TDM // #2

[oblivium]

TEST DRIVING MEME #2

REBIRTH ALWAYS FOLLOWS DEATH

---

You died. Sort of. You float, sort of, blissfully unaware in a snug cocoon as both your Self and the world beyond slowly align. You're you still, you think, a hazy awareness as your eyes flutter open, and you see... nothing. A viscous substance blurs your vision, faint thrills of panic coiling around your lungs, swelling in your throat; wrapped in an ectoplasmic sheath, you're disoriented at best, frantically wondering where you are and how you wound up here. Whatever here is. Everything’s fuzzy, perception is limited, movement is restricted... and then it dawns on you, glacial down your spine, the nagging certainty that wherever you were before, you no longer exist there.

You're trapped. Your once cozy cocoon quickly becomes your prison, and an overwhelming sense of dread incites you to escape. On your own, you'll tire rapidly, weak still, unadjusted to the Netherworld's configuration. Scream loud enough and someone might come to your aid, though the process will leave you weaker still; as a new Restless, you go from the semi-sensory deprivation of the Shroud into your new existence without warning or preparation, spilling out of your protective husk breathless, confused, and naked. You're free, but at what cost.

Blink. Breathe. Find your footing. When your eyes get used to the twilight-hued ambience, you'll immediately see more Shrouds, everywhere and ripped apart like a vast nest of broken cauls. Through the emerald fog surrounding you, doors. An endless cluster of them, no frames, no jambs. Your name is carved on one of them, and you don't know how or why you know this, but you do. You'll find yourself inherently drawn to yours: maybe it's a pull, a hum, a light, a quiet sound in the static. Instinctively, you know it's safe, and you know that whatever you'll find within, calling out to you, you ought to protect... but before you run and cross the threshold, your focus wanes, and you catch something in the periphery of your vision...

► I. REAP WHAT YOU SOW

a. A CLOAKED FIGURE STANDS BEFORE YOU, EERILY QUIET. It only stares, faceless, towering well over you as you struggle to find your balance on your weakened feet, the air you breathe in scorching your throat. Your senses are annoyingly muddled, and it's enough of a distraction, perhaps, to overlook your state of undress. And then it finally speaks. The Reaper. It's surprisingly polite, its voice a melodious string of low hissing notes as it calmly explains what and where you are; a Restless, citizen of the Netherworld. You were reborn here for reasons unknown, another soul among thousands with seemingly unfinished business, cursed or blessed to roam a world slowly devoured by an entropic force. Hell? Perhaps, if it suits your beliefs, though some do thrive here, and keeping Oblivium at bay is a collective effort.

Around you, others like you break out of their Shrouds, and some walk the land fully dressed, with an ease that unequivocally evokes the passage of time. They've been here for a while, and it shows. You might catch bits of conversations here and there, learn more about your new home and new purpose from eavesdropping. The Reaper that's helped you out of your cocoon is, unfortunately, a poor conversationalist, though it does point its rawboned finger towards the stormy horizon, speaking of an immense city in the far distance that shelters thousands of Restless and offers essential supplies for all. Stygia. It doesn't stay much longer: without preamble, the Reaper vanishes into a plume of indigo smoke, essentially leaving you to fend for yourself. This is your chance to reach and cross the threshold of your very own door, find some clothes, your Tethers, and a device that'll enable you to reach out to anyone willing to listen. Others like you might have answers on the Netherwork-- chattier Reapers, even. Just watch out. The moons above glisten crimson, and Badaliscus roam in especially high numbers across the Shadowlands, aggressive and carriers of plague-like diseases. If you wander, do mind the giant split in the earth as well, surrounded by blackened soil. You can't miss it, strange, guttural noises coming from its depths. A fall into a drop that steep would be deadly, as no light or hope shines at the bottom of the chasm... though l'appel du vide is nearly unbearable. Does it whisper your name?

THINGS YOU MIGHT HEAR OR OBSERVE
► some compare this place to a purgatory
► an old sage has apparently found a "stairway to heaven"
► another restless' acquaintance has recently lost their battle against their shadow and nearly killed them -- probably because they didn't have a soulmate. they now dwell in the labyrinth with other monstrosities
► some restless can be spotted laughing hysterically, or arguing with themselves
► objects never last unless reforged with a soul's essence
► the hierarchy used to send a welcome party for new arrivals but now seem reluctant to leave stygia -- maybe because new arrivals are now a daily thing, sometimes hourly
► no one seems to know what reapers truly are
► ferrymen never speak

