[mission: hyrypia] and when our bottles and all we are fill’d with immortality

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: The Barithian Hunters (and anyone sneaking along)
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Finger Maze
WHEN: DAY :018
SUMMARY: The barithian hunt leads into the depths of the Finger Maze.
WARNINGS: Violence. Animal slaughter. Character death. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

THE FINGER MAZE
DAY :018
IN MORNING'S PRE-DAWN GRAY the camp is far more subdued than on preceding days. There's no music, breakfast is a quiet and simple affair, and the servants are hushed as they go about their duties. Before the sun has even fully risen, the members of the Envoys participating in the hunt make their way to their mounts. When they arrive they are given a speech that seems practiced - likely only a slight modification of something that the Elinmaster has said many times before. The group - just under forty hunters kitted out with all of the weapons and traps they have had time to learn in their days on the graze - is brought to the fenceline running parallel to the technomagical barrier which guards the mouth of the Finger Maze proper. In the fence is a plain gate. Once the hunting party is gathered there, it opens. A slash in the technomagical barrier disintegrates before them and the smell of ozone evaporates or is carried into the twisting depths of the Maze by the wind howling mournfully inward from off the Graze. The Elinmaster leads the hunting party through the gap.

Once on the other side, the party draws pauses until the technomagical barrier rises once more behind them. No crowds today. No onlookers (unless they're being especially industrious). Then the Elinmaster brings a familiar sounding horn to their lips. It's long, low wailing note echoes down into the maze and splinters down the endless twisting pathways. With that, the hunt begins.

INTO THE LABYRINTH
I. THE STAGING GROUND
HERE IS HOW YOU HUNT A BARITHIAN, explains the Elinmaster. First, a field of battle needs to be chosen - and it's always better to know the ground you're fighting on than to be caught unawares in unfamiliar territory. The hunting party will need to establish a fall back position inside the canyon that's advantageous to them, at which point it will be lain with all manner of traps. Memorize it. You'll want to know every nook and cranny when you return here under duress.

Plan your routes and lay your traps. You do remember how to set them, don't you?


II. BY THE TAIL
WITH THE STAGE SET, only the star is lacking - or the villain is. But the Finger Maze is a vast labyrinthine space that stretches on for miles. Finding the Barithian, even as large as it is, presents a challenge - perhaps the second greatest challenge of the hunt. It is time for the hunters to separate. Some go off alone, some travel in small groups. Each is equipped with a small version of the horn that had summoned them to this work in the first place. Their task is simple and herculean: to search the maze for signs of the beast and locate it, then to draw its attention and lure it back into the staging ground. Lastly, they must send out the call to summon the rest of the party to rendezvous meet them where the chase will end. However, only one route leads to the barithian. Perhaps--

a) There were signs - a bone, a tell-tale scrape on the canyon walls, a corridor of felled coral. It was difficult to tell from the back of the Elin, so it made sense in the moment to dismount and check more closely. --At least, it made sense right up until now when you suddenly hear something. Something-- big. Its footfalls shake the floor under your feet; its heavy breath snorts out of its multiple sets of nostrils with a wet visceral sound. You can’t go back the way you came - the trembling footfalls seem to come from that direction. Luckily, there's a narrow cave opening in the canyon wall right there.

Inside is dark. The cave goes very deep indeed - so deep that after a time you can smell the promise of fresh air again. Maybe there's another exit? Which is good, since the way you entered is no longer an option: the beast is there, it's massive forepaws clawing into the stone on either side of the cave entrance and its huge mutli-nostriled nose sucking in big, gulping breaths.

b) ((OOC NOTE: first come first serve)) You find the Barithian. Even with its great hulking back turned to you, it's awe-inspiring. Terrifying. The Elinmaster's assistants had described it on the way in, but their words failed to convey the details. It's disturbingly massive - mammothian, even -, its six legs coiled tight with muscle, and strong, sharp claws on each of the massive paws. You have to get it’s attention. How you do it is up to you, but you know that the moment it turns its massive head toward you with its beady eyes hidden behind a broad, triangular face plate and its multinostrils flaring with a horrible groaning noise that it's time to get a move on.

c) Your search has turned up nothing - but that's not surprising is it? The maze is huge. Not everyone could strike gold. Hell, not everyone would even want to. It’s almost a relief until you hear it: the low, moan of the signal horn echoing through the maze-like canyon. You need to get back to the staging ground and you need to go fast - or risk leaving the other hosts to face the beast alone.

III. THE BATTLE
THE HORN DOES ITS JOB. By the time the hosts unlucky enough to have the tiger by its tail come riding back into the staging ground, many members of the hunting party have already returned and are armed, if not ready, for when the creature comes barreling in behind them. It shakes the brittle bone coral with the weight of its galloping footfalls and makes a deep, low sonorous noises that echoes down the stone walls. With its ire raised, the barithian is even more fearsome than it had seemed from a distance. It’s size and strength are undeniable up close. The creature tears great mounds of earth up under its clawed feet and there's a mesmerizing, horrific quality to the flash of filtered canyon light off its sharp teeth.

