come_sailaway | In her sepulchre there by the sea

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In her sepulchre there by the sea

Who: Palamedes Sextus and his cavalier, Camilla Hect, the rest of the House Heirs, a gaggle of spooky monks, some skeletons, a murderer, and you!
What: Memshare adventures! All memories are open to all.
When: Anytime in March
Where: Canaan House, Earth!
Warnings: Canon-typical blood, violence, and mild body horror
Notes: Below the cut you will find some scene-setting and descriptions/notes for each of the prompts. Prompts themselves are in the comments!

In general, characters will assume that you arrived with the other visitors to Canaan House a few weeks before any of the events described below, but they will have no idea who you are and why you’re there, and will be extremely suspicious of your presence.

Canaan House rises out of the sea like a castle, a tower, a crumbling mausoleum. Outside the small island on which it stands, the ocean stretches as far as the eye can see, sparkling under the bright rays of Dominicus. The building itself is clearly old, crumbling in places, windows cracked and bricks pitted; even on a thanergenic planet, where life must fight for its existence, nature is slowly overtaking one of the last symbols of humanity on the planet all people once called home.

Inside, the sense of grand decay continues. If you squint, you might notice the way it resembles a university building, some wings made up with wood floors and elaborate bannisters, fading paintings and rotting tapestries on the walls, while others are full of large, light-filled spaces, all glass, and steel, and concrete. There is a large courtyard with a dry fountain, broken elevators and flights of stairs that end halfway up, and dozens of doors with numbers above the threshold, each with its own unique lock, each requiring a key to open. Listen closely and you might hear an ambient hum of electricity, or the quiet clatter of bone from the dozens of otherwise-silent skeleton constructs that clean, and cook, and gather food for the planet’s first guests in nearly ten thousand years.

Welcome to the First House. Don’t stay any longer than you have to.

The Wind Came Out of the Cloud By Night
Investigate a murder scene! This is the best chance of meeting lots of other characters or exploring Canaan House more broadly.

The Demons Down Under the Sea
Solve a puzzle, fight a skeleton monster, hang out with Palamedes and Camilla

We Loved With a Love That Was More than Love
Experience Palamedes death! Please note that unless previously discussed, characters will not be able to interact with this memory, only observe.

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You find yourself standing in a six-sided metal-lined corridor deep beneath the ground floor of Canaan House. The walls are covered in perforated panels, the ceiling and floor a grille through which air is circulating, the whole space lit by faintly humming florescent lights. There’s a ladder bolted to the wall that reaches upward, and if you squint you can see the trapdoor at the top.

You’re probably not looking up, though. You’re probably looking down at the floor, where the body of a man and a woman lay tangled together, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles and a small pool of blood beneath them. It doesn’t take a necromancer to figure out that they are dead.

Lucky (perhaps?) for you, you’re not alone with these bodies. A familiar figure, gangly and bespectacled, and wearing a ratty bathrobe over button-up pajamas, is kneeling beside the bodies, holding the dead woman’s wrist with care. Close by, a girl of about twenty with a blunt bob haircut and grey-brown eyes is tying one end of a rope to a large flashlight and tossing the other end through the ceiling grille to hang it. A small woman in black robes wearing robes and black-and-white skull facepaint, stalks a circle around the bodies. A taller figure, similarly dressed, crouches on her heels in the corner. There are others, too, some chalking symbols on the ground, others flipping through notebooks, others standing back and watching with wary eyes.

“No pulse,” says Palamedes Sextus, Master Warden of the Library and Heir to the House of the Sixth. He doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular, but his voice fills the corridor. “Dead three hours, give or take a few minutes.”

This rift takes you to a tiny foyer; like the corridor outside, it’s metal-lined and sterile, the only light coming from the struggling fluorescent bulbs. there are hooks on the wall, one of which holds a lab coat, barely recognizable after thousands of years of decay. Beside the open door in front of you is a little card where someone has handwritten #1-2. TRANSFERENCE/WINNOWING. DATACENTER.

