Player Plot: The Salvation of Geardagas, Part II

[faileas]

Event Log: February, The Salvation of Geardagas: Part II



CW: This plot has a general content warning for kidnapping, torture, experimentation, violence, drug use (incl. aphro), infection/disease and potential death. This is entirely opt-in.

Spirited Away, Part 2 i. Hypothesis One moment, you were free. The next, you wake up in a cold, dark room with eyes on you and the cloying smell of decay all around you. Characters who have been kidnapped are being kept in the lower floor of Alder's estate, which is a labyrinth of rooms and corridors. Without exception, the way out is always either locked or heavily guarded. All kidnapped characters have been infected with the Cwyld (sometimes by proximity to botanical materials, sometimes by being directly exposed to the violent Shades they already have imprisoned) and are being used to further the Evergreen Circle's research into the nature of the plague. The details of these tests is expanded on in the plotting post and, needless to say, their capturers have very little interest in their wellbeing. They're needlessly cruel, often pitting victims against each other and forcing them to infect newer arrivals as they turn up. Subjects are allowed a few hours of sleep at a time and a small meal- assuming that they're not being purposefully deprived of either- and are locked together in cramped cells. ii. Alternative Theory Some characters, however, escape this particular cruelty in favour of something else just as dehumanising. If a member of the inner circle has taken a liking to someone, they'll take them out of the pool of tests subjects and move them into their households. Servitude is ensured by a strong enchantment that scrambles memories and replaces them with the false knowledge that they've been working there all along. These brainwashed servants might also be forced to participate in the torture and testing of the others.

Initiation The night of the initiation party is here. If you've managed to ingratiate yourself with the cult- or at least a member of rank- you'll have already received an elegant envelope with an invitation and all the details. Or maybe you stole one or put together a convincing forgery. Alder's estate is handsome, with a small courtyard lit up with strings of lights and servants at the double doors to greet guests. Inside is just as grand. The hall and ballroom are impressive spaces with vaulted ceilings painted with elaborate star maps and broken up with marble columns that wouldn't look out of place in a palace. Drinks tables are lined up against the walls and there are several smaller drawing rooms off to the side, all of which are full of guests. Throughout the first hour or so, Alder himself flits from person to person, congratulating them and making smalltalk, but he seems different somehow. Excitable. Eager. Of course, there are other ways one might get in; while the front entrance is closely monitored, the side one leading through the kitchens isn’t. In the hustle and bustle, you might slip through unnoticed. i. Cavorting and Cruelty It isn't long before things take a turn. Alder takes to the head of the room and, with his signature voice amplifying enchantment, addresses his audience. He greets everyone and gives a fairly standard speech thanking guests and welcoming initiates to the Evergreen Circle proper- and then it happens. Servants begin to wheel in cages and tanks, all containing individuals infected with the Cwyld at various stages. Some look to have been drugged, others are wide awake, but the regulars seem delighted by their presence. They whisper and titter and applaud. Some of the more docile victims are even taken out to be showed off like animals at a fayre. "Tonight, let us enjoy the fruits of our labour! Witness the progress we've made and share our blessings among yourselves! Fear will only blind you to taking the next step. Indulge, open your minds and take the first step towards your salvation!" What he means by this quickly becomes apparent. While they're not discussing or mocking the imprisoned witches and monsters, the other guests are partaking of vice the party has to offer. The drinks flow freely and there's a manic energy in the air. Those with sharp senses might recognise that some of it has been artificially crafted by enchantments. Furthermore, if you're looking for missing loved ones, you'll no doubt spot them among the "test subjects" or servants. Good luck trying to snap the latter back to reality, though: their memories have been tightly sealed and it might take some work. One of the drawing rooms has been half curtained off and a woman at the door skittishly offers the curious an aphrodisiac-laden draught, though some might have accidentally had some already. Within, guests are draped over every surface in varying states of undress, though there are partitions up to allow for more privacy. What better way is there to spread the Cwyld and strengthen bonds than intimacy? ii. Midnight Show Things reach a fever pitch around midnight. Once more, Alder calls for everyone's attention. "There's one more thing. I know all of you are loyal, true believers- but everyone must be tested," he says, gesturing to several larger bodyguards, "and we have to protect ourselves. There are those who don't understand us and seek to undo our work. Therefore, we need to tie up loose ends." One by one, the least aggressive Cwyld-infected subjects are dragged from their cages and any remaining individuals are brought out, all restrained. One of the bodyguards is carrying a large ceremonial dagger, which he presses to the vampire at the front’s throat. "Rest assured, their deaths with not be in vain: we have learned much and they will make for the perfect offering to the beings who gave us the Cwyld's blessing!" The knife flashes, ready to cut already decaying flesh- - a blood-curdling scream echoes through the room and glass shatters as a Shade breaks free from its prison. It ploughs into the guests, howling with rage as it tears into anyone and everyone that stands in its way, and others soon follow. At some point during the chaos, Alder appears to realise that he’s been caught. He, along with his inner circle, set to work trying to cover up their actions, setting the basement floor alight and using magic to bring down supports to block doorways completely. If you want to gather evidence, it has to be now, else you can focus your efforts on a rescue mission or chasing the cult leader himself down.

