TDM #1

[rhodosmods]

TDM #1: AUGUST

Jump to: Arrival · Sound and Light · Into the Fog · Waking Up to a Nightmare · The Bonfire
Summary · Questions

I. ARRIVAL

Upon arrival, characters awaken in one of the main plazas of the town, lying on the paving stones around a central fountain. It is a bright sunny day and very hot, so you'll quickly want to find some shade. A light breeze brings the scent of the sea, but there are no cries of sea birds to be heard.

The buildings of the plaza are all medieval stone construction, but they all have modern awnings and glass fronts. Tables out front display tourist wares: little plastic statuettes, postcards, t-shirts. Among these, it's easy to identify Greek lettering, Greek gods, photos of Athens and Crete. Predominant among the souvenirs are items marked with the name Rhodos.

But there are no vendors selling their wares. Even if characters wander into the shops, they are all empty as if their owners just stepped away for a moment. Lights are on, and some of the larger and nicer shops even have the whirr of air conditioning. Food stands waft the aroma of freshly grilled kebabs, and a gelato cart is cold to the touch and the ice cream inside is frosty and delicious.

The plaza where you arrive is set on a slope, and the direction of the sea breeze and the faint sound of waves against a shore indicates pretty strongly that down-slope is the direction of the sea. But looking down the slope from the main plaza, you can see an open archway in a tall stone wall, and beyond it is nothing but mist. Despite the clear sunny day in the plaza, the mist is a dense fog with barely three feet of visibility. If you enter it, you can see your own arms in front of you, but nothing beyond that. The breeze has gone still and the waves no longer sound so much like waves--the sound is warped through the mist so that it almost sounds like sobbing. After about five minutes of determined walking across what feels like flat ground with no other landmarks, you find yourself back at the archway.

Housing can easily be scavenged. Doors are unlocked and the interiors are clean and welcoming, beds freshly made, as if it is a hotel that's been prepared for you rather than anyone's personal residence. And yet, once you've settled upon a place to live, you start to find little signs that you have lived here all along. The photographs on the wall (which weren't there when you first arrived) depict you and your family and friends, even if you came from a world without photography. Upon arrival, you have only the clothing you are wearing, but within a day the closet begins to fill with familiar outfits from home, and within the first week you may find up to five of your own possessions around your new residence.

Note: Wardrobe is limited to what you can reasonably fit inside a non-walk-in apartment closet, what your character would reasonably wear and possess in canon, or what can be scavenged around town. There are two very small clothing boutiques where you can find most basics and a few cute outfits. For starting possessions two may be weapons or magical items, but you may have an additional three mundane items. All other personal items can only be obtained through regains or events.

II. SOUND AND LIGHT

The first few days in your new home are relatively uneventful. The days are hot and sunny and the nights are warm beneath a dazzling starry sky.

After not quite a week, the noises of a spectacle will lead characters to a small gate in one of the outer walls with steps leading down into the outer moat. The fog surrounding the city walls has drawn back for just this one little area, revealing an open air theater butting up against the castle wall. A path leads away from the theater on either side, but if you walk into the mist on either side you will promptly find yourself walking out of the mist on the opposite side, as if you'd circumnavigated the entire moat in just a few steps. Behind the theater is another high stone wall. Centuries of weathering has added rough footholds and handholds, but it would be a dangerous climb without equipment. Trees grow from the top of the wall, sticking limbs out of the wall of mist and clawing roots into the stones at the top, loosening them so that they're ready to slip at a touch.

The play that is projected onto the wall features shadow puppets, colored lights, and canned soundtrack special effects like the clop of horses hooves or the burst of trumpets. There is no dialogue or narration, so the story can only be roughly pieced together: there is a king and a queen, then a betrayal that leads to the king's murder. Later, the king and the queen appear again, participating in a ritual which seems to involve human sacrifice, a war and a triumphal procession, and then another betrayal and the king is murdered again.

The story repeats three times every night before shutting itself off. The first performance starts at twilight, and each repetition lasts about twenty minutes. Characters who watch it repeatedly will get the sense that it's slightly different each time, but the whole thing is complicated and confusing without any narration or dialogue to provide context, so characters will struggle to pin down how it's different. A slide projector is set up at the top of the amphitheater, with a pair of old speakers on either side of it. If slides are removed from the projector, they show only blank, uncolored plastic. If something is placed in front of the projector light, the scene is projected onto that object. The projector can be turned off, unplugged, or smashed. No matter what is done to it, as soon as no one is actively watching it, it is restored to an undamaged status and resumes playing.

