[hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: New Hosts & EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72; Hyrypia - Naerstone House
WHEN: DAY :002 - :003
SUMMARY: New hosts hatch on the Station, are briefed, then make their way to Hyrypia to join the rest of the hosts… while they attend a very important history lesson.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

STATION 72
DAY :002

NEW HATCHES
YOU WAKE UP are are suddenly changed. --No. That's not right. You're you and there's no suddenly about it. It's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking up from a very deep, extended sleep or surfacing up from the darkness of some wine dark sea. Nothing is different and everything is because right there in your own head there's something both familiar and strange. You know intuitively that you've been unconscious for more than just a blink of the eye.

But here you are, a small miracle of the multiverse: lying in a small, faintly hexagonal chamber with a gentle white light emanating from the surrounding walls. If you were injured during your escape, those injuries have been healed. If you were anxious or frightened or distraught, those feelings have been calmed. There's something peaceful about waking up here - like you belong. That feeling persists even as you find the tube running from the base of your neck to the compartment's rear wall.

But once the tube's disconnected? Things get loud. A wave of emotion fills that peaceful void - fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety. A matching dread. An easy comfort. Maybe some of these emotions are yours, but they can't all be. After the initial sensory overload, the mental buzz elongates: stretches out into a murmur like the sound of a party happening behind a nearby closed door.

You can sit up - barely -, and shift out of the pod. There’s a ladder at your feet and a little cubby just before it with anything you brought with you as well as a set of crisp, loose-fitting white clothes; while your injuries are healed, whatever you’re wearing is in the exact state it was before. Maybe it's time for a change? Drop down the ladder to the floor of the Nesting Deck and you’ll find you’re not alone.In fact there are lots of you and none of them are the strangers they should be. Some even seems like people you've known for a very long time.They are as familiar as this place you've never been is.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room it's quiet and still, feeling for all the world like a hollow shell.

--Or it does until a voice separates itself from the white noise in your head:


BRIEFING
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD isn't really a voice at all. It's the warm tang of camaraderie, tinged with a flash of impatience like ticking hands on a clock face and a flicker of wonder: a falling star. It says:

( My, you're all very fresh aren't you? Unfortunately, the multiverse waits for no spring chicken. Once you've figured out which way's up, won't you all join us? )
Join 'us' where is the question. And yet, once you're ready to meet the owner of the voice in your mind, your footsteps simply lead you there naturally. Two strangers sit in a small circular briefing room - a tall being covered in short brown fur with a rigid demeanor, and a pale alien with yellow washed frills at her jaw and throat who is smiling cheerfully.

"Hey there, sunshine," says Rhan, her frills humming as she speaks. "Why don't you take a seat so we can get started?"

[ooc note: please see here for the catch-all briefing thread]


THE STATION
WITH A LITTLE UNDER 24 HOURS before it's time to make the trip to Hyrypia, this is as good an opportunity as you're going to get to familiarize yourself with Station 72 before you leave it. There's plenty to see, but a distinct lack of people to make conversation with. It's lonely and quiet and there's a sensation of dust gathering even where there is none. Maybe studying the briefing files on your databank and going over your mission kit is the most proactive distraction, but if not? Well there's plenty of places to get lost...

HYRYPIA - NAERSTONE HOUSE
DAY :003

MEETING
A SINGLE SHIP LANDS in a field the color of burnished gold, returning to the place it had until late the night before occupied. It's carefully inserted beside dozens of other spacecraft bearing more than faint similarities, though each has its own unique aesthetic. When the gangplank drops, the loud engines powering down, it reveals--

New hosts. Seven fresh faces - obscured as they are in layers of intricate fabric - are led down the gangplank by Rhan There to greet them is a number of other hosts - any who answered to the sweet crystalline ring of Collector’s voice in their heads hardly a half hour earlier, speaking with certainty born of truth:

( Rhan and Siva’co are returning. Shall we see what stories they have to tell? )

Despite the solidarity that both combined groups provide, there's a feeling of eyes here. A number of guards along the edge of the shuttle field are watching the reunion like hawks. Better perhaps to return to the apartments where they'll be able to speak in private and teach the new hosts what it is that has been learned since their arrival. --Or explore, for those who prefer not to rest. Naerstone House's grounds are vast and they are almost entirely open to the parties of the pilgrims to explore.