Through the door is what might have once been a laboratory or an office. Desks sit in neat rows, and shelves line the walls, all empty and covered in a heavy layer of dust. The opposite wall is windowed all the way across, the room beyond the window empty and featureless. There’s a single door in the window with a control panel, and another door leading to yet another room on the wall to the right.

Two figures in grey robes, their backs to you, stand staring into the empty room beyond. One of them, the shorter figure, crouches down and runs her finger through a little pile of pebbles and dust. “Oss?” she says.

“Yes,” says the other one. This voice you probably recognize. “The Ninth were already here, so that’s no surprise.”

“Warden, I have a question.”

“Mm?”

“If the Ninth have already been here and found the key, why are we here?”

“Scientifically curiosity, Cam,” says Palamedes Sextus. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Camilla murmurs under her breath.

Oh, you wanted to see the rest of Canaan House? This time you get to. You’re probably going to regret it.

This corridor is above ground, the walls white-washed, dim light filtering in from faraway windows. Signs of Canaan House’s abandonment are everywhere: there are broken tiles, rotting tapestries, little tables coated in dust. Everything, absolutely everything, smells of blood and death.

For reasons you can’t understand, you are drawn towards an open door at the end of the hallway. As you walk, you might find yourself having to step over the periodic piles of bone, each a human skeleton that seems to have suddenly collapsed where it stood. Soon enough, you might notice the woman standing by the door, the hood of her back robe pushed back to reveal short auburn hair. She seems to be frozen in place, which she is. Her eyes dart about with panic. Does she notice you? She might, or she might be too busy straining to hear the voices coming from inside the room. You will have to stay outside with her; if you try to cross the door’s threshold, you will find yourself hitting an invisible barrier.

Inside, Palamedes sits on a low chair beside a couch on which a young woman lays. She’s pretty in a Victorian consumptive sort of way, with light brown hair and pale skin, her lips dotted red in a way that might make you think she has recently coughed up blood.

“When this started I was eight, and you—you, Dulcinea—were fifteen,” Palamedes is saying. “My feelings were intense, but for God’s sake, of course I understood. I was an infant. And yet I was shown endless tact and sympathy. Does that run in the Seventh House?”

The woman smiles. “I suppose it does. They have been letting young necromancers die for a very, very long time.”

Valdis follows the pull, breathing in the death permeating the entire space. The dark halls, the piles of bones, the smell in the air. This place is falling apart, not quite abandoned, but definitely dying. The essence of life fading causing a humming in her chest. Power. Every breath into her lungs draws in power.

But there, a door, a woman frozen in front of it, and voices beyond. Valdis walks up next to the young woman, stopping to evaluate what she might be trapped by. Looking into the room, to Palamedes. This must be his memory.

Necromancers. Palamedes was not unique in his world, she knows that, but this? The woman on the couch is not what she seems. She is older than she looks, and deeply corrupted both in body and spirit. It almost feels like there is someone else with her, but the room only has Palamedes and this Dulcinea, who Palamedes told her he had never met. Strange that he had lied. With a deep breath, pulling the scents of illness over her tongue, Valdis tries to enter the room.

Edited 2023-03-06 04:34 (UTC)

He's been through a couple of different rifts now, dark and sometimes leading out into starry places, or else pitch black ones. This darkness is...more familiar, in a way. It reminds him of some of the darkened labyrinths he'd traversed in the past and, while this makes him nervous, there is something to be said for making the attempt to conquer this thing that's made him so anxious about being in the dark.

The voices, at least, give Wayne something to move toward, and the creak of his leather boots and jumpsuit barely cut through the otherwise thick silence. He listens hard, and only understands half of what they're saying to one another, but he doesn't make his approach silent or secretive. He's never been good at stealth anyway. Still, he doesn't speak up just yet. He doesn't recognize either voice, having had no chance to meet Palamedes just yet. This just means that later on, at some point, he may have to come to terms with the fact that Wayne just...looks like this.

The shadow he casts from the open doorway that he approaches through is probably unsettling. Sorry, guy.

