Event Log: February, Outpost Problems

[faileas]

Event Log: February, Outpost Problems

I. Adventuring We Will Go (Tomorrow) The word gets around pretty quick. Anybody who plans to journey with the group of Wilders venturing out to set up a new outpost is invited to attend a traditional gathering they have before an expedition: the packing party. On the evening of the 15th, the Wilders' HQ is bustling with activity. The whole group is present making the final preparations, sorting gear, and checking the carts for maintenance. The atmosphere is easy and upbeat, very casual, with Wilders laughing and telling jokes and stories as they work. One has to have a little fun before it's time to be serious, after all! A lot needs done, and more hands are always welcome. Camping gear and provisions need to be checked, inventoried, and dispersed into enchanted rucksacks that can hold twice as much as you might think they could - there will be enough rucksacks for each explorer in the party. Everyone is expected to carry their own. Shrunken-down construction materials for the new outpost need to be loaded into the three self-propelled carts the party will travel with (if only they were self-steering as well!). The carts themselves haven't been necessary for an expedition in a while; they could probably use some fixing up, greasing the axles and making sure the enchantments are fully charged with magic. And, too, this is a chance for the group to mingle and get to know each other. You have to be able to trust your fellows out there in the Wilde, after all. So there's a table with food bought off a few street carts: fried hand pies in meat (no one's sure what kind of meat, but hey!), veggie, and fruit varities; a pot of simmering jellied eel to be scooped into cups and eaten with spoons; fried squabs on sticks dripping grease. Beer is plentiful, as are bottles of a non-alcoholic ginger beer. Everyone is encouraged to eat, pack, and get to know each other. Especially because, the lead Wilders on this expedition will say, it's recommended that everyone going out there have a Bonded - whether it be their own normal Bonds if they're also going, or temporary Bonds with their fellow party members. The table also bears a few dozen of the temporary Bonding potions, and it's highly encouraged, though not required, that more experienced explorers temporarily Bond with those who are much newer to Aefenglom. It's nature's buddy system, you know. Whatever you're going to do, do it before the morning - the group leaves at first dawn, and will not wait for anyone too hungover to be on time. While having a Bond isn't required for the trip, the Wilders will strongly encourage it for anyone who isn't Bonded or whose Bond partners aren't going. The three-Bond safety limit does still apply to temporary Bonds, though! If you'd like to tag around for potential temp Bonds, head over to this thread right here!