The riders are now tasked with the last phase of the challenge - kill or be killed, using the weapons and techniques they have learned in their time here. And hey, maybe you have a few non-Hyrypian tricks up your sleeves you can play with some subtlety. Fighting fair seems less than ideal when one of those huge paws comes swiping right at you.


IV. THE FRUIT OF DIPLOMACY
'DON'T GET CLOSE TO THE HEAD,' had seemed like an easy to follow rule back on the Graze, but the reality of facing down with the barithian is far more complicated. And despite being slowed by the environment, the traps laid for it, countless spears jutting from its dense marbled hide, here in its last moments the great beast is at its most dangerous. Maybe someone gets over confidant. Maybe it's just general exhaustion. Maybe it seems like the barithian is staggering when really it's turning for one final, deadly snap of its ferocious jaws.

It bowls three riders from their Elin with one swipe from its massive paw - mechanics twisting and bursting with brilliant flares of released technomagical energy - then lunges for the felled hunters left in the wake of their ruined mounts. A Descendant throws up both arms in some lunatic, useless defense mechanism. Beside her, Lavellan drives the blunt end of his spear into the ground and braces the shaft across his knee. The Barithian drives itself down on the point of the spear, snaps down on his arm by reflex and then recoils - tossing him clear like a horrifying rag doll as the great animal thrashes.

There's an immediate, palpable, indescribable POP! A ship being hulled and all the air sucked out of into into the vacuum of space. A glass bauble splitting into a hundred thousand pieces on some distant stone floor. A seam splitting. A branch snapped across the knee. And then there's nothing left at all except the frothing barithian snapping out those nearest i to it.


V. THE RETURN
THE RIDE BACK TO THE CAMP seems to take twice as long as the one they took to the Finger Maze - though it hardly seems long enough, knowing what lies at the end. Certainly the other Hosts will have felt Lavellan's death, but you know what they say. Seeing is believing.

It doesn’t matter. The camp awaits their return regardless. As they ride through the gate again one of the massive technomagically driven wagons passes them, headed into the maze to retrieve their kill. Once they reach the edges of the encampment, the atmosphere there remains subdied. While the other Envoys and Hyrypian hosts might not know the nitty gritty details, the certainly seem to have considered the possibility of things going badly. There is food, drink, and eventually even some gentle, sober music, however the evening is quiet and many of the envoys retreat to their own tents rather than remain in the public spaces.

Some victories are not celebrated.

---

((OOC Notes: This log covers the barithian hunt and any relating events that take place on DAY :018. You can find information about the hunt and ask event specific questions HERE.

Have more generalized questions? Drop them on the MISSION: HYRYPIA OOC POST or get in touch with us on the Mod Contact page.))

NAVIGATION • GAME CALENDAR • MISSION: HYRYPIA • FAQ
• MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[calhar]

[ Mat's spent the better part of the past few months avoiding the threads of fate — avoiding the tethers of the symbiote and of his brood exercises different muscles, but the stubborn sentiment remains the same. He isn't looking for them.

Or, more accurately: he isn't looking for Rust or Kaji. Clarke's slightly different. Part of it might even be natural concern, free of any outside meddling. But thinking of her at all means he feels the gut-punch delivered by Rust, and that's enough to get him on his feet and abandoning his own attempt at coping, shockingly free of booze and mostly bent on isolation. He's lost men, lost friends; this is different, visceral in a way it doesn't have any right to be. It feels more like losing that bloody dagger, being sheered from self and control while the dust settles.

His grief is flat, confused, oddly muted. It turns over for grim resignation when he finds the three of them together. Mat nearly walks into Rust as the other tries for an unsteady exit, tries to catch him by the arms to keep them both on their feet. ]

Whoa— [ Like he's settling a horse. He's had a thousand lectures about laying low. Mat sifts through them now, feeling oddly satisfied by the flipped roles. ] If I think you're lacking in subtlety, then you're doing a bloody awful job of it.

[skaikru]

( another quick slap in the face. this one leaves a burning sensation in her cheeks, hot and angry and scrambling for some sort of justification as to why rust and kaji had been lumped in with the people she cared about; how they'd earned slots on her mental checklist of people she felt the need to make sure were okay after the events of today. a new explanation, beyond the symbiote tugging on heartstrings. you're my people, even if i don't like you right now — but there's no chance to hurl that back at him aloud, not before rust is standing. )

Wait —

( mat has, decidedly, the best timing in the world. he pops up right as she's waffling, trying to decide if it was worse to leave rust or kaji to their own self-destructive devices. there's a flicker of appreciation, maybe something like relief. would the two of them take any more kindly to someone else telling them to knock it off, that they can't afford to grieve like this? let's find out. )

[ryohji]

[ coincidence has a funny way of imposing itself. kaji weathers rust's ire like a old willow, and watches him go with the elegance of a blind man made to walk on stilts. man reduced to the worldliness of a toddling duckling needing redirection from its mother, pesky young upstarts trying their hands at mediation. with the flip of an internal switch, his caprice is gone, having been replaced by cool utility. rust seems deserving of clarke's revulsion in this moment, but not for the reasons she submits to the bench.

kaji turns sidelong to watch the play by play from the safety of his seat. an old and comforting habit sees kaji's fingers slide his robes into his pockets. they drum out their anticipation and return to his sides. it almost looks like there was an itch that disappeared right as he went to scratch. ]

Regret going yet? [ it's clear as mud. clear as the dried blood on rust's clothes, which kaji regards with a passing study. ] Rust.

