eyemind | event } that was easy

Entry tags:

event } that was easy

WHO: All y’all who feel like playin’.
WHAT: MARKER TAG
WHERE: On Navi.
WHEN: Jan. 17-31
WARNINGS: Use ‘em in your threads if needed! And if you end up getting a marker punched through your skull, please report it on the death page.

Something weird is afoot.

Everywhere you look, you’ll find piles of markers, all shapes and sizes and colors. And without explanation, you may find yourself overcome with a deeply competitive impulse to win. Win what? Why, a classic game of marker tag, of course. Why is this happening? Who cares! If affected, the only thing you’ll care about is marking your target.

This "game" will be played out in one-hour increments. For that hour, one person will be the target, and the rest of the ship's affected passengers will have an innate sense of who their target is. Anyone not "it" will chase the target character with the aim of placing a mark on them. Once a target has been marked by another character, the impulse to chase will fade, until the next target is selected at the start of the next hour. Target characters will remain targets until the end of their hour or until they have been marked by all participating characters. After that hour, the game starts all over again with a new target.

Sure hope those marks wash off in the shower!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[In the end, it's a long, long time before Gaius is willing to leave his cabin, once he regains consciousness.]

[It's a lot to take in, after all. Dealing with the panic of waking in a place that is not the home the General Aldynn's men had placed them in in Terncliff, with none of the Alliance's soldiers in sight. With no one in sight, more accurately, no Cid, no Severa, no Allie, and that it takes some time before he can curb the rising worry enough to sit and watch the video that this "Navi" directs him to should be perfectly understandable. And it's a good start. Doesn't answer the most burning questions that circle his mind, the questions he needs answers to, but it's a start.]

[And right now, a start is good enough to get him, eventually, out of the cabin and into the halls of the strange ship proper. Getting the lay of the place seems the best course of action, at least for now. He can seek out the presence of these other people that have been similarly taken once he's more comfortable with his surroundings, but right now, it's more important to get the feel for the place. Figure out where he is, exactly, perhaps find this Navi or anyone else that may be in change, figure out why...]

[...why all these...pens? Are strewn through the halls, piled in corners and scattered haphazardly across the deck. Gaius had already kicked over the small stack of them that had been placed in front of his cabin door, and continues to nudge them to sides of the hallways as he makes his way around the ship, initial confusion quickly being overtaken by his annoyance at the sight of the mess.]

[It really is a shame that a rift had chosen now, of all times, to drag him onboard this ship.]

[It'd be an even greater shame to find out that he's It.]

Having already written her own title in 'English' upon her door, her true name in the language of people below it, Hemera has already set to work in doing the same for Hades. She is quite take with these 'markers', even if she had to augment them a bit so the ink wouldn't smear on the doors.

The new arrival was no shock to her, as she had sensed him long before he woke, but that doesn't mean she isn't startled when the man's door opens and he exits. She fumbles the marker, dropping it to the floor with a clatter. Fortunately her pristine work didn't gain an unsightly streak:

Εμετ-SειcҺ
ᾍδης

Well. A slight frown touches Gaius' face, then, the smallest sliver of guilt tugging at him as he watches the young woman start and drop her pen as he exits the room. Not that the reaction comes as much of a surprise. He knows the sight he looks, with his injuries and still ragged clothes, and he holds up a hand as if to placate her, showing that he's - at least mostly - unarmed.

"My apologies. I hadn't intended to startle you." Truth be told he hadn't been expecting to run into anyone so soon, either, with as quiet as it is in the cabin area. It's hard to see from a distance what it was the young woman had been writing on the door, but he pays that little enough mind as he approaches, stiffly kneeling down to collect the dropped marker and return it to her-

Only to pause, as he stands again, pale eyes studying the odd little mask she wears, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, it seems almost too akin to those hanging from his belt for comfort. But the too bright eyes behind the mask are kinder than any Ascian's, and her outfit so unlike their own; it takes a moment to collect himself again with that realization in mind, and his voice perhaps a bit warmer for it.

"I'm going to assume that you're a passenger rather than crew."

Edited 2021-01-24 22:43 (UTC)

Had she her wits about her Azem would never have let the man bend down for something so trivial—especially not in his current state. She is caught entirely off-guard, hands curled against her chest as she stares at him for the length of that uncomfortable pause between one sentence and the next, eyes taking in his features and the sound of his soul.

Something about this meeting leaves her slightly off kilter; uncertain. There is a sense of familiarity so heavy that it is near suffocating.

"I— Are you injured?" Azem pauses briefly, taking a breath and quickly continuing: "Nevermind. That was— Even the blind could see you are... The better question is: would you permit me to heal the worst of your wounds?"

Though his gaze doesn't leave the young woman - still studying her mask, the clothes she wears - his brow goes up at the question. And it's an understandable question to ask, certainly, and his answer follows just as quickly.

"They've been tended to." Sort of, at least. Severa had certainly done her best in tending to them, though she was no trained chirurgeon. And perhaps he should have had the Alliance's people look them over after, but he'd be hard-pressed to say that he's willing to trust them with his own well being, even now.

But the young woman's concern is palpable. And that sliver of guilt tugs again, more insistent, when he realizes how curt the words sounded.

