☆ Event Log: Snatched, Part Two

[faileas]

Event Log: January, Snatched - Part Two

I. A Great Escape (20th, Evening) It's been a miserable six days for the Mirrorbound and refugees kept locked away in a basement cell block, subject to all kinds of torment and experimentation. They're a resilient sort, though, and their efforts to organize and bolster each other are not in vain. As the time passes with no sign of the City Guard drawing close to their operations, the Rathmore family grows overconfident, and characters can hear them talking to each other about another mass-kidnapping in the works. The best opening comes late on the night of the 20th. A few of the family's numbers are out - notably, Thomas Rathmore, his wife, and his mother are attending an emergency meeting of Parliament, and Constance is making an appearance at the Coven. This leaves the more inexperienced cousins in charge, the lesser known Rathmores with no particular skill outside of cruelty. Changing of the guard begins as usual, a handful of Rathmores delivering some sparse rations and taking their time to choose a few prisoners to remove from their cells, but this time, the Mirrorbound bite back. Thanks to the collaborative efforts of Daenerys and Asura, along with the prisoners preparing an organized revolt, a fire started in the torture room provides chaos and cover - and one dead Rathmore cousin, whose body gives up some of the keys to a handful cells. Time to play the cards you've held close to your chest over days of torture, your held-back spells, your tricks, your items that weren't confiscated. A mass escape isn't likely, with so many people still present in the building and so many of the captives injured and tired, but with enough of a distraction in the form of a prison riot, which may be enough to overpower the three Rathmores initially left in the cell block, a handful of scrappy Mirrorbound may make it out to safety before reinforcements arrive. a. The Escape Attempt There is one door out of the cell block, the main, heavy, warded door that the Rathmores enter and exit from every few hours. It's locked down tight - but it's possible to power through it, pick the lock, or charm it open. On the other side of the door, in the greater basement area, they'll find themselves free of the Bond dampening. Witch magic make take some time to return, depending on whether they were drugged or only charmed, but it'll be important to move quickly. The Rathmores' basement area is large - the size of the mansion above and the grounds put together, and they'll find themselves on the lower of two levels. The cellblock turns out to be a room within an even bigger room, with the stairs at the opposite end. The dangers are numerous: magical and mechanical traps set in areas marked off-limits, illusions intended to confuse and turn people around. There is only one completely safe path from the cellblock door to the stairs, unless they take the time to disarm the traps and illusions with their returning magic and abilities. That safe path is faster but more exposed, with two or three Rathmores in pursuit, and also the other people that could occasionally be heard outside the door - young aristocrats in on the kidnapping, who thought the Mirrorbound would be sent home. They're just as surprised to see you as you are them. In fact, it's not difficult to overpower these non-Rathmore kidnappers; they're obviously shocked to see Mirrorbound still here, in such states, and some are quite angry, or scared to learn what they've inadvertently gotten themselves into. A good handful flee instead of fight, but some others follow through on the shouted orders to go after you. Use the chaos your appearance causes to your advantage. Once escapees reach the upper basement level, up the stairs and through a hidden door, a few more traps remain, but up here, it looks more like a normal basement; servants' quarters, empty for some time now, storage rooms full of antiques, and winding hallways connecting them. It's easier to hide in this dusty maze to escape any pursuers, and eventually, they find the servants' exit out onto the back grounds. From there, freedom is just a run and a decorative, wrought-iron fence away. b. The Chaos Back in the cells, everything descends into chaos. The Rathmores are furious; while two or three of the cousins go after the escapees, the rest begin to gather down in the cell block, put out the fire, and the interrogations begin. They don't bother taking prisoners out to torment them now - they can't, with their torture room charred and smokey. Their main focus is forcing prisoners back in, and locking everything down with magic and heavy chains, to ensure no one else gets out. They grow more vicious now, and they begin speaking directly to the captives - they want to know which ones got free, how they managed it, who helped them, where they're going, who they're going to tell. Those who refuse to talk will be gagged or muzzled or simply beaten without finesse, and they'll move on to the next captive. Preying on the Mirrorbound's camaraderie with each other is the tactic they quickly turn to, hurting one to try and make another talk. The talk outside the main door grows louder in these few hours, angrier. Occasionally one of the Rathmore cousins will go out to spin some lies, or simply shout down any protesting. Some of the enchantments were damaged in the riot, though - they can hear you, just as well as you can hear them, muffled but still mostly clear. The more they hear from within, the more the confusion outside grows; all the better for the escaped Mirrorbound. ..."What's going on? Those were Mirrorbound that got out-" "We thought you were sending them home!" "You told us there was no risk, that this would make them leave-" "You don't need to worry about that! Go back upstairs!" "Someone needs to get a message to our Uncle Thomas immediately-"... They're all panicking as their grand plans, flimsy as they may have been, start to crumble around them. It's just a matter of time, now. The OOC post for the escape plotting is here if anyone needs to refer back to it! Eight characters will be escaping first thanks to a joint effort. The rescue will be underway within two hours of their escape, but those two hours are likely to be unpleasant for characters who remain in captivity. Any NPC maimings or proposed deaths need to be reported on the City Tracker; please note that mass murder / killing NPCs will still have consequences and needs mod approval first, but we're happy to work with players however we can.