THINGS YOU MIGHT STUMBLE UPON
► small fumaroles that emit occasional bursts of molten lava and splatter anyone nearby
► ragged open pits in the ground that spout boiling water and steam at irregular intervals
► scattered rubies; if touched, they'll start shouting and demand that you "unhand them at once, varlet!!", which may attract funny looks or undesired attention
► withered trees, grass, deserted campfires, various debris, bloated corpses, and fog
► mirrors that reflect the back of the person that looks into them
► a mausoleum. the structure appears perfectly normal at first, but examination reveals that there are no doors to allow entry or exit

if you choose to address the netherwork directly as one of your prompts, reapers or any other npc might reply to you. otherwise, feel free to speculate with other characters!
additionally, if you wind up poisoned or injured by a badaliscus, the occasional scaleberry can sometimes be found in the shadowlands, often rotten and scattered around withered trees. you'll find this kind of information in your smartphone's database, but anyone with healing abilities could also come to your aid: just remember that magic in the netherworld is unpredictable.
lastly, if l'appel du vide is too strong for you to resist, and if no one is able to keep you from falling to your death, a reaper will eventually give you a hand, immediately poofing out of existence afterwards.

b. NOT ALL REAPERS ARE AMICABLE. The same cloaked figure unceremoniously yanks you out of your Shroud, a mouthful of mud and ashes as you brutally land on the ground. You feel everything all at once: the acute pain of your rebirth, the pull of your Tethers, the cacophony around you, and the dull voice in the back of your mind. You breathe, and then you don't, shackles around your neck, your wrists, the gravelly soil grazing your skin raw and bloody as you're pulled by your feet. Your screams remain unanswered, though it might catch the attention of a passerby, should they be brave enough to face your tormentor. Now would be a good time to resort to any skill you might have to free yourself, past your confusion and growing agony, lest you be carried to the Forges. It's the only thing it mentions, laughing unhinged as you approach the shores, where a brittle ship awaits you. The good news is that Reapers loathe water: splash it or try to push it overboard, a distraction that should allow you to strike in some way. The bad news is that the Tempest isn't kind to anyone, especially you, and you're sort of shackled. Rest assured that it'll fight back, tooth and claw, a scythe at its disposal as well as blood-curdling shrieks that might deafen or temporarily paralyze you. Scream for help if you've yet to get any: someone is bound to hear.

► II. OF SOULS & SHADOWS

a. WHETHER YOU'VE FAILED TO FREE YOURSELF OR MANAGED TO BOARD A FRIENDLIER SHIP, you won't escape the storm, a tempest within a tempest.

Grey clouds boil across the sky in a bruise-colored wall, forked lightning and thunder booming overhead. The clouds open, a black and green funnel growing down towards you. As it swirls closer, you see faces, staring out from within and screaming. Gale force winds whip the sails of your ship, debris flying through the air: glass, wood, metal. The ship sways, and you sway with it, the groans of your vessel as it's tossed about in rough waters almost deafening. It's terrifying. If you were being transported to the Forges, the Reaper quickly abandons you, leaving you to your demise. If you were lucky enough to board a safer ship, pay attention. You're holding on for dear unlife as sheets of rain slap against your face, blown off-balance by heavy gusts of wind, but you see them in the raging waves, Restless just like you, shackled and helpless in the storm. You have a choice, your first dilemma: focus your energies on saving yourself and anyone else aboard your ship, or take the wheel and navigate through the winds, screams and flotsam in order to try and rescue them. Coils of rope are available, tarps, barrels and buckets.

b. WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE OR WHEREVER YOU ARE, your Shadow might take this very ill-timed opportunity to make itself known -- if it hasn't already. You're scared, torn, tired, and maybe a little hysterical -- it knows. It's in your head. Literally. It's you, and it's not, a growing onslaught of inappropriate thoughts, impulsive and intrusive as it makes an attempt to figure you and itself out. It's never been sentient before, perhaps even unsure of its purpose for a time. And then, as you struggle against the storm, it speaks:

Enjoying your first taste of sea-salt horrors? You can feel it, can't you. The pull. It's eating at you, subtly, but it's there. You can’t run. You can’t get away from me either, because I’m you, and I’m just as much a part of you as all the noble ideals you hold. All the awful thoughts you ever entertained, all the things you were ashamed of or couldn't bring yourself to say, and all the lies you told... that’s what I am, and you can’t make me go away. You can’t outlive me. I’m going to remind you of all the terrible things you did or wanted to do, and I’m going to get you to do more of them, because you’re still you and you still have all those nasty little urges floating around. Only now I’m here to highlight the opportunities you have to indulge. Don't be shy. If you won't speak your mind, I'll do it for you. If you ever considered redemption, think again. Fight me or silence me if you wish, it doesn't matter. Even if you succeed. I may go dormant for a while, but I'll always come back stronger. I'm your Shadow, and Oblivium awaits us.

Deaded things slam into you, spat out of the tornado. The sight snaps you out of your daze, but you don't have time to ponder whether this eerie interlude was real. It won't speak again, never directly. You'll know it's there, viscerally, as your Self and Shadow struggle to come to grips with this new antagonistic yet symbiotic relationship. If you've never been kind to yourself before, learn how to, because it won't be.

