[memshare week is hell. harrow is trying to avoid being caught up in it however she can, which means that when she spots rynlan, she'll turn and walk away. but she isn't fast enough.
[god, that's a fucking lot to take in, but-- the end, especially, that one is. it's rough to watch. his ears pin back, at it, hair tentacles writhing, though he doesn't go so far as to look ill. he's seen a lot. that doesn't make it any less unpleasant, though, witnessing that sort of death.]
-fuck. [is what he manages to say at first, with a little shake of his head. the tentacles don't really calm themselves.] Sorry. Seems like the place is set on this kind of thing, this week.
[feels a little fucked up to just-- ask about someone dying right off the bat.]
Suppose that would explain someone's vested interest in making sure you didn't nearly become gods.
[the screen is still lurking here though, ominously, and he's not safe from his turn with memoryshare. it starts back up again, and he swears under his breath, ears pinned back.
the first scene is something of a blur, but this version of him is different. no blue skin, no glowing tentacle hair; he's pale and blond, eyes a bright, glowing green, no longer behind glasses. those are lying on the ice a foot or so away, broken, and beyond it are scattered corpses, though many of them were clearly undead to begin with. one or two are more humanoid; there are scorches roughly the size of bodies elsewhere, ash carried from them on the cold wind, and ahead a figure consumed in blinding, golden fire collapses to its knees, then falls, as a hoarse scream tears free from rynlan's throat.
all the while, he can feel them tear at him. claws and teeth sinking in where they can reach; he's curled up on his side, curled in on himself in a desperate bid for protection, but everyone else is gone now and they're going to kill him nevertheless. they pull at his flesh and he feels plague take hold, feels too hot and too cold and too weak to move a muscle, then too stiff, and all he can think is let me die, just let me die, make it stop i want to die i'd rather be dead--
but he can't bring himself to move, to fight the instinct to protect himself. can't manage to lift a hand to snap the vial of golden liquid around his own neck. when his vision goes dark-- it's a relief.
when he opens his eyes again, blinded by light overhead, he just feels-- nothing. his body hurts, every single muscle and nerve somewhere between achy and agonizing. there's no energy left in him for anything. he can't open his mouth to speak, to protest the healing warmth he can feel, the familiar spellwork, to tell them to just leave him be. he's only half-hearing anything anyone says, but he catches '--lucky to be alive,' murmured above him, and he wants, so badly, to scream.
...it's been two weeks, they inform him, the next time he regains consciousness. he didn't see it, but the captain of their unit survived as well. two of them out of twelve. someone helps him sit up, fetches a mirror and lets him survey the damage after he insists on it, i'm a healer, too, what do you think you're going to be able to break to me gently? it gets them to relent.
he almost doesn't recognize himself. thinner, tired, almost sickly-looking, with stark reddish-pink scars covering his body. a battered golden ring hangs from a chain around his neck, handed to him at some point after waking. primarily trauma to the left side, he silently observes. it has to be clinical. it keeps a tiny bit of distance from acknowledging it all. missing flesh accompanying some of the scarring; likely impossible to regrow due to necrotic damage. he takes in a deep breath, exhales slowly, struggles with it. lingering lack of strength, exacerbated by two weeks of immobility. lingering effects of purged plague noted in respiratory difficulty. pain should overall have ceased with healing, but... persists in areas of heavy physical trauma.
ryn winces as he shifts, the attendant hurrying to help him remain stable. he doesn't dare to actually look at his left leg; he can evaluate it just from how it feels. heavy necrotic damage, deep in the tissue. i would assume-- 15% odds of regaining mobility.
'...you can remove the mirror,' he mutters, caught off-guard at how hoarse his voice is. 'from the room entirely. please.'
he doesn't want to see any more of it, of himself. he wants to sleep. maybe for another two weeks, if he's lucky.]
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week 3; monday
they drop into the theater. have an memory.
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-fuck. [is what he manages to say at first, with a little shake of his head. the tentacles don't really calm themselves.] Sorry. Seems like the place is set on this kind of thing, this week.
[feels a little fucked up to just-- ask about someone dying right off the bat.]
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It's alright. It doesn't matter.
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[not even having it shown, but being confronted with it at all.]
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[there's enough in there that would have been pretty damned distracting.]
That sort of capability is-- I don't know that it even exists, where I'm from.
