#tqh: troupe 3

[thequeendomhq]

"We do not belong to the past, you and I. We are the future." -- Valerius Noctis.

Fifty Years Ago...

She was running long before the bells stopped ringing, through a sea of legs and swishing coats. The bazaar, alive around her, smelled of roasted almonds and the acrid tang of metallurgy. The city itself was alive in its own right, so loud, so beloved. Her laughter, alongside the laughter of other Tower children, was lost in the crowd and the great fanfare. 

Darting between the thick wool skirts of a baker’s wife, then nearly barreling into a man carrying a stack of books. He yelped, stumbling as pages scattered like startled birds. She laughed, quick as a spark, and twisted herself through the crowd, too fast, too small to be caught.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to run off. But what else was she meant to do? Stand still like some statue while the grown-ups droned on about whatever great thing Lady Juliana had made? No, thank you. The world was wide, and she had legs that could move.

A flicker of gold in the corner of her eye caught her attention - something glinting beneath a merchant’s cart. A coin, maybe? A trinket? She crouched, reaching for it-

And then a hand closed around the back of her collar, firm as a hook snagging a fish.

“Caught you,” came the reprimand of her mother’s Queensguard.

Arethusa yelped as she was lifted onto her feet, the familiar scent of jasmine and ink surrounding her. She twisted in Agron’s grasp, only to find a raised brow and a knowing smirk.

“You are impossible,” he sighed, “Do you know what today is?”

Arethusa crossed her arms, scowling. “Loud.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, loud. And important. And not a day for you to go scurrying about like a gutter cat.” He turned, his grip on Arethusa’s wrist gentle but unyielding. “Come. The Queen has been looking for you.”

Arethusa grumbled but followed, her small feet struggling to match the long strides of the Queensguard. The Red Knight. Ten years the war had been over, ten years Valerius had been locked in the Tower, and ten years he’d sworn himself to Queen Damodred. At barely six years old, Arethusa couldn’t even pretend to know what any of that meant. 

The closer they got to the raised marble platform, the more the crowd swelled and Arethusa was led to her mother’s side. Damodred spared her daughter a sidelong and withering look that straightened the princess’ spine, then another - more knowing - at the Red Knight, one that softened. At the center of it all, standing tall and regal, was Lady Juliana of House Chrysanthos.

Arethusa recognized her - sort of. She had seen her before, speaking in hushed tones with the Scholars, always carrying strange blueprints and books filled with scribbles Arethusa couldn’t read. She looked as if she were made of metal herself, sharp-eyed and gleaming, her deep robes rippling like water.

She raised a hand, and silence fell.

"For centuries," Lady Juliana said, her voice ringing over the gathered people, "we have moved at the pace the world allowed us. Today, we take command of it." A hush. A breath.

Then - The lever was pulled, and the world roared. Arethusa flinched as a deafening hiss of steam burst into the air. The great iron machine, sleek and shining, trembled, and then - with a shuddering groan—it moved.

Not by horse. Not by wind. Not by any magic that she could feel. By itself.

The wheels turned, slow at first, then faster, the churning pistons shining like molten gold in the sunlight. The crowd gasped, some cheering, some staring in stunned silence. Arethusa gripped her mother’s hand tighter, eyes wide.

Damodre’d voice was soft, but firm. “The world will never be the same again.”

Today

King John Mordecai, often forgotten but never replaced, stood on the mechanical platform high above Tiber’s Bay, gears, cranks, and propellers sustained the flight as he grinned wide. His likeness was projected in the sky, addressing not just the Bay, but all of Eterna.

"My dear friends, fellow revellers, curious minds - esteemed sailors of the skies and seas! Welcome, welcome, to this most auspicious of occasions - where grand ambition meets grander folly- where we humble students of progress stand in the balance, hoping for the former but always entertained by the latter!” He laughed, a laugh track - played over gramophones across the city set to amplify John's voice - followed, and whether or not anyone else in the city so much as chuckled remained to be seen. 

“We stand upon the threshold of something… marvellous. Something that will shatter the boundaries of distance, and redraw the very maps upon which we place our dreams, and, more importantly, ensure that even the laziest merchant will no longer have an excuse for late deliveries!” Another laugh, cue the track. 