Luckily, this whole ordeal may have left somewhat of a positive mark on you: Sparks. Two of them. It's a light buzz in the back of your mind, a tickle beneath your skin as nether magic courses through your veins, an inherent part of you now. The knowledge of what is happening to you is abstract at best, but it's there, and if necessary, you'll know how to use your newfound abilities:

a. Teleportation, allowing you to vanish into thin air and relocate anywhere you wish, the same way a Reaper would. Usable 4 times.
b. Mind-reading, albeit a bit murky. Think of it as a weak signal reception. Pry some information about the Netherworld out of an NPC's mind, or try to find out what a friend think of you. Lasts 12 hours.

► III. THE ETERNAL CITY

IF YOU'VE ELECTED TO REACH STYGIA INSTEAD OF MATERIALIZING BACK INTO YOUR HOME IN THE SHADOWLANDS, you'll be welcomed by fishermen in the Harbors, and most of them seem... well, a little annoyed, honestly. Additional mouths to feed, and all that. Stygia has been at max capacity for decades, and resources aren't always easily obtained. But they were like you, once -- freshly undead, overwhelmed -- and if they sigh and glower as you pass by, quick to dismiss you, you'll soon be guided towards what seems to be a Notice Board, a map of Stygia pinned just below. Make yourself useful, you're told. If you hope to survive here, better start by earning your keep!

If you're injured, a healer will tend to you in Hale. Poultices can also be found in the Marketplace, as well as bandages, etc. The only problem is... you have no coin, and not much to barter with. Pick a job from the Notice Board if you're willing, or find shelter in Serene: most people there will welcome you into their homes, so long as you don't overstay said welcome. Alternatively, if you ask around, a fellow Restless might be able to help you. Steal if you wish, though be warned that there might be consequences.

Meanwhile, if the thought of returning to the Shadowlands is a little overwhelming for now, you will come across empty buildings and houses all over Stygia, most of them in varying states of repair. They're yours for the taking, if you don't mind cob-webs or shattered windows, but all you have is time now, and a little renovation can go a long way!

As you explore your new environment, you might start experiencing odd and subtle changes...

---

ooc note

► Welcome to Nightfell's second TDM! All threads can be considered game canon and may be used as samples if you choose to apply.
► Check out the Notice Board for additional prompts! Older quests can be found in the comments if you'd rather do them instead.
► For your convenience: Bestiary, Glossary, Setting.
► If you still have questions regarding the game in general, please refer to the FAQ. For questions specific to the TDM, ask them below!
► We hope you enjoy your first experience in Nightfell!

Comments

[gleichgewicht]

[ Another lapse in his ability to detect reiatsu, as it turns out, in the worst possible moment—worse, even, than when that arrancar shamelessly come up behind him. The voice, especially at a yell, is unmistakeable.

Jugram's blood freezes. His head turns so fast his neck hurts when it reaches the end of its range of motion, hair following the sharp movement like a horse's lashed tail. Bazz, arm freshly restored and already defaulting to Burner Finger Three, staring at him with... somewhat justified rage.

He'd died, then. It hadn't been in him to confirm death, to wait for him to fully bleed out—but here's his answer, uncontestable. Bazz died of his wounds. Something adjacent to guilt and pain twists deep inside of him, running concurrent with... relief isn't the right word, because they're still very much dead. But... it's better than the alternative, his still being conscious in some sort of afterlife. ]

Bazz.

[ Not Bazz-B, just... Bazz. His attempts to filter himself fall short in the shock of the moment, a rare first for him. Usually screening his thoughts is a matter of second nature.

Warily:]

There's no point in fighting here.

[bazztard]

[ Burner Finger 3 might not be enough, Bazz thinks, mentally reaching out for more energy. Jugram is hard to kill, and Bazz is gonna need to give this everything he’s got. But then Jugram says his name, Bazz, shocked, as though the fact that Bazz is here matters, and he just. He can’t.

He stops, lets his hand drop to his side. Part of him is screaming kill him kill him kill him, but he doesn’t want to fight. It’s ironic, he knows, he’s spent all this time waiting for someone to burn and now that he’s found someone who deserves it he can’t do it. And if Jugram is here, that means he died too, which seems…impossible. Jugram was a constant presence, almost immortal-seeming, even if he was a fucking dipshit. Bazz doesn’t know if he wants to celebrate that Jugram got what was coming for him or to rage over the fact that Jugram is dead. He’s leaning towards rage, and with it comes a horrible sick sensation deep in his gut. Not guilt, but…close.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not mad, not furious, even if something inside him wants to— to hug Jugram. Which isn’t something he thought would go through his head. Bazz crosses his arms, takes a step forwards. ]

Tell me why I shouldn’t fight you. Give me one good reason.

drunk couple arguing outside of a nena concert....

[gleichgewicht]

We're both already dead. And death doesn't stick here.

[ Jugram continues to stare, and while he's not so obvious as to look directly at his right arm—he's cataloguing that detail, too. (God, he remembers how smoothly the blade of his broadsword had cleaved off his arm and sent it flying, the nauseating ease of the single strike. Why hadn't Bazz listened?)

He's alive and very much not alive at the same time, but he falls into category A enough for a feeling of gratitude to creep in as he stands a mere few feet away from his old friend, even as Bazz threatens to resume the fight all over again.

