Event Log: April, Tangled Terrors Part Two

[faileas]

Event Log: April, Tangled Terrors Part Two

Hopefully you and your fellows have prepared yourselves for the trial that comes next, with supplies and backup, because it could be days until you see the city of Aefenglom again. Slashing down the curtain of blackened roots that bar entry to the source of all this trouble will open up access to a truly massive cavern, the ceiling of which is far, far over your heads. Unlike everywhere else in the Underground so far, slats of light from aboveground filter in through cracks in the ceiling of varying sizes, where thick, sickly roots penetrate the surface and reach down, down, down, hanging like stalactites or wrapping around the mass at the center of the chamber. There it is, the pulsing louder than ever, a steady drumbeat of unease: a beating, throbbing mass of Cwyld, easily as large as one of the bigger buildings in Aefenglom. Pitch black in color, it’s attached firmly to the coiling roots of what must be a huge tree above, leeching from it like a parasite and reaching dark vein-like fingers into the leyline. This is an ancient, well-established thing that must have laid dormant for a long time, newly awoken by the efforts to clear away infection in the tunnels close to it. With every beat of this hideous heart, the problems that plague the Underground, Aefenglom, and the Mirrorbound grow incrementally worse. It’s easier to feel out the leyline here, even for those who may not be sensitive to such things, and its poor condition is enough to fill even the stoniest heart with empathetic, deep-rooted despair - the magic here is badly tainted, the land dying all around you.

I. The Screaming Tree It’s possible to climb the winding roots up to the world aboveground, wriggling through the cracks in the earth’s ceiling. The Cwyld is deep-set here, the grass ashen gray and withered, crumbling under your feet, the plants black and twisted into strange shapes or simply dead, collapsing into dusty husks at the slightest brush. The ancient tree before you is just as dead, its branches long bare, its bark crumbling and leaving bone-white patches of the raw wood visible in the trunk. It might have been beautiful once, homey, its roots spread wide and forming natural hollows and bowers to rest in, but that was a long, long time ago. Before something terrible happened here. Look closer at the trunk, and bear witness to the faces of two dozen humanoid creatures who seem like they were partly absorbed into the tree and frozen there, their expressions a tableau of horror, fear, despair, many of their mouths twisted into screams. Men, women, there are even a couple of faces that seem so, so very young, held in place inside the dead tree by black, pulsing veins. Their long limbs are outstretched like branches, as if they’re reaching for you, desperate for help. Black, oily sludge constantly leaks from their unmoving eyes like tainted tears. The Dryads died out a long time ago, fallen to the Cwyld, that’s common knowledge, but now you’re seeing it for yourself. The pulsing mass of Cwyld below overtook this tree, and the Dryads who no doubt lived among its roots and branches. "Can thou feel their cries? The hopelessness wrought deep in their souls?" comes a larger than life voice near you, laden with despair of her own to see the evidence of lives cut tragically short. “I remember this place. It was a Dryad settlement once, long ago.”

