aftr_stories | [MU] - FEELING LIKE A GHOST (PART II)

[MU] - FEELING LIKE A GHOST (PART II)

"No, no...no!"

The Storyteller's voice cuts through the inkdrop-dark, frantic and scrambling. A distant blot of campfire gutters in the far distance - far from where you are. The disorientation of the week preceding this one has translated into Mu, and everything is hopelessly out of place. The Storyteller sounds muffled, clearly addressing someone or something else, their voice cushioned by the uniform, void-like night.

"Stop it. Stop it! I wasn't gone for very long at all. You can't behave for two weeks? You have to make it all...all...wrong? I can't keep this up - not with what I've had to do since returning - !"

Gradually, however, the shadowy campsite solidifies into being. Or...a semblance of it does, in any case. Four glistening pyres rear out from the shadows, each glowing a different color. The strange material that domes them almost resembles worked steel, forming different patterns against their multicolored backdrops.

[ ♆ ] The first glows a deep crimson, kicking scarlet embers into the dream-night air. Its pit sphere portrays a crowd of people in silhouette, heads bowed in genuflection - paying homage to some looping, many-coiled shape in the sky above.

[ ♆ ] The second glows a deep orange. Its pit sphere is worked into the shape of a looming mountain, with what might be some sort of village or ruin sprawled at its base.

[ ♆ ] The third's flames are a rich green. Its designs are most abstract; the starburst patterns that swirl across the metallic composition of its fire pit sphere could be explosions, maybe...or something else entirely.

[ ♆ ] The fourth pyre is one bearing host to golden flames, amber sparks sprayed out from behind the shape of a set of scales nestled among a flurry of birdlike shapes.

Beside each pyre is heaped a pile of sticks, colored to correspond to their respective flames. The Storyteller sounds agitated when they manage to speak again:

"Will you let them at least make the choice I left to gave them?" When there is no response, they sigh. "If you can hear me...I can't make it clearer than that, at the moment. Pick one. Pick one, quickly, and try to get out before it decides to make things worse! Just add a stick to whichever one looks best to you!"

Unfortunately, whether you abstain from voting or make your choice, that's not all there is to this night...

Tonight's Storytelling, further warped by Mu's capricious nature, will likely feel familiar to those of you who were with us in December of the year prior. Only this time, you don't get much choice in what kind of story you're telling...or, indeed, any choice in the matter at all. As you wake by the Storytelling campfire, Mu shifts to form three separate events from your character's present - which is to say, within one full year of their current canonpoint - in the most stark and painstaking of detail. There is no altering the memory, nor is there any preventing it once it's begun to play. You will simply have to witness memories that are not your own this go around.

Furthermore, stories that take place in worlds other than LifeAftr will be, frankly, inevitable. Those memories, too, will be recreated, to be relived by the teller and lived by the listener.

While the initial setting will be familiar for oldcomers, and newcomers will recognize it from the introduction they received in their dreams, things will be far more similar to the memory share that occurred in December. All memories must be from within one year of your character's canonpoint. For questions, please refer to our OOC event post!

Even those who prefer not to voice their stories aloud are not safe this time around. The memory does not need to be willingly recalled in essence in order for Mu will shift to accommodate it in full.

Just like the last time this happened, all memories will be worth two offerings each, as if in compensation. So at least there's that!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

I suppose you're right. It's not li-

[His voice cuts off in a hiss of pain as the burning sensation flares to life again. Harsher this time than it has been, it leaves him gasping for breath afterward, hands clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles turn white.]

Our tainted history
Is playing on repeat
But we could change it
If we stand up strong and take the lead

Gladio had never been what one would call clean cut. But the man standing beside the throne is certainly more neat than Gladio usually is, his beard neatly edged and trimmed, the upper half of his hair pulled back in a complex knot. Rich warm bronze circles his head, brow clear but the piece anchored at his temples with delicately formed metal wings sweeping back along his head, arching over elegant filigree and fragile chains the glitter against the darkness of his hair.

