hatthevar | blood rains

[groundrules]

Drawn to undead creator Matthias, the party heads into Hatthevar — former wasteland of myth and superstitions, now city of ghosts.

The first log of Hatthevar spans until 31 January.

A small part of the event is open to players both in and out of the game, who can bring dead characters in the bazaar!

HATTHEVAR

---

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The party enters blood-rained Hatthevar during a daily one-hour truce between the citadel and the undead forces that assail it. At the gates is undead Lord Rathakku of the Brotherhood, keen to usurp his distracted maker Matthias; in the skies dart the forces of dead wind lord Anurr, who has no love for the Brotherhood.

Hatthevar’s ghostly champions — including enormous ghosts that consume men and floating spirits that strangle with chains — defend the grounds. Matthias neglects the war, persistently summoning spirits from various worlds and points in time to revive them.

KNOCK, KNOCK

Wispy, shadowy silhouettes closely watch the lone gate of Hatthevar. The party infiltrates at sunrise.

Characters who have died, practise necromancy or are death-touched enter freely. The living must consume Karsa’s foul potions that absorb their shadows and partly mute their powers to pass for dead. Holders of Matthias’ severed limbs or organs, or of dark mirror shards or dark water, are closely watched by the dead and perhaps pursued.

Everyone must create new names and stories covering their identity and circumstances of death. Crafty ghost sellers will try to learn your true name to capture you in slavery.

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Spend a few days acquainting Hatthevar, its constant rains, vicious gambling dens, bazaars, oracle halls, wish shops and nests of memory thieves.

Show kindness to the newly revived spirits who struggle to remember themselves and roam in the citadel’s bazaars of curiosities.

Optionally, some characters are struck by misfortune. Capture a crafty, palm-sized spirit rabbit to improve your luck… or stumble upon a larger, dark hopper to ruin it.

Most sleeping quarters are available at downtrodden inns or in lavish gambling dens, for exorbitant prices. You can’t shake the feeling of someone watching through holes in your walls.

MATTHIAS

Three days after arriving, the party receives a note from Matthias that reveals the origins of his pact with the dark water to propagate the dead in Akhuras. Matthias says he has been working to bring the spirit of his dead daughter Cosette through the beacon for revival. She materializes briefly in Hatthevar but disappears before he can find her. Retrieve Cosette, and he will surrender the party his power over the undead.

Full note

” Well, hello! Is it nippy beyond the walls? Not cold here, just… the rain. Tried wishing it away, but… waste of money, those wish shops. Not like, what is it you call it? The dark water? It’s ancient. Back in Ellethia, we thought it came from the sea. All began with a mirror shard. That, and constant pressure to race against decades of Taravast research into curing death. We got there first! That’s… my claim to fame: I wished death gone. It was work. Work ate me. Then, the dead woke up, killed everyone, and there wasn’t much of a profession left. Or of Ellethia. The dark water wants flesh, so… I’ve made it death lords and armies, and I’ve left parts of me to anchor it. In return… it gives me revival. But, look. I had a… daughter. Cosette? Blonde and eyes green and blue and like her mother’s, and only five summers old, but she thought she was so clever, kept telling her doll so. That’s all you’re left with. Memories. She died, of course. I’ve been working to resurrect her, and her spirit shows up every few days in Hatthevar. She disappears before I can find her. I’m not… good at bargaining. I’m a magical engineer, really. Tinkerer! But my time’s running short, isn’t it? Just look outside. And all I want is Cosette. You want the beacons? Have them. You can have my power whole. I’ll give it. Some of you will need to help hold the walls up, and others might want to look into the funny business in the lagoon, if it’s linked at all to Cosette, though I doubt it. But, truly. Bring me Cosette, and the deed’s done. You can have everything.”

The Merchant distrusts Matthias’ proposal, but sees potential leverage and urges the party to investigate the girl and the lagoon. From here onward, everyone heads to their assignment:

COMBAT

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Assigned: Bucky Barnes, Carol Danvers, Deimos, Emilia, Jiang Cheng, Luffy, Natasha Romanoff, Nynaeve, Stephen Strange, Wrath, Wrathion, Zoro

The first line of defence against the swarming undead, you must hold off swathes of enemies across three territories:

THE WALLS

Despairingly tall and uncomfortably narrow, overseen by Matthias’ ghostly cannibal titans, who neglect to discern between friend or foe in their broad, relentless strikes. Blood rains pour down thick and nearly blinding. From the skies, you face the frost-breathing 10-15 meter-tall wyrms of undead blizzard lord Anurr, unaffiliated with the Brotherhood. Stick together: when alone, Anurr’s winds speak to you of your deepest doubts and fears, compelling you to surrender — or to let go of restraint, briefly berserk, and attack your own.

