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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

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?"

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.

He certainly isn't going to verbally answer that but Bakura knows very well that someone properly motivated will do things they'd consider themselves above in other situations. So he says nothing and follows the necromancer, watching him stride through the portal without hesitation. Bakura follows a moment later, immediately casting his gaze around as he finds himself in a new room? place? dimension? as though expecting something to leap out and attack them.

"The setting is a little cliche..."

"Just a touch," Solomon agreed, looking around, though he didn't know why he was disappointed. He had asserted that the gateway led to a plane of knowledge and he was right. Cliches, most of the time, were cliches for a reason. "Though it will serve, I suppose."

There were at least desks nearby for them to use, so Solomon went to one of them, still glancing around in much the same way Bakura was. After the last gate, he was a touch less sanguine about their safety than he had been with Hayley. The first gate had yielded no immediate dangers, and this one shouldn't either, but he was still cautious.

Truthfully Solomon only had a vague idea of what he was doing, but he had enough theory to try and feel his way through the practicalities. He faced the table and looked back at Bakura. "Life, Death, and Dreaming," he said calmly. "We're in Dreaming now, and I'll shed some blood for Life, if my being alive isn't already enough. Once the khajbit is open I can attempt to resurrect something through it, and that will be enough for Death. However, since I'm attempting to summon something specific to yourself and your kin, it would be useful to have something other than they themselves on which to focus."

He inclined his head toward Bakura's chest. "Your Ring. Its connection to you is itself a representation of Life and Death. I won't touch it, obviously, but would you be willing to allow me to use it as a focal point for the summoning?"

It may not be necessary, especially not now Solomon knew he could also touch the khajbit, but it was convenient. He just didn't know enough about how to use its magic to know whether it was wise; that would be up to Bakura to decide.

"I can open the shadows and hold them," Bakura answered. Indeed, he was well-practiced in covering an entire dueling field, though that was not the upper limit of his range. Solomon wouldn't need anything that large however so the thief foresaw no issue with the task.

The Ring, however...

He studied Solomon for a moment, there still being a cautious and cagey cast to his gaze despite the supposed accepted apology just prior. But Bakura withdrew the Ring from beneath his shirt, letting it dangle from his fingers as he hooked them under the upper rim, giving the spires freedom to swing gently.

"You can but it'll want something in return from one of us," he said. "You think using the khajbit carried a price? This is worse."

Ah. Solomon regarded the Ring for a few moments, not warily but thoughtfully, as a man considering his options. It would likely offer them any extra power they needed, but without knowing quite what they were attempting to do that was a dangerous proposition; if the Ring was in any fashion sentient then it would well force them to use more power than they wanted.

No. Best, at this stage, to leave the Ring as a final option.

"Another time," he said, "if we need it. I would rather know the constraints for which we need it before paying its cost, if it has one." He would just have to be careful about pressuring the ghosts, in that case.

Solomon manifested a small bowl on the table and used his small knife to reopen the cut he'd made on his palm, but a little more deeply this time. He hissed slightly as he did so, letting blood pool in the bowl until the bottom was covered before pulling back and putting pressure on the wound. He nodded at Bakura. "When you're ready."

There was no flashy spell or signal, not with this as natural as breathing. A hazy murk spread around them, cutting off the light of the library setting, leaving only the table and a vague outline of things outside the small "bubble" of shadow that encased them. In the gloom, the Ring shone faintly like catching light from the corner of one's eye.

"Thank you." The ghosts were almost close to visible in the khajbit, particularly with the Ring attempting to draw attention to itself. Solomon ignored it and paid attention to the spirits instead.

This was going to be the delicate part. Solomon had no desire to absorb the ghosts, so he would have to be so very light. Fortunately, what he was attempting didn't involve having to reach out with his own soul--simply connect theirs. It was a similar technique to what Necromancers used to animate a zombie, particularly a zombie intended to maintain its intelligence for at least a few minutes--or at least one that was tame, before it ate anything.

Such a technique involved attaching soul, or at least enough of a soul to have some basic intelligence, to its body. It was simply a matter of prompting the parts back together using the qualities of attraction inherent in every individual. Solomon raised his hands, dipping the fingers of one into the bowl and one palm-flat at one of the swells of consciousnesses around Bakura. There was no way to tell for certain whether it was what was left of one individual or a clash of more; either way, there was a good chance one of the ghosts, singular, was there.

One breath. Inhale. Exhale. Then Solomon drew on his power and the shadows collected around him, around his hands. It wasn't like the other shadows he'd used--it was formless, less sharp, not a weapon but energy used as a sudden shock--like a crash-cart.