His expression softens, and with a soft sigh he shakes his head, reaching out to gently take one of her hands, so he may press her marker carefully back in it.

"I do appreciate the offer, of course, but you needn't waste any resources on me. They'll heal, with a little time and rest, miss...?"

"They have, have they?" Her tone is not entirely unlike that of an adult humoring a child. Even behind her mask it's clear as day her expression is scrutinizing and dubious.

Touch is still something she is acclimating to (prior to her awakening it had been years since she last experienced it so casually—mere weeks cannot make up for that), and so his taking of her hand causes her to tense. A fraction of a momen later has Azem let out a small breath and relax, accepting the marker with a quiet murmur of thanks.

The boy-man speaks again and his words earn himself a scoff.

"'Waste any resources'," she echoes, almost in disbelief at how ridiculous a statement she just heard. "What resources? Because I assure you I have more than enough aether, and would hardly consider you a waste of it."

"You would be one of very few right now to believe so, then."

Oh, he's very aware she's only humoring him. Has the self-awareness to know that were he to come across someone in a similar state to himself, even, he would likely feel the same as the young woman.

Any other time, he might even continue to stubbornly press on with his refusal. But Gaius aches, in more ways than one, and carrying his daughter's limp form from the castrum only aggravated injuries both old and new. It's the only reason that he's willing to relent so easily; hard to be of much use around a ship when even walking down a hallway near exhausts him.

It's nothing at all to do with the way that the woman's unimpressed look leaves him feeling oddly chastised, even with half of her face hidden behind her mask.

"But if you so insist, I suppose it could do no harm to have them looked at again. It's only the leg that gives me issue, however."

Edited 2021-01-26 18:33 (UTC)

"You're alive, aren't you? Ergo you can never be a waste."

Upon learning that it his leg that bothers him, she promptly sets about conjuring up a seat for him. Before she can finish the first flourish of her hand, however, she thinks better of it. Moving away from Hades' door, Azem gestures for her unexpected charge to follow her to her own quarters instead.

"Has your leg suffered an impact, a puncture, or a slicing wound?" She asks, absentmindedly waving him toward the plush armchair in the far corner of her room. There is another matching chair across from it, and a coffee table between them with intricate, geometric golden patterns inlayed upon the glossy surface.

The room is cozy, warm, and welcoming. A large direwolf pelt cloak is draped across the bed. A tall, wide set of shelves takes up half of one wall, neatly organized with potted herbs, colourful bits of sea glass, shells, and amorphous clay figures. The other half is brightened by numerous drawings, clearly done by the clumsy, eager hands (or fins, or tentacles) of children.

There is an illusion cast over her window, showing a view of her home from better days instead of the inky black void of space. Azem is careful to ignore it as she takes her own seat.

"I may not have studied medicine at Anyder, but that does not mean I lack in ability... Provided you aren't about to expire my healing should be ample enough to set you to rights." A quick glow of magic has the coffee table altered to better suit propping a leg up comfortably. "I would have been a very poor Traveler had I been incapable of tending to wounds."

Edited 2021-01-26 20:09 (UTC)

It's with some hesitation that Gaius follows after her. He watches her for some long moments after she enters the room, weighing his options and whether there was any real, pressing need to be tended to, once it's clear he's being invited into the woman's own cabin. And it's hard to say which is more concerning between the potential danger and the outright impropriety of the situation.

But follow he does. She hasn't yet given any reason to not trust her, after all, and if she can truly help him to get the pain and the limp back under control...

It is, when he enters, far more cozy than his own cabin. Warm and lived in, it's almost enough to put him at ease the second he crosses the threshold, and he's careful to avoid touching or bumping anything as he follows after the young woman, pale eyes looking over the room. And he'd be quicker to take a seat in the comfortable looking chair that she motions to, if not for what catches his attention out of the corner of his eye, then.

Because he remembers looking out the window of his own cabin, shortly after he woke up. He remembers too well right now the inky black void beyond the glass, cold and empty save for the scattered points of distant stars, and the weight that had settled in his gut at the sight of it. The view out the woman's window is nothing like that, though the land below is an unfamiliar one, and Gaius pauses, brow furrowing lightly as he stares out at the shining city.

He's so distracted, in fact, that he doesn't even hear her when she continues speaking, let alone notices the changes made to her table. And it's another long moment before her words seem to catch up to him, though he's unable to tear his gaze away as he answers.

"Impact, mostly. There is a gash, but it's not what hinders me right now and should heal well enough on its own." Should. Hopefully would, though Severa had assured him so, as long as he didn't further aggravate the wound.

Easier said than done, as it turns out. When Gaius is finally able to turn his attention back to the strange young woman helping him, he studies her for some seconds before he gingerly moves over to the offered seat, sitting slowly as he hums, thoughtful.

"I'm...unfamiliar with this Anyder, however. Where are you from?"

Because it certainly isn't from anywhere in Garlemald or Eorzea, at least as far as he's aware.

Azem is not blind to what has caught the young man's attention. The reminder of what illusion pretties her window is almost enough to make her forget the agony it brings her heart to see it, however she fights against the urge. There are more important things to focus on right now than grief she knows full well will never lessen. She keeps her eyes upon her guest instead, trying to pinpoint just why he seems so familiar. The answer is close, like a word stubbornly stuck on the tip of her tongue.

