come_sailaway | it's a war in there [March OTA, including memshare]

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it's a war in there [March OTA, including memshare]

Who: Cassandra de Rolo & those visiting her memories / OTA
When: March
Where: Around the Serena Eterna; also Whitestone, at various points in the past
What: Things are beginning to crack
Warnings: Game-typical angst; in memshares, murder, torture, vampirism, mindfuckery both magical and mundane, and potentially noncon/dubcon; other warnings to be added in reply headers as needed

A. you're just like them, you're unprepared

Cassandra's noticed the cracks, of course. Before she brushes against one, they seem alarming and inexplicable; are they a trick, a trap, a sign that this whole little artificial plane is starting to come apart?

(The thought she barely lets herself contemplate: a way out?)

After her first few encounters with them, the nature of them seems more apparent -- although there's no guarantee they aren't also any of her previous thoughts. The first time her own memories double on her, with faces she knows from here appearing in them, she locks herself in her cabin's bathroom and curls up on the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around her knees, struggling not to begin screaming for fear that she might never stop.

[This prompt is for interacting with Cassandra in the present setting! Feel free to run into her anywhere on board, either before or after memshares begin, or PM/ping me on discord to discuss a more specific prompt.]

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B. cause you don't know the terrain

Several cracks about the ship, as it turns out, lead to a world called Exandria and a little city-state called Whitestone. Those who tumble into them will encounter a younger Cassandra at some point in her past.

[Specific pre-discussed prompts are below! If you would like a different one, see the plotting post here or PM/ping me to discuss.]

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Holbrook shakes his head, looking grim. "Whether you're lying or not," he says, "this is bigger than me. You're for the Lord de Rolo, and that means putting you under guard until he's got time to see you. And it definitely means you handing over that blade. You'll have it back if his Lordship says so, not before."

He sets his jaw, as though expecting resistance and not relishing the thought.

Phil sees that expectation. He's too sharp to miss it. He has half a mind to fulfill it, but...

But the guard is right, and this kind of protocol can only be expected. They heard him out. He's doing his job. And, god, Phil is really, really, really tired of this.

He hesitates, then sighs with his eyes shut and his brow knit. "Fine," he mutters, "fine." Phil unbuckles the blade from his hip and holds it out to Holbrook. "Here."

Cassandra fixes the guard with a fierce glower. "And you will keep it safe and give it back to him later, won't you?"

"Yes, Lady Cassandra," Holbrook sighs. "Please go back to your game now, and let us do our job."

She puts her hands on her hips and studies them all, considering, and then gives a decided nod. "Carry on, Lieutenant," she says. "And thank you."

And as she steps back, Holbrook takes the sword and gestures for his two underlings to fall in behind Phil. "Come on, then. This way."

(She does not, in fact, go back to resume her game.)

There's sort of soft surprise on his face at the clemency that Cassandra demands on his behalf. Well, perhaps he shouldn't be so shocked, but any kind of mercy in a situation like this is something he can only be thankful for, and she's got a strong head on her shoulders, he can tell. Fostered by her noble upbringing at the very least, but still. Something like that could as easily make a brat. She is not.

He isn't sure whether he should speak to thank her. He hesitates a moment too long and the decision is made for him when the guard behind jostles him forward, and Phil turns away, falling in line behind Holbrook.

They lead him from the little orchard to a paved courtyard, and from there into the castle proper -- a very businesslike and unornamented part of the castle, down a broad stone corridor (clean and well-lit, at least) and into a room furnished only with a couple of plain wooden chairs and a table. Another guard is inside, rising to his feet as they come in.

"Found this one out on the castle grounds," says Holbrook, "wouldn't give an account of himself at first, then gave one I don't know what to make of. You hold him here, I'm off to tell his Lordship and find out when he can --"

It's at this point, turning toward the door, that he sees that Cassandra has evidently followed them.

"Yes, go ahead," she says blithely. "I'll help keep an eye on him. He's interesting."

Phil, at least, does not look surprised to have been tailed.

He keeps quiet and his hands to himself until Holbrook leaves. Nevermind the other guard in the room; he turns to Cassandra quickly and says, "Thank you for--for your help back there, Lady Cassandra. Really. And I'm sorry to be the cause of all this disturbance."

Holbrook, before he leaves, looks almost unbearably frustrated at the bind Cassandra's put him in. He gives the other guard a meaningful look and Phil a darkly warning one, before turning to go.

The guard in here carries a heavy short staff in addition to the shortsword at his belt, and when Phil speaks he extends it horizontally in front of him like a toll-gate. "You keep your distance from the young Lady," he says, not harshly -- even a little good-humoredly -- but very definitely. "Double your arm's length, and we won't have any trouble."

Cassandra sighs, but doesn't try to countermand it. "What's a Moonblessed?" she asks Phil. "Is that anything to do with the Moonweaver?"

Phil does as he's told, standing a short way off. No reason not to.

Moonweaver... yeah, he doesn't know nearly enough to start fibbing now. "No." He shakes his head. "I don't think so? Who is the Moonweaver?"

She stares at him, in her unguarded surprise suddenly looking more her age. The guard stares a little too.

"The Moonweaver," she repeats, as though he might not have heard her. "She's a god?"

He pauses awkwardly and shakes his head.

“I don’t… know that name.” Uhh. “So, no, I don’t think it has anything to do with her? But it is related to a moon god…? Do you have a sun god too?”