What he wears is even more formal than the Kingsglaive uniform he arrived on Enso in, rich silk embroidery glistening across his chest, the usual heavy boots and gloves and all the practical pieces of his outfit replaced with fine material and ornate designs. Not a single weapon on his person, unless it's hidden beneath the fall of a cloak over one shoulder.

To his right, Ignis, dressed as smartly as always. To his left Aranea, loking like she'd prefer to be anywhere but here. She, at least, is able to express her displeasure with all the pomp and circumstance. There aren't really that many people left though so it's even more important for them to bring everyone together. Which is the only thing that keeps Gladio from vetoing this whole ceremony.

He shifts a little, uncomfortable, listens to the speeches and the assurances given to the people. Members of what ruling parties are left will serve as a council, the only member of the nobility and most trusted companions of the Chosen One will serve as the new rulers, blah blah blah.

He knows why it needs to be done but it doesn't make it easier to withstand, especially to stand there stern faced and regal while Prompto and Iris are intentionally doing everything humanly possible to make him laugh. Revenge will come later, for now, it's all he can do to keep a straight face, especially when Aranea makes a face back at Prompto and the fool blushes instead and it's probably the cutest and stupidest thing he's seen.

Eventually, after far too much politicking, a tall, powerfully built woman with dirty blonde hair sweeps in, her dress truly ridiculous considering how tight resources were a short time ago. Not white, she'd refused, not pure enough to wear the Oracle's signature color she'd said. A soft, ivory gown, plenty of layers and frills and complications but still accented with the same rich bronze embroidery.

She moves towards him and he turns, reaching out to take her hand, offering a glimpse of a new piece of ink scrolling up his right hand. The speeches turn romantic and he finally lets himself crack a little, rolling his eyes a little and she snorts, stifling a laugh.

Rings are offered, Aranea handing one to her, Ignis giving one to Gladio and there's a briefest moment of hesitation there, his fingers squeezing hard around Ignis' wrist as he takes the ring from him. So much is riding on this, him as King now, Elle at his side, Ignis his advisor. The people are trusting them to have this all in hand.

He'd throw it all out the window at the slightest hint from Ignis.

A hint that doesn't come and his hands fall away, turning back to smile at Elle. Rings exchanged and then a kiss that sets the gathered audience into cheers and finally all of the serious business is done and they can simply celebrate.

[A young woman with sharply pointed ears slams her hands down on the podium in front of her. "Lance, will you stop talking?!" Lance, a guy several are familiar with looks chastized as a buzzer goes off. A green alien in a floating chair pipes up in a cheesy game show host voice. "Oh! Time's up."

Keith slides into view his feet and legs wrapped in glowing shackles. His last drawing is still up on the board. He sighs as he's turned to face the podium in front of him. Lance protests about the time and he ignores him. He doesn't want to trapped here for all eternity with Lance.

Bob, the green alien gestures widely to the other side of the room while the downtrodden Paladins of Voltron look on. "Looks like our other team is gonna have an opportunity to steal." Keith keeps staring to the side. Someone else can say something. "What other team?" Hunk asks like he'd thought he would.

Ridiculous music plays as the violet symbol of the Galra empire flares to life on the blank display behind the podiums on the other side of the room. Flat displays of four people rise up and become real. Zarkon a tall imposing figure of a Galra in red armor, his witch Haggar clad in her familiar black robes, their son Lotor with his arms crossed over his chest, and some twerp Keith doesn't know. He's more than ready to fight all of them as Lance leans over the podium and utters a shocked. "Zarkon? No way!" Hunk scrubs at his eyes. "This can't be happening."

Keith doesn't have to glance over at his team to know they're all in various states of shock. They're shackled and unable to fight back if Zarkon closes the distance between them. He clenches his fist. He'll give him a fight with what he has.

Bob drifts over to the newly revealed team. "Hello there." Zarkon almost sounds cheerful. What the fuck. "Hello Bob."]

Edited 2018-10-20 08:22 (UTC)

[Ardyn scowled at the impulse reaction, realizing what he wanted to do without understanding why. He wasn't kind, wasn't sympathetic--Ardyn Izunia was a monster through and through, those memories only served to reinforce that.]