II. The Silent Forest It becomes clear that, while the journey starts off easy, it won't remain that way. The group leaves out at dawn and passes first through stretches of land considered 'safe' - safe enough to be generally habitable, and the first couple of hours see the occasional farm on the way. There are few to no signs of Cwyld this close to the city, but then they start to slip into the region considered 'in progress'. These are the lands the Wilders have been focusing on, and so while there are the occasional patches of infected plants, they're easily dealt with by small, controlled burns. As the day drags on and the hike continues, though, the landscape changes. The trees grow thicker and the underbrush more dense. The machetes have to come out at points to clear the path for the carts; whoever is currently on cart-steering duty, please don't damage them! The atmosphere, too, changes around this time; the laughter dies down, expressions become more serious, Wilders are noticeably more alert to the possible presence of Shades or hostile creatures. By evening, the forest is thick and dark, the trees around them ancient and twisting. No one has ventured out to this area in quite a while, the more experienced Wilders will say, and that becomes very obvious. The once-beautiful forest is heavily infected by the Cwyld, and the small cabin that served as a Wilder outpost is overgrown, still bearing the 5-year-old corpse of a dead Wilder. Adventurers are advised to take caution when touching anything - wear gloves and heavy boots and watch your step out here, folks. The way still needs to be cleared. a. The Flora The oldest of the trees present are fully dead, thick trunks turned black and shiny, letting in light from above where their leafless branches reach out to the trees around them. The brush is thick and thorny; even small pricks and cuts in the skin are liable to be infected, a black ring forming around the wound, darkening the veins branching out from it, and need immediate treatment to keep it from spreading. It's hard to avoid other than by simply wearing thick clothing and hoping for the best. Nestled in the roots of the trees are pitcher-like plants filled with a sticky sap; the Wilders are excited to see these, and despite the dangers, comb through them to see if any remain uninfected. The sap in infected plants is black and tarry, while in uninfected plants it runs clear. This sticky liquid is excellent for smearing over wounds to seal them and draw out minor infection, and they'd be delighted to take some whole plants back for cultivation. As well, a certain breed of tree seems to have escaped infection entirely; these tall, woody trees have shiny green leaves, a contrast to the rest of the forest, and bear small green fruits that smell (and taste, should you eat one) deliciously sweet. All is not always as it seems out here in the Wilde, though - be careful which fruit you choose to imbibe. These trees are not immune to the Cwyld, they only hide their infection well. It can only be determined which trees are infected by cutting into them and inspecting the sap (difficult, because the sap of all the trees is highly toxic, and even inhaling near it will have nasty side-effects of vertigo, vomiting, and even temporary blindness). If it runs black at all, the tree is infected, and the fruit, sweet as it might taste, is deadly poisonous. Trees that are only mildly infected are a Russian roulette: you have an 80-20 chance of getting a toxic fruit or a good one. Most of the Wilders don't feel it's worth the risk. b. The Fauna The party spends a couple of days in the Silent Forest out of necessity. Initially, it seems as if there is no animal life left on this desolate patch of land. No birds chirping, no mammals scurrying about, not even an insect to buzz around the explorers' heads. It becomes quite clear that the Cwyld has consumed nearly everything, and the life left is hardly life at all. Shades are not uncommon. When camp is made for the night, capable fighters will have to rotate guard duty and patrols around the campsite, to fight off the shadows of what used to live here as they sense life and magic to consume. Dessicated, white-eyed bucks with cracking antlers, bloated and mutated birds screeching angrily, even, perhaps, the Shade of a bear, huge, enraged, and difficult to take down. But that second night, those who are alert may get the tingling sense that they're being watched. They are, in fact, by a band of nomadic Monsters, primarily Harpies and Arachne passing through. They don't approach the camp, and they won't speak to any of the Wilder group, merely watching them with something like curiosity before they flee into the forest again. It's hard to get close to them before they disappear, more at home in this dead forest than you will ever be, but close observation shows that all are scarred in some way; missing parts of limbs, eyes, or bearing even worse marks on their bodies. c. The Solution It's too thick an area to clear simply by burning. They'd set the whole dry patch of forest alight and kill who knows what along with the Cwyld. Some smaller areas can be taken care of with fire and careful supervision, but the rest of it... The lead Wilder on this expedition, a prematurely-greying Witch named Rilla Sparks, puts forth a suggestion. She admits, it's one based heavily on theory and speculation, along with the findings of certain prominent researchers in the city. If they can find the leyline, she thinks the Witches in their party can flood it with enough positive, nurturing magic to 'flush' the Cwyld out of the vicinity, so to speak. Or, she hopes, enough to make it passable in the future. It's experimental, but isn't that what this trip is about? Discovering new things? If enough of the party is game, the first step is finding the leyline in the area. This can be sniffed out by Witches and Monsters both, as they're drawn to sources of magic, even tainted magic; and, too, if anyone takes a look from the air, the leyline becomes obvious, as it cuts a much darker, more heavily infected line across the forest floor, like a blackened vein. Once it's found, it's up to the Witches in the group. Gathering over the blackened ground, anyone who wants to participate in the ritual should join in pairs or groups, down on their knees to be closer to the earth, and should 'push' their magical energy into the leyline through their hands pressed to the dirt. Each push results in a pulse of light beneath the blackness of the ground, weak at first, but stronger the more magic is expended. It will take several hours, which means the occupied (and then spent) Witches will require the protection of their Monster fellows, and interacting this closely with a tainted leyline will have side effects. A low degree of Cwyld infection is possible in the hands, but not guaranteed. Intense fatigue and dizziness is certain, along with pain when casting spells, and terrible nightmares for as long as the symptoms last - anywhere from 2 to 6 days, depending on how much magic the individual Witch expelled and how much rest they get after. It will take some time to see if their labors bear fruit. They'll check on the area again on the way back; they can't stay in one place for too long.