“Before us stands the culmination of genius - the lifeblood of progress. It is the work of a mind that peers beyond what is and seizes what could be! A beacon unlike any other, one that calls not to lost ships, but to every ship, ushering them through the ether with a flicker of light and a whisper of magic. Today, science and arcana meet, today we celebrate the union of innovation and industry.” John held for dramatic effect, drawing out the anticipation.

“And for this miracle, this triumph, this revolution in movement, we must bow our heads - not in sorrow, mind you, but in awe - before the incomparable Lady Juliana of House Chrysanthos and the boundless investment made by the Jewel of Sinaria. Juliana, a witch of wit, wisdom, and - if my sources are correct - far too much patience in dealing with the likes of her unruly house. The woman for whom began this anniversary of Progress, one who has gifted us with a means to travel across our vast continent in the blink of an eye!” Lady Juliana stepped forward on the platform and came into view of the projection as the focus shifted from John to the witch who’d been firmly ingrained in the great history of Lysara. 

“Lords and ladies, sailors and scholars, mystics and merchants alike - I give you the Beacon of Chrysanthos! May it light our way into a new age!” An extravagant gesture pointed to the Tower of Olympia as a glamour was dispelled, revealing a great oculus at its summit, merchant vessels drifting on the water suddenly lifted into the sky - the marvel of innovation carrying them higher and higher as the oculus began to hum with life. “A shipment to Ankhuria,” a set of ships hovered before the Tower’s Eye before a radiant burst of blue light vanished them completely, “arms from Sinaria,” again the Tower hummed with life, this time receiving instead of sending as a different set of ships appeared. 

"For those who look to the Aetherian Empire to the West for innovation, I say, look to your neighbour instead. There are no friends in those who threaten our borders, who spit on our doorstep, who attack those with whom we once held alliance." The King rarely - if ever - touched on political matters, his position was a jovial one, but the current climate required it. "Lysarans do not beg at the feet of aggressors, and we do not turn our backs on those who need us. From the pyres of Astoria, to the mines of Iskaldrik, the dunes of Ankhuria, and the glimmering tides of Sinaria."

“Welcome to the future! Welcome to Progress!”

ooc:

canonically this unveiling takes place near the end of Day 2.

there are no set reveals for Day 3, it's just another day of celebration to wrap things up.

tldr: John Mordecai unveiled a big teleporter that I stole from Arcane Season 1 <3

[ruyaceres]

a’dam(noun) Pronunciation: /ˈɑː-dɑːm/

Magic drained from her in a breath. The silence inside her skin was worse than any wound—every part of her hollowed out, deaf and blind to the pulse that'd always answered her call. She gasped like someone drowning. Yhane stood at her shoulder through it all, murmuring like a lover, "They'll remember your disobedience in their bones."

[theportaraceli]

who? Open to Members of Troupe 3 (Max 4 people) where? Dreadnought Hold notes: mentions of forced obedience and mind suggestions

Araceli’s cheeks are sticky from blood, and her head aches something fierce as she and others step further into the bowels of the ship. Behind, they leave the pale sun that shines over them but warms none who have been collared, and beyond is the same dank cells that had greeted them all once they had woken up. It means that the Kossith will not test them further for the day, and as cold as this comfort is, it’s one she cherishes at this time. Where a witches’ ability to use magic can be used as a blunt tool at times, her mental suggestion is a weapon of subtlety, of subterfuge. 

Not exactly what the Kossith are looking for, she thinks. Her ability cannot be used by itself, there always needs to be a victim and a goal. It had taken their captors some time to figure out, to understand that her Sul’dam would need to pair her with another Rahaat to truly understand how to use her as the tool they now believed she was. The realization had led to hours of practice with an unwilling target, over and over, as she fought the forced obedience and breathed through the pain, unwilling to break, but forced to bend when it all had become too hard to fight. That she fought the command didn’t make a difference, in the end, and there is a heavy weight on the pit of her gut as she glances at the individual going down the stairs. 

“I am sorry.” Her Sul’dam has yet to discover she can cause mental harm to her victims, and she is thankful for that, but it is only a matter of time. That, and subjected to forced obedience as they are, her Mental Suggestion only adds insult to the injury. Just another reminder of how trapped they are. 

