☆ TDM: MARCH

[faileas]

Test Drive: March 2021

Welcome to 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. Aside from that, here are some quick reminders:



• The Application Queue is open. Applications run on a rolling queue system. The application page is always open to submissions, and applications will be processed in order of submission. Verdicts will always go out by the final week of a month, though we can't promise an exact date -- we'll get to them as quickly as we can throughout the month! If your application is submitted during the last week of a month, it may be rolled into next month's batch of applications. The application page can be found here.
• We have a brand new Game World Wiki created with the immense help of our Wiki Bards: Noa, Prince, Maruah and Ran. Thank you so much! It's still being updated, but most of the main game info is there for you in an easily searchable manner. All other info can still also be found through our Navigation page!
• 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!
• For current characters, TDM threads can be used for AC.
• And finally, since this is part of our event, characters already in-game ARE allowed to top-level on this post.



With that taken care of...

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, the wind brushes playfully against your face - and you know one thing, and one thing alone: this is a dream, and an incredibly realistic one at that.


The Calamity


The taste of magic in the air is electric on your tongue, supercharged, bright, a little tart and fizzy like popping candy. The settlement you find yourself in is unfamiliar to you, but you can tell it is bustling, beautiful, a center of culture and activity for its bygone era. The architecture blooms with elaborately carved flourishes, but you cannot shake the feeling of... otherworldliness that it brings to mind. (Perhaps you are a veteran of these dreams and remember a ship with similar embellishments from far away, that came bearing invaders, in a time long ago.) It is nearly impossible to tell what season you find yourself in - pockets of spring bloom with new life, right next to pockets of winter snowstorms; playful fall winds laden with leaves tug at your hair, and in some spots, it feels hot and muggy like the middle of summer. None of these patches of seasonal mayhem are very large, a few city blocks’ worth at most, and they all butt up against each other, tumultuous, fighting for real estate in a place where the magic bubbles freely up through the ground like a wellspring, uncontrolled. In a way, it seems like a wilder version of Aefenglom’s seasons always being opposite the season in the Wilde, similar but more widespread, more disharmonic.

Fit to Burst The settlement is bustling and full of that otherworldly architecture, spirals and tendrils and vaguely floral embellishments, except... If you look closer, you can see that only a few of the buildings are really made that way. An illusion covers the rest, purely cosmetic, a glamour; it's a shimmering image laid over reality until you look beneath it at the squat, simple houses made by mortal hands out of rough hewn wood or bricks of packed mud. The people are just as disparate as the buildings beneath it all - glittering-eyed Fae, taller, more elongated and insectoid than those seen around Aefenglom, though many of them use glamours to appear more fantastical and beautiful; humans teeming with magic, who use it freely for anything and everything; other bipedal Monsters with rougher, more bestial features than longtime residents might be used to, more in tune with their natural abilities. It wouldn't be a bad idea to explore your new surroundings, though you're likely to garner attention. Unless the world you come from is a more medieval time period, your clothing, perhaps even your hair or other aspects of your appearance are likely to stand out. What will make you stand out even more, though, is not drawing on your abundant new magical powers, or strong new Monster abilities. That shop there requires flight to get up to the second story front door. That home down the street can only be unlocked with a burst of flame. Torches when it grows dark? No, don’t be ridiculous, you can't light your own way? Your hair looks hideous, darling, why haven’t you put on a glamour? Reluctance to use these abilities abundantly and freely garners frowns of scrutiny and disapproval from those natives around you. "We're free here under the Fae folk. They've taught us so much, we never go hungry, we’re never beaten down by the weather." Their words hold truth - their twisted-trunk trees are bursting with fruit, their haphazardly laid out crops flourish in a matter of days rather than a season, rain and snow can be directed at will with just an application of the wild, free magic bubbling up from the ground in rivers. There is a hierarchy in this settlement. The Fae are above all, and can often be found partying into the night with sweet wine and hallucinogenic mushrooms, teaching humans and Monsters to harness their natural talents and the magic of the land by day. Their attitudes are condescending toward these lesser beings they’ve granted their favor to (including you, now, and aren’t you just the most interesting, darling little things?), delighting in spreading their knowledge. The humans and Monsters still seem awestruck by their benevolent masters - a word they mean in the sense of 'teachers' - accepting their gifts, using their magic, and none of them will so much as whisper a complaint. Not when it’s safe here. Not when all is well. It's more than they can say for the lands outside of their paradise, even if things do happen here that the Fae do not like to hear them speak of. Gain the trust of the natives, and you might hear rumors, whispers of a rotting pox hitting other communities far from here, or first hand accounts of how so-and-so witnessed another death just last week, a human woman blew up in town, and some of the Monsters, they been goin’ right bestial. Shh, shh, you didn’t hear it from them! (Don’t let the Fae catch you gossiping. They might just take you and the native both aside, whisper in your ears, let the magic wind its way around your brain until you don't remember any longer what you were talking about or even who you are, where you come from. You were having a good time though, right?) You can try to leave the settlement, to explore the woods that surround it, but you’re likely to be noticed and warned: "You should stay here, make sure you don’t run into any of the unfriendly locals - they don't care for our masters."

The Emergence Time passes strangely in a dream. It might feel like a handful of hours, or even a few days, before a change can be felt all throughout the strange, unsettling paradise. If you’ve had a recent brush with it in the waking world, you might recognize the signature of it - the Cwyld. Something in the air feels very wrong, like a chill in the middle of summer, a sudden warm wind in winter; the plant life beneath your very feet begins to blacken in color, with near-indiscernible white lines marring their surfaces, and no matter who you are, no matter the pride you may take in your courage, a shiver raises every hair on your body without fail: Something wicked this way comes. The wellspring of magical energy flowing like a river beneath your feet takes on a new feeling when you try to draw from it, a dark and heavy sensation, oily and creeping. Reaching for the magic, it feels as though you're reaching into hollow darkness, dried up and consumed, and the disparate plants of different seasons, growing alongside each other, begin to bulge grotesquely and burst, splattering an unknown black substance over anything unfortunate enough to be in the splash zone. Possibly even you. Don't pass under the fruit trees. The infection has seeped into the overtapped leyline, and it bleeds through the settlement quickly, much quicker than it seems to move in the current-day waking world. The plant life, with their roots dug deep into the earth, are only the first casualty, as it spreads rapidly to the animals, and then the natives, blackening and tainting everything it touches. The village is thrown into chaos. Fae and any who seem to have Dragon in them are the first to show signs of infection, blackened veins visible under paling skin and white film growing over the eyes. Bodies grow brittle and twisted the more it spreads and settles in. Humans with an abundance of magic are the next to lose themselves to it, quickly followed by other Monsters. While in the waking world, infection spreads more slowly, here, it can be almost instantaneous, the process of becoming a Shade, losing all sense of self. They have no resistance to the Cwyld, and in this dream, neither do you. You're just as susceptible to the infection, and some may find themselves succumbing to the infection spreading to the heart and pumping itself through their veins. Becoming a Shade is a painful experience, a painful existence, as the life is snuffed out of you and your body keeps going. In this dream, you might be lucky (or unlucky) enough to keep your wits about you, to remain sentient and somewhat yourself - or you might become one of the mindless, violent many whose only directive is to spread the Cwyld to everything that lives, including your fellow dreamers. Even if you do stay aware of yourself, it is hard to resist the pull of the Cwyld on your mind, urging you to spread and infect, to leave nothing whole and living. Before your eyes, the settlement begins to die. You can't help anyone who is already infected, even if you know healing spells that work in the waking world, unless you're willing to put them out of their misery before they become a Shade corrupted beyond all assistance. You might be busier trying to save your fellow Mirrorbound, though, as they try to avoid that fate themselves or fall prey to it in front of you. And while the earth and plants and people around them turn black and fall to ruin, any of the Fae who managed to remain untainted simply flee, running from the settlement without stopping to help anyone in need, not even the students who so looked up to them. Note: Becoming a Shade in this prompt is optional, and Mirrorbound Shades may keep their minds or not at player discretion! Infection will not carry over out of the dream. Dying in the dream will put your character back at the edge of the village, uninfected and alive again, to witness the rest of its downfall.

Light It Up Help comes in an unexpected, unwanted form. Those unfriendly locals the residents of this village spoke of previously appear through the morning mists, shrouded in clumsy protections like masks and gloves, and practical, non-flashy spells. The group is made up of grim-faced humans and Monsters, a surprisingly cohesive unit of people who look out for each other as they make their way through the woods with torches held aloft. They are hardier than those indulged, magic-glutted folks who suffer now. These newcomers are dressed more practically, for working land or fighting battles, but they, too, have humans among them who can harness their magic. Their witches keep their torches lit, and work closely with their Monsters, helping each other in a way that will not feel unfamiliar. They've come today, they'll say if you get a chance to speak with them, however briefly (they're a little busy to answer too many questions), to try and stop this blight on the land before it can reach their village, some miles to the south. They've seen it before, though never this severe. This Cwyld will spread and spread, until there is nothing left. Best to burn it all down before its tendrils creep too far, before its roots dig too deep. They fight and destroy the Shades however they can, showing no mercy, though their spells are crude and simple, and their Monsters use their natural forms without any showy abilities, depending on claws and teeth and strength to do their jobs. Working together, with simple weapons in their hands, they are formidable. Even if you kept your mind, kept your speech, they will not let you live if you were infected - and may not let you live even if you weren’t infected, just to be safe. You may join them, if you wish, help them burn down the blackened trees or even Shades that were once people - or you may fight them, but they won't relent. They burn the whole settlement down, leaving wide patches of scorched earth like blackened scars on the land. It’s the only way, they say, from their limited experience. Everything must return to the earth. As the settlement goes up in flames fully, they retreat, only remaining long enough to ensure the fire stays where it needs to stay, and will not spread to uninfected forest. For those of you who were completely uninfected and may have thus been spared, they are still unwelcoming and will not allow you to travel back to their own village with them, threatening with swords and flames any who are too insistent. They aren't too keen to talk, but you may get a few answers out of them, the basics - some of their parents originally lived here, learned magic from the Fae, though when they saw the dangers, they left, believing that such power should be used more sparingly, more responsibly. Against the Fae, if at all possible, and against their destructive ways. It was just a matter of time, they thought, until calamity struck, and lo. You just saw what happens, what that much magic can call down in divine retribution. How magic itself fights back against the excesses of those who would abuse it.