The shadows struck that swell with a ripple of colliding waves, unharmful but shocking enough to send any ghosts nearby scattering. A silhouette formed, with enough shape to see that the individual was human. All at once Solomon felt the pressure around him, sharp-edged and from all directions; not just the buzz of the khajbit but more as if it was gravity emerging from three--no, four--different directions.

Solomon breathed deeply and closed his eyes and felt for the faintest of the gravity wells--the one in this being reaching, vainly, for the rest of it. In that well was the link between planes.

The problem here was accessing it. Solomon tried to take a step and it felt like moving through molasses; as if his every limb were too heavy for him to even move. Not a good idea. "Bakura," he said, his voice strained. "If you would be so kind as to direct your friend here toward me, that would be much appreciated."

It was so hard to resist every instinct screaming at him to eliminate the perceived threat to his ghosts, even though he understood what was going on intellectually, even though the ghosts themselves weren't afraid -- agitated by the happenings, yes, but not by a sense of danger. Still, Bakura's one hand unconsciously found the hilt of his knife, fingers gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white and bloodless.

Take the subclavian artery on the left, cut up and outward, he'll be unconscious in seconds, dead in under a minute...

The shadows surrounding them were certainly reacting to his level of anxiety over this experiment, even if the ghosts weren't. Red-tinged crackles of lightning crawled through the murk. The thief stared hard at Solomon, seeming almost unnaturally still against the shifting backdrop of darkness. Finally he turned his head slightly, addressing the ghosts instead. "Setemu-ef aa t'et, aakhu-i."

After a moment, one seemed to move into the space which Solomon's shadow was containing.

Ah. Apparently he'd missed. Or at least missed enough to need a touch more direction. It was difficult to tell, with the ghosts being such an amorphous mass. Solomon wasn't unaware of the change in the khajbit around them, but he had no more mind to spare it; he had known, going in, that using the ghosts directly would have risked prodding Bakura's ire. That was why he'd wanted to use the Ring.

Too late now, and fortunately Bakura had enough control to resist doing what his instincts said. When the ghost entered the area defined by Solomon's shadows they stabilised, becoming more defined in terms of height and other general physical features. It felt as though something opened up under Solomon's hand, resonating wildly--painfully.

He grit his teeth and now his breathing came fast, almost raspy. His heart pounded all through him, until it felt as though something had to give. The link was there, he could feel it--but the slight hum of connection wasn't enough to actively draw through what was on the other side.

What would--oh. Solomon took one difficult step forward and dragged his fingers forward, the ones glistening with his blood. They shook as he wrote an ankh on the nameless spirit's forehead and then all at once the pressure centred as if a reverse suction had yanked something forward into the here. The silhouette shimmered and greyscale light bloomed across it, like a faded picture of a moving image from long ago.

Bakura had just opened his mouth to bark out a what the hell are you doing when detail shaded into the shadowed figure. The features weren't completely clear, but it was obviously enough for recognition because all the colour drained out of the thief's face and he stood mute and motionless.

The figure was a man working with two tools, one in each hand, one that resembled an awl and appeared to be working on something that couldn't be seen; it wasn't part of the image. After several seconds, it was as though something caught his attention and he stopped, lifting a hand as though to wave at someone and speak soundlessly. Then the tableau reset itself and the figure moved through the motions again, oblivious to the audience.

"Amanhef," Bakura said, the name choked out in barely more than a whisper... before the khajbit ripped itself free of his control and around them exploded with the force of a bomb, hurling them apart.

Even before Bakura's choked word, Solomon's grasp on the spirit was seesawing. He could draw them together, but pulling together and knitting together weren't the same thing here, and the Necromantic power he was exerting just wasn't enough for a being so badly sundered. There just wasn't anything there to encourage healing.

Then their little bubble of reality exploded and Solomon was hurled back into one of the Dreaming's bookcases, and he tumbled to the floor without enough time to muster shadows as a cushion. He lay there and gasped for some moments, feeling as though he ought to have been cut to shreds or possibly torn to pieces from inside out.

It took far too long, but eventually he managed to get his hand to move and tried to push himself upright. He didn't succeed; his whole body felt like a limp noodle. He crawled over to the table instead, and between that and one single, thin shadow helping him up managed to get to his feet.

"Ba--" He coughed through his terribly dry mouth, as if he'd spent far too long in a desert, and tried again. "Bakura?"

That ... was not precisely the reaction he'd been expecting once they'd reached that far. He hoped that meant it was due to Bakura losing control and not anything they'd done wrong otherwise--or else they would have a great deal more to research before they tried again.

The thief had also been tossed ragdoll-like against the opposite wall, which wasn't any softer than the bookcase had been for Solomon. One hand crossed across his abdomen; he was sure he'd cracked a rib or two and his expression reflected that pain. Sharp pieces of the khajbit swarmed around him, acting like hungry wolves darting in to rip at the edges of his unprotected soul. It wasn't the first time he'd lost control of the shadows and paid the price for it, but it had been a while and it hurt.