He won't. Somehow, Jugram has the feeling he won't, or maybe it's just the hope that he won't; the fact his arms are merely folded and aren't preparing for a strike is a remarkable display of calm considering Bazz's baseline. Maybe he's disoriented by the whole thing, like Jugram himself had been.

He doesn't want to battle him, hadn't wanted to to begin with. And—Bazz's arrival here marks him as the one person he knows. The only other quincy. Someone who knows the world and the army he comes from, the language he speaks, the same things he remembers.

But of all the other Sternritter, it had to be Bazz, didn't it? ]

[bazztard]

[ They can’t die. They can’t die. Bazz’s first thought is that he really should just kill Jugram anyways. He can show Jugram what it feels like to be murdered by someone he cares about. And if he’s feeling particularly vindictive then he’ll do it again. It should make killing Jugram easier, knowing that it’s not permanent. He should draw his bow, spear Jugram through, get his revenge. But— there’s no point. It wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t make Bazz feel better, especially if Jugram would just come back. Because then he would have to live with the fact that he killed him, and Bazz doesn’t think he could do that.

Bazz decides then and there not to kill Jugram, and yet. There’s a part of him screaming to rip out his throat, to make him hurt, to make him feel like Bazz did. He clenches his fists tight enough to hurt, because what the fuck. He just decided not to fight, and yet he’s two seconds away from lunging. It’s like being in the middle of a battle, filled with so much adrenaline that he’s not in control of himself, body reacting before his mind even thinks about it. It’s disorienting and just makes him more mad. ]

So fighting doesn’t do anything? What, are we just supposed to hold hands and sing Kumbaya?

[gleichgewicht]

[ Fighting does do something—cause pain and force him to re-live what they both just went through, namely. But Jugram doesn't say that, because he's sure Bazz can't conceptualize—doesn't want to conceptualize—that it was hard for him, too, that maybe there was a reason he spent a millenium avoiding this very outcome. It's still a wound that hasn't fully healed, has barely even had any time to heal before he, too, met his end, albeit at the hands of the enemy and not a former friend. ]

Of course not. But it'll be a waste of your time trying to cut me down, just as it always has been.

[ For more reasons than one. It had been upsettingly easy to take him down, once it became clear that he wasn't going to be deterred by his numerous attempts to evade escalation. It'll only be the same if Bazz makes him do this again. ]

[bazztard]

[ Bazz sighs. He really shouldn’t have expected anything other then condescension, as though Bazz is somehow less than Jugram. Just because he beat him in a fight doesn’t make him better! Bazz isn’t worth less than Jugram, he isn’t. And it hurts that Jugram can’t see that, it makes him feel sick.

But he isn’t about to show any of that, so he lifts his chin and gives Jugram his best glare. ]

So what do we do? [ If they aren’t fighting, then what? Trying to fight Jugram has practically become a part of Bazz’s identity by now. A millennia of goading Jugram on, and now that they’ve actually fought each other it’s like there’s nothing left. ] What’s the point?

[ It puts Bazz on the wrong foot. Their relationship is fundamentally changed, both by Jugram killing him and the fact that they’re here in limbo together. He doesn’t know what to do. ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ 'We.' Jugram's not sure how he feels about the assumption implicit in Bazz's word choice—the only thing that really kept them in each other's proximity all these years, on a pragmatic level, were His Majesty's army and the ongoing attempts to fight him, two factors which have both been suddenly and unceremoniously removed from the equation. Now there's just... them, with no obligation to remain in each other's presence at all. They share... more than anyone else here shares with him, but that doesn't mean that he must remain in his presence. It would probably be better for them both if they just steered clear, really.

They'd even added the last agonizing punctuation mark to the whole relationship with that fight. There'd been closure, however much grief and anger came along with it, all of which has now been lost. It's not as though they can suddenly return to the friendship they had as children, long before he met Yhwach and his fate was decided, but Jugram finds himself reluctant to entirely part ways with someone for whom he's felt faint twinges of mourning over the past few weeks, too. He's the only other quincy here, the only person he knows. That person just also happens to be someone he still hasn't forgiven for his role in the whole thing, for trying to kill him and making him make that decision, forcing him to watch him bleed out—a realization that's been held at bay until now.

It's exhausting to think about. ]

Focus on your survival. There are dangers to this place that you're best to pay attention to.

[ And there is no 'we', he almost says, but ultimately finds himself unable to—for whatever that means. ]

[bazztard]

[ It’s almost a relief, knowing that Jugram is here. Because for all that Jugram had killed him, he’s still a Quincy, still familiar. A holdover from their past life. Bazz hates that it’s Jugram of all people, but Jugram’s better than nobody at all. Bazz doesn’t know what he’s doing here, is still confused and disoriented, and any hint of familiarity is welcome. He’s not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

Well, he will, but not right now.

Bazz takes a few steps forward, close enough to really see Jugram. The waves of his hair, the color of his eyes, the set to his mouth. It shouldn’t be comforting, but Bazz can’t help but feel more at ease. At ease with the man who killed him, which is bullshit and doesn’t make any sense.