[ ooc: More information about the event can be found on the plotting post along with comments for questions, and an IC vote concerning Alder's fate! ]

Comments

[silentsavant]

[Soren cuts to the truth of that deceptive smile: there's no trace of light to be found in it. It's all but confirmation of another bad apple rotting in the wrong way. He pushes his scratched and lightly stinging forearms up against the wall, where his lithe and compact form follows to press the spindly, fragile one. The force he exerts is unrealistic, inescapable. He mantles his prey with those demonic wings folding closer until it's almost a shell, until they just about brush up against his arms — but not quite. His throat vibrates with something between a purr and the beginnings of a growl before he whispers, closing in on his throat enough to tickle flesh with breath. ]

This has very little to do with lofty speeches...

[Who is he? Who is he, this young man suspended in mental fog? Soren might still get away with pretending that he has been a particularly skillful actor this entire time and gain access to more details about whether these Coven moles are plotting anything or not, but it would be a much better bet if he weren't left vulnerable by the recent head injury that poked holes in his cognition. If he could just remember his name, he could provide more assurance that he's on his side. L...? It starts with an L. In these moments, his name means everything to that end. It's not as good a maneuver when their knowledge of each other leans lopsided and at his disadvantage.]

...or the lies that tongues can craft. [He flashes him a knowing look to pair with that ambiguous and widely interpretable statement, curious to see where that might lead him, if anywhere at all. He backs off, wings and torso, but keeps his arms fastened right there, glances sideways to "check" for eavesdroppers. ] This is about what we're doing.

["Doing", another possible double entendre. He must keep a careful read on him at all times. It would do no good if he still does not trust Soren enough to confuse him for an ally. If he doesn't, then it's no real loss. He'll just proceed to deal with him in other ways.]

Do you really think the Cwyld will save us?

[hearthebell]

[It would be enough to fool some, perhaps even many; clearly, not Soren. The smile slips away as the dragon presses closer, and the effect is immediate, claustrophobic and overwhelming. It takes everything to remain, and while L could invoke ice or lightning, or even teleport from the spot, taking the moments to trace the runes would surely draw notice. In that time, a form this powerful could absolutely shatter his slender bones.

Temperance, then, and care. He inhales soft and slow, feeling that growl vibrate inside his own ribs, before Soren withdraws only enough to breathe, his warm breath raising gooseflesh along the detective's neck and shoulders.]

The truth is what's most important, the thing I care the most about.

[And speaking true is the easiest lie to maintain. It's the safest hail mary pass that L can think of, under that knowing and dangerous gaze.]

Any catalyst that leads to the truth is one that is excusable.

[Ambiguous, yes. Desperate? Perhaps... because if he can get close enough to slide a palm against Soren's scalp, he's sure he can lead the dragon back to memory and clarity, but... that could all go to hell, quickly, if there are eavesdroppers, or L simply isn't quick enough.]

It's Linden, by the way. My name is Linden. Say it as much as you want to.

[It's a lie, too, but any catalyst to the truth is an excusable one. L is faithful to his premise, in the end.]

