries reach his ears as a symptom of a problem, not as cause for concern in and of themselves. It seems there could be some evidence to suspect that he was correct, that Silco was affecting his communion in a way that is now harming him even further, but there's been no increase in the miasma choking the air.

So the man writhing on the ground, swiping at air, clutching at his face? He's now of lesser concern. If he fulfilled his purpose then that's what matters most. If he dies, it's secondary. A worthy sacrifice so that Ocelot himself might continue living, might continue being subjected to the anger of the second man now choosing to actually grapple with him. If he had the air available in his lungs he might laugh. What does translate is the bitterness in his gaze, a true indignation over Silco's unwillingness to realize the situation they're both in. It's an emotion he'd never show in normal circumstances but there's nothing normal about this, and right now his chest feels like it's on fire. ]

"Brawling"? [ The word is practically growled out on the back of an exhale, his own voice rattling with a mixture of adrenaline and exertion. The first jab is dodged in a fluid step back while the second is far more boldly absorbed, his hand striking sidelong at Silco's to cause the blade to slice into the outside of his arm instead of embedding within it. Fingers then tighten dangerously around his wrist, grinding sinew and tendons together as he leans in to speak into that hateful, scarred face. ]

Oh, I'm not your friend. And we don't call it "brawling" in war.

[ The crack of bone is audible when Silco's wrist is forced into an abnormal sudden bend, elbow thrust hard back against his left collarbone to shove him brutally, bruisingly against the bark of that tree he despises so greatly. ]

[sharmat]

(perceiving memory as the tree of life had before the transfer of its hurt, curled as tightly as he had been asleep beneath the soil, he feels his consciousness begin to leak from the integument of his shard. he knows with an instinctive terror that allowing the miasma to penetrate further into his shard would fundamentally change him, corrupt his soul in an ego death reversal that would strip him of his ambitions and supplant the tree's own. he would become nothing to his dead world and everything to kenos, a part of it, no longer grieving and yearning but left vacant and loveless at the end of the universe.

eyes roll open to the dark underbelly of a network of roots that now feel like kin, and a shaking hand grasps for a buried stone. exhausted, it's almost impossible to lift, so instead, it is kept inside of a palm to be weighed. this is the heavy promise of true death. shattering this shard will release its soul is the mad thought that precedes the hard flex of an arm that's needed to raise it, for that is how it is in mundus; a gem containing trapped essence will free that essence when used or destroyed.

but voryn hears bells, which distracts him from his task.

the haunting tolls distort into voices that make voryn gasp, remembering all at once where he is and what has happened to him. the agony, still present but rendered tolerable by his will, has subsided enough that he's able to hear men speaking in low tones all around him. less time must have passed for his body than his mind, disoriented by his new perceptions and by silco and ocelot being unrecognizable and foreign to him in his slow state of recovery. their fight is given so little thought for now that the only way he reacts is to drop his arm from where it holds the stone vertically above his chest to his belly.

it's minutes into an escalation in aggression—no longer caused by the miasma as it's filled his soul and bloomed painfully within him—that voryn's fatigue finally abates enough for him to move.)

[zauneyete]

[ His wrist cracked with an audible crack -- ironic that this is not the first time that wrist was injured in this tree. The knife dropped from his fingers, predictably. The first time he'd been here, he'd been forced to cut that limb off -- his daughter had done it for him -- and the spike of anger in his eyes was more for that than the pain. Oh, it hurt, but so did having one's eye blossom with pain and infection to the point that it looked like it did. The sweat didn't even make the eye blink, and the makeup that covered his scar started to smear it, leaving the dark mass of corrupted, infected skin beneath peek through. ]

You've clearly never fought in the wars I have. [ He said, his tone sharp. It was still brawling, when you were fighting Enforcers, after all, when they hit you with the butt of their rifles and tried to kill you and yours -- and succeeded with many.

