[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

[wrackful]

[The new hatch has Murphy's nerves on edge, some vain hope that Cathaway would keep the new Hosts up on the station quashed as soon as Collector's voice chimes through his mind. He stays out of it. He'd never been good at the welcoming committee, and this one - hi, welcome to the brain bug family, Cathaway thinks we're all going to die here - strikes as one to definitely avoid.

But some things are unavoidable. He feels it like a ripple through Bellamy, proximity, maybe, the forged connection between them pulling taut. The familiar sense of home, of space and earth, stars and trees and blood. Clarke, Bellamy says, and Murphy doesn't jump to his feet like the other man, but he sits forward, all ease in his posture gone as his attention pulls sharp and present on the door.]

[isorropia]

[Siva'co turns his head to him, smooth, predatory motion, only enhanced by the alien and unreadable eyes that fix on him. His own mind isn't quiet- not locked down or shuttered off, but it is keenly focused, a wound spring, a number of gears clicked neatly into place. A task and a duty to undertake keeping him narrow. The whiff of smoke has his nose flaring- all four nostrils- but he doesn't address it.]

Then you stay here, alone with the custodians. You leave your brood unprotected and at risk without you to rely on. You will feel their pain-perhaps their deaths- with no chance to assist them, and you put aside any chance to make a calculated strike against the enemy who brought war to your doorstep. We have no need of reluctant soldiers.

[He has no need of reluctant soldiers.]

[ryohji]

[ he had no well-meaning defense that could justify these eight long years. his excuse is the same excuse used by all the unremarkable men that came before him, and the unremarkable men before them. it's an excuse as old as courage, and as old as cowardice. he was afraid. he took a base, self-defeating enjoyment on some level, keeping it from her. she wouldn't say it back. she would be disgusted with him. it didn't belong to him. he didn't deserve it. she didn't deserve it. the relief that seizes him now isn't contingent on her response, be it acceptance or revulsion. the relief he feels now exists independent of her, and is as much physiological response as it is a psychological one, not unlike the respite that follows a bout of nauseated vomiting. turns out, suppressing everything for as long as he did poisons you just as well as any toxin, and will kill you just as well as any toxin, provided you don't beat it to the punch.

that was his plan. strains of shame threaten to dirty his relief like spores on a petri dish. like the shame that follows the relief that follows the forceful vomiting. ]

What are you saying? [ kaji shuts his eyes, his words a low murmur against the thick fabric of her knee. did she catch that? ] Listen to yourself, Katsuragi...

[ that's okay. flowering was beneath her, anyhow. he lifts his head as much as allowed given their cumbrous positioning, feeling for her face with his face, bunching up the extra fabric of his sleeve, and wiping away the streaks of tears inelegantly. he wants to hug her, and kiss her, but that would require him rising to her level, or her stooping to his. he stays put. ]

[ryohji]

It's my pleasure, [ spoken as kaji subtly yo-yo's his gaze to and fro the lighter and mat's unmoving hands. no recognition of the name. he was either the best actor in existence, or he didn't know what japan was, which fascinates kaji on one level. on the other hand, his own ignorance likely spoke volumes in and of itself. it was possible two rivers, andor was simply some remote, little-appreciated village in some remote, little-appreciated country in europe. let's say, montenegro. kaji was well traveled, but he wasn't so cosmopolitain. it is possible, that this man hails from two rivers, andor, montenegro. is it likely? ] And no, I'm afraid it doesn't ring a bell.

[ he's also afraid this guy has the wrong idea as far as his little offering goes. that was his one and only lighter, and kaji isn't sure how he feels about losing it over a casual misunderstanding. one suspicion leads to another - really, there are clues all over the damn place - which leads kaji to his next question: ]

— Do you know how to use that?

[greentech]

[ There's a bit of push-back from Pidge; a sense of determination and a little frustration at feeling like she's being underestimated. ]

( Hey, I can fight. I'm a Paladin. I'm supposed to fight when I need to - I'm just better at tech. )

[ She's small and she'll fight you. ]

[redheadcarrier]

[ Asuka stares straight ahead through her veil, not deigning to even glance at Clarke. She can sense the other woman beside her. Another newbie (as if Asuka wasn't incredibly new herself). Her anger and frustration and hostility isn't aimed at Clarke; not really. It's a general sort of defense. Spikes and quills designed to repel anyone and everyone, without much sense for who might get hurt in the process. ]

( It doesn't have anything to do with this. )

[ Asuka's thought is focused and a bit overbearing, but again it isn't aimed at Clarke. But that's a good way to answer the question. Reading between the lines: <No, I'm not OK.