[silentsavant]

[Ambiguity clashes with ambiguity, and in the end their exchange means close to nothing up until the end. Polishing his murky mind with this name he should have known adds luster to the dragon's eyes. Yes... It clicks into its rightful place. He worries once again about his mental shortcoming, his inability to recall something as basic as a name. They met before — they must have. The fact that he can only remember him as well as a dream he had forgotten is unnerving. Unnatural, for him. But then he remembers with a throbbing head that he'd been injured recently, thrown into a coma and recovered. It was only natural to have some resultant brain damage, but Ike had reassured him he would do just fine.

This reminder makes him feel where he's vulnerable. He can't hope to play pretend at being on Linden's side well unless he is armed with more information on him, on the other suspicious figures attending this party. But the witch is quite warm to the reptilian monster, his own blood throbbing through his veins in the chemistry of the atmosphere and their proximity. In Cwyld-touched lust, he longs to make his mark on him, sully him with his blessing. In the meantime, he will at least give him that. He compresses him back against the wall again with his strong little body, tail curling in the air as his pupils slowly dilate. He licks his lips again and purrs.]

Linden...

[His clawed digits creep further up his arms until one slips around his neck, the other pressed to his collarbone. He rises a little until he's on his front toes to close just a little more distance.]

I'm curious. How you would like to help me, if it isn't by healing...?

[hearthebell]

[Hope sparks at the gleam of recognition that comes with the name. Wise to offer it; wise to gift the reminder, to one whose better nature seems well-buried at this tense juncture. Because while not infected with the Cwyld, L is warm, feverishly so, and it's the kind of hungry heat that swells and presses back when Soren encroaches, stifles, rumbles deep in his throat. L knows what he'd call it if a cat made that sound, but for a dragon, he's not sure it fits, not when he's half-certain that notes of infrasound are rousing his deeper unease and spurring his pulse.

He reminds himself to breathe, and resists the urge to brace against those creeping claws. Cruelly sharp, and his neck is so thin; his skin is practically translucent even in this dim light.

Dark eyes meet Soren's, huge and round and strained at the edges.]

You're missing something, aren't you?

[Searching. Steady. Could he raise his arm without Soren noticing? His mind focuses on that library in disarray, suffering for someone else's tampering.

Maybe there's a way. Soft and gentle as a landing moth, L's hand rests against Soren's chest, inching upward. It can't seem too fast or sudden.]

There are knacks I have, that I don't mention to just anyone.

[silentsavant]

[If it was L's goal to arouse curiosity in Soren, he found success in that endeavor. He also managed to slip his hand's intent past the dragon's notice. Soren angles his head a few degrees, eyebrows knitting, blinking with his third eyelid as he is wont to do unconsciously when focused on something. He weighs whether or not he's being lulled into a trap. Questioning him seems relatively harmless.]

And what are those?

[His tail brushes up against his thigh, sneaks about like a thick serpent beginning its coil.]

[hearthebell]

[For all that the spindly detective lacks, for all the passions he typically cannot inspire in others, curiosity, at least, is a failsafe. His dark eyes have seen so much, and what they haven't tends not to evade them for long. Easy enough, to get drawn into those promises of stories and secrets and, of course, skill, in all sorts of surprising arenas that might just be strange enough to be believable.]

Oh... you know...

[He's vague, voice lilting daft, breathless and soft. He cups a hand against Soren's shoulder, fingertips brushing the ends of the dragon's hair, as he feels another appendage creeping about his leg.]

To say it would be to spoil it, perhaps.

[silentsavant]

[Soren's lips slip into a scowl.]

I'm not fond of games, nor do I care for surprises.

[Missing something... At the very back of his mind, submerged beneath the flow of thoughts diverted in the direction his captors have willed, some blind truth clicks, and the surface current is disturbed by this but what lies below cannot quite be fathomed through the rush. No... It's nothing deeper, he tells himself. What's missing are memories that slipped through the cracks of his mind shattered by the accident, nothing more. His tail weaves, constricts: slow. The points at the tip snag on fabric, sharp and infected, deadly like stingers. Pressure distends in his belly, a familiar and uncomfortable heat made slightly more tolerable with an outlet pressed so close, all his if he decides to claim him to the fullest. He dents flesh with nails and slides up his body so that their hips are almost aligned, like he could creep up him like a tree and tempt him into succumbing to his sickness. He shrouds them from view with his infernal wings unfolding forth, settles his palm atop the back of L's adventurous hand as if in affection that does not reflect in his face.]