After watching an entire repetition of the performance, some characters may be overcome by a fit of weeping. Tears roll down your cheeks and you can't seem to catch your breath. Despair clutches at your heart, colored by your own personal sorrows, and the weeping can only be stopped by receiving an embrace.

Others may find that the performance inspires them to reminisce. No matter how secretive you might normally be, you find yourself turning to whoever is sitting near you and telling them a story from your past, something that makes you nostalgic or regretful.

III. INTO THE FOG

CONTENT WARNING: Cruelty and violence against (monster) dogs

After the characters have been in Rhodos for about three weeks, a heavy fog rolls into town. Unlike the mist that surrounds the city, the fog smells of smoke. Visibility is reduced to a mere ten or fifteen feet.

The electricity goes out, and shops are no longer replenished. Food may still be scavenged, but the food in shops and restaurants will slowly rot and may run out. Battery operated items will continue to work as long as the batteries still have a charge. Running water inside the houses continues to work, but it is sluggish and smells stale, leaving an unpleasant film on the skin.

While out on the streets of the town, characters will begin to encounter the monster dogs of Rhodos. The sound of a dragging chain precedes them, and then the hazy outline of a dog comes into view. It's walking oddly, however, with a sort of staggering limp, and the sound of the chain is underlaid by a low, feral growl. Furless gray skin peels away in patches to reveal bloody muscle. The heavy iron collar around the neck is studded with long black screws, the ends of which pierce the skin of the neck. Hazy eyes are clouded with decomposition, and yet that doesn't seem to prevent the dog from making its way straight toward you.

The dogs are not very fast, nor very smart. They can be outpaced at a brisk walk, and they will lose track of any character who gets more than twenty feet away or behind a closed door. But they are vicious. If you get within a few feet, they will lunge at you and attempt to bite. If two or three of them manage to corner you in a blind alley, you could be in real trouble.

In addition to the dogs, characters will begin to catch glimpses of Manifestations, both their own or those of others. At first you might just catch a glimpse of them through a break in the fog, but after a day or two they can be spotted standing outside of apartment windows and staring in. In either case, they will not approach or attack characters unless you're foolish enough to get within six feet of them. Then, they will attack, and they will pursue at a fast walk until they lose track of you in the fog.

IV. WAKING UP TO A NIGHTMARE

CONTENT WARNING: Blood imagery

On the 28th, characters are awakened by the sound of their front doors being smashed in. It's your own smashing door that awakens you, but you can hear more distant sounds of destruction from the other apartments nearby.

As you scramble out of your bed, you find that the homey, quilted bedding has been soaked through with blood, and it's sagging in the middle with the outline of a human body. But before you have a chance to properly react to that horror, your Manifestation is coming through your bedroom door — more than one of them, if you were sharing that bed with anyone.

You will have to fight or dodge in order to get out of the room. Your Manifestation is out for your blood. You can do damage to it, creating deep wounds and heavy bruises, causing it to stagger and slow for a moment, but no matter how much damage you do it keeps coming for you. Sooner or later, you will need to run.

When you make it out into the streets, you'll find that the entire world has changed. Heavy darkness fills the city, and no stars are visible in the sky. A few lights glow despite the lack of electricity, but they only provide a sickly, red-tinted light. Streets are slick with something that looks like blood, and the stone walls in many places have been transformed into metal or grate. Through the grate, you can catch glimpses of black metal hooks and gory, dripping meat that looks human in origin.

There is no palatable food or water. Anything you have saved has rotted or changed unnaturally into what looks like rotting flesh or lumps of bile. Liquid has turned into blood or black water. The only mercy is that symptoms of hunger, thirst and fatigue stabilize after 24 hours and don't get any worse. Don't worry, it won't be the dehydration that kills you here.

Your Manifestation pursues you tirelessly, and the monster dogs are faster, smarter, and moving in packs. Your home is no longer safe, and staying on the streets is deadly.

V. THE BONFIRE

CONTENT WARNING: Body horror, immolation

Sooner or later, you find your way to the bonfire in the middle of the fountain square. There is no longer water in the fountain. Instead, the whole thing towers with flame, fueled by a viscous black substance in the basin.