Hold still.

[And yet here he was, calling a spark of Blizzard magic to an already cold hand and pressing it lightly to Ignis' face like a compress. Maybe if he just...framed it another way, then it made sense.]

My little brother's a terrible coward, leaving you in such a state just because of me.

[Despite the warning, Ignis can't help but start when the cold comes in contact with his face, but he falls still immediately after. He's surprised that the spell seems to actually be cooling the burning, even dimming the magenta shading the darkness. Perhaps he's just imagining it, though. Either way, he doubts it will last, but while it does, he will be grateful for it.]

Thank you.

[Ignis is silent for several moments then, just letting the cool sink into his skin. When he finally speaks again, he starts it with a soft, self-conscious laugh.]

It was mostly my fault. You have to admit, it was rather prideful of me to do what I did. Perhaps that is why they only took my vision and not my life when I offered it. They wished me to learn a little humility.

[The wooden boards creak as his enemy a masked alien man moves slowly across the walkway. Keith and the blue wolf at his side stay still as statues. He tracks the druid's movements with his eyes. Two years with his mother had made him very good at stealth.

He listens to the wood creaking and internally counts the steps. A clink from near by tells him something fell. The druid lashes out with purple flashes of magic. He tenses as the dust from the explosion drifts down in the air. He has to hold steady. If he's to help the others he needs to slip away when he has the chance.

His ears pick up the faint squeaks of some small creatures and that's all. The masked man walks away. Keith turns to head back and a sword thrusts between the gaps in the boards. He yells and jerks back. Sickly purple light gathers up above and he lunges forward. He wraps his arms around the wolf's neck and together they vanish a short flicker of blue light.

They reappear a short distance away and race away. The druid Marcidus appears ahead of them and Keith turns around right into the path of the advancing mage. He jerks back and twists, bringing his blade up in a swift slash. The mask splits in half revealing white eyes set in a bluish grey face. Cold laughter fills the air as the man vanishes. Keith spins back around. The druid's gravelly voice fills him with unease. "There is no escape but death!" The eyes go wide telegraphing an incoming attack.

They dance, dodging and weaving as their blades clash and sing the familiar lyrics of a battle to the death. He holds his own but his opponent's magic makes it a harrowing skirmish. Luckily he has a wolf friend. Kosmos leaps at Marcidus and the druid warps away. Keith and the wolf attempt another escape.]

I don't want to hear excuses for any of them.

[His hand fell away after a moment longer, Ardyn folding his arms.]

The Lucii govern the ring's usage, and it is only through their infinite mercy that even those of the bloodline can bear it. If their precious Chosen's life was so at risk, there was hardly any reason to take what they did in defense of his life.

Your beloved Founder has never cared much for the cost of enforcing the rules as he should see fit, however.

[Content warnings: explicit and graphic violence (specifically flogging/whipping), minor character death, forced power imbalance, and slavery. Which kind of goes with the forced power imblance but. Those are really seperate warnings in this case.

I'll match prose or brackets!]

[[ooc: mention of medical equipment and implied death in the 1st prompt]]

[Throughout it all, Laurent is unusually distracted- he doesn’t even seem to register when Damen flickers to life at the center of the campfire, and stares into space throughout the Soulgemmed March Disaster. Maybe he’s tired, but it’s likelier that the past week hasn’t been kind to him. Maybe someone should. Let him know about this?]

"Put him on the cross. Wait for me to arrive."

"Your Highness, regarding the slave, the Regent instructed—"

"You can do as I say," Laurent says with an icy authority, "or you can go there in his place. Choose. Now."

I have waited six days so that you and I could be alone, he had said. The meaning was clear as the guards lead him through the winding halls. They haven't blindfolded him, so he commits the path to memory. Remembers it, in the event he has a chance to escape.

The thrill of finding a potential escape route, of practically being handed it on a silver platter, is immediately washed away when Damen sees what the "cross" is. It's a massive tree trunk, which has another, equally sturdy beam attached across it. The entire thing is padded, and the purpose is clear: it's a flogging post.