II. The Cavalry (21st, Very Early Morning) The City Guard is closer than the Rathmores think. Thanks to Mirrorbound investigative help, not always strictly legal but still appreciated nonetheless, they've all followed the clues back and determined a possible address. By the evening of the 20th, several members of the Guard and Witches from the Coven, along with any Mirrorbound who followed the trail, are camped out at a manse nearby, the home of a wealthy widow eager to see her nasty neighbors knocked down a peg. Without solid evidence, the Guard can't get a warrant cleared to search the property owned by a Mr. Barclay, assistant to Thomas Rathmore, but solid evidence comes as soon as eight Mirrorbound manage to fight their way out of captivity, returning to friends and Bonded. They are the last piece of the puzzle, and now legal action can be taken. Theodore Rosethorne, leading a small group from the Coven, sends out a magical message to just the Mirrorbound - they've been found. Anyone who wishes to help bring their missing fellows home, anyone who can help with much-needed healing, or anyone who wishes to bring their captors to justice needs to show up now, because time is of the essence. The Guard can't mobilize more men quickly enough in the middle of the night to be useful and they need all the hands they can get, without a floor plan of the mansion or solid ideas of the captors' numbers. They can barely wait an hour for more hands to arrive before it begins. a. The Rescue Sowilo, Theodore's Bonded Fae and a skilled hand at illusions (and seeing through such), leads the rescue efforts, along with some of Theodore's Witches from the Coven. With information from the escapees, they plan to go through the back, take the servants' exit, and make their way down to the basement levels, while Theodore's assault team will go through the front doors, making as much noise as possible. Sowilo's illusions will keep their presence masked at least until they get into the house. The aim is to get through as quietly as possible, find the cellblock, and secure a safe route to take the prisoners out without them getting hurt any worse than they are. It's easier said than done. Magical and mechanical traps of various types litter both basement floors, and heavy illusion work has been placed to obscure the way. Splitting into smaller groups to disarm the traps and deal with the illusions will be necessary, as the entire group will make its way down to the cellblock as quickly as possible. Sowilo hopes they face little to no resistance, with Theodore's group doing their job, but a few, Rathmores and otherwise, are bound to try and stop them; in that case, they will have to fight. "Make sure you can argue a case for self-defense, if you have to hurt them," Sowilo will tell the rescuers and later the freed prisoners on the way out, wings fluttering agitatedly. "Let them be arrested and publicly humiliated in court - ruin their whole family line for generations to come." He's not happy about it either, and will overlook some of the captors getting a taste of what they deserve, but deaths are not permitted on his or the Witches' watch: anyone who takes things too far will find that the person they're attacking has simply vanished - a convincing illusion - before they're handily knocked out with a spell. They face less resistance than the assault team, but less is not none; a few of the Rathmores are determined to salvage their efforts, and some of their unwitting aristocratic cronies have sided with them. Once they reach the cellblock, dismantling the enchantments that keep the prisoners restrained and addled is the first order of business for some. Others can start unlocking cells and helping people out of their restraints. Protection for the escapees on their way out will also be necessary, as well as medical attention back at the temporary base camp. The main focus has to be on those lost friends and loved ones, bringing them back out to freedom and making sure they're tended to - not on revenge. b. The Assault Theodore Rosethorne, along with some members of the City Guard and some Witches from the Coven, leads the assault. While the rescue team goes around the back, they plan to go through the front door, as loudly and conspicuously as possible. The mansion is large and needs to be swept from top to bottom for perpetrators and evidence that can be used in court. Those joining up with this team are warned that it needs to remain legal - the Mirrorbound and the refugees, all of them, have a very shaky, uncertain legal status within the city, and a mass murder could severely harm what good will they have from the locals as well as their status here. After all, many are still neutral to positive on the Mirrorbound, but that could change in an instant. The Coven will take as much responsibility as they can, but they cannot accept the blame for a senseless slaughter. Splitting into smaller groups will be necessary in order to cover more ground quickly. The aim is to locate, subdue, and arrest as many of the culprits inside as they can. The Guard provides magic-suppressing cuffs, and the Coven a basic knock-out spell, but since many will not go so willingly, some degree of force may be unavoidable. If there's one thing the rich fear, it's a legal black mark on their family name and reputation - the Rathmores will fight back harder than their underlings, but they're also the ones they need alive to face the justice system. Those outside the family, those who only knew about the kidnapping portion, are a mixed bag - some might fight back, siding with the Rathmores, but some might give themselves up once the realization of what happened in that basement sinks in. Once they make their entrance, things move quickly. Several wealthy aristocrats either flee or fight, but their attention is thankfully pulled away from the basement and toward the upper levels. There are dozens of rooms to search, and many are cluttered with an old hoarding family's antiques, furniture piled against doors and windows blocking access to some areas, hundreds of nooks and crannies among the sheer amount of stuff provide cover for culprits to hide in. It's going to be work to ferret them all out and bring them in. Worse still, the Rathmores have collected dozens of cursed or enchanted objects that may be used as weapons against the forces of justice. Some degree of force is expected, but still if anyone tries to take things too far, they might find themselves slapped into cuffs or knocked out with a spell themselves. Any NPC maimings or proposed deaths need to be reported on the City Tracker; please note that mass murder / killing NPCs will still have consequences and needs mod approval first, but we're happy to work with players however we can.