The mention of dangers makes him perk up a little, because something to fight would be really cathartic, but then he remembers how hard it is to gather reishi. And even if death isn’t permanent, he still doesn’t want to deal with dying again. But survival…that much Bazz can do. He’d taken care of himself (and Jugram) when Yhwach had burned down everything he loved, after all. It’s not like he needs help surviving.

He should accept the advice given to him and leave, since he doesn’t need Jugram anyways. But the thought of abandoning the last link to his life is hard even to consider. ]

Great. You can tell me all about those dangers. [ Jugram owes him, anyways. For the whole killing him thing. ] Where’s your place? I wanna sit down.

[gleichgewicht]

[ He'd been expecting (maybe, paradoxically, hoping) that they would split ways after he said that. Not... proceed to the same location under an uneasy peace, which is a lot harder. Bazz seems to be taking this in stride, almost as though slicing his arm off has been forgiven, which means, of course, that it can't possibly be. But this kind of rage is new for Bazz, a level of self control he's never displayed before, undoubtedly brought on by the change of environment.

And there's the matter of his own grievances. His own anger, less so at his own body being attacked and more at the attempt on His Majesty's life, and for Bazz's stupidity in attacking him, in making him go through the same ordeal. Deep beneath the surface he wants to yell, to hit him, to shove him until he falls to the ground and ask why he had to do it despite knowing perfectly well why he did it. The selfishness.

Jugram does his best to calm himself—not now. In response to the question, he simply extends a long arm, points to the distant island. ]

On the other side of that ocean, with the others.

[ He has his own door, just like everyone else—but discomfort wrings at his guts at the mere thought of Bazz stepping through that threshold, seeing the meadow where they used to practice when he thought he wanted to kill Yhwach instead of the usual interior landscape of a home, a school, even a library. He certainly doesn't want to be back there, together; it's more than he can deal with at the moment. ]

Is the place where you got your clothes unsuitable?

[bazztard]

[ They seem, against all odds, to have come to a sort of unspoken truce. Bazz doesn’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, he’s definitely still not over the fact that Jugram killed him. Will probably never be over it. On the other hand, Bazz has spent 1000 years following him, regardless of what he said. This is just an extension of that. For right now, he just wants to forget their fight. To go back to the field of their youth. He misses those days enough that it feels like a physical ache sometimes, and if Jugram will allow this tentative peace to continue, then Bazz is more than happy to play pretend. To forget, just for a little while, that he’d left Bazz bleeding out on the ground. He just wants his friend back.

But things have changed so irreparably that Bazz can’t just ignore the past. There’s something tight in his chest, like a rubber band about to snap. The shock of seeing Jugram here is beginning to wear off, and his sudden anger is giving way to a simmering, bone-deep hatred. He hates Jugram, he really does.

Even if he also wants to hug him, to bury his face in Jugram’s shoulder and weep.

That’s definitely not an option, though, so he takes a breath that does little to calm him. He doesn’t want to go through his door right now. That little bit of his childhood is something he wants to avoid.

And there’s a part of him that’s curious. Bazz’s door had reflected his past. What would Jugram’s show? ]

It sucked. [ Blunt, without even trying to mince words. Even if it’s not fully honest. ] I’ll go back eventually, but…not now.

[ He hopes Jugram understands, takes the fucking hint. ]

[gleichgewicht]

You'll have to.

[ Like that needs to be said. It's something to fill the silence, at least—a funny thing. Jugram hasn't felt a compulsive urge to say something just to avoid the alternative since his youth.

The problem, of course, is that his own door isn't something that he wants Bazz to see, anyone but the only other person who would immediately recognize the place. He doesn't want to have that conversation, doesn't want to relive those moments as estranged adults who just finished fighting each other to the death. It's too intimate, feels like offering to let Bazz vivisect him. That, if anything, would be less deeply personal.

But they can't go to Stygia, at least not right now. He recognizes the gray-green-purple tint to the sky over the harbor by now, the one that means a maelstrom is coming. Given that he never had the impetus to learn how to swim, Jugram's not particularly thrilled with the idea of getting onto watercraft with the threat of an imminent storm looming, and they may need to take shelter soon.

...He'll need to at least make sure that Bazz doesn't see his tethers, the pin he's kept for so many hundreds of years. He can't have this conversation right now. He simply cannot. This situation is already almost more than he can bear, an unfamiliar feeling for someone who's kept as tight a rein over his emotions as he has for the majority of his life.

They're the only two quincies here, the only two who fought for His Majesty of the four total he knows of from their own world, and Bazz is the only person he knows even remotely, no matter how distant they are. He knew him once, and that's more than he can say for anyone else here.

Jugram pauses, clearly considering. There's no way this won't be wildly uncomfortable. ]

This way. Watch your step. Those pits are geysers.

[ He inclines his head in the general direction of his door, though they have some walking to do still. ]

I need to move some things first. There are things there that are none of your concern.

