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

[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. ]

[bazztard]

[ Oh, the coming back. Yeah, Bazz hates that. How is he supposed to get anything done if nobody dies? It’s like this place wants him to try and play nice or something.

Bazz huffs. He wishes that Jugram had taken his revenge on the hunter arrancar guy by killing him, but if death isn’t permanent then it wouldn’t have done anything. If they were back in the real world — because he doesn’t quite think of this as real, not yet — then Jugram wouldn’t have hesitated to kill the Hollow, Bazz tells himself. That has to be true.

But if he ever meets the Hollow, it’s not gonna be pretty. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. If he beats someone who beat Jugram, that’s like a second-hand victory. And maybe it’ll make things start making sense, because the thought of a Hollow victorious over the Balance is absolutely surreal.

The thought of a defeated Jugram keeps coming back to the front of his mind, invasive and unwelcome. What would a Jugram who’d lost look like?

Oh, speaking of which — that reminds him. ]

So…who did you in? [ Not Kurosaki, that’s for sure. And Yhwach wouldn’t have. Who else was strong enough to defeat a fully powered Jugram? ]

[gleichgewicht]

I don't know.

[ He answers plainly, even though they're not on the level of familiarity for it to necessarily be appropriate for Bazz to be the first person to ask him such a thing. Or maybe he is. Jugram hasn't heard anyone talk about their own death, with the exception of Bazz himself. ]

I assume I was hit from a distance, perhaps from behind. I was alive and then I woke up here.

[ He's thought about it, surely—who in their ranks could be both stealthy and powerful enough to kill with a single blow? There's something dishonorable about it, the sort of maneuver that comes from a desperate enemy—but he disgraced His Majesty and the Sternritter too, lacking enough situational awareness to be taken out so quickly. Fatigue, perhaps, from the sustained lack of sleep awarded by the Mask of the Ruler. ]

[bazztard]

Oh.

[ Not a very impressive death, Bazz thinks. He’d expected to hear of some sort of epic fight. To instead be told that Jugram had just died is…underwhelming. Almost disappointing.

He sighs, shifts awkwardly. Glances up surreptitiously at Jugram, but doesn’t make eye contact. There’s a couple moments of silence, as Bazz doesn’t say anything, not knowing how to continue the conversation. This is so far out of his comfort zone that it leaves him reeling. The worst part is that he’d spent his whole life wanting this, wanting to be able to sit down and talk to Jugram without threats and one-sided yelling. And now that he has it, he doesn’t know what to do. ]

That sucks. [ There. An attempt at sympathy, albeit a terrible one. ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ Bazz-B, silent, out of his comfort zone. It's an alien concept, though Jugram supposes the experience of dying may, for once, have humbled him. He went so far as to admit defeat, after all. Even if it was before all of this.

Jugram pushes the thoughts from his mind; it won't do him any good to dwell on that now. Instead he does his best to remain composed, distanced, unaffected. A breeze picks up, warm as they were in the springtime. Aspen leaves, bright green, rustle over his head. ]

Thank you. I regret that I failed His Majesty, but I learned from Kurosaki that we won the war.

[ Whatever consequences that may hold for their people on the whole—the vision of the future is something that still lurks at the back of his mind. ]

[bazztard]

[ The confirmation of victory doesn’t surprise him. After all, Yhwach was all but unbeatable (so why had he thought he had a chance?) and the shinigami didn’t have anyone nearly strong enough to hold up against some of the remaining Wandenreich. But it doesn’t make happy, either. His allegiance never was with the shinigami, even if he’d agreed to help them — does Jugram know about that? — in exchange for free passage. For all that he’d hated Yhwach in those last minutes, he hadn’t thought about whether or not he still supported the Quincy cause.

But for Jugram, the Quincy cause had been everything. It must be a relief for him to know that his death wasn’t for nothing. ]

I didn’t know. [ Stating the obvious. There was no way for Bazz to know the outcome of the war. ] I don’t…

[ He trails off. He doesn’t what, exactly?

Pushing himself off the ground, Bazz turns from Jugram, suddenly unable to look at him. Takes a breath to compose himself. ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ Bazz turns sharply—hopefully not tearing up again, though Jugram respects that this time he at least doesn't have to look at it and share in his discomfort. It isn't the reaction he should have, but then again, he'd been a traitor to their cause, had he not?

For selfish reasons, Jugram had thought, but his reaction to such good (if expected) news throws into question the strength of his devotion before the betrayal. How long had he been following His Majesty halfheartedly? Had he actually wanted victory, or had he just wanted to fight?

The tall grass stirs in the breeze; belatedly, Jugram realizes that Bazz is facing the grassy swale in which he'd stowed the statuette of His Majesty that he arrived with. He must have noticed his own trinkets upon his arrival here, so he should know the significance, if he sees it—it shouldn't be a surprise to him, though it may well be the source of another argument. ]

[bazztard]

[ Jugram doesn’t respond, a quiet presence behind him. He’s actually a little grateful for the silence. It lets him think in peace, without the distraction of thinking of retorts to everything Jugram says. Around him, the grass ripples, as though it’s nodding sympathetically. Once, Bazz had spent hours lying on the ground on his stomach, watching the air stir his surroundings. The movement is hypnotic, reminiscent of waves on a lake.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bazz catches a glimpse of something on the ground. Inorganic, separate from the grass. Curiosity piqued, he takes a step forward, down into a small depression in the ground. Squats down so that he’s resting on his heels.

