westwhere | [ ACTIVE ]

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[ ACTIVE ]

WHO: Wrathion & fellow siege survivors
WHEN: Part 2 of the siege
WHERE: Various locations in and on the borders of Alem
WHAT: Investigation, crafting, pacing, thinking. Some closed prompts! You can throw a new one at me, or plan with me here for me to write something custom.
WARNINGS: None to start, beyond some bad mental health situations going on here.

War was something Wrathion understand. He'd never had a childhood, not really. Never really had friends. What youth he had, as he grew far too quickly, had been taken over by his dark purpose. By the threat of Deathwing --

( A shadow of dark wings, a deep voice, metal plates, magma held into shape --)

and all those who would have killed him for being related. For wanting his freedom. The threat of his family, turned to insanity, and then the threat of invasion, of the armies of the Burning Legion, the threat of N'Zoth who sough to turn him as he had his father --

An endless sea of troubles.

Watching Irenia bank and turn back towards Alem, Wrathion feels as if this place is not so far from Azeroth. Endless threats, all of them dire. None, individually, feel quite on the scale of threatening the entire planet but... all of them have the potential to certainly build up if left unchecked.

The sight of her brings dark, brooding fears to the surface. What if he dies here, and is brought back as she was -- a tool to be turned against friends? To be used to spread destruction? Following in his father's footsteps, haunting these mountains as the Aspect of Death.

There are those who believed his corruption inevitable. Perhaps he has been foolish to think he could ever escape such a fate, but still.

One thing at a time.

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[ The forest is cold and unpleasant, and so far Wrathion has neither seen a single useful flower nor learned anything of interest. Icy leaves crunch under his feet, and the pervasive silence is periodically broken by unpleasant sounds.

He is thinking, somewhat against his will, about feet. About Haiva's obsession with feet. About the siren, or whatever it is. About the scaled creature in the lake. Their walking is blessedly silent as his mind whirrs, until finally he breaks it: ]

There's a tale, in my world, told by the sailors of the sea port Boralus about mermaids. The sailors of Boralus associated mermaids with disaster, claiming they were often seen before a storm. Boralus itself relied heavily on fishing, on sea trade, and it used tidesages to guide their vessels. Tidesages can tame the wind and waves, bring vessels through unpleasant weather by sheer force of will.

[ He glances aside at Lan Wangji. ]

Bear with me, there is some relevance. The story goes that one day, a tidesage by the name of Ery drew the attention of a young mermaid named Halia. Halia swum alongside Ery's ship and Ery instructed her crew to leave the mermaid be. The mermaid courted her, and eventually they met and spoke properly. Ery waded out into the water to offer Halia a gift, and Halia begged Ery to come live in the sea with her. When Ery explained she could not, for she cannot breathe underwater, the mermaid assured her she could. That if she cut her feet and waded into the water, she would grow a tail and become a mermaid.

( Bear with him, Wrathion says, as if Lan Wangji — possessed of rare appreciation for the frost motes that dance on his limbs, the crackling of iced branches underfoot — has ever throughout the maelstrom of their acquaintance deigned to take the vanguard of their conversations. No, no. It is Wrathion who is the storyteller, the fantasy shaper, the bard. Let him speak — and so, Lan Wangji waves away the concern for his patience and calmly, unflinchingly, carries on.

The river's a spread of ice clusters and spumes, unexpectedly rapid despite the frost of the season. He tip-toes by the time they crawl towards the ravines, hesitant to hasten, half descending, half holding himself at bay — )

Do all your tales involve lies and amputation?

( Conversationally, as a matter of cultural exchange, while still permitting the story to carry on. )

It wasn't a lie.

[ He moves further through the wood, eyes narrowing as he thinks. ]

A great storm came to Boralus, lashing the port. The tidesages all gathered, trying to hold back the waves, and the mermaids came to work with them. Many of both lost their lives trying to build a sea wall to protect Boralus from being swept away. Ery worked among them, Halia constantly swimming to her side and begging her to rest, until finally Ery falls from the sea wall down into the waves, unconscious. Halia gathers her body and swims out into the ocean, cutting along the bottom of her feet. All of the tidesages assume her dead as the two sink into the waves, but then Ery resurfaces and it is just as Halia said. She has become a mermaid.

