TDM #1

[aionmods]

TDM #1

DREAMING

At first, there is nothing. You are nothing. Whatever existed before ceases to be if for a moment. Then, bit by bit, you start to become aware. Where there was not even darkness now is a dim haze, gentle and almost mist-like. You have limbs again and beneath your feet lays a path of light reaching out like limbs of a great tree beneath you, twisting and climbing out into the horizon.

You take a step forward for what else is there to do? As you walk you begin to remember what it was you were doing before the nothingness; maybe something as simple as chatting with a loved one or close friend. Maybe you were just beginning a great journey or facing off against an old foe. Whatever it was, you get the distinct feeling that wherever and whenever that was, it is not here. Not now.

The path of light twists off into different directions. When you look up you can see that it is not a sky above you but the sky of everything, a grand cosmic tapestry littered with not mere stars but galaxies and clusters of galaxies that gleam like crystals against the velvety backdrop of space. Admire it for a moment, if you will. You don't know how long you will drift here, but you are not alone. Other wanderers will come and go as you bask together in the vastness of creation.

It seems to you that there are two paths to walk in this place, the light and dark beckoning in turn.

❖ THE LIGHT AT THE CENTER
One leads you to the center, splintered fragments folding together and colliding until only one thing remains: a light that speaks to you with the voice of all there is and has ever been. It greets you simultaneously as an old friend and as a lost child, both rejoicing in and mourning your arrival. You remember it too, somehow, with a feeling of complex nostalgia, as if returning to a place recalled from your distant childhood.

You’ll feel the same of the other wanderers that join you in the light; you know their faces, their voices, and as you reflect upon the world of your birth, you may witness fragments of theirs as well. You feel a comradery, then, a synchronicity of thought and emotion. Are the lives of others truly so different from your own? Or are you simply two hands of the same, greater being? Though some individualistic part of you may resist, the longer you spend in the light, the more you will find yourself becoming one with it.

Despite this welcoming call, no matter how eagerly your pursue its embrace, before you can fully submerge yourself in this oneness you will find yourself being torn away. As if seized by the impossibly long, cold arm of a creature unseen, you are plucked from the edge of fulfillment. The last thing you will remember is the sensation of your world, and all the others your experienced here, collapsing into nothingness.

❖ THE DARK OUTSIDE (CW: deep despair, ego death)
The other leads towards the outside, where the splintering becomes so great that the vestiges of reality can do nothing but collapse back into the abyss at the end of everything. As you wander to these barren outskirts, your thoughts will not be drawn to familiarity and oneness, but instead to memories of discontent and waste. The darker the path becomes, the more you find yourself dwelling on life’s disappointments and injustices, of the things about yourself and your world you find wanting.

If you see others here, at first they will feel frightening or contemptible, as if representing to you the worst experiences in your life. Even if they are someone you’re certain you know, that familiarity and affection will be stripped away in the face of the great emptiness before you. In the end, you were all the same. In the end, none of this was worth it. If you approach the end together, you may even form a kind of kinship around this acknowledgment, as the need for paranoia and hatred fades.

Slowly, the darkness encroaches, and you can see it devouring all the things you once knew. Memories of your home, of those you loved, dissolve into nothing, and you can only reflect on the barren emptiness in your heart as you see it happen. In your final moments, though, you feel peace with it all, knowing that there was no other way. You step from the edge of the last dwindling fragment of being and are greeted by silence.

❖ THE END
No matter which way you go, you are left with a single impression: you feel the world you came from die. It's a realization that transcends logic or sense; it weighs on your heart and leaves the vestiges of dark memories dancing in your thoughts like motes of ash. It's a memory of your home crumbling away into nothing as if consumed from within by rot. Returned to the void, all that's left to you is to be reborn.

REBIRTH

In a new time and place, you awaken. Stirring within a capsule of warmth and isolation your senses will slowly return, only to observe that you are trapped. Your body, as it wakes, is tangled in close, yours eyes unable to open, as if still within the womb. You are held tight in the embrace of something unyielding, so smothering that at first you only have the strength to struggle for moments at a time. Yet, as you persist, the pressure begins to relent in turn; it may take hours, but eventually you will find the purchase to push, to claw, to fight, and it will all give way.

The chrysalis surrounding you bends like flesh and cracks like glass. It tears as you force your fingers through, finding liberation one inch at a time, until finally you have emerged. As if having undergone metamorphosis, you feel old and new all at once. You are weak, piteously so, but the markings and scars of your previous life remain. As you slump down upon the smooth cavern stone, you realize that you've just wrenched yourself free of gigantic crystal, though its hollow, shimmering form is now in pieces on account of your passing. Somewhere on your body, a shard of similar material remains embedded.

The cave itself looks almost like the inside of a geode, the walls and ceiling bedazzled with greyish crystal that shines with all the colors of the rainbow. While they vary wildly in size and shape, only a few have grown large enough to hold a form like yours, and you can see the one you just escaped isn't the only one bearing a passenger within. They may have already hatched, or they may still be lingering in stasis. Either way, there's enough time that you may have a chance to speak to yours unexpected peers, or to perhaps to struggle to find something to cover your naked body with. You feel the chill of the open air against your moisture laden skin, a distant light trickling in through the cavern's opening.

Make the most of this time. It won't be long before you're interrupted.

