[help. she is still figuring out the i.r.i.s., so she ends up lowering the volume instead of shutting it off. wap is now just playing in the background the whole time.]
Really? Feels like it was on every strip club DJ's playlist at some point in 2020.
[I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE LUCIEN IS and neither does harley, but she will run into him... somewhere... this is not a large ship. how's his unjerkerfication going?]
... Soooo, not setting off metal detectors anymore?
[ he is wandering around anyway. should he probably be finding somewhere to sit and be quiet and recover for a bit? yes. but he's not. he is at least not bleeding everywhere still.
anyway he looks immediately frustrated because he does NOT get this joke. What is a metal detector. ]
The shrapnel that was using your spine as a pincushion, dude? You're not leaving puddles of blood everywhere, so I'm assuming you got that taken care of.
Well, Temenos gave 'em a 3 out of 10. And Owner said they're "just okay," which everyone knows is the polite was to say something was totally disappointing. Enough people showed up hurt today that you'll probably be waiting in line to even use one, too.
[ he's braved the outdoors today. he likes being off the ship, but isn't the biggest wintery hellscape fan. too many bad memories. but he already has an outfit prepared for this type of weather - a heavy coat, fur-lined and leather padded at the joints, and its clearly seen some wear and tear. at least it's not bloody at the moment, since there's finally laundry here. he's even got snowshoes, and not the ones from the surplus store. not as much as skis as spiked, for traversal.
he's poking around the bazaar, scowling at everything. But especially the tattoo artists. ]
[harley is bundled up for once because, unfortunately, not even her juicy dread inspiring ass is immune to the weather. there's something black curving along her jawline while she pokes around the bazaar, which seems to shift when she glances at him.]
Trying to decide if you want more tattoos or more free loot?
You'd think finding white foundation would be easier, and yet... But, hey, we're in space! There's no way you're the only purple asshole out here. I bet there's some grape colored alien teenager trying to cover up their acne right now.
[ it’s only been a week since you’ve had to run from Eiselcross - the crossing of the channel took the longest - everyone antsy and pacing the boards of the ship, but not you.
You’ve been so tired. Nothing but sleep for days. Cree - a dark-furred catfolk, your closet friend - keeps coming into your cabin to wake you up, force food into your hands. But the grief is terrible and overwhelming. More sickening than the waves. Sleep is easier. Curled up with the journal in your arms, as if its warmth will be a comfort.
But once you land, there’s at least something to do. You have to keep moving. Vess DeRogna is likely not far behind you, and you don’t want to let her catch up, change her mind. Not after you’d extorted her for the coin, the treasures. She’s an archmage. She’ll have her revenge if she catches up. As it is, you and the rest of the Tombtakers - the seven— no. six, now, of you. Yourself - Lucien, Cree, Tyffial, Jurrell, Zoran, Otis. Not Brev. Brevyn is dead. And you’ve left her.
You’ve left her there, in that hideous, frozen place. All for this. A journal. A useless pile of pages. You can’t even read the contents - in some language you don’t recognize. Ancient, and crumbling. You’re so tired. You should go back to sleep. No one has bothered you much about missing a meal or two, about avoiding everyone at the fire. They understand. Grief is a powerful beast.
It’s a few days to Yardel. A small town in the middle of nowhere - Jurrell’s hometown. A poor and dirty place, always on the edge of starvation. But you can rent a roof cheaply here, and the house has a basement, and that’s where you’ve chosen to make your home for now. It’s quiet. And dark. And you can sleep.
The journal is on a desk on the other side of the room, waiting. Upstairs, you can hear some of the others stirring, talking amongst themselves, but your stomach twists at the thought of having to go up there.
Well? You could study it. You’ve got time now. You could … ]
she takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, like, what the fuck. not again. before she ignores the stairs and makes her way over to the desk... hello, mysterious journal that apparently caused someone's death. are you going to turn to dust if she tries takes a look at you?]
[ that makes sense. it's safe down here - no one is talking constantly in your ear, asking how you feel, if you need anything, if you should eat. you can't take any more of that right now.
you sit down at the desk, and without even necessarily meaning to ... start flipping through the pages. at first, it doesn't seem like anything. you know a few languages, courtesy of the Orders, but nothing like whatever this is. It's a chaotic assortment, some of which you can pick out, but most of which you can't.
a breath tickles the back of your neck.
But as you flip through, it becomes clearer. You can start to see a pattern. Words ... make sense.
What is it to dream and, having plunged into those endless fertile fields of imagination, wake to find those conjurings made manifest? Real.
I have searched and searched and searched, collected, and studied, begged for answers from one corner of this land to the other, combed the libraries of wiser men, and all to make sense of what I know in my heart is senseless. The order of it… The order… Why must it be put in order? Perhaps that is where I have gone all wrong, all wrong! The order. Dawn comes and I see it clearly now: There is no more wisdom in order than in chaos.
I will relent. No. I will submit.
A lurid red eye is drawn under the words, giving you pause. You watch it in return for a long moment. Brevyn had died for this. Died for you. You could have left this thing there in those ruins, but you didn't. You didn't and this is all that's left of her.
As you keep reading, there's parts that are destroyed, or blotted out with dark red ink, scratched and ripped and torn. But you can get the general story - a mage, after the Age of Arcanum, but long before your time, had found the same ruins in Aeor that you did, and intended to use the discoveries therein to prove to his peers, his rivals, how small-minded and short-sighted they were. He had organized an expedition - similar to your own little voyage - into the wastes of frozen Eiselcross.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
week zero, saturday.
all of a sudden
something starts playing.]
no subject
I've heard of brothels having jingles, but this one is ... interesting.
no subject
Really? Feels like it was on every strip club DJ's playlist at some point in 2020.
week one, thursday.