Comments

QUESTIONS

[moustre]

[glitzandglamour]

Three questions from me! One is a bit more self-indulgent.

1. Is it possible to tell roughly where the settlement ruled by the Fae is located? (Is it roughly where the True Fae's settlement was in the dream from Jan of last year?) Or is it impossible to tell?
   
   
2. Is there any particular proportion of Monster types that make up the allies of the humans from the Serious Village? Is it mostly humans, or is it equal parts human-and-Monster?
   
   
3. Will these Fae take offense at the presence of metals the same way as the True Fae did in the dream from last year? I'm sure they won't like it, but will they outright run people out? (Applicable both to characters with weapons, and I guess people made of metal...)

[noblegarnet]

How would the "unfriendly locals" react to Mirrorbound Fae, particularly one willing to help? Would they be willing to answer questions however briefly, or would they simply be aggressive?

hostile locals: religion??, ancient bonds, dragons

[faithlikeaseed]

I may come back with more questions later but getting these down right now:

If one were to ask the burn crews where they got the notion that the Cwyld is divine retribution for overuse of magic, what would they say about it?

Are any of them Bonded, as a modern individual in Aefenglom would be able to describe it?

Have they ever been visited by any very large Dragons?

[gynvael]

Is the River Temese recognizably flowing through this land or its surrounding areas?

Re: QUESTIONS

[fuelingfire]

How are mirrorbound dragons treated by the local populace, be they the fey, their town full of minions, or the slash and burn strangers later on?

Hypnos | Hades | Naga

[trynotdying]

Fit To Burst
A

[A magical world of wonder? That's great for someone else. Even though this is a dream, and he's well aware it is a dream, Hypnos is still using this time for a well-earned nap. Curled up in the shade of one of the towering trees, with only a head sticking out from his thick red coverlet cloak, he snores softly. A sleep mask covers his eyes, and with each breath, a snake tongue flicks out of his lips.

When someone else approaches, he gasps sharply and his head peaks up, looking around blindly.]

I'm awake, I'm awake... well, in a sense.

B

[Finally coerced into not spending his whole dream sleeping, Hypnos slithers around the fae settlement. He no longer has legs, which is weird, but it's not like he really used them. A tail isn't as good as hovering, but he's making do.

He's talked his way into being given a scroll and quill, and he has assumed a truly nightmarish role: that of a surveyor.]

Excuse me, do you have time for just a few quick questions?

[You may not want to, but if you happen to catch his eyes, you may feel compelled to, whoops.]

The Emergence

[Something wicked this way comes? That's just the sort of aesthetic a denizen of the underworld seeks out. Besides, Hypnos heard there are Shades running around now, and it is his job to greet them.]

Welcome! Please, form an orderly line.

[Hmm, they don't seem to want to listen, which is... not good. Huh. What to do? Maybe he should sleep on it.]

Fit To Burst B

[electrod]

[ Reno's not too thrilled to give an answer to any question. It's a truckload of a weird dream, okay? And he's literally a bird (even if of-prey), with all those damned harpy instincts and reflexes. He's more likely to snarl at someone than answer their question but, as he turns around—

—something in that gaze placates him just enough. ]

Can't guarantee I know the answer— but sure, shoot

Theseus | HADES | Harpy

[deltastrike]

Fit to Burst
[Among the mirrorbound there is one whose clothes are more old-fashioned than even the local styles. With a robe draped over his shoulder and a crown of laurels, without exchanging a word anyone with passing familiarity with museum statues or textbook photos can tell that this man is Greek.

And somehow, a sense of pride and pompousness, too. Reverent speech of powerful fairy masters hasn't fazed him at all, but certain grievances have. He hones in on anyone among the bustling crowd who looks like they're not too entranced by the generosity of the Fae to listen to him.]

Where did the common folk learn such nerve? My ability is more than adequate compared to anyone here! And I am not a monster!

[Some strands of Theseus's hair are starting to stiffen and stand on end, and his shoulders have been itchy since he came to his senses, but that was merely incidental.]

The Emergence
[The infected are already so numerous, it's easy to end up cornered with a rabid Shade. It prepares to throw itself at the one uninfected, but never does thanks to the point of a spear impaling it through the chest.

The corrupted flesh, overripe with the Cwyld, is soft, and in one strong thrust it's torn apart.

On the other end of the spear, Theseus is calm, making sure to finish by flicking the released black substance off the blade away from the two. The man's face is not disturbed at all, despite the violent shift to the murder of what was probably just someone he had conversation with.]

You are unharmed?

[rollfordiplomacy]

[Being rescued in this instance is a tall man with goatish features. He sidesteps the splatter of infected goo, quick on his hooves. Tucking himself around Theseus for safety, unarmed and hardly looking the fighting type, he pats the man upon one shoulder in a sign of goodwill.

His voice has a nervously joking quality throughout every word]

Oh- physically, all is well! Emotionally, imagine the toll.

Charlenor Arsenault | World of Warcraft OC

[witheringheights]

Fit to Burst

Charlenor has never been in the Emerald Dream before!

That's assuming what this is. He's certain it's a dream, and there's something about the architecture and even the people that suggest to him that this must, in fact, be the sleeping dreamworld of the Emerald Dragonflight and their allies. And given a new place, somewhere he's only heard of in tales and could wonder about but little else, he is taking his time.

And he's painfully noticeable, even in a place such as this. Although his choice of clothing (what little of it there is) is nearly as fantastical, it tilts in a different direction, edged in sharp glowing edges and stirring in unfelt breezes, leaving a great deal of his mana-tattooed skin bare to the rapidly changing weather aside from a delicate crisscrossing of decorative silver chains, and he carries a sword openly across his back. Even that glows with its own eerie radiance, all tilted towards a purplish white. A cat the size of a small lion follows in his wake, sky blue and etched likewise in swirling, glowing runes, seemingly as curious as he is. Both look this way and that, the manasaber occasionally daring to inch closer to sniff something exceptionally unusual though Charlenor's managed to keep his hands to himself quite well so far.

So far being the operative term.

"I say," he declares brightly as soon as he spots someone who looks as out of place as he is, "This Dream really is something, isn't it? I expected more dragons though!" In spite of the sword and the enormous predator at his side, he certainly sounds friendly, and his demeanor likewise doesn't show much sign of deception or even concern about all of this.

Emergence

There's concern later though.

A lot of concern, as black poison begins warping people as soon as they come in contact with it.

He's been in Val'sharah, he's seen what the Nightmare can do, and this is close enough for him that the elf is not going to play games with it. He is however doing what he can to keep others out of the way; as the taint spreads, or fattening fruits prepare to burst and soak everything in rotting horror, Charlenor doesn't even hesitate to bodily grab whoever or whatever is within risk and drag them away as quickly as he can manage. He's a lot stronger than his thin frame might suggest, too, but a few bruises are surely better than the poisonous stain spreading rapidly wherever it can touch.

But the Nightmare had been defeated, hadn't it? Hadn't it?

The manasaber's efforts to pull someone out of a splatter zone doesn't go as well, and the cat recoils with a hiss of alarm as black sweeps up the faun she'd grabbed, twisting and distorting what had once been a friendly form. "Abella, leave it!"

[Will match format! I haven't decided on witch or monster yet, so please leave a note if you're okay with me adding it in as we go; dreams are weird after all. Or decide for me for TDM purposes, and I'll roll with it!]

emergence.

[wiedzminka]

Ciri had also been attempting to help the Faun, rushing toward them when she noticed the individual had fallen in their flight-- but she's grabbed before she can get close enough and summarily yanked back with surprising strength. She doesn't take it well.

"Unhand me!" Ciri snarls, attempting to jerk her arm free and shove away the person holding her. Just then, the plant explodes, and the strange catlike creature seems to barely avoid the black spray as well, retreating as the ichor covers the poor Faun.

Its form begins to darken and twist unnaturally almost immediately, oily shadows covering fur and wrapping around horns and hooves. It howls, a shrill and piercing cry of terror and pain. And hunger.


(( ooc: feel free to experiment with witch or monster in our thread as you wish! ciri is technically a monster but doesn't have the changes, so she'd just look human. ))

Ianto Jones | Torchwood | Witch

[torchwoodteaboy]

FIT TO BURST
[Ianto is no stranger to nightmares. He's experienced enough in his relatively short life to have a relative catalog of horrors to chose from. Whatever this is -- wherever this is -- it's something else entirely. On one hand, it's somewhat refreshing. On the other hand, he's a little bit concerned that he's either been abducted by the rift or that something from the archives has gotten into his head. Jack has always been saying he needs to get more fresh air. He'll never let him live it down.

Yet another one of the townsfolk shoots him a side-eyed glance and Ianto reaches up to straighten his tie self-consciously.]

Right. [He says out loud to himself.] Comforting.

LIGHT IT UP
[Ianto should have known better than to write this off as anything more than a nightmare from the start. At the mention of fae and magic, he should have known. This is how it always turns out, isn't it? Power corrupts, and when the shit hits the fan, you can never count on anyone to be there to help bail you out.

