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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Crichton considers that seriously for a moment. "Okay, but I need you to listen carefully before I let you see it. It doesn't have an off switch, but this dial here?" He points to a dial on the side. "You can't turn this. If you do it wrong, you'll blow us all up. You understand? I'm setting it down to stun now, just to be safe."

Percy nods. "I won't even handle it, if you would prefer not. I'd just like to ... study it, if I might."

And study it he does, with an odd dreamy intensity, as they're eating their scanty-but-welcome dinner. There's no cup, only the little tin pot to both brew the tea in and drink from; they pass it hand to hand, holding it by the stubby pot-handle, alternating with the remains of the jar of buttermilk. Cassandra falls asleep sitting up, with the crust of her bread squashed in one hand, and very slowly slumps sideways against Crichton.

"All right, here, I'll hold it and give you the tour." He'll proceed to point out the various features of the weapon, including the oil cartridge and and the strength dial.

Still with a mouth full of bread, he ends by explaining, "I call her Winona. I've owned other pistols like her, but she's the most reliable."

He goes to swallow and the bread sticks in his throat. Thankfully, one last swig of the tea helps unstick it. But it's then that he notices Cassandra has fallen asleep. He decides not to move her yet. Maybe now would be a good time to talk to Percy privately.

"Hey," he nudges the boy gently, "I know you're probably trying to keep a brave face for your sister, but if you need to talk about what they did to you, make sure you do. Don't hold it in. Find someone to confide in. Take it from me, ignoring the pain won't make it go away. It will pop up when you least expect it."

Percy gives a bare shadow of a smile on hearing the weapon's name, but otherwise only listens.

When Crichton makes his overture, Percy looks away from the gun for the first time, gazing into the fire.

"If she weren't here," he says, almost inaudibly. "If you weren't here. I don't know ... "

"Don't," he warns gently. "Don't torture yourself thinking about all the could haves. All you'll do is wind yourself up in knots. If it will give you some peace of mind, I can tell you that your sister was always going to rescue you. Even if I wasn't there, she would have."

Percy starts to say something, stops. Breathes out, slowly, maintaining his fragile self-control.

"How did you ..." He looks up at Crichton, blinking behind his glasses. "How did you come to be there? You're not from here, I know that much, but I don't think you came with them either."

"The how is a little fuzzy for me too. But, you're right. I'm not from this... world. I'm from somewhere very different. I don't really know how to get home, but I don't mind it so much at the moment. I think I'm where I need to be."

For a moment, Percy looks just a touch blank.

"You're not a Celestial," he says, in a tone suggesting he would be rather alarmed if he suspected otherwise.

"I don't know what a Celestial is..." So, no. He's not.

"... Messenger sent by the gods," he adds, cautiously.

"Nope. Sorry, Peanut. There's nothing divine about me. I'm a mostly normal human. I just happen to live a very complicated life."

Percy looks just slightly affronted at Peanut, but not enough to pursue it. Possibly because of what he says next.

"Well ... I'm very glad, and very grateful, that your complicated life brought you here when it did. I don't ... I don't know if we'll ever be able to reward you for it as we ought."

That look is so funny, Crichton can't help cracking a smile. He's going to be 'Peanut' forever now.

"I don't ask for any reward. I'm just doing what I think is right. We all gotta help people where and when we can. If you can't pay it back, pay it forward. Help someone else when you have the chance."

Percy nods, slowly, and returns to contemplating the gun.

He falls asleep, eventually, leaving Crichton to decide whether to try to sleep himself, keep watch all night, or wake one of the kids part way through.

No way in hell is he waking these kids. No matter how tired he gets, he's determined to stay awake and alert the entire night. He has to shove some snow down his shirt on a few occasions, but he manages it. Come the first morning light, he finally, gently, shakes them both.

"Sun's up. We better get moving."

It takes them about a week and a half to get to Drynna, following the river to have a sure source of water. The farmer's hastily packed food doesn't last them anything like that long, and they can't risk trying to find anyone to beg more from; by the end of the hike they're subsisting on foraged nuts, scarce fish, one winter-lean rabbit.

Standing watches through the night becomes a habit. Cassandra usually takes first, keeping her eyes open until she can't, waking either Crichton or Percy when she knows she's about to fall asleep; the other two split the remainder of the night between them. Aside from a wary fox that pads into their clearing one night and carefully backs out of it again, nothing disturbs them.

It gets less cold, at least, as they descend toward sea level and emerge from the woods. The mountains loom behind them, higher each morning than the one before.

And then one morning they come upon a place where the river bends, and begins to run alongside a broad dirt road. They should reach the little town of Drynna by midday.

"Maybe a cart will come along," says Cassandra in wistful hope, "and we can ask for a ride."

One day, if he ever makes it home, he's going to kiss his dad for teaching him how to trap, fish, and clean his kills. Those lessons are more valuable now than all the years he spent at MIT. What he wouldn't give for some coffee, though, on those long nights standing watch.

"Oh, wouldn't that be nice," Crichton sighs right along with her. "His boots are better quality than either of their shoes and still his feet ache with every step. His everything aches. Cruise ship beds and lukewarm buffets sound like a dream come true right about now.

"What do we say if anyone does come by? They're bound to ask us what our business in Drynna is. They'll notice our clothes aren't exactly the kind people travel in willingly."

Brother and sister exchange glances, each with a measure of unease, and look back to Crichton.

"We could ..." Cassandra, tentatively. "We could tell people we were set on by bandits. And they stole everything else we had."

"Or that our house burned down," Percy suggests. "That would explain ..."

A beat; his gaze drops to the ground, and hers flicks away, a moment before he starts speaking again. There's a note of effort in his voice. "We don't look like a typical family group, is all I mean."