II. Guardian's Blessing The source of the voice may be familiar to some: Creia, the guardian dragon of the earth, who was once freed from her own slumber thanks to Mirrorbound efforts; her scales are a vibrant, emerald color, evidence of her better health from her first true meeting with the Mirrorbound as a whole outside the boundaries of Aefenglom, and there's a sense of power in the words she speaks. The power that comes from long life, from an ancient being who has seen and experienced much. "Mine wings bore me as swiftly as they could," she says, settling into a sitting position in the dead grass, watching the tree with immeasurable sadness. "Thou hast seen what lies beneath, have thee not? The Cwyldheart." Her tone is nearer to disdain than sorrow, but there's a clear remorse in it as well. "I had not thought they existed still, but perhaps they merely laid dormant where my senses could not find them. This one poisons the very leyline that runs beneath thine Aefenglom." She goes on to inform all who are gathered that when she heard from you Mirrorbound that something was amiss, she came as quickly as she could to see the damage, and to try and offer her help if she can. Cwyldhearts, she tells you all, are masses where the infection is concentrated, where it has consumed a great amount of magic or lives, and when active, they cause powerful surges in infection all through the leylines they attach to. She wasn’t aware that any remained, and speculates that they hide themselves when they go dormant. This one is most assuredly active, and that means it won’t stop until it has consumed everything it can, turned every life from here to Aefenglom into an infected husk. But Creia, her talons scratching at the dead ground, and her gaze fixed on the tree, does not seem so willing to accept that. "Thou who hath been called by the world, thou hath proven thyselves capable of achieving the improbable before, have thee not? That I stand here now before thee is proof enough of that. Perhaps, should thee take heart and valor in hand, thou may be able to do so once more. Wouldst thou like to try?" In a surge of power, the ground immediately beneath her shifts, the grass changing color slowly from gray to white to green with new life, and she drags her claws through it to turn the earth, revealing large brown seeds shaped like teardrops, the size of footballs or ostrich eggs, nestled in the dirt. Despite their woody outer shells, she’s very careful with them as she offers a seed to anyone who steps forward to take one. "Each of these seeds contains a piece of my magic. Keep them safe, plant them in the center of the Cwyldheart, and add thy power to mine own. Yes, yes, those who are closer in form to myself as well, everyone with a spark of life in them can lend their voice to the chorus of this world. It will amplify thine abilities and thine hope for a better world, and enough of them should allow thee to destroy this blight for good." She casts a glance to the tree, to the frozen faces of the Dryads, something new entering her expression, something like hope. "And who knows what may happen then?" This mission is a dangerous one, but Creia sends off those willing to take it with a warm, heartfelt wish. "Thou must take care of thyselves, but be certain to take care of thy comrades as well. Thou shalt need one another."

III. Heart of Darkness You can’t put it off any longer. With seeds in hand, it’s time to venture back down below, to the pulsing Cwyldheart. The steady thump-thump, thump-thump resonates in your very bones, in the back of your brain that has your instincts screaming at you to run the other way. The twisted knot of blackened roots and veins at the center of the chamber does not welcome visitors, but it’s possible to slip through a gap between the tangles, into a darkness you’ve never known before. Whatever entrance you find closes up the moment you and your fellows step through it, and it becomes obvious quickly that either you will succeed here, or you’ll join those Dryads in the infected tree. Your Watch still works, at least - most of the time. The connection is quite spotty, and voices can come out sounding garbled and nightmarish on both sides, but with persistence, this is the only way you’ll be able to talk to anyone who isn’t on this mission with you. Otherwise, you’ll have to rely on your fellow volunteer heroes to help you through this. a. Inside the Cwyldheart The inside is much larger than the outside would suggest. Once your eyes adjust to the darkness, an easier feat for Monsters than it is for Witches, the true scope of this maze of tangled roots becomes clear. The walls move in and out like they’re breathing around you, some corridors much tighter and others feeling vast. In some, you can walk right side up, while in others, your feet remain on the ‘ground’ but the blood rushes to your head, the actual floor far below you. Time and space take on a dreamlike feeling, and you can’t tell if minutes have passed or hours, can’t tell if you’ve gone feet or miles, but Mirrorbound at least should be able to tell the difference between dreams and reality. This is all very real, and you won’t wake up miraculously fine if you get hurt down here. Negative feelings seem always at the forefront, paranoia and fear especially, filling those who venture here with the sense that they need to watch their backs. The air is thick and stale, damp and reeking of rot. The natural pathways that tunnel through the Cwyldheart like twisting arteries are lined with clusters of purple fungi, and very old, sludge-covered bones of the creatures it infected long ago. They’re rare, but occasionally blind Shades still wander within the chambers of the Cwyldheart, so twisted and mutated you can’t tell what they used to be. These are attracted to sound and motion, and by staying very still, you can generally avoid their attention. Everything in this place gets more dangerous once it gets the scent of those seeds you carry, though. As if sensing what they could do to it, it will react defensively. Protect those seeds; Shades will come after those who carry them, the roots in the walls and the bulbous mushrooms loosening and growing and lashing out. The Cwyld may sink its claws into you in an attempt to infect and consume those seeds - too much contact with the roots or the Shades may start to cause physical mutations in you, just like those mutations of the velvet wormipedes and the native creatures of the tunnels. Your limbs may change and twist, you may grow new blackened protrusions. It's painful, and disgusting, and if it goes too far, you may need to hand your seed off to someone you can trust, lest you sabotage the mission yourself. b. Heart on Your Sleeve As the hours pass within the Cwyldheart, things get… a little weird. Your sense of perception could feel off. It may feel like something is always watching you, like you have to keep looking over your shoulder every few minutes. Or you might feel utterly, utterly alone in the universe, even if someone is standing right next to you. Whatever makes you feel worse, it seems like. But then the strangeness gets more improbable, like the Cwyldheart itself wants to probe at your weaknesses, bring them out to the forefront to better get under your skin and make you lose hope in ever finding the center. All those things that have hurt you in the past, that left their marks on your mind, your soul rather than your body, surface as wounds or scars on your physical form. None of them will be debilitating or life-threatening in themselves, you won’t bleed out from your past broken heart, but they will be painfully obvious to those around you, and some may not handle that type of vulnerability well. The only thing that seems to ease the pain from these psychological wounds is talking about the events that caused them to another person, whether they be your Bonded or a total stranger, or just sharing an emotional connection of some kind. No one wants to discuss some of their worst memories or open up to a near stranger, but it might be necessary to keep yourself from being distracted or held back as you wander the maze of the Cwyldheart. c. A Helping Hand The rampant issues with Witches’ magic, with Bonds, even sometimes with Monsters; abilities, continue even here. With your proximity to the source, they are even stronger - but there is a way to alleviate the effects enough to progress. The land recognizes all bonds, even those that are unofficial, even those that are new. While you can hang on to your Bonded if you’re lucky enough to have them with you, friendships or familial relationships or a budding romance, the heat of a rivalry, or even the new and tenuous bond of two strangers brought together by mutual dangers can be used to your advantage. Physical contact with any of your fellow Mirrorbound, even just clasped hands, or a comforting hand on your shoulder, can make it easier to cast spells to light your way through the dark or fight off the few wandering Shades. It can give you the strength to use your abilities, not quite to their fullest, but better than you can use them alone. It will also help you protect those seeds you hold close to your chest. Your bonds, and your Bonds can help shield their presence from the Cwyldheart, making it safer to proceed. It’d be easy to push people away, especially bearing the physical representations of your deepest emotional hurts, but you’ll never survive that way. You’ll only make it to the center by coming together.