Not that Asuka would ever admit that out loud. ]

[ryohji]

[ like clarke, kaji declines a seat at the table. he loiters, his back tucked against the conjoining walls where he can enjoy full view of the ongoing conversation. his eyes dart from one question to its attending answer like tracking a game of tennis. rust helps himself to three puffs before kaji's lighting his own cigarette, just in case rhan and siva'co had any undue impressions about this group that needed dispelling. ]

So, you're not going to drag us by the legs, kicking and screaming?

[ there's no teasing the thoughtful skepticism behind his question. benevolent captors? it confuses him, considering the circumstances that lead him here in the first place. these beings, they didn't seem above coercion, though the ruddy one's guilt trip comes pretty damn close. ]

And what if the whole brood stays behind?

[greentech]

( People always jump to "magic" when they can't explain something. )

[ Pidge sounds more irritated than anything else. She processes the word "channeling" and "Source" and considers that they're probably more words for "magic". At least from her perspective. ]

( What's this Source thing you're talking about? Or the Aes Sedai? I've never heard of them. )

[ Now she sounds curious. Inquisitive. She enjoys learning, even if it's about something she probably won't really think of as "real". ]

[ryohji]

[ whatever asuka needs to do to psyche herself up, he will give the her space to do it, within reasonable limits. he doesn't shrink away when she leans in. people lean in when they're ready to talk. they do this because subconsciously, they desperately want to be heard. they desperately want to rid themselves of the burden they've been carrying for so long. they desperately want for someone to share the yoke, be a nonjudgemental ear. it's a desire that for most people, works outside their conscious control. ]

Yes. [ an affirmative noise. ] But, NERV managed to set him free. It took a month, but he got out.

[ right? kaji's filling in the blanks, trying to gauge what she knows as much as she's trying to gauge what he does. ]

[redheadcarrier]

[ She stares at him, tries to read the emotion on his face and the emotions she can feel through the pulse and beat of the Nest. It's strange to know what people are thinking (sort of). It's strange to feel it instinctively. It reminds her of the gestalt, the mass that humanity became after Third Impact, but also different. She's still her, but she has the feelings and emotions and thoughts of others buzzing in the background.

Weird.

But he knows something. ]

You were-

[ This is hard to say. How does she tell him that he's dead? She grimaces, drops her gaze, then raises it again, shoulders squaring against the sense of shame she feels. ]

You died. I don't know - something happened and you were killed after that. I don't know how. Just... that it happened.

[ And there's a faint memory of the shock and sorrow and denial that had rippled through her and torn apart her already fragile and tattered psyche. ]

[wille]

[ No one will ever love you for everything you are, when the mind's eye leaves out details in hopes of creating a coherent idea of the other. When a person is anything but coherent. To hear him say the words -- the words she can't say -- is to hear a promise from the one who has most diligently collected the pieces to grasp at the shape of her, only to find that even he leaves out the parts he can't swallow: her shame and weakness, her as anything but the epitome of animus. Her as action, her as the unstoppable force. All this sadness built upon a lie of ever knowing anyone or having them know you, and yet, maybe it proves him right and proves him wrong, that the cold hands wrapped around her heart only prompt her to challenge it. Let him see, and judge for himself.

Misato removes her hand from his neck to lift his face, a firm and precise maneuvering to allow her to unfold her legs. If it so requires him rising to her height, or her stooping to his depth, then the choice is clear. She slips into what little space is afforded between him and the bed, knees on the floor, an arm looped about his neck like a brace. She speaks most urgently with her lips against his cheek, right by his ear, each voiced vowel and each muted sob sending shivers through his hair. ]

Listen to me then: the truth you've been looking for, I've found it. I have it here with me. [ If her mind now betrays the faintest trace of victory, it is only a vain attempt to soften the landing. She grips him tighter, afraid of the fall. ] But I ran out of time, I couldn't stop any of it. It's all as you predicted, the Instrumentality, the Eva series, everything-- so see, you're here now, you can figure out a way to turn it back. I couldn't do it, but you can.

[ It's an unfair request, hinging on the unspoken do this for me, the adjoining if you love me trailing close behind. ]

[calhar]

[ Mat barely knew Ebou Dar from his backyard a few years ago, so the revelation that the man's never heard of Andor isn't completely alarming. He still has a hard time letting his guard down, and interactions that might feel casual on the surface are laced through with careful mistrust.

That's habit, really. If there's something slippery about Kaji's presence, the way Mat's both uncomfortably aware of his thoughts and distinctly unsure of them — that just compounds the problem. He looks to the lighter at the question, pride stirring a small backlash of denial before he smartly skips right past it. ]

I don't even know what that is.

[ He offers it back with a nod, apparently embracing the idea of lessons. If it'll let him smoke, pride can wait. After a thoughtful, curious beat: ] Flint?