A tall man stands by the fountain, gazing into the flames as if he is supervising. His suit is true black, fathomless black, while his skin is a dark red-black like the newly formed crust upon a lava flow. His eyes are black pools reflecting the flames. He takes no interest in any approaching characters, and will not respond to any questions. The only thing that will draw his attention to you is an attempted attack. If you try it, your blow lands, but he doesn't seem to take any damage. His head turns toward you and he considers you for a moment, as if he finds it intriguing that you would attempt such a thing. Then he returns his attention to the fire.

The dogs and the Manifestations will not pursue you into the circle of light cast by the bonfire. You can find a sort of respite here.

Time passes. It feels like days, though there is no way to mark the passage of time. The Dark Figure continues to supervise the bonfire.

At last, your attention is drawn to a sort of commotion approaching down one of the main streets that feeds into the plaza. You hear a rattling of metal, and a sort of gibbering moan. The bonfire illuminates first upon a pale, faceless figure which seems to writhe as it approaches, hovering above the paving stones. As it grows closer, you see that the figure is lashed to a square metal frame and bound with strips of barbed wire. Veiled figures on either side bear it forward, and the Dark Figure turns to watch it approach.

The figure upon the frame has no face and no mouth with which to make its agonized moans, but it continues nonetheless. It has limbs but no hands or feet, each limb ending in smooth stumps.

If no one interferes, the Handmaidens carry the frame forward and place it upon the fire.

The Handmaidens can be attacked, and hurt. They cry out indignantly at any attack, and recoil. They will not fight back, but they also will not be discouraged from their task by anything less than persistent violence.

If the pale figure on the frame is rescued by the player characters, it flails and gibbers helplessly, continuing to moan. If the pale figure is consigned to the flames, it begins to scream, and continues screaming for several minutes until the flame finally overcomes it.

In either situation, you begin to cough. Blood spills from your mouth, dribbling down your chin and spattering upon your clothing. But then the droplets begin to slither into letters, forming words that spell out your deepest guilt, in the words you yourself would use to describe it. No attempt to wipe the words away or cover them will prevent their legibility. The blood shines through whatever covers it, catching the firelight so that those around you can clearly read the words.

The Dark Figure and his Handmaidens made their exit while you were coughing. You are left alone with the other Tourists around you, your guilt, and whatever remains of the pale figure upon the frame.

SUMMARY

Arrival: August 1
Sound and Light: August 5-20
Into the Fog: August 21-27
Waking Up to a Nightmare: August 28-30
The Bonfire: August 31

Welcome to Rhodos! Going forward, events will take place in two parts. The Normal World part of the event posted on the 5th of each month, and it will be a lighter event both in terms of length and thematic content. TDMs will be bi-monthly and will feature an event element or elements for the Normal World which in-game characters may also play with on their own log posts. The sections on Fog and Nightmare worlds for the TDM will generally be the same every month, allowing players to test drive those elements if they'd like, but not including spoilers for the second part of that month's event. The second part of the event will be posted on the 20th of each month, covering events occurring through both the Fog and Nightmare cycles.

Test drive memes are considered game canon.

This won't always be the case, but for the nerds among you who are enjoying this sometimes-accurate tour of Rhodes, all location images in this TDM and housing are accurate to Rhodes.

Lastly, we are in need of mods! We're most in need of help for processing apps and activity. If we aren't able to get some additional mods, we will have to place a cap on applications, and we're hoping we won't have to do that. If you're interested, please send us a message over on the mod contact page. We've gotten the mod volunteers we needed so we should be all clear to proceed without an applications cap. Thank you to everyone who showed interest!

FULL NAVIGATION · SCROLL TO TOP

Comments

sound and light

[seaboard]

[ The tears seem almost like a sickness that spreads from one person to another.

The prickle of it sharp in her eyes, and it is practised, practised from childhood about even when it got the better of you, to say and do nothing to acknowledge it, her jaw shut and her eyes up, to act like just because she feels, nothing comes of it at all. Even when her shoulders shook, and she wanted to rock and soothe herself.

Her mother had never been kind about displaying this.

The show is not strange in so much to see puppets. This was the show often done for children in her own lands. It was every so often that the Mummer's would come to play from them, but only in the spring weeks when the trader hailed them. Winter in the Keep would have many of these displays put on, though usually, it would have someone to speak over it and tell the story. But this would happen too.

