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☆ TDM: SEPTEMBER
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aefenglom's test drive! All threads can be considered game canon, should you choose to do so; regardless of if you pick specific threads to remain canon to the game, the prompts and test drive itself will be. This is part of our September-October event The Price of Revolution, so it's fairly important to note! Aside from that, here are some quick reminders:• The Application Queue is open. Apps can be submitted at any time but will only be processed as space opens up and game plot allows. The application page can be found here.With that taken care of...
• If you have any questions about the game or the world, please refer to the FAQ page; if you still have questions, feel free to ask them! For questions specific to the test drive, please ask them on the appropriate thread.
• For the purposes of the test drive, your character will have access to all magics taught by the Coven if they're a Witch, and as much of their shifted form as you'd like if they're a Monster. Feel free to play around and experiment with each!
• Test drive threads can be used as samples for your applications!
• And finally, since this is part of our event, characters already in-game ARE allowed to top-level on this post.
Mirrorbound who come to the Coven after dark on the 27th, who have volunteered to assist in waking the sleeping citizens of Dorchacht, are ushered into a large room laid with pallets on the floor inside a huge chalk circle. With Nessie are a group of sleepy-eyed Witches in loose robes, their expressions calm and almost dreamy despite the seriousness of the situation. These are the Dreamers, an oft-secluded group of Witches who study Divination and dream magic almost exclusively. They show signs of suffering some of the dangers of dreamwalking - they space out often, or doze off and have to be woken by one of their fellows. Still, they seem to know what they’re doing as they prepare candles and fragrant incense. Magic pulses through the floor, tingling threads of it escaping to reach out harmlessly toward the Mirrorbound who filter in.
Miss Nessie is the one to explain the ritual in a solemn tone as she oversees the final preparations and the other gathered Witches. "You all seem to have an uncanny ability to dreamwalk that we do not fully understand. Normally such a thing is difficult, it is, but the Mirrorbound are capable without even trying." She takes a breath and lets it go, standing straighter, determined. "Hopefully we can trigger that ability tonight. Theoretically, magical energy can be harvested from the dream planes. While you sleep, and dream, we will perform a spell to allow you all to bring back that energy crystallized into a physical form, and that is what we will use to wake the citizens of Dorchacht. The more you can collect, the more people we can help."
Her determination gives way briefly to open worry, and she admits, "We don't know what form this shared dream will take, or what dangers it may hold. With the spell going, any injuries you sustain in the dream will also carry over to your physical body, so be careful, yes? You can still back out, of course, and none will hold it against you. For those who stay, healers will be on-site and monitoring your physical forms."
Those who stay will be given a piece of a very rare lavender mushroom used by the Dreamers called Faecap, which works quickly to induce sleep - and shared dreaming. As they drift off, the sounds of soft chanting fill the large room.
[Due to the untested nature of dreamwalking, IC volunteering isn't necessary to participate in the TDM - your character may simply find themselves in the shared dream when they go to sleep that night, similar to how TDM characters will just find themselves in it.]
You feel like you're floating. Around you, colors and sounds and smells swirl as if trapped in a whirlpool, vibrancy and hue ever shifting. The more you watch them, the less solid they are; they only become clear out of the corner of your eye. The area around you begins to feel more solid as well, until your feet are on the ground, and a sour wind brushes across your face and through your hair. It seems to claw at your consciousness like chilling, spindly fingers -
and you know one thing, and one thing alone: this is a dream, and an incredibly realistic one at that.
The Nightmarescape
This is Aefenglom, and yet it isn't, at the same time. A large Victorian-styled city of cobblestone streets and close-together buildings, cut through the center by the River Temese. Whether you recognize its specific features and structures or not, you know deep in your bones it isn't meant to look like this. It's subtle at first, but it becomes more and more obvious the longer you walk the cobblestone streets. Everything is... almost gray, desaturated in color. Buildings are crooked, tilting at improbable angles. Clocks are upside-down. Writing is backwards or unrecognizable. The night sky above bears a greenish hue to it, and the stars seem to swim in and out of different formations. The city is also hauntingly empty - except for your fellow dreamers. The space yawns like it wants to be filled with life; it craves, it's hungry for it.
and you know one thing, and one thing alone: this is a dream, and an incredibly realistic one at that.
The Nightmarescape
This is Aefenglom, and yet it isn't, at the same time. A large Victorian-styled city of cobblestone streets and close-together buildings, cut through the center by the River Temese. Whether you recognize its specific features and structures or not, you know deep in your bones it isn't meant to look like this. It's subtle at first, but it becomes more and more obvious the longer you walk the cobblestone streets. Everything is... almost gray, desaturated in color. Buildings are crooked, tilting at improbable angles. Clocks are upside-down. Writing is backwards or unrecognizable. The night sky above bears a greenish hue to it, and the stars seem to swim in and out of different formations. The city is also hauntingly empty - except for your fellow dreamers. The space yawns like it wants to be filled with life; it craves, it's hungry for it.