Silco had all but started to ignore Voryn, and instead, placed his left hand to his mouth, and tugged the glove free with his teeth. With the skin free, he slammed his hand to Ocelot's wrist and smiled, aiming for skin-to-skin contact. The back of his hand bore a tattoo of raised skin, that didn't look like any normal tattoo. That hateful face is angry, of course, one of his eyebrows drew in, one eye narrowed, while the other, unblinking, was ensconced in scars. His smile was mean, as he spoke. ]

I wonder if you know what it's like to be so desperate that you lose control?

[ His shimmer dose was... particular. He'd found he could modulate it, after all. None of the strength, none of the speed, all of the mental effects, the haze of shimmer's high without the reason people took it. ]

this is a disaster, please let me know if this is okay and I'll edit if not!

[sharaska]

[ His actions in subduing Silco aren't rooted in emotion. Does he gain pleasure from hurting the man? Of course, but pain and pleasure have been enmeshed in his mind for decades. Is he angry? Of course. It's satisfying, but his motive is far simpler: give into the increased sense of self-preservation that the poisoned air is engendering within him, harmlessly incapacitate a threat, and then ensure Voryn has done his job.

It's the last of these that distracts him from Silco for those key moments, watching Voryn's movements that are distinct from the mania of death throes that he knows so well. Hysterical and delusional, predictable enough when it's this thick in the atmosphere around them without any direct communion with the source. ]

Hey, we need you to pull it together! Can you hear me?

[ But now Silco is speaking again, poison into his ear, and he's barely turned his head back before his thoughts are starting to swirl, indistinct, and flatten into a long line that pierces the front of his skull. That touch on his wrist is like fire and it sears its way into his brain, fingers loosing their grip by no will of their own as he stumbles back and shakily sinks to a knee to balance himself out.

His breaths are ragged but again he can't hear them, instead only picking up a scrap of a lovingly hated word: "control". He doesn't have control; he is a child in a cold facility, raised by Russian tapes and in code words. He does have control; he is an adult with his hand on the switch, ready to up the voltage being forced into another man's body under the guise of getting him to talk, but really, truly, he just likes it. His ears are full of the whirring of helicopter blades as they slice through air and now he is motivated by emotion. He wants to slice. He wants to torture, he wants to hurt others, and that steel will that was holding him back has now been dealt a critical blow.

And perhaps that was a terrible mistake.

He doesn't need increased strength or speed to suddenly lunge himself at Silco, his true, uncontrolled nature being one that demands he strike at him. An arm snaps like steel around his middle as he throws them both to the ground, so close now to Voryn, and he's barely crawled overtop him before another violent swing is causing his fist to collide with that makeup-smeared, corroded face. Another hit follows when he grunts, hands soon closing tight around his throat to squeeze. ]

aaah gosh sorry for the slowness!!

[zauneyete]

[ How was it, that Silco so often found himself in these positions?

Lack of control, perhaps, lack of loyal types. Without Zaun as a motivator, Silco didn't have people who saw him as their one way out, the only way they could live a life without their fingers digging through garbage and breathing poisoned air. Silco, and by extension shimmer, were the only thing they had in Zaun, or at least that anyone under the chembarons had. Even they had needs -- Renni's son had been working in the shimmer factories, after all -- but without that, Shimmer is... uncontrolled.

With Zenites, it's a touch better, they find themselves on the same side in a battle, but their motivations are all... messy. Complicated. Silco's own fury at an existence that he hates, that he wants to see ended is certainly a motivator, but at the end of the day, are they truly even trustworthy? Silco didn't trust anyone, but at least he could bank on Zaunites being desperate enough to want to pull themselves from the muck.

