not_the_last (Cassandra de Rolo) (
not_the_last) wrote in
come_sailaway2023-03-04 10:44 pm
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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.]
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.]
-----
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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And she brings up from under her robe an iron ring almost the size of her wrist, with a twist of ragged fabric hanging from it -- or rather, wrapped around a cluster of objects hanging from it. The motion of her arm shows that the sleeve of her dress under the robe is torn; a closer look will show that it's the same fabric that's wrapped around what are almost certainly the keys to the dungeon cells.
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"Go ahead. I'll watch your back while you open the door."
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When the third key doesn't work, the noise she makes is closer to a whimper. Percy is standing by now, gripping the bars, his bruised arms shaking. "It's all right," he whispers, "Cass, keep trying --"
The fourth key turns, and Cassandra very nearly bursts into tears.
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"Percy," he whispers, "can you walk out of here on your own? If you can't, I'll carry you."
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Cassandra's managed to regain some control, but at the cost of an even higher ratcheting-up of tension. "Come on, we have to go," she pleads in a near-frantic whisper, reaching to seize Percy's hand and tug him along.
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"That tunnel you came out of," he asks Cassandra, does it lead out of here?
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The dungeons aren't extensive; there's only another corridor and another room, this one apparently in use for storage rather than imprisoning anyone, before she finds the loose stone in the wall that opens the second hidden door. Percy's walking more easily by that time, but still clearly weak and in pain.
"Over here," she starts, and then catches her breath in a little gasp and freezes.
A faint clanking thud, and another. The sound of armored footfalls, very close by.
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Percy puts a hand up to the inner wall, twists to look over his shoulder. "Thank you," he breathes fervently, "whoever you are --"
And they're away, in a stumbling run down the passage, as the wall swings shut again.
The footfalls are closer, and closer, and two figures in shabby leather and chain mail round the corner -- one a tall and lanky human, one too short and barrel-chested and broad-shouldered to be anything but a dwarf. Two pairs of eyes go wide behind the slits in their helmets; two pairs of hands dive for the blades at their belts.
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These two guards don't know what hit them. Before they can even get their swords clear of the scabbard, Crichton has aimed a shot squarely at each of their chests. Plunk. Plunk. The plasma burns right through their armor, dropping them both instantly. He doesn't stick around to see if more are coming behind. He darts down the passage after those two kids, shoving the way closed behind him.
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It won't be too difficult to catch up with them, but once he gets close, the sound of their movement goes utterly silent.
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"It's me," he whispers to them. "I took care of the guards. Don't stop now; we need to keep going."
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"Okay," Cassandra whispers back. "We're almost to the end, can you feel the draft?" And yes, there's a definite current of moving air coming from up ahead.
Less than a minute later, they reach the tunnel's end and find the trigger stone, and a section of stone cracks open and swings inward. The stifling stink of smoke and worse from the dungeon has followed them this far; the rush of air that greets them is immeasurably fresher, and colder, and smells of snow.
"Go," says Percy, almost choking out the word, and they lurch forward into a run, heading for the treeline.
They've nearly made it before the first shouts start, and then the first arrows.
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A draft? He concentrates a moment. "Yeah. I can feel that. I still don't know how you knew this was here?"
Not really the time, he knows, but he can't help asking. He'll let the subject drop, however, when the fresh air hits their faces at last. That sweet air fills his lungs as he takes in a huge appreciative breath. Then, they are off, heading for the tree lines.
But it just couldn't be a clean getaway, could it? Arrows start flying from behind. Crichton makes a conscious choice in that moment. He positions himself directly behind Cassandra, so if any land, they'll be in his back and not hers.
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The distance also means that by the time the arrows reach them, they've slowed somewhat; still going fast enough to carry some force, but not nearly as much as they would at close range.
Which means that the arrow that would have punched through Cassandra's thin layers of fabric and into her shoulder, and the second arrow that would have done the same to her side ... instead bounce off Crichton's heavy leather and fall to the ground, doing him no damage beyond a light bruise.
And then the three of them are in among the trees, crashing through underbrush, nowhere near safety but at least having gained some cover.
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Skidding into the tree-line, he has to slow to catch his breath a moment. He's not used to running in the cold like this. It burns his lungs with each new pull of air.
"We have to find some shelter. Is there somewhere we can go?"
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"Not there." Percy's voice is still hoarse, and it rasps painfully when he raises it over his little sister's. "They'll find us, and they will punish whoever they find us with. We can't." He braces against a tree, and crouches to scoop up some untrodden snow, and swallows it down with a convulsive gulp before he starts moving again. "Gods, that's better ..."
"Then where?" Cassandra demands, her voice rising with a touch of panic.
"... Downriver." Percy looks from her to Crichton, unconsciously appealing to the adult to make the decision once he's made his case. "If we can find a deadfall, something we could push into the river for a raft, to stay afloat -- we'll move faster than they can, they won't expect it --"
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He hates making decisions like these. Neither option is without flaws.
"I have a weapon that can take them on if they find us. I say we go to the town and find a shed to hide in or a barn out of the way. We don't have to tell anyone we're there, so they don't have to lie if they're asked. It might buy us enough time to get some shoes, and real coats for you both."
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She nods, starting to shiver now that they're standing still -- both with cold and with delayed reaction.
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"We'll find a barn to hunker down in and rest. We can make our next move in the cover of the night." Said like someone who has definitely done this before.
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It's nearly full dark and snowing again by the time they find a barn to take shelter in. They've had to dodge two patrols from the castle, one on horseback; from a low hill they've seen torchlight moving through the town, red and threatening. But the barn isn't locked, and it's warm and musty-sweet with the smells of hay and grain. Two cows and a big draft horse eye them placidly and then return to munching their dinner.
"Should be safe," Percy mutters, and takes two faltering steps into the room before collapsing. Cassandra gives a tiny choked cry and drops to the floor beside him, pulling at his shoulder.
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Crichton will gently muscle Cassandra aside so he can check Percy's vitals, first, before looking harder at what injuries he's got. For that, he needs more light. He slips his ship phone from his pocket and uses that illuminated screen to sweep up and down looking for open wounds.
"You're in no shape to move tonight. I think our best bet is to stay here and stay hidden."
cw: torture reference
(The worst sign, to anyone who knows him well, is that he doesn't so much as blink at the strange device in Crichton's hand.)
Cassandra has curled up into a tight little huddle, arms wrapped around her knees and chin tucked down against them, eyes hollow and shadowed as she watches the examination. When Crichton speaks, she nods silently.
There are empty sacks in a crate in one corner, and a horse blanket or two, and any amount of loose straw; they can make a decently comfortable bed for the night.
cw: torture reference
"Cassandra," he figures it might help to give her something to do, to feel like she's contributing. "I want you put some straw together with those sacks to make a bed we can lay him on. He's in rough shape, but I think I can help him. I'm going to need to make a fire and boil some snow for water. There's a bucket in the corner we can use." The last thing they want is to let these wounds have a chance to get infected.
"I'm going to clean him up and we'll get him warm and comfortable. But first..." Crichton reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small black vial. It's not pain medicine, but it's the best he can do. "This will help him sleep." Crichton takes the lid off and moves to hold it to Percy's nose.
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"What ..." Slowly. "Wait, what are you giving him?"
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apparently I just didn't get any notifs on 7/1 :/
code push ate it
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