With a perfunctory quickness, the guards tie him to the cross and Damen does not struggle. He does not struggle, and then Laurent enters and settles himself in front of Damen and Damen struggles, pulling against the restraints until he realizes what he's doing and stops. Obediently lets another guard press a piece of wood covered in leather between his lips.

"How many stripes?"

"I’m not sure yet," Laurent says. It's almost bored. "I’m sure I’ll decide eventually. You can begin."

The first time, the sound is worse than the hit itself.

The second time, he's still stunned from the first lash and he can't breathe through it. Can't focus on anything else. Can't even truly steel himself for the unrelenting torrent of blows, not when it reaches the point that every lash hits where another was laid.

It's overwhelming. There is nothing but the pain after a certain point. No Laurent, no guards - only the unrelenting burn of fresh welts. Of his entire back being lashed raw.

Perhaps that's why it takes a long moment for him to realize it's stopped. Takes him a moment to remember that Laurent is there, now standing only a step away. He touches Damen's cheek, and for a moment there's a blurry unrecognition.

Jokaste.

"I should have done this to you the day you arrived," someone says and Jokaste fades back into Laurent. "It’s exactly what you deserve."

"Why didn't you?" There is nothing left to lose - what Laurent had hoped would be exposed was weakness. Instead, he'd flayed away the kindness Damen had tried for and exposed only steely resolve. "You are cold-blooded and honourless. What held back someone like you?"

Even as the words are leaving his lips, Damen knows it's the wrong thing to say. Something in Laurent's eyes flickers.

"I’m not sure. I was curious what kind of man you were. I see we have stopped too early." Laurent looks past Damen, at the guard who's been tasked with torture. "Again."

"Your Highness," the guard says, clearly uneasy, "I’m not certain he’ll survive another round."

"I think he will," Laurent says in the same cold, flat voice he's used this entire encounter. "Why don’t we make a wager? A gold coin says he lives. If you want to win it from me, you’ll have to exert yourself."

It's impossible to tell how long the second round is. Damen can hardly tell the lashes apart after a certain point, blackness crowding the edges of his vision. He would not pass out. He would not, no matter what Laurent wanted.

"I was on the field at Marlas." There's a moment where Damen can't quite understand the words, but Laurent stops for no one. "They wouldn’t let me near the front. I never had the chance to face him. I used to wonder what I’d say to him if I did. What I’d do. How dare any one of you speak the word honor ? I know your kind. A Veretian who treats honorably with an Akielon will be gutted with his own sword. It’s your countryman who taught me that. You can thank him for the lesson."

He doesn't need to ask who Laurent is speaking of. He knows. Better than anybody, Damen knows who killed the crown prince of Vere. Still, an answer is clearly expected so Damen forms the words. Says them.

"Thank who?"

"Damianos, the dead Prince of Akielos," Laurent says. It's detached, almost clinical. "The man who killed my brother."

[Ignis has to bite back a soft, disappointed sound when Ardyn pulls his hand away. Almost immediately, the cooling effect begins to dissipate and the burning begins to return, but at least it stays at a much lower level. If he tries hard enough, he can almost ignore it, aside from the ever-present color tinting the darkness.]

Mercy and fairness apparently have no place in fate and prophecy. All of this...

[He motions out toward the fire as if to encompass the visions he's just witnessed.]

...it hurts, but it just makes me more determined to find another way. There is just too much wrong with this to let it stand.

[Neither Beginning nor End see the light and the one who would give everything for them both is blind to it as well. What good is the warmth of the sun when loss would have shattered and chilled what was left of his heart?]

"Can you speak?"

There's a different cadence to the way Damen speaks to the young man who is lying on a pallet in the dark of night. There is a wound on his stomach of the sort that would be difficult to heal. The kind of wound that kills a man.

"You are Akielon," the young man says.

"I'm Akielon," Damen says.

For the first time, it tastes a little like ash in his mouth.

"We have . . . retaken the village?"

Damen swallows. He owes a dying man honesty, at least. "I serve the Veretian Prince."

"You dishonor your blood.