 A City Void of Life It does begin to fill, in time. The longer you're present in the dream, the more things shift and slide. You can feel it drawing from you, your memories, your thoughts and feelings, seeking out your fears and anxieties, your worries and your upsets. It slips right into your cracks and it digs out what it seeks. It turns the shadows of your mind into horrifying possibilities. Twisted features from your life overlay themselves on the empty city of Aefenglom - a single room, a building, a creature, a person. Not quite memories, they're all off in some way, adapting to the dream, warping. Don't get taken in by familiarity: whatever has drawn itself from your head is very, very dangerous. Shadows lurk where they shouldn't, once welcoming rooms close in on and threaten to suffocate you, a friendly creature's teeth and claws become pronounced and vicious, the darkened figure of a loved one watches you with blank eyes and malice in their smile. Whatever has appeared, it's a manifestation of your nightmares, and it wants to hurt you and the other dreamers around you. Maybe it's a dark what-if that has whispered in your ear at night, a bad end that you feared but never came to fruition, or maybe it's simply just the ugly representation of your greatest fear. Whatever it is, it's out for blood, and it's joined by fragments from the other dreamers. Hopefully you find a friend to help you out. If there was ever a time for a team-up. It's possible to leave the nightmarescape Aefenglom to try and escape these bad ends and what ifs. Time and space work strangely in this dream, and it's just a few steps to Dorchacht or the Wilde, or a quick tumble to the caverns Underground. Movement seems to be more about intent than direction. But it just gives a new backdrop for your nightmares, because they will follow, they will pursue you doggedly, melding into the scenery. |
 Face Your Fears Those who came here on purpose know what the mission is: to collect the crystallized magical energy present in this dreamscape to wake a city cursed to sleep forever. Let the others know, the ones who wound up here on accident, and maybe they can help you - each fragment of a nightmare contains this energy, even theirs, and can be collected and brought back by the dreamers who will wake at the Coven. The energy presents as black orbs, hard and clear like glass, no bigger than large marbles, with images of your terrors dancing deep within them. Coming by these orbs isn't exactly easy, however. To do so, you have to face manifestations of your worst fears. Defeat them - physically, emotionally, by standing up to them and staring them in the face, there are many ways to banish a nightmare - and they'll condense down into the dark glass pieces. With each defeat, the changes to the landscape sprung out of your head will disappear, and that part of Aefenglom (or Dorchacht, or the Underground, or the Wilde) will right itself, ease back into something normal, the oppressive air fading. The shadows will shorten and color will seep back into that patch of scenery. And hold tight to those crystals if you dare - other nightmares are drawn to them. These may not even belong to anyone in particular, but to the continent of Geardagas itself: grasping Shades of Monsters and Witches both, with white eyes and blackened skin, who wish to spread their infection; half-burned Dryads screaming for help; gleeful, malicious Fae playing terrible tricks, more twisted and insectoid than the Fae most know; a growing, creeping blackness that can only be the Cwyld itself. Even the land you walk on, or may walk on in the future, has many fears. It's a good thing some of you have new abilities at hand, and some of you have a few neat changes to help, or perhaps they aren't new at all. Regardless, use your abilities well and work together, it's time to face your fears. |
 Flitting Shadows Those who are attuned to their surroundings might notice something off - beyond everything else that is already quite off, that is. The sense of being watched, wherever you go, no matter where you turn, is strong and creeping, until it consumes your consciousness. Always just outside your peripheral vision is a presence, a shadow, lean and cloaked. No matter how quickly you run or how suddenly you turn to catch it, you can never quite get a glimpse of the figure's face, if it even has one. Trying too hard will make you dizzy, nauseous, as it evades and evades and evades. You might not be able to see a face, or much more than the vaguest hint of a shape, but it sees you. Don't let yourself be distracted from your mission, or from simple survival if you aren't the heroic type. If you linger trying to catch the specter at the edge of your vision, the nightmares will find you, readily and easily, vicious and ready to make you fight for your life. Ignore the sound of wings flapping in the distance, a whisper in an indistinct voice, words you can't hope to understand or even separate from the gnawing paranoia that roars in your ears. The presence never reveals itself, and never attacks you directly. You get the sense that it's trying to determine what, exactly, you're doing - and that maybe it's trying to sabotage your efforts to collect the hard glass marbles of energy from this plane. |
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Not that this whole experience was particularly pleasant either. But one way or another it had an end, not that Emet-Selch was entirely sure how to achieve that part of it. While he'd gone along with this plan of the Coven's to waken the magically sleeping residents of Dorchacht, it hadn't been out of any particular desire to help. Why would he care one way or another for their fate? Collecting nightmare energy or whatnot didn't interest him, but the experience of the spell itself was of some curiosity, at least. Sometimes, there were things to learn in places like this that couldn't be found elsewhere. And so he slept. Emet-Selch was quite good at it.
Lahabrea's frustration and instability (however understandable they were, in this case), draw a faint shrug. "They never explained that--"
But any further explanation (including who they were, the collection of witches who had cast this spell to put them under, the reason why they were there in the first place, everything) is cut short as Lahabrea's pet deigns to develop speech. With so many fine faces and mouths, it's no wonder really, that it would learn how to use them. Unwillingly, Emet-Selch's gaze snaps fully back to the monster; unconsciously, he takes a half-step back from it before noticing and stopping himself.
There is no ending this. The chorus of empty voices in his own head echo the sentiment and he flinches, disoriented over who or what was actually speaking, was actually there, but he's hardly about to explain his own problems. Roughly shaking his head, he looks at what is (almost) certainly before him: Lahabrea, and this creature walking with him, wretched and pale, evolving whether they observed it or not.
"I don't," it's a tone that tries for easy, or at least neutral, but carries an undercurrent of something more uneasy, "think ignoring it is going to fare well."
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As it is supposed to.
"Perhaps it will go away and bother someone else." No, it isn't, and he's aware of that.