This time the guard suppresses a disbelieving snort, while little Cassandra stares openmouthed and then rolls her eyes in the classic exasperation of any intelligent child faced with an (apparently) idiotic grownup.

"Um, yes?" She points to the crest on a shield hanging on the wall: a tree with five stars at its roots, surmounted by a sunburst. It's the sun at the top of the crest she's pointing at. "Pelor, the Dawnfather. God of the sun, the summer, and the planted fields. He planted the Sun Tree?"

At his blank look, she sighs. "You really haven't been here very long, have you."

… Ah. Yeah. Fantasy cosmology, nothing he’s familiar with except the broadest of strokes. The Moonweaver and the Dawnfather are probably the big guns around here, huh.

“Fifteen minutes, give or take,” he huffs with a chuckle at his own expense. “Being Moonblessed is the work of a moon goddess, one of three sisters, and definitely none of them are yours.”

She frowns, brows tugging together in confusion. "Three? That doesn't make sense, there's only two moons. Unless there's three where you come from?"

"Three," he nods. "These were, uh, something of a surprise gift." He extends one wing, brown and barred in the style of a bird of prey, the shape blunted and the feathers comb-edged. "They do work, if you were wondering. Owlish. I've got the eyes and ears to match."

"Oh," in sudden understanding, "so you aren't -- you weren't born with wings?"

He shakes his head. "No. I--" a skip, like a crack in the sidewalk, "--am human first. Like you, uh, so I presume."

She nods. "Most of us here are humans or elves. And some dwarves and halflings and some people who aren't any of those things? But I never saw someone with wings before --"

The door to the room swings open, and Holbrook clears his throat in the hall outside. "Lord de Rolo will see you now," he says to Phil, and then aims a stern look at Cassandra. "And he wants to see you after, young miss."

Oh. Yes. He’s getting called into the principal’s office.

Okay, cool, no big, yeah? Even if he gets thrown in jail he won’t be dead. (He honestly wonders if it’ll get him out of here faster. He can’t leave the sword behind, though… and he doesn’t want to cause a bloody scene in someone else’s head. If he’s interpreting these right. Whose this is, though, he isn’t sure. Not Dimitri’s. The words are all wrong. And he’s pretty sure the kid comes from somewhere snowy.)

Phew. Okay, Phil, game face on. We’re on in five, four…

He mouths sorry! to Cassandra as he’s ushered into the hall by Holbrook.

Edited 2023-03-17 08:03 (UTC)

She smiles at him, shrugs, and follows along.

The guards lead him not to any kind of grand audience chamber but to another officelike room, this one rather larger. A heavy desk dominates the room, covered in papers and ledgers; a tall muscular woman in a more heavily-armored version of Lieutenant Holbrook's uniform stands beside it, arms folded, glowering. Two more guards, carrying spears that don't look ornamental, stand opposite the door.

Seated behind the desk is a broad-shouldered man with brown hair going gray at the temples, a square jaw, and a thick curling mustache. His expression on seeing the newcomer is mildly startled; Holbrook gets a glance and a nod.

"Good day, sir," says the seated man. "As I'm told you may not be aware, I'm Frederick de Rolo."

"That's Lord de Rolo or your Lordship to you," the armored woman puts in, fixing Phil with a stern stare.

"Yes," says Lord de Rolo, smoothly enough to suggest her interjection wasn't unexpected, "thank you, Captain Addisleigh. And your name, sir?"

As much as it may have been a cutting remark by the armored woman, and as much as he doesn't appreciate her tone, it is genuinely useful to him. He's been frantically scrolling through all the terms of address he knows and he's pretty sure there isn't one for a Lord that isn't "your Lordship." Majesty, Highness, Grace, and Honor are all wrong. Good to have it confirmed.

Also he probably should have come up with a fake name, though it's far too late now. He'll keep that in mind if he ends up falling through another one of these.

He bows, as deep as he hopes is respectful without being overdramatic. "Phil Connors. I apologize for the, ehn, hassle, your Lordship."

"I would say pleased to meet you, Master Connors," says Lord de Rolo, "but that's yet to be determined. I've heard a summary of your account of your presence here, and it's peculiar enough that I think I'd prefer to hear it from you. Cassandra," without the faintest change in tone, "you may leave or sit still in the corner. Behind the guards."

A tiny resigned sigh comes from behind Phil, and Cassandra slips past him and makes her way to the far corner of the room.

"Yes, of course."

Okay, how does he start...

"Well, I... I'm not from here." He goes through each point methodically; clear diction, smooth voice, simultaneously casual and formal. "I didn't really walk here, I just happened. There's a place between worlds, and that's where I'm coming from. It's small. It's not a real world. It was made by someone who's--very powerful, and he's been pulling people from all over the universe into it, and normally we'd stay there. But recently the boundaries have been cracking and falling away. I slipped through somehow, and then I fell in your orchard."

Lord de Rolo listens, nodding from time to time, giving no clear sign of believing the story or not.

"And then you fell in my orchard," he repeats. "And precisely what do you intend to do, now that you're here?"

"Find my way back." He sort of nods his head to the side, a look of something like resignation on his face. He's so tired of all this running around between worlds and times.

"I don't have business here, and there's people I left behind. Only I'm not really sure how to do that."

He rubs his chin with one knuckle, considering. There's a great deal of rapid thought happening behind those blue eyes, and quickly coming to at least a temporary conclusion.

"Until such time as you can determine how to return," he says, "might you accept the hospitality of our House? It would not be the first time this place has sheltered those stranded far from home."

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