[ He's seen enough fireworks to know you can pack a lot of punch into something that small. Seems a bit overkill for lighting a pipe, but he did just wake up in another world. All bets are off. ]

[calhar]

[ Irritation feedback loop, here we come. While he can't exactly knock her for the curiosity, he has no interest in relating old wives' tales to someone who, frankly, he still doesn't really think of as "real".

There's an obvious delay as he weighs the choice of not explaining at all. When he does, it's still dismissive. ]

( The Source is everything— creation, the Wheel, the pattern. Aes Sedai can saidar it, make things happen that they shouldn't. )

[ Please never quote him on this because saidar is definitely not a verb. Lacking as the explanation is, it's accompanied by strong pangs of memory: a man with red hair, a bright tattoo of a dragon on his arm. A young woman, extremely annoyed. The press of cold metal against a bare chest. Mat sits forward restlessly, settling his elbows on his knees, watching the distant stage rather than meeting Pidge's gaze.

There's a hint of honest curiosity, something along the lines of where are you from, chased quickly by: ]

( Where'd they pull you from, under some great bloody rock? )

[greentech]

( Uh, a different universe entirely. I've never heard of this Source or the Wheel or the Pattern or whatever the heck the Aes Sedai are. It doesn't exist on my home planet. Or any planet I've been to. So I haven't been under a rock, thanks. )

[ Careful, she bites back. Looks like there's totally going to be an irritation feedback loop. Time to see how far they take this. Because really, she's more than a little peeved that he seems to be considering everything an extension of his universe.

Then again, so does she sometimes, so it's like she's innocent in that regard. ]

( I'm a Paladin of Voltron. You've probably never heard of us, either. )

[calhar]

[ All the talk of space and universes is over his head, frankly, which means he's just going to keep on belligerently ignoring it. There's a familiarity to Pidge's response that has nothing to do with the pull of the link, something that strikes him as belittling. It feels like Egwene.

Mat's answer to that sort of thing is stock, at this point. He doesn't bristle so much as he loses interest, very stubbornly and very abruptly. Nothing's quite so annoying as acting like someone's opinions don't count. ]

( Not everything you don't understand is magic, Matrim Cauthon. )

[ Yes, he's imitating her. Yes, he's even bad at it in his head. ]

( You're the one acting like I don't know my own boot from a Trolloc, telling me what is and isn't magic. I've as much been under a rock as you have. ) [ She won't know what Trolloc means, either. The use of strange terms is petty at this point, though the sentiment's firmly patronizing.

... also he did technically come here from under a bunch of rocks, but that's just a technicality. ]

[ryohji]

[ it takes a village to perturb him. even when he was a small boy, he was slow to anger, more liable to give up his place in the line than stand his ground. the months after second impact he surrounded himself with rabblerousers and instigators, punks and hotheads to do the brawling and fighting for him, making him seem inviolable by association. by all definitions he was a patient, unflappable man. but when misato speaks, he feels hot insult rip through his stomach. his side of the connection bristles like a wick dipped in kerosene.

it's the gravity behind her voice, together with her ludicrous sense of timing, the effects of which are almost comical, that disturb him. no, he knew it. he knew it all along. it's nothing personal. he knew it at the motel - she only used different words to say the same thing - and he didn't endure this pathetic, pained reaction. it's the connection, kaji rationalizes, the din of disordered emotions running through his head without respite. his arms clasp against her shoulders, his grip stern, as he shoves misato off him. he stares at her with hard eyes, the room casting shadows where his lines of his face wrinkle the hardest.

he's clumsy when it comes to transmitting things over the connection, but he strains against his inexperience to propel them forward.

first is a familiar face. tokita shiro of japan heavy chemical industries. ikari gendo's sonorous voice over the phone, thanking him for siphoning funds from the jet alone project. but there was still more to be done, you see. months after the fallout, tokita is brought up on charges of embezzlement, to his complete and utter shock. he commits suicide two weeks later, by then his reputation so far ravaged it doesn't even merit a scrolling headline on a black marquee.

the next memory kaji imparts with a great deal of condemnation. the image of a humble briefcase, tagged in his name. the gentle rocking of a ship. gaghiel's inconsolable thrashing, kaji's luggage on it's mind. the combination of numbers that he used to open the briefcase, to reveal ADAM encased in amber bakelite.

the last one, but not for lack of examples. september 19th, 2015. a large power grid. a large modern power grid controlled by a series of supercomputers that in turn control tokyo-3's power supply. he runs a linpack benchmark code off instructions fed to him over an earpiece, compromising multiple redundancies and fail safes, pulling hundreds of megawatts, ebbs and surges. two hours later, he weasels his way into her elevator.

say that again, misato. you wants him to do what? ]

[ryohji]

[ that's more than confirmation of his suspicions. kaji can't help but crack a smile despite himself, circumstances be damned. ]

Well, allow me to demonstrate.