■ Serthica survivors may call their dragons to assist. Through Jon Snow, the party can also summon the giant, but slow and poor-sighted frost dragon Irenia to help on three occasions.

THE COLD PLAINS

Just outside of Hatthevar sprawls a desert-like cold plateau, where treacherous dunes shift to swallow you whole and the bestial forces of the Brotherhood’s most capable undead general, Rathakku, hide in wait. Hard-shelled, slippery and sleek his creatures lie buried and thrust up their arm-rows of hundreds of blades that cut into the legs of passers-by, drawing them into sand.

THE UNDERPASS

A series of subterranean tunnels connects Hatthevar with the cold sand outposts. Scour the myriad of dusty, tunnels and purge it of large scorpion-human hybrids that carry multiple weapons and whose sting leave men hallucinating. Oversized serpents abound, their venom prone to paralyzing their prey. You can make or procure antidote potions from Hathevar. Matthias’ ghostly titans are closing off all tunnel entrances to Hatthevar — don’t end up sealed in on the wrong side.

! Collectively, the party must kill at least one frost wyrm, one scorpion/serpent and one sand lurker to keep all three levels safe. Turn in your threads before 28 January… or let the citadel suffer in part II.

EXECUTION

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Assigned: Five, Lockwood, Mo Ran, Vanessa, Yelena, Wen Kexing, Zhou Zishu

Your objective is to locate Matthias and secure the beacons that are currently in heavy use. Securing one or more beacons will help you get home.

■ Your best bet for intelligence are the treacherous networks of underground memory thieves and slavers, who attempt to steal your freedom or your recollections.

■ Your next option is the gang of Erkul, who ruled over local oracles and Hatthevar whole before Matthias’ arrival. Coarse, slippery but cunning, Erkul sullenly nurses his weight in wine at the gilded Sanctuary, Hatthevar’s foremost gambling den. Street sources say the establishment’s passcode each day this month is a fruit name. Erkul’s crew sell highly potent opiates.

■ Ransack some Whispering houses for information, equipment, poison or arsenal. Small, dusty, cluttered and often creaking, Whispering houses hold a wealth of dangerous artefacts, from haunting poltergeists you might accidentally release by reading out their names from tomes to flying rope that throttles you. Large dread hounds instil blood-curdling fear in anyone who looks into their eyes.

■ The five beacons of Hatthevar are only briefly active each day as Matthias makes his summons. They are guarded by swarms of colossal leonine-shadow creatures that only attack if they feel any fear in your soul (of it, or anything else), pouncing to claw and shred you apart. To claim a beacon, Karsa may provide a cold, coal-like token that must be placed in the middle of the transport dais, within inevitable sight of the shadow lions. You must wait 15 minutes in place for the token to take root. Report your conquest before 28 January!

■ Every six hours, Matthias sends ravens to check on the shadow-lions. You must either trick them, leave the lions alive or capture the ravens.

CARE

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Assigned: Allison, Eda, Hermione, Kamala, Lan Sizhui, Sanji, Winnie

Carer’s have the lion’s share of all duties — and the party’s few lingering resources. You must look after the group and the ghosts of Hatthevar: meandering, disoriented and fragile, the spirits who were freshly wrenched from death’s snare become easy prey for the Undead Brotherhood, the elements and the ghost slavers. Rescuing or attending vulnerable spirits can gain you allies.

■ comfort ghosts who recover from revival or struggle with their memories. Many are stranded in the Whispering houses or chained into servitude in the gambling dens.

■ rescue spirits from the immense slaver clan of Ras’Kalur, which tricks newly summoned, dazed spirits in the bazaars to sign away their freedom, promising someone to look after them. Ras’Kalur’s people often raid streets and shelters, forcibly dragging spirits back into their camps at the outskirts of Hatthevar.