The shadows thickened, almost frenzied and across his soul something shredded. Bakura couldn't stop a low groan that ended in a hiss as he waited for the khajbit to find its equilibrium again. "Stay back," he forced out to Solomon.

It was the first time Solomon had seen the khajbit act in a fashion when it wasn't already encompassing a space, and for a moment he stared. Then he closed his eyes, took a breath and forced his thoughts into some semblance of order. He'd be damned if he lost an ally at this point because of a bloody--shadow.

He'd been practicing since he came out of the magic-gate with Raine, and though Solomon knew that he couldn't hope to match the same level of mastery Bakura had, he still felt he ought to lighten the burden. Solomon took a step closer and bit down on his tongue at the shaking pain in his knee that hadn't been caused just by exhausted. Right. Well, then, he'd just have to stay where he was.

The khajbit wasn't the sort of place that could simply be driven away, only assuaged with appropriate payment. Solomon glanced at the bowl of his blood on the table, and lifted his stinging hand to pick it up and throw it toward the shadows. The bowl was Dreaming--but the blood was real. Logic dictated it ought to help; blood shed usually did. He exerted just enough will to ensure the khajbit took it, instead of it splattering all over Bakura.

Edited 2014-07-25 10:07 (UTC)

Taking last digs at Bakura, the shadows swarmed around the offered blood, absorbing not just the material itself but the essence it contained and Solomon would feel a bite out of his own energy before they vanished, leaving the two alone in the library setting. The thief took a moment to regain his composure before hurling a scathing, "What the hell were you doing to them? You never said anything about--!"

Solomon had little enough energy to spare that the dig made him grunt, and he put all his weight on the table. Now the shock was starting to wear off, all the aches and pains he hadn't noticed were starting to make themselves known.

"About what?" he asked, when Bakura couldn't seem to finish his sentence. "I told you I was searching for the other parts of their being. What did you think I'd do with those parts, if not to put them back together?"

Particularly with Bakura standing right there. If Solomon had done anything other than what he'd already meant to do, he had no illusions about being dead in an instant.

Bakura's anger is quick, viper-like but it comes on the heels of that very stark moment where he'd been struck mute by what he'd seen. "They're not for you to experiment with!"

He gathers himself, pushing off the wall behind him to stand again. He's less steady than he would have wanted but that's to be expected. It doesn't stop him from grabbing Solomon's upper arm, grip tight enough to bruise. "And the khajbit should not have listened to you, blood trick or not. What are you hiding?"

Under any other circumstance Solomon would have the strength to avoid or resist that grab; but he didn't now, and in Bakura's state it would have been dangerous to let the thief know that for certain. Instead Solomon forced himself to relax, to pretend no perceived danger from the action, and to ignore the constricted throb in his elbow.

Hopefully, most of Bakura's ire came from the unexpected sight of one of his kin. That meant it would likely fade. If not, Solomon might be in trouble.

"One of the gates here grants a magical boon to those who pass within it," he said calmly, answering the second question first. "It gave me access to the khajbit in creating small pockets, but I already knew I would not have the control necessary to serve my purposes for today. Given that fact, it did not seem a pertinent matter to raise."

His palm throbbed, still, and half-bitterly he hoped the shedding had been worth it. The gash had come open again; he could feel the blood congealing around his fingers. At this rate it was going to take a while to heal. Solomon ignored it, and looked Bakura in the eye. "I told you what I was planning. I will apologise to your kin if any of them were unduly harmed, but if you thought somehow that the spell would not directly influence them, the assumption is hardly my fault. If you would prefer I cease attempting to find the rest of them, you need only decline in future."

Whether Solomon had actually told him was debatable; he'd approached this as an experiment with the khajbit, not the ghosts. And while Bakura was perhaps at fault for not pressing for more information, he also felt that the necromancer had taken advantage of that. Either way, he shoves Solomon back roughly, turning towards the door that denoted the exit to this portal, apparently not caring whether the other man was in any shape to follow or not.

Solomon caught himself on the table, hissed at the flare of pain it caused in his hand, and took a few moments to ensure that he would not, in fact, fall. With the way his knees shook, it was a near thing, particularly as his arms didn't seemed to want to hold him up for terribly long.

By the time he had righted himself, Bakura was already gone. Ah, well. Solomon wasn't dead; he counted that a minor miracle. He didn't bother to pursue the thief--but he took his time in leaving and making his way back to his apartment, not the least to ensure he didn't exacerbate his potential injuries more than necessary.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

EVENT | LANDFALL | VALISHAERA

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject