tushanshu_logs | ENDPLOT | ROLL THE BONES, PART 2

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ENDPLOT | ROLL THE BONES, PART 2

Characters: ALL!
Date: Mid-Late November
Location: In the Dreaming
Situation: It's either Malicant or the Foreigners... and their worlds.
Warnings/Rating: Add warnings as needed.

Locating the Vilii Stone has been dealt with and now it's time to take on Malicant directly. It's a relatively simple interpretation that proves the answer to the conundrum of how to share the object between all involved: shatter it, and make sure everyone has a shard. It clears any remaining taint of Malicant's essence from those who still more it and makes said evil furious. They're all feeling it now-- the throbthrobthrob of his telepathic presence has swamped the caverns where the stone once lay, and the only safe harbour is the Hotel. There's only so long even the Hotel will be able to withstand that force.

Inside the Dreaming, that force can't be felt. Inside the Dreaming, the caverns are reflected on long smooth lines, riveted by sinew and muscle, a true combination of the realms in this space that becomes a living maze to work against them. There are many offshoots, and when the Foreigners arrive in the Dreaming they will find themselves separated, both willingly and unwillingly, three or four apiece to each individual set of caverns that seal behind them. They're going to have to move fast and defend one another. Their collective power is all that remains between Malicant and everything else, and every part of him must be defeated.

He's waiting, but he's not without a plan.

The Foreigners will find that they are facing the embodiments of their greatest fears and weaknesses. An enemy they were never able to defeat, a friend who betrayed them, a fateful event that they couldn't outrun, even a physical feat they could never overcome. Malicant has had a long time to study them, to befriend them as Asti, to gain their trust and exploit their secrets. Where there are individuals, these embodiments will be targeted and where there are groups, they'll be something that encompasses multiple forms.

But the Foreigners are not without recourse: they are in the Dreaming Realm, a plane shaped by willpower, by desire... and even to a degree, by the very fears they are facing. The Gha'nal venom will allow them to manipulate what they perceive as the "reality" around them, and the shard of Vilii Stone they've been given will become a weapon or tool fitting to the situation, to help them.

LINKS
Part 1 - Beneath The Shell/Midnight Hotel | Part 1 - Malicant’s Tools/The Vilii Stone | OOC - Plotting Post

OOC
So here's the final log! There's a lot of freedom for players to write what they feel will be their biggest obstacle to overcome, and how Malicant will appear to be challenging them. The common traits to what all players are going to face are listed in the description above. This log will be open until the end of the month, at which point an interim log and OOC post will be going up.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Tazendra was fearless. Almost foolishly so, and the almost was questionable. Famed for it. Malicant could create any being, and the more powerful it seemed, the more eager she would be to fight it. Given willpower was the best weapon one could weird in the Dreaming, they'd all be home in time for tea if Malicant summoned an old or new enemy of Tazendra's.

Since Malicant was not, in fact, stupid, he wasn't doing that,

Tazendra crouched near a man lying on the ground, an arm twisted at angles that indicated broken bones (and the position of legs under skirts that suggested the same), and his breathing labored. If he wasn't dying, he was clearly heading that route. He was clearly of the same species/race as Tazendra, if only because he was clearly her height or even taller. A sword lay discarded on the ground, Tazendra's blades were sheathed, and Tazendra held the man's good hand and spoke to him in a low voice.

Sometimes strength and weakness are two sides of the same coin. Loyalty means you won't let a friend die, especially when you learned a rescue attempt for you was what killed him. Not quite a regret, but an action Tazendra would correct if given a chance.

Edited 2014-11-20 03:55 (UTC)

The fact that Enjolras and his friends had been abducted over a year ago still hung heavily on his mind, today of all days, natural though it might seem, and the present situation seemed to echo it a little. In feeling if not in the scenery provided for this trip into the Dreaming. It reminded him too much of how things had gone before, not because he had been in thrall, but because he had been powerless, because Malicant had had him on his knees and at his mercy, and there had not seemed any way of breaking that sort of a hold, no matter what he did.

