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TDM // #1
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...
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
► six bones arranged in a hexagon on the ground. they appear to have been gnawed upon and bear teeth marks
► 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
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.
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?
► 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
► 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
► six bones arranged in a hexagon on the ground. they appear to have been gnawed upon and bear teeth marks
► 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:
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:
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.
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, you're out of luck. Hale is currently off-limits -- a collapse, apparently -- but poultices can be found in the Marketplace, 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...
If you're injured, you're out of luck. Hale is currently off-limits -- a collapse, apparently -- but poultices can be found in the Marketplace, 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 very first 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!
► 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!
no subject
she draws up short, pulls the book in her arms against her chest. her eyes are wide as saucers, her blood cold. she opens her mouth, fails to find words, closes it. she should run. every part of her screams to run. baghra's voice booms in her mind. foolish girl.
how many lies? how many secrets? but she can still feel the scratch of his beard on her face. it surges to the surface of all those thoughts, taunting her with the familiarity of an intimacy that should have, could have once offered comfort. ]
Aleksander. [ she manages, articulately, once she finally finds breath.
the rest catches up then. the grief of their mutual deaths. maybe it's for the best, best for ravka and for them that neither of them can scratch their fingernails through it and leave some new indelible mark. but she doesn't really believe that. no matter how miserable she has been in her life, alina starkov is too selfish to be relieved by her own death. ]
You too?
no subject
And her words just nailed the fact that she wasn't. That they died, together.
There was certain sense of poetry in that.]
Yes.
[It comes out harsh. A cold reply to her question, when he still burns for Ravka. For Grisha. For the goals he had had forever, since that day by the lake, that had kept him moving through every king and every order.
Every war.
Gaze dropping to her neck, hidden away by the book held to her chest.]
Why?
no subject
alina's head is racing though, far from innocent. he isn't angry. not with her, at least. which means he must not have known what happened, how she'd left, what she'd done. or, unfortunately, how she'd died. how either of them had died, maybe.
it was foolish to look for answers in aleksander morozova. yet it was still her first instinct, wasn't it? better him than the book in her arms. she holds it out to him — a history of stygia, some dry account. ]
Ana Kuya, the matron of the orphanage I grew up in, told me that my way out of Keramzin was with a pen and a book in my hand. And she was right. I learned about mapreading and I joined the First Army and ... [ she shakes her head. it's a foolish thing to be recounting, but it feels important. like part of the picture that she can't bring to cut out of the frame. ] I thought if there was a way out of here, it'd be the same.
[ she doesn't want to be dead. saints, she doesn't want to be dead. ]
no subject
Follow the flow of power his mother had drilled in to him, from the moment he was aware enough to look at the world and the see the difference. Between Grisha and everyone else, the scraps of the world the rest of the world seemed fit to throw them.
Since he looked up and noticed the walls and the fences and the constant patrols along the edge of whatever tiny hamlet she dragged him in to.
But there is none here.
There's only Alina, looking every bit as beautiful and alive as she did the last time he saw her.
Except
For the small piece that seems to be missing. That, and the fact that she hasn't recoiled.
Yet.
Taking a step closer, his own fingers curl around the edges of the old book. Looking down, he reads the title and files it away for later.]
Did you find anything?
[A way out. A way back, a way to stop all of this and he slips half a step closer until he's towering over her with only the book between them.] But good thinking, even if you didn't.
no subject
she wants to run. but he is powerful and ancient and if he saw her, he would catch her. (and do what? a part of her mind scoffs. kill you? it should be a meaningless threat now, but the reality is that he would do much worse. he would steal what little is left of her instead.) she has to be smart. somehow, he doesn't seem to have realized that she knows, or that she has tried to flee already. ]
Not so far. [ she turns her shield over to him. loosens her grip on the book to let him take it. ] See for yourself.
[ without her shield, she feels naked in front of him. something squeezes inside of her. like an unused muscle. tense and fearful and anxious and anticipating. her hand shakes with it. ]
no subject
Reading now seems a little rude.
[But he'll take it - the book and any scrap of attention she levels at him.
Because before it vanished, there had been a glowing little statue of her here. Her hands raised and her hair fanning out like a banner behind her. Standing proud, head tilted back and a fierce look of determination of her face.
The meaning of it will come, he suspects, with strings and tethers and endless pain.]
You're shaking. [As he catches her eyes, holding that connection as his head tilts to the side.] Are you cold?
no subject
I'm dead. [ she spits, bitter and bewildered and overwhelmed not just by his presence, and the way it cracks the thin veneer of coping she'd been cultivating, but by everything. ] I can't possibly be cold.