She had been so careful on what she did with her ability, so careful not to cross the boundaries she had set on herself. And now it was all for nothing, her boundaries destroyed just as her city had been. 

[alrikhart]

CLOSEDlocation: dreadnought hold notes: content warnings for - vomiting, violence, torture

Alrik came to with a jolt - iron in his throat, iron in his skull.

The floor beneath him was cold metal, slick, and thrumming like a heartbeat, heavy with the pulse of engines and the weight of everything the vessel carried. His mouth was dry, his limbs leaden, and there was something wrong. Not broken. Not bleeding. Bound. He stirred in the dark, the iron scent of blood and sweat thick in his nostrils. Alrik tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea struck hard, and he rolled to his side, retching bile and nothing else.

He reached inward, instinctively, reaching for the warmth that had always been there - like drawing breath, like sunlight on his face - and found nothing. No flicker of fire. No rush of water. No resonance of the runes etched into his bones. His magic wasn't... gone, it was more like he was gone from it.

The collar was cold metal, too snug, pressing against his rune-marked throat. His fingers clawed at it instinctively, teeth bared as if sheer force of will could undo Kossith make. A'dam. He’d heard the word in whispers once - an old threat, buried beneath distance and a litany of other issues.

Runes flared along his arms as he tried to summon his power, tried to will it through muscle and bone like he always had - only to feel it recoil. Nothing answered. No light. No echo. Only searing pain that knifed down his spine and turned his vision white. He screamed through gritted teeth, the sound swallowed by the low groan of the hull. Stubbornly, Alrik dug in again - nails scraping metal - until he retched. Bitter bile filled his mouth and splattered the deck. The taste of copper lingered on his tongue. He shuddered and fell sideways, cheek pressed to the floor, breath rasping between clenched jaws.

He stirred, then tried again. Repeating the result.

[spiralailani]

who? @rhysxvuldak where? Haven, Lysara

More and more wolves have been leaving the town, with the elderly and the weak being taken to a safer location. In comparison to how she had found Haven, it was now deadly quiet. It would be discomforting, if it wasn’t relieving. Countless lives are being saved by this evacuation, and it would provide relief to those who had been worried about collateral damage as they fought. Lailani is counted amongst those who are relieved, the weight lifting from her shoulder even as she walks through the quiet streets. Quiet streets that are suddenly not as quiet as the sound of the lute fills the silence. Captivated, her steps turn towards the noise and she walks to it in steps with the melody, humming under her breath as she goes. 

“It’s a beautiful tune,” she comments when the music stops and she finds herself facing a stranger. “Does the song have a name?”

[temperednuvi]

who? @fyrenxsolon where? Haven

It’s only by accident that she recognizes the flash of black as a dragon. A very specific dragon in fact. Nuvi hadn’t had the pleasure to meet Prince Ikaros’ dragon in person, but she had heard the rumors. And frankly, there aren’t many black dragons flying around as it is. Frowning thoughtfully, she follows the dragon’s flight path towards… Oh, she recognizes him. He was part of the team that headed into the Eluvian towards the Falon’din Hollow, isn’t it? Recognizing the face, she decides to greet him, and maybe satisfy her curiosity about why he had the Prince’s dragon. 

“Afternoon,” she greets with a nod. “You were part of the group that went to Falon’din Hollow's, correct? I believe I recognize you from that trip.”

[studentalthea]

@shewolfaurea location: Haven notes: kiss kiss

The fact that Althea couldn't bring herself to say "I told you so," when the Kossith began taking witches, the Student - and no one at the Tower - could say they were surprised. Telling the world that she was right wouldn't change the horror of their present reality, and wishing that things were different wouldn't change the road ahead. If Haven wanted the best general, they'd find one. They followed Aurea because she was one of them and if she could fight these creatures than so could they.

Naturally, Althea had been in Caer Glas Keep at the time but circumstances brought her home, brought her back to Haven. She'd taken this post as an escape, running from her own insecurities, emissary to an alpha who wanted nothing but blood. War. A small minded, but powerful fool. When Aurea challenged him the Student assumed that the young woman would be like those who'd come before her. Maybe it was that Aurea held a stubbornness that Althea had lacked back then, but she was the woman she was today because she'd watched Aurea beat Erik into the ground and took the throne for herself.