III. The After (21st On) Activity continues all through the night and late into the morning at the former Rathmore estate. All the Rathmores and a couple dozen other wealthy aristocrats are brought out in cuffs over the course of several hours, while all the prisoners are liberated to receive medical attention and reunite with their loved ones. The Guard take statements from everyone who will give one - what they witnessed, what happened to them, what they know - and all who were affected are told they will be invited to testify at trial. A gathering crowd forms at the end of the street, wealthy neighbors aghast at the horrors they're learning had occurred right in their District. Most are disgusted with the once-prominent family. On the steps of the Parliament building, Thomas Rathmore, his wife, and his mother, all sitting members of Parliament themselves, are publicly arrested in front of colleagues and on-lookers early in the morning. Constance Rathmore is taken out of the Coven roughly in magic-suppressing cuffs, surrounded by a small group of furious Witches, students of the Coven who spent the week trying to find the missing Mirrorbound and refugees with Divination. They escort her to the prison themselves. All who are arrested are transported to holding cells of their own within the City Guard - all except those requiring urgent medical attention, who will remain cuffed to their hospital beds until trial. Nessie and Mhairi make an appearance at one point to give the Mirrorbound their sincerest apologies for what happened, and Mhairi delivers the news that they're pushing for an expedited trial in Parliament, in order to keep Thomas Rathmore from bribing any contacts. They, along with Theodore and Sowilo, and the Guard, are all open and forthright with what will happen next: public trial and a certain conviction, followed by sentencing. They don't expect that the Rathmores will get away lightly; what they did is too public and too horrific for even the anti-Mirrorbound wealthy to stomach. Those others who were involved, who weren't aware of what was going on behind that metal door, they'll still face justice themselves, no doubt. In the meanwhile, those kept hostage will need all the help they can get to reach something resembling normal again. Hug your loved ones, nourish your Bonds with each other, and begin trying to heal together.