THE PERFORMANCE
AS THE SINGLE RED SUN of Hyrypia dips low on the horizon there is a long, low, mournful sound. A deep bell-- or a horn? Or maybe it's something else entirely, but the call is heard and answered as any nearby servants inform the guests of the house:

“There will be a performance of the First Journey in a quarter turn. All guests are invited to attend.”

There's no mystery as to where the event is occurring. A steady trail of guests and servants lead out past the Veranda into the central garden where a number of pillars have been mounted and a large tiered platform festooned with with numerous draped curtains and abstract representations of trees and mountains - a great stage - now sits. The stage is surrounded by numerous low settees and tables, piles of thick cushions and richly colored rugs around which guests can be found clustered, lounging while sipping thick, syrupy drinks.

Each table is illuminated only by a single glowing orb at its center. Otherwise, as the sun sets it pitches the garden into darkness as even the castle itself has been left unlit. There are no lights in distant windows or on Naerstone House's high walls; these small orbs and the glitter of stars in the black sky might very well be the only points of light in the whole universe.

The allotted time passes and the performance begins. A sun rises over the stage. It's a much larger, more intricate glowing orb and reveals a number of players dressed far more simply than the Hyrypians the hosts have met. They wear complex machine masks upon their faces that shutter into different expressions as their hands flitter across their faces: dramatic caricatures to accompany the droning sound of their singing voices as they unfold the tale at the center of the performance - the one which drives this pilgrimage and for the Nest's very presence in the universe at all. It's the story of lost Rabadoceans coming to a planet near barren intent on brutalizing them - about loss and hardship until finally a single player separates from the rest. The orb of the sun over the stage turns, it's mechanical face shifting and resetting to indicate the passage of time as the very central platform of the stage begins to turn so that this lone player might walk. And walk. And walk through deserts and scrub land, through dark woods and dark caves, against the wind and with it. Through it all, the orb over the stage slowly lowers until at last this lone player can take it in their hands.

It cracks like an egg and brilliance streams from it. Braziers catch fire in the darkness. The garden illuminates itself. Every light in Naerstone House comes to life.

With that, the silence of the crowd breaks. There is applause -- each culture in its own unique fashion -- and then there is a rise of chattering conversation as the guests are served several small dishes and talk about the show they’ve just seen - and whatever possible clues it might give to the pilgrimage they themselves would soon be undertaking.

---

((OOC Notes: This is the hatch log for all new hosts as well as the evening's performance. Feel free to make your own logs and posts additional to this if you care to. You can find a more detailed overview of the host hatching process HERE and additional setting information about the Station HERE. Please be sure to review the MISSION: HYRYPIA ooc information. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[adamance]

[For a moment, she considers opening her mind fully to Clarke. If it were another time or another place, she might be more hesitant, even with Clarke. But she wants to continue to confirm the realness of her, to allow Clarke to drink up every second of it. Lexa recalls the hours and days after Costia's death. She's buried many of those deep down inside so that they can be little more than an echo of the young girl she'd been when she first became Heda, but they can still drift to the surface. They have here, after all; there are a number of people who know of the dark haired girl who flits and flees from her memories, just as there's a girl with blonde hair and deep blue eyes filled with certainty.

So, she knows what it's like to be haunted by someone you love, by being unable to grieve. In that, the realness of her death is all the more palpable. Lexa wants to assure Clarke that she is more than a haunting image formed by the collection of minds of the Nest, brought forth to make her feel as if she's going crazy. She knows that Clarke has taken the Flame before, knows about that experience from Bellamy and then Murphy, but this is nothing like that. She knows the need to fortify this as something outside of the confines of her spirit—here, more than anything, her spirit lives on.