And between us, I'm not the one who needs help.

[hearthebell]

[No good; backing off would be prudent. Unfortunately, L is all about games, and wearing that too brazenly would certainly be asking for trouble in the face of this revelation.]

Doesn't everyone need help? In some way, or another...

[He takes a gamble, inching his hand higher, winding his long fingers through the hair closer to Soren's scalp. Contact with the head, as close as possible, is crucial.

His fingertips rest there. He made it, managed it; is the hard part over?]

What help do you believe I need? I'm willing to listen...

[He strokes with his thumb at the nape of the dragon's neck. Gentle, soothing; priming, to learn what's really wrong. Diviners may not often rush into battle where their physical prowess and fighting capability determines their survival, but that isn't to say that they take no risks, face no danger.

Show me; I want to see more of the shelves. What's out of order?]

[silentsavant]

[The dragon's lust transforms the tingle of fingertips into wonderful electricity. Each breath pushing in or out carries a soft vibration at the throat. There's a breach and he scarcely heeds it, mistaking a bothersome type of pleasure for the faint and nearly imperceptible prickle at the back of his brain. Of magic, which he is sensitive to.

The structure of what makes Soren 'Soren', the framework of his personality: shrewd, practical, and wary of others, has remained mostly intact. L, like most people, has never gotten the chance to explore what really makes Soren tick, how this framework of him had been constructed and all the insecurities and concerns has been wrought, the people in his life who had shown him how cruel the world really was and the people who had shown him it wasn't just a dark and frozen wasteland barren of support and love, even for those branded anathemas to it. These categories belonging to a life lived far away from Geardagas may as well be written in hieroglyphs, for L would never understand the nuances of what it means to be beorc or laguz sub-human, but could see at a glance that the shape of it is similar enough to monsters and humans, for example. Concepts like these: names of places; historical events; people he had met; are mixed up, woven crudely to assimilate to those on Talam.

Tapestries of lies and half-truths woven together like this over his patchy memory. It's as though Soren scarcely remembers he had never been born here, that Tellius and Talam aren't one in the same. But if forced to confront these lies, the integrity of the weave may fray with ease.

There is a section completely devoted to one topic. One person. Ike. This area has been vandalized the most. The order in which facts, details, and memories should go in is all scrambled up. Passages upon passages are ripped out, censored, and most notably, overwritten with nonsense tying him to the Evergreen Circle, to seeking salvation within the Cwyld. His voice, his face, his aspirations, even his principles... contorted to suit someone else. But Soren thinks highly of him, trusts him where he cannot trust anyone else. Whoever this paragon of a man is, Soren is unshakably loyal to him, and he shares a powerful Bond with Soren. A Bond that has endured since before Soren had come here just shy of two years ago.

That's right. A Bond. Not a mere bond. If one were to compare what is written about the Bond and hold it up to the truth of the Bond's existence bridging him to another soul, they don't match up in the slightest. The Bond is only as young as a couple of days. And the other two Bonds...

They're muted. They're restricted access, though traces of one can be found lingering all throughout, as if whoever was responsible for brainwashing him couldn't completely wipe him out. Not when there are too many connections to this 'Ike'.

But only so much can be garnered by the diviner while he plays with the danger he truly can be in, when Soren's Cwyld-saturated wings clasp L by the arms and drag, drag down the scratches inflicted by the dragon's claws earlier. He hums as he punctures his ankles, squeezes him tight, grinds their hips together, a bulge present through layers of clothes where there wasn't before. He whispers against his throat.]

If your goals are oriented correctly, you'll know exactly how I'm helping you.

[hearthebell]

[In his mind's eye, L is somewhere with a different set of rules and threats. It's valuable insight into all that has shaped Soren, the things that have are still fluid or the ones that have settled and hardened, whether that means stoic or scarred. But talented polyglot that he is, the scripts are alien, unintuitive to him. The general outline is something he can discern well enough, he thinks, to work on getting to the heart of the problem... but that would be in an optimal situation, in a quiet room with minimal distractions and a subject who knows exactly what he's attempting and welcomes it. He can't immerse himself enough to see very clearly, because the sensory interferences of present tense threats cut in at regular intervals.