If Yvonne Hartman had survived the fall of Torchwood London, it might as well have been the plot of her memoir. Although with more aliens and less... Whatever the hell this is that's happening to the people around him. He should have known better than to expect these newcomers would be here to help. He should have known.

And yet.]

What the hell is wrong with you! There are people in there! They're going to --

[Ianto takes one look at the newcomers, with their torches and their magic, and another look at the quickly spreading flames of the settlement before him, before breaking into a run. ...back towards the flames.]

Hello! Is anyone there!!

WILDCARD
[want to thread something else! shoot me a pm or on plurk at lycanthropy101!

also will match prose or brackets!]

light it up

[gynvael]

[ The days in the forest shimmer by, slipping through his fingers like water. In truth, he couldn't say what he learned or who he met—not even when the chaos started. All he knows is that the thick stench of rotting sweetness permeated the air one day, and those around him dropped like flies: the infection spreads quicker than he's ever seen.

He has no interest in lingering. Too much experience with the Cwyld says there's nothing to be done: he's neither Witch nor healer, and not even they can help with how rapidly it consumes every damn thing in its path. He's already outside the settlement when smoke fills the once floral scented air.

Geralt turns around. Flames lick the trees, crackling. He doesn't intend to go back in. If there's one thing he's learned to gauge a long time ago, it's when something can no longer be saved. But the shout that cuts through the night draws his attention.

He catches the man's arm before he can dive into the wall of flames. At first glance, it's possible to mistake Geralt as one of the newcomers: with pointed ears atop his head and a wolf's tail, he blends in with their Monsters. ]

You'll burn with them.

Gisele Maria Abravanel Braganza | Vampire: the Masquerade | Arachne

[bluntforcebeauty]

Fit to burst
[This is the worst trip of her all undead life. Like seriously, a solid -100/10. And that's saying something in comparison that she's been only really done adjusting to the whole baby you're a vampire now thing a few years prior. That's even worse than that one ride in Phuket. The one with the opium bar.

It must be the drugs really, she'd never come up with such sick shit on her own. Even if it's a very convincing trip. So just to be sure, she finds someone who at least looks reasonable -not one of those sickos thank you very much - and tries her best at sounding casual. You know, just as you sometimes need to ask people if there's anything wrong with your hair or make-up.]

Heya, sorry to drop it on you, but could you please tell me if there's something on my back?

[Because she doesn't trust mirrors, or her own eyes, but dear lord aren't those eight freaking spider legs sticking out just above her otherwise shapely ass. Worst trip, man, worst trip.]

The emergence
[And then it gets worse... Must be acid, can't be anything else, can it? How the hell one moment she can be at some seriously fucked-up kink party and the other in the middle of a fucking zombie apocalypse?! And she doesn't even have a shotgun! What kind of stupid dream that is?!]

Get away from me, you sick fucks!

Light It Up
[When the first fires start she runs, using the power and the speed of her new eight legs. She still thinks them freaky as hell but at least they get her away from the fire. You don't come close to a fire if you're a vampire. That's like the first lesson she learned.]

Oh god, oh god, please, let me wake up! Just let me wake up...

light it up.

[wiedzminka]

Whoa!

[ She nearly crashes into Ciri, whose training and instincts let her dodge deftly at the last moment and narrowly avoid an uncomfortable collision. In truth, the other woman's appearance alarms her somewhat, but she's spent enough time in this not-quite-dream by now to know this is what some of the denizens of this place simply look like.

Ciri catches the panicking Arachne by one of her (human) arms, forcing her to stop. At least for a moment. ]

Hey. Look at me. You have to calm down. Running blindly like that, you're only going to get hurt.

sophia × persona 5 strikers × merrow ( voicetesting! )

[humankindness]

— the emergence.

( Sophia wanders for hours, blue eyes wide and smile straining her face. it's a dream, but dreams are things she shouldn't have. AI aren't programmed to have dreams in the first place, and no amount of studying the human heart should allow that to be true.

(but if Sophia's learned anything, it's that should doesn't mean much to the Phantom Thieves, and now, maybe she's capable of the impossible too.)

right now, those questions are being ignored in favour of the beautiful surroundings, green bright spaces unlike any Jail she's entered. it's warm and alive all around her, and she hums a little tune to herself with each step. she can't wait to wake up and tell Joker all about what just happened— )

!

( but that will have to wait, as the ground beneath her feet blackens and instinct kicks in. she jumps back and panics as she goes barely a fraction of the distance the metaverse would allow. this is all wrong, the world around her suddenly succumbing to tar-like blackness and rot, and she whips her head wildly, looking for someone. anyone.

ah! there! she can't jump, or dash like the metaverse, and her body feels unbearably dry for reasons she can't pinpoint, but her legs still work. so she runs towards the first human-shaped thing she sees. )

The tree nearby shows evidence of an unknown infection. What is the directive?

— light it up.

( following logic, Sophia follows the people trying to fight this infection — the Cwyld, they call it — the same way she followed Joker's method of fighting Shadows. but here she can't whip up an approximation of a Persona, and her yo-yos are just yo-yos.

thankfully, her mind knows what she can do. knows there's magic inside her which controls the water all around them. she swipes a small bullet of water from someone's bottle and packs it tight, packs it into a tiny spear which goes flying at a Shade that comes a touch too close to another fighter, sending it stumbling back. )

Watch your back!

( that's what Mona said to do in a battle, and Sophia listened. if someone finds themselves surrounded, they'll soon enough see a little bullet of water darting in their direction, fast and forceful enough to momentarily stun one or more of their enemies as it weaves in and out.

and, several feet away, a small girl in a strange white hoodie, with hearts for braids in her red hair. )

— wildcard.

( Sophia's canon is pretty new, so if you want to avoid spoilers, please let me know! otherwise, please feel free to hit me with something else or message me at isanghae / isanghae#8071 to discuss things. )

Emergence --

[dadtastrophe]

[Another person is in a similar state, wide-eyed, staring at literally everything. Green. Fucking everywhere. It's overwhelming. And it has been for hours. For someone from a shithole like Midgar, it's incomprehensible.

'Course it's not real. That's the only thing that makes sense, right? Houses made of trees and winged flying... bug... people...

The rather giant of a man is crouched down, kneeling on one knee, gently thumbing a large green leaf with his left hand. Not like it's the first time he's seen one -- of course he's seen a damn plant -- but. Just testing how it feels. Even though he doesn't feel anything in dreams. Well. Not this sort.]

Huh... so that's how it is...

[He can feel her coming before he sees her. Barret turns quickly, holding out his right arm like he means to shoot her with it -- which, well.] What the -- [It's a habit, and he lowers it quickly; the arm is wrapped tightly at the end, but clearly the lower forearm is missing. His gun's gone, but he's still got plenty of weaponry. Not for this moment, though. He couldn't say this little girl looks like much of a threat.]

Directive? Direct who? [Excuse him, he's coming out of a post-death experience.]

[That's when he sees it behind her: black ground, twisted leaves and vines. But it ain't just that. It's moving. Crawling closer. Spreading. Barret takes a few large, cautious steps back as the distance between him and her and that black closes. Something about that doesn't look right. Doesn't feel right, either. It's wrong.] Shit. What'd you do to piss off the greenery?

fjord. | critical role. | witch.

[galasvar]

Fit to Burst

i: MODIFY MEMORY.
[Fjord's D&D-character getup may not be outlandish enough for him to stick out in the crowd, but the rest of him just may be. At least, compared to the humans who live here in the settlement—and some of the monsters, for that matter. Humanoid, but green skinned, gold-eyed, a pair of smallish tusks just visible curving over his lips. He's slim for a half-orc, if still tallish and broadish by human standards (just not remarkably so, in either case.) Dark haired, with a shock of white running through the forelock, scarred across his face in a few places, wearing a long coat and scuffed leather armor, a tricorn hat set aside against his knee.

And presently, he appears to be deep in conversation with one of the human locals over some fancy fey drinks of some sort.

Whatever they're talking about, it seems a bit hush-hush. And it seems to interest him intensely. ...but then a Fey floats on by and the human scatters before they can get caught gossiping. Gets up in a hurry and leaves, nearly knocking the table over with them when they go. And Fjord is left where he was sitting as the Fey leans down behind him and briefly whispers something in his ear. He goes rigid for a moment—(long enough for the Fey to look satisfied and pat him on the cheek and wander off)—before startling back to awareness and looking suddenly...very lost. Like he's not at all sure where he is, how he got here in the first place.

Realizing he's not exactly alone, here, he covers the confusion up so rapidly that the shift in gears is visible. His unease shutters suddenly behind a mild, pleasant look, the ramrod tension in his spine relaxing back into deliberate ease. He clears his throat a bit, as if to reorient himself. (It doesn't really help.)]

My apologies, I'm afraid my attention must have wandered for a moment. [Maybe a bit more than that, but he's working with what he's got, here. It comes out a whole lot more smoothly than his poor disoriented wits should allow, but it lets him stall for a second while he tries to catch up. There's a heartbeat of hesitation, afterward, like he's weighing his options before going out on a limb. Then a sheepish, apologetic tilt to his expression and his intonation as he lifts his chin and gestures to the human's now-abandoned drink in front of him. With just a hair more audible uncertainty—] If you'd just refresh my memory, real quick. Was this one...yours?

[It is now, if you want it. Do you like newbies and/or free fairy cocktails, yes or no.]

The Emergence

ii: LAY ON HANDS. (obligatory paladin first aid prompt, just let me know if you want to assume a cwyld infection or a more mundane injury on your character's end to get things rolling and we can run from there!)