It helps, of course, that Clarke laughs just before she takes Lexa's face into her hands. Lexa's eyebrows raise with mischief as she's drawn close, and it's a look that she's only granted Clarke in private or relative private. After all, there had always been the divide for her: the Lexa with the solidified voice, ready to project the very foundation of strength and the Lexa who relaxes, who can smile and feel at ease, as if everything will be okay. (It was always easiest with Clarke.)]

I am real, Clarke, [Lexa says, and there's something fulfilling in being able to say her name. That fulfillment had always been there, had always been echoed in every repetition of her name, but there's no hiding of the depth of how much she cares (loves) the other woman. Her eyebrows knit together as she allows Clarke to examine her realness.

In turn, she appreciates the closeness of Clarke, of the touch of her hands. She had always wanted this to be longer than a moment, to be longer than their extended good-byes in her quarters. She takes note that Clarke's hands are rough but not too rough, showing the lines of what she experienced in the days following Lexa's death. More than that, there's Clarke's hair, still showing the remnants of her time in Polis, her bright eyes, filled with tears and intelligence, and the tension of her forehead. Even when she smiles, it's almost as if she's waiting for the other shoe to fall. It had always been that way. Not that she has much room for smiles, beyond that strained, belated laughter.

She had memorized everything that made Clarke Clarke long before it was even fair to do that, long before it was right. She had told Titus that Clarke elevated herself, and she had been certain in that. But long before her betrayal, she had wanted to know, memorize, understand every part of what made Clarke tick. She realizes now that she has a chance to do that, but doesn't pry or probe.

She merely waits, eyes half lidded, and after a moment, her hands come up to cover Clarke's, to provide an echo of exactly how real she is. With that, she adds:]

I don't intend to go anywhere. Not this time. [There's a sense of reticence in speaking of her death. Lexa knows of it, but speaks as if she's been informed of it. That, too, echoes in her mind. Her life here has taught her more about what it means to live, and how much more can be achieved through it. After all, there are no Natblida to carry on her memory in perpetuity. There is only her.]

[earthborn]

[Shepard would argue, about the inherent humanity of private rooms and adequate sleep, but then her upbringing was less standard than she has been led to believe. Or maybe more-- who knows, it's a bit galaxy out there. Big multiverse, even.

But the argument would be pointless, and not in service to her actual purpose.]

Over heard a little bit of a personal conflict, earlier. It's got me thinkin' [Oh, she's noticed the stab wounds alright. But she makes no overt gesture-- doesn't need to, not when they share a brood.] So, tell me something I don't know about Lakshmi Bai.

[earthborn]

[The memory is vivid, with the painted-in assumptions of childhood, blurred around the edges like a well-handled book-- the paper kind anachronistic but visceral. Shepard is reminded, obscurely, of nothing so much as the Quarians, of all things.

Tali had danced like that, in a way. Not so gracefully, but then anyone who could dance lie that after three of whatever triple-purified Turian spirit she'd had... Well. that's more than just impressive. God, she misses Tali'zorah.]

( Sounds pretty lush. I'm sorry for your loss. )

[In all likelihood, none of them will ever see their loved ones again. That Lakshmi's thoughts are preoccupied with her absent husband is no secret, not as Shepard sees it. But it is sad.]

[ryohji]

No.

[ the emperor and his chrysanthemum throne don't count, not in any way that's relevant to this conversation. that the throne has survived so long in the wake of recent disaster was a product of mass delusion, and a desperate need to take refuge in what's familiar. an infant-like regression. ]

We have cities ruled by machines. [ some of which more organic than others. kaji speaks carefully, taking pains to make clear the dystopic abaddon that was post-impact japan. ] Super-computers, to put it more precisely, but I don't know how familiar you are with that term. [ then again, this man might be more technologically nescient than even mat, so kaji anticipates having to first explain machines. ] And of course, we have the men and women who make the machine, and those who try to fight it. Where I'm from, power changes hands very quickly. It's about choosing which side you're on, even if it's just for a moment.