[bazztard]

[ Bazz can’t help the relieved sigh that escapes him. Jugram’s accepting his presence, albeit grudgingly. He’s not leaving him alone again. It’s a confirmation he hadn’t known he needed, that this isn’t like the first time. Bazz won’t be abandoned, left to navigate an unfamiliar world without a familiar face. It lifts a weight off of Bazz’s chest that he hadn’t even previously noticed. And wow, that’s pretty pathetic, being this wrapped up in what Jugram does.

He really should do something about that. The smart thing to do would be to cut Jugram from his life entirely, to move on. If Jugram weren’t here, the wound left by his betrayal might in time have healed. But now that the two of them are here together, to break apart is almost unthinkable. ]

Thanks. [ Stepping around the pits, Bazz can’t help but watch the way Jugram moves. Confident in a way Bazz isn’t yet, far more familiar with the landscape. It’s unfair! Nobody should be able to look this good after dying. He knows it’s stupid, but it’s like Jugram wants him to suffer. How did the other Sternritter ever get anything done, looking at him? ]

What, got some bodies to hide? [ An attempt at a joke, if a weak one. Still, the idea of Jugram hiding something from him is irritating, prickling at his skin. He’s always closed off, never showing himself fully to the world. Hell, never showing himself fully to Bazz. And they’ve known each other for almost as long as they’ve been alive! If anyone has a right to see into the depths of Jugram’s heart, it’s Bazz. He just wants some honesty for once. A break from being ignored and underestimated and forgotten.

But Jugram’s being more open than he has for centuries. This is progress. Bazz can accept this.

And if he goes poking around in Jugram’s stuff, well, Jugram should have known better than to try to hide anything from him. ]

[gleichgewicht]

No.

[ And nothing else. He doesn't elaborate any further—whether it's because he simply doesn't feel like talking or because he's still angry at the man who made him go through what he just went through isn't entirely clear even to him.

And what is he supposed to say if they talk? He's not sorry, despite Bazz seeming to expect an apology. He defended his life and His Majesty's life and the outcome of a war in a situation he never should have been put in, though he's sure Bazz doesn't see it that way. He probably thinks he could have just walked away, abandoned Yhwach and his people and the entire war, in the interest of one man who's been firing at him for the past thousand years.

They come to the door he recognizes as his own after several minutes of walking and brushing off anything Bazz might try to say; Jugram extends an arm to block him from moving any further. ]

Stay here.

[ And he goes through the door alone. Stashes the figurines in the tall grass like a duck hiding its eggs in the reeds. The button, he pins back to the hilt of his sword for the time being, where he knows it'll be obscured by his hand. Even when it's not, he doubts Bazz will notice—he hasn't over this many hundreds of years.

Everything in him tenses with displeasure as he sticks his head out of the door and gestures for Bazz to join him. There's plausible deniability, that this is just any forest in the Lichtreich, that this is the forest where he lived as a child, maybe—but that's not the association Bazz will make. The tension is going to get much worse and there's not a thing he can do about it. Maybe he resents Bazz for that too. ]

[bazztard]

[ Even if logically Bazz knows he’s just going to be waiting out here for a minute, he still hates watching the door close on him. Some deep part of his brain is screaming, don’t let him leave you. Because that’s what Jugram does best, isn’t it?

He crosses his arms, taps his foot impatiently. He doesn’t like being out here, left with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. It’s…lonely isn’t the right word. Unnerving. Disorienting. Something along those lines. The sort of thing that he would never admit to, but feels nonetheless. Being left alone is something that Bazz can’t stand, and letting Jugram go through that door without him…it pisses him off, freaks him out. Logically, he knows that he’s being stupid, but that doesn’t change the fact that deep within him is a blind terror of never seeing Jugram again. That after all this time, after they’ve managed to walk this far without trying to kill each other, he’ll lose him.

What’s taking Jugram so long?

Patience is not a virtue Bazz has. He knows that, Jugram knows that, so neither of them should be surprised that he doesn’t like being out here alone with nothing to do. It makes his skin crawl. ]

Jug— Jugram? [ He catches himself just in time. Jugram has made it clear that he hates that nickname. And while he usually wouldn’t care what Jugram thinks, he can’t quite comprehend the fact that his Jugo killed him. It’s better not to think about it, and separating this Jugram from his childhood friend makes it easier.

Just on cue, as though he’d been summoned, the door opens and Jugram’s head pokes out. Thank god. He follows Jugram in, takes a second to process his surroundings.

His very familiar surroundings. ]

What the fuck?

[gleichgewicht]

[ Said as though he somehow chose this location, even though Bazz, having received his own door, knows that isn't possible. He doesn't visibly react to the exclamation, but he does note, ]

I didn't choose this place.

[ Jugram could pretend he doesn't know the significance, that he thinks it's any old forest—but they both know, and it's easier in this instance to just acknowledge the fact than to avoid it, unlike assorted shared memories Bazz has been dredging up for hundreds of years at random despite their lack of relevance to whatever situation was at hand.