[not in their idea of necromancy.]
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[even if the reasons are off.
after a moment-]
What were the right reasons?
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no in this memory she has good reasons she's just a huge pill after this.]
She wasn't who she said she was. She wasn't the true Lady Septimus. She had come here to ensure none of us succeeded at what we meant to do.
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...and took drastic measures to do it. Wouldn't be surprised if the true one was already dead, then.
[his brows furrow, one ear twitching. it seemed to sort of be mentioned, but also, he has no idea what this lyctor stuff they mentioned was.]
What- were you meant to do?
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[she chews her lip.]
To unlock the secrets of lyctoral power so that we may assist God in his wars to defend the Nine Houses.
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[the singular 'god' part is the weirdest bit here, honestly.]
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[the screen is still lurking here though, ominously, and he's not safe from his turn with memoryshare. it starts back up again, and he swears under his breath, ears pinned back.
the first scene is something of a blur, but this version of him is different. no blue skin, no glowing tentacle hair; he's pale and blond, eyes a bright, glowing green, no longer behind glasses. those are lying on the ice a foot or so away, broken, and beyond it are scattered corpses, though many of them were clearly undead to begin with. one or two are more humanoid; there are scorches roughly the size of bodies elsewhere, ash carried from them on the cold wind, and ahead a figure consumed in blinding, golden fire collapses to its knees, then falls, as a hoarse scream tears free from rynlan's throat.
all the while, he can feel them tear at him. claws and teeth sinking in where they can reach; he's curled up on his side, curled in on himself in a desperate bid for protection, but everyone else is gone now and they're going to kill him nevertheless. they pull at his flesh and he feels plague take hold, feels too hot and too cold and too weak to move a muscle, then too stiff, and all he can think is let me die, just let me die, make it stop i want to die i'd rather be dead--
but he can't bring himself to move, to fight the instinct to protect himself. can't manage to lift a hand to snap the vial of golden liquid around his own neck. when his vision goes dark-- it's a relief.
when he opens his eyes again, blinded by light overhead, he just feels-- nothing. his body hurts, every single muscle and nerve somewhere between achy and agonizing. there's no energy left in him for anything. he can't open his mouth to speak, to protest the healing warmth he can feel, the familiar spellwork, to tell them to just leave him be. he's only half-hearing anything anyone says, but he catches '--lucky to be alive,' murmured above him, and he wants, so badly, to scream.
...it's been two weeks, they inform him, the next time he regains consciousness. he didn't see it, but the captain of their unit survived as well. two of them out of twelve. someone helps him sit up, fetches a mirror and lets him survey the damage after he insists on it, i'm a healer, too, what do you think you're going to be able to break to me gently? it gets them to relent.
he almost doesn't recognize himself. thinner, tired, almost sickly-looking, with stark reddish-pink scars covering his body. a battered golden ring hangs from a chain around his neck, handed to him at some point after waking. primarily trauma to the left side, he silently observes. it has to be clinical. it keeps a tiny bit of distance from acknowledging it all. missing flesh accompanying some of the scarring; likely impossible to regrow due to necrotic damage. he takes in a deep breath, exhales slowly, struggles with it. lingering lack of strength, exacerbated by two weeks of immobility. lingering effects of purged plague noted in respiratory difficulty. pain should overall have ceased with healing, but... persists in areas of heavy physical trauma.
ryn winces as he shifts, the attendant hurrying to help him remain stable. he doesn't dare to actually look at his left leg; he can evaluate it just from how it feels. heavy necrotic damage, deep in the tissue. i would assume-- 15% odds of regaining mobility.
'...you can remove the mirror,' he mutters, caught off-guard at how hoarse his voice is. 'from the room entirely. please.'
he doesn't want to see any more of it, of himself. he wants to sleep. maybe for another two weeks, if he's lucky.]
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...I see. That is why you resist, during the checks.
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...yes. Well- that, and I don't exactly care to get murdered if someone decides it makes me an easier target.
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[she frowns.]
They have yet to make me. You ought to be more stubborn and difficult about it.
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[faint amusement, there, but he shakes his head.]
With matching up to things, though-- easier to just have someone do it who already knew. I wasn't interested in dealing with suspicion, either.
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[harrow gets away with it because she will definitely yell at you and if you fight her gideon will beat you up.]
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A little, but I can understand it when it's relevant.