[ kaji leans back against his seat, satisfied with his answer despite its astounding ambiguity. ]

A moment being a day, or an hour, if you're a man like me.

whoops i buried this one

[unsea]

[ hers is a face that he recognizes because of that shared connection; a long night, two, spent pressing the back of his hand to bellamy's temple as his hatchtwin shivered through illness and distance. as he shared, bit by bit, the image of clarke griffin - a beacon, a fire - and every emotion that was associated with her. to him, she resembles a young woman he had known once ( a girl who crafted storms -- ), not the one he had prized above all others.

what he appreciates in clarke, immediately, is how she divorces herself from her sentiment. quick, sharp. her attention is on bellamy, and the darkling cannot reach him in this moment. he'd love to know where he was, because it was certainly not on the station-proper. ]

( Distant, ) [ he parses the minds around him; no, bellamy is further than even this. ]

( He must already be on location, for the mission. You and I have a late start, it seems.

If you wish to see him, I would suggest gathering your things, and quickly. )

[ryohji]

[ the dogged resolution feels unbecoming for a girl her age. when kaji was eighteen, he was watching the world go by from under the covers of a bed he shared with another disenchanted refugee of second impact, barely responsive, barely subsisting, barely even a stock character in his own life. he doesn't know how much these people depended on clarke, but if it's anything resembling the way his world depended on a handful of fourteen year olds, he might as well seek for the airlock and give himself over to vacuum of space. even as he speaks of the symbiote in harsh terms, kaji can feel her vulnerability, could almost drown in it with how it crashes over him like a great wave. ]

Maybe. [ or maybe not. maybe the symbiote eked out a living by eating at their brain tissue like a fulminant amoeba, or perhaps it replaced them entirely with its own neural pathways, slowly but surely undermining their individuality. kaji can think of at least a dozen different scenarios where resistance was futile at its best, counterintuitive at its worst. ] I can't stop the others from speaking into my mind. But between you and I, we should agree to communicate like this, just as we're doing now. Whenever we can help it.

[ unused muscles - even mental ones - tend to atrophy, right? he's taking for granted that the symbiote works much the same way, but kaji doesn't have much in way of solutions, barring surgical removal, which doesn't seem viable on this ship. he has yet to make such a deal with mat or rust. the truth is, the landscape of clarke's mind felt so unlike his. her indomitability against his will's blemishes and sores. her survival instinct against his death wish. this is for her sake, too.

he's all but forgotten about their chess game, now. ]

Make me a promise.

[otrazhenie]

[ Amusement blossoms up out of that graveyard dirt in her mind, the image of Damon as an angry cat so exceptionally fitting. That's the Damon she knows and cares for, the one who is passionate and ever expressive, who doesn't hide his opinions about things even if they're unpopular. It's comforting sometimes, actually, to know that about him - she doesn't always know how Damon will react to things, but she always knows that he will react.

But then the amusement sinks back down and is covered over by anxiety and grief, by loss and the sensation of being lost. ]

Thank you...

[ She pulls in one breath, two, three, before speaking again, trying to calm her mind the way he seems to have done and having absolutely no success. The odds are against her there, after all. ]

Is that-- Is it because of the symbiote?

[otrazhenie]

[ It seems too selfish to Elena to focus on her own feelings, but also... she doesn't entirely disagree with Lakshmi. She hates herself too, is disgusted by what she is, and can't believe she has to live her life this way now. How is she going to manage? Is there anyone here who can even begin to help her?

Her face shifts back to normal and she can feel tears in her eyes, everything feeling so overwhelming and impossible to overcome. ]

I didn't want to be like this.

[ Not that that makes it any better, she knows, but it has to be said. Thought. Breathed in because the thought tries to consume her. She doesn't want this by any means, but what choice does she have? ]

[redheadcarrier]

Damon-

[ Wait, she remembers him. Sorta. She hasn't had too many run-ins with him, really. But she hasn't exactly gone out of her way to get to know everyone, either. The memory of those teeth in someone's neck makes her wince. ]

Ugh - he bit you?