Welcome to Part Two of January's event log, Snatched! An aftermath summary of the trial and sentencing will go up on Feb. 4, the day after the City Tracker deadline, so get your submissions in if you have them! More politically-oriented characters may find an opening in the near future to enact change within Parliament and provide their own representation within the city...

And as a general reminder, please make sure to use content warnings where necessary in your headers!

Comments

[unsundered]

[But of course he was noticed. As the Exarch approaches, the Ascian's good eye remains fixed on him, unblinking. A touch afraid, almost, if not of him, but death.

What the Exarch was actually doing doesn't immediately register. His pulse was thready and too fast, a noticeable tension written in every line of him, as his body valiantly attempted to go into fight-or-flight mode, despite being capable of neither. But then there are words, and though it takes several moments for them to be understood- to realize that the Exarch was moving in a very non-aggressive manner- the overwhelming feeling is one of abject confusion.

And the Exarch is spoiled for choice when it comes to wounds to treat. One shoulder is clearly not hanging right, the same wrist misshapen, broken, though both of those injuries are mostly internal. Various welts and scrapes and cuts mar the rest of him, though the worst of those is a deep gash that goes from the top of one thigh down towards a knee. It's been badly sutured (as even his torturers realized he'd bleed to death very quickly if he didn't get any treatment), but clearly infected and in poor condition. And, of course, there's the mess of blood covering the right side of his face, focused around one eye, which he keeps persistently shut.

But in the end Emet-Selch just nods, once, not quite able to find any words for him, yet. This was an alarming degree of trust to give someone who had every reason to despise him, but the Exarch's actions were incomprehensible enough to bypass most of those defenses. That, and he was just... out of energy. Either the Exarch would hurt him or he wouldn't; there wasn't much he could do either way.]

[exarchal]

[That poorly-sutured gash is foremost on his mind, followed closely by the eye injury. It might be too late to save it. He'll get to it.]

You have hardly been tended to.

[He says that more to himself, really. He wrings out the excess water and lays the cool rag over Emet-Selch's forehead. Taking a moment for his own energy reserves, he thinks he can't spare a sleep spell for the healing he's about to do... but he can't leave Emet to his own devices, either. He might pull out the (already bad) stitches. And that infection will probably spread...

He looks down at the Ascian with a grim expression.]

I shall do what I can to save your leg, but it will likely hurt. I have to undo what they did.

[He finds some tablets for pain and crushes them in his crystal hand, then he mixes it into a small glass of water-- like a shot. He holds it up to Emet's lips but doesn't tilt it just yet.]

This will take the edge off the pain. [He isn't sure how conscious he is, exactly, but if he was in this bed he'd want to know exactly what people were doing to him.] First I am going to remove the sutures, and then I will purge what I can of the infection. After that, I will try to speed along the healing and sew it up again. Then, gods willing, I may tend to your eye.

Your bones will need to be set as well, but these are the most pressing. Do you understand?

[unsundered]

[Letting him know what was going on was probably the right choice. For one, it was information to concentrate on, and since everything was taking a bit longer to process, that was a small distraction in itself. For another, being mysteriously worked on by someone he liked less than the average person would've been torture in its own right.

And, having everything laid out like that in a plan was- the smallest bit reassuring. For whatever else he could say about the Exarch, he did seem to be organized.

Staring out at him over the rim of the glass, Emet-Selch, at least, doesn't believe the Exarch was trying to poison him. It would be unnecessary. And though his eye remains cautious, and he can hardly relax entirely, he seems to be gradually resigning himself to his fate of treatment.]

...yes.

[He does manage to mutter a response this time. This was probably one of the more undignified situations he'd ever been it, and perhaps later he'd be bothered by it, but right now he didn't care. The Ascian was too tired for that, and too honestly bewildered by the Exarch's intentions. Surely he didn't expect that their friends would truly hold it against him for not wanting to heal the person who'd tortured him? That would be... very unreasonable.

What was he getting out of this? Eventually, perhaps, all the negative possibilities would come to mind, but at the moment all Emet-Selch has is a sense of wordless confusion. Things like 'basic human empathy' also don't occur to him.]

Why?

[Is what he does finally manage to ask, though he's not at all sure if what he's asking is remotely clear. It's not exactly entirely clear in his own mind.]