He'd been hoping to instill chaos, but he had not considered that the chaos might aim towards him. He'd been backing off, trying to slip deeper into the cavern that bore the scorch marks and chaos that he could look at fondly, a reminder, but --

He found himself slammed to the ground, and the wind rushed out of him. He gasped, an automatic reaction, trying to get as much as possible, but then he felt a fist to his face, and his fingers trembled, before he pulled free another knife with his other hand, he'd thought to aim it at the man's neck when he felt it -- His breath went frantic -- what little he could take in and his eyes went wide -- near feral. This wasn't the first, or even the second time he'd been choked, of course -- something about Silco just inspired choking -- but His fingers dropped the knife he'd held, and he started to scrape his hands, ineffectively, against the fingers on his neck --

It wasn't cold, or wet, but in Silco's mind, it was. Fingers on his neck, his other hand slipped -- the one that dropped the knife -- and he started feeling for it, his wide-eyed stare looked Ocelot in the eye, and even if the man couldn't comprehend it with that pollution-toxic zing of Shimmer in him, Silco could only look at him with fury. ]

[sharmat]

(if he hadn't planned on smashing his shard with a stone, interrupted only by the chime of ceremonial vurook, voryn might've gone for a hardy stick. with it, he could stab into his ears to create his own rare quiet; there is noise even here beneath a dying tree whose roots create a tangled shield from the world. he longs again for their brief, intimate connection, and to stretch everywhere and to be everything. but its warning taught him of something parasitic growing in kenos, so voryn thinks, after listening to ocelot shout for him to wake up from his delirious daydreaming, that he ought to do as the man says.

his ascent to his feet is halted after turning his heavy body onto a hip and then a knee. with the men's fight culminating so near to him, voryn, a crouching umbra in the shadow of the great tree, thinks of a better use for his stone than self-annihilation. but for a moment that lingers too long, in the corner of silco's failing vision, he waits. sap-matted hair hangs in black strings over the chimer's grey face, partly concealing wide, red eyes that admire the strangling as though ocelot were moving according to his private design.

only when he feels as though the agony silco's due has been inflicted on him does voryn act.

at this distance, he's able to access ocelot's temple, and the uncontrolled fugue in which the outlander is trapped allows him to make his next move precise. he is quick and brutal with his gratitude, coming off of knees in the dirt to strike hard at the softest part of ocelot's skull, stopping him from exposing more of his mind in a swift return of a favour owed. the man is rendered unconscious in the breadth of one of silco's first haggard breaths in, and voryn, who catches the shoulder of his loaned robe to ride the momentum of ocelot's sideways fall up into a swaying stand, makes one final decision.

the bloody stone is pitched over his shoulder, use expended, and it is exchanged for silco's knife.)

You... You will leave now and you will leave alive, (voryn says, voice low and raw with promise.) And when you are gone, I will place your possession here in the dirt so that you may return before long to the area in which you were meant to die. You, who deepened the suffering of the Tree. You, who deepened my suffering.

(the longer voryn stays standing, the more pain radiates into his face, eventually extending down the length of his neck and upper arms. though he doesn't show this weakness to silco, his cheeks feel hot and have become a sick, muddy colour from exertion. the flush in dark skin only grows richer in colour by the minute.)

Heed my words, human, or I will finish what he started.

[zauneyete]

[ The first thing he does, is he fell to the ground, wheezing. His breath pulled in and out in heavy, painful breaths -- a reminder of being alive -- but his hands trembled when he fell to the dirt, when his fingers dug into it. He was still not powerful enough. He could have, of course, called Sebastian here, and let his demon rend them to pieces before him, but Silco refused. He wanted to find his own path to power as much as he wanted to use the demon. If it had been another moment, he would have summoned his contracted demon, but instead, this thing -- this soft-hearted elf, for who would be so kind to a monster like this tree, as well as save him? -- had found him released.

He hated it.

He hated it, he hated the tree, he hated this world more than he had even Piltover. He wanted nothing more than to find this existence ended, the long stretch of oblivion before him and nothing but himself, perhaps his daughter -- for nobody else would ever stay at his side -- and he desperately wanted to claw that reality into being, to forge it from this suffering in this world.