It is a fearsome story, one that feels familiar yet distant, playing over and over again, with the odd music, and the bloodless death of the shadow shapes. It does not surprise her that she weeps, truly, tracking down her cheeks, silently. The cut of the knife still felt raw, even all these years later. The ache in her throat. Never to heal. Proof always that the world was not kind. But hidden away where no one could see it, behind her wimple and veil.

It's only after it ends the third time that the spell of it breaks across her senses and she can break to look around her - and see that others weep as she does, though the man beside her seems so overwhelmed.

She does not know him, so she does not fully embrace him, but her fingers lift as if she means to do so - hovering above his hand as it catches her. No one ever held her when she wanted to weep, anymore. It seemed so awful, to leave someone else to the same fate.

So she settles between the two, moving to lay the gentlest brush of her fingers against the outside of his hand. An offer, and no more, easily rejected. ]

There now, what strange stories they play for us. It is not a good tale at all. Would you like to hear another instead?

[pejorative]

[ it's almost predictable that in his haste to get out of here as quickly as possible that he'd nearly run bodily into someone else, but what surprises him is how he managed not to notice until it's too late to course-correct. his eyes, now properly streaming with tears he can't stop or control or hide, widen minutely in surprise, only to narrow with stubborn hostility a moment later. she, just like he, looks to be suffering the same problem, but it doesn't dawn on him to question whether these crying fits are some sort of epidemic.

all he sees is weakness, which is doubly damning when he knows he isn't any better, right now, himself. that might even make it triply. quadruply. quint—whatever, you get the picture.

his hand snatches back as she reaches for it, too reflexively to be strictly intentional, but the heat of his unfriendly expression and the hiss of his words is entirely tempered by how strained and piteous his voice sounds when he speaks: ]

I don't give a damn about stories—

[ he cuts himself off suddenly, humiliated by the sound of his own voice, so whatever acerbic thing he might've said next (thankfully) doesn't end up ever making it out of his mouth. what does, actually, is another broken sob, one so wracking it almost doubles him over. detestable, but he can't control it. Albel backs away a step. ]

What is this?

[seaboard]

[ He snaps, and she feels it wash over her. Shutting her eyes against his pain where it broils and rages, and she wants to weep more. Just the same, this horrible miasma spreading among everyone. She shuts her eyes, lowering her hands back against her apron.

Must contain it, even if she cannot, really. Her tears tracking hot and prickling and she knows its fear, below it, of this expression. ]

Whatever has the rule of this place, I suspect it has done this to us all. For what reason I cannot fathom... [ Of all things, this outpouring. To make such a scene out of them all. ] ... But I do not think we are allowed to stop.

[pejorative]

[ there are a host of nasty, unkind things Albel thinks to say: to her, to everyone else, about whoever is doing this, about the situation, about himself, even. he forces his spine to straighten and his head to turn away long enough to glimpse what's happening to more than just the two of them, brings his flesh hand up to his face to aggravatedly wipe the tears away. ]

Most pathetic display I've ever seen...

[ of all the things he could've said, that's not really so bad, considering. it's more of a stage aside, a strained growl under his breath. and considering how furiously he seems to be trying to pressure himself to control himself, it's not unlikely that was self-criticism more than anything. either way, it's difficult to stay angry when all of that overwhelming grief he's been carrying around for nearly a decade seems absolutely determined to bubble up past the stopper he keeps over it. hostility and irritation have been his default defense mechanisms for so long, against this and against letting others near, that being suddenly and wholly stripped of the option is... confusing.

he should be shoving her aside with a brusque get out of my way, fool, fleeing this situation. but he's oddly rooted to the spot, at seeing someone else cry and realizing how odd it is that no one ever grieved with him, either. when everything happened. because he wouldn't let them, or was it because no one really cared? ]

...Then we're helpless. What are we supposed to do? Give up? Die?

[seaboard]

[ What a lonely soul. What a lonely, hopeless thing to say. To look at everyone weeping so, and only feel pathetic. To no doubt, feel that he himself was pathetic. ]

They are tears, they are part of us. There is no reason to give up and pass from this world just because we feel pain.

[ She eyes him, his lost, helplessly prone form. The tsk on her tongue did no one ever hold you? But clearly, clearly he has not learned these lessons. Somewhere between violence and fear. Her brows pinch. ]

Come, come here. I will not hurt you. I do not have the strength for that.