■ barter to rent or buy abandoned taverns to give the party a resting space during their stay in Hatthevar. You may need to pay locals in favours, from helping them carry out petty acts of revenge to making up with a grudge-bearing wife or paying penance to their ancestors.

■ heal, cook and provide for combatants on the walls, taking care not to fall in the crossfire or frost wyrms or of allied but negligent 12-feet ghostly titans.

■ as the least suspicious party members, negotiate for information or supplies on behalf of the group: make friends with gambling den owners and the two-bit shady crooks who know their daily passcodes to enter, or with the regulars of the Whispering houses.

INVESTIGATION

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Assigned: Ben Hargreeves, Benedict, Caitlyn, Cal Kestis, Jon Snow, Merrin, Nami, Rin, River Song, Wei Wuxian, Wen Qing

■ You know from Matthias that, as a result of his beacon summons, the spirit of his daughter Cosette appears every fifth day in Hatthevar for a few hours at midday. Despite this, a young girl matching Matthias’ description (5-6 years of age, green-blue eyes, blonde, prone to laughter) is never seen. Matthias alerts you whenever Cosette appears.

■ Day of first appearance: Matthias feels her presence in the bazaar, where the day’s main attraction is a puppet show that draws a heavy crowd. At midday, a chime sounds, and the puppet show performs the sad story of a daughter quarrelling with her father over his absences. The daughter-puppet flees into the woods, while the puppet-father refuses to reconcile and follow her. The girl is killed by animals, and the puppet-father grieves, heartbroken. All the women or girls in the crowd, including you, find they burst into tears.

■ Day of the second appearance: Matthias senses Cosette is in the alley of Whispering Houses. You notice the typical bustle of the alley and shady movements, as discreet, embarrassed, or desperate patrons scuttle. You see no small girls but hear of three trades that took place at the Whispering Houses, carried out by different women: one bought a memory, one sold one, one had a memory replaced. Pay for a memory trade to learn more.

■ Day of the third appearance: Matthias feels Cosette near the Oracle Hall. The hour passes by the time you climb the stairs and are received. The Oracle confirms only one person has visited — a blonde woman — and says to “tell your master that an hourglass keeps track of new time, but can’t give the old one back.”

You get three clue questions/character and should communicate with fellow investigators. Please share key findings by network before 25 January!

EXPLORATION

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Assigned: America Chavez, Buggy, Connor, Elayne Trakand, Lan Wangji, Licyn, Red, Wen Ning

The river Liu neatly divides Hatthevar, its clean waters progressively darkening towards the edges of the citadel, where they pour into a vast, serene and heavily misted lagoon. Veterans sense an eerie chill from the familiar dark waters that so often accompany the undead.

Like Matthias, Karsa says a strange power sleeps at the heart of the lagoon.

■ travel by raft with a companion through the lethargy-inducing fog, as tar-like people peer up from the waters or swim below, never quite attacking you unless you fall into water. They (and the currents) try to upturn your boat.

■ Scattered lit candles drift on water as you advance. Pick one up, and you find one of the floating creatures of Hatthevar has joined your raft, carrying a rope-chain. It says it and its kind are former oracles and truth-speakers of the citadel — and urges you to speak, pledging to kill the first person who lies before you leave water.

■ Farther out, you discover four half-sunken ships that have crashed into each other over time, their decks now forming a rocky square-like structure. You can carefully navigate your raft to reach this construct, or make your way by hopping onto floating deck parts and the debris of other rafts.

■ Once aboard the square structure, you find all the decks are heavily rotten, creaking and prone to collapse. You hear a maddening, shrill scream that steals control of your now convulsing body, until you find yourself driven closer and closer to the end of a plank or a deck hole against your wishes — unless you are physically detained until the shrieking ends.Sharp-toothed mermaids swim below.

■ Reach and explore the curious ships’ graveyard, to peer into the black well in the middle of the square infrastructure.

QUESTIONS

NPC INBOX

Comments

lan wangji | the untamed

[downswing]

( Hit me up with a widlcard or ping if none of these starters work and you'd like to do somethin-somethin! )

hatthevar ► the rains

[downswing]

( Drip and drip and drip and — plopping.

Like cinnabar, like letter wax unwinding — thick and trickling, but rancid. He withdraws from the first spatters, dances around the next wave. Is struck, with quiet inevitability, when thunder and lightning milk fat clouds’ fill in their wake. Red crawls down in long-clawed streaks over his shoulders and arm.