It's spat at him, full of a vitriol and hatred that he understands. Quietly, Damen waits for the spasm of pain that the effort caused to pass.

When it had: "A raid on Akielos provoked this attack?"

"Did your Veretian master send you to ask that?"

"Yes."

"Tell him," the man says proudly, "his coward's attack on Akielos killed less than we did."

Damen can do nothing for a moment but stare at the dying man in front of him. Anger is never productive.

"Where was the attack?"

There's a bout of bitter laughter, and for a moment Damen is sure that the man would die rather than say anything else. A lifetime ago, Damen would have done the same.

"Tarasis," the man says eventually.

"It was clan raiders?"

"They pay the raiders."

There is a map unfolding in Damen's mind, and he tries to map the most likely route. He frowns.

"They rode through the mountains?"

"What does your master care for," the man says, then coughs, "this?"

"He is trying to stop the man who attacked Tarasis," Damen says.

It's true. For all of Laurent's Veretian doubletalk, Damen believes that his heart is true. Believes that Laurent would do near anything to stop this war that gave him a kingdom at the price of the only thing he'd ever loved.

"Is that what he told you? He’s lying. He’s Veretian. He will—use you for his own ends—as he uses you now, against your own people."

It takes effort for the man to say this. Like he needs Damen to understand this, if he is to continue while this man dies. Quieter, less formally, Damen asks a new question.

"What's your name?"

"Naos."

The name isn't quite familiar, but Damen's eyes catch on the belt that Naos is wearing. That he recognizes.

"Naos, you fought under Makedon? He used to buck even at the edicts of Theomedes. But he was always loyal to his people. He must have felt them badly wronged to break Kastor’s treaty."

"Kastor." Naos makes a sound that otherwise might be a laugh. "The false king. Damianos . . . should have been our leader. He was the prince-killer. He understood what Veretians are. Liars. Deceivers. He would never have . . . climbed into their beds . . . as Kastor has done."

Naos did not recognize him, then. Maybe that was for the better. Then this man could die without knowing that Prince Damianos had done exactly that. Had held the Prince of Vere by firelight.

"You're right," Damen says eventually. It too tastes like ash in his mouth. "Well, Naos. Vere is rousing its troops. There is very little to stop the war you want."

"Let them come . . . Veretian cowards hide in their forts . . . afraid of an honest fight . . . let them step outside . . . and we will cut them down . . . as they deserve."

Damen doesn't speak. He just sits in the stillness of the now silent village and waits until Naos' breathing stops. Until he can close Naos' eyes and say a prayer, one tiny bit of penance against his many sins.

Edited 2018-10-20 10:02 (UTC)

[Three magi stand in a dark corridor, before a flickering screen. Undertale castmates will recognise two of their number: Asriel and Mettaton, dressed in unusual finery. Words appear on the screen:]

How stupid can you get?

Surely you could not have been stupid enough to think salvation awaited at the end of the road. Surely, you could not have thought you could wrest Miki Morikawa and Hoshiko Ohka unharmed from this place.

You will make one final choice. You will call the elevator up. Towards a shot at finding the one whom you hate so dearly and tearing them asunder with your own hands.

However. You will sentence the two of them to their deaths.

[Beyond the screen, the entrance of an elevator becomes visible. The three pull out their communication devices- on closer inspection, these are handheld mirrors- and several voices come through in a panicked chorus. ]

Don’t do it, Jackass! - You cannot stop here, you need to finish this!!- [the astute could pick out Laurent’s voice, but it’s easily lost among the others:]Abstaining.-

-Grow a pair and go. Otherwise, you've wasted all of our time twice.

[The three magi- bicker. They fight, and Pokey attempts to leave the other two but is physically hauled back by Mettaton. Even the small Asriel tries to fluff himself up and snarl- but there is a moment where a look passes between them, and Pokey mouths something to the other two, and you come to the realisation that they’ve come to an agreement. This fight is just for show, to stall the watcher until Mettaton rushes the elevator with Pokey and Asriel in tow, hoping to take their enemy by surprise.