[Mod Note: If you don't want to deal with your character being naked in front of the others at that location, feel free to assume they emerge at a different time than the others of their legacy. Characters will be 'hatching' over a period of several hours.]

CAPTIVITY

It seems that someone was waiting for you to arrive, and not in the most friendly of ways. Though the specifics of who comes to get you will vary according to which legacy shrine your character awakens at, there are certain commonalities: most notably, how they are ostensibly here to capture and imprison you. It's easy for them, all considered. You can barely stand, so fresh out of your chrysalis, and whatever powers or special abilities you may have had will not answer your call. Even worse, your would be captors are well equipped for the job.

Each group arrives with several 'whips' made of unknown materials. What makes them so special only become obvious when one of them inevitable snakes its way around your body. Whether it be your ankle or your neck, being bound by these cords puts you under the influence of whoever is holding the other end of your leash. Your mind remains untouched, but you will find yourself physically incapable of performing physical actions that go against their will. While the possibilities are frightening, thankfully they all just seem to want one thing: for you to come along as a good little prisoner and to not cause any of them too much trouble.

The rest depends on your character's legacy:

❖ THE LOVER
The small island the shrine is built upon is approached by several modest boats with colorful sails. They carry what appears to be a collection of fearful fisherfolk and town guards. They are reluctant to speak with those being pulled out of the shrine or even look them in the eye. If they have their choice, the entire process will be done in silence. If you try too hard to upset them, the guards will sternly bring you to heel.

❖ THE CELEBRANT
The infrastructure of an entire festival ground seems to be built around this shrine, and as a result, there are an usual amount of people present. While most keep their distance, a few will engage with the local guards that arrive to capture the Aions, complaining that this is going to interfere with their preparations for the upcoming Lover’s Festival. They are pushed aside in short order, and the rest of the retrieval will be done in a stern but business-like manner.

❖ THE MARTYR
At first, those arriving to capture the Aions will be hesitant to even enter the barren crater this shrine is held within. Once the presence of the new arrivals becomes clear, however, they will run in as if crossing the no man’s land of a battlefield and complete their work with gusto. It appears to be mostly military folk and they seem to lack any patience or sympathy for those they capture.

❖ THE SOVEREIGN
The captors here seem to be a mixed bag, almost as if two separate squadrons have arrived at the same time. One is a gathering of people who give off the impression of mountain folk, while the others are well armored soldiers. Though it will be hard to make out the specifics, there seems to be some manner of disagreement between these two parties over what should be done, but the ones kitted out in full military attire win out in the end. By then, they are completely out of patience for further resistance.

❖ THE ARTISAN
The people here seem to have mixed feelings about your arrival. On one hand, it seems to be a moment of considerable trepidation, on the other, they seem unbearably curious about your nature. They will ask questions about any unusual features you have, or what your skills are, while others from the group try just as hard to shush them. Ultimately, they don’t seem that enthusiastic about having to capture you, but they also don’t seem to think they have much choice.

❖ THE INNOCENT
Among rolling hills of flowers, at first it seems as if this shrine may not be visited at all. Before the arriving Aions can escape it, though - naked and weakened as they are - a group of fairly normal looking townsfolk will arrive. They pause as they spot you near the shrine, almost like they are hesitating about coming at all. In the end, they will converge upon you and ask for you to please cooperate. They won’t hurt you, as long as you come with them.

❖ THE SEEKER
Armored soldiers are the ones to first pull you from the shrine, but as you arrive outside of it you'll see that it is situated at the edge of a great forest. An ancient observatory is build into the cliff face behind the shrine, and your captors are apparently in the process of negotiating with a series of robed individuals that have emerged from it. According to them, the soldiers kidnapping you are trespassing. Unfortunately, they are not the ones with weapons.

❖ THE WANDERER
When you first emerge from the shrine, it will appear as if you have just missed a skirmish. There are a few bodies scattered about, all wearing woodland armor made of leather and fur. The victors, it seems, come in the form of fully armored soldiers. Thoroughly irritated by the fight that just happened, they will not waste time on niceties. If you try to ask them what just happened, the best you may get is a sneer about ‘those damn forest people.’ You may spot a couple more bodies on the trail leading out of the forest as well.

❖ THE FIREBRAND
The first thing to be seen beyond the cavern entrance is a sheer drop into a raging canyon river far below you, with only a narrow path leading up the steep cliff face. It would be a difficult situation, even without black-cloaked warriors making their way down it to collect you. Struggle too much and you'll be at risk of being thrown into the chasm. These masked assailants are largely unmoved by your protests and will drag you the entire way up the cliff if you force them to. "Your soul will be claimed," they say.

❖ THE VISIONARY
The view from the mouth of the cavern is awe inspiring, revealing the foreign shapes of a world you've never seen before. Unfortunately, the altitude of this shrine means you will also be greeted with sharp wind and biting cold. Fortunately, or not, a party of mountaineers and three black-cloaked warriors will arrive to collect you. Despite their seeming inability to defy the orders of the warriors, the mountaineers will toss you some shoes and blankets for the trek down, even if they are taken away from you later. If the warriors speak at all, it's mostly in the form of ominous utterances.