Bazz, of course, had found his own little ornaments on the other side of his door. He’d stashed them in a cubby, hidden away from the outside world. This hiding spot isn’t nearly that sophisticated. It must be what Jugram had wanted to put away, he realizes.

And then he takes a good look at the little figurine, and oh, for fuck’s sake. ]

Really? Are you serious?

[gleichgewicht]

[ Oh, great. Jugram addresses him flatly, the distance between them returning as his shoulders stiffen in preparation for another argument. To be verbally reminded of his devotion was acceptable, apparently, but this seems to be too much for him. ]

They represent things that were important to us, Bazz-B. You can't be surprised.

[ There goes any momentary calm—it was nice while it lasted. ]

Leave it be.

[bazztard]

[ Another reminder of who mattered most to Jugram. He gives the statuette a hard look, considering. It’s an ugly little thing — not due to poor craftsmanship, but rather due to its subject. One of Bazz’s trinkets had also been a statue, but in his opinion it had been far better looking. (That it was of Jugram also hadn’t hurt, though he isn’t yet willing to examine what that means.) ]

It’s creepy. [ He doesn’t bother looking back at Jugram, eyes fixed on the figurine. There’s a something about it that has him all but transfixed.

He reaches out, picks it up. Hefts it, feeling its weight. Turns back to Jugram.

The breeze hits him funny, and he shivers, as though something is crawling up his spine. ]

[gleichgewicht]

[ Bazz picks it up, grabbing something that doesn't belong to him—unsurprisingly—and the tiniest jolt of electricity seems to run through his veins for just a moment, like the snap of static jumping to one's fingertips. Is that an extension of my body? Some of the people here had told him to keep his trinkets safe, maybe for that reason. Jugram frowns at him. ]

Put it back, Bazz.

[ And if there's a prickle of annoyance that passes through the newly established bond between them, he's none the wiser. ]

[bazztard]

[ It’s not like he wanted to touch it anyways, Bazz thinks, vexed. This stupid statue pisses him off. He gives it one last look and then tosses it to Jugram with a gentle, underhand throw. He doesn’t want to touch it any more. ]

Here’s your stupid statue. [ The words come out sharper than intended. With an irritated sigh, Bazz shakes his hands out. They’re kind of tingly, as if the blood flow to them had been cut off. He regrets picking it up, suddenly and fiercely. Something about the whole thing is uncomfortable.

And now, as if to make things worse, there’s the beginning of a headache blooming behind his eyes. Bazz pinches the bridge of his nose, frustrated. ]

[gleichgewicht]

Don't throw that—!

[ 'Your tethers are your life', or something like that. Maybe it's a fine allegory for the general state of affairs, Bazz tossing something apparently directly linked to his own wellbeing, however softly. His own irritation grows, moreso than Bazz has usually been able to get out of him for the past several hundreds of years, almost as though echoed back at him from the very environment.

Kill him. And, suddenly, here emerges his own voice, harsher, the Shadow in the back of his mind. Kill him before he kills you. He's going to. He'll only hold you back if he stays alive. What have you ever gained from associating with him? What benefit does this conversation have?

Jugram frowns, ever-so-slightly, and regards him tensely. His shadow isn't wrong. ]

You should leave now.

[ Yet—the words are hard to say. He watched this man die, and here he is again, alive, breathing.

...They'll see each other again. They will. Not that it matters.

And if some of the reluctance makes its way through the newly formed connection between them, Jugram's none the wiser. ]

[bazztard]

[ Of course. Even here, Jugram just brushes him off. And Bazz had been stupid enough to think something in their status quo would change. And it isn’t like Bazz is just gonna leave. He doesn’t know if he can even bring himself to do it. The first familiar face he’s seen, and he’s supposed to just walk away?

Bazz had never walked away from him. It was Jugram that had left, who had abandoned him so long ago. Bazz had followed him, chasing him throughout the centuries. To just leave Jugram here is to betray every second he’d spent trying to get his friend back.

But… Jugram had killed him. Had made it clear throughout their mangled relationship that Bazz wasn’t wanted. It would be stupid of him to stay. Even if the thought of leaving makes him feel literally nauseous. ]

Fine. [ He can’t keep the resentment from seeping into his voice, walking the knife’s edge of turning into genuine hurt. ] I can see when I’m not wanted.

[ He’s angry, yes, but more than that he’s desperate. Desperate not to lose his only connection to his old world, desperate not to lose Jugram. He doesn’t want to be the one to walk away. ]

Will we see each other again? [ He’s already turning to leave, but he looks over his shoulder, the words almost plaintive. If Jugram says no, Bazz doesn’t think he can make himself walk back out that door. ]