Enjolras had not been a stranger to fear, at home, he had been terrified at a few very specific occasions in his life, but he had moved through them using that terror to his advantage. Bold and courageous action, after all, did not require that a man be fearless, merely that he use his fear as something of a spur to action. Being afraid was one thing, and, long as one was not petrified, and used the fear to his advantage, it was not so bad. He had understood the fear of death as it applied to others of his friends, of losing those who were beloved to him, but those had served, in the end, to make him better.

The fear of being left at the mercy of someone, or something else, as he had been then, and at Malicant's, who knew better than anyone what could make him break and beg, had been new, and started after their encounter, and it had been the most common in the year and some time that had followed it. The fear of pain that might be caused if he disobeyed while held under the dark being's mercy was there too, but it was lesser, compared to the point itself. Still, he would have as soon avoided that all together if he could. Simply because one would not give in if they were hurt did not mean it would be pleasant. Simply because Enjolras might endure something like torture with a smile to show he did not care, did not mean he would welcome it.

THAT was nothing,though, left to a loss of agency, a single moment on one's knees crying for mercy, or worse, sinking into terrified obedience at the hands of one's enemy. Enjolras had feared a moment like that, woken up on countless nights, Malicant's name on his lips as the scenario had appeared before him, again and again, and he did not appreciate the reminder of it just now, particularly as his own mind seemed to be creating it.

For a moment, he paused, gathering his strength, and nerve all up at once again, then stroking one of his earrings for courage, glad he had worn the audacious scarlet waistcoat and the hoops today, for all the comfort that they gave him going forward. Surely Malicant would not dare try again, would have moved on to new and better tactics? Whatever ones he chose, Enjolras knew he must be ready, and that he must fight with every dying breath he had.

"Never." He vowed, striding forward, despite the fear of the unknown. "Whatever else, I shall not be a slave again."

Edited 2014-11-20 06:45 (UTC)

There was not exactly an answer to the assertion, verbally, at least, but, it seemed to Enjolras, a moment later, that the world around him grew steadily darker, and sooner, rather than later, despite the deliberately even breaths, and the determination he was going to face this, the darkness surrounding him gave way to another cavern, this one darker, where the walls fit closer together, and, Enjolras realized, as he turned sharply, once, to glance back at a sound, a cavern that became a prison as a grating, made up not of metal, but of...

Stepping closer, at a familiar foul smell, Enjolras found himself gagging as he realized, yes, those grates were made of bone, and on the bone, frayed ribbons of what had once been flesh still remained in black and red strips, rotting before him as he starred, rushing through his list of potential ways to solve this.

"No going back?" he asked no one in particular, least of all not the presence that was growing stronger. "Very well. It can be managed."

There was only a laugh as Enjolras stepped forward again, into what had become pitch darkness, and was met, instead of with a space to walk through, a wall of solid rock, which knocked him down onto his side when he attempted to search for any sort of opening.

Perhaps not, Echoed a voice that sounded through the cavern, bouncing off the stone itself. You wished for absolution, once, of which you admitted you were not deserving. The words were a velvet purr, a contrast to the smell, the fear, and the sudden, rather bony finger that now traced across his cheek.

Despite it being mostly bone, his first instinct was perhaps not the best one, as it was rather immature, Enjolras bit into the nearest knuckle he could reach, wincing as his teeth met both bone, and a fraying bit of skin and something else he did not like to think about. And, for all of his efforts there, the figure behind him easily shrugged that off, grabbing at Enjolras's hands and arms, pinning one behind him, tugging it hard enough that there was a snap, enough to make Enjolras wince from where he lay on the ground, giving his captor enough time to grab at the other arm, binding both arms tightly at the wrists with something so thick and slimy, Enjolras did not want to think of what it was, even as he gasped in pain.

You make it so easy, continued the voice in his head, the voice that he was fairly sure must now be Malicant, and the laugh was now multiplied, tinged with more amusement than anything else. There was a pause in the laughter as Enjolras felt his arms jerked behind him again,then secured to something behind his back, at the perfect angle for forcing him to kneel, though he was already shifting, searching for a path away from that position, even as the voice continued mocking.

And here, there was much more prepared for you before you became mine. I am sure that you would not wish to be rude now, the words continued, even as Enjolras jerked his head over to the side, to attempt to spit on some part of his captor, and found the same bony fingers touching his cheek a long moment, a long nail scraping his face deep enough the sting of blood, burning like fire, was clear, then forcing his gaze frontward again.