"Akadaemia Anyder. The foremost university of my people, located in the heart of the capitol," she explains, doing her utmost to keep her voice free from the weight of her mourning. "My home was Amaurot."

Azem doesn't dare attempt any healing magicks while her emotions are so tumultuous. Allowing her guest time to feel comfortable before proceeding seems like it may be of benefit to the both of them.

The odd choice of words is what fully earns the young woman his attention, then.

Nothing more dramatic than simply turning fully to her, his gaze questioning as he studies those eerily bright eyes peering out from beneath the woman's mask. She doesn't look out of sorts, though. Not at all, her demeanor still pleasant and welcoming as it was when she first ushered him inside. Perhaps from anyone else, the phrasing would have been worth nothing of note. But there's a weight to that was, however slight, that doesn't escape Gaius' notice.

A familiar weight, that he feels all too keenly himself these past days, seeming heavier with each passing day.

Maybe that's why it seems to stick out, when she speaks. Maybe he's simply reading too much into it, a tired old man finding sorrow in everything he sees and hears. But his expression softens, the frown fading from his features as he listens.

"Amaurot." He turns the name over in his head, but... No. It's not a place he's familiar with, on any of the three continents he's traveled nor on those he's only studied. And again, he turns his attention to the young woman's window, where the bright light of that gleaming city still filters into the room in place of the empty dark of the void.

"And I don't suppose that it looks anything like the impressive view below, does it?"

The question is one that takes her some time to answer, if only because it is difficult. Even if her world somehow survived that sundering blow, Amaurot hadn't looked like the vision in decades.

"No," she manages, eyes downcast and focused on her fidgeting fingers. "But it had looked like that not so long ago..."

A snap of her fingers and the scene changes; sky going dark and grey, shrouding the sunlight like a mourning veil. The city is no longer bright and filled with life—the once beautiful architecture is gutted, with large pieces missing from the outer walls, the metal skeletons of what were once homes and offices are agonizingly twisted and exposed to open air.

There is no more greenery or any other manner of foliage. The corpses of malformed creatures litter the streets, though the bodies of what are undeniably robed people outnumber them by far—many of them so small that they could only be children, huddled together in fear during their final moments.

All is eerily calm and still in the aftermath of Amaurot's final days.

"I prefer remembering it as a home, not a mass grave."

Another snap shifts the illusion to overlook a crisp, clear ocean from a lush, volcanic shoreline. Perfectly unremarkable, and infinitely preferable to the void.

"...If you rest your leg on the table I can give a cursory examination, then create a suitable treatment."

Her fingers snap, and the room darkens, though not because the lights themselves go out. He sees the sunlight out the window seemingly vanish out of the corner of his eye, a small frown returning to his face as he turns once more toward it.

And the sight that greets him now...

Whatever it was that had overtaken the once bright city in nothing short of horrific, and Gaius feels his breath catch in his throat to see the broken shells of what were once proud spires and buildings. To see the smokey haze that covered the ruined streets, darkening the sky above, and the bodies...

Something twists in his chest, so horribly tight, at the small forms found among the bodies of man and monster alike, and his grip tightens on the armrests of his seat as if he makes to stand again. The image is gone again all too soon after, however, all of the horror and death and destruction replaced by a foreign coastline, serene and picturesque...but he knows the sight of the broken, twisted ruins will remain burned into his mind. As will the profound sadness that follows, a strange sense of longing for something lost.

For his own home, perhaps. For his family, that he'll never get to see again.

It's some moments before he realizes that the young woman is still speaking. Speaking to him, specifically, again gently reminding him of why he's there in her cabin in the first place, and Gaius has to blink away the heat gathering at the corners of his eyes before he can turn his gaze back to her, letting out a slow breath before he very slowly, very carefully, reaches down to pull his leg up on the table between them.

"I'm sorry." And though his voice is low, he means it. Genuinely so. He's seen too much needless destruction himself to not understand the grief the woman must be going through, and he has to take another breath. "To lose your home..."

He can't even begin to imagine how that must feel.

"It looked a beautiful city."

Edited 2021-02-07 06:17 (UTC)

Azem can sense how affected he is by the sight she shares, flooding her with a sense of guilt for exposing the boy-man to something so horrific. To hear him offer condolences makes her feel as though something has caught itself in her throat, and the corners of her eyes burn. She shakes her head, offering a rueful smile.

"A city can be rebuilt," she explains. "My home was with what was left of my people."

The quarter of them that were left after Zodiark's last meal, and lesser still after Hydaelyn's summoning.

Azem shakes her head again, though this time it is to shake errant thoughts loose from her mind, allowing her to focus instead on the injured leg before her. When she reaches out her hand it is with a delicate, fleeting touch that radiates golden warmth as it analyzes his leg, informing her of the extent of its damage. Her lips thin, eyes narrowing behind her mask.

"This is no minor wound." Her tone is a blend of accusation, sadness, and disappointment. "What makes you believe you deserve this pain?"

Now there's a sentiment he understands a little too well.