Gently, he tugs at a thread on a tapestry that seems spliced, its integrity inherently shoddy. In the physical world, Soren's threatening to unravel him, in turn, and a keening sense of danger cuts in every time he tries to press and investigate more into Ike's extensive, oddly uncritical section. What he knows or believes about Soren makes the section stand out, if only because it's so strange to see someone placed on such an unconditional pedestal, here... and such a chaotic one. He takes a step closer in an attempt to get a closer look, but the touch of Soren's wings cuts and stings what's already tender, crushes their bodies together with demanding and heedless force. Their garments buffer the grinding contact enough to make it actually something like pleasurable, but L responds to the overall roughness with a sudden knotting grip near the roots of Soren's hair, intended to get his attention.]

Easy...you're hurting me.

[He doesn't overtly resist, still requiring proximity with the dragon's skull, but it's spoken with quiet urgency, and also the understanding that Soren may be beyond actually caring. It's literal, in the sense that at this moment Soren is causing him pain... but also true in a deeper abstract sense. He's being intercepted by the physical world's frequent reminders that he is not strong even by the standards of a human, and that he is currently entangled with an imposing beast of myth and legend.]

I've never been with a dragon, Bonded or otherwise...

[An explanation, with an intentional subliminal slip. Can he unlock something about those blotted-out ghosts by getting Soren on that subject of Bonds.]

I'm not used to being overwhelmed this way.

[Spoken with an affectation of breathless admiration. A little flattery never hurts, and it's not like he's lying.]

[silentsavant]

[As a person, Soren is immune to flattery. As a brainwashed dragon, on the other hand, the folly of pride has become a bit of a nuisance. He barely notices the light stroke to his ego, though he does detect an affectation to the utterance. The veracity of the statement? Oh, he hardly doubts that.]

That doesn't surprise me. We're rare. [Going extinct. Clawed hands find their way beneath his shirt, slipping up, up, not enough to rip through flesh, but enough to insinuate the notion.] But compared to the partners I have overwhelmed in the past? I would contest that I'm handling you with velvet gloves right now.

[If he considers this to be overwhelming, then he's really not his type, Soren thinks to himself, and then glows with thoughts toward his Bondmate, how he... then he -hesitation; oh, his head feels weird. Soren's trail of nails slows, both at his hands and the wings. His thoughts pass over Ike. There is nothing strange of him thinking of Ike in moments like these, though his thoughts prod against one minor detail over and over again, a memory, a contradiction. It's the idea that Ike would hate what he's doing right now. The way his face darkens with disgusted rage when confronted with obscene injustices. Yet here he is, complicit in the pain of others, encouraged to enact such harsh means to a lofty end by him. This is enough of an impact to give him pause, as if it were L's plea that quelled the roughness of his advance. Soren's face isn't given to much expression, but it's clear to anyone fluent in body language: he's lost somewhere. Momentarily confused, but trying not to let it stymie him. This Cwyld is like a parasite, after all, the flush of excitement spreading the disease to his brain and binding the urge to infect L with the baser way to do so. He frowns then redoubles as if to snap himself out of it, helps himself to L's throat with a toothy kiss, compresses his chest to the wall, squeezes him harder in his tail's thorny embrace.]

[hearthebell]

[Likewise, L can't doubt the veracity of Soren's claim. Velvet gloves or not, the insinuation is chillingly clear. It's a reminder that, although their methods and reasons are different, L also requires a glancingly delicate touch, whisper-thin while somehow still managing to be effective enough to do the job.

The question, of course, is whether or not he can before he actually is overwhelmed.

At first, it seems as though Soren is reconsidering. That could bode well; has there been a breakthrough? Was it the right fraying thread to pull in the tapestry, after all, even if L knows this kind of influence runs deep and demented? Has a thin and reassuring beam of hope penetrated those shelves, in spite of it?

No good. It could also bode poorly, very poorly, and he's like a doll in the dragon's winding, compressing grip. What doesn't squeeze is sharp and biting, and though L doesn't yet notice signs, the infection is already taking root in his own body, probably started to after those first scratches damaged his clothes and skin.