[ the words taste like ash. this whole place does. she hates it, a tiny little candle flame trapped in some kind of endless miserable darkness. and here is the darkness himself, welcoming her. frustrated tears well in her eyes. ]
Right? That's how it should work. [ except none of this makes sense. being dead doesn't make sense. she can feel her voice tremble when she redirects from her crumbling self-possession, next: ] I thought you'd be angry with me. You should be.
no subject
-I never needed you
A spark thrown on a waiting fire, centuries in the making and all it took was her, for his plans to almost crumble down.
Anger, because she hadn't been entirely wrong.]
We're dead.
[The last hope for Ravka] How would being angry at you help?
[When his fingers still tingle with the urge to brush over her skin to feel her Sun flare underneath her skin, when he still wanted--
Weakness makes his head tilt back and his hands clench.] You're trembling, Alina.
no subject
[ she snaps this out, and it helps. it helps because now she is shaking with anger and not fear. anger at him, yes, but also at herself. how had she been so blind to these inhuman parts of him? to the coldness in him?
she didn't want to see it before. she needed to matter to someone, and she'd felt that she mattered to him — even if she hadn't realized it was only as a tool in his grand design. ]
If we can't get back, then Ravka — [ the words stop in her throat. blocked like a plug. she can't give it voice. she bites down on her lips. shakes her head. ] And it's my fault.
[ her fault for trusting him. her fault for not being strong enough to escape death, as he had apparently done for centuries. because she was just a stupid, stupid child who was in over her head — not a hero, not a saint. all the praise and awe showered upon her during the winter fete feels far away and unearned, as she'd always feared it might be. ]
no subject
[But it's there all the same. The resentment so intimately entangled with want, a surge that has nothing to do with his Small Science. That persists through anger and disappointment, that made him sleepless when she ran- seeing the fates that might wait for her outside the walls of the Little Palace running through his mind for hours-
And
he lost.
Lifting his gaze from her face to the darkened room behind her, to the endless rows of books and hidden knowledge of death]
-is lost. [He finishes her sentence. Is is her fault, all of it. The fall of Ravka and his death. Her death. The death and decimation of hope, it's her fault that he doesn't care as much as he should about this - this pull that yanks him along like a hook sunk in to the still-soft parts of himself.
The parts that are still Aleksander.] Don't blame yourself. [One hand still holding the book, not because it might be important but because she wanted it and the other comes up to brush a tendril of hair away from her face.] If there's a way out...
no subject
if only she could let herself.
it's as he says. feeling is a weakness. and she can't afford to be weak, or she'll become nothing more than a tool — not to save ravka, but to shape it to his liking. how much more death lay between the black heretic and his goals? how many more shadow folds might he make? ]
We'll find it? [ she tilts her head, full of doubt. ] What if there isn't one? [ maybe that'd be better. if they were trapped here, together, ravka might lose its sun summoner, but they'd be free of him too. ]
So sorry about late reply!
There is one.
[A certainty he doesn't feel. Yet. But it will come, as days drags in to months. Elizaveta came back, why not him? Why not the most powerful Grisha to ever walk on the soft dirt of Ravka, and he would never leave her behind.
A promise made before he was even born, that hers would be the face he saw in the Making.
His balance.] And we will find it. [And when she doesn't pull away - when she doesn't look away- he spears his hand in to her hair, cradling her head in his hand and thumb stroking the softness of her cheek.] I thought you would run...
no worries at all!
a shudder of an exhale blows past her lips. ]
What's that supposed to mean? You're the one who ran. [ an easy deflection. the corners of her lips quirk up, hiding her nervousness. that night feels so close, the memory of his body's heat, their hunger. ]
no subject
curious, how they still breathe, when they're dead. The thundering beat of his own heart in his chest, and the heat of her cheek against the palm of his hand.]
When, Alina? When did I run from you?
[His last memory of her, hands raised in victory and sunlight streaming out of her, shining brighter than the sun ever had. A beacon to light up the darkness he made so long ago...]
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maybe, though, she can outmaneuver him.
in her mind, baghra tells her again how stupid she is, how foolish for thinking she was special and for underestimating that he is eternal and has manipulated any number of girls just like her. alina shuts these thoughts away. she is special. and she is powerful. and if she can just buy herself some time to make use of any of that ...
that's all this is. buying time. one little lie. ]
After the fete. [ she puts her hand on his chest. his heart beats under her palm. it shouldn't. they're dead. further, his shouldn't. a monster shouldn't feel so human. ] In your room.
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There is no trace of that on her face. No fear, no anger, no seething resentment.
No ancient antlers around her neck...]