Not that he's given much chance to dwell on the fact. Though the grief is evident, both in the woman's voice and her smile, she wastes no time in examining him once his leg is propped upon the table. The painful stretch of the torn muscle beneath his wound causes him to grit his teeth, though he makes no other noise or indication of his discomfort as she reaches for him. After all, it's far from the worst injury he's ever had, now. Not the worst pain he's felt, not by far.

And the warmth that follows comes as little surprise. She did say she was a healer, and he's no stranger to such magic. The warmth brings with it some relief, however fleeting the feeling is, and he lets out a soft sigh when she pulls away, only to raise a brow at the chastisement.

"For the things I've allowed to happen, I dare say I deserve more than just this," he murmurs, the bitter words less to the young woman than himself. But he shakes his head, raises a bandaged hand in an attempt to placate her before he continues. "It would have been my companion if I hadn't stepped in to save her, and it is a small price to pay to keep another young life from being cut too short."

With a clear sense of what needs to be repaired, she brings her other hand to join the first above his leg and promptly channels healing aether directly into it. It is not a spell, but simply a malleable portion of her own aether she shapes as she guides it down from hip to toes, knitting together cracked bone and torn sinew, rejuvenating damaged nerves and blood vessels.

Healing may not be her specialty, but she has a keen grasp of anatomy and was unrivaled in her ability to shapechange—all of which serves to give her an unorthodox efficacy to her curative arts.

"A noble act," she can admit that much. "But what of your life?"

"I am still here, am I not?"

Bitter, broken, and a hollow shell of the man he once was, but he's here and alive, despite everything. And surely that counts for something.

Gaius keeps as still as he's able when the young woman finally begins to work, that same warmth rolling through him once again, though it's...different, he thinks, than the magic used by conjurers. Rather than simply soothing over the pain of the injury, he can feel flesh and bone knitting back together, and while the sensation is faintly nauseating, it's also entirely painless. And again, his pale eyes flick up to study her, turning these abilities over in his mind.

"I'm not attempting to needlessly throw my life away, if that's what you're implying." Though the tone of that statement says he's well aware that there's no if. It may have been true once, perhaps; the bloody trail of vengeance he tore across Eorzea and Othard both seem a lifetime ago now, before he was pulled violently back to his senses by the family he nearly left behind.

The family that he left. That he still failed. His chest tightens again, with a different pain, and it takes a shuddered breath to keep his voice even as he continues.

"And while I won't apologize for taking the risk that I did, I am...not ungrateful, for the aid. If there's a way to repay you, I would like to."

"I have met many who will not throw their lives away, but would let their lives be washed away at the first opportunity."

In those final months of Hydaelyn and Zodiark's battle she had watched far too many of her people choose to stop fighting to survive. Some out of tiredness, some out of hopelessness, and others out of guilt. It hurt her like nothing else, until that day—

Azem shakes her head, then rises from her seat to gather some things from her shelf to make him an ointment. Small bits of various herbs and a pinch of gold dust, all placed into a small glass jar that barely fits in the palm of her smaller form.

In theory she could simply create it with aether alone, but medicines are more effective when the key ingredients are grown. Herbs for medicinal effect, gold for aetherial conductivity...

"You allowed me to aid you. That is repayment enough," she answers. "I'm making a salve that will help with whatever else ails your flesh. Consider it a 'thank you' for making me feel useful."

She weaves together the rest of the ointment using aether of radiant gold, blending the raw ingredients with magic and creation, infusing it with restorative properties. She finishes it off with one final flourish of her wrist and ignores the way her strained soul begins to writhe in pain.

It takes her two steps until the table is within reach. Azem is quick to kneel down and place the ointment carefully upon it, but unfortunately finds herself unable to rise to her feet again. Unwilling to cause the man any undue concern, she simply acts as though this was her intended course of action; keeps her fingers clenched firmly against the leg of the table, obscuring the way they shake. Her mask is a blessing for how it hides the way cold sweat begins beading upon her brow.

"It's— It should relieve aches and pains, and stimulate natural recovery."

She rises, and in that moment Gaius takes the time to gingerly move his leg off the table and test its range of movement, slowly stretching and feeling the limb. The pain is still there, but it's less, now. Barely more than the dull ache of a small bruise, instead of the sharp, lancing agony that plagued his every step, and he makes a note to see the extent of the woman's work when he's back in his own cabin.

"I may yet have more reason to make you feel useful in the future, then, if we're to be trapped here for long," he says, with a soft hum of approval. After all, it can't hurt to be friendly with an accomplished healer. Especially for one who can't manipulate his own aether.

And while he doubts all of the damage can be so simply soothed away, the aid will at least give him the chance to be useful himself, and not the burden he has been so often as of late.

His attention is pulled back to the present when he hears the soft click of the jar being placed on the table, and the woman... She doesn't collapse, no. It's not a messy fall, but she kneels far too quickly for comfort, and her white-knuckled grip on the table is a difficult thing to miss. More difficult to ignore in its familiarity, and with a frown, Gaius moves the jar of ointment to the side as he leaves his seat to carefully kneel down beside her, taking her free hand in his own as if to help her up.

That he can feel the clammy chill of her skin, even through the bandages, appears to make his decision for him, then. And he sighs, pale eyes looking down at her apologetically.

