tushanshu_logs | EVENT | LANDFALL

EVENT | LANDFALL | VALISHAERA

Characters: ALL!
Date: JULY 13-26
Location: Valishaera
Situation: Tu Vishan has made landfall on Siaxhi, to explore the Dreaming Watch City of Valishaera.
Warnings/Rating: Please indicate content warnings in subject headers as applicable.

As Tu Vishan draws near, the heavy jungle visible even from miles out quickly identifies the landmass as Siaxhi, one of the westernmost continents in Konryu and one that has been largely untouched insofar as the kedan themselves have gone. There is a natural inlet along the southeast shore on the continent and Tu Vishan makes for that, though he fills nearly all of it.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'm not attempting to," said Solomon, more seriously than he had nearly any other moment except when half out of his head with craving. He held up his hand without actively touching the ghosts, but enough to acknowledge their presence. "I am aware that I threatened them. Consider this a peace-offering, as it were, if not for your benefit than for theirs."

He dropped his hand and looked at Bakura. "And that is exactly what I would have, if you agreed. My magic is a representative of Death, and the location I have chosen is one of Dreaming. I have not died once, so my blood should suffice as a representative of Life. But I need someone to open the khajbit."

To say nothing of Bakura himself being a walking, talking representation of Life, Death and Dreaming. The man had died multiple times, yet still lived; and with him were the ghosts of his kin, which one could argue might well be something of the Dreaming themselves.

[Hawke isn't the only one drawn to the ruins. Hellboy's always had a penchant for old places. They echo with energy and history and the ghosts of those come and gone. Sometimes they could tell you more than living people ever could.

As he walks down a winding corridor--starkly empty and the brickwork still pristine--Hellboy runs his stone hand across its surface with the sound of grating tombstones.

He might be seven feet tall, red, and have a tail, but he's no dragon. Though he does looks surprised as hell when he rounds the corner, eyes widening in surprise.]

...Hawke? [The way he approaches, it's pretty obvious he recognizes him.] Jeez! I thought you were gone for good.

After a day spent traveling the ruins of the city, Hellboy gets to talking to some of the native farmers. Their friendly nature and love of the land reminds him of a few tribesmen he'd met on his travels through Africa, and it leaves him humming with the ghosts of good memories.

When they invite him to stay the night in their village, he gladly accepts. A night spent away from the city, out in the wilderness surrounded by good, salt-of-the earth people, sounded just like the good old days.

Dinner's held at the house of the farmers--brothers, who feed him from the latest harvest of their crop. It's simple fare, but Hellboy likes simple.

When he steps out for an after dinner smoke, there's a kindly-looking woman sitting outside the hut next door. Hellboy offers her a friendly nod as he strikes his match against his stone hand, then lights his cigarette with the other.

"Nice night," he offers, blowing smoke.

"A peace offering," Bakura repeated with a hard edge to his jawline, that suggested he was still much angrier than the calm words belied. "You can balm your conscience all you want but don't bother dressing it up as anything else, djahtet-mahr. It's only peace so long as your mood holds or you don't go partially insane again, whichever comes first."

A possibility to which, as Solomon had previously noted and Bakura well knew, he had no way to counter. He could push the ghosts quiet but Solomon had learned the same Shadow Magic as Bakura used with uncanny alacrity, so there was a chance that even using that to protect them -- and himself, but them -- would have little to no effect. It was a terrifying thought, and Bakura did not give into fear easily.

So that meant he had to ensure their safety by any other means necessary, including doing what the necromancer wanted. The tension didn't leave but it did subside. "Fine. Where?"

There were a lot of things Solomon could have said in reply to that. First and foremost, that there were many who would say he didn't have a conscience. Solomon would have agreed with them in an instant, except--except that the comment made him think of the battle in the khajbit, and the reason for its result, and he couldn't.

He would have liked to be able to agree--but he couldn't. "Inside the temple," Solomon said, "there are three portals inside the Dreaming. One of them is for knowledge."

They could have left it there and carried on, and it would have been terribly awkward, and under other circumstances Solomon would have enjoyed prodding at the awkwardness. But he had very few people in his lifetime he'd been willing to call friends, and even fewer here, and somehow--he still wasn't quite sure how, or why--but he did regret the threat. Tremendously.

"I told you what happened to my father," Solomon said, quite calmly. "That was four centuries ago. It's been a very long time. They didn't even see fit to give him a proper grave; I had to return after the fact and move him elsewhere. I have nothing by which to remember him." Even the cane had been a weapon more than a remembrance. A reminder of how much he'd failed.