[Now this...this is more like it. As soon as things start to take a nightmarish turn—the eerie unfamiliarity taking a nosedive into a cold and bone-deep sense of wrongness, of creeping darkness, of vague and uneasy threat—this weird fuckin' dream starts to feel a lot more familiar. It's just that he's always been (mostly) alone in his visions, before. The good ones and the awful ones alike. If it's supposed to mean something beyond giving him the creeps, he can't put a finger on what. But once things really start going to hell, he tables the trying-to-understand-it in favor of trying to stay in once piece—dream or not. The black goo that's spewing from ground pings as slick and profane enough that even his curiosity-killed-the-cat impulses don't want to touch it.

And given the chaos breaking out, it only takes a matter of time for him to stumble across someone looking hurt. Said someone might just feel a firm hand on the shoulder, to steady them, pull them over into what seems like a relatively quiet pocket of safety in the rubble of a collapsed house. (Quiet, at least, for now.) ]

Oh-kay, hold up, just a moment. [He has very little fucking clue what's going on right now, but to his credit you'd be hard pressed to realize that, right away. His voice is deep and even, and it stays low, urgent, but carefully steady. Convincing in how level it is, amongst the chaos still breaking out in the village. His expression is a match for it—kept meticulously calm, if concerned—his attention focused mostly down on the problem at hand. (Be it a bleeding wound or a spreading infection.) The only immediate tell of his skillfully hidden alarm would be the fingers of his free hand wrapped white knuckled and anxious around the holy symbol of Melora pinned to the lapel of his long coat—a spiraling crystal spoked through with an anchor, framed by a verdigris wreath of copper fronds.]

Why don't we just have us a sit-down. Take a breath.

[On an ordinary wound, he ought to be able to stitch you back up a little bit with some of the familiar-unfamiliar healing magic he's still got in him... if you slow down enough to let him. If you're already corrupted by the Cwyld, well. It won't help, not really, but he sure as hell doesn't know that. (And what the hell, he might as well try.)]

Light it up.

iii: MAJOR IMAGE.
[He had, of course, tried to talk to the newcomers, at some point. Tried to understand their purpose here, maybe lower the tensions a little. Hands held up in a gesture of peace as they surrounded him with torches and weapons and bared teeth and watched him suspiciously for signs of infection. But it became clear rather quickly after the first few terse exchanges that they weren't very interested in talking. After some of those blades pointed his way get a little close for comfort, he takes the hint and backs off. (They let him, but just barely.)

Spotting another Mirrorbound cornered by a similarly suspicious-looking hunting party, he takes a different approach.

Most of the farthest-gone infected have been driven back, slain, or burned, by now. But as the hunters close in on the Mirrorbound with questions, a full-formed shade comes tearing out from the nearby shadows all of a sudden. (Or at least, the illusion of a shade, as close as Fjord's fleeting first-impressions and the off-feel to his usual magical fallbacks can imitate. It's convincing enough to pass...from a distance.) The hunters startle and spin toward the more pressing threat as it rampages by, which gives Fjord a chance to sidle up and tap the cornered Mirrorbound on the shoulder to grab their attention. He'll give them a significant look and jerk his head back the way he came. Away from the burning of the wood, while the hunting party thinks it has bigger fish to fry. Lets get while the getting's good, bud, that illusion won't necessarily hold up for long.]

((or vi: surprise me! Y'all know the setting best, so I can roll with the punches if you have another idea. A dm is the best place to reach me if you need to! & If you're spoiler-adverse wrt CR at all fair warning that I'm pulling from fairly recent episodes, feel free to give me a head's up if you want me to be careful.))

ii. i shall give you my one dnd that is not cam.

[umbravore]

[The person he pulls aside is an elf. Long blond hair pulled into a braid and a longer red robe, emblazoned with a small blue patch. If Fjord is up on his dungeons and dragons fashion he could easily clock her as some kind of spellcaster. Speaking of her robes, they were doing a very good job of hiding the blood that was now on the outside of her body. She's not sure when she got slashed, or how many times, but to be fair, she stopped worrying about dying a long time ago.

Lup doesn't resist being pulled along, but her voice raises in protest, suddenly loud as the din from outside becomes muted by the walls of the abandoned house.]

Hold on there, pal. I don't really know what part of this situation struck you as a good time for a break.

[Her voice is strained but relatively calm given the pandemonium outside. More impatient than worried. Gaze follows Fjords down to where her red cloak was staining an even darker red,]

It's just, [She gingerly reaches in to touch the wound, sucking in a sudden breath.] Actually! You're right. This hurts a really fucking lot.

jester lavorre. | critical role. | fae!

[lavishes]

( obligatory warning for spoilers, from episode 100ish-onwards. )

FIT TO BURST.

[ Jester is definitely a stranger in these lands; instead of antennae are horns, her skin is blue, and she has a lot of questions about where her spells and Sprinkles and the Nein have gone. But she's got small, delicate wings and things look a little more technicolor and her skin seems to shimmer, and it's not long before she's comfortable. Flitting from people to people as she excitedly talks to them, encourages them to try out the pastries she has ( they may or may not be stale ), and occasionally asks them questions like — where is this? What do they do, here? How does she get home?

When people have no idea what home might be, and not-so-gently asks her to stop being so confusing, she drops the questions about Exandria.

a. But there's still things about home she can talk about, without talking about home. Namely —

The next conversation partner ( read: victim ) she picks out is definitely not one of the natives, she's pretty sure, but they seem interesting enough. There's no greeting, no introduction, as she jumps right in. Her voice heavy with an eastern European accent, a little too cheery. ] Hey, hey, have you seen an archfey, yet? 'Cause I'm kind of best friends with one. [ What, ]

b. [ And, with enough poking around, she decides that for all the glitz-and-glamor, they all seem like drinkers and partiers — and she's a partier, but less of a drinker. Which means it's time to go ... elsewhere, probably. Her wings flutter behind her, almost subconsciously, as her head turns to the edges of the settlement. She glances over to the groups of dancing fae and monsters and humans alike, then back to the woods.

One step. Two steps. A third. Hopefully no one catches her escape attempt. ]

LIGHT IT UP.

[ Here's the thing: grumpy people are, like, kind of her thing. Or at least — bothering grumpy people is her thing. She likes talking to them, because usually she manages to get a couple of back-and-forths in, and usually they're nonsense, so it's pretty hilarious ( to her ). And — well — these guys kind of look like they know what they're doing, and it's probably a good idea to see if they know what the fuck is going on, here.

The problem is, she doesn't have people be openly hostile to her on sight. ]

Hi! 'scuse me, hi. [ She waves, with her too-wide eyes extra wide and her lips split into a grin and her brand new wings fluttering gently. ] You looked really cool, when you — set... a tree on fire. [ Jester recovers, then continues. ] So um, I was wondering—

[ One of the grumpy assholes in the back puts a hand to the hilt of his sword. Another's grip on his torch tightens. Please stop her before they burn her, too. ]

WILDCARD.

( as always! if the prompts above don't suit you, feel free to hit me with your own — or shoot me a pm to discuss what else can happen. i'm flexible! and if you need me to tread lightly on spoilers, also give me a heads up. )

light it up

[piromare]

... you should probably stop talking.

( he makes no effort to try to sneak up or even try subtlety; this is a dream after all, and he's not worried about what he may look or sound like. he's still lio fotia of course, though with wings and the legs of some kind of bird of prey. still short, still kind of twink-ish, but armed with a sword that is reminiscent of one of those eastern lands that galo is so fond of. )

I don't think they feel like explaining anything to you, but I can try.

( though he does keep an eye on those natives. if they're that strong, there's no telling what they may try to do to anyone. )

Ciri | The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt | Monster

[wiedzminka]

i. ugly duckling

[ A couple of gossamer-winged, impishly smiling Fae surround Ciri from either side, giggling and making snide suggestions that the young woman does not seem to appreciate in the slightest. She's slightly flushed, shoulders tensed up and fists clenched with anger. Apparently, though her clothing matches the residents well enough it didn't at first draw attention, her protestations against using magic is enough to earn her quite a bit of unwanted attention. ]

I already told you! [ she complains, loud and clearly quite exasperated. ] I can't do a glamour. I just can't.

[ Not that she doesn't know how, exactly, but on top of being quite out of practice when it comes to spells like that, her magic simply isn't... working. In some part of herself, Ciri knows this isn't reality -- not exactly. It's one of those dreams that isn't only a dream, but it's a very strange and very clear one.

One of the Fae reaches out with a tut of her tongue, tugging at a lock of Ciri's fair, nearly-white hair, making some sort of disapproving comment at the mess of it. What a haphazard hairstyle, they complain. What an awful scar on her face. Why can't she simply make it go away? Would she like them to teach her how? ]

I said no! [ Ciri slaps the hand of the Fae away, earning a wide-eyed stare of shock that quickly turns to fury. Ciri squares her shoulders, standing up straight and tight-lipped, brows furrowed just as angrily. Her fingers itch to reach for her sword, but she manages to restrain herself. ]

You are being incredibly rude. I have no need for a glamour or anything of the sort. Leave me alone.

[ If you are watching or merely passing by, one of the Fae women -- with wings like a dragonfly and long, spindly limbs that hold surprising strength -- reaches out suddenly and grabs you, dragging you closer to join their argument.

"Well? What do you think? You'll help her out, won't you?"

The woman's bright green eyes glare daggers. Will you back her up or not? ]

Tell them to leave me be before I do something we'd all regret.

ii. silver for monsters

[ Chaos. The scent of blood, of rot, of twisted things. Screams. A chill runs through her, a sick weight in the pit of her stomach -- of realization, the first time she watches the black substance overtake someone and turn them into a ravenous, mindless beast. She understands.

The moment things go south, Ciri springs into action. Her sword is in her hand in the blink of an eye, blade glinting in the sunlight muddled by smoke and dust as the village descends into utter pandemonium. She runs, sure-footed, deftly avoiding the grotesque plants and the creeping black ichor they've left, stepping over dead bodies with the grim determination of someone used to such a sight.