"You've toppled beasts before, we've battled the Blight and won. These cretins scratching at our walls are warmongers of the most savage kind. We will fight them because we must," a beat, "on your terms, not theirs." It wasn't quite hello, how are you? But it said a different message, one that Althea had relayed time and time again to her friend, her sister. I will never leave you.

[abelasx]

@chroniclerelris location: somewhere in Astoria notes: as discussed

Something had unsettled itself in Abelas' gut the last few days, though he couldn't understand what it was, he knew that it had something to do with Ikaros. Grief or - he couldn't say, but neither could he risk going back to investigate. His brother could take care of himself, the last thing he needed was Abelas standing there wondering what his insides would look like on his outsides.

Despite the distance between himself and the border, the air still held the sharp tang of darkspawn interest. The skirmishes along the border were small when compared to the organized force at Aventia, but just the same, Abelas avoided it completely and resolved to settle on a far mountain side. He was far from his destination but the more distance he put between himself and the rest of the world, the better.

A flock of birds startled in the distance, breaking the silence and Abelas didn't flinch.

"You're not very stealthy." Abelas called out, he'd have known the mix matched limp of Elris' gait anywhere, but apparently he moved with enough motion to startle local wildlife.

“He’s come to lecture you again.” “Carve out his tongue. Feed it to the crows.”

He shut his eyes briefly and exhaled through his nose before he perched his cheek on his fist and looked away from his former friend. "It's dangerous out here Elris, you should go home."

[blightedmikhael]

who? @aurelientrader where? Brewed Awakening when? After Last Night In Aventia

“Somehow, things were simpler when being sent to the Iskaran mines was the biggest of our problems,” Mikhael grumbles as he sits in front of Auri and nudges one of the pints he had bought in his direction. Seeing the faiman had a surprise, but he had been one of his most pleasant employers, so Mikhael had seen no issue in reacquainting himself with him. Of course, after a couple of beers, the topic inevitably moved to the issue that was in everyone’s mind. “The Kossith are odd, and somehow more threatening.”

[princemordecai]

@shewolfaurea location: Haven notes: here go

The circumstances that brought Leander to Haven never seemed to changed: conflict. For the Centurion, it was beginning to feel like more trouble than it was worth - some remote region buried in the cold and the dark that was uncomfortably close to Isengrim's Embrace. Maybe he'd seen too many battles, too many casualties, but as he walked through Haven's streets to the Alpha's hall, he didn't see any soldiers. They were just people: farmers, sheep herders, craftsmen - all trying to live their lives.

"Well." It was all Leander said as he stood before the Queen, the Warrior's regalia was indicative of his station. A ring on his dominant hand asserting his place among the Olympians, another bearing the seal of Lysara's prince. The Kossith had issued an ultimatum, Leander would hear Aurea's response firsthand.

[witchertorsten]

CLOSEDlocation: deck of the juggernaut notes: content warning for body horror forced obedience, and a suicide mention

The deck of the Kossith's dreadnought was cold beneath his boots, a slick sheen of saltwater mist lingering in the air, the metallic tang of the sea mixing with the acrid scent of Kossith alchemy. The weight of the collar around his neck pressed deeper with each breath, an invisible hand that squeezed his throat until the very thought of resistance felt like an act of suicide.

His arms hung stiff by his sides, shackles clinking with each twitch of muscle, the familiar weight of them now a constant reminder of his helplessness. The prosthesis, dormant and useless was limp and non responsive. There was no escape from the a’dam; the collar hummed in his bones, dull and constant, thrumming with the promise of pain should his will dare to defy its orders. His fingers curled and flexed, seeking out some semblance of control - any scrap of freedom he could hold onto - but found nothing. Just the overwhelming pressure that suffocated his thoughts.

"Do it," the Sul'dam's voice was barely a whisper, but it slipped past the resistance he tried to mount. "Obey." Torsten's jaw clenched, muscles tightening as the command pierced through him like a shard of ice. He fought it. Every part of him screamed to refuse, to defy, to survive, but it was futile. His body was no longer his own. The a'dam twisted in response to his defiance, a sharp pain blossoming at the base of his skull, spreading outward like a firestorm of agony. He gasped, vision blurring for a moment as the pain overwhelmed his senses.