It doesn't mean he has to acknowledge it until there's no other choice.
The ungainly thing shakes itself a little, as if it had gotten wet somehow, and straightens to its full height. It has definitely gotten considerably larger since first encountered, though now that they are actively paying attention those changes seem to have stopped. Still a thing of bone and dead vine, too many mouths and limbs and eyes, but behind them, where the white had left a path to mark Lahabrea's wandering trail, things are beginning to crumble. Only the things bleached similarly, leaving strange jagged broken edges and holes behind.
"You cannot fight fate. Three against all of eternity was doomed to fail." Such a unified sound of so many voices might even be pleasant in another circumstance, but this one.. "Do you think your failures are less a failure if you don't watch them?"
Lahabrea hasn't moved. He doesn't have his power, else he might simply teleport away, or set the place ablaze or any other option that tempted his fickle whims. But he's never been much good at simply giving up either, and as the malformed beast looms, what can be seen of his expression is fixed into a frown. It looks like irritation, but so much does with the Speaker.
It seems however that the nightmare beast has decided waiting has gone on long enough and looms, one of its primary maws gaping open for the seemingly immobile and inattentive Lahabrea ... who turns suddenly and plants one clenched, metal-knuckle fist directly into the spot right over those teeth, where a nose might otherwise be in other, less shapeless faces. It squeals in surprise and jerks back, the toxic spread of white suddenly increasing, and he wheels a second time, this time to grab for Emet-Selch by one sleeve or arm or anything else he can catch and drag his fellow Ascian with him down a side street. He's not one for running away. Ever.
.... Aaand he's running away.
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(It had been futile from the start; the Rejoinings had been but a distraction, an expression of grief for a time that had already been lost.)
While there might have been some glimmer of satisfaction at seeing the monstrosity fall back in pain, some portion of its face(s) smashed- Emet-Selch knew, intrinsically, that manifested problems like these weren't so easily solved nor dissuaded. And though he makes a startled sound at the grab to his arm, taking a second to ascertain that yes, this was Lahabrea pulling at him and not some heretofore unseen monster- he complies with this... strategic retreat.
Lahabrea might not be able to teleport, but Emet-Selch had not only been trapped in this city (nightmare or otherwise) for some time, he'd been 'fortunate' enough to be brought in as a witch, as though the world had grudgingly recognized him as a mage, and had spared him this one indignity. Poor as this magic was by comparison, it was something, and teleportation was among what he had learned. The Ascian's fingers dig into the arm of his compatriot as he forces a moment of concentration mid-stride. Casting about for a place far from here, at the edge of the city- as though nightmare-cities had edges.
(But was it truly possible to escape a beast like that? When their memories would always accompany them?)
And was it even true teleportation, or just the rules of the places shifting for them, permitting them access to some other place?- for what good it would do.
But the scenery has changed, a different portion of the city abruptly before them. But it's no less twisted, building facades melting as they pass, their reflections in any sort of glass delayed, or mismatched. Walls lie in the near distance- some stretching impossibly up into the heavens, while others lie in ruins, offering a promising glimpse of dark forest beyond them. The stone streets beneath them are uneven, but where individual rocks are missing, nothing lies underneath- not the ground that should've been there, but some star-filled, swirling nothingness, the road a fragile shell keeping them from falling into it.
(The laws of this world were breaking apart. They would have to be written anew. But they were only two. There was no god to be created here.)
And the sky. Though gray-tinged, a pattern of meteor strikes streaked across it. Incessant. Familiar. A distant barrage that could set an entire world to fire.
It probably didn't help that the pair of them could remember the same terrible days in explicit detail.
"It wasn't wrong," is, for some reason, the first thing Emet-Selch manages to say, in a low tone that's somehow made to carry.
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It will find them.
Sooner or later. Where are they going to go? Where can they go?
While Lahabrea glances around quickly in some effort to reorient himself, he reaches the conclusion quickly that this is indeed still a dream. There is infinite space in the space between stones, and the sky ...
The sky doesn't hold his attention for long. His disregard of it seems very deliberate. He hasn't forgotten what it looked like, and never would.
It doesn't bear dwelling on. What did was their current situation, and his depressing lack of personal defensive options. Certainly he had the claws that came with the robe, but they and their bits of metal are not made for combat, so he was going to have to find himself some tediously mundane weapon and--
Lahabrea pauses as Emet-Selch speaks, voice quiet, and gives his fellow Ascian a long, measuring look.
This is a nightmare. The city seethed with despair and terror. It's reasonable someone might falter, listen to the whispers, and give in..
He is not one for undue contact. But like his choosing to ignore the burning stars in the sky, it's deliberate that he reaches out, to set one hand on Emet-Selch's shoulder, grip tight but not painful. Being unhinged perhaps allowed him something others couldn't afford - dismissal of reality.
"Seven times we have challenged fate and won." The downside is Lahabrea can make absolute madness sound like perfect logical sense, and encourage others to follow that lunacy. And it seems he intends to apply that right now. "We have defeated that which would drive us down to dust, not once, not twice, but again and again. Do not resign yourself to defeat, for that is the surest way to guarantee it. As for me.. I intend to keep challenging fate. I may fail if I do, but I am doomed if I do not try."
He's going to need to find himself a weapon. He absolutely feels the fear and dread of this place. But he has a tremendous ability to simply dismiss anything and everything that doesn't fit his worldview until forced to. "This place seeks to inflict terror upon us, sow doubt and fear. Look at it attempting to intimidate us as if we were frightened children not by creating something new and terrible, but dredging up old pain instead. It has nothing it can touch us with that we have not already survived!"