He would prefer an indoor residence as some others seemed to have received, personally, but at least the weather and sunlight seem static here. It's a shelter from the drastic rainfall that's bound to start outside shortly, and the air is clear of the stench of rot that hangs thick over the torn up earth of the Shadowlands, sweet with the smell of new spring grass. ]

Anyway. Sit somewhere, if you like.

[ He settles on a stump, the one upon which his tethers had originally appeared, and rests bony hands over the sharp prominences of his bent knees. ]

[bazztard]

[ This is their home.

Bazz recognizes it instantly. How could he not? He’d spent the happiest years of his long life here. Even the trees themselves are achingly familiar, and to his absolute horror he feels his eyes start to prickle. Which is not something he’s even remotely ready to deal with right now. It’s just that this place has so many memories attached to it.

He’d known he’d never see their forest again, when he followed Jugram to the Sternritter, but — but he hadn’t accepted it. Not really. There’d always been this hope, futile as it was, that maybe Jugram would see reason. That maybe they could go back to the idyllic days of youth. But he’d — they had — pledged to kill Yhwach. He had to move on, which was easier said than done. But now they’re inside of Jugram’s door, back in their forest. It should be impossible, but here they are.

(There’s a lot about this twisted afterlife that should be impossible.)

What does it mean, that this is on the other side of Jugram’s door? The doors lead somewhere personal, he knows that. But Jugram had all but renounced their past when he’d joined Yhwach, when he’d spent centuries ignoring Bazz, when his broadsword had gone through his body like butter. Jugram had made it clear that the time they’d spent together in the forest was unimportant.

Because if Jugram had cared about their past, he wouldn’t have murdered him.

But Bazz also isn't going to let this go. ]

Did you… [ He trails off, not entirely sure what he was going to say. ] You remember.

[ He sits down on the grass, cross-legged. Looks around with wonder. Details about the forest he hadn’t even known he’d forgotten come back, like the almost imperceptible sound of the leaves.

Fuck. Bazz ducks his head and rubs his eyes. ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ He tries not to feel frustration with Bazz for the emotional reaction, which is somehow worse, more deeply uncomfortable than any of the explosive outbursts he's had hundreds of years to acclimate to, but Jugram doesn't fully succeed in drowning out the feeling. He hadn't anticipated this response to the shared environment when he was bracing himself for this entire ordeal on the walk over. He's not used to seeing Bazz like this, a sudden change in the landscape of the battlefield. ]

Don't be ridiculous. Of course I remember.

[ He doesn't say it with much venom, but his voice remains firm, impassive. What, did you seriously think I just don't remember any of what happened? ]

We should be safe from the storm here. It may make landfall soon. There's not much to explain about this place, but you may stay until it clears.

[ He really would have preferred to have this conversation in his home or whatever lies behind Bazz's door—or simply out in the open. He shouldn't have humored the request to visit this place—it was shortsighted of him to accept. ]

[bazztard]

[ The dismissal in Jugram’s voice isn’t unexpected, certainly isn’t unusual, but it still aches to hear. He’d hoped, foolishly, that maybe this would make Jugram talk about their shared past with actual emotion rather than indifference. He’s hit with the urge to punch Jugram, to make it hurt, and it’s such a strong feeling that his hands are curling into fists before he even notices anything. Any weak feelings he’d been experiencing go away.

Of course Jugram would just shrug this off. Of course.

Bazz gives him a vicious look, wishing he could light him up with the power of his glare. Not for the first time, his mind circles back to the possibility of fighting him, here and now.

That feels like a betrayal of…something, though, to fight Jugram in their old home. ]

How far does it go on for? [ He gestures at the forest around them, turns to direct his glare at a tree instead. ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ Bazz's sudden flash of anger isn't lost on him, but so be it. He should be grateful for the hospitality, and he has no right to be angry at the reprimand—he shouldn't have made such assumptions in the first place. Do you think so little of me?, he almost says, but Jugram curbs himself. It will only antagonize him further, and while he certainly has no intent to bend over backwards to appease Bazz, he doesn't want to stoke another fight if it can be avoided.

Ironically, the anger, the glare he sets on the massive trunk of the nearest beech—those are easier to deal with than the brief few moments of mistiness in his eyes. Familiar territory. ]

I don't know. I didn't venture very far when I first arrived. I doubt it's infinite.

[ Didn't venture far at all—just examined his tethers, took stock of the place, turned around and left. He'd attempted to bring the button currently resting under the palm of his hand with him as usual, but had been stopped in the doorway, as if by some psionic force. ]

Most people live in Stygia proper, not here. This place is unpredictable.

[bazztard]

[ The place on the other side of Bazz’s door had certainly seemed finite, but it wasn’t outdoors the same way Jugram’s is. There’s an urge to explore, to see how far the forest extends. He half wants to get up and just walk off. But Jugram wouldn’t take kindly to that, and Bazz is also wary to turn his back on the man that killed him.

Not that he thinks Jugram is gonna kill him again, but still. ]

Unpredictable? [ The fuck does that mean? Bazz looks around warily. Is a Hollow going to just pop out of the bushes? ] If I have to fight something, it’s not gonna be pretty. My powers are pretty fucked.