[exarchal]

[He waits for Emet's acquiescence before offering the painkiller drink. Oh, it's sure to taste nasty--] Swallow it in one big gulp, there you go. [He's been there before. Many many times. He offers a swallow or two of normal water after that, as if it might wash out the bitter taste of fantasy aspirin.

He pauses at that question, though. And then he begins prepping the tools he needs for the most minor of surgeries. Not the first time he's had to sew up a wound today.]

Lest you be mistaken, I have not forgiven you or anything of the sort. Still, I acknowledge there is something fundamentally wrong with punishing someone for an act they have not yet committed. Meting out justice as I see fit would make me something of a hypocrite after the ordeal with Vauthry... [His voice lowers.] ... and it would not undo any disaster you have wrought. It would not set right the wrongs against me or any other.

Being particularly contrary, I suppose you might call this a kind of cruelty as an enemy fights on your behalf to keep you alive. But I see it differently. What happened down there is a kind of hell I never thought I would see again-- and we must work together to prevent further atrocities.

[He leans in slightly. One can almost see beneath the hood--]

I cannot save every life suffering before me, Emet-Selch, but I damn well mean to try.

[He refreshes the wet cloth on Emet's forehead and moves to examine his leg a bit more closely.]

Are you ready?

[unsundered]

[...yeah that was pretty atrocious tasting, but apart from a vaguely disapproving glint to his eye, Emet-Selch manages to keep his expression mostly neutral. When it came down to it, a poor-tasting elixir was not much to suffer through compared to... basically everything else (though he does accept the clean water afterward). Now there was just the wait for it to have some kind of effect. The cloth to his forehead did sooth in some measure, though small- and as meager as it was, Emet-Selch wasn't about to scorn it.

The Exarch's words were a lot to go over, but he first nods his permission to his question.]

Go ahead.

[This was bound to be unpleasant and painful both, but it was necessary. Just having the illusion of control mattered more than most else, believing that if he told the Exarch to leave him be, that he would. Pain was much more tolerable when it was allowed.

But with that stated, he tries to think about the Exarch's words- something made much more difficult in his condition. But it was likewise harder to twist his words around, to find the worst possible interpretation. He didn't have the energy left to seek out offense.]

Don't think... that I've forgiven you either. Or- that I'm at all interested in your forgiveness.

[The Exarch could be such a tease with his cowl. Even from this angle, the Ascian could make out little more than usual.

With concentration, he fought to find the rest of his own words, to work through the various levels of disorientation and haze to realize his thoughts, to put them into phrases, to actually speak them. But this was important. He was unlike to have a better chance to consider the Exarch's words as they were, without adding his own layer of interpretation. Without the full measure of his own defenses.]

...But I agree. I will not- let- this happen again. Even if it means working with you.

[Though there's a hiss of pain, there's no animosity in the reply. A sort of cold pragmatism, perhaps, but it's not particularly bitter.]

...our grudges can wait, while we both have... far more relevant targets for our combined ire.

getting vague about medical shit now because this isn't E.R. and i'm not that strong lmfao

[exarchal]

[The Exarch works patiently to prep what he needs. Scissors, clean thread for the suturing, more water, cloth... This is a bad one. A hundred years of fighting sin eaters has given him a better tolerance for the horrors of war, which is a minuscule comfort when he's surrounded by it. He carefully cleans the wound as best as he can.]

We fought with the intention of surviving over the other. There is no erasing that. We... we looked each other straight in the eyes and would not suffer the other to continue, even if you do not remember it all. You and I both knew that one day it would come to this.

[He breathes in through his nose.]

Yet there is a time and a place. This is not the grand stage you set and it is not mine. Here we are but two foolish actors fumbling our way through the scene, wondering who is writing the act.

[He carefully dabs at the poorly-sutured wound with some kind of salve and a cloth. This is blissfully numbing, taking the hot infected skin to something cool and distant. And then he begins to work on the sutures and reopening the wound.

This is the part that requires real concentration. He focuses, hands glowing, until the mana stirs up within him. He murmurs a spell under his breath, some half-audible words calling to mind cleansing and corruption, as the spell coalesces into a ribbon of clear blue energy. It dances, gorgeous and brief, as it darts into the wound and wraps the flesh in a deep, comforting warmth.]

it's all magic an' shit anyway

[unsundered]

[At this point, Emet-Selch closes his good eye. He didn't particularly want to witness the Exarch or anyone else rummaging through his leg, and if the man was going to do something unpleasant, seeing it coming wouldn't have helped.]