The meteors continue to fall, like tears from a star.
"We have survived, Emet-Selch. We survived the end of the world. We will see it reborn. This is nothing but a temporary nuisance, and I intend to destroy it. Come with me."
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And now he was haunted by the dead telling him not to despair. Telling him not to give in and--
It was an insanity part of Emet-Selch longed to give into. But then, one didn't get to be the Speaker without being convincing- and even now, after all this time, some spark of that remained. It helped that he wanted to believe him, that it was a sentiment recognizable to the one that he'd carried with him all these years, that had grown heavier and heavier with every age that passed. Emet-Selch felt no exaltation in their work, even upon a successful Rejoining, only weariness. Miserable, lonely exhaustion that he was never truly free from, even when he'd managed to sleep away a century or two. There had been no giving up, and no comfort to be found- nothing but wretched, broken creatures, and his two compatriots who grew less like themselves the more time went on, the further removed they all were from that world that they would give anything to return to. To bring back.
The nightmare continued, but all Emet-Selch can think about is the past. But then- that was nothing unusual.
"We won't," it comes snapped out, from despair back into anger, and for all that it's given in Lahabrea's direction, it's not directed at him. At the world, perhaps, at fate, at truth, at nothing at all, perhaps, but expressed nonetheless. "We haven't survived- our task, these years- it was all for naught."
His fingers dig into his palms, but his gaze- narrowed, bitter- doesn't waver. Neither does his tone, as he advances. "Elidibus brought me news of your death. Called me back from the rift in order to fix the mess your absence left us in. A task--" and at that, there's the slightest hesitation, of grief and fear that's just as quickly submerged back into anger, "that I likewise do not return from."
Though he had yet to see it for himself, he'd heard the same news six times over. He had little hope remaining that he might divert things. And Lahabrea wanted to destroy this place...? Did it matter if they ever escaped it (the chorus agreed it did not matter), when they would never see their true home again regardless?
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The venom Emet-Selch feels about the future is complete and utter nonsense as far as Lahabrea is concerned. He's not dead, ergo everything that follows after his 'death' is meaningless. He can't retaliate with fury, it's simply too absurd to think about for long.
He shakes his head; he knew plenty of people thought him insane, but this ... Clearly Garlemald is far more stressful than anticipated. "I might allow, given the rumblings of Alexander's re-emergence, that you could have some inkling of what the future might hold, but even it understands the future is not fixed."
A mere primal! One he'd hoped to use, but that hadn't worked out either, and while the goblins did seem keen on re-activating the god in the Machine, they didn't have the level of disruption necessary to be useful for a rejoining.
"If you mislike where it may be headed, when we are free of this place, do something about it. Build a new model which renders the existing model obsolete. As I am certain you will protest that there is no point, hold your tongue. You do not know, you merely fear the worst. We ARE trapped in a bad dream. Don't wonder and fear, find out." His smile is brief and friendless, as the flash of grief from Emet-Selch was, and there's sharp jagged teeth in it.
... "And if you feel you truly cannot, then pass the keys of knowledge to another."
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"My knowledge is certain," he says with a degree of finality, though it settles his anger back into a more general irritation as he crosses his arms. "And not the result of a glimpse into a future through the influence of any primal. Ignore it if you like- it changes nothing for either of us."
He'd learned of the future not long after arriving in this world, and had spent much of that time looking, hoping for some evidence, some suggestion that on a return to their star, his memories might accompany him. Thusly forewarned, he could avoid his fate- even if it meant delaying the current Rejoining. But there had been nothing to find. What little information he had collected, from those who had vanished from this world and returned, was that while at home, they remembered nothing of this place....
With his death continuously staring him down, how long was he meant to hold onto hope?
"But 'tis irrelevant, regardless," in this present moment, they were both alive, after all, even if their world would see them both dead, "when there's yet this nightmare to contend with. Though having just been brought here, unfamiliar with the magic of this place, you would make a claim to destroy it?"
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It is growing rather clear to Lahabrea that Emet-Selch needed to be moved off the front lines for a few centuries. He could do little about what looked to be wavering faith, not only in the Ascians and their cause but possibly too in Zodiark, and he's not entirely sure how to overcome that. "Mayhap you have been wearing mortal skin too long. It seems to be infecting you with their fragility." Inevitable perhaps, he's fairly sure Emet-Selch had tried to go native in the past, this might just be another of that.
"I have yet to encounter anything that in due time I cannot bring to ruination. It may take some effort," he adds, tone bemused, "But if it is so that we are dead anyway and merely lingering unwanted shades, I have plenty of time to study it." And eventually break it. He doesn't think of timescales of days or weeks or even years. Lahabrea has forever. "To do otherwise is to accept the chains of another, and I have a duty to our God to never submit to such entrapment or risk His freedom alongside my own. .... I will not ask you again to stand by me." This last is a quieter concession to what seems to him to be inevitable weakness on Emet-selch's part. He can do it on his own, and let the other try for some measure of rest. "If you cannot, I will struggle for you."
And he will succeed. Even with this place's clawing terror at his throat and making him twitchy every time something moves when he doesn't expect it to.
Every time a meteor crosses his line of sight.
Though more immediately, he's going to have to find a way out of this dreamscape! "That aside, why is it you still possess sorcery if we have been stripped away? Tis not a spell I know, but clearly a new path to the same result."