IV. Seeds of Hope In the real world, at least a week has passed before you and your fellows find the center of the Cwyldheart, though it may feel like only hours or it may feel like weeks to you, stuck in a place that ignores the conventions of the real world. The innermost chamber is a small space, tucked away, with sloping walls made of latticed roots littered with holes. This is the only place inside where a thin trickle of light filters down, weak, through a small hole in the ceiling. This chamber is vulnerable, all the strange defenses outside meant to protect it. The soil here is black with infection, but soft, easily dug with your hands or tools if you happened to have brought them. The perfect place to plant your garden of hope for the future of Geardagas. Once you’ve broken through to the innermost chamber, the pulsing seems to fade away, letting you think again, clearly, for the first time since you entered. The walls are still. You’ve made it this far and no more dangers will come for you. Plant the seeds you worked so hard to keep safe in the blackened soil, hold your friends tight, and plant a piece of your own innate magic with them. All your best intentions, all your joys, all your light. Let it bloom. The seeds take root quickly, and bloom they do, growing fast and strong and pulsing with magic, Creia’s bolstering your own to make something bright and brilliant. The resulting plants grow huge in a matter of minutes, twining together in harmony. Maybe you can even tell which seed you have carried, because the plant is a larger version of something significant to you, or it bears colors that represent you. They form a sheltered bower, and spread upward, pushing away the blackened walls, sinking fresh green tendrils into the bigger roots of the dead tree. The Cwyldheart crumbles around you. The black recedes. The leyline fills with fresh magic and pulses with new life. A gentle warmth wraps around you like a blanket and heals your wounds and banishes any infection you picked up. It will keep working over the next few days, the new life sinking in, banishing the Cwyld entirely from the Underground caverns and weakening its hold above. It will gradually bring life again to the ancient tree and make it bloom once more. At this point, you can stick around to watch it happen, or you can return home with the good news, and trust in what you helped to start. With the destruction of the Cwyldheart, all its negative effects will fade. Your Bonds will snap back into place and right themselves from the Dryad Tree clear into Aefenglom. You might feel the phantom ache of that loss for some time more, but the moment it’s destroyed, everyone will know that all will be well.