III. Ruins of a Past Life In the next couple of days, as the journey commences, the obvious signs of infection lessen in the landscape. The trees thin out again as they head further north. With the Wilde just barely dipping toes into autumn, and no thick canopy of foliage to block out the sun, it's a hot, uncomfortable walk. Those on cart-steering duty are considered lucky, getting to sit for a few hours, but it doesn't last - the duty is rotated between volunteers. Enjoy it while you've got it. At one point, with the sun high in the sky, they stop to refill canteens and jugs with fresh water and to take a bit of a swim. Here, the water cascades into a wide lake below, which eventually feeds back into the main river that cuts through Aefenglom farther south. At the top of the waterfall, it's much easier to see something in the distance, that isn't specifically on the route but is a small enough detour (only a mile or two off) that the guides permit it. It's the ruins of a former settlement, clusters of shells of burned out houses and buildings, a dried up well, and the crumbling remnants of a wall - reminiscent of the Bright Wall, but much, much smaller, only about eight or nine feet high at its tallest point. There is no magic left in it, though, nor any people in the ruined town. There haven't been for years and years, judging from the mossy overgrowth and state of disrepair. Some signs of the former inhabitants can still be found in the houses; the Wilders agree to make camp here for a night, to give everyone some time to explore. a. In The Daytime The ruins are depressing, but safe, in the daylight. It isn't hard to put together what happened here - a Cwyld outbreak must have come on them quickly, and judging from the hasty, half-burned homes, it was poorly contained. Some homes still contain skeletons in rotted scraps of clothing, some bones charred and others picked clean by animals. Many of their possessions still remain, except there are no books left anywhere in the town, even on shelves where books obviously were before. The patterns in the dust indicate that the books, all that survived the fires initially, were removed much more recently, within the last year or two perhaps. Otherwise, much is untouched. There are still dishes and flatware on broken tables, rotted blankets on beds, children's toys scattered over floors, axes hung on walls. A sort of thick, somewhat mucous-y grayish-green moss grows in flat sheets over most of the ruins. It isn't infected by the Cwyld; in fact, the areas where it grows seem to be free from it. Coincidence? Not? The Wilders have never seen anything quite like it, and are interested in taking samples back to study. (And for those of you who can't help but put things in your mouths: yes, the moss is edible. It tastes a little... earthy, but gives a pleasant caffeine-like buzz and burst of energy. Good for Witches still feeling the effects of the leyline flushing.) Outside the remnants of the wall, there are years-overgrown gardens, and perfectly good potatoes, asparagus, and raspberries can be found still growing, hardy and perennial even without human hands to tend to them. These people lived a more simple life than those in relatively-modern Aefenglom, as there isn't any magitech to be found, but somehow, they made themselves a home out here in the middle of nowhere. b. Ghosts of a Forgotten Settlement After nightfall, the dead town comes alive again, in a morbid sense. The party will soon find that the sunset brings the emergence of specters of the town's deceased residents - ghastly semi-transparent echoes of humans and Monsters, men, women, and children, in the state they were in at their deaths. Some are badly burnt, others were obviously infected, on their way to becoming Cwyldtid. Now, they go about their former lives every night, filling the ruined town with a sense of dread and foreboding that is impossible for the living to ignore. The ghosts cannot be touched or physically interacted with, and many of them simply ignore the Wilders and Mirrorbound completely. Spectral children play in the streets, adults tidy shops that are no longer there, or head out to the field to farm. They do so with expressions full of sadness, and desperation, as if trapped in this cycle of un-life. Others not only notice the group, but try to turn on them, enraged at the sight of intruders, though their shouts and screams are silent. They can't do any damage, but if they pass through you, you'll feel a bone-deep chill, despite the late-summer heat hanging in the air, and the specters' 'touch' will fill anyone with an aching, heavy despair, or rage - echoes of the emotions the ghosts experienced before their deaths.