❖ THE CHAMPION
Even if one were to stagger out of the shrine's cavern before being approached, the Aions arriving here will swiftly find themselves in a hopeless situation. Not only are there soldiers here to collect there is a moderately sized military barracks built around the shrine itself, and this particular squadron is not on your side. You will be swarmed before you can get far at all. There seems to be a mix of two squadrons here, some wearing heavy armor and red accents, while the others wear full face masks and dark cloaks.

Once you've been captured and pulled from the shrine, you will given a formless white gown made of moderately comfortable fabric, with sleeves reaching your elbows and its bottom reaching down past your knees. You will not be given pants or shoes. You're in for a journey, apparently - no matter who plucked you from the cave, most of the heavily armored soldiers in the prompts above will turn out to be 'Hylician soldiers', while the smaller number of black-robed warriors are referred to 'Achamites'. After the initial dealings with the shrines, all prisoners will be passed off to a squadron of Hylicians, though a few Achamites may follow along depending on the location.

Where are you all going? Back to Hylici, apparently.

WAITING

After you've been handed off to the the Hylician military, you have a long road ahead of you. Loaded up onto carts, and then eventually onto river borne boats, the people collected at the shrines will all be brought to a forest in the center of Horos. Along the way, the squadron ferrying you will combine with others from neighboring shrines, more and more captives arriving in your group the closer to your destination you get.

Along the way you will be fed and watered well enough (though only with military rations), and at night you will be given flimsy bedrolls to sleep around the fire with. Captives will be under constant watch by the Hylician guard, and anyone who shows any signs of resistance will be required to be bound by one of those magic whips, usually around the ankle or wrist. The rest of the trip is spent being pulled along in carts or the storage bays of boats. After the groups start converging, captives of the same legacy will not necessarily be kept together.

The final muster point of the Hylicians and their captives will be among forest ruins. For what purpose you have arrived they will not say, but the entire group will be camping there until preparations are complete. Sadly, you won't be allowed much space to explore - not without being bound and under watch. If you've behaved yourself it's possible to move about the central ruins, but only if the guards are confident they'll be able to wrangle you when necessary. It does allow for moderately private conversations along the pillars and walls of the ruins, but venturing out into the forest itself is definitely out of the question.

From beginning to end, characters will spent about two weeks in transit and waiting in the ruins. To what end is yet to be seen, but if you listen closely, you may hear whispers of a 'ritual space' being prepared.

QUESTIONS

Are everyone's homeworlds really gone?
That's a complicated issue, and while the fate of their world is not without hope, they may certainly get the impression its been destroyed from the dream they had. Alternatively, they may refuse to believe what they felt and attempt to dismiss it as only a vision. More about this situation will be revealed as the game goes on.

Can I only experience one end of the dream sequence prompt?
Characters may experience one ending, both endings, or neither. If they experience both they will struggle to recall which came first or which feels the most 'true' to them, as both will simultaneously be the thought they are reborn with. If your character refuses to pursue either path they can simply linger in the middle until the infinite worlds above them start being extinguished one by one, eventually expelling them into darkness in a similar style to the light prompt. Which dreams they experience will not dictate their intial sect affiliation.

Is it possible to pull another character back from the end of the light or darkness dreams?
Yes! If your character is able to resist the pull of either end, they will have the chance to try to pull another character back from the edge of the abyss or the edge of oneness. Whether or not they succeed is entirely up to the other character, though.

Do you come out of the chrysalis wet?
For most intents and purposes it's the same experience as hatching out of a real butterfly chrysalis, so yes, a bit.

Can my character resist the influence of the whips?
Those possessed of particularly strong wills may be able to struggle with the whip's control in brief spurts, but not long enough to make a full escape attempt. They may be able to take an impotent swing at one of the guards or fight against being pulled along, though. Naturally, doing this will indicate to the Hylicians that you are a problem, and their handling of you will become harsher the more it occurs.

How cruel will the Hylicians be to the player characters?
The Hylician military are not friendly people and come across as being a bit callous even at the best of times. However, unless you provoke them, they will be primarily focused on just getting the job done with as few interruption as possible. If your character makes a habit of pissing them off, either by constantly fighting back or just by being persistently obnoxious, their treatment will get worse. If driven to it, they may take the opportunity to take out their frustrations on particularly troublesome prisoners, via physical punishment, humiliation, or deprivation.

Comments

cersei lannister | a song of ice and fire | the sovereign

[skirka]

—rebirth

[ There is a scream in her throat - there has been, ever since she'd watched that black-velvet sky crumple and crush its diamonds to dust, collapsing on top of her. Or did it collapse around her, like water, leaving her standing? She isn't dead, she discovers, with a distinct lack of appreciation: if she were dead, she would be returned at this moment to her children, for they are dead, too. She'd felt it, hadn't she? When that gulf of darkness had swum up to meet her? Every memory chipped into a piece of flint, and driven into the frightened meat of her heart. She is frightened, for a moment, and only because she does not know by what means her children have been killed. Yet it had always come to this. She has lived no day that it hasn't been her first waking thought. That crone in the woods had told her so, had laid upon her the curse that crowds now into those waking thoughts - every discarding glance she'd received, every scoff, every measuring eye which had decided she would not rule. All of them gone, dead, and if her children must be dead, then there is some last glint of satisfaction in knowing all the world went with them.