Crichton looks at them both, long and hard, then glances to a fallen tree on the banks of the river and motions to it. "C'mere. Come sit with me a minute."

Gently he'll corral them toward that log, prompting them both to sit so he can kneel down in front of them and look into their eyes, glancing equally between them as he speaks. "This is all new, and it hurts but right now you're probably telling yourself it's better not to think about it. Right? You don't have to bottle it up. You can, if you're not ready to let it out yet. But...I lost my mother. Not the same way; she died from an illness. But there isn't a single day that goes by that I don't think about her. It still hurts and I'm not going to do you the disservice of lying and saying one day it won't. You two... you have a lot of hurt. Your family was stolen from you and it's not fair. Your home was taken from you and it's not fair.. None of this makes any sense and there's no amount of justice that's ever going to set it right. But you can talk about it. You can say what you're feeling. I'm not going to tell you it's wrong."

He puts a hand to each of their shoulders. "I promise you, I promise, I'm not going to leave you two alone. I'm sticking with you, whatever happens. You've trusted me this far. I know that's been hard, because I'm a stranger from a strange place. But, believe it or not, I've been in your shoes. I've been lost, far away from everything I ever knew and ever loved, running from danger, scared of what's around every corner. And there were people who took me in, picked me up and told me they'd never let me go. They got me through it. I can't pay them back for that, so..." he looks meaningfully at Percy, "I'm paying it forward. As insane as it sounds to say, I love you both. I'll do whatever it takes to protect you and I'll never regret that. No matter what. We may not be a typical family, but we are one. If you'll have me?"

As he's talking, Percy takes Cassandra's hand and squeezes it tightly. She glances up at him; to her eye, he looks stricken somehow, blindsided.

"This isn't," he says finally, and "we have to," and then he swallows, and squares his shoulders. "Of course." There's a great deal more in his eyes, behind his cracked glasses, for that of course to carry.

Cassandra doesn't say anything, but her free hand reaches up for Crichton's, and presses it with cold little fingers.

"We can say our house burned down," she says in a thin small voice, "and we were the only ones left. And you're ... our uncle? Should we call you that?"

Crichton smiles as she presses her cold fingers to his, and he nods seriously to Percy. They're such strong kids. He can't help but be proud of how well they are coping.

"Uncle would be fine with me. I'd like that." He'd like it a lot, actually.

"Okay. That's the story. It'll explain why we don't have much to trade with, either. I figure when we get to town I'll ask around and see if anyone needs an extra farm hand or something else along those lines. I've got a background in engineering, I'm sure I can land a job somewhere that'll get us enough to live off of."

Cassandra bites her lip. "We could all work," she says, though doubtfully. "Percy's good at fixing things, and ... and I can sew? Maybe there's a, a seamstress who needs an assistant?"

A pause.

"And -- maybe somebody would buy these." She shoves up the sleeve of her too-big coat, to pull up the filthy and torn remains of her once-fine dress -- and the band of embroidery on the cuff, with seed pearls sewn onto the blue silk.

"I won't stop you from looking for work, but I understand if you both need a little time." Especially Percy. He still needs to heal from those injuries fully.

He peers at the pearls with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. "Yeah. I reckon those would buy us room and board while we're getting settled. If you're willing to part with them."

She nods, only a little unsteadily.

(It's one of the few fine dresses she's ever had that wasn’t made over from something that used to belong to an older sister. But it's ruined now, and even if it weren't, it's no good to her or any of them here.)

They find a dealer in secondhand clothes who looks dubious at first, but seems to believe their story and agrees to buy the dress for what can be salvaged from it. For the value of the seed pearls they get a change of clothes for each of them, shabby and much-mended but serviceable, and a handful of silver -- less than they'd hoped, but not enough less to risk arguing. They also get directions to an inn belonging to the dealer's cousin; you tell her I sent you there, she'll look after you.

The innkeeper, in a brisk and hard but fair manner, does look after them: for one silver a day and the two young ones working in the kitchen, she'll give all three of them a room and one meal a day. That'll give their 'uncle' a chance to find some honest work of his own, she says, and if the other two are good hard workers and get enough done, maybe she'll charge them only a silver every other day.

The room is a windowless storage space in the attic, unfurnished but for three hasty pallets. The daily meal is as generous as the room is stingy, and she doesn't object to them putting away a little of their supper bread to save for breakfast. The two de Rolos learn to scrub pots, and peel vegetables, and clean out fireplaces.

Days stretch into weeks, and they quietly discuss whether Drynna is far enough from Whitestone for them to stay longer.

He nods in return, his expression full of understanding. She's sacrificing something very precious for them and she deserves respect for that.

Despite the silver being less than an ideal amount, and their accommodations being pretty lackluster by usual standards, it's a relief to have someplace to anchor himself. He makes a point, daily, of trying to remind them both in small ways of how proud he is of the way they're coping. Their worlds have been turned completely upside-down and they are having to learn so many things at breakneck speed. It would be humbling for anyone, but they're facing it like heroes.

Not that he's leaving them to do all the heavy lifting. The change of clothes makes him far less conspicuous and a lot more believable as a potential farmhand. He's gotten his start in odd jobs, but good word has spread about the strength of his back and the quality of his work ethic--especially after he single-handedly took a bull by the horns and redirected it away from a broken fence. That got maybe a little too much attention but, as a result, he's begun to amass a small sum for them along with his reputation. Enough that they could risk moving on to a further village. But the question of if that will be a better situation weighs heavy on them all.

"I don't know. The people here are good people. It's a risk to stay, but we don't know how we'll be treated in the next place, either. Either way, this is your decision to make. I'll stay with you no matter which you pick."

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not_the_last - 2023-09-10 22:35 (UTC) - Expand

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