Surprise kind of doesn’t work with elevators, though. It jams mid-descent, plunging its occupants into darkness, and the scene switches to a well-lit room crowded with magi. From every mirror in the room there is a furious scream.]

All you had to do was follow the rules! I gave you a chance to follow orders and save one of them, but look what you've gone and done!!

But a choice is a choice. If you thought abstaining from the vote would save them... If you thought you could rescue them...You're all more naive than I thought! There were precisely six votes for Miki Morikawa and three votes for Hoshiko Ohka. That makes Miki Morikawa the declared survivor... However, since you disobeyed the terms of our agreement, I'm afraid that there are no survivors. I will conduct the experiment on both girls.

[The room dissolves into chaos. Asriel’s voice issues from one of the mirrors, thin and despairing: We thought... we thought we had a chance-

Why did you go?
What did you do.
Hatsu-san told us to /stop/, there was no chance to take after that!]

What happens when you introduce a false grief seed to a magical host body? I wonder, I wonder... Let's find out together, shall we?

[A girl stands before two of her prisoners, holding up a misshapen gemstone to a mirror. The two bound girls are strapped to operation tables, struggling against their restrains. The girl with the gem steps beside one of her prisoners and sweeps their fringe back, revealing another dull gem set on the prisoner’s forehead. The other captive screams something. Unperturbed, Kagaku Yamashita touches the Grief Seed to her captive’s Soul Gem and pushes it in.]

[At that moment the vision breaks with the sound of shattering glass.It ends with a disturbing, violent outburst of energy- though not corporeal, you might feel as if it could really hurt you. Whatever happens next, you know that something awful and irrevocable has been done. ]

Edited 2018-10-20 13:31 (UTC)

"The whip and the men are Vere’s gift to Akielos." Laurent turns from his audience to look at Damen. "The first fifty lashes are my gift to you."

He can't refuse. It's always like that with Laurent.

"Vere is generous," Damen says. If it sounds strained, he hopes no one notices.

"After all," Laurent says, still holding Damen with a single look, "I remember what you like."

Out of the corner of his eye, Damen can see the prisoners being tied down. Can see Veretian men step into place, readying their whips. Laurent looks away, finally.

"Furthermore, Fortaine’s bounty is yours. Its physicians will tend to your wounded. Its storehouses will feed your men. The Akielon victory at Charcy was hard-won." Laurent knew how to work an audience. It was one of the things Damen admired about him. "All that Vere gained while you fought is yours, and it is deserved. I will not profit from any hardship that befalls the rightful King of Akielos or his people."

Time seems to slow. It takes an approximate eternity for the fifty lashes to be given out and Damen's eyes never move once from the sight of it. Every cry, every crack - all of it is immeasurably burned into his brain because Damen know that if he looks away Laurent will meet his gaze and he cannot have that.

He watches the men be cut down from the whipping blocks. Watches as the dead are separated from the merely unconscious. When that's finished, Damen speaks.

"We have a personal gift too." All eyes turn toward him. It's unnerving, and he doesn't want to do this but he must. "Every man here knows that you kept us as a slave. We wear your cuff on our wrist. But today, the Prince of Vere will prove himself our equal."

Damen gestures and a squire comes forward with something wrapped in a cloth. Though nobody else knows what it is, Damen can feen Laurent tense.

"You asked for it once," Damen says as the squire unwraps the object. Those who have known Damen for a while will recognize it: it is one of a set, the other shining brightly against Damen's olive skin. "Wear it for me."

It looks for a moment like Laurent won't do it. But then again, perhaps that's the advantage of doing this in public: it is impossible for Laurent to refuse. He extends his hand, palm outstretched, and lifts his eyes to meet Damen's.

"Put it on me."

Damen takes Laurent wrist and does nothing for a moment. Then, like he's done so many times before, Damen unlaces Laurent's sleeve, pushing it back just enough for him to fit the cuff around Laurent's slender wrist. It's ownership and submission at once, and Damen can feel that Laurent's pulse is uneven even though he displays no outward signs of nervousness.

"My throne for your throne," Damen says. He only just remembers to say it loud enough for their audience. "Help me regain my kingdom and I'll see you King of Vere."