[ An admission of weakness. Not something Bazz usually does, especially to the person that killed him — Bazz isn’t letting that go anytime soon — but he also doesn’t think that Jugram’s going to attack him right now if he hasn’t already.

(Jugram hadn’t been the one who’d wanted to fight.) ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ It's a surprising admission in the context of everything that came before it. Bazz, in the one thousand years Jugram has known him, has not been one to admit these things; his inflated bravado and egotism have been a constant, even when they were children. There's only one other instance that comes to mind, a memory that's still vivid like wet ink: his recounting of his powers being stripped away by Auswählen when he confronted Jugram in the hallway. The conversation that ended with the weight of an old friend clutching his shirt, the weakening grasp, a body at his feet. ]

The weather is more of a concern. There are also places here in which we are stripped of our schrifts, our heilig bogen, even our spiritual pressure perception. Those are riskier.

[ An awful feeling, the closest he's ever been to human. Jugram pauses. ]

Kurosaki is here, but his abilities are similarly hindered. He doesn't have any advantage. I've chosen not to kill him for the time being, and you need to do the same. There's also an arrancar—Jaegerjaquez.

[ Sly, cowardly bastard—hardly more than a beast. He'd demonstrated the same capacity for rational thought as one, too, attacking him at the cost of slowing his own escape, unable as he apparently is to resist any impulse. ]

[bazztard]

[ As if this place wasn’t already bad enough, now he has to worry about losing what’s left of his power? He’s been able to form his bow for most of his long life. His abilities are part of what make him Quincy. What is he, without powers?

Kurosaki isn’t a problem — the orange little bastard hadn’t been strong enough to kill him in their previous skirmish, and if his powers are stripped too then there’s nothing to worry about. And maybe Kurosaki will know how the rest of the war went down. But the news of an arrancar is way more concerning. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Hollows, amalgamations of souls that they are, would be able to turn up in this…afterlife. And what sort of name is Jaegarjaquez? He recognizes the jäger, but jaquez is unfamiliar.

Jugram didn’t tell him not to kill Jagerwhatsit. Maybe unintentional, but maybe Jugram won’t say anything if the arrancar mysteriously dies. God, that would be nice, to get a chance to properly fight something, even if his powers are screwed. And death isn’t permanent, that’s what Jugram said earlier. That’s practically a get out of jail free card.

But if Bazz isn’t strong enough to fight Jugram — he hates hates hates to admit it, but it’s true — then what’s to say he can fight this arrancar? Argh, he can’t stand feeling uncertain like this. ]

Is the Hollow a threat?

[gleichgewicht]

[ He thinks of the hard kick to the base of his spine, the yanking of his hair, the busted lip, all very physical memories. Goddamn animal. ]

No. To the likes of Kurosaki, yes. But not us. He's no stronger than the rest of them.

[ The power differential is much steeper between an ordinary arrancar and schrifted Sternritter, assuming all parties' abilities haven't suddenly ebbed as a part of the general flux this environment throws them into. ]

He struck at me, when we were both depowered. I chose not to kill him when my abilities returned.

[ He doesn't detail the damage, of course—much more than Jaegerjaquez should have been able to do, though much of that was because of the way the fight began, the underhanded nature of the first attack. But he still includes it—bullheaded as Bazz is, hopefully the fact that he chose not to track him down and crush the man like an insect in retribution still means something to him, as far as how he should be conducting himself here.

At least the conversation's returned to a more even tone. It's easier for him, when so much is already at play. ]

[bazztard]

[ Wait. Wait, wait wait wait. He what? Bazz shakes his head a little, as though he’s trying to clear water from his ears. There’s no way he’s hearing that right, no fucking way. ]

He beat you? In a fight? [ Distantly, he realizes that his mouth has dropped open. Someone — an arrancar — beat Jugram in a fight, and Jugram didn’t rip him open? He pauses, and then decides to say what he’d been thinking. ]

Nice of you not to kill him.

[ He’s surprised at how little malice is in his voice. He just sounds tired. Bazz always had been second-best to Yhwach, he’d known that, and now he’s second-best to a fucking arrancar? Oh, Jugram will go on and on about how Bazz didn’t give him a choice in their fight, and then he lets a fucking Hollow beat him without retribution?

He’s not jealous. That’s not the word. But he feels…jilted. Put off guard. There’s something impossible to imagine about Jugram losing. (And if an arrancar had beat Jugram when Bazz hadn’t, where does that put him? But no, Jugram had said they were depowered.) ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ Really, Bazz? At least there's no particular edge to his voice now. At least, Jugram supposes, he's on the level of speaking about it openly without coupling the words with an attack, though he's not particularly comfortable with such conversation, himself. The matter of having watched him die, or at least the beginnings of it, is still an open wound.

He answers simply, nonchalantly. ]

I got retribution. It wouldn't have made sense to waste my time killing him. People come back here.

[ Though he'd thought about it, however briefly. ]