[aluminumandash]

[ He goes slack, shoulders sinking beneath his garb. Downcast eyes discernible only by the angle of his head.

Subtlety. Clarke. Whoever this is, his sliver of satisfaction embedded in Rust's mind. None of it connects. ] Don't touch me. [ Listless. ]

( No. ) [ He tells Kaji. The word pearls like a drop of blood; stains him through with guilt. Asuka's small form astride an Elin, a speck even before she rides off. Tying a knot, the certainty of his hands. The broad sky, the barrier shimmering back in place.

He doesn't look at any of them. His body too heavy for that. ] No. I had to go.

[calhar]

[ Kaji's mind isn't exactly pleasant, but at least it's vaguely familiar. This one's only familiar in the sense that it's something he's been fine avoiding, casually stepping back every time it skirts too close.

Not an option, now. The buzz of intoxication feels like smoke, secondhand. Mat lifts his hands away without argument. He doesn't move otherwise, casually blocking an easy exit while Kaji's question sinks in, weighing down the anchor of guilt and grief that's spreading across the link. Instinct has him pulling back from it, a sharp and messy attempt at throwing up walls that's so selfish it nearly passes for spiteful. ]

And now you need to sit down. [ It's more dismissive than coddling, and he's giving Kaji an unimpressed look a beat later — and Clarke, when he realizes she's sitting down with her own drink. ] Really? One bad turn of luck and we're ready to throw the whole bloody game?

[skaikru]

( there's a snap of disagreement directed at mat; a quick turn of her head and covered eyes that glare all the same. ) Someone died today ( — sharp and pointed, like they need reminding. someone, a man, he'd had a name; they'd never met him, but he'd mattered.

and that's a perfect transition to redirect hissed insistence at rust, teeth tightly locked. )

It could have been you. And if you're stupid enough to go stumbling around out there now, it could still be you.

( is she imagining some horrible scenario where rust wanders off to die, like an old wounded animal seeking safety in solace and suffering? or worse, blatantly into the hands of that ominous, unidentified enemy presence? does the thought of feeling that gutted sensation again, tenfold and made all the worse because she knows him before his passing, scare her heart into her throat?

yes.

are those thoughts just barely slipping through a tight net of self-restraint, folding in on themselves and presenting more forwardly as wavering anger, a scrabbling need to keep all three men where she could see them? (one hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and four)

also yes. )

[ryohji]

[ rust's not even an easy or just target to aim the rage at. the shame of being seen like this would kill him faster than any monsters would.

it's her version of mourning, somewhere deep down kaji knows this, and the knowledge curbs his tongue when he's in the mind to tell her how much she misinterprets. and what use, when he's right, the symbiote has already twisted them insensate. they don't know what they're doing or what the point of this is or why they keep going and going and going.

the back of rust's disguise is fascinating and beautiful. let's stare at it dully. ]

Give him a little credit. He isn't that stupid. [ ( He isn't that smart, ) kaji sends off to rust. ] None of us are. [ ( That smart, that is. ) ]

cw: suicide juuuuuust to be safe

[aluminumandash]

[ It could still be you. What's she think he's drunk on, sickly sweet alien wine. The fucking night air. It's that thought—a thumb run along the edge of a knife—that intoxicates. Every drunk tells himself this bottle will be his last.

In Alaska, death was as simple as wearing the wrong boots. Or a walk out on the ice, invisible fractures radiating from every step until, with a crack, something gives.

He never managed.

Rust lists toward the empty seat, rests a hand on it. As though patting a dog. Sets the bottle down. ] ( I don't want her here for this. ) [ He aims the thought at Kaji and lets it fly, heedless of the force behind it. Puts up a meager wall—like an arm thrust in front of the eyes to ward off the sun.

He stumbles off again, as suggested. Hands tugging urgently at his scarves, the strings keeping his hood in place. ]

[calhar]

[ Clarke's frustration doesn't make him flinch. It does crack his efforts at staying guarded, if only by a small sliver; grief slips through the wall of indifference, a sympathetic echo of the upset she's got packed away beneath her anger.

Speaking of anger, it's difficult to tell whether the kindling of irritation at Kaji and Rust's responses is entirely his own. Maybe he can blame Clarke for some of it. Either way, his previous respect for Rust's request for space is thrown cleanly out the window. Mat unceremoniously takes hold of one of his sleeves as he stumbles past, intent on using it like a leash to stop him up short. ]

Well grief makes fools of us all, and he looks like a flaming bull-goose idiot from where I'm standing. If you're not going to help then you can keep your bloody thoughts to yourself.

[ He means what Kaji's saying out loud, though if everyone could get their sloppy thoughts in order that'd also be great. Mat can't parse the specifics, but he's close enough to know that whatever's between Kaji and Rust is more sour than simple shared grief. ]