I said that I presume you would not wish to be so rude either to the new master of your soul itself, or to the guests I found for you. It was a lot of work to track them down, Malicant, or whatever this force was, continued, Not many of you stayed behind, not even your drunk, or Pontmercy, though that would have been fun, but then I recall one of them from your dreams, and you do speak of the second quite a lot. It only seemed fair I bring them here to welcome you.

There was a snap of the fingers near his ear, especially loud for all that they were bone and sinew, barely hanging on, and a moment later, cast into a pale green light were the bent forms, roughly proportionate in frame to Bahorel and Feuilly. Bad enough the thought made him want to vomit, a moment later, as the pair approached, he was gagging deeply, trying to shove it back, as his friends, as what had been his friends staggered forward.

You understand, they've been in their grave for quite some time before I could restore their souls. Malicant added, stepping around Enjolras now, to beckon the pair of not-yet corpses forward. Come,no need to be shy. Your brother in arms would very much like to embrace you.

His head swimming with pain, and his stomach with revulsion, Enjolras forced himself to keep his head up where it was. Perhaps he had learned a lesson the hard way, due to the sting in his cheek and arm, he thought, but then, a better look at his "friends" as they shuffled forward, cancelled that thought from his mind. Horrific beyond his worst nightmares, mutilated in ways even the medical school would not have inflicted upon the cadavers they collected, he still resolved to look at them, to not allow himself to be affected, to show Malicant he had not won, physical enslavement and pain or no. There had to be some way out of this, even as stripped of weapons as he was.

For now, he'd meet the challenges head on, but any moment he could gain his own, Enjolras was going to break free of this. The fear beat strong within his chest, worse than he had known in any lifetime, but even so, the only way to deal with fear was face and find the way through it if he could somehow manage so much now.

[Notes: Not actual Malicant, but a fearscape version of one playing on Enj's deepest fears. The actual Malicant is obviously not mine, and you know, very busy.]

It was Feuilly who sparked it, honestly, or rather, apparition of whatever was being passed off as Feuilly, anyway. As he got close, not that Enjolras could have pulled away the way he wanted, there was something off about him. It was not in the rotting flesh, or even in the hypnotic state he moved in, but, as he came closer, Enjolras could see it in his hands, somehow left intact of all their skin. Feuilly's fingers had been long and elegant, yes, and those had served him well when he had found more skilled work, but before then, the years he'd spent in factories of various kinds, or working with the sorts of paint that gave him terrible rashes, had left their mark, in small burns and hard callouses and the like.

It could not all be seen in the darkness of the corridor, but it could be felt, when the horrible likeness of his friend touched his cheek. Enjolras turned it just a little, closer to the too smooth, unfamiliar fingers, which felt again like Malicant's more than Feuilly's and then, he knew enough. Whatever else had happened here, whatever else would happen here, this part of things was unreal.

One broken detail in the chain like that, and it was easy enough to follow others, if he focused well enough to pay attention. Bahorel's clothes were made of too cheap a material to be his own, and besides that, the locations of his wounds were different still. They had not gotten far away enough, killing him, for bullets to be used, and Enjolras had spent too much time seeing that the first of them to fall was properly looked after when the body came back into Corinthe.

It was a stranger situation than he'd thought, one that ventured between the real, and the unreal, but there was just enough of the unreality about this, once he started looking, that Enjolras was able to, even a little, see past the disguises the horror in front of him put on.

If the two of them were not real, with every detail wrong, then perhaps some of the rest of this would be as blatantly easy to dismiss as well. Up until now, Malicant, not exactly Malicant, had been the one manipulating, but perhaps, if he tried something more, on something else. He'd taken it for granted he was in a physical place, with physical restraints, but once the changes started registering, and things slipped out of place, there were a few more things that he might try.

Granted, removing oneself from bonds that still felt physical enough, with an arm that was alternately on fire, and alternately numb, and felt very very swollen , while your knees screamed out from being pressed into the ground and the rest of your legs ached where you had tried to shift off of said knees and found no comfortable way to do it, was probably impossible, not so much because he truly was hampered by anything physical, but because, quite honestly, he'd never thought to imagine needing a physical way out of them.