Her aim: an enormous Shade, perhaps once some sort of deer, with tall, black antlers climbing like twisted branches out of a grotesque, bony face now all swathed in shadow and mindless violence. The monster thrashes, throwing its huge horned head this way and that, crashing into buildings and people. It's difficult to tell if this was a person once or an animal, but at this point, it hardly matters. It rears up, front hooves pawing at the air before it with a screech. ]

Watch out! [ Ciri shouts, dashing forward toward you if you're in the way of its horns or hooves, whether you're running or fighting as well.

She intercepts the next strike, soft leather boots sliding across dirt to bring her right in front of whoever she's decided could use a hand in this situation. With a powerful swing of her sword, she cleaves clean through one of the ink-black antlers, and the enraged Shade screams. ]

Don't just stand there. Either defend my back or run.

iii. steel for humans

I won't let you do that.

[ Ciri steps in between a group of grim-faced villagers armed with torches and fire magic, blocking their way from one of the Mirrorbound they've decided need to be taken care of, whether they are Fae themselves or were seen associating with them when the Calamity struck.

The fair-haired young woman already has her sword drawn, though she keeps it down for now, at her side and held in a loose but confident grip. She doesn't move to put it away. ]

Enough blood has been shed today. This person isn't infected.

[ She glances over her shoulder at the person -- whether or not it's someone she recognizes -- and stares intently at them, searching for any of the tell-tale signs. ]

You're not, right?

iv. a moment of respite

Drink this.

[ Ciri hands over a flask she pulls from her belt, pushing it into the hands of the person she's pulled out of a fight or a fire. Whatever is inside, it's strong. ]

How badly are you hurt? Anything broken?

[ She checks for blood, getting ready to tear strips off her white shirt sleeve if any open wounds need staunching. ]

(( ooc: have an idea for another prompt instead? PM this journal and let's chat! ))

i. ugly duckling

[cointosser]

[As far as the sorts of dreams Jaskier has had, either alone or that he's been pulled into to walk through, it's not the worst. Or, it rather may not have been, if the previous month had not occurred. His experience with Fae had been limited mainly to Mikasa, who was neither witty nor particularly mischievous, with the personality akin to grated cheese. He had been fond of her, especially compared to these. These monsters.

And of course, the Monsters moving to and fro make it all the worse. His skin chills as he goes out of his way to avoid them, nearly tripping over his own boots to step away from a particularly grim-looking vampire --

Only for his arm to be caught. The bard is lifted off the ground a few inches, and he doesn't hear the chattering above his head over his cry, which goes a little something like this:] AHH, LET GO OF ME!

[He kicks until his feet land again, his heart fluttering like an enraged and entrapped butterfly.]

How dare you! You can't just go around plucking people off -- [He looks up from brushing his doublet off, which is much more colorful than any of the ones he actually has, embroidered with rich lavender threads. (At least his dream clothes are rather lovely.)] Her? Oh.

[He clears his throat. The her in question is equal parts beautiful as she is rather intimidating, considering the large scar across her face and the sword at her side. Yet even as frightened as he was (trauma dies hard, doesn't it?) he still stands by the woman and the fae, and maybe edges just behind her, which is not quite helping him look intimidating. It's. Fine. They're not -- they're not part of the Circle. The Circle is gone. And this is not real, anyway.] You -- you lot leave her alone. And in fact, leave me alone! Leave both of us alone! Shoo!

[Little magic sparks come out of his finger, and a few light up into fire. That'll show them. At this point, he would only hesitate a little to burn a Monster who couldn't keep their hands to themselves.]

Omega | Final Fantasy XIV | Witch

[larboardstarboard]

Objective 1: Observe a world fit to burst with magic

[In all of its eons of existance, Omega cannot recall from its memory banks a time where it dreamed like this. While it cannot assert with 100% certainty that this has always been true, given the corruption of the data over its travels, it can at least hypothesize at much given the data contained in the parts of its memory that remain intact. Therefore, it can only conclude that the dream is merely a means by which to pull its consciousness through the aetherial rift to this location.

A Dreamscape, if one must name it. Not dissimilar to the Delta, Sigma, and Alpha scapes that it had built for the purposes of testing subjects.

The air in the Dreamscape hums with an energy that Omega is unable to identify. The architecture, manner of dress, and habits of the mortal inhabitants are similarly foreign. In order to gather the necessary data to inform its next move, Omega simply watches and listens. It seems as if hours go by, but that is an unreliable observation based on the tendency of time to be perceived differently in the dreams of mortals.

Omega observes three classes of mortals within the Dreamscape:

1. The Masters, apparently immortal and unquestionably carpricious beings that are immediately hostile toward Omega and its "unnatural" metal body.

2. The Subjugated, mortal beings native to this Dreamscape who revere their Masters at all costs. This behavior is in line with Omega's observations that mortals tend to rally around those they perceive to be stronger.

3. Anomalies, creatures that fail to fit in with the place, time, and cultural assumptions of the Dreamscape. Omega's initial hypothesis is that these beings have been pulled in like it was.

The next phase of data collection is to approach the mortals and request information outright. To maximize its chances of success, Omega takes the form of a young woman. Mortals are more likely to respond positively to other mortals than to unknown robotic entities.

Speaking to the Masters is a non-starter--they see through the illusion and behave with the same hostility as before. Omega finds that the Subjugated are happy to talk but ultimately unhelpful in their testimony. Things are good and peaceful here, they say, and one shouldn't ask too many questions lest they catch the attention of the Masters.

That leaves fellow Anomalies. Omega can be found approaching them throughout the village. Its voice is vaguely feminine but largely mechanical, a poor facsimile of how humans actually speak to each other.]

Query: what is it that you know of this place?


Objective 2: Experience the emergence of blight and infection

["Cwyld" is how many of the mortals refer to it. From what limited information Omega is able to glean amidst the chaos, it is a disease of organic beings, choking out life force and replacing it with a rotting, unnatural energy that forces the corpse to keep acting as if alive.

Despite being inorganic, Omega finds itself infected anyway.

The changes brought on by the Cwyld happen rapidly, scrambling its sensors and installing a separate, corrupted consciousness. It becomes immediately clear that this corrupted consciouness seeks only to reproduce, a logic that Omega cannot argue. Reproduction is the primary driver of most creatures, sentient and non-sentient. Clearly, the Cwyld is not excepted from this compuslion.

Omega, however, ought to be. But whether due to the corruption supplanting its own functions or the lack of any other real directive, it finds itself willing to give in and allow the Cwyld to use its form as a vessel. Its consciousness can remain in the background, collecting data, processing... processing......

Processing error.

Should anyone be unlucky enough to approach a full-Shade Omega, they will find that it has transformed into something large and terrible, a corruption of what it believes to be man's strongest form. It is fully blackened and incredibly hostile.

Good luck.]

Ferran Gallagher | OC | Fae

[noblegarnet]

A. Emergence

[The bone-thin, twisted form with giant tattered moth wings doesn't seem as if it should be able to move at all. In fact, in the chaos of the spreading plague, it seems to largely remain in place, its glowing white eyes blankly staring forward as if unaware of its surroundings. Or perhaps that's what it wants others to think.

In reality, it moves frighteningly fast, with little transition between its motionless state and its top speed, darting and flying with long fingers outstretched towards targets it apparently picks on a whim, rather than everything that comes within its view. Perhaps they remind it of something... or someone... and when it decides on its prey, it refuses to yield until it's fully incapacitated, whether that means restraint or death.

Perhaps the creature isn't as much of a physical threat with its form alone, but its mind is not so addled that it can't trap its victims in an endless illusory labyrinth filled with their worst fears, sometimes as real as the waking world to every sense, including pain. But the Shade isn't invincible, and even with the twisted disease fueling its magic, its form can at times be spotted—and dealt with.

Or perhaps, through the haze of unbearable pain and the urge to spread, destroy, a voice makes its way out:]

end it.

B. Light it up

[When Ferran comes to in the dream once more, he rises to his feet in a jaded daze. The place is familiar now. The situation hasn't changed. Like a disc scratched beyond repair, he's been forced to repeat the experience of whatever this dream is, but with an awareness he didn't have before. Avoid the Cwyld this time. Find a new path, a way to resolve things in a less unpleasant way. Perhaps the disc won't skip again.

The solution is to combat the plague, surely. And so when the outsiders approach with their torches and pitchforks, he thinks the solution lies with them. And maybe it does, but as it turns out, they think he's part of the problem, as his unglamored appearance makes him clearly one of their enemy, however mixed with human heritage.

Ferran is fluttering considerably out of reach of said torches and pitchforks (iron, of course), in a shouting argument with the wielders of those instruments.]

Do you think I want this to spread?! I'm trying to help you!

[But, of course, Fae can't be trusted.]

C. Retribution

[Ferran manages to avoid another skip and another death, however narrowly. But by this time, he decides that the dream world means little to nothing to him, that it's ultimately meaningless. So why not let go? Why shouldn't he use the dream to let off steam? Why bother with the pretenses?

Not all of the carefree Fae of the settlement had fled by the time the locals had arrived. And like Ferran, they have particular weaknesses. With a thick pair of leather gloves and a stolen pitchfork, he dives through the air and lances the wing of one of those few unfortunate fairies as they attempt to escape the "paradise" they'd built, pinning them to the ground, or a tree, or whatever surface is available to him. The iron burns on contact, drawing a shriek out of them.

Bitter and full of hatred, he snarls:]

Where are you going?

[Even knowing that none of his words will make any difference, it's cathartic. He can speak his mind, play out the sorts of vengeful fantasies that he'd obsessed over before, full of righteous anger. His hands itch under the gloves, but he only grips his weapon tighter.]