They still have a little time. It takes a while for even a nightmare to cross a city on foot.
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...It was true enough that he'd tried, now and again, to just- accept the malformed creatures that had made up their world. Had tried to live among them earnestly (if also with one scheme in mind or another... even at his most hopeful, there was always practicality), had even allowed himself to become attached now and again (as though he'd had much choice in it, lonely as he was). But it had always failed, time and again, over and over. And as close as he lived among them, the closer his view of all of humanity's flaws. They were grotesque, lower than that of any insect. Each time they disappointed him, left him, died and betrayed him. Every time he grew more embittered and isolated, retreating for ever longer periods to sleep- any time he hadn't been playing some specific part, that is.
(And yet, some small part of him that he despised to even recognize was there- still wanted to believe in... something. Even if he'd long since forgotten what the shape of that hope was.)
But Lahabrea was resolute, untiring; the years had certainly affected them differently. To view this place as one more thing to pick apart and destroy- were it not so very futile, self-destructive and reckless, it would almost be admirable. "Even if it be impossible, don't think that I've forgotten the task. Even separated from our God, it continues."
At least in this place, he wouldn't leave Lahabrea to himself. Even in the relative safety and coherency of Aefenglom proper, he wouldn't ignore him. Disagreements and sanities aside, they were both of Amaurot, and of Zodiark. Sentimentality alone would prevent Emet-Selch from abandoning him, even if having his own commitment questioned was a point of aggravation.
(Even if it wasn't wholly without cause; though his devotion to Amaurot and Zodiark was no reduced, the despair and guilt for not being able to do anything for them was not inconsiderable.)
But there were practical things, a practical question that he waves onward with a flick of a wrist. "Yes, well, flawed as it is, this world has made its own form of magic available to me. Anyone who becomes trapped here is either given the potential of it, or is slowly transformed into some manner of beast. Small fortune that it is, I was spared the latter fate."
Though Emet-Selch does take a moment to regard Lahabrea- masked and robed that he is, wondering if he'd also been allowed to remain a mage, however further reduced; he hoped so, for both their sakes. Bestial instincts on top of the man's normal mental state- well. He didn't relish the idea. "Teleportation is amongst what I've learned. Along with some combative skills they label as 'Evocation', I've focused my efforts on their poor version of concept creation- something they've called 'Conjuration.'"
That is, if Lahabrea needed a weapon, he could probably call something up. "Though but a fraction of my old magic, I'm not entirely powerless here."
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Unfortunate that tearing it all down would likely do Zodiark no good. ... Actually. That might have to be investigated. There's no visible cause to Lahabrea's sudden thoughtful silence, or the way unease is temporarily set aside in favor of looking around with far more speculative interest. Aether was aether when it came down to it.. "Good. Then we will see to that task more closely when this ... dreamscape is dealt with. I have a thought but it will require more investigation." Ridding reality of this star AND further empowering their God was a wonderful idea, if he could pull it off.
He takes Emet-Selch's words of the way this place changes people at face value. He is a mage, he will surely be given back some measure of that sooner or later, and use it to its fullest to pursue his goals. The idea of becoming an animal was not worth entertaining. "Poor mortal best will have to do, I suppose. Some form of teleportation and combat is better than none at all." Which reminds him. "This .. conjuration." Isn't that white magic in a lesser form?? These idiots don't even know how to classify their spells properly. "I pray it can be used to make some form of weaponry, I am woefully unarmed and I doubt we've lost that ... creature forever."
If the world intended to 'bless' him with some form of ability sooner or later, it hasn't yet. A pointy object would have to do. He looks briefly as disgusted as masked features allow. "That I might be reduced to melee combat ..."
UTTERLY. HUMILIATING.
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Not entirely strange of a concept, considering the frequent disparity of years between Source and shard. Even if he felt that this star's version of it was different from that, somehow. Regardless: Lahabrea could investigate to his heart's content, and Emet-Selch could observe, assist, or avoid, depending on how his own whim struck.
"But yes, Conjuration," by his tone, Emet-Selch seems to agree that this world has given their magic the wrong names, but what can you expect from strange mortals, "I could call up something of an arsenal, if you liked."
With any luck, the monsters of this place have a weak point for being stabbed.
"Any preference for type?" Emet-Selch will add, with some version of lightness to his voice, even as he doesn't wait around for Lahabrea to answer. A snap of his fingers later (of course his casting style would remain gestural, even if it had taken longer to learn that way), and a long polearm is driven into the ground before the other man. Possibly not the best decision, as any cracks and flaking in the street only reveal additional nothing, but it'll be fine, surely. Hopefully Lahabrea doesn't mind crossclassing as a dragoon for a bit. It's a perfectly nice spear, at least, nothing shoddy.
A hint of a smirk still plays at his lips, even if he understood perfectly well the... displeasure of being rendered so defenseless as to have to rely on melee fighting rather than their considerable magics. Considering the hassle Lahabrea was bound to be for him, in all his enthusiastic madness, he would take moments like this when he could.
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It is entirely coincidental that Lahabrea had been debating a pike of some form. That thing that whispered in the voices of his lost students was forged of bone and vines, and something like a dagger or small sword wasn't about to get through that and reach the potentially frail insides. Which was unfortunate, he's spent quite a bit of time as of late fighting with daggers and could probably manage reasonably well. As the spear is driven into the stone, pulled out of nowhere, he frowns at it as if it had somehow personally offended him.