IV. The Northern Outpost The sparse forest thins even more to the north. The terrain grows more uneven, rockier and hilly, with drier soil and hardy, sun-bleached grass instead of moss and leaf litter. Several natural rock formations can be spotted in the distance, growing larger as the group gets nearer. The trees here are few and far between, shorter and sturdier, casting only small circles of shade on the baked landscape. Wildflowers dot the grass in every color of the rainbow in the areas that remain uninfected. A low degree of Cwyld infection can be found here, turning the grasses overgrown, dry and brittle, and the sparse trees gnarled and blackened. This is to be expected, though. You can't venture this far out and expect anywhere to be completely untouched. The spot Rilla Sparks chooses for the new outpost is cradled between two large spires of stone, with a cliff-face at the back of it - protected on three sides to defend from animals and Shades, with a relatively clean stream within an hour's walking distance. Construction has to commence immediately. Once they land, it's a flurry of activity, as there is much work to be done. The building supplies are returned to their original sizes and it's all hands on deck to put together the low wooden building. With everyone working as quickly as they can, it should take about three days to get set up enough to consider the outpost open. Also on the to-do list: setting up the teleporter waypoint given to the Wilders by the Coven, to shorten the trip from Aefenglom to this far-flung outpost. It's smaller than the one in Dorchacht, only able to transport three people at a time, but the technology is the same. They'll need as many magitech-capable hands as they can get to calibrate it to the local energies and get it up and running. While all this is going on, exploration of the local area is high on the list as well, to ferret out any potential dangers that may be inherent to setting up here, or potential boons that can be taken back to Aefenglom, and to start work on their maps. There's a job for everyone, and while they're happy to let people do what they're good at, or rotate between different tasks, anybody slacking off will get the stink-eye - you came to work, right? This is no vacation! After the first day, though, things start... getting a little weird. Items start disappearing at random times, just out of nowhere, no rhyme or reason to the things taken. Hammers, half-drawn maps, scraps of wood, your half-eaten lunch if you look away from it for long enough. Personal items may go missing as well, if left unattended, so keep your precious things and weapons close. You may hear muffled voices - laughter, indiscernible chatter - around the times when stuff goes missing; it could be the voice of a stranger, or maybe it's the voice of someone you know, someone you've been traveling with for the last several days. But why would they want to steal your pen, or your handful of nails, or your drink cup? Weirder still, holes in the dirt start turning up in the night. Maybe six feet deep, dug at an angle like the beginning of a tunnel, and cutting off abruptly. Digging further down in these holes doesn't turn much up at first, but checking enough of them will turn up only a handful of the smaller missing items with teeth marks in them. Inconsequential, uninteresting, inedible things, or straight up trash in some cases. With enough persistence and maybe a good old fashioned stake-out, the culprits turn up: a pack of sand-colored, hyena-like animals that perfectly mimic human and Monster voices that they hear (often repeating words out of context, like much dumber parrots - they don't know what they're saying, only what the words sound like), and scavenge for whatever they can get their paws on. The hyenas are aggressive when confronted, and pack-oriented, but can be won over eventually by feeding them, or talking at them: different hyenas like different sounds and different words, so it might take some trial and error. Several bear low-level infections that can still be cured. Maybe eventually they can be trained. But then, where is everything else they stole? Please note that only a very small number of the items missing will be found on this trip! If you don't want something of your character's gone for an indeterminate amount of time, don't have it stolen. It's just possible they might turn up at a later date, however...

Welcome to February's event log, Outpost Problems! The expedition will last about an IC week for everyone who completes the trip; characters can return to Aefenglom with a pair of Wilder scouts at any stop along the way, though. As always, please direct your event-specific questions here! You can tag around for temporary Bonds in this thread, and if your character would eat the fruit in the Silent Forest, please post here for your dice roll (we did say it's a Russian roulette). Enjoy the trip outside the Bright Wall, everyone!