For Enjolras, before he had been brought here, even at the barricade itself, when he had been tracked down by the guard, and knew that the only way to end was in surrender, even before that, when he had been forced to take an action he had hated, yet prepared for, coming out of things alive was never an intention. All of his power back in Paris had come from another source, a different one entirely, and that power was not centered in his confidence, nor even his love for his brothers. Love for his country and the republic had informed it, but they had been no powers in themselves.

You realize. Not Quite! Malicant coaxed, a snap of those fingers changing things considerably. The weight of the ring in the wall, and of the ties binding him tightly were gone, and his arms, free enough, though the one still hurt, were at his sides instead, and this time, instead of those constraints, he was still on his knees before the shadowy form, but relatively free, save for the fact there was a pistol, with a familiar hilt before him, and a ground that grew progressively hotter as Enjolras knelt there, the position familiar, humiliating, and horrible enough to trip him up. He would not beg again. He must not beg again, nor give him power, and given the gun in question, it was clear enough what was to happen.

Good, the voice came as a purr now, silkier than before, accompanied with a little chuckle. You remember how this goes. This time, I would suggest you follow my advice. You came here so penitent before, until the end. Pick it up.

There was a clatter as the gun landed at his feet, and this time, Enjolras did not hesitate in picking it up as he might have done once. As they came back to this, he supposed that he must, that everything in the end was going to lead here, until the day was over. Malicant, the actual Malicant, had promised once, that the shame and the guilt he had felt in his presence could be brought down with just one shot, and now, almost reflexively, Enjolras took the pistol in his good hand, feeling its familiar weight, imagining the kickback he had felt when killing Le Cabuc, and then the sergeant of artillery. It fit like it was meant to be, and slowly, facing Not Quite! Malicant, he nodded, testing the weight with a tiny spin.

And now, you should finish the things I brought you here for once. Not Quite! Malicant continued, and, almost as though he were sucked back under control again, he raised the gun, planting it firmly at his temple.

"Shall you give me the count?" He asked, keeping his voice low pitched, and shifting, took a deep breath at a nod of assent. "Now please." He prompted, taking in one last breath, preparing for what was to come.

One...Tw... The second number never made it fully out of the spirit's mouth as Enjolras, his hands as quick as they'd been to eliminate threat at the barricade fired off first a shot, landing it somewhere on the side of the rotting face, until there had been eight in all, and Not Quite! Malicant, or whoever he was in this fantasy, nightmare, lay panting, undead but slowed down enough that Enjolras could make a final step forward, and, reaching into his pocket, removed the villi shard turned dagger, then clutched it in his hand, brought it across whatever throat the slowed down, writing creature gave itself, pressing until the blood was flowing freely.

Blood was not enough, all the same, and, even though it pooled up around the wound, there was still another thing to do, and Enjolras was nothing else if he was not the son of the republic. Pressing down harder, and past the throat onto the rest of the neck, he made to finish the job that had been started here, before Combeferre and the others had gone, before he, Hell, before all of them had even come here. It was but one part of the equation, he knew that too well, but damned if Enjolras was going to refuse his part in any of this, even now.

"Revolution begins when the tyrant ends." He quoted, drawing the stone across the rest of the lulling neck, and then, as he had finished, bent to pick up the head, still vaguely humanoid for him, studying it for a moment as he smiled, coolly as he ever had.

For Eshai who had brought them into this fight, for all the friends that he had known, and missed, for the new friends who he could stand and still fight beside now, for the kedan who had lived in this shadow too long, and for Evandau too, who in misjudgment had suffered so greatly, but perhaps most of all for Taraja, and her siblings here, and those already gone.

At least he would have done his part, despite the fact he knew damned well it was a representation that he'd fought only a part. Still, the words came anyway, with Enjolras unable to stop them from coming out. He supposed he would never get the chance again, at least.

"tu es vengé!." He added, the words calm, but loud enough to carry as his world slowly returned to normal.

