♘ Raven (вʟade мaѕтer) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unkindnessof) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2013-08-13 02:11 pm
unkindnessof) wrote in towerofanimus2013-08-13 02:11 pm
♘ 04 ❖ 2nd Score || but maybe you never really had someone
Characters: Raven, original Ion, and open.
Setting: Various; set throughout the week of the event.
Format: Brackets preferred, though this post leans heavily on the prosey side of brackets anyway.
Summary: catchall post for the week of 8/11-8/17; Raven copes poorly™ and Ion's serenity becomes very, very dissonant.
Warnings: Angst (gratuitous amounts of it in fact), Animus, Shadow Children, the usual.Possible character death in the fourth day's prompt for Raven who am I even kidding, he's gonna die
Setting: Various; set throughout the week of the event.
Format: Brackets preferred, though this post leans heavily on the prosey side of brackets anyway.
Summary: catchall post for the week of 8/11-8/17; Raven copes poorly™ and Ion's serenity becomes very, very dissonant.
Warnings: Angst (gratuitous amounts of it in fact), Animus, Shadow Children, the usual.
MONDAY, 8.12.13; MAILROOM [ He doesn't make a habit of checking his mailbox often, not after May, not after June. Regardless, if so many are concerned about them such that this many posts would have managed to make it through the scrambled network, it may have been something worth investigating. He takes the long way to the room from the library floor: up and up and up and up the winding staircase. He's not entirely sure when it was that one of the shadows he passes on the way slipped away to instead shadow his footsteps, but that shadow is his companion for the majority of the trip, keeping up no matter his actions with a flighty spring in its step and a bright smile too wide for its mouth. But it's harmless enough, like the ones of the night before, so all he does is continue up the stairs without looking back. It's only after the lengthy trip, after he actually arrives at his destination, that he pays it any attention at all, and that's only because it's forcefully drawn; no sooner has he realized what the object within the package is than the construct behind him snatches it out of his hands, shadowy body quaking in something like silent laughter. When he whirls to face it— he freezes at the stark familiarity of its form, its posture, the way its fingers align perfectly with the handprints already on the bow. Faintly he thinks he should say something, deny it, it's only a trick, but nothing makes it through the block in his throat and the shock of the sight. The shadow leans in close and shakes in something that might be laughter, grinning brightly all the while, and he can't gather the presence of mind to try to force either it or himself away. ] TUESDAY, 8.13.13; MEADOW [ They come and go, it seems, because while earlier there'd been a veritable flock following around, only two of them remain— at the moment, anyway. One of them still wears the stolen bow and its fragments; the other lacks the lightness of the first, but just as readily dogs his steps with an eagerness that's uncanny when matched with the wide white grin. They both settle down comfortably and watch raptly when they don't need to chase him. He sets his mind to ignoring them, losing himself in swordplay forms as he sweeps around the storming meadow locked in combat against countless invisible foes. It might've worked, does work, in fact, until he summons a set of spears all around him between dashes and sets them all to converging on one exact point (and focuses on ignoring any similarities to the whirling swords of the Apathetic Monster of two months previous), at which point they dissipate again in a flash of light. —"Man, you never used to do anything like that. Hey, Rena, was this going on when you were here a while back?" "That wasn't me, silly. You know that perfectly well!" ] Stop. If you think that copying them is going to do anything... [ "Hey, we're not copying anyone, Raven. Can't you tell the difference between the real deal and a fake? I mean, this isn't even the first time this sort of thing's happened." A lilting sigh. "You'd think that after what happened in Altera..." "Yeah, about that." Its tone turns curious, strongly—and almost accusingly—so. "Back on the airship, when we just met, I mean. You said you'd never risk anything like that again. Did you forget, or something? Because it'd be pretty awful of you if you just forgot about that kind of thing—" ] I haven't forgotten why. It's just... [ "It's just what, huh?" If he can control himself, keep his own mind... There... are more important things, right...? Like being able to defend what's left... The arguments sound hollow to even him, because how can he say that in light of what happened in June? ] WEDNESDAY, 8.14.13; FLOOR 11 [ "With all due respect, Sir, don't you think you owe us something? Your attention, at the very least?" ] I