Then, like a puppet’s strings being yanked taut, Torsten's arm shot out before him. The fingers of his hand twitched, attempting to fight against the compulsion, but it was no use. The movement was swift, brutal, unrelenting. The ray of antimagic erupted from his palm, a brilliant, sickly beam that cut through the night sky and rippled through the air. The power surged through him like liquid fire, cracking against every nerve ending, burning through his chest, spreading like ice through his blood.

“Good, strong.” the Sul'dam murmured, her tone one of eerie approval, as though she were observing some natural process. “That’s enough.” Torsten's breathing came in ragged gasps, swaying for a moment as he looked at the place in the sky where the antimagic had disappeared. "Rahaat," the Sul'dam muttered as she ushered him back into the line. "Return to your place. There's more to test."

Torsten's gaze lingered, molten coals blazing back at the horned woman. An image passed over his mind's eye of wrapping his hands around her throat, squeezing until the horns snapped backward, but he could not so much as will his body to move forward. Instead he stared, defiant, seething, but back in line.

"I am going to wring that damned woman's neck."

[thequeendomhq]

“Do you know what happens when a darkfriend betrays their oaths? Erased.... enthralled... consumed.... no more turns... no more chances. If you're lucky, perhaps you'll come back a servant... but you will not be allowed to die until your suffering has served its purpose... tell me, would you like to be Gray?” -- Kiaransalee

Progress Day, Day 3 - shortly before dawn.

From below the rippling tide of the Gulf of Taravell, the first of the dreadnoughts silently broke the surface, with black hulls that cut through the waves like knives moving through flesh. The assault began immediately as the dreadnoughts rained fire down upon the countryside surrounding Aventia. Wave after wave of explosions, lighting the sky, sending plumes of blighted smoke into the air as the Kossith left the Blight itself untouched. 

Among the varied races and factions of Taravell, there were none more prolific in the killing of darkspawn than the Kossith of Itzcoatal. 

The ballistae loosed until dawn, corralling the darkspawn into the city, pushing them from their caves, and drawing them out from underground. Iron cast bolts, thick as a man’s leg, screamed through the sky again and again. 

From the decks of the lead dreadnought, Arishok Vasaan watched in steadfast silence. His heavy-plated form was motionless, save for his breath misting in the cold air. When the ground had settled and the sun was high, that was when the darkspawn would retreat into malformed caverns, hiding from their new and ancient enemy.

That was expected. That was planned for.

When the outer defenses lay in ruin and the darkspawn were scrambling about the battered and blighted streets of Aventia, the gas ships advanced. The Kossith’s artillerists worked tirelessly, fitting great brass canisters prepared by their alchemists to the launchers mounted along the ships’ prows. One spark, one mistake, and they would all choke on their own creation - but in the art of war the Kossith did not make mistakes. 

With a hiss of released pressure, the first wave of toxin drifted over Aventia’s bones. The wind carried it deep into the broken city, curling through shattered windows, and slithering down into the tunnels where the darkspawn lurked. The screams came next. There were few sounds comparable to a darkspawn’s agony, the shrill cry of a broodmother giving birth was perhaps the only thing that matched the withering cry of a blighted beast’s flesh curling off of its bones.

These were not human screams. Not even the howls of beasts. These were the wretched, unnatural shrieks of creatures that had never feared death - not until now. The toxin was not made to burn, nor suffocate. It was crafted to kill darkspawn from within, flooding their bodies with bile, and forcing their blighted blood to curdle in their veins.

The Kossith listened. They waited. When the silence finally fell, the Arishok raised his hand.

Each landing craft cut through the tide, their hulls reinforced with steel, their warriors packed shoulder to shoulder. They hit the shore without hesitation, boots sinking into the bloodied sand.

The Tamnok, the Kossith's heavy infantry, led the march through the crumbling streets, great shields raised. Behind them were the Rahaat, the Kossith’s auxiliary forces, collared, their magic operated by the Sul’dam.