You have a responsibility to these people. [There is nothing in his face but contempt as the creature struggles and seems to be debating whether to tear its wing off to get away.] And instead you're abandoning them!

[He is nothing like them. He is nothing like these Fae. He refuses.]

[OOC: More on Ferran can be found over here! If you'd like something else with me, you can check out my catch all for the month, pm me, or contact me at lumieresdedragon!]

A. Emergence

[larboardstarboard]

[Omega, not yet infected and still in a "human" disguise, regards the diseased creature dispassionately.]

You maintain control of your mental facilities. That is anomalous with previous observations of sentient beings infected by the Cwyld.

[Its head tilts as its gaze fixes harder.]

Yet you wish to die. Explain why that is so.

[This situation is both consistent and inconsistent with previous dealings with mortal beings. They can push past their limits and defeat the undefeatable when properly stressed. Someone being able to somehow maintain a sense of self through the infection is an unexpected but unsurprising development.

But this creature lacks the conviction of its most recent test subjects, even going so far as to request suicide-by-proxy. There is no "spirit" in this victory.

Every time it thinks it comes closer to understanding how these mortal creatures be, something strange like this happens.]

albert × original × arachne ( scorpion! )

[erve]

— fit to burst.

( they tuck a loose piece of white-blond hair behind their ear as they walk — though is walk the correct word when you've discovered eight legs you didn't have before — through the settlement's winding, foreign buildings.

eyes slide towards them as they walk, but that's nothing new. the demon mercenaries ofte eyed them up as well, especially in the beginning. Albert raises their head a little higher and steps a little faster, ignoring the cry of darling, I can do something about your hair!, their eyes instead tracking the world around them.

a dream, to be sure, but there's just a touch too much bite to the cool breeze, the colours of the unfamiliar flowers a bit too vibrant. everything just that bit too ideal. they find a corner, nestled between two stores, and fold their arms, standing out of the way of the comings and goings of people, ears pricked to the flow of conversations which surround them.

shh, we can't be talking about this in public!

which of course means that it's exactly the kind of conversation Albert hopes continues in their earshot.

I'm telling you, that's the third death—
shush!

and the human silences the chattering faun with a snap of magic. of course they do.

okay, second plan. )

Excuse me, ( Albert catches someone walking nearby with a brush of their fingers against the stranger's arm. ) Do you mind coming this way?

( to this small, private nook of an alleyway. totally fine. )

— light it up.

( fighting is not their forte. they've a dagger, used for little more than self-defence, and a collection of historical weapons which certainly didn't come with them to this dream.

but the rest of this battlefield, wild and untamed, is something they can understand. they speak to the group which comes in force and understand immediately. their hands reach for tinder and fuel, even as their eyes survey the state of fighting going on. )

To your left. ( it's directed at whoever's nearby, as they stumble and back away from fighting not yet done. ) There's three more behind that.

( fighting's hard, don't get tired. they need a moment's distraction to light the fire, so help them out. )

— wildcard.

( hit me with anything! or contact me at isanghae / isanghae#8071 to hash something out! )

fit to burst - say hi to fellow arachne ( spider )

[bluntforcebeauty]

Hey, watch it! You don't just grab people off the ...

(... street.

Woah--ay! ❥ Hello gorgeous~~ ❥

Gisele turns to give her honest opinion to yet another creep who decided to bug her this time, realizes it is certainly not one of those - No, sir! Like hell, it is not! -- and her whole attitude to takes a full 180.

It's no secret that she's always on the lookout for new faces to add to their roster. You don't just let a chance like that walk away. She greets the white haired beauty with her best smile.)

Yes?

Asgore | Undertale Pacifist Ending | Witch

[kingfluffyboy]

[Fit to Burst]

[In the midst of all this hubbub of a thriving settlement is one more inhuman being, a towering wall of a rather lionish goat-man, armored in gold and cloaked in royal purple, a crown perched between his curving horns, a small plate clutched in his claws topped with some strange fae food he had been handed by a friendly stranger not too long ago.

This probably wouldn't be an issue at all except he's stopped nearly in the middle of the road, forcing pedestrian traffic to simply go around him like some sort of furry white and gold boulder in the middle of a stream. How much of the fact that he's being an amazing roadblock is actually getting through isn't very certain, as he's mostly looking around with the sort of piteous look reserved by kicked puppies instead of paying attention to the small ... large ... problem of being in the way.

In fairness it's been a very long time since he's seen the sky. Or the sun. Or clouds. Or humans for that matter, and there are a distressingly high number of humans, but at least there's a healthy mix of monsters as well even if he doesn't recognize any of them. There's part of him certain none of this is real, none of it is really relevant and he should really, really wake up soon.

Before he can't wake up at all.]

Oh dear.

[This is going to require a bit of careful poking about isn't it? What's a fae? Why is everything covered in illusion magic? Why are they using illusion magic at all??

More people stream past, some giving dirty looks or grumbling words, but it doesn't seem to sink in; Asgore is thoroughly preoccupied with the fact that there's a sun in the sky and he has no idea where he is.]

(OOC note: If you'd prefer to do something else HMU! I can't think of reasonable fighty prompts at this juncture for the other two, but if that's what you want we can work something out!)

[justabaddream]

[Asriel is passing through the crowds of people, a little more used to working his way through crowds than he was when he first arrived. He doesn't see Asgore at first, just bumps into his side as he passes through.]

Oof! Sorry!

L Lawliet (Linden Tailor) | Death Note | OTA

[hearthebell]

A. Fit to Burst

[After nearly two years in Aefenglom, L knows well enough what's happening. Though the settlement feels otherworldly, from the onset, he feels at home here. The architecture feels welcoming, the glamours intuitive, the melting pot varied enough that he feels something like a sense of belonging.

The culture of frequent and excessive magic use is one he slots into quickly. Adept as he is and appreciative of all that magic can do for him, the pale, spindly witch is subject to the kind of unconditional, jovial acceptance in this dream that he rarely experiences in his everyday life, in any world. He's awkward and odd; he's also good at magic, and the resulting warm enthusiasm he's met with just for practicing his delicate, elegant and complicated spells is kind of addictive. Creative and clever, he's helping to patch a glamour on one of the humble huts for an appreciative newcomer, who wants a beautiful faerie house but is reluctant and shy about asking one of the Fae themselves for assistance.

"Thank you, Mr. Tailor... that's really lovely. We're so fortunate here, especially considering what's going on a few towns over..."]

And what would that be?

[What an opportune time to approach; sounds like a bit of gossip from the outside is about to drop from the native's lips.]

B. The Emergence

[L was welcomed here quickly, accepted and embraced, and as a result, it feels like he's been here longer than he has. Several days? Perhaps more? He could stay, he realizes; no one here would complain, his skills are so helpful. At times, the lucidity of the dream even slips; he forgets that he will wake up from this and leave it, so great, at times, is his longing to stay.

A rotten breeze disturbs his thoughts, and the longing vanishes, even as the breeze remains, and grows stronger, and the wind grows tight and agitated in his lungs.

Soon, others are crying out in a panic for healers. Someone grasps at him, a black-veined dragon crying out in agony, and L pulls away, shaking his head.]

I'm not a healer... I'm sorry, I can't...

[The panic is spreading right along with the illness. L turns to look for higher ground, a hand against his chest. His skin is so pale that even the earliest signs of veins darkening is very clear and obvious.]

C. Light it Up

[He doesn't remember what happened, at the end. He was sick, he was a shade, and then he was dead, or as good as. He doesn't know who else he hurt, or infected, or even killed, in that unconscious stretch of time, just that his self was crushed down and annihilated like a candle in a thrashing flood. He really was powerless against it, and it's in a daze that he wanders back in the morning, pale and haunted but otherwise unharmed after witnessing the rest of the settlement's destruction from the outskirts the night before.

He does manage to speak to the newcomers, after first ensuring that he bears no signs of infection. Their mission is clear, and he does take a set of torches, but he wanders rather than helps. Even as he understands the necessity of culling the Cwyld once an infection is beyond help, he has no desire to murder those who are aware enough to cry for mercy. He's never been a killer, has always drawn the line at taking life even if there are few other moral boundaries he won't walk over and through.

He gathers information, learns what he can... until he sees you. Whether you've never been to Aefenglom, or you're someone who's been here awhile, even someone he knows well? He'll greet you.]

You're here...

[A dreamlike, dazed observation. He recognizes you as Mirrorbound, at least... and if he does know you, he's probably happy to see you, after that harrowing business.]

D. Wildcard

[Don't see it? Want it? Have at it! Throw something in here or hit me up at ladylazarus#2235 to plot.]

[faithlikeaseed]

Where else would I be?

[A familiar shape looms up out of the smoke and mist, taller by far than L at the shoulder and nearly glowing in the wan morning light. His white hide is a benefit for once: Any Cwyld infection would stand out on him like ink on parchment and there is no fleck to be seen of it now.

It had not been so earlier: Even trying to avoid the Fae settlement and the disquiets it held, he had not been able to escape his duty to those caught in its demise. Not when one of his Bonded was among them, not even when their Bond turned garbled and dissolved into an empty aching in his chest. He had fought anyway, and died; and thrown himself into the breach again, and lived long enough to see help arrive only to earn an arrow through the throat for the black blotches all over his hide.

But he is alive, now, and L is alive, and they are both here, and that will be enough for the moment.

He draws closer to his Witch and lifts his head for a moment's long study. Satisfied to neither see nor smell the Cwyld, he lowers those proud antlers and abruptly sheds his deer-shape to cross the last few steps between them.]

I'm sorry I wasn't faster.

Barret || FFVII: Remake || Turnskin (Wolverine)

[dadtastrophe]

I. Fit to Burst

[Going from taking an exhausted rest in the wasteland outside of Midgar to being here — wherever the hell here was — was some kind of mindfuck. Had to be a dream, right? He hasn’t seen this kind of green for… hell, he can’t even remember. Years, it feels like.