[ A transformation, of sorts. ]

I've been thinking about that story a lot, and about our own prince and his obsession with feet. About the scaled beast in the lake and the tales of sirens. I have wondered if the prince is also being... transformed in some way, out of affection.

Only amputation.

( Gloom, doom and the thin line of his unwavering mouth, destined for a lifetime of certain judgement. Ery, Halia. Lovers sundered, reunited against the odds of man, of nature. Defying their fates, unconceding.

...after carving out a pair of feet.

And Haiva, the prince who, like the demon at Alem's gates, appears to wait. He sees the intricate filigree of similarity shaping, sees Wrathion's interest coalescing around myth and magic and all that which should not attract them, but invariably proves the cradle of truth behind every horror this world has shown them.

A man, tortured by love. Perhaps, if the mermaid is unknowing of the effect of her spell on a living man...? But then, the prince appears in passing health. )

You think him a... siren? ( A pause, to deflect the lashing of a beathing branch. ) They say they killed their mermaids.

( To be the heir of genocide. Ah. )

I think he's either undergoing, or has already undergone, a transformation. Either he is masquerading as a human, or changing from one into a sea creature as Ery did.

[ Wrathion thinks a moment. ]

If he was not meant for land, it might assume why he suffered constantly living among humans.

( It is... somehow, not implausible. Nor the most extravagant theory circulated before Lan Wangji's own soft-blinking, owlish and disbelieving eyes.

He hesitates, drinking in the possibility, before carefully pronouncing while drifting down the shoreline to toe the water's edge. Chilled, slushing, ice barely melted enough to sway. Even a man of Cloud Recesses might... hesitate to plunge.

They will have to, unfailingly. )

Do you intend to cut his feet off and send him in water? ( Conversationally, in the way one entertains all shapes, sizes and transparencies of Wrathion's madness. )

No.

[ Equally conversational. ]

I hope to learn his... expectations. I think he's aware of what is happening to him, and is lying to hide it. What I'd like to find out is why he is lying, and if he is being... misled in some way.

[ If someone else has lied to him in turn. If he believes in some end result that may be... incorrect, or exaggerated. ]

( Lying. Misled. As if a man grown, possessed of rank, education and possibility, might be steered unknowing towards circumstances that conveniently advantage him. As if Jin Guangyao were but a babe, blade ever wet-red in his hapless hands.

For a moment, he indicates none of his stupor. Then, carefully, the carefully neutral objection he had built on the bones of long-crafted discipline reshapes itself, unambiguously dismissive. )

Men who lie deceive themselves first. ( Enemies of their nature, of their name, of their purpose. Men who cannot abide whom they have allowed themselves to become. ) The deceived cannot be trusted.

( Allow him only a moment, shivered, when he looks into the welling, iced waters with the same petulantly murderous intent as everyone might. )

Shall we?

I don't disagree.

[ He doesn't trust Haiva at all. Still, Wrathion inches closer with a lofted eyebrow to the river.

After a moment, he steps closed -- slides a glove off one hand and crouches to touch a hand to the water. ]

You said they claimed to have killed all the mermaids here. I recall hearing the soldiers boasting of it, too. I wonder... did they fight for resources? Fishing, perhaps? Or was it something else.

( Not killed, but slaughtered in genocide. Removed to the hair and heart of one. He remembers the boasting of soldiers, the sinister, unctuous joy of the soldiers, as if all that warmed their bodies was the blood they did not even shed with their two hands. )

Sirens have attacked us at every encounter. ( In Sa-Hareth, Ellethia, the seas beyond. ) Precedent does not suggest innocence.

( But there are breeds of such creatures, branches on each tree. Perhaps these sirens were the rare flowers absent thorns, for all Lan Wangji permits himself a moment's presumption.