[ her hand lifts in offering. He will take it or he won't, she will force nothing. But the offer is open. ]

[pejorative]

[ it's not unusual, for Albel, that he'd jump to such an extreme seemingly without due cause. not many people would make the connection between uncontrollable tears and guess i'll die, or understand right away why anyone would. in truth, it's less the tears themselves and more the idea that it isn't something he can control on his own. when faced with barriers he's unable to surmount through sheer force of will, reckless destruction, or both, his solution is typically to just avoid it. such is the case with other people, damnably uncontrollable things. if he can't fight them or force them to submit to his will, then the answer is to steer clear.

it's an odd predicament to be in now. there's nothing to fight, he can't make anyone stop (least of all himself), and running away... he doesn't even know what he'd be running from. it'd only make him look more cowardly, and he can't abide that, either. and yet—he balks uncertainly as she reaches out again, his lips pulling back in a silent hiss. try as he may to rearrange his expression into something hostile, to make his voice sound cutting and stern, he only looks and sounds... sad. a little bit helpless. ]

Of course you don't. Nobody in this forsaken place does.

[ that's such a lie, but if he doesn't at least maintain the illusion that he's unbeatable in a fight, what does he even have? his dour expression crumbles in spite of his will, overcome by the same pain he always pretends not to be struck by when he refuses an offered helping hand.

he can't bring himself to reach out in kind, but tentatively and reluctantly, he sidles a little closer and turns himself somewhat away to allow her to reach his right shoulder. he's looking away like a frightened dog, even if he refuses to let that fear really show. ]

...But whoever who it is that's capable of doing this is someone who needs to be dealt with.

[seaboard]

[ As it happens, she'd been raised around more than enough animals, to find it all familiar. Or perhaps little brothers and sisters who were always too young pretending they were too old. It often presented the same. The recoil, lack of contact and yet offering in want of it, whilst pretending that they didn't care one way or another. When Farfalee was younger, it often ran the same risk of getting bitten as one of the livestock dogs.

So she offers the same in a way. She makes no comment, knowing it would not be wanted. It was always easier if they could pretend it wasn't happening, even when they wanted it so much. Her arm looped around his shoulder and guided him against her side. Tucking him against the side of her neck where - she is warm from the sunshine of the day, and the sturdy linen of her dress is soft. There are no sharp lines, no threats, just comfort from someone not so worried and concerned. There she carefully ran her fingers against the back of his head in a soothing gesture.

He was not alone. There were things that could happen from tears that did not end in catastrophe. ]

Perhaps. If it comes to that. We cannot know their will. What their plan is. Why they have brought us here. I am sure it will show itself in time. But best to see to this, now.

[ To her mind, it is the workings of the Spirit, quite plainly. Everything pointed to it. The lack of consistency, presenting something that seemed like humanity might understand and yet missing details that should make it truly so. Revealing and hiding parts of the world. It struck her as one of her dreams, sent from the Sea-Father. It revealed much, caused stronger feelings, yet never made much sense if to be explained.

To it, she is simply patient. Just as she is with him now.

And if that is lonely, hurting, to her too, it is as much for her benefit as his, to hold someone, anyone at all. She had children, a husband, people all around her all her life, this emptiness gave her no comfort. Made her want, just as much, even a shred of connection. ]

[pejorative]

[ it makes his skin crawl, that contact. all of it. he resists, at first, his upper lip curling and the fist of his gauntlet clenching so that the tapered claws shriek softly with rubbing metal. he resists until he can't anymore, even though he's physically sickened by the gesture, instantly furious, wanting nothing more than to do what he always does and push her away, lash out, make himself intimidating, use violence to get his point across if that's what he has to do. the fact that she's as gentle and harmless, at the moment, as she is only incenses him more—or it would, if he could really feel anything other than the pain.

his tall frame bends to let his head come to rest on her shoulder, and all the gritted teeth in the world can't bite back the sob he lets out as he does. there's little else he can think of that could be worse than this, weak and pitiful and crying like a useless little child on the shoulder of a stranger. and such shameful crying, too, ugly and raucous in a way he never was even after his father died. during all the most horrible moments in his life, he's been silent. now it feels like he's making up for it all at once.

his left hand finds her opposite arm, and in spite of the concerning claws, the unforgiving metal that hand is made of, it's an altogether gentle gesture. it's the only one he'll allow, and only for a moment or two. just as soon as the tears and the agony start to let up, and he feels so sick with discomfort, he can't take it anymore and jerks back, hissing. it only lasts a minute, maybe, but that in itself is monumentally huge, for him. ]

Ngh—I don't need to be comforted like some sniveling child! Why wait for them to show their hand first? I'll hunt them down, whoever it is, however many of them there are, and I'll make them pay. It's as simple as that.