Which it has, by virtue of being forged through something other than proper creation.
"This will do," is the muttered response as he wrenches the thing from the stone. There's now a hole in the ground, showing oblivion beyond it, which he would dearly love to study were there time for such indulgences. "Though I do not recall how long it has been since I fought with such a weapon."
Soon enough, their stalker would find them even if they did nothing, but he scans the horizon for any sign of the spreading whiteness that had been a hallmark of the creature's passing before. How far had they gone? "We may wait to be hunted down, but I think I would prefer to choose my battleground. The void beneath the stone.. is it yours? The sky above surely must be. Can it be used?"
If Emet-Selch can weaponize the things that haunt his dreams that would be awfully handy. A trap could be laid, weakening the stones and risking plummeting anything heavier than a man into empty eternity..
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(Even if the desire to return home was complicated now, by aspects Emet-Selch doubted he would ever reconcile.)
Still, even if he disapproved of it, at least Lahabrea was willing to accept his new role, and his new, perfectly Adequate spear.
"I'm sure you'll manage to remember the basics presently," Emet-Selch replies encouragingly, "fighting for one's life can be quite inspiring."
He didn't even hope that it wouldn't come down to that; in the end, so few things ever went easily. As Lahabrea watches the horizon, Emet-Selch glances back up the the sky, wondering if those meteors were even impacting anything, or whether it was an inappropriate backdrop alone. Inescapable, ever-present, but ultimately just a memory. "As for whether it's mine," a comment accompanied by a faint shrug, glancing back to the other Ascian, "if you mean whether the effect of our current location is some specific choice, then no- as for whether we can use it regardless...."
His thoughts run along similar lines- if that creature of Lahabrea's was following, could it be lured into the lurking nothingness beneath? Were nightmare creatures susceptible to that sort of thing? Although, if he broke too much of the street, how would it affect the integrity of the whole? He'd been warned that injuries sustained in this world would carry to real life- but 'swallowed up by some sort of void'- how would that ever translate?
"I could break a large portion of the street with a spell," he does offer, gaze flicking down to the loose cobblestones underfoot. "If we're especially fortunate, we may not tumble into whatever lies beneath."
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That makes things easier. "..Attempt a weakening, if not a complete breaking. I will see about bringing my new companion in this direction." Assuming it's safe to leave Emet-Selch alone. No, he still has SOME form of magic, that's something to work with, Lahabrea was more likely to run into trouble.
Oh well. He's sure he'll find another body soon enough, and he'll just have to be more selective this time.
There is a long moment's hesitation before he vanishes between buildings, heading for that distant patch of paleness. A hesitance that perhaps speaks volumes more about how much this nightmarescape has indeed infected him, far more than the tone of his voice or his bearing might otherwise give away.
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He'd come out of the experience with a lot of feelings about it, but- amongst them was the uncomfortable proof that things in this city were more than capable of harming him against his will. And a nightmare version of the city he doubted would be any less threatening.
But no, if Lahabrea wanted to hold onto some facsimile of certainty, Emet-Selch wouldn't waste his breath to try and dissuade him. Nodding an acknowledgement, he waves the other Ascian onward, even as he was already leaving- though with a tinge of reluctance he wasn't sure if he were imagining or not.
...And then Emet-Selch was alone, with the voices and the meteors and the decaying street. And there was a bleak familiarity to it that has him pause for a few moments, looking back up to the sky, to the streaks of light against the dark.
But he had a task to do, and it was soon accomplished; a handful of dark spearheads appear overhead, sharp points fixed on the ground below. Raining down upon a swathe of the street, they impact the irregular stone and explode. Controlling the amount of energy put into each one, reducing it to a minimum degree- yes, the result was acceptable enough, he thought. Here and there, small holes to nothing had emerged, a few rocks tumbling free into the black. But the majority were merely cracked, rendered fragile. They would probably not appreciate being trod upon.
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Only one of the two truly understands that this can't be treated as a mere strange dream.
For a time, it's ... as quiet as this hellscape can be. The whistle of falling stars burning through the atmosphere, distant possible impacts left to the imagination, a dull rumble of some collapsing building though whether by fire or creeping white remains unknown. Some four or five stories up a lone Bomb floats past, going somewhere from somewhere else, spikier than usual.
But all too soon Emet-Selch's preparations are going to be tested, because there's a distant, faded bellow of a chorus of angry beasts (or perhaps only one with multiple mouths) only a block or so away. The crash of its pursuit is effortless to pick up on, things slapped out of its path, the scrabble of claws and hooves on cobblestone rapidly growing. A crate of all things soars past, exploding across the ground in wooden shards and nails just barely on an undamaged section of cobblestone, missing its intended black-clad target, which is doing a pretty decent mad scramble of his own.
Emet-Selch's helpfully created spear is broken, wedged just under what passes as deformed, dead-leaf-feathered wings between two ribs, the rest of its shaft stuck in one of the fang-filled maws and preventing it from actually closing. The creature is absolutely larger than last time, with more grasping talons and familiar-strange faces, easily matching some other horrors they'd faced in the past for sheer size. That size is probably the only reason Lahabrea's still moving, it's gotten only a touch slower and instead of getting gutted his poor robes have simply been rent badly from stomach to heel. It's the brittle crack underfoot that warns him that yes he'd asked Emet-Selch to do a thing and the thing had been done and if he's not VERY CAREFUL he's going to fall right through the damn road and wouldn't that be a strange ending to this nightmare?