Like Wrathion, he drips to a knee, searching the waters unhurried — not with his hand, but the tip of sword, Bichen's silver nearly lost in the translucence of heavy, jutting ice sheets. Nothing, at the surface, unless animals have already collected the bloom. )

The flower might sleep in the depths. ( Time, then, to rush in. )

[ Sirens? Wrathion considers that a moment, hand withdrawing from the water. ]

Sirens and mermaids are the same thing to you?

[ They're different to Wrathion, but... If they were the same, here too, that might make other things add up.

He flicks water off his hand, thinking. ]

You're right about the flowers, unfortunately. I'm quite sure if they're in here at all, they must be down at the bottom.

[ And the water is icy-cold. Unpleasant. ]

( Half the gallery of this world's bestiary is one and the same deformed, claw-spouting, feral creature to him — but then, he need not show himself so crude. A nod, painstaking, poorly calculated.

And then, the waters. He steels himself, line of his back learned, rigid. Cloud Recesses have taught him the way of dipping into a cold stream, tumbling and coiling, until the whole of himself is dainty and small, no better than a babe. Until each breath in the fierce iciness no longer stings.

He thinks, for a moment, hands loitering by his belt, to offend modesty and shed the outermost of his seven layers in a single, timid concession to lace and embroidery. Reconsiders at the last moment, not even troubling himself to remove his sword beyond slinging it lower on his hip, so it does not impede the swim. )

My people care after restorative cold streams. ( Beautiful, renown. The chill so often numbs and pleases. This one, he knows, will sooner stiffen his bones. ) These waters will not heal.

( Much sooner, they'll curdle his skin. He plunges first, waving Wrathion to follow, aiming for the centre of the river's bed — if he must subject himself to this, let him at least shorten the path, tighten the need to rise up for air again, hasten this process —

...supervised by the golden, foreign eyes of a... woman, in the depths. This turns, when he flusters, fumbles and waves Wrathion over, it's with urgency and a lack of recourse. Underwater, he cannot shriek. )

[ Wrathion watches Lan Wangji submerge himself, fully clothed, with dismay.

The man is going to freeze. His clothes will be wet, and then walking through these icy woods with that clothing he will become ill. He will not warm up properly, and he will develop hypothermia no doubt. Someone will ask Wrathion why he let him get in, and he will have no answer beyond well he didn't ask my opinion. The man waves at him and Wrathion, disinclined to freeze longer than he has to, shrugs his bag to the ground. He begins to unfasten his coat, dropping it down and pulling his shirt over his head. He's just added that to the pile, thinking about how yes, these waters certainly won't heal, when the splashing gets his attention. The dragon is half expecting it to be Lan Wangji, emerged from the water angrily to make some abrupt comment about how his bared skin is inappropriate. ]

What is it?

[ As if the man, who is actually still submerged, might answer. He kicks off his shoes and socks to pad along the bank quickly, frowning into the water. The movement, then bright gold eyes, catch his attention. He gestures quickly, a sharp burst of magic hitting the top of the water to catch the mermaid's attention and then illusions filling up the bank. A small swarm of equally undressed copies of Wrathion, all pooling magic ready to defend Lan Wangji against this wet woman if she decides to pick a fight with him.

Hopefully, she decides the odds are decidedly not in her favour. ]

( ...Wrathion, who does not join him. Who waits and bides his time at the river's edge, as if a maiden facing disaster.

No. As Lan Wangji breaks water, lone — two flowers trapped in hand, one bloomed the other unfurling, should it make the critical, the impossible difference — he sees tens of Wrathion. An indisputable dozen.

Inevitably, he turns to face the wrong one, thinking foolishly that his voice comes somehow sharper, more limpid. )

A woman. ( Breathless, savage, raw. As if the shards of glass are ribboning his lungs, like they lick hurt onto his back. ) Come, then go. She... did not approve. Of something.