[ funny how he still sounds so fragile when he says it, one arm wrapped around himself protectively, and yet he seems just a little less ruined than he was a moment ago. ]

[seaboard]

[ She says nothing about it, as he leans against her, gently moving her fingers back and forth with a quiet him to help fill that emptiness that grief left behind. Her eyes lowered as she watched carefully. His pain. His agony. If only she could take it, but that was always the if, if she could carry it all, perhaps things would be better.

But she can't.

She can only hope to guide against something less immediately destructive. She does not raise her voice or grow angry, what good would that do? Even if he is set to scorn her. No, her hand settles against the outside of his arm, if only to get him to look at her. ]

Because, warrior, what would you strike at? The mist? Perhaps the stone walls? Or a puppet upon a stage, shown in shadow and light? Would you fight flames? You have no plan. [ Soft, soft, soft, and yet, she feels her mother's guidance in the directness of it. ] None of us do. We cannot, we have no knowledge of this place. I have no doubt of your courage and your strength. But there is nothing, yet, to fight. We have no understanding of what it is they desire from us. You will only hurt yourself, wear yourself out, and leave us broken so that if there is an enemy, we are twice as defenceless against it.

[pejorative]

[ is he trembling? oh, absolutely, he is. the tears aren't gone, although they're a little less, but that might just be the force of his indignation, the forced show of aggression he puts on to protect himself from the way this whole situation feels. the more weak he feels, vulnerable, childish, almost certainly completely transparent, the more driven he is to fight back.

and she's right, of course, which naturally only makes it worse. she's right and so, so calm and patient about it. he'd never really known his mother, or the kindly influence of a gentle, mothering figure the way she is, so he has nothing, mentally, to relate it to. he doesn't have a plan and he doesn't know what to do except lash out at nothing. he shows all his teeth like a wild cat, but he doesn't strike with the claws he obviously has. he doesn't even pull himself away from her placating touch. ]

Standing around like this is as good as waiting to die. I won't be made a fool of like this!

[ it's a little late for that hunty. and he's only making it worse, tantruming like he is. but at least there isn't any violence. from him or anyone else. yet. ]

[seaboard]

[ He was at least listening, some, now. Not shoving her away. That was good. A start. A start to guiding him at least somewhere less potentially damaging to himself - and all of them around him, no doubt. She keeps her hand there, there are no claws, no tight grip, just a steady pressure as he rages and rebels. Meets it, steady and without pause in return. Let him spit and snarl and give no reaction.

Until she is sure he won't move, and she steps more squarely and moves to cup his jaw to look at her, directly. She is not so much older than him, all told. But the pinch there of her own wounds, tight in the corner of her lips, beginning to wear in the corner of her eyes. Queen and Mother. A helplessly lost girl that was given too much, too young, and the woman that now knew her own power in its pain and triumph. ]

So do not be. Breathe. Breathe and know this pain. It is yours. Yours alone. [ She does not let him break away from her, seeking his gaze to press the words deeply. ] If this is all as you fear, then you must know it. The Great Warriors know their pain better than their own skin.

[pejorative]

You think I don't?!

[ well, how could she assume otherwise? she doesn't know him. these people from other worlds, they don't give a damn about his past, about his reputation. they don't know Airyglyph, the war, his father. they don't know Albel the Wicked, or Albel at all. the image he'd crafted for himself, fierce and undeterrable in the face of all he'd supposedly been through, not an ounce of humility or humanity to him, just an unstoppable force of nature with a sword in his hand—none of that means anything out there in the great, inky universe, or on any of the many rocks floating around in it that they happen to land on. that's been a startling realization for him in the recent weeks, and in that way, this new place isn't any different. he should stop being surprised that he's ineffectual, and that no one knows. or knows that he knows.

because he does. he knows pain more than anything else. but to show it, to face it... the vulnerability in his eyes when he meets hers, her image wavering and blurring through tears that well up and spill down, isn't what he'd ever call strength. not in a million years. but he hears her, and he listens without jerking his head, without fighting back. his gaze darts around, uncomfortable, incapable of maintaining eye contact. but he stays still, pulling in a strained but deep breath through his nose. ]

...Fine. You wanted to bend my ear with some other story. What was it?