[ Of course he did, he's a vampire. ]

Why isn't he tied up?

[redheadcarrier]

[ Maybe she is lucky. She's still young. In a way, she still has a chance to move on from everything. She can try to find a way to heal. She can be better. Her life story isn't written or set in stone (not yet). But the pathways that are open to her have been closing off, one by one, as she's gotten older. How much longer does she really have?

Those thoughts don't cross her mind, though. She's too wrapped up in the tears and the sobs and utterly draining, isolating feeling of letting grief and anger and pain vent itself in this messy, painful display of emotion. She can't see very well - she has to keep clearing her eyes - but she can see him near the door and a part of her wants to believe that he's only there so he could shut it, not because he wants to keep his distance from her. She sucks in another breath and it comes out in another painful sob, shoulders heaving.

She feels alone. Even with him in the room. It's a painful feeling, having to endure this by herself and maybe she understands Third Impact a little better now - or will, once she thinks back on this moment.

Asuka doesn't like to ask for help. She doesn't like to ask for anything. But he's there and he's not moving and she wants something. She lifts her gaze, blinking through the tears. ]

Kaji-

[ She repeats his name again, the syllables broken up by a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. She pushes to her feet, still crying, still hiding her head against her arm,
and she crosses the space between them with a few halting steps. She doesn't wrap her arms around him in an embrace. She doesn't try to cling to him like she has in the past. She just buries her face against his robes and digs her fingers into the cloth, stepping close so that he can at least feel his presence. In a way, she's forcing him to act - to do something. And failing that, she'll lean on him and use his presence as some sort of comfort, even if she wants more. Some acknowledgement.

The tears keep coming. ]

It hurts.

[ She doesn't say what "it" is voice muffled by his robes. The tears or the emotion or her loss and anger or something else entirely. It's just another small statement, another little voice that adds to the weight on her shoulders. ]

[calhar]

[ Mat doesn't rush to reply until after he's got his own bowl sorted, though he doesn't sit down, either; he leans back against the nearby counter, giving the Darkling a considering look. ]

Surpassing? And I'm supposed to find that idea appealing, am I?

[ There's nothing in the link to imply he's being clever. He really, truly seems to have no interest in surpassing anyone at much of anything, particularly when every bar he can think of relates back to the nest and their new "lords". ]

[calhar]

[ There's something in the delivery that reminds him of one of his generals — Talmanes, before he'd broken him of old formalities and titles. The comparison's a fond one, even if the thought of home only stirs up irritation at having left things unfinished.

More importantly: months? ]

Blood and bloody ashes. You're telling me you've been following orders for months and none of you have found a way to cut your leashes?

[ Whether he means the symbiotes or the simple concept of doing what's asked of them, there's nothing on the surface to clarify. ]

[calhar]

( Guilt as a bloody resource. )

[ He doesn't hate it because it's manipulative. He hates it because she's absolutely right. Glaring doesn't accomplish much when he's still wrapped from head to toe in their ridiculous disguises, but the impression of it's still strong enough in the link.

Once the frustration's expressed, there's a subtle shift in tone; resignation, or something like it, and it seems to play out without much resistance. This isn't the first time he's been backed into a corner, and it isn't the first time he's been forced to deal with reality. ]

( What are you, then? Because if I had to bet coin, I'd name you for an Aiel. )

[ She won't know the term. He's aware, and for once the give in his thoughts is intentional, if a bit long-suffering: more images than one, women in black hoods in deftly skilled combat or women with pale hair and eyes, expressions stoic and unforgiving — and a woman with short golden hair, her memory sharper than the rest and cut off just as quick. ]

[aluminumandash]

[ Well that's some bullshit.