"Except for this." Solomon dug in his pocket and drew out the small wooden painting Skulduggery had found and returned to him. It was no longer water-logged, and the paints were oil so they hadn't faded or run. It was a small picture, one his father had kept on his desk, of a man in an armchair and a boy hanging over the chair's arm. It ought to have been stiff and dignified, as so many paintings were in that time, but they were both smiling--laughing, even. It was easy to tell that they were related; they looked alike, though the man was bearded and lacked the slight curl in the boy's hair.

Calmly Solomon withdrew the small blade he'd taken to carrying and cut a small line on the fatty part of his hand, and let the blood well into his palm before pressing it to the back of the painting, holding it until it had to sink in. Then, equally calmly, he held it out to Bakura.

It wasn't exactly an ushabti. Solomon wasn't dead, for one. Certainly it wouldn't be able to control him. But inside the khajbit, it may well afford Bakura an extra measure of defence for his kin, if anything untoward should happen to supersede Asti's blessing.

By whom?

[The confident air behind his question suggests he may already know the answer, but he wears a smile and a twinkle in his eyes all the same, eager for her response.]

Bakura took the small painting, suspicion evident in his gaze as he studied Solomon for another moment before glancing down at the object and running careful fingers around the outside edge of the frame, feeling where the texture was different on the oil paint. He understood what Solomon had done and even as he turned the painting over, the blood was hardly more than a stain-- the binding had been accepted, magic was reacting to it.

It was tempting to break it right there. It wouldn't kill Solomon, he knew that but it could potentially damage a part of his magic, not to mention en emotional toll. It's a trick! kept playing over and over in the back of his mind.

"I don't have anything of theirs," he answered. "Just a five year old's memories. The soldiers burnt Kul Elna to the ground when they were done. Even if I could have found something, I would have lost it again when I was sealed. Oh I have the Ring..." His mouth lifted in a humourless smile. "But a cursed Item forged from blood and bone made gold is hardly a keepsake. And for as loud as they are up here?"

He touched the side of his head mocking, almost deprecatingly. "I still can't talk to them individually, even after all this time. My mother, our Elder, the other children who were my friends. It's like being taunted with something you can never have. I have to get them through the Memory Gate. They deserve it and I... I would like the chance to say goodbye. Do you understand?"

Bakura flipped the small painting back at the necromancer. "You're an idiot. If you have something like this, you crack the skull of anyone who so much as looks at it wrong-- you don't go giving it away to make a point."

A faint scowl, then he looked away. "Where's this portal of knowledge?"

[This place isn't so bad. As long as he doesn't think about too much. He looks up when he hears Kaldur call out to him.]

Hey, Dude! Have you seen these mushrooms? Because they're ridiculous.

Five years old. Even younger than Solomon had been assuming. He caught the painting easily and turned it over to smooth his fingers across the painting, and couldn't help but be relieved that Bakura hadn't hurt the painting as he could have. Surprised, but relieved.

"Perhaps," he acknowledged, "but then, the khajbit has already established my flaw is sacrifice, has it not? Who am I to sacrifice your kin if I cannot sacrifice my own?"

The khajbit had made it clear just what sort of flawed thinking that was. Solomon still didn't know what he was meant to do with it; most days, he simply declined to think about it. At all. But where Bakura was concerned, the point was a legitimate one, and there was something to be said for a pound of flesh.

"Then let us ensure you have that chance," he said, and slipped the painting back into his pocket. "This way."

The portal, when they arrived there, looked no different to the others; but Solomon went to the last one to be explored and stepped through without any hesitation.

[Some things Hawke expects to see in ruins like this. Dragons, undead, and darkspawn are normally at the top of that list. Things that look like Hellboy are not. So Hellboy's eyes aren't the only ones that widen.

Normally running into a big red demon looking creature is very bad news. Unfortunately it's hard to tell just who the bad guy is anymore in this place. After all, he's caring for a baby turtle with the help of a living skeleton.

But one question remains. How does this guy know his name?]

Well isn't this a happy reunion. Small problem though...

[Hawke takes an obvious step away from Hellboy. Notch follows his lead, his eyes never leaving the big guy.]

I don't remember giving my name out to a big red...you.

The comment got another bemused look, but then Solomon almost belatedly realised what, exactly, was the point of contention. Which in itself was an odd thought; certainly Solomon was capable of forming friendships, insofar as Necromancers ever did or could; and he was something of an oddity in that regard.