Comments

[mirshikar]

Are you so certain that you would be lost without it, the wrath which you hold in your heart?

[ In intrigue and inhuman hunger both, Asura draws closer still, a hand outstretched in a gesture which is liquid and slow, the tips of his taloned fingers whispering through the air before the other Mirrorbound's face, delineating the shape of their features without ever once coming close to touching. It is an act of remembrance as much as it is one of appraisal, the King's green eyes keen with interest as he surveys this stranger with pale hair and even paler fortitude where matters concern navigating an existence absence of anger, if only a momentary one. ]

I can set you to purpose afterward, yes. However... [ Mortals are never so empty; they possess will, they can choose for themselves.

Though there are those who would call him as much, Asura is not kind. It is not goodness in him which prompts him to ask— ]

Do you not wish to know if you are first able to find a path of your own?

[ —rather, it is own desire to place chains upon no one. Humans are free, and they are to remain so, whether their kind came to destroy the world or to preserve it. ]

[extirpator]

I was. But now... [ as the stranger's fingers tread closer, he threatens to flinch against his own will, just as he often had — but there is something soothing in this lack of distance, or perhaps the lack of resentment for who and what he is.

the question is reasonable. it's one he's asked others time and time again, always vying for the right to choose — the right to autonomy, to your own self. so when he raises his head proper in a fashion that had been true and characteristic of himself, his eyes steel. ]

I had a purpose. I fulfilled it. I gave up everything a person could for it — even the things that weren't my own.

[ it was cruel, and it was selfish, but it was his will to live. a smile, gentle but firm enough to endure, blooms along his lips. ]

My life has already ended. I found freedom through nonexistence. But now, all that's left for me are the wills of other people.

That's why I'm unsure. [ a pause. ] And that's why I need something to fill this void.

[ there's another silence that befalls him, and it's as he looks towards this stranger, drinking in the sight of their form. ]

You feel what I am, but you don't fear it.

[mirshikar]

Emotion is nothing to fear. [ Aware that blue eyes remain fixed upon his form, Asura meets the stranger's smile with a grin of his own, certain of this truth when he speaks: ] Rather, it is a lack of feeling which denotes a monster.

[ Denotes creatures like Asura, who are ever the products of their once-Masters. That Asura had clawed his way to freedom, after devouring the one who had created him, means only that his will is now his own. It does not change what he is, that he is no different from the True Fae who feast upon the emotions of mortals because they can feel no such sentiment for themselves.

True, that Asura had once been human himself (for the briefest, candlelit moment in the vast sweep of time), and for it he is able to feel emotion like sunlight through a frosted pane of glass, but it will never be the genuine article. It will never be as potent as the anger which rolls off of the other Mirrorbound in waves. ]

And you, who would devote your second life— [ Because existence itself is not so finite. The ghosts of this forgotten town are proof enough of that. ] —to see the wills of others through to fruition, are no monster at all.

[ What this other Mirrorbound is, instead, is many things. They are eyes of Winter and a smile of Spring; they are Summer's blood and Autumn's uncertainty. This is how Asura knows that when he siphons the anger clean from their person, they will not be as hollow as they fear. ]

You... [ Clacking his draconic's teeth, Asura's voice is low and rumbling, emanating from deep within his furnace of a chest: ] ...remind me of the fabled beings humans call 'angels'. Their wrath, though considered divine, is always for someone else.

[ Like it will be for Asura, if the other Mirrorbound decides it so.

In the space between them, Asura outstretches his hand, palm upturned and open for the stranger to take or to dismiss. ]

Speak your name, your true name, and join your hand with mine if you would make your strength my own.

[ And satiate's Asura's hunger for (addiction to) the magic it would see replenished in his Witch's body and frame. ]

[extirpator]

[ the movement is slow, but there is no lull born from hesitance; it is almost resigned in what it is. it wasn't giving in — he'd only allowed himself that privilege after everything had been said and done. but it was a step towards acceptance, and there is some kind of tranquility that comes with the notion.

so he reaches for the stranger's hand. and firmly, his fingers curl. there is resolve in that motion. ]

There is compassion in you. [ and as mistrusting and hateful of a man he was, these gestures were a splash of color in a monochrome world. ] Humans are cruel and unkind, but every life has value by virtue of what it is.