Or maybe a few hours, if he counted that little vision in Shinra HQ. The kind of thing the Ancient Ones would cultivate.

Maybe he’d really just skipped the rest and gone straight to the Promised Land at the end of Sephiroth’s sword. Wouldn’t that be some kind of lucky, huh?

Barret covers the middle of his chest with a hand just to check. No hole, no blood. Not even pain. But there was warmth, and there was a heart thrumming steadily underneath. So a dream, then, huh? But he’d never felt his heart going like this in a dream. He’d never felt this sort of wonder.

After so much time suffocating in Midgar, he’s more than awed by all this green. He lets the hardness usually around his face fall as he walks under fruit-heavy trees, his fingers drawing over green, green leaves. Greener than anything he’s seen. Green like how the sky, the real sky, can get so blue.

The planet’s alive here. Thriving. It grows wild, it reaches out with its arms in every direction, and the people. Man! The people are cradled there, and they work with it all. At least he thinks that’s how it is at first. He stops some locals to get a handle on what all this is, and what he quickly gathers is this:

These people (and looking at some of them, that’s putting it lightly) are Fae, and the way the others talk about them? The way they talk about the magic? Barret feels a chill he can, actually, explain. Not from looking at all this wonder around him, but from what he’s lived through himself. What he’s just seen, just escaped from.

It’s too close. Goddamn, it’s too close. There’s sirens blaring in his head already. “We’re free here!” a wide-eyed, brightly-robed guy says (like he’s trying to convince everyone else), and they look up together as the Fae flutter above them, flying past, without even a glance down. When it catches the light, their wings glitter like something toxic. Magic swirling everywhere. Magic… magic being sucked up by anyone who has the mildest inconvenience.

Did they ever wonder if there was an end to it? Is he even looking at the same thing?] Huh. [Barret’s hand finds his chest again, looking for the hole that isn’t there.] How’re you gonna call yourselves free when you still got someone looking down on you?


II. The Emergence

[Time is moving, he knows that much. Not how, not why. It doesn’t matter, really. He’s walking and passes underneath one of those trees he’s been studying like he means to paint them, just as it bursts. Black juice pours of it, splattering on the ground as it splashes up. Barret turns to the sound, flinching as what looks like black ooze hits his boots.]

What the — it’s rotten. [It doesn’t have a smell, not really, not at first. His nose twitches as he catches it, and something, some instinct, shoots through him as he takes a step back. The kind of instinct that screams don’t touch it.

Barret hasn’t had time to take everything in. Not the furry, rounded ears that peel back against his head, nor the way the hair on the back of his arms twists up into fur close to his shoulders. That scream inside, like something primal, is the first time the change in him has reared its head so directly, he can’t ignore it.

He doesn’t touch it and, in fact, makes distance between him and it, wiping his boot on the grass. He looks up to see the black is spreading from where it splattered across the ground. It’s spreading quick. Heading straight back towards that town. Towards them still looking up all bright-eyed at the Fae.]

Hey! [Barret calls out to the closest person he can grab the attention of.] You seen this before?


III. Light It Up

[If anyone's met Barret for one second or several days, it's not surprising that he is absolutely standing between this little settlement and the militia wielding fire and claws. (Claws. What the fuck, man.) But he's seen Red and some of these are just like him, even if they're a little better on two legs. Sometimes.

Barret has yet to grasp entirely what the hell is going on, but he knows enough. If he was a gambling man, the last people he'd ever be betting on to be the good guys would be the ones coming in to burn everything down.]

You've got to be out of your goddamn minds! I'm not lettin' you go in there and burn these peoples' homes down! Some of 'em are still in there! [He spreads out his arms, like he's big enough to stop all of them from approaching any closer. There's bared teeth and growls and snarls from the group, but a man can't help but feel a chill of fear looking down into the mouth of something with three times as many teeth as he's got.

Barret doesn’t know when he bares his own teeth, his are sharp, pointed. Absolutely carnivorous.

Fear or not, he's not moving him a muscle. Not a fucking chance.] Y'all must be a bunch of cowards, coming here to ruin these lives so you can save your own. You all gonna run me down to get in there?

[He glances behind him, his pupils wide and black. There’s a scream as another tree lights up.] Go help ‘em out in there! I’ll hold these bastards off!

(2) hi there! ♥

[bravers]

Watch out!

[Said person is infected. Said person is... absolutely not in any sort of savable state, and said person is... soon levelled. Cloud's quick about it, of course. While the blow that fells the infected is less than merciful in any sense of the word, it's something that's quick, and something that has the infected dead, or well on their way, before they've hit the ground.

It's not something he relishes. It's clear on his face, but the need for the action far outweighs any sort of guilt he's feeling. A flash of bright, too bright, blue eyes meet Barret's face. Then they look away- wheeling around to ascertain where the next threat is coming from.]

Anyone with that stuff on their skin is as good as dead. And they're infectious, so be careful.

[Hi, Barret. It's good to see you, Barret. Are you okay, Barret? They're not words that are expressed, and... well, probably should be. But need far outweighs basic manners. They're not in a good position.]

Any on you?

[A glance to him. And...]

You're kind of a wide target.

[He shouldn't joke. But old habits happen to come before basic manners too. Sorry, buddy.]

Saint Adeline | Bloodborne | Turnskin (Wolf)

[illumenating]

Fit to Burst

[ Sleep couldn’t have been more welcome after her last day working as a Blood Saint. Though, her nerves made it hard to relax as all she could think about was her arrival and first treatment at the Research Hall the very next day. Nothing to be terribly afraid of, she is sure. She would undergo the experimentation and with any luck, ascend to a higher plane of existence, and the Church would be that much closer to obtaining their vision. And… perhaps, that much closer to stopping Beasthood, or at least containing it.

Her dreams are abstract and nonsensical, at first. Drifting until she finds herself standing in an unfamiliar village; vivid, bright and colorful. She’s in her Church garb as though she had never dressed down for bed at all. It’s surreal, for sure. Surreal and… something feels off; not in just the world around her, but also with herself.

The strange people around her, imbued in some sort of magic, was equally a wonder and a concern. But… this is a dream, isn’t it? Perhaps born of a need for escape from her nervousness over the radical change in her life. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered her so much if someone hadn’t asked her about her abilities as a monster.

She has to ask several times for them to clarify and when they point out the sharpness of her canines and the way her eyes were larger and abnormal for a human, she's reluctant to accept it until they bring her over to something reflective for her to see for herself. To say the least, it scares her and just as the young fae is trying to explain to her what's happening, she takes off her gloves when they start feeling hot and uncomfortable, only to find something even more upsetting. Her nails are sharper, discolored and there are distinct patches of fur peeking out from underneath her sleeves.

Oh, gods. It can’t be…

Her hands shake and the words being spoken to her sudden fade into the background, mute and distorted as fear envelops and grips her. Immediately, she excuses herself and steps back and turns away, leaving the poor fae mid-sentence.

That the world around her is a dream is barely a thought in her mind. The only thoughts she has have been engrained in her for years: If she’s turning, she can’t be around anyone; not a soul, lest everyone in proximity be in danger of her ripping them to shreds. She would go to the Church for them to do with her as they had to, but... she doesn't even know where she is. Her only option is to get as far away from people as possible. She would lose her mind if she succumbed to Beasthood, wouldn’t she? It seems odd that she hasn’t already.

As she enters the woods, she hears someone warn her to go no further, but continues onward without responding. She keeps running, her vision blurring with tears as she stumbles over tree roots and brush. A low hanging branch catches the hat and knocks it off of her head and her hood follows suit. She needs to find somewhere secluded to sort things out, if there is even time for such. ]

[whomthebelltolls]

[Maria's long since used to the dreams, to the way they feel. This one is only different because she feels the mana as it wraps around her, as it flows into her. She's so use to that portending disaster: an influx of mana like this would surely lead to an overload and an explosion, but then...

It flows through her. It continues as though it is already cleansed and brought back into the world without destroying her in the process. She likes the feeling; it's powerful, and she wishes it would continue into the waking world.

But this is just a dream, and Maria is very well aware of it. She wanders through the streets, feeling that strange surging, tingling sensation. The way it seems to be fizzy on her tongue. Then, another scent winds through the mana in the air, and it's hauntingly familiar.

Blood. Yharnam Blood. It has to be. Maria's sense of smell isn't quite as good as it used to be, but it's still better than most peoples', and she knows the sweet scent anywhere.

It must be close by, and it's only when she sees the familiar black and white garb fleeting past her that she realizes there's... a Church member here. The layers of Church garb are thick enough that she doesn't get a good look at the person's face, but the small stature tells her it's a woman of some kind.

A woman who is currently fleeing from whatever she saw in the mirror, and Maria steps forward. Regardless of whom among the Church it is, she feels like she has to track them down. They run out of town and into the woods, and Maria's long legs (and a couple teleportation spells) at least get her within earshot of the figure. Maria's voice is soft and doesn't carry well, so she has to get as close as she can before she calls out:] Wait - you, of the Healing Church, yes? Yharnam? Stop where you are! It's dangerous out here.

myr shivana | dragon age (oc) | faun

[faithlikeaseed]

fit to burst

a. open
i. Myr wouldn't have come to this party if he'd known about the mind control.

Here he is, quite happy to schmooze along with an assorted flock of other Fauns and work them for information about this moment in Talam's history, when some sharp-eared tittering butterfly descends on one of his new friends for a little "chat". As Myr had been eavesdropping eagerly on the goat-Faun's muttered description of a Witch exploding in the neighboring, he's an immediate party to the Fae wiping the thought from the other Monster's eyes with a wave of her delicate hand. "Shh, shh, don't worry your cute little head about that. Nothing like that happened; it won't happen here, trust me..."