That gloating is brief, and swallowed again by sorrow, and sorrow sends her into a fury. But her scream is mute, and she is trapped, drowning, treading a thick and choking sea made of honey. It cannot be a sea, for she is compressed in against herself, and only slowly reaching through that viscous prison. It melts gradually beneath her claws, tears like poor silk, and out she steps, shivering against the uninvited kiss of cool air against her skin.

Naked skin - she does not need to sweep her gaze down to find that she is wearing nothing. Gold hair whisks against the small of her back as she turns her head, at once more concerned with who may or may not be witnessing her this way than how it has come to pass. And there is someone, an unfortunate soul who seems to have stumbled into this cavern just as unwittingly as she has, and it is upon this stranger that she turns her rage, fangs bared, as if this nightmare is her personal domain. ]

What do you think you're doing here?


—in the woods somewhere

[ Two separate groups have arrived, and she recognizes neither one. One contingent seems to her almost Northern - by the rugged look of them, they hail from the mountains, or at least from some far-flung wasteland that she cares nothing for. The other is clearly from a notable city, though which, she cannot say: they are armored and disciplined, but wear no sigil that she knows. The distinction does not trouble her overmuch, because the insult they bring to bear against her is the same - they have come to take her captive. The groomed soldiers are not, then, from the capital; if they were kingsmen, they would not treat her so.

They are, to her mounting annoyance, entirely ignorant of who she is. They handle her as if she were no better than a common criminal, of no mentionable title; she is taken into custody as if she were a peasant. Her protests, she abruptly discovers, are met only with reprimands of waning patience. They don't hear her, they don't care, and she is shuffled along like chattel. Dressed in white, like a lamb for sacrifice, which only kindles resentful memories of earlier days when she was traded from one hand to another like an animal.

And they - for there are others, no matter how insignificant they are to her are present - are made to walk without the benefit of any footwear, though of course she should be carried, whether on a horse on in a wheelhouse. Not one of these fools seems to recognize her. This is the most dreadful realization of all; if there is no one to recognize her, who is there to protect her? Because her initial refusals and defiances were met only with the cruelty of whips, she takes instead to an indignant silence. Whomever they come to - whichever lord's keep - she will seek true justice from then.

The waiting is a marvelously effective torture, more so than any lash of those impudent whips. Her prowling is contained by the guards and the ruins themselves, but she must have something to barter with. If she has on her person no wealth of any mention, then she will trade in words. Secrets and knowledge. A defender with a sword would be better, but this will have to do.

So when she overhears talk of a 'ritual space,' her heart leaps like a startled deer in her chest, just as it did in the witch's woods so long ago. Ritual, prophecy - these are dangerous words. She edges closer, despising her plain white robe, which can hardly be put to her advantage. ]

Do you know what this place this?


—wildcard

[ hit me with anything! pm if you'd rather chat in advance c: ]

[coerthantorment]

[Estinien is a prisoner whom Cersei has probably seen have his face shoved in the dirt at least once since their traveling parties made it to the forest. Their escorts clearly despise him, and the marks of it are left on his face - a blackened eye, a bloodied nose, and his wrists bound in front of him. Though he has the body of a warrior and is loomingly tall, he has clearly seen betters days, as he slumps against a bit of stone ruin.

He casts a darkened eye to her, his voice soft as he responds. There is anger within him, but it is burning low and hot like coals.]

Nay. But talk of rituals surprises me little... the men that first captured me claimed they were there to take our souls.

[He's not sure how literal they were being, but... you know.]

[skirka]

[ This place is not without its warriors, to her relief - they may be trundled here with all the rest, but there are men among them that have clearly swung swords and drawn blood. Her eyes dip to the man propped listlessly against the stone, and she spends but a moment appraising him. Tall, crafted with muscle, and by the way he has been roughly brought to heel by their captors, in possession of a hostile spirit. He will be one to keep her eye on, for what she assumes must be his capable hand and productive aggression.

She must slip nearer to catch his words, low and soft as they are spoken, but his is not the tone of one defeated. It is rather, she thinks, the voice of one who is only simmering. ]

My understanding of religion is that the call for souls usually means the priests simply want to burn troublesome bodies.

[ But is this a mad cult of religious zeal they have fallen into? And what crime could she possibly have committed that they would know anything of? There is no guilt that any of these soldiers could read on her body. Her lips press into a thin line, more protective of her body than her soul, if one or the other stands to be destroyed.

She rests down gently on her knees beside the seated man, glancing at his bound wrists. What damage might he do unbound? Her next question, her most urgent, comes quietly. She is worried less for the soul of anyone corralled into these ruins than she is over who might be pressed into her own service. ]

Who do you fight for?

[coerthantorment]

[That sounds more or less accurate to his sensibilities, too. There's something comforting in a healthy amount of religious skepticism. He exhales a half-formed laugh at her comment, seeming to understand the type of people she's referring to. She'll find no disagreement, there.

That is, exempting the fact that he knows there is value in souls as well. Granted, you really do need both to be of any use.

He levels his gaze at her as she asks for his allegiance, and he's struck again by the fact that it very well may not matter anymore. Can he fight for something that no longer exists? His gut turns, though his expression remains hard.]

Perhaps nothing, now.

[It hurts him more to say that than he'd like to show, so instead he keeps it coiled up inside of himself.]

Did you not share in that vision? The one that saw your world consumed?