"I wasn't aware you were personally concerned for my well-being," he said after a moment, neutrally but still with a faint air of bemusement if Raine cared to look. "I ... apologise." What a strange thought. "There is no need to be so concerned, I assure you." Certainly not many people bothered, and those that did had usually been manipulated into it. Solomon hadn't done any such thing to Raine.

"The Dreaming is a place of dreams," he added dryly. "Surely no animals here, if real, require any such sustenance or shelter."

You certainly are quite right about that.

[Enjolras may not have outwardly enjoyed many things in life, or even here for the most part, but a collection of books this immense certainly is one thing, or rather several of them, going by the number of volumes, that he is rather obviously enjoying. Of all things, there is a compilation of Rousseau on a shelf near enough to touch, and he's drawing out the leather volume almost lovingly, fingers tracing the lettering on the cover.]

So many things to read in here. I think that it would take a lifetime. And it would be well worth the lifetime too. I always wished in Paris that I had more time to devote to...

[There are some loose pages. folded newspapers by the looks of them tucked into the dead center of the book he's looking through, which fall to the floor the moment Enjolras opens the book. Bending to pick them up, he finds that they are more familiar than he'd thought.]

Oh, but these actually are dear friends of mine. I nearly died attempting to save this one. [He's explaining, showing Midii the front page and the date. July 27th, 1830.]

France... falls back into revolution by the act of the government itself... [Enjolras does not need to read the words, though they are not his own. He knew the situation, and the man who had written them so well, and had practically chained himself to the press that produced these words until he had been knocked unconscious himself. He does not quite allow himself the sentiment of tears, but there is something in his eyes that show that he is moved, regardless.]

...The legal regime is now interrupted, that of force has begun... in the situation in which we are now placed obedience has ceased to be a duty... It is for France to judge how far its own resistance ought to extend...

Armand Carrel. He taught me more in the two years I worked with him than anything I learned in school.

[And then, he's ducking his head a bit, realizing that dusty old newspapers are probably not to the best of everyone's interest.]

I...sorry. There's me getting a bit carried away.

Edited 2014-07-19 09:40 (UTC)

"Are you sure you're not drowning?"

It doesn't feel right to just leave him like that even if he claimed to be fine. For all he knew, Zelgadis could be one of those prideful people (like him) who refused to admit they needed help until they were almost dead.

[China was something that Enjolras could not explain in much detail, sadly. Mostly, he knew of things that had been invented there and brought to Europe later, or in the case of printing, well, the history that connected to a thing that he was interested in. Well, he'd learned the China bits from Combeferre's father, when he'd learned that Enjolras was far more interested in journalism than in actually using his law degree to practice, but, sadly, he did not have a lot of other information. And he was not certain of who he might suggest would know.

But then, Wan was explaining catdeer, and the Lion Turtle and he fell to listening instead. More turtles that carried people about on their backs? He'd not have guessed. And then, the spirits themselves. He somewhat understood those a little, when it came to concepts. After all, what was La Marianne but the Spirit of the French Republic? ]

You lived with...that must have been a lot of learning. I admit it is a concept I have something of a hard time wrapping my mind around, as far as things in daily life must be concerned. And yes, that is rather different from what I know. I grew up by the sea and my village was small but still had several people, and then I lived in Paris, where we had so many. That was a strange enough adjustment for me then. I can only imagine what our turtle with all our people must be like after a life such as the one you mention.

["Our" turtle and "our" people. Enjolras had, at some point, apparently begun to see Tu Vishan as a home. It did not mean he had ever forgotten home, either one of them, but as he'd traded Cassis for Paris, he'd managed to do the same with Paris and here. The thought was somehow rather comfortable, even now.]

!I'm taking care of one of the turtles." He explained, shrugging a bit. "Asti came during the last festival, one night, and said he'd give me a gift as a thank you."

He lifted himself two feet from air as he grinned sheepishly. "I asked for flight- it seemed cool, at the time, but I'm also guessing it's going to come up handy often. I'm still not good at controlling it, but I can hover and check things from up there just fine. So maybe if you tell me what I should look for...?"

He looks down at the kid with a raised eyebrow, as if actually surprised he'd ask that of all things.

"It's... Vogue. Of course I read it. Where I'm supposed to get the information on what's in next month, or useful advise? Not that I can do much about it when I have to wear these clothes but a guy can dream."

An exceptionally large turtle who goes by the name of Asti.