"Forgive me for this, but-"

There's not much more warning than that. Though his movements are still somewhat stiff, he gathers the young woman into his arms with a surprising gentleness, carefully picking her up off the floor and standing again with a softly murmured "up you come, little one." She's not much larger than Allie. And without the table to obscure it, he can see the faint way her hand shakes as he holds her, and wonders for a moment if her skin is supposed to be as pale as it is now, or if her mask has simply been hiding it this entire time.

But he says nothing of it as he looks around, and crosses the room to the bed, laying her carefully on the direwolf pelt spread across it.

She isn't quite sure what to make of him taking her hand, but it is warm and calloused in a way that speaks of physical labour rather than academia. Her fingers twitch, flexing against his in reflex as she blinks up at him owlishly.

Azem has an inkling of what he's planning, but even if she had realized it sooner there was nothing she could do to prevent it, regardless.

"What? Ah—"

Being carried like this is strange. She doesn't know what to make of it, though admittedly it is difficult to think with how her head spins and her soul rebels. She swallows down a pained sound, a small hiss of air pushing between clenched teeth making itself known instead.

Somehow, despite everything, something about this rings familiar, and it's only once she has wrapped herself in the warmth and scent of her first purchase that Hemera's mind offers a groggy explanation. She rolls over to stare up at him; freckles standing out starkly against her pale skin.

"...Your name is Gaius?"

That small hiss is answer enough, really. Whatever it was she had done to strain herself in such a way, Gaius is quick to ensure she's made comfortable, helping her to wrap herself in the warm fur of the pelt as she shifts her position, and it's only once he's reasonably certain that she isn't going to attempt to get back up again that he nods to himself, turns away to collect the little jar of ointment she had generously made for him.

And that should have been the end of that. He had every intention of leaving, after thanking her and bidding her to rest. The promise to return later and check in on her is there on the tip of his tongue as he turns back to her-

But that question.

That question stops him, pale eyes widening as he looks down at the young woman. And there's a long moment before he can answer, hesitating before he speaks.

"...yes. Yes, I'm Gaius Baelsar."

Where did that come from...? He's quite sure he doesn't know the woman; he would remember someone so striking, he thinks, because such a mask would stick out in any number of the places he's been to, over the years. But there's a spark of recognition in the woman's eyes, the suddenness of which brings that soft frown back to his features, and he pauses again before he continues, a wary edge to his tone.

"And I'm...sorry, but I do not believe we've met before. Have we?"

The confirmation comes as no surprise. She forces herself into a sitting position, turning until her legs dangle off the side of her mattress. It is there, perched upon the edge of her bed with eyes closed that the memory becomes clearer. A hand shifts to place itself low on her stomach, fingers twisting the fabric of her sweater. Pain of a different, more insidious sort fills her chest. She ignores it, shifting into a different position, and thinks of more pleasant things.

"I remember..." Eyes still closed, Hemera draws her arms to her chest, as if cradling a child. "Holding your beautiful children... They were sleeping so peacefully, but you feared letting them from your sight."

It's a strange thing, how such a warm comment could make him feel so cold.

The memories come unbidden, of a time when they were all younger. Innocent, eager, still small enough to carry with ease. Of Milisandia, taking his hand and looking up at him with that bright smile of hers, slowly coming out of her shell.

He has to look away. Steps back...and sits, rather gracelessly, on the edge of the table instead, before his knees give out in a way that has nothing to do with the pain of his injuries. And it's some long, heavy moments before he can push the welling grief back long enough to form a response, his voice softer as he speaks.

"How do you know my children?"

The reaction it not what Hemera had expected (she had expected it, but hoped she was wrong—), and she rises to her feet, reflexively seeking to ease his pain however she can. Unfortunately the eagerness of her soul to reach out and soothe what it perceives to be no more than a child is more than it can handle in its current state. She collapses like a puppet cut of its strings, hitting the ground so harshly all the air is pushed from her lungs, leaving her unable to vocalize her pain beyond an agonized wheeze. The edge of her mask has cut into her cheek, mixing with the involuntary tears that trail down her face.

She had meant to do something, hadn't she? There was something she needed to do. Someone who needed her.

That thought is enough to force her into motion, struggling to push herself up with shaking arms.

A child of her people was in need of her.

It's hard to say if she moves a little too fast, or if he's simply moving a little too slow. One moment the young woman is on the bed, reaching out to him, and the next...

It's as if his memory lost a moment, in the overwhelming surge of emotions he struggled to hold at bay. She's on the ground, wheezing as if the breath had been knocked out of her, and it takes too long for Gaius to register the sight and act, as she struggles to push herself back up. He's beside her in half a heartbeat, kneeling at her side and gently helping her to sit up, his grip on her arm and her back firm but warm as he keeps her steady, and it's a wonder he's able to keep his voice even when he speaks, slightly louder than before.

"The whole point of putting you there was so you would rest. Not strain yourself in front of your patient a second time."

The discussion isn't over. Not at all, not when there's so many questions he needs answers to. But right now, the young woman's well being is a more pressing issue. A cursory examination has him catch sight of the bright line of blood that has begun to form under her mask, tears streaking the color further down her face...