For the first time in...a long time— [ his eyes flicker down, roving towards his feet. they flit back up towards the stranger, trying hard to meet the grandeur of their presence head-on. he succeeds, mostly, but this is certainly the most exposed he's been in some time.

he did not trust easily. but those words weren't honeyed or unbearably sweet to the taste. there was an earnesty; one that he recognized. ]

I was reminded of that.

[ some people, through all their pain, would always harbor an ability to cherish humanity for what it was. they were the people worth protecting, he thinks.

as his eyes flutter shut, the tension slowly leaves him. he focuses on the warmth against his skin, and the way it slices through the frost of his bloodstream. ]

When I was reconstructed, they called me Sleeping Beauty — I held all of the world's memories in my hands, and kept record of them even after its people had passed. You might be able to find them in me. I hope it helps.

But...

[ right. living. that was what he was doing now. as his expression loosens, softening into something far more human: ]

My name is Nier. Would you tell me yours?

[mirshikar]

Once, I was known only as the great golden dragon of Svarga. [ And like Sleeping Beauty, it had been a title given rather than a sense of self forged. Asura, he wonders at many things: the compassion in him which Nier sees, what 'reconstruction' truly means, and the weight of Nier's hand as it settles in his own. Thumb tracking a feather's path over the smooth back of Nier's hand, Asura offers his own story, one which treads along the same path of rebirth after an end, because... In this, he feels they are similar, even after these short moments: ] But there came a time when I was able to choose a name, take a different identity for myself.

[ And so too had he come to walk alongside humans, protecting them from the unknown. ]

'Asura' is that existence, and I am glad that you have decided to know it— [ Even if it is not his true name, it is something which he has claimed for himself. ] —as I will know you, in turn.

[ Know, through the link of their hands: a delicate gesture for a delicate task. It is no indecorous affair, after all, the harvesting of emotion from this or any mortal— it is ritual, when Asura pulls the wrath from Nier, seizing upon sentiment with formless fangs locked in flesh, and knows the human (angel) to be a gentle person. The taste of Nier's anger is unyielding, but it is not the sort to come about by accident. Bright are the knives which move through Nier's body unseen, and the King twists their vehemence into skeins of magic, power (a rush of it) suffusing through their tactile connection to bolster his Witch's reserves as the loss (perhaps not so great as Nier had once feared, for the emotion to be found in the memories of a world is vast and deep) leaves his willing donor...

Not hollow, not precisely. But in the midst of catharsis. Something like release. ]

Nier. [ —his voice resounds in the moments after as both drum and bell, sharp octaves and the tenored drone of vowels. Nier is close, their hands still interlocked, and Asura's smile is no longer one which is colored by the pain of hunger. Instead: his eyes are sharp, his Witch's presence electric, and while Nier had requested directive from him in the aftermath, Asura refrains from immediately providing.

First, there is something important to ask: ]

What is it that you feel?

[ What is it that is predominant now, with anger lessened and clarity shed upon all else? ]

[extirpator]

[ as the man who had once been a dragon speaks, like the one that had fallen from the heavens and delivered its wrath unto the earth, nier delivers his full attention; the words inspire something within him. perhaps it is respect, an unspoken kind — it treads on the fringes of understanding. but this man had been kinder than him. gentler than him.

muscles that were so normally taut with the primal instinct to defend and destroy loosen. something inside him, burning hot, twists and turns as it fights. there is a part of him, deep within his mind, that is afraid. afraid of losing this, even for a fraction of time and seeing (feeling) what it'll make of him.

but the fight comes to an abrupt halt, like steel skidding against concrete. a tree's roots coil around his heart, cradling him. a coldness washes over the entirety of his being; it's rainfall. it's grief.