Any darkspawn that had survived the gas - few as they were - were met with steel. The Kossith never wasted bolts, nor did they engage in drawn-out battles. Every strike was meant to kill. A single, clean cut across the throat. A swift hammer blow to the skull. Those who did not meet the blade met fire or lightning as the Rahaat wove elemental threads to devastating ends, linking, and synchronizing to bring a cleansing storm to the streets of Aventia.

The Kossith was a wave upon the occupied city of Aventia, in the depths of the city, in its twisted underbelly of collapsed tunnels and rotting passageways, the last remnants of the darkspawn scrambled. They tried to flee, to burrow deeper. But the Kossith knew their ways. They had fought them before, fought them still, and would fight them forever if need be. The Kossith did not hunt the darkspawn. They buried them completely.

Explosives lined the tunnel mouths, set deep into the broken ground. The stone groaned as the charges ignited, collapsing the tunnels with an earth-shattering roar. No passage was left unsealed. No darkspawn left to rise. For whatever ghosts remained, the Rahaat sank threads of earth and air beneath them, fire and spirit, steam rose from the ground, the last ghoulish cries whispered into the midday sun - then at long last, Aventia was purged. 

But the Kossith did not leave.

On the outskirts, but still within city limits, the Arishok formed a compound as his dreadnoughts disappeared below the tide once more. One envoy remained, docked like a sword against the coast.

 A messenger was dispatched to Eterna, the contents of the letter for Queen Arethusa and the Tower Sitters alone, but word soon spread - from Nightingale to spy, to the common bard to fish merchant. Their presence was felt, clear, and understood.

Aventia is reclaimed. The Blight is purged. The tunnels are sealed. Lysara may return. Trade may begin. The city stands. We remain. The Kossith are not to be disturbed. There will be no negotiation. -- Arishok Vasaan

ooc:

Aventia has been reclaimed, players may return, the city is under Lysara's rule once more.

The Kossith have taken up residence in the most western section of the city, rebuilding it, and fortifying it. Darkspawn that may trickle down from the Spine are promptly cut down as the Kossith patrol outside their gates.

The Kossith have begun trading different alchemical regents and substances with Lysara, as well as other exotic products from Itzcoatal: rubber, coffee, medicine, and gold among them.

The following characters went missing the morning of the second day of Progress Day: Diarmad,, Prospero, and Agnes. Their survival hinges on tomorrow's session.

[ruyaceres]

who: @einolegion when: current day where: astoria

With trembling fingers, Rüya unshackled as many prisoners as she could, murmuring apologies when they flinched from her touch. Some disappeared into the shadows of their cells, others spat at her bare feet, but there wasn't time to reconcile. A low moan began to crawl up the hull. Rüya turned sharply, her bloodied hand still outstretched from the last a’dam she’d wrenched apart.

Around them, the vessel's steel walls curled inward like burning paper. Light bled through the cracks, searing their eyes. Pressure imploded, then roared outward, unmaking everything it touched.

For one breathless second, Rüya thought death had finally claimed her—and she welcomed it. The Kossith had carved her into an instrument, hollowed her out, forced her hands to break every oath she’d ever sworn. But the sea rose like a wall, meeting her body with a crack. Water surged down her throat, seizing her lungs and drowning her screams. Above, pieces of the dreadnought rained across the starless sky like meteors. Black waves crashed into the witch from every angle. With a gasp, her hand collided with something slick, and she clung to it until time unravelled.

Akanis’s laughter echoed from a summer long-gone, too bright for the gloom she drifted in. A gull shrieked overhead. Luna had her arms around her, while the sounds of Progress Day erupted in the distance. Blood dried in the corners of her mouth. Zeliha, brows knitted in concentration, hovered above a penetrating wound. Rüya’s voice gently guided her through the sutures. The sun blistered her skin.

The coastline she’d been rescued from as a child waited on the horizon. The tide had carried her back. She washed ashore like driftwood, half-submerged in the foaming shallows. And then, one last memory—a voice she hadn’t heard in ten years.

Rüya’s cracked lips curled into a smile. And the dark took her again.