Welcome to Tangled Terrors, Part Two! This part takes place entirely at the site of the Cwyldheart, but anyone is welcome to do Watch threads on this log to communicate with the group they aren't part of (staying home vs expedition team). We'll be posting a small wrap-up at the very end of the month that will describe the aftermath and the rewards characters will reap for their efforts, but it won't be a full event post of its own. As always, you're welcome to use this log or make your own, and please make sure you warn for any content that might be disturbing to others! And lastly, please direct your questions here. Have fun!

Comments

[hearthebell]

[L's slender form looks braced against any potential onslaught. Limbs tense, bloodied head bowed and cradled against a long hand.]

Because you said you wanted to kill us...

[His limbs tense closer to his core as he meets Mello's eyes, or tries to.]

I want to live; I'm not your effigy.

[onamissile]

L

[Fuck aliases, though as far as Mello knows, "L" is an alias in and of itself. Regardless of his own weakness, regardless of this black thing growing from his arm, he's got something to prove.]

[Always has, hasn't he?]

C'mere.

[Because he's just a stupid boy, in the end. Because L is eternal: dead or alive. Because Mello's got something to prove.]

[hearthebell]

[L steps back; maybe not fast enough to evade him. He has nothing to prove, after all; he's spent years doing exactly that, years that Mello stuided.

Why?

[He truly wants to know, neither accepting or rejecting the overture.]

Are you going to try to choke the life out of me, again? Because it didn't work, the last time.

[onamissile]

[The accusation hits something deep and visceral inside of him. Because of L's reaction. Because it's been insinuated. Because he knows.]

[Mello tightens his lips. Takes a step forward where L takes a step back. Perhaps not the best move but — ]

No.

[Honest as he can be.]

Because I want to know you.

[hearthebell]

[L is defensive of his space. There's so little of it to spare, after all, and he recoils into himself as Mello encroaches closer.]

You don't.

[Denial and rejection that he hasn't given Myr, or Near, or Light Yagami.]

You don't want to know me. You'll be disappointed, and angry, and vengeful.

[He cradles his arm like a baby, something vulnerable, at least something close to him that Mello shouldn't have the right to pilfer.]

[onamissile]

[All of which Mello finds inherently offensive. He remembers himself a child at L's feet, listening to stories that seemed fantastical. His childish attempt at connection, which was thrown away without proper explanation. His obsession, which lasted long after L 'died'.]

[He's a child again, and they're both fucked up, yeah. But L remembers doesn't he?]

What I did when I was a kid, [He insists. L's withdrawal tears holes and galaxies into Mello's stomach.] I was a kid, yeah.

[His stares is firm. Absolute.]

M'not a kid any more.

[hearthebell]

So grow up.

[The words are enunciated, visceral and bitten-off.]

Stop being a child; fight me, or slink away... whatever it takes for you to forfeit your petty, cheap judgment. I don't care what you have to say, about my alliance with him; I don't believe you'd understand.

[onamissile]

[And the same feeling that he'd experienced when Roger had told him and and N about L's death is new again. A tightening of his throat. A sinking in his stomach. Mello feels it all over again even though L is right here. But he's been through a lot since then, and again: he's not a fucking child.]

[He throws L a glare, one meant for enemies.]

He killed you, L. Do you remember that?

[A vile tone to his inquiry.]

[hearthebell]

[He doesn't remember. That's the plain and simple truth, because he stepped through his mirror before he went to those particular gallows.

He'd been on a rooftop, instead, dozens of stories above concrete, listening for something Light Yagami could not hear.]

I know how it happened; I know when.

[And he is not at peace with the knowledge that his life ended, even as it feels slightly unreal, certainly less real than Light Yagami's hand in his, in Aefenglom.]

I never asked you to understand; in fact, I made it a point, to assume that you wouldn't.

[And you don't. You won't, and I'll scream endlessly against his shoulder before I whisper it against your ear.]

[onamissile]

Do you know that I adored you.

[In some fucked up, wicked, demented way. An idol. A God.]

And you hate me now.