We were interrupted. [Her double murdered, bleeding out in the dressing room and it could too easily have been her in there. Alina's blood on the polished floor, drying against Genya's skin.]
I never should have left you alone. [They died, somehow.
A second chance.
A bait too alluring to ignore and he bridges the space between them to hover above her mouth, speaking every word right against her lips.] We are here now.
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she is desperate enough not to pull away from him. his breath is hot on her face, his body warm and so close to hers, and all she wants is to chase away how much her chest aches, how afraid she is. she closes her fists around the familiar material of his kefta and leans into it, parts her lips to devour all his little lies and hide from her fear that maybe they really are dead and maybe she really has failed and her punishment is an eternity alone with him.
if that's the case, at least she can avoid thinking about it. the brutal effort to wound herself spills through in the roughness of the kiss, the bruising pressure, the scrape of teeth. ]
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To abandon their people and leave him in the dark. Alone.
But with her sweet mouth on his, the curl of her little hands in his clothes and the Darkling crushes her to his chest. Hands holding on as if he never intended to let go, as he kisses her back. Kisses the breath right out of her until he's gasping against her mouth.
He might be dead, but he's not alone. A nightmare chased away by the light of her Small Science and the weight of her against him in the ancient library. The smell of old books and dust so heavy in the air, but she dispels it all as he loses himself in feel of her.]
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all the same, a little flicker of light glows beneath the breast of her shirt — not a kefta, for she had not bothered to salvage anything of the sort from her home, had in her misery chosen not to draw that attention and not to commit herself to that cause. the glow pulses and jitters. inconstant, as if caught in a wind, but growing steadily brighter.
something else they could have had. she could have felt golden and divine kissing him like this forever, if he had not been a liar and a monster. alina sinks her teeth into his lip savagely, turning the kiss rougher, pressing him backwards towards the opposite shelf. grappling with him as much as with her own feelings. ]
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Without the tracker tripping him up, without the demands of the king pulling him away-- just the two of them. The way it was always meant to be.
The promise made to him at the Making at the Heart of the World. Someone like him.
He kisses her back with equal fervour, crushing his lips to hers, licking away the ruby-red blood that she drew from him. Kissing her, until his back hit the shelves behind them and his hands find a home against her hips.]
Like calls to like, Alina.
[Breathless, a mere groan against her mouth, before he dives back in, kissing her and pulling her up-]
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and yet, there is something stark and clear to the way she thinks, i am nothing like you. defensive and sharp and — and she isn't sure it's true, exactly. is it? she wants terribly to believe it, but here she is tangled in him, his blood spotted on her wet lips, the shelf shuddering with the force of them knocking into it.
someone steps around the edge of it. their shape blots out the light, and when that is not enough, they clear their throat. alina breaks the kiss, forehead brushing against kirigan's as she turns her face away from the interloper, her own breath hoarse in a way that had not felt familiar until him.
'this is a library,' the stranger says. an employee, maybe? alina hadn't gotten a good look before she'd resigned herself to embarrassed hiding.
quietly, she says, ] You should put me down.
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Haloed beautifully against the flicking torch-lights and the tendrils of dark hair that has escaped to fly around her face in the ... kiss.]
I should.
[With reluctance, hands still lingering on her waist even as he puts her down-- to keep her from falling, he tells himself, to keep her steady and to keep her close.]
Pardon us- [He nods at the interloper, without really seeing them at all.] Come on, Alina.
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she has made a terrible mistake, thinking that the easier choice was to lie to the darkling, to pretend everything was alright, to indulge her girlish desires and missed her chance to instead simply run. run and never turn back.
she crouches. collects the book and reshelves it, then allows herself to be steered, as she always had. she pipes up as they begin to walk, ] Where are we going? I was reading.
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[Was there even such a place?
The Darkling doesn't know, and doesn't care much except for how the stranger made Alina stiffen in his arms. The ramrod straight line of her spine standing out even as he guides her deeper in to the stacks of books.
Not only on the shelves, but piled waist-high at the corners and close to the walls. Books carefully placed aside from the rest and he makes a note of that, too.
He had waited centuries for her, and with Alina tugged safely close to his body, he knows that he is done.
They might be dead, but the two of them together would be able to do impossible things. Not even death could keep them.]
You can read everywhere, Alina, but talking might not be safe here.
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[ there's a flush high in her cheeks that begs to differ, but there's no opportunity for real argument because the matter is settled. aleksander had made a decision, and alina would follow.
nonetheless, she scowls a bit. ] I don't see what you're worried about. Apparently, I'm already dead. I'm not ... valuable anymore.
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