[theportaraceli]

who? @froyofthe-ironwood where? A small islet near Aurelia Isle when? After the ship went kaboom

After dragging herself and the blonde woman out of the water and into the small islet, Araceli throws herself to the ground with a grunt. She lays there for a moment, not caring about the sand sticking to her wet clothes. She lays there for a long moment, taking a jagged breath after the other, but she doesn’t allow herself to rest. That last half an hour had not been divine provenance, something had pushed them towards the islet. Someone, even, and she needed to figure out if they were alive, and whether they were an enemy or not. Grunting again, she stood up and waved for the blonde to stay as she began traveling the edge of the beach, eyes scanning the horizon until she saw a form collapsed in the sand a few hundred meters away. Her slow walk turned into a jog, which turned into an outright run when she was close enough to vaguely recognize the person lying in the ground. 

She had met him at the ship, right? He had been another one of the captured. 

“Hey! Are you alright?” She calls out, falling to her knees next to him, hands hovering over his form as she wondered what to do.

[alrikhart]

@prcspero & @alessiathepath (???) location: ship's prow notes: idk dany but she better be there, Alessia first, and then Prospero after he responds to his next prompt <3

Alrik’s could feel how his hands trembled as he approached the crucifix, every breath sharp with iron and incense. The scent of blood - old, dried, and fresh - clung to the ship's walls like a curse. The dreadnought was in an uproar, a battle raging from one end of the vessel to the other, from the Captain's quarters to the holdings below but Alrik could only help those in front of him. Above him, Prospero hung in unnatural stillness, his limbs spread wide, nailed through flesh and bone. His head drooped forward, curls matted to what remained of his charred brow with sweat and blood, the once-charismatic man now ruined and silent.

He'd been made to see it firsthand, what Prospero had done had resulted in so much despair... But this had to be worse. Whatever the lies, whatever the betrayal, he'd seen Prospero's heart firsthand and felt its weight when the man who'd been just as much a father to him over the last year as Asbjorn had been.

Alrik stepped closer, bootfalls softened by the ash that settled below. There was no breath, no heartbeat, no sign of life; that enough was enough to make Alrik's features fold, but it didn't stop him. "Help me get him down," Alrik cleared his throat as he looked at the metal spikes driven deep and the ropes burned into flesh.

“We're here,” Alrik whispered, as though speaking louder might break what remained. “We've got you-" Something in the witch quivered, his throat bristling and breath wavering, "we won't leave you like this." Alrik braced himself, fingers wrapping around the cold shaft of a nail, and with a grunt, he began to work it free.

"Odin," Alrik's voice was raw, whether it was tears or the budding rain that struck his face, he wasn't cognisant to say. "One-Eye, Lord of Secrets... He who hung upon the Tree for knowledge - spare my father your Golden Hall. A warrior, more worthy than any I've met: give him back to me, bring him back to us."

[xnikandrosx]

OPEN to the first two + Freydis location: Deck of the Dreadnought notes: post Juneau's death, please no repeats if I have a thread with your character already.

The dead girl was found in her kennel that morning, a knife wound in her ribs and a pool of blood beneath her. Juneau was a vuldak, she shouldn't have died, shouldn't have-

There were many things that never should have come to pass, and yet, they'd all transpired just the same.

Nikandros stood on the deck of the ship and watched the withered darkfriend upon his crucifix at the prow, spirits were sensitive to the emotions of others and Zaknafein was bound to concepts. Pride had little power when he was practically consumed by the eroding ego of those he sat with.

She wasn't the first death upon this ship, but Nikandros remembered the roguish young girl from the road they'd traveled from Iskaldrik to Lysara. It was bitter to consider that she'd survived this long only to die so close to home. Then again, the Wheel did not care for fairness, if people were young and afraid.

Kael’zirra stood where Nikandros once was, prone to acclimation, the spirit couldn't help but become what the Kossith wanted him to be. Still, he pitied the wretch - however she'd found death, it had to be better than what awaited her in Itzcoatal.

Without thought, the rahaat's lips stirred: "Ghilani ma'aravas. Ir elgar. Ma din'an na halam. Ma vallasdareth na uth. Ghilani atisha la dareth." As he spoke, he placed his hand over his heart, then extended it slowly outward, turning his palm upward as he did.

Guide my journey. I am spirit. My death is the end. My grave is eternal. Guide me to peace and safety.