Rust's gaze drops off her. He removes one of his scarves, observing as he folds it: ] You remind me of somebody. [ He buffs the image of Marty's dumbass belt buckle. Stray sensations seep in around the edges: the smell of stale beer, the feel of a room filling up with someone else's sleep, a cord of guilt drawn taut.

He looks back to Shepard, impassive. ] Your rank, did you get that here or is it vestigial?

[shri]

[ Staring into memories, held in both hands. She grips them hard, for that fire that burns her for holding so tightly. She misses her husband, she has been without him for so, so long. She misses sitting in her own happiness. Nursing a child that was all her own. When she used to dance, throwing the colours of Holi, feeling herself soaked to the bone in all that affection, that love, of home and kingdom and family. Misses it all - and she has not let it dwell in her mind for many years. Welled, mingling so well with a different person, dancing, that so easily takes the stage in her mind. Even if the movements aren't right to the dances she knows. The feeling is the same. ]

( They are as they are. )

[ The same way, perhaps, Lakshmi can take no consolation over it. Curling that feeling into herself and like pulling away from someone standing too close, she tries to detangle herself from those memories - Shepard's, her own, all of it. It is done. ]

[earthborn]

It's my rank. I earned it.

[She says this carefully, as if trying to be sure she's not speaking to an idiot, a lunatic, or someone merely willful in their ignorance. Shepard doesn't like to presume, but she's had a lot of experience with otherwise well-educated people turning out to be stupider than one might think possible.

Boy, you best respect.]

No one gets a rank here. You're presuming a level of internal organization and chain of command that just plain doesn't exist.

[earthborn]

[Well, that's a downer. Shepard doesn't want to talk about the dead-- and never you mind that she brought this line of conversation on herself, really. But then, what else was she supposed to do? Ignore the elephant in the room?

She's already ignoring everything else in the room, to be honest. Not much left to think about, aside from that.]

( I'm partial to a good action vid myself. Blasto, the first Hanar Spectre, or something, the kind of thing that just lets you relax for a couple of hours. Laugh a little, maybe. )

[She accompanies the name with an image of its meaning, Blasto standing, tentacles akimbo, pistols upheld with an unlikely aplomb. It's pure schtick, but everyone needs a little junk food in their life. You'll go crazy otherwise.]

( Not that there was much time for that, before. You get plenty of downtime on the Station, though. Once we're done here, you'll see. )

iii.

[blooded]

❰ the symbiote is both a massive pain in damon's ass and very helpful, often at the same time. it means he can't kill any of the other hosts, even when they deserve it — can't even hurt lakshmi without also hurting elena — but it also means that he can find elena, no matter where she is, always. he hasn't had the opportunity to memorize the feel of her mind and make a space for her in his the way he had when she was awake before, but he'd know elena anywhere. finding her again is easy, all he has to do is open his mind and follow the bright light the she shines throughout it.

it only takes a minute for him to find her — their rooms are close, and he's quite determined. as soon as he sees her he moves toward her, hands reaching for her neck, her shoulder — is she bleeding? it's not like with katherine, it shouldn't be, there was no magic involved this time, but he has to be sure — ❱

Hey.

[otrazhenie]

[ Everything is pain for Elena. There's no good to the symbiote that she can see yet, it's nothing more than a necessary evil to keeping up her end of the bargain, of doing what she needs to keep the Enemy from going after her loved ones. But in the few dozen hours since she'd woken on the station, all she's known from it is pain, interspersed with small moments of comfort here and there. The alien element has made her transition even more difficult, and sometimes it's hard to breathe through it all--

Like when the pain from Lakshmi ripped through her. The pain, the rage, the suddenness of it had overwhelmed her and she hadn't had the breath to scream. It was like that night with Katherine, feeling the pain inflicted upon another, her shoulder feeling every bit like she'd been stabbed and bitten herself. But unlike with Katherine, those emotions swelled up with the pain, curled around her own and sent everything spiraling. Even as the worst seems to be over, the pain becoming consistent instead of a spike, Elena still sits there on the bed in something akin to shock. She doesn't notice Damon's approach, doesn't focus on his form until he's right there. ]

Damon?