... Soooo, not setting off metal detectors anymore?
[sir, your BACK.]
no subject
anyway he looks immediately frustrated because he does NOT get this joke. What is a metal detector. ]
... What?
no subject
The shrapnel that was using your spine as a pincushion, dude? You're not leaving puddles of blood everywhere, so I'm assuming you got that taken care of.
no subject
It'll take care of itself eventually. [ no. ] The metal is out.
[ so he did get ... a little healing at least. ]
no subject
Uh-huh... I'd tell you to hit the recovery pods, but I have not heard glowing reviews of them so far. It's a real bummer.
no subject
What do you mean?
no subject
W2 - MONDAY
he's poking around the bazaar, scowling at everything. But especially the tattoo artists. ]
Suppose I could get something over them …
no subject
Trying to decide if you want more tattoos or more free loot?
no subject
I'm done with the tattoos. I want to be rid of them.
no subject
Not sure if they're licensed to do tattoo removals out here. But have you asked Thebe about finding you some good foundation?
no subject
Finding purple is harder than you'd think. Though, I suppose your particular shade might not be a simple thing either.
no subject
W3 - MONDAY
You’ve been so tired. Nothing but sleep for days. Cree - a dark-furred catfolk, your closet friend - keeps coming into your cabin to wake you up, force food into your hands. But the grief is terrible and overwhelming. More sickening than the waves. Sleep is easier. Curled up with the journal in your arms, as if its warmth will be a comfort.
But once you land, there’s at least something to do. You have to keep moving. Vess DeRogna is likely not far behind you, and you don’t want to let her catch up, change her mind. Not after you’d extorted her for the coin, the treasures. She’s an archmage. She’ll have her revenge if she catches up. As it is, you and the rest of the Tombtakers - the seven— no. six, now, of you. Yourself - Lucien, Cree, Tyffial, Jurrell, Zoran, Otis. Not Brev. Brevyn is dead. And you’ve left her.
You’ve left her there, in that hideous, frozen place. All for this. A journal. A useless pile of pages. You can’t even read the contents - in some language you don’t recognize. Ancient, and crumbling. You’re so tired. You should go back to sleep. No one has bothered you much about missing a meal or two, about avoiding everyone at the fire. They understand. Grief is a powerful beast.
It’s a few days to Yardel. A small town in the middle of nowhere - Jurrell’s hometown. A poor and dirty place, always on the edge of starvation. But you can rent a roof cheaply here, and the house has a basement, and that’s where you’ve chosen to make your home for now. It’s quiet. And dark. And you can sleep.
The journal is on a desk on the other side of the room, waiting. Upstairs, you can hear some of the others stirring, talking amongst themselves, but your stomach twists at the thought of having to go up there.
Well? You could study it. You’ve got time now. You could … ]
no subject
she takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, like, what the fuck. not again. before she ignores the stairs and makes her way over to the desk... hello, mysterious journal that apparently caused someone's death. are you going to turn to dust if she tries takes a look at you?]
no subject
you sit down at the desk, and without even necessarily meaning to ... start flipping through the pages. at first, it doesn't seem like anything. you know a few languages, courtesy of the Orders, but nothing like whatever this is. It's a chaotic assortment, some of which you can pick out, but most of which you can't.
a breath tickles the back of your neck.
But as you flip through, it becomes clearer. You can start to see a pattern. Words ... make sense.
What is it to dream and, having plunged into those endless fertile fields of imagination, wake to find those conjurings made manifest? Real.
I have searched and searched and searched, collected, and studied, begged for answers from one corner of this land to the other, combed the libraries of wiser men, and all to make sense of what I know in my heart is senseless. The order of it… The order… Why must it be put in order? Perhaps that is where I have gone all wrong, all wrong! The order. Dawn comes and I see it clearly now: There is no more wisdom in order than in chaos.
I will relent.
No.
I will submit.
A lurid red eye is drawn under the words, giving you pause. You watch it in return for a long moment. Brevyn had died for this. Died for you. You could have left this thing there in those ruins, but you didn't. You didn't and this is all that's left of her.
As you keep reading, there's parts that are destroyed, or blotted out with dark red ink, scratched and ripped and torn. But you can get the general story - a mage, after the Age of Arcanum, but long before your time, had found the same ruins in Aeor that you did, and intended to use the discoveries therein to prove to his peers, his rivals, how small-minded and short-sighted they were. He had organized an expedition - similar to your own little voyage - into the wastes of frozen Eiselcross.
But you hear the door open behind you
and then you're back
no subject
the body may be back but the soul has left the body.
hey iris how do you unpeep things you wish you had never peeped.]
no subject
well.
he'll be off to one side, physically smacking the side of his head like it's going to jostle something loose. ]
no subject
the void will soon spit out another memory at them, but first, harley glances at him.]
... Uh. I don't think your brain's going to come out no matter how hard you hit your head, bud. Are you okay?
no subject
I—- I know. I’m not trying to bash my head in.
no subject
[or don't? she's not the boss of you. but also, yeets.]
week six, saturday.
Soooooo... I heard you've been pretty busy.
no subject
That so.
no subject
That so! It's a compliment.
no subject
[ he is not THAT mad. ]
I suppose it's ... nice that you all care about Viktor so much.