...Whoever's writing it requires more practice. This mess is hardly deserving of an encore.

[He holds very still through the cleaning, barely making a sound. The sudden numbness comes as something of a relief, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The Ascian had been in, essentially, constant and growing pain for the better part of a week, and there had been nothing to ease even a fraction of it.

It was only at this moment, with this suggestion that the pain could cease, that Emet-Selch realized he'd apparently survived. That it was over. Yet this brought no further relief, only a kind of hollowness. It wasn't that he'd wanted to die, but he'd been expecting it from the beginning, and now, after all of this waiting, it didn't even have the decency to follow through.

A bit of the tension goes out of him, but it's from sudden hopelessness rather than relaxation. He'd made it through all of that, and for what? No purpose was served, and he wasn't even dead.

Gods, what was it all for; the Exarch was healing him while telling him how they would always attempt to kill one another in the end. He was trapped on an unknown star, in mortal flesh, watching a world that no longer existed burn whenever he opened his eye. This was complete madness. Was this what that felt like? Had it taken this long?

...he was so tired.

There was a new warmth in his leg, different from the prior burn of infection. He tries to focus on that, on something; he wasn't about to lose it in front of the Exarch, of all people.]

Do you really think- that the two of us can ignore all of that history? Our ideals aren't-- [What was it all for?] the sort of thing we can readily suppress. [What was left?

...Nothing. Nothing was left. That was the answer, wasn't it?]

it's true /waves hand, a wizard did it

[exarchal]

I cannot say I disagree.

[For once.

He offers Emet-Selch a sort of silence as he concentrates on purging the scourge of infection. It's difficult work especially on an old wound, and there's certain to be a lot of blood. His human hand helps catch the excess in a cloth, but there isn't all that much more he can do. Still, he has some presence of mind to latch onto that labored question...]

We have spoken countless times and yet we have not come to blows. Is that not proof enough?

[He would never call Emet-Selch a friend, nor would he trust him, but he can sort of guess by the questioning that Emet doesn't know what to do with himself, or their quarrel. He doesn't envy the man his position. Coming in from a time just before everything fell apart, only to be told he'd lost...

Oh.

Emet-Selch was fueled by some kind of twisted hope, wasn't he? The Exarch realizes this, because he has held onto the selfsame thing with a bloody grip for so long. It was the Ascians' actions that led to everything being taken away from him including the world's future, after all. There is certainly retribution to be found in his actions thereafter, but it wasn't some personal grudge that led him this far. It was hope... and a fervent wish to see someone again.]

Fighting here does us no favors besides. Neither of us can further our cause while completely separated from Hydaelyn and its reflections. We can wear each other down, I suppose, but... for the sake of our mutual friends, I would rather not.

There is simply no point in it.

[He falls silent again. With the infection purged, he can start on that second healing spell. This one is a bit more intense, and uncomfortable, as Emet-Selch's body begins to heal the wound in faster time. The light illuminates the face beneath the hood, but not enough to discern any identifiable markings.]

[unsundered]

[The sensation of blood running from a wound is never a pleasant one, a bit sickening in its own right. But being able to feel it at all instead of just pain probably counted as an improvement.]

If I attacked you, I'd be torn apart. Moreso than this.

[Though avoiding the wrath of their friends wasn't the real reason (though in the heat of the moment, it helped). The Ascian knew it would be pointless. It wouldn't save himself, it wouldn't aid a single thing. It wouldn't even be very satisfying.

Futility was a recurring theme.

He's silent in turn as the Exarch continues to work, muscles occasionally twinging from the deeper discomfort healing brought with it. It wasn't enough to distract him from his thoughts, unfortunately, which remained disjointed. Relentless.]

We've both known this from the start. But that hasn't prevented us from.... [He makes a half-frustrated, half-distressed sound, unable to find a word to precisely summarize how they've treated each other here. Even if it was mostly his fault for provoking the Exarch to start with.] --I don't intend to.

But you- [A small realization; he adds, with more honesty than he really intends.] You're the only target I have.