[ It's hard to pinpoint one emotion in the way she says his name. Pain, fear, uncertainty, a tiny scrap of hope -- she's feeling it all underneath that layer of cotton-like numbness that's already starting to fall away. ]

[shri]

[ It's an easy distraction from her own frustration, her own inability to move backward or forward at this point in anything. Letting the other woman's experience wash over her complacently in contrast to the show. Take her amusements and pleasures as her own.

Perhaps, to that, for the first time she finds not so much resentment in the connection. ]

( Down time? What is... that?)

[ Curious, to that end, it's easy to be curious. ]

[blooded]

❰ ...shit, he fucked up.

that's not a suprise, it happens all the time, particularly when elena is involved, but she's been through so much, he wanted to keep her safe just this once. that was all he was trying to do, was make her life better, and he still managed to fuck it up.

there's no time for self-pity. damon kneels in front of elena, taking her hands in his. ❱

Hey, it's me. I'm here. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you.

❰ he's never done this, not with anyone but sam, but elena looks so... confused, and scared, and just plain lost. so he opens the link between them, lets down his own shields, and reaches out to her, trying to draw elena forward, help her separate herself from lakshmi. it's hard, when you're new, when the symbiote is so overwhelming, and it must be even harder as a new vampire. as an afterthought, damon tries to pull up his walls to shield them both. he doesn't even know if it's possible, but he has to try. ❱

[shri]

[ She maps out those images. Unable to block them out, perhaps, but as they are given to her, it's either feel overwhelmed or take stock in them. So she does and a clucks. Like she had her own son when he had presented this to her. Like taking a sword from his hands and teaching him to hold the grip differently.

Ah, that girl, - she had arrived with that girl. Not the other. But still, she would keep it in mind should they come to words.

But no - no worship was not done aspirational, not removed. Worship was done the first thing in the morning, the last thing at night, in war and in peace, in famine and flood. It was to say the name of you love and know it as a prayer. It was not removed, nor was it a sacrifice. It was the mornings that she had shared as she grew older with Gangadhar, where he would brush petals over her body. It was the days she held him as he sweated out his death. ]

( It can be. It may ask a great deal, and sacrifice may not be the least of it. )

[miscreant]

Well.

[The tone she takes is most definitely a "guilty as charged" tone, a light roll of one shoulder. No point in denying facts when she had shown them plain as day.]

A morsel.

[shri]

[ Nor is she without mercy. Not without feeling. Often they call her a woman without feeling, without mercy, immoral and impassive to the suffering of others. But it is not true, it has never been true. There is ever too much there. Always too much. So barely kept inside of herself despite every effort to stay as removed as she could.

Because she has been here before. been here with someone so much younger, than Elena now, and her fingers curl and recurl around the blade. United India was too fond of particular tactics. Knew nothing would gut a people more than to watch their children be destroyed. But she could never order her men to do something she herself could not bare.

Rani, Rani where is my pitaji, please, why is there so much blood, Rani? ]

Then let me end this.

[ -- Because she is an open wound, she does not want to do it. But duty was nothing but fatalistic in the things that it asked. ]

[otrazhenie]

[ Having his hands around her own is nice. It helps in a way, reminding her what actual physical touch feels like instead of everything she's been experiencing in her mind. The very real pressure of his skin on hers is comforting and she's about to wrap it around herself in an attempt at being more present when

She pulls her hands from his to press them to her head, whatever he'd done churning up that ebb and flow of emotions, thoughts, images, bits and pieces caught from Lakshmi mixing in with her own. That rage, disgust, rejection, worry, love. It all blurs and spins within her, like getting motion sickness from a rollercoaster, and then the smell of the blood on him hits her and the hunger rises up from the dark cave where it had been slumbering. ]

I can't.

[ She doesn't realize she's said it out loud, the thought echoing through her mind for everyone to hear. I can't do this. ]