In anyone else, that would surely be blank shock that sends him scrambling for more solid ground, but since it's Lahabrea it can't possibly actually be.
"Ah, you've brought me back to your friend, how kind. You can die together." The chorus sounds rather pleased, all told.
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And as the rumbling and crashing draws nearer, the splintering or shattering of materials under foot, or pushed aside by the passage of something large and presumably aggressive- he did consider that Lahabrea sending himself out to lure it on his own was a fairly reckless maneuver. The man lacked his magic, only had a spear that he'd admitted to being rusty with... no, this probably went past reckless and into foolhardy.
After all, if this creature was drawn to Lahabrea, it would've been along presently anyway, and they could've just... waited for it. Enjoyed the unfortunate scenery. Caught up on one detail or another while he considered the futility of convincing Lahabrea of their own deaths, or of much of anything else, really. Not that this realization causes Emet-Selch to move from his spot (or even to be that particularly concerned; it was an idle musing, and little more), as danger approaches. Just waiting around took the least effort for him, so in the end this plan was acceptable enough.
...Especially since that beast was larger than he'd last recalled it being, as though it had fed on a lack of observance, or whatever darker emotions it contained, churning away and bloating it in size. Lahabrea scurries back into sight- and somewhat worse for wear, Emet-Selch notes at a glance, though if more than fabric were torn, he doesn't much time to consider or inspect. Not with that thing following behind, clambering after on feet and form that were far too heavy for the street-made-fragile. Cracks deepened, widened- the creature's lack of delicacy doing it no favors as whatever foundation that was holding the road together gives way, collapsing underneath it, in a rapidly extending circle of blank void and disappearing stone.
It wasn't a roar of disapproval or startle or frustration- it was more human than that, which was worse. Claws scrambled at crumbling rock, only pulling more down with it, and its dead wings flapped, producing a sound in the way of nothing alive or sane or sensible.
Something that big shouldn't be able to fly on wings that weak- and perhaps it hadn't needed to, or hadn't been able to until this moment. What logic did nightmares need in their own domain? But rather than sinking immediately into the blackness underneath, its wings beat, struggling to draw its heavy body upward, its claws still scratching and tearing at the edges of the hole; even if it didn't succeed in pulling itself out, it might thrash enough to pull the rest of the street down with it.
--But the trap had slowed it down further, held it still. Trusting Lahabrea to scramble his way to freedom (Or at least, out of the pit to nowhere, away from endless inescapable isolation and solitude- ah. That's what it represented, Emet-Selch belatedly realizes. How else would such a fear be manifested?), he focuses instead on his own magic. Ignoring the disintegration of the road underneath and the falling stars overhead, there was only the quarry and this moment.
Dark-colored, piercing magic erupts from the belly of the beast, stabbing upward and through it, impaling it on a pillar of rigid, metallic shadow. Ravenous Assault, or rather, the Ascian's attempt at recreating the spell. Though it paled to its original form, it was the most focused magic he currently had.
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There were benefits to being rather furious at being trapped on the ground like a mortal and without a single cantrip to his name - it leaves little time for him to consider the other feelings, like terror or doubt or worry. The indignities this nightmare visited upon him were somehow for the moment worse than the beast in his wake, and he lacked any proper venue to visit that wrath upon anything at all. All he CAN do is work on falling prey to Emet-Selch's handiwork alongside his beastie bestie, but there at least he has an advantage. He's smaller, far lighter, and the ground isn't as quick to crack under his feet.
The empty void hungers for anything it can get, it seems, and he stops where the ground fails to make alarming noise beneath his boots at the surge of sorcery that looks awfully familiar, even if it lacks the power it should have. It's enough to do far more harm than Lahabrea had succeeded at managing, making its struggle to haul itself out of the crumbling edge and onto sturdy ground all but impossible.
"Please no!" The vocalizations are still a chorus, its many expressions twisted into furious rage, but the sound doesn't match the creature's expression. No, those voices sound exactly as pleading as the words suggest, all but hysterical and terribly young compared to the two Ascians. "Help me! No no no no! I don't want to die!" It tears at the magic, though that will do it no good, at the stone, at anything it can reach, growling and snarling and begging in voices that have made Lahabrea go silent and still even as the bones and vines that made up its torso begin to crumble into motes of bright white, starting with where it had been spell-struck. "You promised it was safe!"
One step forward. Just one, enough to put him at the edges of crumbling ground, enough where the creature heaves one final swipe at him that misses clean before everything it tries to cling to falls away into the black below, disintegrating as it falls from the middle outward in more specks of slowly spreading, fading light motes, still kicking and flapping and howling its fury.
Soon enough the emptiness swallows that too.
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They all carried their own demons, it seemed. Not that it came as any sort of surprise to him.
Looking down at what was now a gaping maw of utter dark, rather than only a few specks of it here and there, Emet-Selch watches as every trace of the creature vanishes, sound last of all to disappear. The silence that followed it was in some ways a mercy- and in other ways deafening, offering its own form of discomfort.
It didn't feel like much of a victory, or of a relief- but then, this method of throwing one's summoned up emotional state into a void- did that really count as overcoming or truly facing it, or just hiding it away somewhere ever deeper?
Emet-Selch was not terribly good at showing sympathy at the best of times, and he doubted that it would even particularly welcome in this case. He knew that Lahabrea had been attached, in his way, to his students. It was no surprise that a creature created to haunt and torment would know to use their voices.