Trust me.

"Get your hands OFF HIM," Myr shouts, dropping his drink and charging the Fae. She shrieks; the other Fauns shriek; the entire herd bolts in all directions as Myr does his best to tackle their "master" into a wall, grabbing to keep her hands away from his head.

ii. It takes only one repetition of this stunt for Myr to wear out his welcome. It's not the Fae but their adoring "students" that dog-pile him and drag him kicking and struggling to the edge of the village. "You can't let them do this to you! They haven't the right--!"

A moose-centaur Faun half as broad as a house deposits the irate little deer on the ground beyond the last of the cottages. She doesn't bother refuting an obvious madman, instead wheeling around with a dismissive snort. The tiny mite Arachne riding on her back lifts a clawed hand in a wave that's half-cheery and half-threatening.

"You jus' sit an' cool yer temper, misser Antlers, an' give the masters a pretty apology when you come back. They'll letcha stay!"

Yeah, well, fat chance of that. Myr glares venomously after the retreating pair before dropping himself on a fallen log to brood, ears low and chin in his hands.

b. for lahabrea (closed)

So, this is what all Myr's efforts have come to: Exile on the outskirts of the village with one tiny cask to his name, courtesy of a fellow-Faun with a pitying heart. (Even if he couldn't BE in the village, threat to the "masters" that he'd proven, he didn't have to be sober about it--or so the reasoning seemed to go.)

Out of options to further his research--and really trying hard NOT to think about what the True Fae are doing to people two streets over--he's thus settled in to drink. The contents of the cask are something fruity, and herbal, and strong enough for even a Faun to feel, which is a great incentive to drink as much of them as needed to drown his sorrows. He's gotten through one cup already and started on a second one when a very bright spray of feathers catches his attention. A bright spray of feathers attached to what's obviously a Dragon, and that's immediately interesting because he hasn't seen any native Dragons in the village so this must be another Mirrorbound.

He gets to his hooves and ambles after the apparition with cup in hand. "So what are they making of you?" he calls after his target, without preamble. "Th' unfortunates over in the village. Don't know if they've ever seen a Dragon before, let 'lone a spectacular one."

Andraste's perky tits but those are nice feathers.

((ooc: more to come in comments as I'm inspired! also up to wildcarding.))

c.c

[fuelingfire]

The last time Lahabrea and Myr had physically crossed paths, Myr was stone blind - and Lahabrea barely begun his changes. Now they were in full swing, and he looked very little like he once did in a dream months ago, the lack of mask and all-concealing robes notwithstanding. He'd have preferred both, but this ... echo of a dream or another time saw fit to leave him only slacks and a simple black shirt, making the red gold and brass of his feathers and scales almost garishly vivid in comparison, something like sandals for his long-toed scaly feet and digitigrade stance. Myr however ... Myr's still recognizable as the only white deer he'd come across, in dream or in Aefenglom.

It mollifies things somewhat, and visibly. The tap of hooves and sense of approaching ruffles feathers and scale up, from tangled in his longish blond hair all the way down across the spine of his tail in a not particularly intimidating fluffy hedge of unspoken annoyance, the retrices along either edge fanning wide as he turns with furrowed brow and lips partly bared in an unbreathed snarl - but there is a visible pause. Interacted much in person? Not at all, but he'd had more than a few pleasant conversations til now with the white faun, and Myr was not a target without considerably more provocation.

'Spectacular'. He could do without it.

The hedge of fluff slowly smooths itself back out, but some of the indignation remains. "A pair of unfortunates learned swiftly not to touch a stranger," is the low, raspy response - he sounds the same, if nothing else; Lahabrea hadn't had a fine sounding voice in a long time, but he is at least distinctive to the ear. It doesn't quite match the appearance, he strikes a far more dignified look, possibly even elegant from multiple curved horns to the long graceful sweep of tail. "I've been asked where my wings are."

Which maybe he'd never develop. Not all dragons did; and wouldn't that be a further insult? A dragon, a creature of the air, and feathered besides ... trapped on the ground. "I wouldn't be drinking anything these fae are offering," he adds with a note of disapproval. "There's rumors on the wind they toy with minds." Like a certain cult recently!

Lahabrea / FFXIV / Dragon OTA. just one prompt this time..

[fuelingfire]

The unfriendly locals take the tainted town to torch, spell and claw, and terror and fire reign supreme.

It's little wonder that Lahabrea has been lured from where he'd secreted himself to, far from the touch of the Cwyld and its hideous taint. But not in the form he usually wears, rarely seen though that is, but in the fully changed, quadrupedal beast that was the full Dragon transformation, a brilliantly crimson and golden creature at first glance seeming as much phoenix as reptile, strong thick horns and long trailing plumed feathers and scales and sharp jagged teeth. For months he'd stewed in his fury and indignation, fighting every step of the way the instincts Geardgas had given him, denying every whim of the monster within with stubborn obstinance.

This time. This time he hadn't fought the endless seething hatred and wrath, he simply provided it a target. And then he let go, spinning what tattered remnants of clear thought away into the hurricane of once-bottled hostility.

The relief is almost as consuming as the all-obliterating fury, painful in its intensity. Finally! Finally!

As if summoned by the flames and screaming, from the forest the dragon comes, winging low over the efficiently deadly locals setting to their grim task, sending them briefly scattering in his wake. This time, this place of dream or some other era, seemed to fear and hate dragons, and he gives them no reason to ever feel otherwise. Thunder roars as he rakes the buildings and ground in snarling electricity in crackling blast after blast, chaining to struggling Shades and crawling from metal objects to anything within range. More fragile things ignite in the heat, others simply are blasted to charcoal, some living things writhe and twitch in helpless spasms in the passage of the beast's levinbolts. There is some measure of targeted intelligence to his efforts, and the terrible silence is telling in the wake of the cracks of thunder - no roars, no screams, no growling from the red monster. The Shades are the most obvious victims of his wrath in passage, there is no saving them to begin with, without the Coven there to heal them; the ground is scoured by electricity where only disgusting blackness roils ... but there doesn't seem to be much care for avoiding anyone else in his path, not that lightning is very good at discerning one target from another to begin with. Smoke from already lit flames swirls in his passage, thick and cloying, and with rapid deliberate wingbeats, the sanguine dragon wheels wide over the nearby fields and begins to circle back, clearly intending another pass.

The previously unwelcoming neighbors wisely get out of his path. Should he show any sign of taint it's likely they'll drag him from the sky, but as his focus seems to be on destroying what they themselves have come to bring to ruin.. for the moment they are not actively attempting to kill each other.

That well could change.

But as another bolt of lightning crashes across the outskirts of the village in a brilliant flash of blue-white light, spat by its newest aerial attacker, chances are astronomically high that collateral damage is a given.

[OOC: Will match format.]

[notbert]

Magic may have been in vast supply and surely tempting in its own right, given how bereft of it any Ascian would feel in the confines of Aefenglom. Yet it was suspicious circumstances to say the least and Elidibus had not indulged. More's the benefit for him and less so the twisted, Cwyld-tainted Shade his axe falls upon. The madness-stricken features are relaxed enough in death that the Emissary could discern the familiar face of the baker whose shop he'd favored a few times since arriving in this dream-village.

"Dream or no, may you find solace in the Underworld." The man had made excellent desserts. Elidibus hefts his axe away from the corpse and shoulders it while seeking a new target, paying little mind to the bloodstains and grime which already covered his form from the conflict. The reason for the lull in his particular corner of this fight for survival wings across the sky and begins to angle for another pass.

Well, one could call it a lull. Elidibus had once been in the center of the massacre borne from lightning and fire. But unlike the others, he had felt the death which had approached. A fast, dirty path had been cut for the small gaggle of miraculously uninfected survivors he had been herding away from the neighbors and the Shades and then he had stayed on the fringes to clean up any of the latter which had sought to give chase in the direction those fleeing had gone.

He risks a look to the skies and rests his gaze upon the crimson and gold form of his Bonded. Countless times had Elidibus looked upon the Calamity of a world. Times of success which gave rise to a Rejoining and times of failure, wherein sufficient forces rose to defeat his brethren. Sometimes with his personal guidance. Small in scale this village may be, but no less impactful.

No less magnificent, to see a being crested in the theme of flames and guided by Lahabrea's hand, soaring in his element; lightning be damned. Inspired by the odd 'normal' dream of late, of flame glow on the horizon with a rising song of hope or nagging familiarity to memories forgotten. The montage gives Elidibus pause. And within him rises the sense of admiration. For a time, that part of him who looked at what this Star did to his fellow Unsundered with horror and rage is forgotten.

There is a crash and a familiar type of panicked yell; one of fear. One of the attackers on the ground had focused too much on her target and not enough on the surroundings. When a burning building had collapsed, pieces of burning debris had blocked her escape and now the woman was trapped. Her only way out was forward through a Shade which had found a companion. She had time to glance at the sky to sight the dragon and see Lahabrea's new angle will consign her to death before she can win free. Certainly, she was collecting herself for her final stand, a sacrifice that would keep the Shades occupied until Lahabrea's lightning consigned them all to oblivion.

A mildly irritated sigh escapes Elidibus for the interruption. But he shifts into action quickly, running forward with axe prepared to strike through the debris upon reaching it. He's well aware of the dragon's state of mind and yet the witch strives to emphasize his presence over the Bond, striving to emphasize the recent feeling of admiration. The Bond is not telepathy after all; that much has been made evident in their experiments over the last couple of months. But if there was a chance it could earn him a few more seconds to win the trapped woman free and pull her out of the incoming lightning, then more power to it. No success on that front will not stop the Emissary.

This is, after all, what heroes do.