don't owe a collection of ghosts anything. [ He murmurs, but it's weak even to his own ears. The irony of saying something like that, considering the amount of time he spends on this floor normally... "But sir, we only died for you! Are you— are you even listening to me?" "Forget it, Tom, it's obvious it was all a waste. Just look at us now." Such has been the tone of the entire day, but he thinks he might be a little better at tuning it out by now. It's only early evening, after all. And maybe if he compares them to the usual residents of this floor... "Y'know, I knew you were cold, but I didn't realize how much. Thought it was obvious enough you cared, but now I'm not so sure." That voice, on the other hand, is enough to startle him out of reverie. Back again, was it...? ] ...Maybe. [ He can't even deny it anymore. He does try, briefly, but... ] Perhaps you should have noticed this from the beginning. [ The shadow is abnormally quiet for a moment, taking a seat next to him on the stairs. It draws a leg up, loops an arm around it and leans back on the other much as a child would before it turns its head to look up at him as someone would when finding out the person they looked up to wasn't at all what they thought they were. "Yeah, maybe," it agrees after a moment. "But we were friends anyway, I thought. "Guess you could just replace and abandon us as easy as anyone else, though." Raven mirrors the shadow child's posture and tries not to think of how much he agrees. ] THURSDAY, 8.15.13; FLOORS 100, 101 100; earlier in the day. [ The exhaustion that plagues him is probably affecting his vision, he thinks, because the color of his frame seems much paler than it should be whenever the glamours flicker. It's really hard to think long on or care much about it, though, because there are far too many of them now, clamoring in a frenzy at the edge of his senses ("We died- we died- we died- for you- in vain-") like crows would carrion. ("Are you seriously just going to try and abandon us again? We're not going to go away just because you're ignoring us! Hey!") ("It's hard to forgive someone who hasn't forgiven themselves.") So here he is, in the facsimile of the home he's lost, left to burn, surrounded by the shades of all those who deserved more to have been rescued than he. ] I'm sorry. I'm sorry... 101; later. [ His soul still pulses a faint gold, weakly struggling on despite everything, but the fluid in the rest of his body, including his collar, is so pale as to be clear. The voices have quieted to a cacophonous dull roar, but likely that's more exhaustion than their actual abating. Still, there's one that stands apart from the rest, that he can pick out despite any crash of thunder and rain, or any weariness of his soul. "What have you done?" ] I've been trying— [ He's not sure what it is that compels him to respond, whether he's just given up or is making one last, desperate attempt to explain, but the shadow only shakes its head and hushes him sadly. It settles down delicately, next to where he himself is seated with his back to some large tree. "I know what you've done here. That's not why I asked." It picks up some of the nearby flowers, gathering them up into a bouquet. With the malfunctions of the glamour, half the time the bundle doesn't even exist. "I loved you," it starts, matter-of-factly. "And I thought you loved me back. I thought that if even one of us managed to survive, it would have been okay. I was grateful for the Nasods' intervention, because even if all those horrible things happened, it wasn't you, and you still lived. "When they came onto the Black Crow, it was supposed to be a good thing. You remembered yourself. You lived. You could carry on with what it was we'd originally wanted, or make something else out of yourself, anything." The shade looks down now, staring into the flowers like they could offer up answers. "But instead you ran. You forgot us, but never managed to leave us behind. You won't let yourself remember us, but you still tried to replace us. "What can you say for it? What have you done? Velder still burns, if the world were still intact." ] I... I never... [ But the shadow only stares straight at him despite its lack of visible eyes, and despite the impossible blackness of its features or the whiteness of its wide, wide grin all he can see is Seris and the rest of what he tries to say drowns as he chokes. "How could you?" she murmurs, leaning into him with a gentleness that's more painful than it is soothing. ] | ||
| unkindnessof | ||