His silks, spell bound to shrug off stains in Wei Ying’s finest gift since their arrival here, do not absorb it.

He thinks, foolishly, the skies are easing, the tide is turning. He need only wait until the storms settle and dispel — only thunder roars again, the pace of dripping quickens to drum the earth and batter it, and he feels, alone at the heart of the street, it would be a fool’s gamble to attempt delay.

Luck is a kind mistress, forgiving. He knows the back of his unexpected saviour, darts from behind to slip beneath their umbrella. )

We head north. ( He has apparently not only shamelessly commandeered the umbrella, but also you, to ferry him to his destination. ) At brisk step.

[beitangmoran]

Do we, now?

[Moran's clothes are still pristine, protected as they were by his umbrella, and he makes no move to dislodge the new guest, only raise and eyebrow to the not quite request, and obliges it.

Interestingly, he still casts a shadow.]

What business do we have in this direction, Master Lan?

[downswing]

( They do, now. And he should not speak the words, should accept the inevitability of Beitan Moran's existence as a single, independent soul, and yet: )

Red suits that face. ( The rains. Wei Ying's ribbon, its absence in Beitang Moran's aesthetic ever a point of contention between them. He does not insist, only cleverly bows his head to accept that, ah, it is a taxing and most exhaustive thing to be proven right, again and again and again, beneath the careful watch of the — blood-weeping — Heavens.

Now, then, they scuttle north-bound, evading resolutely the path of puddles. )

Slavers. Spirits to release.

[beitangmoran]

Yes, so you have said, many times.

[Moran has that kind of dignity that allows for letting something... relatively insulting, all things told, slide off his back without leaving a trace. There are moments where theatrical offense is useful, or even fun, but this is not one of them, and truth be told, Moran can't tell what he would do were he faced with someone wearing Xunxian's face but calling themselves differently and having a different life.

In any case, he has told Master Lan that red is for Fire Sign and he is an Air sign and does not wear the color. It does not need repeating.

He nods at the succinct explanation.]

I am afraid I can hardly help with that, save for this.

[A small raise of the umbrella.]

[downswing]

An escort. ( But he concedes with a nod, steering them down winding paths, to where the knots and folds of the streets unravel. Whispering Houses, underground clans. It should seem like a desperate, intricate effort to locate so many nests of crime, except for how Hatthevar appears overfilled with them.

Beitang Moran, less than Wei Ying, does not suit such an endeavour. He is no man for... the disquiet and displeasures of life. ) That face should not be trusted with my dignity.

( Or his modesty, or his reputation. Can it be, this is Lan Wangji... nearly playful? The audacity of it all, striking. )

[rehandle]

Is that right.

[ Dry, drier the moment he realises to whom it is he speaks. But dry too, in the literal sense. Where an ordinary umbrella might shed spots of red rain back off of its panels to splash at the feet of its wielder, Stephen's seems blessed with extra reach. Nothing spatters past the into the space a few extra inches outside the span of cover's spread.

He doesn't immediately cast him out, so that's something. On his shoulder, allowed out to ride - a little loose of form in the shadow of rainclouds but present nonetheless -an old friend sits and waves its globular arm at their new company, the other absent hand helping the blob cling on for dear life. ]

Hijacking's usually a criminal offence.

[downswing]

You come willing.

( At the very least without so much struggle that Lan Wangji need negotiate his blade whispered free of her sheath. Besides — the rains only worsen, thick, glomp-glomp-glomp plopping drops that batter the umbrella's span, and Lan Wangji, who has never been discourteous enough to shed base manners briefly breaks away to give the blob a faint nod of greeting.

It waves its tiny, disconcerted arms even more feverishly. He considers, briefly, the merits of a bow — only he cannot perform it in passing, and Stephen Strange is just as likely to walk on and desert him in the rain, mid-feat.

Such is the way of ill-mannered, cantankerous and very peculiar wiza — )

The magic of the citadel. It... stifles your own? ( Why are they not surrounded in some bauble of crude force or the other and spared the indignity of the rain, sir. )

[rehandle]

[ Well, he's got him there. For now, a happy trick of fate has them walking in the same direction. Time will tell whether Stephen's as obedient if it comes time for their natural paths to diverge.

For now, a cutting sidewise glance. The downward tug of a smirk. ]

Maybe I just prefer not to give every passer-by a reason to try to be my friend.