"I’m overjoyed to wear a gift that reminds me of you," Laurent says as Damen locks the cuff into place.

When it is done, Laurent doesn't withdraw his wrist. Doesn't re-do his laces. Just leaves it casually rested on the arm of the throne, in plain view.

Distantly, Damen can hear trumpets.

[One would be forgiven for not recognising this vision’s source- because the image is that of Damianos, being dressed by a servant in the half-light of dawn. There’s a restless bustle outside the window, of servants rushing last-minute preparations, of an intense anticipation. Something big is Happening today. And it’s probably a good Something, because Damen looks out-of-this-world happy.]

You look like you’re the one being crowned.

[The voice comes from the doorway, where someone unrecognisable is standing with arms crossed. Nikandros has black hair and brown skin like Damen. He wears the exact look of a man who has been dealing with a best friend’s Questionable Romance Decisions for months and is now wearily resigned. Damen looks over and, somehow, his grin broadens.]

–Why should I not be happy for a partner?

[Nikandros sighs.]

–The king and kyros of Akielos, honoring a Veretian prince’s ascension. If you told me this would happen a year ago I’d never believe it.
–A Veretian king.
–[in exasperated resignation:] My mistake, Exalted.
–...it was one kingdom once. Vere and Akielos. Is it really so strange?

[A silence. The servant finishes tucking Damen’s Greecian robes into place- they are exquisitely formal robes, regal and of clearly expensive fabric- and picks up a bright gold pin. When Nikandros replies at last, his voice is pensive: ]

–... we have been enemies with Vere for as long as I can remember. But I’m glad it happened like this. Akielos is doing well, and the Prince hasn’t bitten your head off.

[Damen chuckles, a helpless besotted laugh, and Nikandros’ soul withers that much more.]

–Don’t take this as leave to spend another month in Marlas. There’s still much to do in Ios, we need you.
–But- it’s Laurent’s coronation. I have to stay with him.
–No, you don’t.
–Nikandros.
–...alright, I’ll stop needling you. What do they say in Vere? Long live the King?

-Long live King Laurent of Vere. [Damen grins, radiant with delight, and Nikandros groans softly in his hands as he leaves.]

[Ardyn answered in a vague sound of agreement, tilting his head to lean lightly against Ignis' own.]

I still don't believe anything of the sort could ever work. It scarcely affects my outcome even if it does.

...But it's almost a nice thought, to know someone else bothers to care about it.

Player Name: r
Character Name: damianos
Character Journal:

dedamastai
Number of Memories: 3
Offering(s): boop

[HAHAHAHA ABOUT THAT]

[Laurent's out of it tonight, but That Incident With The Whip is hard to not notice. His eyes struggle to focus on the scene, but he makes himself take in the whole thing, moving to seat himself by Damen. The colour's steadily draining from his face throughout, but you know. It's probably fine.

Come yell at him!]

["Paladins, our window of opportunity is razor thin." Shiro's baritone fills his ears as he watches the scenery slip by from his seat at the back of the combat fighter. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the psychic link that is always present within his mind. It's like being tied to a hurricane but the wind would never harm him. "With the element of surprise, we'll have the advantage. Good luck."

All sounds fade away until there's only him and the call he sends out. A vast mind sweeps over his own like the temperature drop before a storm breaks. His senses expand as a leonine growl rolls through his mind. He stays like that wrapped up in the Lion's mind until a shadow falls over him. He looks up. The Black Lion's claws are only a few inches from the overhead glass of the combat fighter's cockpit.]

Player Name: Sam
Character Name: Keith Kogane
Character Journal:

focusedroar
Number of Memories: Three!
Offering(s): All here.

Forgetting
All the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well
Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are

One would be forgiven for thinking, at first, this memory is from a different location from the first two. The manicured lawn and carefully landscaped trees are green and lush, the sun shining vibrantly over head. The towering shape of the Citadel is still visible over the trees if one looks carefully, the only indication that this is, indeed, Insomnia.