"If only this were the last of such insults this world might seek to inflict," is his eventual comment, layered upon a sigh. "Well. 'Tis one removed."
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No. It must have some effect, if it occurred at all. It had warned him, ignored things don't just ... go away. On some level he refuses to acknowledge or can't come to grips with any longer, it must be as terrible a nightmare as any other. "Soon it won't be relevant ever again. Soon these reflections will be undone, and by Zodiark's will, mayhap cleansed away and forgotten in turn, so that no others might watch a star shower and feel anything but wonder."
Emet-Selch had said they would fail.
Lahabrea refuses to accept it and acts accordingly. "Though you are right. One less trouble for now. I wonder if it might try Archaeotania next, if it merely wishes to taunt me." DON'T JINX IT. There aren't enough bodies around to throw at that thing. "It seems as if you've dealt with this exact sort of trouble before."
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But what would it accomplish? Nothing at this time, he suspected. So apart from a fairly neutral look, he continues onward.
"Don't give it ideas," he responded dryly. Archaeotania would be... a matter of getting away from it very quickly and escaping from the nightmare before it destroyed everything. Emet-Selch shakes his head. "The nightmares specifically are new. But there was a time of walking through one another's memories... whether they cared to have you there or not."
A mixed experience, but ultimately favorable, in the end. "Though that can happen regardless, though on a more limited scale... but no, this world has more than one way to be bothersome. Assuming we both rise from this dream intact, it's something you'll discover yourself."
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"I will endeavor to not find myself trapped here when I wake, and leave such discoveries undiscovered. You will forgive me if I have little interest in plumbing the depths of anyone's memories, this is troublesome enough." Now that he is aware of even such a possibility it will have to be taken into account of course.
And if found to be true, a reluctant rescue effort mounted. For all that Lahabrea really didn't count anyone as a friend or companion anymore, he doesn't much care for the idea of leaving Emet-Selch to deal with this place alone. He'll simply have to be fetched home; there would be a little time soon, after the eighth rejoining. "...And with the advent of a new abyss ready and waiting, it would be remiss to not put it to work. Let us endeavor to find the source of this nightmare and toss them within as well. If it remedies nothing, it will at the least be worth a moment or two of entertainment."
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"Then I'll hope as well that your exit indeed returns you to our star, and not to the world I've been made to become accustomed to."
Even if that was the same as hoping for Lahabrea to return to his death, but... there was no avoiding it. It had already happened, and Emet-Selch doubted that his compatriot would be any happier in Aefenglom. No- there was no happiness for them anywhere. Perhaps there never had been; a thought that has the sky seem that degree darker, a vision dimmed.
"As for the source of it," he presses onward regardless, "I doubt it to be the work of any individual. Unless you count the world to be an individual. 'Tis likely to be a dream of the star itself, though colored by those of us who've been made to walk here."
He gestures towards the backdrop of a starshower. "So in that sense, we're all to blame for our current situation."
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Nobody could really doubt Emet-Selch's willingness to be proactive under certain circumstances. Garlemald wasn't the first empire he'd built, merely the fastest rising. If it needed doing it did get done, but this.. this did seem to Lahabrea as if his fellow Ascian had no interest in bothering. "I am disinclined to idle about so."
Well. If he can't muster Emet-Selch's interest in freeing himself, then ... then so be it. For a few moments, Lahabrea considers the starshower, the way some bits of scenery are working to resolve themselves into mundane-looking well-kept gardens, the hole where his new 'friend' had fallen, hopefully to stay. "You may remain here if you wish. I will return for you, if you do so choose. I am going."
There was something to find out there. Something that could do something about this, and he doesn't think it's just going to turn up and drop itself at their feet. True to his word, Lahabrea picks a side street and steps away, heading back into the heart of the city. As much as he certainly wants company, in this uncertain place that kept unnatural fear like teeth at his throat .. he's not going to demand it.
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As though trying were somehow the irresponsible choice.
As though it weren't more useless to remain in one place, overlooking the possible-void and still-crumbling street. The occasional pebble still dislodged itself in some deliberate seeking of oblivion, disappearing without a trace into the black. Emet-Selch could sympathize; the longer he remained still, the harder it was to deny the desire to join it. To give up on this farce entirely.
(An influence of the nightmare, surely... Emet-Selch had the self-awareness to assume that much. Worn down as he ever was, lying down in the street and waiting for whatever passed for death in this place didn't suit him. He may sleep his way through the centuries when time permitted, but he always returned. He could never let go.)
But he waves Lahabrea off with an idle gesture, ignoring the part of himself that was still trying to muster the energy to continue, to not leave the either of them alone in this distorted place. Yet he can only watch, even as steps recede, swallowed up by the city, and leaving Emet-Selch to wonder if he'd imagined his compatriot's presence to start with. The voices offered no clues, falling silent in a way that felt somehow worse. Now he was truly alone- but that was how it should be, shouldn't it?
Solitude wouldn't make a very good monster. If it were tangible, then it would practically qualify as company, contradicting its very nature. And with nothing manifested, how could it be fought? It's only out of some barest sense of lingering self-preservation and fading motivation that the Ascian finds a discreet corner to settle down in, out of the way, but a place that still afforded some view of the slowly-expanding void.
He would just... rest for a time. It wasn't as though effort had ever done more than extend any moment of failure. He would rest and eventually he would wake, or this unnatural void would take him, and really- did it matter which, in the end?
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