[ooc translation: "You are avenged". There's a bit of an urban legend with the phrase being said at the death of Louis Capet and...it's honestly all complicated and didn't happen anyway but it felt appropriate as part of the mythos floating around that execution"]

Edited 2014-12-01 05:15 (UTC)

Lit by the breath of flames and doused in the sense of chaos, these caves were too familiar for her to ever forget. The towering arches, deep caverns and jagged walls of the den had been ingrained into her memory and it seemed that the enemy had pulled her current surroundings straight from her darker past.

Her paws carried her through the familiar halls, her paws almost silent on the dark, glassy surface, the caverns seemingly empty of any sign of life. It began with a single bone, bleached white as if by the sun, and she barely gave it a single thought as she passed, but soon the sun bleached bones were everywhere and the deeper she went, the more tarnished the bones became. Darker, redder, fresher, until soon she was passing fleshed bodies.

These were no longer the dens she remembered. Hounds did not bring their kills home, did not leave such messes. Her hackles began to rise as the darkness moved, revealing the faces of the dead. She recoiled, stumbling backward, away from Wan's body, only to trip over the bodies of Zuko and Malachi. She swung around, her gaze never lingering as she tried to find a safe place to rest it. The faces of Anton, Dante, Zelgadis and Raine...all frozen, as if they had merely ceased to breathe. Everywhere she looked, more familiar faces, people she knew, even people she hadn't known she cared about, they were all gone. The horror slowly faded into a new emotion, one more painful than returning from death.

She was alone.

A low cackle came from the darkness, and it folded back upon itself, allowing the massive form of the King to pass unhindered. His eyes glittered bright, blood-red in the darkness, his height and weight easily surpassing her own. She would have called him magnificent, but that would have required some sense of nobility on his part. Her ears flattened against her head and she bared her teeth at him, but as he approached, the pressure of his presence caused her to step back, lest he come too near.

"Do my senses deceive me?" He asked, his tone low and somewhat amused, "Or does the Queen tremble at the mere sight of her King?"

Edited 2014-11-21 22:09 (UTC)

"If I tremble, Fenrir," She replied with a growl, "It is with rage." A lie, yet only in part as she forced herself still, refusing to give anymore ground to the King. It had been centuries since she had stood by his side, centuries since they had ruled the pack together, centuries since she had regained her soul and fled from these underworld caverns to live among the humans.

"And why should you rage?" Fenrir asked, stopping his advance, "If anything, it is I who should be angry. My Queen abandoned me and broke the highest law of the pack in her flight." He laughed softly when she bristled. "I know that it is only the burden of the false soul you hold that caused you to kill our packmates. All is forgiven and the problem can be rectified."

"I do not want your forgiveness," She snarled, her weight shifting back as she fought the urge to retreat further. "And my soul is my own."

Fenrir laughed again, sauntering forward once more. "I can see your 'soul'," He hissed, shaking his head, "It is a pathetic, dim little thing, barely holding itself together. Removing it should be simple." His eyes glinted.

"Lies." now she truly was seething with anger, her hackles rose, and she somehow found the will to move against his presence, taking a single step forward. In the blink of an eye, he was at her side.

"I think not," he whispered gently, poking her cheek affectionately with his nose, "Have I ever lied to you before?"

She turned her haunches away, spinning around to snap her jaws down on his muzzle, but he was already gone. An instant later the air was knocked from her as he slammed his full weight into her side. She hit the ground and quickly rolled back onto her feet, just in time to dodge his teeth. She heard them clack shut on air and turned to slam her head into his throat, crushing his windpipe.

He staggered backward, struggling to breathe and for a brief moment she thought she had the upper hand, but then the shadows streamed out from his form and slammed into the magical barrier protecting her soul.

Edited 2014-11-23 02:55 (UTC)

The force of the void caused the barrier to tremble and soon cracks began to form beneath the stress. Valdis struggled to reinforce the magic with her own will, but also had to focus on Fenrir, whose breath had evened out as his regenerative abilities worked. He didn't move, merely focusing his power on breaking the magic, while she focused hers upon strengthening it. Yet they were clearly unequal in power as the cracks began to spread and she felt a light tug in her chest.