( Of his descent in her waters, or the collection of flowers, or something more distant, more indistinct. )

[ So she's definitely gone then? The illusions all look around, wary, then one by one begin to dissipate. The true form of Wrathion moves closer to the Wangji again, carefully beginning to work his way further down the bank. ]

Well, it seems you have your prize even without my assistance.

[ He'd been stripping off all ready to climb in! He's not sure if he's relieved or simply faintly embarrassed at having been no use. Even this close to the water, he shivers in sympathy. ]

Free yourself of the water. You will need to dry off, as soon as you can.

[ He holds out a hand, either for Wangji to hand off the flowers so he can steady himself or for him to take for leverage. Either works. ]

( His... prize. He hears the words but misunderstands them, gaze soft when it lands on the petals in his clutching hand, indifferent to the shivers that rattle him. Cold courses through him like summer storm's lightning.

He does not move to offer them to Wrathion. Withholds himself, paralysed by drippings of hesitation. )

I do not know... whether to relinquish what the dead do not wish gifted.

( These flowers, strangely lifeless in his stiff hand, joints stiff and steeled around them. He chokes them like he might a throat. If they are not present, if they perish —

There is no choice to fathom, to wonder of. What is it that the woman fears, that she denies, that she wishes undone? Is it Haiva's fate? Will the flowers give him death or ruin? Are they as likely to sabotage him as to bring him health?

...or is it that she does not wish him healed? )

[ Wrathion frowns in thought, gaze drifting to the water. ]

That I cannot answer for you. What did she look like? Haiva's missing paramour, perhaps?

[ Why would she stop them? The person who could tell them is her. Leaving Wangji for the moment, since he seems disinclined to move just yet, Wrathion drifts slowly along the bank to scan the water. ]

Did she threaten you?

The dead do not threaten me.

( A simple thing, born of generations of educated hubris: the men of Cloud Recesses do not bow their backs to spirits, do not flee them. They compel, they tame. The monster between them is not the one devoid of flesh.

He waits, briefly transfixed, for Wrathion to complete his search, starting the slow preparations of righting the many wrongs that have burdened his silks with cold water, his limbs with frost. First, a piece of talisman parchment ignited to warm him — insufficient to defend him from the worst of the chills, though his core will anticipate that danger.

Then, more clumsily, he starts to drip his steps after Wrathion, to move and force himself into motion. )

She bore a likeness to the missing woman. ( Whether he would name her Haiva's, Deimar's or her own is another matter. ) She felt... distraught.

( As spirits ever do, denied their closure. But then: ) Resigned.

[ Actually, on that note Wrathion turns back to Wangji. His expression is pulled into a frown. ]

Well, I suppose you've confirmed she died. We still don't know how. Drowned, perhaps, if she's here in the water? An accident, or something more sinister?

[ There are, as always, far too many questions. His gaze drops back to the water, thoughtful. ]

I'm assuming she lacked a tail?

[ Wangji, surely, would have mentioned that detail. ]

( A tail. He frowns, felled by the bluntness of his question — by his own impossible resignation before the debris of his answer.

He looks away. Shudders, once, and after, he will blame the chill. For all that winter does not visit him with a clutch as tight as the rest of their companions. )

It was mere blinks. I did not — ( Search, look down, think to. ) See.

( If he had to choose his priorities, he would not have numbered this as one. )

Apologies.

[ Well information is always Wrathion's priority. Details are important!

Unless it's other people asking him for them, then they need to stop worrying.

Still, Wrathion nods in acceptance. He shivers again and turns back to the bank, begins to pick up his clothing to... redress. Since he got undressed for nothing, as Wangji has mostly achieved this all himself. Wrathion is just moral support, decoration, half-undressed-man putting himself forward for the next Akhuras charity calendar of men performing daily activities. ]

You still have the flowers. The choice now is only if you choose to give them to the prince or not. Keep yourself warm, I can light a fire for you to dry off by if we gather kindling.

[ He pulls a tunic back over his head, shivering again. The fire is also for him to warm up a moment but he is not mentioning that. He is fine. ]

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