[Mello's stance is nothing short of aggressive and defensive at the same time.]

And I know the basics of why.

[The blackness invading his skin is making him aggravated and without patience, but this is L.]

But I know. I can't take it back.

[Honesty has never been his virtue, but — ]

When you left us, I left. Do you want me to fucking tell you what happened after that? It wasn't a fairy tale.

[hearthebell]

[L knows. He's seen that fucked-up, wicked, and demented love pushed to its inevitable and destructive limit, and he poured gasoline on the fire. Had he done so as innocently as a child who thought it was water?

No. He'd been in the building, and seen a way to hasten its infernal collapse. Of course he'd let it flare around him.

What to do, now? He's heard it before, at least parts of it. He knows. This benefits him in no way, but...]

Tell me.

[He turns his head away, so that the cracked and bleeding part of his skull is out of view.]

It matters. I want to know.

[onamissile]

[This isn't right; Mello knows. They're both witches in the heart of where magic turns black, and his instincts are off. L can kill him; he knows that much. But right now? He feels both drained and powerful enough to do the same to L, if it comes to that.]

[Saying the wrong thing isn't a worry he possesses, right now. More surging, more burning. He glances down at his wrists; the veins there have gone dark, too. And L's voice is both gospel and the ghost of an echo in his ears.]

No, you don't. Liar.

[He spits the words before his mind fully processes them. Either L is fucking with him or assuaging him; it's impossible to tell. Mello's voice is as cold as can be, and there's too much to tell. But.]

I didn't believe you were dead.

[And yet, his mouth confesses.]

No one could have convinced me otherwise. I spent half of my time trying to survive, the other half was spent looking for you.

[Asshole.]

Even if I knew I wouldn't find you. I knew you were good, and you didn't wanna be found.

[He takes another step. Turning away from Mello isn't only not an option, it's downright fucking offensive.]

[hearthebell]

[L can kill him; L is also, of the two of them, the one who has never taken a life. It's possible that he doesn't have it in him, or he truly draws the line there... but here, where magic can turn black, who can say? There's a first time for everything, after all.]

There... needs to be an agreement between us.

[Softly. Worth a try.]

If you assume that everything, from my death to my words, are false... we're not going to get anywhere. Do you understand?

[Sometimes, it's just face value. A death is a death; a man is a man.]

[onamissile]

[And sometimes: a liar is a liar. Mello would know, after all. He was bred to be one from a young age. As was L. As were all of them.]

You're asking me to trust you.

[There's a sardonic tone to the revelation, and if L wants trust, then he should give it in equal parts, right? Isn't that how this works?]

Do you trust me?

[As Mello reaches out. Tentative. Slow. The veins in his arms and hands and fingers are so black, and this place is going to kill them both. Again.]

[hearthebell]

No.

[Unhesitating, an answer to both statement and question. L is not asking; and he does not trust Mello, to be honest or to behave with both their best interests at heart.]

But I don't believe that you operate on falsehoods, alone.

[It's an observation on where they are, rather than some hypothetical and unlikely someday-scenario where they have actually established trust.

L doesn't reach back, but he doesn't withdraw, either. Light can heal him, if he ends up with a mild Cwyld infection from this; he can heal Mello, too.]

I'm asking you to evaluate the motives, the potential gains and losses for both of us.

[If you believe I'm lying, why do you think that? What would I have to gain by being dishonest?]

All I need you to trust is what you already know, when I tell you I had nothing to gain by falsifying my own death. At least... it was nothing that was worth anything to me. I wasn't going to run and hide from Kira, just to preserve my own life.

[You believe that; if you know anything at all, about L, you believe that.]

[onamissile]

I believe you.

[Because you would have stopped me when I went too far.]

[Somewhere, deep down, Mello truly believes that L would have put a stop to one of his successors going off the deep-end had he been alive. Once upon a time, he believed in the fantasy that L was too good to be killed by a subject of one of his cases. That he saw everything Mello did and would intervene when the time came.]

[Maybe that's why he went so far, maybe that's why we went so hard.]

[But in the end, he'd accepted that L had lost, and he hated Near for being right all along. He scrunches his brows, drops his arm. If L doesn't trust him, well — trying to force him isn't the way to gain that trust.]