And without hesitation, he reaches up a stiff, bandaged hand, to attempt to remove the mask for a better look.

The straining of her soul eases the moment Gaius comes to her, allowing it to comfort him without the need to stretch. He is well within its reach, and it is quick to settle over him; soft and warm like a spring breeze, nearly imperceptible. Hemera seems dazed when the pain recedes, blinking in confusion as she takes a greedy breath.

She is so distracted by the bandages of his hand and the echo of his soul that she doesn't realize what it's doing until she suddenly feels very exposed. Even still, she can hardly spare her bared face a second thought.

"I— I am fine... You are— Faint. Like the others. Like a child. But—" She stares at him with something akin to shock. "But you are a child of my people...? Your soul whispers of it... Of Amaurot."

Nearly imperceptible. A balm against pain, barely noticeable but still there, allowing him to think a little more clearly. To breathe a little easier as he peels the mask from the woman's face and sets it aside, the blood contrasting sharp and vivid against the paleness of her freckled skin. And this time, it's him who almost chastises her, as she weakly attempts to wave off the seriousness of her collapse. It's there, on the tip of his tongue-

Only to be lost when he pauses at the familiarity of the face staring up at him. A face he thinks he should know, in some distant memory, though no name comes to mind, and it's some heartbeats before he can shake himself from the feeling enough to reach up and carefully wipe the blood away from the young woman's cheek.

"I can assure you, in all my travels I've never been to your Amaurot." He would remember if he had been. He'd remember a city that shined as brilliantly as the one he'd seen out of her enchanted window, that made him so long for his own home. He should try to put her back into her bed, and do insist that she stay there, but... For now, he only sits there with her, until he sees proof that she's truly fine.

"I'm merely a child of Garlemald. Nowhere else."

"The soul does not lie, and yours is of my people. A... fragment...?" That doesn't seem possible, but the cracks in her own soul make her wonder what would have happened to the shards of her. "A piece of my kin. The echoes of my home. It is so very faint, but I can hear it..."

The tears do not stop, though now they stem from the swell of emotions bursting within her. Disbelief. Hope. Confusion.

"I don't understand... They are all dead. Every last one, save for he and I. He had no children, and I—" She cuts herself off with a quiet breath, one hand reflexively moving to her stomach. "...He and I are all that is left. I don't understand."

[At first, the various writing implements strewn about the ship aren't anything more than annoying, as far as Emet-Selch is concerned. And that largely because it's not something that has happened prior. Which is perhaps not a surprise - life on the ship does have a way of being unusual at best - but the fact that Navi is allowing the clutter suggests that there's more to it than a simple moment of untidiness.

It's only later on, when he finds himself inexplicably possessed of an urge to chase, to hunt, that he picks one up, almost without thinking about it. He wonders, too, if this is how Zenos feels before managing to shake the thought off. Regardless of whether it is or isn't there's no way for him to tell, and it's certainly not the first time that he's had to deal with something urging him onwards since his arrival.

(It is not, he thinks, time for who they're mentally linked to to be shuffled. But at the same time it's easier to see the urge through than suffer the annoyance of ignoring it, and so he lets it take him where it will.)

It's only when he finds himself crossing paths with someone that he's more than familiar with that he pauses, ignoring the urge to 'mark' his target for a moment.]

Ah. Gaius.

[He doesn't ask if the man has only recently arrived. He doesn't need to - if Gaius had been present on the ship prior, he would have known. Although it's clear even from what he can already see that Gaius' life has taken a somewhat different trajectory than what he might have suspected, shortly before his "death" as Solus.]

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[The similarities to Garlean airships hadn't escaped Emet-Selch's notice either, when he'd first arrived. Now, of course, the ship is far more its own entity in his mind, but he certainly doesn't begrudge Gaius that moment of familiarity either. Nor, for that matter, the desire to explore all there is to see of the ship.

All the same, he can't deny that there's a moment of satisfaction in seeing Gaius standing to attention at the sound of his almost without thinking about it. Gaius' mere presence on the ship will no doubt pose its fair share of complications - not least of all in regards to the matter of his true identity - but at least there is yet that instinctive reaction. Something he can, for the moment, lean on in the event it becomes absolutely necessary.

The uncertainty in Gaius' voice, and the way the silence stretches out once the man does finally turn around, on the other hand is... not concerning, perhaps, but a potential wrinkle all the same. They are, after all, both aware that he - that Solus - had died an old man. Something that he is very much not currently.

(With good reason, but he hasn't missed the masks hanging at Gaius' belt. Ones that very much suggest caution is the better course - Heirsbane may be nowhere in evidence, but he'd be a fool to think Gaius any less dangerous for it.)]

You seem surprised.

[Surprised to see him, surprised that he appears as young as he does... both are reasonable enough, and he deliberately makes no effort to clarify which he means. With any luck which way Gaius chooses to answer - or even if he does - will offer some insight into what to expect from the rest of the conversation.]

But it's no dream, to the best of my ability to tell.

[As for the question of whether or not Gaius is dead... that is one that is harder to answer, or at least, harder to answer without explain why he is able to sense the Lifestream.