[ he adjusts his position relative to mat, so that he can observe as kaji illustrates the art of flicking a bic by way of example. with a single practiced move, he pads the metal striker and rests his thumb against the red ignition without changeover. viola, a humble flame. kaji lets off the ignition to emphasize the logistics of how this all comes together: the ignition controls the flame, but the sparkwheel functions as the trigger. no flame without the spark, no flame without the gas ignited by the spark.

that's a bit too cerebral for even kaji's tastes, and he hopes that observation alone is sufficient. kaji tosses the lighter back mat's way with an almost fatherly sort of anticipation. ganbatte, mat-kun. ]

Flint has something to do with it. [ he looks more like a matchstick sort of guy, truthfully. ] It's called a lighter. That's all I need to know, at least.

[unsea]

It is what I would do.

[ a tired smile, full of teeth and experience. he's fought a three-front war before, for years and years. ]

So, this is the history of the war, the players are arranged well in advance -- what do they offer, for these Nectar rights?

[ he will ask all his questions, before he weighs in - his attention balanced between rhan, siva'co, the newer hosts who are resistant ]

[adamance]

( When you need to. )

[Pidge had said the magic words herself.]

[unsea]

[ he holds his opinions close to him, and has a habit of being difficult to dissuade from them - if he gets it into his head that he is Correct!! ]

Siva'co. You are a -- military man? As I am. What have been the faction's tactics in war? Subterfuge? Direct conflict?

[unsea]

Of course they're not. You were given the choice to come here, after all.

[ wry amusement; he's not here to be diplomat on behalf of the station, but it is always interesting to see who will resist and who will follow the connection strung between each and every one of them. two smokers, clarke griffin - who else, and how would their opinion sway the tone of this conversation. ]

ii / option a

[ryohji]

[ he hasn't taken the time to appreciate it before, but the station made noise, sounding like nothing so much as the quiet sustained roaring of a furnace furiously pumping the bellows. it fascinates him, in a muted sort of way, how the pods had insulated against the true nature of the ship, now that he'd left it behind.

the fascination gives way to restlessness soon enough. and restlessness, together with hunger, gets him moving again. kaji interrupts her just as she gets to arranging the pieces in a legible order. if the connection doesn't betray his presence, the snap-crackle of the potato chip bag in his hand will.

small comforts go a long way. downhill water always leads to civilization. and where there is a kitchen, there is a recreation room close by. ]

You know how to play? [ he rounds a corner and eases himself into a seat with a quiet, unobtrusive manner. his approach seems to suggest that the girl is free to shoo him off if she prefers to be alone, though kaji can't help but wonder why she's bothered to set up the chess board in the first place. ]

[calhar]

[ There's no sign of tactics in the way Mat takes a seat, unless acting aggressively unbothered counts as a tactic. The undercurrent of paranoia's a counterpoint to the way he's leaning onto the table, chin propped in one hand as he frowns at the exchange of information. Being told where to go and what to do by people — sort of people — who've got access to things they shouldn't have, it's old hat. ]

Brood? [ He knows what it means. He's just judging Kaji for so readily buying into the terms or assuming any sort of coherency to their plans. ] And that's a loose definition of choice. If they'd said, now, Mat, you can either stay under this pile of rubble or come run errands for us in some other bloody plane, then it would've been a choice.

[ Mat sits back, crossing his arms as he fixes his attention back on their hosts. ] Are the two of you going?

[unsea]

[ that she, in all her presence had not fallen in his absence, had been of relief. seviilia was a heavy blade, the kind that was difficult to hold in one's hand, but would cleave through an opponent if given the correct momentum. he was, concerning her, obscenely at ease. the dead, myth-borne or otherwise, had been known to him in his own world - her hungers were intimately known to him, and he had not feared the violence she would show him, if he baited her appropriately.

even now, he baits her. lures this o'tnika he admires, the way one would admire a beautiful weapon.

his mind is the caress of his hand through her hair, the press of his teeth across her wrist. the memory of her frost in his veins and her fingers around his throat - deadly and cloying. he may let go of her, physically, but their connection is a slow, waking thing. ]

( You haven't forgotten how I feel, have you? You're so unsure. )

[ a hiss, the memory of high peaks, fresh blood, darkness that curls in shadows ]

[inflori]

( Yeah? ) [ Though the tone, this time, isn't acidic. A little bit of hesitation, a little bit of how that will carry over, should people here suddenly turn to him and question how much he thinks he knows.

Then again. Who the hell would ask Petre for advice. ] ( I mean, not like we were savages or anything, but we had to cross one. )

[ Not offensive at all. ]

( What's wrong with you? )

[ Is she drunk? Is she even capable of being drunk? Tell your mind to stop it, Lexa. ]