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

[not_the_last]

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.]

Comments

[not_the_last]

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."

[goodweather]

"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."

[not_the_last]

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."

[goodweather]

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…

[not_the_last]

"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.

[goodweather]

“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?”

[not_the_last]

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.

[goodweather]

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.

[not_the_last]

As it turns out, it's Cassandra's older brother Percy -- just fourteen, puppy roundness just beginning to stretch into gawky long limbs, face serious behind his spectacles -- who shows the most interest in Master Connors's lectures, turning them into academic discussions when he can. He isn't sure about this magnetic field business, but the mention of flares gets him talking about the moon Ruidus -- smaller and redder than the white moon Catha, and historically prone to occasional flares, poorly understood. Nothing he's ever read suggests that it has any effect on the weather, though, and most of the effects that are attributed to Ruidus (he says with full confidence) are almost certainly folk superstition. He asks any number of questions about the more complicated equipment Phil has mentioned, with an eye to possibly try out making some.

Cassandra, for her part, isn't interested in the weather so much as she's still interested in Phil himself. Strangers here in Whitestone are always fascinating, especially those who look different from most, and she's taken a certain proprietary claim as the first member of the family to meet him. She'll listen to him talk about the weather, certainly, but generally tries to bend the conversation towards where he came from and what it was like.

Days become weeks, with spring inching toward summer.

[goodweather]

A visible sadness drags at him the longer the days wheel on. This is by far the longest he's ever fallen out from the ship. Impossibly, he hopes it'll drag him back. There's people who would miss him. People he needs to look after. He... hopes.

(Could this have happened to some of the people who vanished, he wonders? Out through the sides instead of into the belly of the ship?)

Percy and Cass are each wonderful company and he's happy to humor their respective curiosities. To both of them but especially to Percy, there's an extent to which he sort of sets out to teach them meteorology outright. He'd thought about writing up some sort of textbook to donate to a world that is apparently lacking in the science, but. That's a long-term dedication. And he doesn't want to think very hard about being here for much longer.

Cass never gets too many details about the ship he came from--in fact, he frames it as though it's more of an island than a ship--but he talks at length about the people, and the things he's been through. We come from all over, he'd say. People from different times. People from different realities. There's a man with no magic, but he's so brilliant that he could build the right machines and you wouldn't know the difference. And, there's a girl who can turn into shadows who fights ghosts. And, there's a blind swordswoman with raven wings like mine.

He talks about the sunfish cookout. He talks about The Price is Right. About the diner and the winter resort and the island, when they were nice. About the wedding and the parties that sometimes happen. Only if she pushes does he talk about any murders or massacres, and then in vague terms, an explanation as to why they still all want to leave.

One warm evening he dozes off near an open window to the sound of bugs in the trees, and he wakes up again in the middle of the day in the Serena Eterna's library.

[not_the_last]

And elsewhere on the Serena Eterna, Cassandra lifts her head from the book she's reading and stares off into the distance for a few moments as another memory unfolds in her head.

Within a few minutes, she's embarked on a search of the ship, hoping to find a man she only barely knows here.

[goodweather]

As it is, he hasn’t moved very much. Phil is too busy pacing up and down the length of the library, staring at the calendar date on his phone as if it’ll do anything about the utter displacement he feels. It was one thing to live a hundred years in February 2nd before one day it became February 3rd; it’s another to live in another calendar altogether, time marching reliably on, only to be slingshotted back.

He stops when he notices a half-familiar silhouette: cobalt blue dress and brunette hair, though streaked with white. Is that—no. Surely…

[not_the_last]

The voice might confirm his suspicion, but might not; it's a decade older. The mode of address probably does, though.

"... Master Connors?"

[goodweather]

He's at attention immediately, half a season's worth of learned formality. Ah.

"... Lady Cassandra," he says, like it's a confession.

[not_the_last]

She's ... smiling? And blinking hard, against wholly unexpected tears.

"I've seen you here before, of course. I'm pleased to finally meet you."

[goodweather]

She isn't... angry with him. She isn't angry or scared. She's happy to see him. More than happy, he thinks. Relieved.

Then so is he. Phil puts away his phone, smiles, and bows. "And you as well, Your Ladyship. I'm sorry it took this long."

He pauses. There's a shine in his eye. Something like... pride?

"You've gotten so tall."

[not_the_last]

In a thoroughly embarrassing combination of reactions, her eyes spill over at the same moment as a hitching gulp of laughter escapes her. She presses a hand briefly to her mouth and then wipes it under her eyes, smearing cool damp across her cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I feel as though I've missed you, but I haven't, not until just now. I didn't remember you, until -- gods, this is so bloody confusing."

[goodweather]

Phil laughs in kind. He steps forward to take her hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. He’s not quite sure how to approach someone who he still very much sees as a Lady of the House, however briefly he’d been a part of it, but he wouldn’t have liked to just stand there while she wept.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry for falling into your memories like that, but I tried to make it as pleasant as possible while I was there. Not that you all made it hard. Whitestone is a lovely castle, and your family was very kind.”

[not_the_last]

She clasps his hand, and then -- feeling suddenly nine years old again, still young enough to dispense with reserve when she felt like it -- she steps closer to hug him.

It'll be a swift hug if he lets her do it, fleeting but deeply heartfelt.

[goodweather]

"Oh-ho, hey there," he chuckles as her arms wrap around him. Of course he allows it for once-little Cassandra. He's just as warm and firm as her childhood memories say he was, if a little smaller, now that she's grown.

... And he has no idea what happened after he disappeared from the House. He has no reference for the years of her life between when he showed up and as she is now, but he knows that a noble family has more loyalty to their family and their home than most, and that Cassandra is not there.

Softly: "You must miss them very much."

[not_the_last]

"I --" She looks up at him, and her expression is briefly stricken, saying as clearly as if she'd spoken the words aloud: oh. you don't know.

"Yes," is all she says aloud, subdued with old grief. "Very much indeed."

[goodweather]

His expression drops, shoulders tense with realization. Phil has a habit of reading people like an open book, a skill she may or may not be aware of, but it doesn't take someone like him to know that there's a deep, deep sadness there.

Something terrible happened. He knows better than to ask.

"... Oh, Lady Cassandra. I'm sorry."

[not_the_last]

"Forgive me," she says, "you couldn't have known, it was -- years after you were there. There was a, an attack, we were betrayed ..."

She swallows. "It's just Percy and me now."

[goodweather]

Oh.

"I see. I'll... remember them."

...

"Say, I was thinking about going to grab a coffee. Do you want to join me?"

[not_the_last]

I'll remember them. She doesn't know why that should feel so enormous, such an utter obliteration of some foundation stone of her loneliness, but there it is: someone here remembers her brothers and sisters. Her parents. Her home.

Someone here remembers her, before the Briarwoods, before she came here.

"Thank you," she says, with enough emphasis to make it clear that it's for both, even though she goes on to say, smiling: "Coffee would be lovely."