Instead, he simply lets Gaius take that step back. Doesn't argue against it, though the expression on his face is one of concern. (More so for the fact that it may well make things more difficult than he'd initially than any misgivings over what Gaius might suspect of him, but that's nothing that Gaius needs to know and either way the emotion does still ring true.)]

And I would certainly like to hope you aren't dead.

[He knows - has always known - that death will come for Gaius one day. And Gaius is certainly not getting any younger, either. But neither has he become any less fond, for having largely set Solus aside.]

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[That Gaius should be having difficulty schooling his expression is... not unsurprising, truth be told. There is, after all, ample reason for him to be conflicted. Reason that Emet is certainly not going to address - or not until he has no other recourse - but reason nonetheless. Which is not to say that Emet doesn't hope that there is still a chance the conversation can resolve without turning to some manner of violence, but ... he has his doubts. Especially with the edge that's crept into Gaius' voice.

It would be easy, too, to answer that in kind. To let his own voice slide into sharper tones. But he does not. Not yet; not when he can still (with luck) wring some use out of his current appearance.

Instead, he settles for simply offering a side-long look, as if he thinks it isn't much of a surprise that he should be as he is. (As is indeed the case, for all that it has been a more deliberate choice this time.)]

For me to be...?

[He knows that he has died (has seemed to die). Knows too that Gaius almost certainly knows, given the masks hanging at his belt, and that the man bears injuries he cannot entirely account for. But if not admitting to that can earn him some small amount of breathing space, some time to find the way to slide through the pitfalls he can still sense looming, then so be it.

Besides, the question at least ought to give him some insight into Gaius current state of mind.

The actual question that follows is a little more difficult. Not least of all because he knows that it is meant to address him, both in appearance and the fact that he is present. Both of which are questions that he cannot - does not want to - answer, if only for the fact that neither can be easily done without admitting to his true nature. Instead, he sidesteps. Answers a version of the question that is near enough to Gaius' meaning, as if he has no clue about his own (apparent) future.]

Did Navi not provide an explanation of this ship? I had been led to believe such things were at least reasonably accessible to new arrivals.

[No, that's not the answer that he wanted. That's not the question he asked, and though that lingering touch of concern at Gaius' reaction is telling as to why...it touches something, raw and brittle, and he knows better than to let his emotions get the better of him, but-]

Your Navi conveniently failed to explain the fact that we would find the dead walking the ship, as well.

[But he's been finding that increasingly harder, these last months.]

[He doesn't mean to lose composure. Can't remember a time he's ever taken such a tone with the man before him, and the shame of it heats his face, washing across the fear and frustration that's plagued him since he woke on this damned ship. It would be better if this were a dream, he thinks, because at least then...]

[At least then, he wouldn't have to deal with the guilt. With the thread of shame, still eating at the forefront of his mind as he grits his teeth and lowers his head, to take whatever retribution was to follow the outburst. Because even now, it's easy enough to see that his emperor has little idea of what he's talking about, if any.]

[And Gaius can't decide if that's a blessing, or something else entirely.]

Please- [He pauses. Takes a breath, tries again, to keep his voice steady.] Forgive me, I... I don't yet fully understand everything that is going on.

[It's not, and Emet knows it. But neither can he say he feels much remorse. He did die, and though he had hardly been privy to the depths of Gaius' feelings in the wake of that death, he has had first-hand experience with Navi's ability to bring people in that might have otherwise been assumed dead.

(Experience that he cannot acknowledge, without risking what little foothold he has already managed. But experience nonetheless.)]

Perhaps it hadn't occurred to them that it might be necessary?

[After all, he has seen no sign that Navi has any direct control over who happens to find themselves onboard. Although at this rate, he's half expecting to see someone from Allag next, given how many figures from his long history have shown up thus far - they may only number two, but compared to the number of people onboard at all it's still a fairly significant proportion.

He lets his voice slide a little sharper, in answer. Not enough to betoken anger, at least, but enough to at least indicate that he is not unaffected by the conversation.

And he could lash out, in retribution. Take Gaius to heel for his tone, for losing composure. Perhaps even should, and he makes absolutely no attempt to hide the displeasure that crosses his face. That Gaius has done so is understandable. But though it is a role that he has not donned in some time, he knows that Solus would have, and the words to do so are already on his lips when Gaius begs his forgiveness, and he transmutes the words instead to an airy wave.]

Granted.

[That, at least, he can manage and if nothing else, perhaps Gaius will take it as a boon. Or as him not wanting to dwell too much on the implications that Gaius has seen him die. (Which is not entirely inaccurate. Say rather that he would prefer to not dwell on the moments that had preceded his mortal demise.)]

Although I can hardly claim to have all the details myself. Enough to know why we are said to be here, yes. But not the full details of the methods by which we are plucked from our worlds.

[The man's words, his mannerisms. That familiar, imperial tone. It's hard for that lingering doubt to keep its foothold, when everything about the man before him is Solus zos Galvus, in every way Gaius remembers him to be.]

[Which means that forgiveness is most certainly a boon, after the sudden sharpness that had overtaken the other man's tone. But it's a sharpness that Gaius accepts nonetheless, without complaint or further argument; he'd do the same himself, after all, had done the same, when his own men seemingly crossed the line with him. So when he sees that almost flippant wave of Solus' hand out in his peripheral...]