SUNDAY, 8.11.13; DORMITORY FLOORS prompt 1.1 [ The shade's been following him since he woke up this morning. Its posture is sullen, sad; its hands are clasped either in front of it or behind it—it's hard to tell—and it stares at him like he's deeply and personally wronged it. He thinks it might be betrayal, but for what, he doesn't know. The grin that belongs to all of their kind looks out of place on it; the opposite might be more fitting. But it doesn't do anything other than trail him like a forlorn shadow, so eventually he gets curious. Carefully, he reaches out for it, a spell thrumming at the edge of his grasp if need be. It lunges for the outstretched arm and tries to bite him, but both being what they are, they simply go through each other. It recovers from the lunge and takes up vigil again as he hastily jerks his arm back. There is, for the briefest of moments, shock on his face— but it's gone in an instant, replaced by something akin to a fond amusement. ] They need to work harder with their projections. I almost didn't recognize you. prompt 1.2 This belonged to you, didn't it? Ah, well, I suppose it was your sister's. [ He remarks idly, as if he's talking about some paltry trinket, a bangle or bracelet or some other form of jewelry rather than a skull that itself is only a memory of the real thing. Memory. What a strange thing. He 'hmms' in thought for a moment, before turning to the shadow and blinking wide eyes at it. ] I'm not really sure why they gave it to me. [ Pause. ] You can have it back, you know. Consider it a reward, or a gift. [ What goes unspoken here is: Like your monster sister before you, you died. It only eyes the offering balefully, baring its teeth in a poor imitation of a snarl for the way its features are set in a forced grimace when he approaches with the liger skull. But it does accept it, eventually, stealing it away in a quick movement before settling back into a morose, resentful stance (though there's something wild about it still). The skull is clutched the way one would a favorite doll. It's small, but: "I don't know why I gave it to you either. Not anymore." Ion just blinks again, not entirely sure if the shadow had said anything at all. ] TUESDAY, 8.13.13; CATHEDRAL [ What a poor thing to have discovered in his mailbox. It's morbid fascination that has him checking it over (perhaps it did in fact predict this fate, maybe that's what the lost Seventh Fonstone foretold all along, wouldn't that be funny), even as he eyes it in distaste. His right hand glows with the light of a Score reading in progress. You will die at— —that's as far as he needs to read before he stops in disgust, letting the channeled Seventh Fonons dissipate into the air. He knows full well what the rest of that passage reads, what the Planet's Memory has intended for him. "You should have known better than to expect anything from that, Fon Master." ] ...Perhaps. [ He replies eventually, smiling thinly as he recognizes his Commandant. ] Forgive me. It seems I've grown weaker in my stay here. FRIDAY, 8.16.13; FLOORS 93, 81 93; earlier, going down. [ They make quite a sight, traveling across the floor, with one small child the head of a long, trailing procession now that's a far cry from the single shadows of the days previous. (One of them stands apart from the others, trailing directly behind him like it's the natural place for it to be.) Perhaps they simply couldn't wait any longer. Impatient, impertinent fools, except now instead of crying at him to know the Score they cry at him for answers. "Fon Master, why- You deviated from the Score- It's your fault- You brought ruin to us all- Our promised prosperity-" He sighs, and decides to favor them with a bit of his attention. Perhaps it'll silence them. ] I'm sorry, but I really don't know what you expect from me... [ "But you know everything that's going to happen! You knew what the Score foretold, so why didn't you stop it?" ... His reply is like ice. ] If Auldrant really was destroyed the way the Administrators of this place claimed it was, then nothing I did could have either caused or prevented it. The Score foretold nothing of this. [ Does that silence them? It doesn't matter. They never mattered to begin with. ] 81; later. [ Most of them have gone, but a fair few still linger around him as he stares placidly out one of the windows at the fog below. His collar shines a much brighter purple than it has any right to be, considering the number there were earlier, but perhaps that just speaks something of his bonds with those in the Tower. Or, rather, the lack of such to his world. Still, he's not untouched; when the glamour flickers he feels much better, as is normal for when he's relieved of the (false) sickness they inflict on him here, but there's a vaguely concerning paleness in his extremities all the same. ("It's your fault I was born into this world!" "I never had my own life. I was only supposed to be your replacement." Well, of course.) He's smiling, of course, because when is he not, but perhaps if one manages to (or cares to) look particularly close they'll notice a slight bittersweetness about it anyway. ("I hate you. You lied. You said you wouldn't disappear. But you did. You left me alone.") That one shadow still lingers at his side; it still holds the skull close. ] | ||
| fonlines | ||
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