I trusted you too much. That's where I went wrong.

[And so he'll walk away. Again. It's repetitive at this point, and maybe Mello should just stay away for good. It's what L wants. It's what should be done. Even if closure never comes.]

[hearthebell]

[L keeps his arms close to his aching chest. Battered as he looks, and feels, he senses that Mello's about had it.

Why do you keep coming back, when a part of you must know how it's just always going to end, now?]

Probably.

[Spoken softly, tone ice-touched.]

A word to the wise... don't give away trust you can't afford to lose.

[onamissile]

[Mello absolutely stills, his back to his ex-mentor. What the fuck sort of advice is that? It raises a flush of anger and frustration in his chest, and his mouth has always gotten the best of him — ]

We were fucking conditioned to trust you. All of us.

[Asshole]

Whether or not it was your doing.

Eli might've been the most intelligent, [he admits out of spite.] Called you a loser when you lost. [A sardonic, hidden, half-grin on his face when he says it.] I fucked up. You're just a guy.

[hearthebell]

That sounds like him.

[Unruffled, unfazed. It's a strange thing to see when he's clearly in such poor shape, breathing hitching at times through the unspeakable injuries that are visible, the ones that aren't because he covers himself in dark, baggy layers.]

All of this bothers you, and is actually nothing to do with me at all. You realize that, don't you?

[onamissile]

It doesn't matter. [Mello can't discern between the here nor there right now; L is L, and the disillusionment still exists in his mind as much as it did (back then) when it was all L, and nothing else.]

[Doesn't matter whether or not his back is turned to Linden. He's got things to say. Whether or not he walks again is his own choice.]

You killed me.

[Something he's always been too strong to admit.]

You killed me when you died; but you didn't give a shit about any of us, did you?

[With that, he takes a step away. Another. Mello's point has been made, and to expect L to care now when he never has is an idiot's game.]

[hearthebell]

[The bones of L's skull crunch wetly under his fingertips as they fly to contain the feeling that something is slipping.]

Idiot child.

[Spoken softly, coldly.]

[onamissile]

[And Mello's eyes widen at the comment, the accusation. It sinks something deep — rejection — in his stomach, but on the surface?]

T'fuck you just say to me?

[Behind grit teeth. Mello has grown so much since then, and he doesn't take insults well, if he ever did at all. He halts his retreat, waits for L to repeat his words. After that?]

[Well — ]

[hearthebell]

[If the air feels like it's getting colder, it's not Mello's imagination. It's also not something that bodes particularly well for either of them; magic is unstable here. Magic has a tendency to backfire; magic can wound more than it was intended to, if it works at all.

L bites the words, crisp and clear as icicles.]

Idiot. Child. Who knows nothing.

[Nothing except for one shredded glimpse of a man who vanished like mist, shouldn't have appeared at all in a place where his absence implied indifference, but his presence could do far worse things.]

[onamissile]

[Words cut like a thousand knives, and Mello's never been one to respond kindly to assault. L is purposely looking for a reaction now — he's sure of it — and he gives it without second thought.]

[It's without hesitance that he's on the other man, flaming-hot hand going for his jaw; if he can burn L the way he's been burned, then that's what he's going to do. Breathing thick and ragged, he uses all of his strength to attempt to press his idol, his God back against a tree, channeling all of the fire that runs through his veins into their contact.]

[Whether or not his eyes turn pitch black is beyond him; no way to see them. Whether the blood that begins to bead in the ducts are pure magic or tears doesn't matter. He knows he's the weaker one here, but who gives a fuck.]

[Let L kill him again. And again. But Mello is going to make him hurt before he does.]

[hearthebell]

[The temperature plummets. The already-battered body Mello slams back against the trunk is tinged corpse-grey, frigid to touch, but ice isn't L's only affinity. Where Mello's scorching hand goes for his jaw, the congealed blood from his cracked skull sparks in kind; anyone daring to lay a hand on him is likely to feel a powerful shock, their heart skipping beats, their vision greying...

Letting go would be a good idea. Letting go is also complicated, because ice layers on around Mello's hand, black and biting as L's eyes. Though it melts in contact with the heat Mello wields, it's too thick to do so quickly; it has the effect of fusing the miserable bodies together in punishing contact.]