It's getting more difficult to breathe. Soren's teeth are too rough on his slender throat. His protest is louder this time, appealing to whatever made Soren pause a moment ago.]

It hurts.

[His right arm is pinned at his side, but his left is free. It also carries a powerful electrical charge, one he will use if he has to. He would prefer not to; he knows that Soren is also fighting something overwhelming.]

[silentsavant]

[The flavor of blood — delicious, popping with magic — hits his brain like a powerful current. He's broken skin. This isn't the first time he's had a taste, no; witch blood is witch blood, but each profile unique. He loves the way his own witch tastes the most, but this delicacy surprises him. His tail quivers in response. The urge to heave him up with the ease of a sack of sawdust and carry him off to one of the more private rooms passes, for there is so much more he would like to do with him that shouldn't be witnessed by others.

And from there, he could take care of two problems.

He fails to heed L's second notice as he chases one last rush sparked by the sensation of magic, a bit more friction doled out to that one needy spot between his legs and the layers that tease his squirming sex, and the Cwyld-induced satisfaction of infecting his target. But once again, something catches his higher mind off-guard in the haze of hindbrain: the witch's blood up for comparison is... not who he expects it to be.

No, don't stop — it's just another bout of confusion, he reminds himself with a flush of indignance, and continues to dig; bite; claim; devour. Why on earth he would think that stupid cat of all people means anything special like a Bond to him is beyond his reasoning, and he should really keep focusing on making sure he doesn't do anything too careless here, or get too carried away in the swell of sensory overload. It's only then — and perhaps too late — that he notices the spark of magic comes from another source.]

[hearthebell]

[The plea to a higher mind and a higher nature is a wholly earnest one, and to L's heightening dismay, it goes mostly unheard. Perhaps there's something deep inside the dragon that's still fighting the impulse to conquer and consume, but it's not manifesting, and the victorious strain is clear. It's stronger than L's current approach, and it'll sweep him up and snuff him out if he lets it.

His body is past the point of being able to convincingly maintain an illusion of compliance. Born into a world without the ability to practice magic, after thousands of years of evolution in that world, L's limbs know they're outmatched and threatened, pushed to their snapping point. In that world, he'd be done, and his body knows it. His last boon is the fact that he is a witch, in Aefenglom, and a practitioner of blood magic, besides. Soren doesn't know it yet, but by breaking L's skin and tasting the unique fingerprint of his power, he's augmenting L's hand with an even more devastating punch.

All for it, then. Before he can be crushed, devoured, and snuffed out, L raises his left arm, mashing Soren's face against his bloody neck as he digs his fingertips in at the monster's nape.

What follows is something Soren might find startling, unpleasant, and painful. It's a snap that lasts for a lightning strike's time, possibly less, and it contains a jolt that may be enough to make him angry, make him come, make him lose consciousness. Having never been in a situation like this one before, L's ability to measure such things precisely might not be calibrated flawlessly, but at this juncture, he'd much rather overdo it.]

[silentsavant]

[L's attack sears through him with such blinding force that Soren could swear that every particle of his being had been obliterated, that he had evaporated into the buzzing air and from here on the last note that would resound for him into death would be that twinge of pure, undistilled agony. He can't even be sure if he screamed. After the shock delivers him into this dispatched state it's as though every intent, every thought, all desires he had prior also flatlines. His teeth become harmless, the pressure exerted upon his soon-to-be prey neutered momentarily. He trembles, he jerks, he moans, he slumps. The dragon is far too stunned to be of harm to the witch any longer. Why, he can't even find it in him to speak beyond utterances of pain, much less find anything to say.]

/wrap!

[hearthebell]

[Shaking from the rush of adrenaline, L extracts himself post-surge from a heavy and oppressive embrace, stepping away from the dragon's slumped-over form. He's bleeding, but not badly enough to consider it an emergency, and he's safe for the moment... or so he believes. In actuality, he's been infected with the Cwyld quite fully, and won't realize it for a few more hours.

In the meantime, his mission is to escape. After a cursory glance confirms that Soren is alive, he makes a hasty exit, trusting that he'll be far away by the time he comes to.]