[It was kind of pathetic to realize; in lieu of being able to do anything, he was just taking out frustration on the one person he could blame for everything. Even if the Warriors were at least as guilty, they were different.

And he was no less frustrated for it, so it didn't even work. When it came to pointless endeavors, at least he was consistent.]

[exarchal]

'Tis a likely outcome.

[He won't deny it. There had been... moments where he wondered if he might find himself on the wrong end of a gun again, or fallen victim to some awful spell. But even then, he knew his friends would fight for him. The others had come to the Tempest, hadn't they? Whatever they might think of his scheme, he was still a friend in their eyes.

Somehow. He still labors to understand their forgiveness.

Emet-Selch's honesty surprises him, though. His brow furrows in concentration and he keeps working, going over the words he wants to say while the now-familiar flow of mana stitches together flesh and vein.]

You have lived for a very long time. I am not in the least bit surprised that you cannot help a bad habit—old men are set in their ways. I, of course, am no exception.

[He can't heal this thing fully, but he can at least put it on a better path to recovery. Shorten the healing time by a week or two. He finishes, and it leaves him somewhat short of breath, though he tries not to be loud about it. He wants to be unflappable as possible in front of Emet-Selch.

He drops the scissors on the small tray beside him, ignores the sloppiness of the motion, and picks up the needle.]

Long have I suffered the slings and arrows of your remarks. If I simply continued to hold my tongue, you might not be so tempted.

[unsundered]

[The cause of his death in the first place had been stealing the Exarch; the Ascian can't imagine doing it again would go any better for him. With all of his abilities available he'd apparently not been able to save himself- and here? His current situation further highlighted just how limited he'd become. Relying on the mercy of an enemy to heal him.

If he'd been less exhausted, more up to his usual standards, Emet-Selch would've retorted that it wasn't a bad habit to speak the truth as he ever did- and surely any reaction he got was because he was right--

But reacting like that was exactly the problem (even if he felt he was right). At least... being conscious of it is a start?

Though he doesn't notice the change in the Exarch's breathing, the brief clatter of the scissors has him startle, eye snapping back open to focus (or try) on its direction. But no threats appear, and he closes it again with a small sigh.]

It would be easier if you didn't argue.

[But that felt like asking to be pitied. To expect allowances because he couldn't control his own temper. That was even more of an insult.]

T'would be easier for us both if I didn't- [Inflict him with the truth?] provoke you.

[Even through the haze of discomfort and fatigue, hopelessness nipping on the trails of every thought, every phrase- Emet-Selch can tell this is going to be both intensely aggravating and difficult.]

...I'll try, alright? For their sake, if nothing else.

[exarchal]

[Of course it would be easier if he didn't argue. But the Exarch has sort of, a little, possibly grown tired of letting Emet say whatever the hell he wants when it isn't the whole unbiased picture. So it goes.

He's quiet for a moment, only hesitating briefly in his work when Emet says he'll try. He thought perhaps the Ascian had it in him, yet to see it is... He has some complicated feelings on it even now.]

Well, if you are trying, I suppose I have no excuse.

[His tone is light, though as usual it's difficult to tell what he's feeling beneath it.]

... I would still record the lost history if you would permit me. I would let you read all I wrote, as well.

For the... transparency I cannot grant you otherwise.

[unsundered]

[If he were a more reasonable person, Emet-Selch might recognize that getting regularly needled about the worthlessness of mortals might get a bit tiresome if one was mistaken enough to care about those broken things. And that, given the opportunity to do so, it was only a matter of time before he'd provoked a response.

The Exarch's tone pulls a breath from him that's not quite amused, but amused-adjacent. The man was as mysterious as ever, and as impossible to read. And, in the Ascian's current condition, he doesn't even attempt to.

He'd just have to accept that they would... give it their best, he supposed.]

If you wish.

[Though there's still some resignation in his tone, it doesn't have that same bitterness that it had once possessed towards the idea of sharing Amaurot and the old world with him. If the Exarch was willing to heal the Ascian- he probably deserved at least some small measure of trust.

It's not enough to put him at ease with it, but it's a start.]

...it might be nice to see it all written out.

[A physical record of the past, since he had no physical reminders of it.]