[ Maybe he was enjoying walking along, and would prefer not to be bothered by the kinds of people who might, for instance, step under his umbrella uninvited to get out of the blood rain. ]

Where are you going? [ Note: you. ]

hatthevar ► the eyes

[downswing]

( He feels it like burning, like the cauterizing heat of snow in a bare hand: a slipped gaze, uneasy. Not the shrouding, heavy watch of a predator, calculating the first moment when prey is stumbling and slow. Not the flickered indifference of a glance askance, in passing.

It’s curious, faintly possessive. The perverse vigil of an eye rounded and dark, greedy in the pupil. He sees it, for all the walls are streaked with scatterings of trodden plaster and splinters of wood bones beneath. This room, like this inn, like this citadel have been skinned of dignity.

Lan Wangji did not complain of the dusty floors, the tattered mattress, the sheets like slate. Not of the expense, the keeper’s laughter. Not of his (mis)fortune, sullied by spending the night in these quarters.

The eye, however. The brazen, shameless disregard for privacy, for his person. At the end of a day of brewing frustrations — enough.

He does not think of optics, past stabbing them, when he pulls out Bichen’s blade to skewer the sword through the wall where he’s seen the fat of the eye’s white, when he twists, hears a hissing —

Only to pull it back, revealing a large, growing fissure, where his sword has bitten, jagged, into a rotting wood plate that only fractures further. By the time Bichen’s exited the wall completely, a hole the span of his palm is left behind, presenting a view not of a horrible, wretched and obscene spy, but of… a person, minding their own matters, likely resigning themselves to the unhygienic inevitability of their own room.

The flush of his cheeks is a feverish foregone conclusion. )

...apologies. ( For the sudden draft between their neighbouring quarters. How scenic. )

[wifedup]

( The hand holding the sharp edge of his fan aloft drops, folding the bones of it closed as he raises one eyebrow at Lan Wangji through the hole between rooms. Wen Kexing stands in the middle of the one his side, belongings spread across a dirty mattress before him, the trinkets of each world spread before him. Here, the things he brought, there the knife stolen from the House of Manouk, beside it artifacts of Ephes willingly given, a box that sits quietly but is wedged shut by a chair he must have dragged across the room. He doesn't move to hide anything, merely looks at Lan Wangji and his pale, drawn face quietly for a long minute. )

Ah.

( A hum. )

You feel it too.

( The fan flicks back open, waving in front of his face. ) If the proprietor asks just say the hole has always been there. Better you not get charged for it, when accommodations are already so ugly. You won't find much better anywhere else anyway, this city likes it's dirt. ( Is this his first room rented or has he skipped around it like clever prey? Who knows. Then, surprisingly -. ) Are you all right?

[downswing]

...lying is forbidden. ( Should not be the first truth slipped of his mouth, wrenched between gritting teeth, hard. Yet he gives it. This was his fault, he accepts it, embraces it. Cradles it like a newborn babe he will not throw away alongside the last of his patience.

For now.

Bichen pulls back with an awkward, shrieking tear. He waves her once, then again, to rain down any lingering splinters. The sword deserves better than the dregs of this fine establishment. As for the second question, a glance aside. One to the floor. Lying is forbidden. )

No. ( But an easy shrug, absent any flourish. No, but this is what he has, and there is nothing to be done of it, and so they move on. )

[wifedup]

( Wen Kexing is used to eyes in the walls. Ghost Valley might have been made of stone rather than timbre but there were always cracks. Even it's sleeping master had known what was lurking in the corners. He is not exactly happy to feel that same scrutiny again, cannot imagine how a man like Lan Wangji would feel with the feeling of a gaze crawling along his shoulder blades.

He can understand a little, the violence of frustration. )

Mm.

( A step away from the bed. )

Even the whores of Ephes knew to not peep. ( Said aloud to whatever it is currently haunting this place. He wonders if it is the same thing dogging his steps in the streets. ) Do you want a drink, Master Lan? Ah, tea, right?

hatthevar ► chains, breaking

[downswing]

( Two girls, sold cleanly and willing. This was the slaver’s tale, and he told it well, mouth cleaved in a generous grin, once handsome. He might have been a whisperer of a king’s counsel in another life, but he was turned now to butchery and the practicalities of making ends meet in a citadel of the dead.