Gladio is standing on a bridge over a small pond of decorative fish, sprinkling food over the surface and smiling at the silly things. Waiting for the others, so they can look things over before they open the park to the public tomorrow, he's dressed more casually than the coronation but still much more formally than his norm. He looks up at the familiar call of his name, a brief smile lighting up his face at the sight of Elle hanging off Prompto's arm, merrily taking advantage of all the pampering she's been getting. She's only just beginning to show but as the Queen everyone has been fussing since the moment they were told.

An heir, a new line of kings.

He sighs softly, turning his attention to the large domed structure at the back of the park. Moving down to meet the others, taking Elle onto his arm instead, giving poor Prompto the opportunity to fall back in step with Aranea. Gladio glances back, smirks at Prompto who flushes but still very pointedly takes her hand in his. She apparently finds it adorable if the kiss she presses to his cheek is anything to go by.

As they come up on the building Gladio slows, taking in the span of it, admiring the attention to detail the construction team has put in. Most people wouldn't recognize the similarities to the old Lucian tombs. The sweeping curve of the entrance gleams in the sunlight, dark letters scrawling in elegant script across the smooth marble walls, long long lists of names, some marked with honors, others merely a name and dates. Seeing it like this, listed out along such an expansive building is a sobering reminder of just how many they lost.

As they approach Ignis steps out from inside the tomb, Talcott as his side, talking softly, probably about some of the design choices. Ignis lifts a hand and Gladio quickens his steps to meet the other man, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly.

"It looks really good, Igs." Reassuring as he can be and of course Ignis shakes his head, insists the credit belongs to Talcott and Gladio knows how eager the boy is to please so he just smiles and nods, ruffling his hair.

It's inside that really chokes him up. First the relief carved above the door, Lunafreya looking as gracious and kind as always then... Stepping through the door is like a slap in the face. Two tombs, side by side, the perfect likeness of Noctis, too young to be taken from them, Regis beside him looking as regal as ever. As he steps inside Gladio sets a hand over Noct's wishing desperately for warm skin instead of cold stone, the first sting of tears coming to his eyes.

He has to blink them away, steady himself, look up at the relief carved into the back wall. The Healer, the would-be King, Ardyn's likeness there above another glossy panel of marble, arms outstretched and welcoming in a gesture he'd seen as mocking theatrics too many times. Part of him hated the very idea of giving Ardyn space beside his friend but Ignis was right. Noct would've wanted it and the people deserved to know. No more lies, no more pretty veils to hide the truth.

Fresh bouquets of deep red roses, bright white chrysanthemums, and fragrant sprigs of rosemary fill the vases set beside the entrance, flowers he personally intends to maintain though he knows the park will be filled with flowers tomorrow. Slowly he turns, taking in the small space, the memorial, the only thing they can do to remember those they've lost. He doesn't even realize he's doing it, hand reaching out. What he intends to do other then just hold on and fight back the tears he's not sure. Even so it's almost a surprise when it's Elle's hand the slides into his, not the person he'd been reaching for.

He tries to give her a smile, fails horribly, and finally just tugs her close, wrapping his arms around her as though he can shield her from the pain of so much loss.

"I think... he'd have liked this."

Player Name: Sera
Character Name: Gladiolus Amicitia
Character Journal:

piercetheheart
Number of Memories: 3
Offering(s): Now that I'm done crying I can link this

[Once it's done, Damen says quietly:]

You weren't wrong. I did forgive you.

[He says it in his own language not because others won't understand it here, but because it's a tacit acknowledgment of what happened. Of who he is.]

I do forgive you.

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Page 3 of 47

[MU] - FEELING LIKE A GHOST (PART II)

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For the heirs to come, be brave

Garfle Warfle what the hell [S7 spoilers]

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Resumed Duel [Spoilers for s7]

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damianos | ota | but seriously read the warnings

laurent | ota

α ❧ all that i've compromised

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β ❧ i've got to keep it down tonight

i. will there be nothing left

γ ❧ i was a king under your control

ii. when tomorrow comes at last

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[not here]

[here now, OTA]

[All the season s7 spoilers I guess.] They will come from anywhere.

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I'm strong on the surface Not all the way through

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