[He doesn't quite relax, no. The situation is still difficult to digest, still feels too much. But there's gratitude in his eyes when he finally lifts his head, beneath his guarded expression.]

You sound as though you still have far more details than I do.

[It still feels like a dream. Is still disconcerting to look up to that face, and the feeling is only made worse when he's standing there as he is, far from the image of the respected legatus he'd once been. And that Solus doesn't appear interested in questioning that - in questioning the news of his own death, for reasons Gaius can understandably guess - leaves him...surprisingly more grateful, and gives him the scant moments needed to collect himself (to try to collect himself) before he speaks again, with only slight hesitation.]

I must admit, I have to wonder how much truth there is, now, to our arrival being accidental. It seems difficult to believe they would have abducted an emperor without meaning to.

[Although that begs the question... There's a pause, as Gaius considers his next words, the cautious frown on his face taking a turn into something...unreadable.]

...has anyone else arrived? Of our people?

[Something weird is afoot, and Mammon loves it.

The thing about being a demon is once a temptation becomes apparent, resistance isn't even an option. He embraces the new urges without question, grabbing as many different-colored markers as he can find and sifting through them methodically until he finds the perfect pen with metallic gold ink. Beautiful. He'll take this one, thank you very much, and he's going to take full advantage of it.

Uncapping it, he dashes eagerly through the halls and the staircases until he reaches his destination, grinning and crouching by the doorway to the kitchen. It seems like a perfect place to hang out -- after all, everyone (except possibly Murmur) had to eat, right?]

[Murmur does not like this.

He can feel the compulsion, he recognizes it for what it is. An alien inclination, something external that is decidedly not his own will. Which is perhaps one of the few things that could actually shake the icy angel, discovering his will being subverted.

As such, he's been spending far too long scowling at one of those offending markers as though it was personally responsible for this. That was until he sensed Mammon's approach. Sure, Murmur doesn't eat, but he does drink tea by the gallons and he was trying to use it to keep his compulsion under control.

But now there's a target. Without thinking he reaches for the marker, eyes locked on the doorway he knows Mammon will appear through.]

[Come on Murmur, what's not to like? This is just about as much fun as you can have in an enclosed space with people you don't know very well! As you will soon discover by attacking your foolish brethren.

As he waits in his chosen hiding place, it doesn't immediately dawn on Mammon that he's the target. Nor does it occur to him why Murmur might have any issue with these circumstances, so once he nears the kitchen he peers around the doorway, gold marker held aloft.]

Haha! So you're in here, huh? [Mammon springs up, holding his marker aloft while leaving himself vulnerable to attack.]

--Hey! What're ya doin'?!

[Mostly? The compulsion part. If he had the option Murmur might have played along anyway, and certainly with more grace. But with his mind not entirely his own he was resisting as hard as he could and furious about it.

Oh, Mammon, you have no idea what you just walked into. There won't even be any guilt playing dirty with him!]

Who, me? Why, that accusatory tone is wholly unnecessary!

[Which is to say Murmur's playing dumb for about 0.5 seconds before launching himself over the counter between them to jab at Mammon with his own green marker. He left himself open, had to take the opportunity!]

[Come on, Murmur, it's just a compulsion. They came over demons all the time, why question it? It's much more fun to just surrender, and what's the harm in marker tag?]

It is so necessary! You --

[Mammon yelps and immediately skitters out of the way, rounding the corner behind Murmur instinctively and wincing as he realizes he's backed himself into a corner. He chuckles nervously.]

Hey, ya wanna put that thing down for a second?

[Because he's an angel and compulsions are not great when they're involved? This is not fun, it's horrible. He hates it. It's not the tag it's the lack of choice in the matter!]

[Heh heh heh, bad move Mammon. Murmur positions himself to block the only exit, ready to strike with his green marker. He'd use his wings but... still keeping that secret for now.]

No, I don't think I do.

[Now with Mammon less able to get away he strikes out again to try to green up Mammon's arm. ]

[True, angelic compulsions tend to be terrible. "Kill someone who broke a rule." "Destroy this civilization because its leader is a heretic." All the more reason that a harmless game of marker tag should be enjoyed! ...Preferably in some manner that allows Mammon to win!]

Hey, take it easy!

[Not that he expects Murmur to listen. Even as he says it he switches to demon form. Neither that nor his attempt to dodge stops the marker from sliding up his jacket sleeve, but it means the ink is much less visible on black rather than camel-colored leather.]

[If a city needs to be turned to salt to make an example of the population or all the first born sons executed, well... it's an angel who does the job. So no! He won't enjoy it! Because there are bigger and more worrying implications Mammon!

That and angels can get a little... overzealous when they're experiencing compulsions.]

[Success! Small success, hardly satisfying, he's going to have to try again. That demon form shift is cheating, but Murmur doesn't yet bring out his wings. He doesn't care if Mammon shows himself, Murmur will remain reserved.]

Fair play? I sincerely doubt you would offer the same to me.

[Another swipe, he's trying to get his hand, somewhere a little more visible.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

event } that was easy

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html is too hard on this phone so have some prose

prose partyyy

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her soul is a dumbass srry gaius

HEM NO

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