"No," She snarled. This was her life now, Michael had restored her soul and Fenrir was not going to take it from her. Yet this was a dream, and despite the truths behind the nightmare, she had to remember that it was Malicant and not Fenrir whom she was fighting. With that, the magic exploded outward, forcing Fenrir's power back, dispersing it into nothing. Fenrir howled in rage and lunged at her, but she sidestepped his attack. "You do not scare me," She hissed, "This is my dream, not yours."

"I shall tear your lives from you," Fenrir snarled, "One by one." He began to circle around.

"You can try," She said, preparing for his attack.

They both lunged at the same time, paws scrabbling against the ground, claws running through ebony fur and teeth drawing blood. Too much time passed, injuries were forced to heal faster, the soul engeries were called upon for strength and speed even as the two titans continued to battle. Valdis knew that they were too equally matched, yet this fight could not end with a draw. She pulled away, taking a chunk of his ear with her, even as he tore her shoulder with his teeth when he too retreated. Blood splattered the ground, her blood and Fenrir's blood, more blood than any creature had the right to lose and still live.

"You cannot win," Fenrir said, though he no longer sounded quite so prideful.

Her gaze shifted to the exhausted form of the King. His ear was in the process of healing and she could tell from the fading pain in her shoulder, that her injuries were almost healed as well. Yet the two of them could not do this forever, somehow she had to win.

Valdis | Part 4 | Closed | Warnings for Blood and Gore

redlightgreenlight - 2014-11-25 00:15 (UTC) - Expand

After having overcome Malicant's possessive influence earlier, Zuko was feeling confident as he strode through the caverns. Intent on finding that fiend and putting an end to him. He had been tormented enough, and was set on not allowing it to happen to him or anyone else ever again.

Little did he know what was in store for all of them.

Gripping his shard of the Vilii Stone, Zuko paused as he heard an ominous laugh. A laugh that he was all too familiar with. A pair of figures appearing right in front of him. A tall, imposing man in regal clothing colored in red and gold. A shining golden flame of a crown sitting atop his head. Next to him stood a girl not much younger than himself, her lips twisted in a cruel smile. The man grinned tauntingly.

"Well well well. If it isn't the traitor and his friends."

Zuko could only stare in disbelief for several moments at the familiar figures. They were none other than his father, Fire Lord Ozai, and his sister, Princess Azula.

Shard in hand, Katara moved through the cavern as well, still gaining her bearings from the shock they had experienced before. With Zuko now out of his tormented thoes, she couldn't question it though, and instead had stayed quiet as they had continued through, her thoughts her own and only for herself.

The laugh shattered her most recent strain of thought, however, and she paused beside Zuko, her eyes widening at the sight before them.
"How--?!" The Firelord... her stomach clenched for both Zuko and Aang.

"Hello, Zuzu," the Azula purred, crossing her arms with taunting confidence as sharp eyes shifted to the others around him. With disinterest, she added, "and... others."

Edited 2014-11-21 17:31 (UTC)

Zuko clenched his teeth at the words being said to him, and that nickname that he had tolerated for so long. She always used that when she was taunting him

"What are you doing here?! This can't be real!"

There was no way... This wasn't possible at all.

"Oh we're real. How pathetic that you can't even realize that. You've always been weak Zuko, ever since you were born. This time, I'll make sure I'll put an end to you. For good." Ozai sneered at him, in that cruel and condescending way he always did for as long as Zuko could remember.

No, this had to be a trick. They were so close. It had to be Malicant's doing!

Tazendra | OTA (Content warning: injury and death)

Enjolras! Part One!

Enjolras: Part Two: WARNINGS: Blood, Gore, Mutilation, Mild Torture, "Malicant"

Enjolras: Part Three SAME WARNINGS APPLY/ Fin!

Valdis | Part 1 | Closed | Warnings for Blood and Gore

Valdis | Part 2 | Closed | Warnings for Blood and Gore

Re: Valdis | Part 3 | Closed | Warnings for Blood and Gore

Zuko | OTA

no subject

no subject

Dante|Part 1|Closed

Part 2

Part 3

Zelgadis | OTA

Cain | closed to Raine

possible cw for drowning-related things?

no subject

Sokka | OTA

Re: Sokka | OTA

I am so late. ;_;

Akito | closed to Gene ??? (cw: reference to child abuse)

no subject

Tony | closed to Solomon, Gene & Akito to follow

no subject