[skirka]

[ That he fights for no one now, at this moment, is of no consequence. He has fought before for someone, and she is certain that if he were released from his bonds, he would fight again. What matters is who he fights for, where his loyalties, and thus his sword, will lie. Is he a craven sort of warrior, the one who will bow to his captors and mind courtesy over dignity? Or is he a man who, at the first opportunity, will deliver vengeance where it is owed? The sort of man who will see to safety those he is sworn to protect?

His breath of a laugh betrays no insult at what she has said - he is not an inconveniently pious man, then - and she runs her fingers in thought over the collar of her woefully simple gown. It is no small part of her that wishes for rubies still at her throat.

He fights for someone, he must, but he asks of the vision she most certainly did share in, and there is a wrenching pang in her chest. If what she saw is true, then her children are dead, and she should be, too. Why this detour into a relatively minor offshoot of hell, then? Why not be done with it all? Grief is too dangerous when turned in upon herself, so she shoves the needles of it back, in the form of aggravation now, upon her captive companion. Her eyes turn hard as gems, and she knows that if all is true, then he is not without his grief, too. And grief is so easily forged into violence. ]

They want you to believe that. If you have nothing left to fight for, you will surrender, and then all will truly be consumed. Do you feel you have nothing left?

[coerthantorment]

[It's not as if Estinien hasn't considered that the vision he experienced was some trick of the mind - yet, somehow, her phrasing it as she does manages to cut through a layer of his credulity. She's right, isn't she? They would want them to feel purposeless, like there was nothing left to fight for.

Maybe the event had felt too inexplicable, too profound, for him to think it was only a ruse. Yet, if there is even a chance of her being right... the anger in his chest flares for a moment, fed by the indignity of potentially having been fooled so soundly.

His gaze focuses on her, as if trying to read her face, her intentions. Unfortunately, it's not among his most refined skills. His brow furrows, and then finally he looks to the ground at his feet.]

Nay. Even if my world were slain, I would not let its killer rest so easily.

[He would avenge it still, and the vow is true, despite the flickers of protest in his gut. He speaks of revenge, he knows he does, the very thing he swore he would take no more of. And yet... how could he deny it completely, with so many lives sacrificed?]

[skirka]

[ She has conspired to coax flames out of unpromising brush often enough that she has a keen eye now for the moment when a spark catches. It is there, when the gaze fixes upon a distant and uncertain figure. The instant when the hand itches for the hilt, when uncertainty breeds just enough frustration to drive a man to motion. Once the first step is taken - once the first spark has caught - the rest comes easier. Embers dance eagerly into open flame. Motion lends itself naturally to hostility, especially when the walls are high and the guards punishing.

Yet he is not completely without promise, she finds herself allowing, and it is because he reminds her of someone: a warrior who was fearsome and respected and, even if he had been bested by a shameful weakness of the heart, a storied hero. This man's hair is not unlike Rhaegar's moon-silver, and he is hewn from the same animal strength. It is marshaled by a nobleman's caution, an earnest man's reserve, and she takes from this likeness a fierce comfort. Where Rhaegar had failed, perhaps this man will prove the better warrior.

She feels his gaze on her face, briefly, and knows that he does not have the incisive eye which would see through her manipulations. Retribution must be truer for him, something he knows well, something that does not change. She is glad to let him have it.

Her fingers go gently to the bonds at his wrists, a gesture that may be read as simply curious or sympathetic, but is designed to remind him of where he sits, of how he has been slighted. The spark must be encouraged; the fire must be generously fanned. She keeps her voice low both for the purpose of discretion as well as making herself an accomplice in his anger. Good men are reluctant to let so dangerous a feeling roam, but he must be made to see the virtue in the vice. ]

You would not give up the lives of those you love, and you cannot give up your own, either. They will do anything to make you believe all is lost. Fight with me to prove them wrong.

Rebirth

[lyorning]

[The man was seated, but even so, it was apparent he was taller than a human, slender, and -- thanks to his state of undress equal to Cersei's -- rather lacking in body hair. He had not appeared to notice Cersei, thinking his own thoughts, until she spoke. There was a glance up, then his gaze angled away on noticing that the woman was in the same state of undress as he was.

[Even in a state of great emotional turmoil, Aerich could guess that no woman, be she lady or not, would wish a strange man to see her naked, even if that man was not of her species. And the tone of her voice suggested that if she had a blade, it would be drawn and aimed at his heart. The act of responding to her did bring him back from the profound grief.]

I... I am seated here. [No, that was no good. Do better.] I believe that we find ourselves in a similar situation.

[And with her being not only foreign but not of his species, he has no idea what forms of address he should be using. Because even when he is emotionally wrung out, no longer on his world and unsure if he is alive or dead, Aerich falls back on the structure of a lawful society. Keep his enraged companion from hurting him, or getting hurt should he need to defend himself. Discover where they are, and what resources they have.]

[Try not to think of everything and everyone he knows dying.]

[skirka]

[ What she notices before anything else is his height - here is a man who is tall, and thus, she hopes, a knight. But he is not dressed as a knight; he is, like her, not dressed at all. And, after a scathing glance down his seated body, she decides he cannot be a man of Westeros at all. He is finely groomed, so finely groomed that it seems no hair covers his body at all, though this is not immediately displeasing. A neat, clean jaw had always appealed to her.

He is not brimming with muscle, looking to her rather slim, but he is composed and, to judge by his averted eyes, chivalrous. Emboldened by this bit of deference, she pads closer to where he sits, studying his face and narrowing her jade eyes at his words. They glint with suspicion; does he mock her? She almost laughs, imagining that the two of them share any sort of similar situation. They have both been robbed of their clothing, yes, but he is no one that she knows. He cannot be anyone of notable title.

There is something strange about him, not only in his make, but in his bearing. Does this poise come from long courtly practice? Is he scheming? Is he paralyzed by shock or rage? Grief? She approaches with a calculating poise of her own design, prepared to flee should he prove himself a foe. ]

Who have you seen? They can't have left us here alone. [ She does not know who they are, only that whoever has had the gall to try and humiliate her this way would not leave her for long. Gold is never left unattended. Then, without overture - ] Can you fight?

[lyorning]

[Having company is serving to help him recover his composure after the strange visions and... well, expecting to have been dead and finding that he is (despite that) still alive.]

Yes. Though I have misplaced my sword.

[And unless the fragments of rock have any sorcerous properties, he was not trained to use them. Sadly, one of the downsides of a noble upbringing is that it is assumed that one can obtain a sword when one desires it. Still, a shard of rock was better than nothing at all.]

[He moves to stand, then paused. The uncertainty of not knowing where he was, how he arrived here, where this woman was from and her status was starting to penetrate the haze of grief of the vision he'd had.] I am Temma, Duke of Arylle. And yourself?

[OOC: I figure I give them a comment or two before the NPCs show up. Or we can delay if you like.].

[skirka]

[ He rises, and her flickering gaze rises with him: although he is unfamiliar to her in appearance as much as allegiance, he could do considerable harm to a man if he put his mind to it. Most men can, regardless of whether or not they were raised to. The fact remains, however, that he is unarmed, and so the displeasure is still plain on her face. They are both at a glaring disadvantage should anyone come upon them.

And that assumes, anyway, that he will ally himself with her. He does not seem, at any rate, in a hurry to oppose her, to demand from her anything which she cannot give, although when she has not even a wisp of silk to call her own, what could be asked of her? That he makes no such demands is proof abundant that he does not know who she is.

She heaves a sigh at his woeful lack of sword, but then her attention sweeps after the name he gives her. She knows neither the House nor the kingdom. Where, then? A duke, he proclaims, and she measures him again, unable still to reconcile the image of him with a man of any repute. It does not seem so farfetched, given their circumstances, to assume that he will be made to prove himself sooner rather than later.

Offering forth her hand, she keeps her chin lifted as she exchanges her name for his own. In the absence of her usual fine raiment, pride will have to suffice as evidence of who she is. ]

Cersei, of House Lannister. My father will be tremendously indebted to you should you prove yourself trustworthy.

( ooc: it's totally up to you! i'm happy to follow your lead for whichever feels best! c: )

[lyorning]

[ [Pride and the evidence that Cersei probably has never had long periods of manual labor, or even combat training based on her hands. He doesn't recognize the house (and doesn't expect to, since even if he knew the countries of the East well, he is certain they are no longer on his world). He also is reasonably certain that the translation was inexact; a lineage rather than a caste.]

[So, at least of her people's gentry, though likely if her father lives, and is a name to be invoked, he holds the title or some other position of power. If he remembers how Easterners (or similar) age, a man with an adult daughter would be rather old, with a lifetime of connections, but perhaps only a decade or two of life left.]

[He won't take offense at the fact she clearly does not trust him; after all, he is not only foreign, but not even a man of her own species, and even in the East of his own world, there are only tales of 'elfs' and their lands to the west.] ]

I spy the entrance. If we are not alone, they will approach from there.

[ [He gestured, trying to listen, or look for the glow of light.] ]

in the woods somewhere

[intermingled]

I do not.

[ Spock stands straight and tall, hands behind his back as he studies the people around him and the space they now inhabit. He truly doesn't know much about how they'd arrived here or what these people may want with them, but he's doing his best to have all the information available carefully catalogued in his eidetic memory. ]

But I believe some sort of cultural superstition may be at play in all of this.

[skirka]

[ She decides, on no more than a glance, that the man she speaks to is of high breeding. He has the bearing of a nobleman, a courtier or a lord, and she slinks in a step closer, knowing this promise for what it is. He is not a common man, which means he must wield either a weapon or influence. Given the resolute manner of their captors, she doubts it is the former.

A blade is what she most needs to see herself released from this captivity, but influence will work just as well, if not half so quick.

Despite the glimmer of opportunity she has spotted, she stiffens at the mention of superstition. It is for the peasants to dabble in myths and fear, and for the men of the Wall to hunt the ghosts of monsters, and she has no wish to hear of black magic. By his even tone, she cannot well gauge his own judgment of the matter, but she is not above encouraging him toward distaste. Violent resentment would be even better. ]

You do not look like a man who partakes in peasant games. [ This can't possibly be more than that, can it? Whoever has thrust her into these unbecoming games will be made to account for it. ]

[intermingled]

[ Spock's pointed eyebrow raises at that comment. It could mean a lot of things and normally that's an opening for Spock to press for specificity, sometimes to the frustration of humans who prefer to speak in implication and colorful metaphor, but right now he does think he understands the implication and it really isn't a time for pedantry. ]

There are very few games which I regularly partake in, but if you are asking me whether or not I believe there is merit to the superstition, I do not.

[ When he turns to face her more fully, his back remains stiff, head inclined. ]

However, I would not dismiss the danger of our captors believing in it. It would be logical to avoid offending them until we either have an exit or believe ourselves in danger.

[skirka]

[ It is most useful, before anything else, to determine which bait a man will rise to. What will prick him to insult, what will tempt him to curiosity and what, most importantly, will prompt him to action. The spur that will drive him to blind, vengeful violence is most productive of all.

He looks at her, she thinks, from a mindful distance, distinguished in his calm. He keeps himself removed from the prospect of a game, indeed; he is not witless or vapid. Neither does he seem prone to panic, and she scales the height of his forbearing body with a discerning eye. He is not given to the drivel of superstition, if his word is true, and this is just as promising as his lordly bearing. He will be seeking a practical way out of this problem. ]

What if we are given no exit, and herded directly into cells? [ He might regret his temperate practicality then. But there is sense in his words, the habit of a man of reflection, and even if she is in need of a man of swift action, reflection is not without its merit. It can, just like any blade, be put to proper use. She circles in closer, her inspection now one of open appraisal. ]

At what point will you believe yourself in danger, ser? [ She cannot know if he is a knight, absent of armor, judging only by his demeanor - but she has never known the title to be taken unkindly, even in error. ]

[intermingled]

[ Spock has spent the last several hours trying to figure out exactly how the Prime Directive fits into this place. It's a struggle because these people certainly appear to be pre-space-travel, but they also seem to have captured many people from other worlds. It does complicate how that fits into things.

So it takes him a moment to answer as he thinks about where that line is for him right now. He doesn't want to hurt anyone and he's not even sure if he would be able to do much before he would be subdued. ]

If I believe there is a threat to anyone's life, I will respond. I am sworn not to interfere in other cultures, however I would not allow these people to end my life or anyone else's who has been brought here against their will without what I believe to be an appropriate nonlethal response.

[ He would prefer not to kill and his fight training is all built around that. ]

My name is Spock and as for cells, I am not overly concerned. I have escaped from more advanced cells than anything they seem capable of here.

[skirka]

[ For most, she presumes, the threshold of danger has long since been crossed. To wake up hostage to a nightmare - this is already an unforgiveable transgression. To have then been bodily transported like a fugitive (and an ordinary fugitive, at that) suggests an even more callous threat. What more is he waiting for? A blade at his throat? Chains in a cell? The bodies of his loved ones laid before him?

It is a simple question and yet he seems to consider it carefully, as if there is mercy to be shown, tolerance to be enacted. The stance he chooses is moderate enough, garnished with honor, and so it grates. He will not act until prompted by irreversible violence to do so? A scoff perches at her lips, but she smooths her scorn before it can take full flight. A threat to anyone's life - this is a valuable tidbit to keep. Her fingers flit over her wrist, recalling the lick of the whip that answered her earlier objections. The threats already feel lethal. ]

It's an uncommonly virtuous sellsword who refrains from violence on a cultural basis. [ Undisguised mockery. How can he be anything other than a swellsword? What other breed of man would spend copious time in various cells and live to tell about it? This does nothing to account for his gallantry, incongruous against their surroundings and their company, and she tilts her head as she tries again to delineate anything of this man. All she comes to is the certainty that only a sellsword would gamble this way - that is to say, hardly at all, without knowing how the odds have fallen. ]

You will wait to act until you are imprisoned, then? A man of negotiation. [ A gambler after all. ] As in war, it seems that it is most beneficial to have someone trusted beside you when the time comes for negotiating.

rebirth

[giantanimal]

[Damen blinks at her outburst. To be fair, he does cut an intimidating figure. Massive, scarred, and moving with a warrior's grace, it's clear he's known known combat. But he doubts he'd be naked if this were his prison. He's not especially bothered by nudity, not in the way a lot of people are, but armor's more practical, and weapons are better still.

He's just saying, he doesn't think he exactly looks the part of master kidnapper.

Dryly:]

Seemed like a nice spot for a holiday. What about you?

[skirka]

[ This is not, her mind rejoices to supply, a spineless prisoner. This man, before her, is a warrior. She will not be dissuaded, and her relief is summer wave that rolls and breaks within her. What she beholds, in the wake of her hostility, is a man made to stride as the Warrior in the flesh. This vision is better than any dream of the seven gods, however, for it is not the gods who will save her. Only a real sword, swung by a real hand. This man was made to do nothing less.

Immediately on the heels of her visceral relief is an equally visceral admiration: he is sculpted of an appealing bounty of muscle, he stands as tall as any worthy knight should, and he bears the scars of a man who has gone charging into the fray, and come charging back out, victorious. Before such a sight, whose eyes would not dance with unmasked desire?

Particularly because he stands before her nude, and her own roaming gaze is anything but modest. She seems to forget, for her own convenience, her fury that he has come to be here without invitation, senseless as that rage may be. Easing forward for a closer appraisal, she drinks him in again with all the same relish that she would finish off a glass of rich mulled wine. ]

I doubt very much that a man of your profession ever takes a holiday. [ If his vocation is the killing of enemies, which she very much hopes it is, then what need would he have of a holiday? ] I don't suppose you could be roused from your rest to perform a bit of work?

[giantanimal]

[Well that's a quick turn around. Damen quirks an eyebrow and eyes her back, not without interest of his own, though he can already hear Nikandros and everyone else who has ever met him teasing him for his... appreciation for people with yellow hair. Hers isn't as pale as Laurent's, more of a soft gold than his cold sunlight color, but still, it's lovely, as is the rest of her.

Not that now is really the time. He meets her eyes and keeps his focus there.]

That depends on what the work is. What profession do you think I have?

[She probably doesn't want a king. Being a king isn't much good when you're away from your country. She also probably isn't looking for a bed slave, though then again, the way she's eyeing him, he can't totally rule it out. A soldier seems most likely, though that's only assuming she's correct in her guess at his profession. He supposed a cloth merchant could come in handy around now too.]

[skirka]

[ A man with nothing at all to his name - wearing nothing but his name, and she does not even know that - cannot claim any sort of lucrative profession. If he was any good at what he did, why was he here, nude and unarmed? The same of course might be asked of her, but from her own standpoint, all that has come to pass in this place has been one flagrant treason after another. She has had no choice. It suggests no failings as queen.

He is a different animal, however. And, precisely because he stands before her undisguised and unguarded, she cannot look upon him with the contempt she might have otherwise. He is too pleasing to the eye, too promising in his stature. He looks to her exactly like the sort of man whom the gods send out into the world purely by mistake, for how else would he have come by such powerful musculature? Why else would he have that brazen way about him, that obvious flirtation in his bearing? Or maybe she is only hoping that is what she sees.

His eyes attune only to her own, and because she is aware of this discretion, she slinks in to where he stands, gathering back the lengths of gold that spill across her shoulders. For the purpose, primarily, of baring the curves of her breasts for a moment before she lets her hair fall again. Lingering now within reach, she brushes a hand out to the flat of his chest, as if the touch will help her decide what his profession must have been before he found himself here. Her voice is an almost cheerful lilt, her gaze flickering up to determine whether or not she has succeeded in baiting his eyes back down to her body. ]

Doing what needs to be done. [ Killing people who stand in his way, she dearly wishes, though the smirk ghosting at her lips makes no secret of the innuendo, should he prove to have a taste for it. The bounty of opportunity here makes her eyes dance with a lively, lethal fire. ]

I suspect you are a man of hard steel instead of weak gods. Am I wrong?

[giantanimal]

[His eyes remain firmly on hers, though it's clearly not from lack of interest so much as an iron grip on his willpower. It doesn't matter how fetching she is, he is not having sex in a mystery cave.

Especially since he and Laurent are... well, he's not sure what they are, but he suspects sleeping with a woman would destroy whatever potential might be building.

He focuses instead on what she's saying. Clear innuendo aside, he thinks he knows what she's getting at. But he wants to hear it from her.]

Speak plainly. What it you want from me?

[skirka]

[ He cannot count rabid lechery among his vices, she discovers - he is resolute, his eyes unswerving from her own. The first and simplest traps go unsprung, and this is at once irritating and reassuring. Irritating in that he will not make himself a weak-willed pawn, of which she is in dire need, and reassuring in that if he will not betray his loyalties for her, then he will not, should she find any sort of victory here, be quick to betray her in turn.

These calculations are made swiftly and without undue reflection, and when he refuses verbal banter immediately on the heels of refusing physical diversion, she does not hesitate to set the artifice aside. There is no way of knowing how much time there is to spend bartering and suggesting and dallying and hunting for allegiances. They will simply have to be taken. ]

It is never safe to walk alone. Walk with me. [ There will be, she presumes, some sort of travel to be undertaken here; she will not be staying. Where they will go she does not know, but she does know that she will not go alone. She must have a sword sworn to her side, or at least a man capable of some ferocity. Loyalty is more generously granted when it is paid for, she has learned, and without knowing what precisely his price is, she is certain that it is nothing she cannot pay. ]

I assure you it will be worth your while.

in the woods

[dragon_rider]

[ He's found a space in the forest ruins, mostly dirt rather than grass. Stick in hand while he writes and draws in the dirt — Mostly, it's a crude map of the way they traveled from the mountains to the forest. He's always been good at cartography and rather or not it has any meaning, it gives him a feeling of least he's doing something. Something more than keeping a watchful eye on the guards, mouth in a near-constant frown, as he ponders what it is they could do. ]

[ Right now, it's frighteningly little. Without anything to claim their own and given little provisions, ones that are taken away just as quickly when not needed, the only thing they have as a group is numbers. Gaze flickering once more to the whip, he thinks, and even that's frighteningly little if they don't react properly: ]

[ He's seen this woman before, with golden silk-spun hair much like Astrid's, but diligently quiet in a way that doesn't betray her sense of authority — He's seen and met too many clan leaders to not notice the way in which they carry themselves. He's not spoken to her in the same way she hasn't others — But perhaps in different reasons, mind whirling and tunnel-visioning into his own plans. ]

[ When she speaks it's surprising none-the-less. He scratched the corner of his chin with the end of his makeshift pencil: ]

No clue. [ A beat as he glanced down at his chicken scratch: ] But they went through all the trouble of gathering all the people they found at once in one location. [ He shifts the stick to point towards a collapsing pillar: ] A place that's been over-run with nature. There's no provisions or normal campsite here, so why here?

[ The 'it's probably important to whatever ritual they're not-so-quietly talking about,' lies in the air. ]