He looked at Voryn with hate -- a mismatched gaze, the puckered and warped skin around his eye now smeared enough for the man to see that it was just makeup that covered it, that underneath it was dark scarring and raw muscle, sick and rotted, like the man himself. Was it so surprising, that he would show such hate for this tree? ]

I hope, that your... [ his eyes flicked toward Ocelot, and then to the tree. ] Grand sacrifice does not come to harm you later.

You'll find that this disgusting place deserves the rot it holds. If you heal it all, if there's nothing left of the destruction here, do not think that I will not punish you for it. It should bear that scar until it spits back out that which it took.

[ He took a step back. ]

Just be happy I thought I should treat you both with children's gloves.

[ Another few steps, and he did not turn around until he turned the corner. He did not turn his back on them until he knew it was safe. ]

[sharmat]

(it's not as though voryn doesn't understand the human's reasoning behind hating the great tree, for if it had stolen something or someone from him, he would have burned it to the ground. this is why he believes, as the human retreats, that the loss must have been a person; no worldly object could milk this much venom from bared fangs.

opening a shaking hand, silco's knife sinks back into the soil, blade down. it narrowly misses his foot, finding his vision affected negatively by the ringing in his ears. no longer watched, no longer required to mask how exhausted the communion has made him, voryn stoops to pant hard into the elbow of his sleeve until it's wet with spittle before he can focus again on taking more measured breaths in his following assessment of ocelot. he should leave him. whatever mad state he was in before the stone's interference could be permanent, and travelling with him would simply put himself at risk. he should kill him.

but the man aided him, and to forsake that would be improper and impractical. allies will be indispensable, so his gratitude to ocelot will be demonstrated by not abandoning him here to his headwound.

dropping to a knee to force ocelot onto his front in the sphagnum with a rough squeeze at his shoulder, voryn thinks a final time of the knife and how simple a matter it would be to sink it into his throat. fingers settle instead along the pulse in his neck, checking his vitals briefly to ensure his condition isn't a fatal or disabling one. from there, after ocelot is grasped beneath his arms, voryn brings him to his feet and subsequently into a fireman's carry. it takes great effort to wind a man his height around him in a way that doesn't cripple their movement; he is exhausted. but his ambitions often remind him that there are plenty of worse things than pain and fatigue.

the great tree's roots are departed from. after some time, they make it past a steep section of hillocks on the path up through the roots, which winds voryn, causing him to rest more frequently until they've cut across the tree line. a state of flow is entered as he reaches his limit and muscles mentally past it, though thinner, cleaner air is sucked sharply through his teeth on the last few steps before the dark sky.

finally, he thinks, spotting the not-so-distant glow of populations. awe momentarily disrupts otherworldly focus, however, causing him to stagger. this jostles ocelot on his back, hard enough that voryn feels him finally stir.)

Wake now, for I cannot bear your weight any longer. Can you hear me, outlander?

for Voryn upon communing with the Tree;

[kenosnpcs]

[ while Voryn is soaking up the poisonous miasma to free the Tree of its blight, he will find himself connecting to the Tree is a more intimate way than he may have intended.

he is gifted with an out-of-body sensation of briefly sharing his consciousness with that of an entity that mortal minds aren't meant to comprehend. for just a second, just a hair's breadth of time - he is the Tree, feeling its high-reaching branches stretching out past the perpetual dawn's light. feeling the weight of Everything that exists at Kenos - the last bastion before there is simply nothing.

something had sickened it; he knows, because he feels as though it happened to him. an abnormality. a parasite - but not one born of an external threat. this had come from the inside. a soul like so many others the Tree cradles, guides, pulls and pushes where they are meant to be. one became warped. one became corrupted.

things do not become corrupted in the Tree.

--and all at once, Voryn would feel a protective presence pushing his ego apart from that of this entity, this gaping, enormous Being to separate them. the Tree can sense one of its newest Seedlings has strayed too close to places he is not meant to go. not yet.

it conveys a message - not in words, but impressions. longing; uneasiness; fear. love.

warning.

and then, it is gone - leaving Voryn to return to the present and finding no more than a few seconds had passed him by. ]