These, then, are the excuses: that the girls, these and the dozens that preceded him, sought master Qvasir for refuge. That he gave them this and more, and all that was his to share, that he would give even further and gladly — all for a meagre price. Company, is that so much to ask for? In this day and age. And should fresh entrants into a household not wish to keep it well, should they spit upon the cheek of gratitude and run from any duties of toil? And should he, Qvasir, then not give them chase? And the example of his hand, should it not be firm and strong and prone to discipline, so that he might guide them down the proper path?

This was not slavery, and if it were, it is not ill done. So he said, when Lan Wangji, the two women like wraiths cowered behind him, brought the question. Then the accusation. Then, in rapid swing, his sword.

Now, he has returned to the streets, trail of two strays behind him, their gazes shy, awkward and, he knows, afraid — because what is he, for all he names himself a liberator, but another crude tyrant who bartered his way with steel? He has attempted every manner of explanation, of entreaty, begging them to flee.

There is nowhere, they say, to go. And at least Lan Wangji has not beaten them.

By the time he crosses paths with one of his companions on the road, he is on the cusp of frustration, hissing by way of greeting: )

We require no — ( Slaves stains his lips, sours his mouth. He looks away. ) ...assistance. Tell them so.

( Clearly, the girls, still following, won’t heed Lan Wangji on the count. )

[blackscales]

[ Ah.

Wrathion studies the two girls, studies Wangji, then decides to interpret this in his own way and offer an explanation to the two girls: ]

You're not his type, I'm afraid.

[ There, surely he is helping? Surely this will dissuade them from... whatever is going on here? ]

[downswing]

( Flush of his face a rare, spreading burning, and his teeth grit, and he wishes himself promptly and with no further notice, confined into the depths of the earth.

Instead, he holds himself rigid, steady, waiting. One of the girls gazes up, owlishly; the other, far more shocked, mutters to the ground. )

I do not — ( ...no. Wrathion knows. Wei Ying has made their bond vocally and irrefutably apparent. Wrathion is aware both that Lan Wangji is bedded and that he has limited interest in the fairer sex. Then this is — ...help.

As much help as can be hoped of.

This is Lan Wangji's best and only chance.

Heavens help him. )

They believe I require servants. ( He does, in fact, require — ) Without wages.

[blackscales]

[ Servants... without wages.

What a delicate way to put it. Wrathion looks them over, one eyebrow lofted, and then casts a critical eye over Lan Wangji himself. ]

Perhaps, if they seek employment, we might accompany them to somewhere that would suit them better. You are quite satisfied without assistance, but far be it from us to deny them if they desire to work.

[ If they will not leave him alone, perhaps they find them a new job instead? It's worth a try. ]

exploration ► the rafts, the currents

[downswing]

( Was it a living hand that chose the candle, or the violent fist of a wave’s current that slipped it on their raft?

No matter. The deed is done, the candle lights their path. And two travellers, curled into their oars, become three.

The wood of the raft strains, rot-washed skins of each log peeling away. They tolerated two passengers like a stepmother survives the impertinent existence of her husband’s first children. Three travellers test the raft’s strength and patience.

The next wave yanks and jolts them, tar hands peering up over the logs. Their floating… guest strikes first, swinging its rope like a whip. The tar assailant slips back into the depths.

Then, the flying creature makes its expectations known. Speak the truth, only the truth, until land lies within reach. Lan Wangji, who has not broken with sincerity since the precepts were plain enough for an infant’s mind to grasp, sees the danger, instantly — not to himself, but to his companion. The suffocating, primitive fear that compels other men to lie.

He pivots on his feet, blade pointed as if he might And hesitantly: ) If I attempt against it, the raft may overturn.

( But he will do it, if his companion prefers it over the wretchedness of the game. )

[starlingroad]

( America is usually fairly honest, despite her sticky fingers. Perhaps too much, but she also doesn't think about how physics will affect the raft, or the waves beneath them. )

( Glare in place at the tar creature, America punches her fist into her other hand, and doesn't even look at Lan Wangji. )

I can take care of it, then. If you take the other side so we don't tip over.

If it leaves us alone, though. ( America shrugs as her eyes finally venture to Lan Wangji. ) Maybe it's safer if we don't. I don't want to end up in the water.

