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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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."

"Oh--"

He'd honestly expected to get shunted into, like, some random shelter in a nearby town or something. They'll probably stick him in with the servants but even that much makes him their problem to deal with, and it's more generous than he could bring himself to expect.

Then again, staying within the castle means it's easier to keep an eye on him.

"--... yes, I would. That's very generous of you, your Lordship, thank you." He bows slightly. "If there's any way I can to earn my keep, please let me know. I'm a weatherman by trade, but I've learned all sorts of skills."

Edited 2023-03-23 07:53 (UTC)

Lord de Rolo's eyebrows rise. "A weather-man," he repeats, in the tone of one trying an unfamiliar term. "Is that a druid skill? Controlling the weather? I don't mind telling you, that would be exceedingly useful to us here."

Oh, boy.

“No, though—I wouldn’t mind learning that… my trade is in predicting the weather. I study the wind and the atmosphere and such, and I figure it out from there. I help people plan. It’s generally accurate for about a week out. There’s, um, a lot of equipment and study involved.”

How’s he gonna do this here if they have no balloons or buoys…

"We may be able to provide you with some equipment, but anything specialized ... " He rubs at his chin again. "I'll have Professor Anders speak with you at some point. He's more learned in history than in the natural sciences, but he's the closest thing to an expert we have. And in the meantime ..." He pulls over a sheet of paper, dips a pen in an inkwell, scribbles a few notes. "I can have our man Hollis speak with you about any other skills you have, in terms of earning your keep. He can also answer any questions you might have, to be going on with."

He picks up the paper and waves it back and forth gently, to dry the ink.

“Yes, of course.” He bows his head. “Thank you, your Lordship, really, this is very, very… um, thank you.” Thank God he’s not going to fantasy jail. “So—what now? Shall I go speak with Hollis, or is there still something else that should be settled with you?”

Lord de Rolo hands off the paper to Holbrook, who takes it with a slight bob that approximates a bow. "Speak with Hollis. He's the head steward of the castle, and responsible for the household staff. Lieutenant Holbrook will take you to him." He smiles. "Welcome to Whitestone, Master Connors. Cassandra --"

In her corner, she heaves a sigh of the kind of world-weariness that only a child can manage. "I know."

"-- stay here for the time being."

"Yes, Papa," she says, resigned, as Holbrook turns to escort Phil out of the room.

The rest of this day and the next one are a bit of a blur. Phil is brought to Hollis and subjected to a brisk but friendly interview; he's given a room in the staff wing, not luxurious but not shabby or uncomfortable either, and told where to find the kitchens and the baths and the privies; he's supplied with a few changes of clothing and a tour of the castle; he's introduced to Professor Anders, who engages him in some lively conversation about what Phil most likely thinks of as science and Anders calls natural history. And, eventually, he meets the rest of the ruling family: Lord Frederick's wife Lady Johanna, their six older children, and Cassandra again.

Without too much fuss being made of it, he's accepted into the castle's larger household.

At every moment he expects the memory to end suddenly and always it keeps rolling on. If the doubt and worry that grows like a black briar beneath one's floorboards ever seems to bother him, he doesn't acknowledge it.

He settles in for the fifth time in his life. It's a kind place, at least.

His practical skills are numerous, but whatever tasks he's saddled with, he makes himself very busy with studying whatever texts they have on the local atmosphere. Books directly about the subject; maps of many sorts; testimonies from merchants and sailors. If they want him to do anything weather-related here then he's got to know how it works and what the patterns here are. There isn't as much as he'd like. It's not his first time learning an entirely new system, and there's plenty of information gleaned from a thousand years of observation, but the distinct lack of some specific research can be frustrating. Does the sun here have solar flares hitting the magnetic field over the atmosphere or not, god dammit? Do they even have a magnetic field? What are the cold and warm water exchanges in the ocean?

No matter what he can or can't find on the local system, though, the physics are universal, and Phil is by all means a scientist. The equipment for a week-long forecast may be lacking but he does well enough with keeping an eye on the simple machines that offer tells for the day. Anemometers, barometers, thermometers, a wind sock--none of those are particularly hard to find or make. Those are even besides the everyday signs that need no instrument. (Like his knees hurting.) He knows when a storm is coming on a sunny afternoon.

It isn't very often he gets to talk about the weather these days. Everyone who approaches him on it is welcomed to a lecture, including little Cassandra.

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