[There was a point when Midii had leaned in, attempting to peer over his shoulder. Well, maybe not his shoulder, given how much taller he was than her. The date was of little surprise; she already knew that the people of Eponine's world came from far in her past.]

No, it's alright. [She shook her head gently.] This is my history too. I think.

"Good." Now he only has to actually teach the movies, but he's never actually... done that.

"I guess the arms are the easiest part. How about you watch me and try to mimic me?"

[Hellboy stops in his tracks the minute he sees Hawke hesitate, frowning as he watches the confusion wash over his expression.]

Hellboy.

[He corrects with only mild irritation in his voice. Though it's not directed at Hawke. He's heard of people leaving and coming back without certain memories, but this is the first time he's had to deal with it.

This place, he thinks. This damn place.]

You and I helped out with some hauntings around Keeliai a couple years ago. Though I guess you don't remember that either.

In contrast to Wreath's exploration, Skulduggery had been keeping a little closer to the coast. He'd tried exploring further in-land, of course, in both the Temple and the ruins, but there was something decidedly wrong about it all. Something Skulduggery felt he should know more about already, but couldn't quite put his finger on. Unfortunately, he must have asked the wrong person the exact wrong number of questions, because he was starting to receive glares wherever he went. Add to that his recent exploration of the woods stuck in perpetual darkness, and Skulduggery was perfectly happy skirting the majority of the ruins.

Or at least, that was what he tried to tell himself.

The walk became so mind-numbingly boring that Skulduggery actually jumped at the chance to step down to the water's edge and pick up something that the waves were trying to carry down the shore. It looked like a square. A square bit of cloth, to be a little more specific. A square bit of brown cloth. It was holding very solidly in the current, however, which suggested that it was more than simply a square bit of non-important cloth.

Skulduggery pulled the water underneath the solid brown object closer to him, picked it up, and turned it over. And had he been wearing a face, he would almost immediately have scowled.

It was a small portrait. An oil painting done at least three or four hundred years ago, created by someone with unparalleled skill - likely someone whose services were incredibly expensive. There were two people in it, and while one was much younger than Skulduggery remembered, it was still obvious who the waterlogged painting belonged to.

It was even more obvious that something in this dimension was trying to force more interaction between them.

You should still bring it to him, came Quintus's voice accusingly in Skulduggery's mind. Stop being so stubborn.

Skulduggery audibly grunted. The large psychic turtle had begged to come ashore with them; although last Skulduggery heard, he was staying with Gazelle. Maybe he was. Maybe his range and his perception had gotten better. Either way, Skulduggery failed to stop from sending a silent grumble in response, and then turned towards the ruins.

There was only one place a necromancer would be, after all. Even if Skulduggery's theory about the abandoned city was correct.

One of the giant mushrooms swayed back and forth, slowly rocking until the small figure on top of it vaulted off with an audible bustle of air beneath her feet. Gaining the advantage in height to look down at the ground below allowed Korra to survey the area and observe the animals that inhabited the realm.

Soaring through the air in a prolonged jump, she landed on top of another mushroom, though it must have been an old one as it didn't spring backwards, instead heading straight towards the ground while Korra went to hold on to the edge.

The one time she didn't bring her custom glider...

Another book was flung in the air, straight over Korra's shoulder. The sound of book pages being sifted loudly through before the cover is slammed shut had almost reached the point of a rhythm.

"This is the most useless library of all time!" Korra tossed another book onto the pile. "What good's a book if you can't even read it?" At that point, she was looking for pictures or something.

Hardly moments after Korra had entered through the portal, she was on alert and a survival knife appeared strapped to her boot. Being a natural fighter and taught survival skills by her father in the South Pole meant Korra was to be tested by combat. With most of her life being nothing but tests of her physical prowess, Korra easily took to the challenge and was following the trail of what would be her opponent.

The jungle meant many dangerous animals would be lurking and waiting to strike, and she intended to strike right back. A mamba passed along the branch over her head and Korra looked up just in time to see it open its mouth to bite her. Korra took in a quick breath and blew out a a piercing wind that sent it flying up through the treetops right before its fangs were on her face.

"...I probably should have tried to catch it." That was a potential waste now that she thought about it.

I was not aware dream-waking was a power, save in giant turtles.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 8 of 36

EVENT | LANDFALL | VALISHAERA

no subject

no subject

Closed to Veldyzh

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Korra | OTA

Korra | OTA

Korra | OTA

no subject