[ a distraction tactic, that's all this is. ]

[seaboard]

Then give yourself the grace to let it heal. No one expects a broken limb to be well in a moment. Why should the wounds of your soul be any less so?

[ She sighed, exhausted almost by it. Perhaps the hypocrisy of a kind, that she knows she carries her own crimes, her own pain, and she shall never heal it. But it would not take away the important lessons of her own community she was taught to give to her people, and all that came to them for shelter.

She may have failed, but that did not mean she would allow others to suffer.

Even if it would be easier to wash her hands of it all.

Her hands dropped, eyes lowering with it, to release him from that pinning demand. She inhaled, slowly, careful of his pride. His first weapon it seemed, a brittle edge he seemed most concerned for. Instead she took his hand. Delicate, warm, curling around the outside of his.

One did not have to wield a blade to be commanding, time had taught her. Just one touch could communicate everything that need be said.]

Come. We will sit first.

[ And with that touch, she leads him to seats up the back of the amphitheatre, away from the eyes of others, where the lights were dimmer and he could have privacy to what he felt was so unforgivable in himself.

She picks a bench for them and sweeps her skirts below her to sit. The stiff woolen apron over her legs smoothed out with a practical touch. Then she beckons him to join her. Her arms open for him to sit beside her. A simple encouragement for him to do as he had before and curl against her side. It's over reaching, certainly, expecting perhaps too much, but she rather felt they were beyond that, at present.

There she waits with the offer, whatever he picks, whatever he chooses, it is offered freely. Comfort in however he chose to take it. Offered without judgement and comment.]

[pejorative]

[ grace, patience, inner strength—he doesn't have any of those things, or any concept of how to manage. she might finally have her breakthrough, at least in the sense that Albel seems to listen and seems to understand and seems to comply, but this is far from the healing moment it should be. that poisoned well runs deep, has become so toxic to himself and others that it's hard to say if there's any antidote for it anymore. but he does, at least, recognize one truth here: he isn't going to conquer this by crashing through it with brute force. that much resonates with somewhat similar experiences in his life. waking up screaming from nightmares, flailing at nothing in his bed, wasn't something he could deal with by getting angry, either.

there's nobody to attack. there's nothing to blame. except himself, of course.

in this case, well... who's to say, yet. he knows for certain that nothing about that damned play was so moving that he'd be brought to uncontrollable tears, but there's nothing for it now. he needs time to center himself, and being as there's nowhere to flee where he can do that comfortably alone, this is all he's got.

Albel follows her to the bench, silently relieved by the privacy. his immediate inclination would be to remain standing, hovering some feet away and chiming in from afar, but that's another luxury he doesn't get to have today. with the same sort of reluctance as before, he takes a seat next to her. by now the reaching hands are starting to become a constant of hers enough that he doesn't give her the sort of look he probably would otherwise, but he's no more comfortable with it now than he has been all along. in the end, while he doesn't immediately lean into her arms, he sits close enough to touch. like a common housecat, stopping just shy of hands that want to pet it but making itself available if you go out of your way. deigning to be attended to. ]

Better make it a good one. There's stiff competition.

[ har har. ]

[seaboard]

[ With patience, she waits, lets him decide what contact he wants, if at all, and when he settles, she lays her hands in her lap and casts her eyes on those shadow puppets once more. They would put on plays like this in the court, in the winter. For the children. She heard many tales -

- But this one was her children's favourite, pulling at the corner of her lips a moment as she began it. ]

In a Land that was like this one, but that the sun rose from the North and set in the South, there was a wicked Warlock, who was Oath-Breaker, called Koshchei. Koshchei had hidden his death. First in an egg, then hid that egg inside of a duck, and that duck was hidden inside a hare, and that hare was inside a casket, and that casket laid below a great oak tree, and that oak tree upon the tallest hill.

He had hidden his death, all that was left was his heart full of envy, and he went to find himself a woman in order to fill it. He found a Princess, Princess Marya, who was slayer of armies, strong in stride, and betrothed. Betrothed to Prince Ivan and their hearts belonged to one another, fully. Seeing their love, Koshchei hungered for it himself and took her. Such was the villainy of Koshchei.

[ There is a tone to it, of one familiar of telling stories, intonation and carrying her voice around the words to build a sense of the narrative and characters. The whisper around the name of Koshchei with his wicked desires, the softness and love of Marya and Ivan. The strength in turn of Marya herself. ]