in spite of the way his predation instincts, born from rage, wither into ash...the smell of the night air, the low buzz of the expedition party's lanterns, the faint glow of the moon — all of it is clearer than ever. everything and nothing runs through his head. there's a nation's worth of quaint, masked people who lay down their lives for his sake.

there's a flying tome, one with a voice brimming with pomp and prestige, that loved him enough to not once tell him of his inevitable death — one that had been a sacrifice made on his behalf. there's a wizard, a young boy trapped within the body of a skeleton that inspired fear in the hearts of his others; he is pure, kind, affectionate, and wholly devoted to nier. there is a woman with bandages wound around her legs and arms, swords fitted to tear through even the mightiest of beasts in both of her hands in contrast to how beautiful and unblemished her face had been. she wears a flower he gave her, always. she loved him enough to die — just like the rest.

then there is a man who was once a boy, fooled and tortured and imprisoned in between sanitized, white walls. he endeavors for 1000 years, always longing for what is far out of his reach; the man sits there, crouched and crying, until he finds salvation. he is his soul, nier realizes, and their pain is one and the same. for once, he realizes. the ache is one he can only hardly endure. it makes him crave the end.

at the end of it all (of the sacrifice, the brutality, the cruelty and the hurt) is a little girl latching onto his legs. she tells him that he is her favorite person in the world.

nier's visin begins to blur. and then it occurs to him that there's a wetness trailing down one of his cheeks. ]

It hurts.

[ is what he says, at first. the cries of the innocent rise to the forefront of his mind. hearing them — he can hardly bear it. ]

Too much. Too little. [ but then nier swallows, even though his throat is tightening. his fingers curl around asura's, and his eyes flutter shut.

slowly, his lips furl into a smile. it's one he hasn't worn since he was a child — it'd been so long since he'd been free of this emotion. too long. how mortifiying, how liberating. ]

But I feel love, too.

[ there's a silence. it's one of the longest he's ever known. ]

Other people's. And my own. I feel love.

Thank you, Asura. Whatever you feel — ...it is yours to use.

[mirshikar]

[ A wonder to Asura still, that there are those among the Mirrorbound who would thank him for feeding upon their emotion. That clarity often presents itself in the wake of the act (evident, in the way Nier smiles, unburdened and beautiful; in the way he is able to name for himself the undercurrents of sentiment which had for too long gone subdued by wrath and its zealous passion) does not change the fact that Asura is a hunter and mortals are ever his prey. Though the King cannot quite call the harvested emotion Glamour, it is power all the same, and the rush of it satisfies the monster caged within his flesh even as he lifts a hand, sweeping the smooth back of a golden talon along the curve of Nier's jaw to catch the moisture collected there (tears) before it falls.

This, too, Asura will take and hold dear. ]

To express thanks to one such as myself implies a debt— [ And to be indebted to a dragon of Faerie...? Asura has never met anyone so foolish as to insist upon being bound in such a way, especially a human so newly (and so temporarily) freed from the vestments of wrath. ] —and you owe me no such thing.

[ The way Asura draws back and away from Nier is a gradual thing, marked by a curl and flex of his fingers about Nier's own in parting before their handhold is released; a secondary passing of his free hand over the rise of Nier's cheek. While Asura has often made quick and easy bedfellows of strangers, it had been something else, this shared proximity with the other man. Magnetized and dynamic, their connection is one which could have taken the King's breath away, if only he had allowed for it to—almost, it had felt as though something within him (long forgotten and buried beneath the tides of time) had been kindled anew. ]

Though I would ask that if you've ever the wish to feel pain and love so keenly again... [ How easy it is, to forget the measure and scope of mortal feeling. That beyond wrath, desire, sorrow, and fear, there is a fathomless more which Changelings like Asura cannot comprehend, though they have often tried (and oh, how King has done just that—he has tried). But no matter his own inability to perceive and to feel as humans do, he may always lay witness to their emotions, enamored with them as he is, and so: ] Find me, no matter the hour. I will be waiting.

[ And until that time... ]

Come, then. [ "Would you give me something to do?" Nier had said.] There are souls which must be laid to rest.