[downswing]

( The waters, dark, beasts roiling beneath. Perhaps not as physically contorted as the prince of Netvor, but alien to the natural gentleness of most living men, all the same.

He does not question America's pronouncement — only nods faintly, one hand staying resolute on the hilt of his sword as the other plunges in the waters. The sooner they advance, the better. )

We cannot opt for silence. ( He sounds out, only for the creature's nods to come, a foregone conclusion. He had anticipated the cure of such a curse would not come, simple.

But then, there are many ways to skin a cat, for all Lan Wangji does not encourage animal cruelty. )

We have not been urged not to dally. ( ...in other words, speak the truth, at length. ) Understood?

[starlingroad]

[ America nods back. Fine, no punching, either. She uncurls her fist. ]

[ She opens her mouth to say she understands, but it's not that simple, is it. ]

I understand we can't lie, can't sit here in silence, and we probably want to get across as carefully, but as quickly as possible. That's what I understand.

[ Her eyes drift to water as she speaks. She can hear things move around from time to time, some uncomfortable splashing. They really don't want to fall in, especially. ]

Should we...I don't know, play a question game?

exploration ► shrieking

[downswing]

( Smear of mildew on his cheek where his fall breaks, face first, on a deck rattled by vibration. The screams cut, bloom. His fingers nearly break on the wood, nails pinning.

Then, he starts to move, limbs artless as they fight the lock of his joints and knuckles, all of his strength of will opposing the advance. He cannot — shifts and fumbles, like an animal, on hands and knees, onward, onward, to the waiting relief of an —

Abyss. No, a hole in the deck, farther out, but within sight’s reach. The boom of sound bolsters just as the mists part, and he feels himself crawl further, until luck favours him, and he crashes into the root of a mast that stays him. He thinks, even as his hands fight him, to stop it and unwinds the sashes of his robes, wrapping, teeth gritting, a wide spread of silk around his head, his ears. It does not mute the shriek completely, but stabs through the song with increments of clarity.

He is not alone. Teeth gritting — and the pain anchors him — he barely turns around to hold out one end of his second fluttering sash, half mouthing, half screaming: )

Bind your ears!

[damnable]

Fuck. Okay!

( It's shouted back. The sound is so loud down to her marrow, down to her spirit, down to the other part of her, but she's grateful for the help because she doesn't think she has the willpower to push past this force and reach into her bag for anything else that might do the job. She grabs hold of the other half of the sash, and then starts to do the same.

Her body presses against some broken railing, and she's wrapped one leg around it to keep her in place when the rest of her wants to go into the water, the ancient beast inside of her wants to obey as always.

But she fights against it, teeth gritting, as she wraps the sash around her face, her ears with shaky hands. )

Thank you!

[downswing]

( He nearly does not hear her — sees her mouth the words, the screams mounting, climbing, overwhelming. Some part of him, nails dug in either deck boards or the mast, feels nauseous for the noise that overwhelms like an angered storm.

It lasts forever. It must have been two heartbeats.

He struggles, crawls, but starts to move, hands and knees and no shred of shame as he clutches to every rail and chain along the way toward Red. Balance seems a fickle, ambitious prospect. No reason to attempt it.

He tries to speak at first. Blinks, first wet then excessively dry, when it strikes him that his voice is failing him, rasped and dry. He pushes his, vocal cords raw, as if he has lost the capacity to sound out his volume. It will come back, he remembers — from war, from arrows flying around him. )

Can — you. Advance? Again?

( Apologies for your ears again, Red, as he moves between whispers and shouting. )

[damnable]

( This is one of those times when being an ancient otherwordly being comes in handy. She can channel that strength into herself. Even if it's only for a limited amount of time, she can hope it buys them enough time to make it. She's more than old enough to have gotten a handle on accessing those powers like a second skin by now without risk of transformation.

She lifts a hand to give him a thumbs up to indicate she can definitely advance, but before she does that, she picks up a too heavy piece of debris. If she starts to feel like either of them are getting controlled again, she can hopefully use that super strength to shove it in their way and prevent them from heading into the water since it seems like it was only the debris that saved them before.

Water is bad in this instance, and most instances within this world.

With this shield in hand, she starts to find a place to move to next, careful to keep the scarf around her, to not go so far ahead that it rips away from her completely. This is fine - just like an old fashioned three-legged race except their faces are tied together and not their legs. )