She recognizes Palamedes's voice, even before she sees the dim light reflect off his spectacles. She's hoping, gods how she is hoping, that her assessment of him is right and he won't default to suspicion and violence on seeing someone who shouldn't be here.

(And there is no doubt whatsoever in her mind that unauthorized persons should not be here.)

So she lets her foot scrape audibly over the floor even before raising her voice and saying aloud "I do beg your pardon."

This memory smells like recycled air, decay and death. Natsuno can't help but recall the fomicry lab, though that one was distinctly newer. And unlike the lab, this time there's no convenient supply room to hide in.

Pal is here, and these other people must be necromancers as well, from different schools and Houses. That small girl with the face paint must specialize in bones, the creepy white-haired one is... ghosts? Either way, Natsuno's certain they all have ways to cause him excruciating pain.

He takes one careful step toward the bodies, sniffing the air. Pal's psychometry is surely more effective, but perhaps he can still discover a hint. A peace offering to the crowd, who's going to spot him any moment now.

“Good,” says the white-haired boy, pressing his palms together as though in prayer. “Then there is likely still time to call them back before they are taken by the River forever.”

A larger man, standing a half-step behind the boy, doesn’t sigh exactly, but he deflates ever so slightly.

Palamedes is continuing to carefully inspect the bodies, and he doesn’t look up from his work when he says, “Agreed, but let’s do it the old-fashioned way, shall we?”

Silas seethes. “This isn’t the time for squeamishness, Master Warden.”

“I’m in agreement with our friendly neighborhood librarian.” This statement comes from a towering woman with copious curls who leaps lightly off the last rung of the ladder. Coming down after her is another blond woman and a young man with a sword at his belt. “Soul siphoning is so crass.”

The necromancers are too busy bickering to notice a stranger hiding in the shadows, but at least one person has their eye out for danger. Natsuno will soon find the tip of a knife pressed to the small of his back. “Don’t move,” a woman’s voice whispers in his ear. Her tone is calm, flat. Notably, the woman who had been hanging the flashlight is nowhere to be seen.

Seconds after Wayne steps through the doorway, a knife flies through the air embeds itself into a metal grate on the wall next to his head.

The woman who threw the knife is standing with her feet planted wide, eyes narrowed, and draws two short swords. More slowly, Palamedes turns around to face Wayne. “Cam,” He waves her back, raising his eyebrows in something like wonder. “My goodness, aren’t you remarkable.”

Cassandra is right about Palamedes; the trouble is, Camilla Hect is the sort of person who reacts with suspicion and violence. Her sword is out before Cassandra finishes speaking, and she steps in front of Palamedes protectively.

Palamedes stops her with a hand on her arm, though his expression as he watches Cassandra isn’t exactly friendly. “I would suggest you explain your presence here,” he says quietly. “And quickly.”

There's an immediate flinch at the sound of the knife hitting the metal so close to his head, a sharp inhale and a grimace lightly contorting his face as he stares at it, then back at the man approaching him. His hands come up on reflex palm-out, trying to de-escalate the situation before it comes down to the possibility of a fight.

"Hey, whoa, hold on-"

But then he processes that there doesn't actually seem to be a fight, even if the woman startled him badly enough to take the initiative. "Uh...hi."

“I have two questions,” Palamedes says to the woman who had claimed to be Dulcinea Septimus. He asks about the murder of someone called Abigail Pent, and the woman confesses easily to killing her, explaining that Pent’s interest in history might have given away her entire scheme. They discuss a key that she had hidden inside the dead woman, gummed up locks, other ways “Dulcinea” had tried to throw Palamedes and others off her scent.

Then Palamedes says, “Where is she?” The woman tries to brush him off, but he persists. “Tell me what you have done with Dulcinea Septimus.”

The woman who isn’t Dulcinea doesn’t answer—because she has suddenly noticed that they are not alone. She looks past Palamedes towards the door, straight at Valdis (who will find it easy to step across the threshold) with a look that says that she is seeing into her very soul. “What in the name of the King Undying are you?”

Valdis is quite content to just stand and listen, but unlike the woman in black next to her, she's able to step across the threshold and move. Palamedes hadn't lied, this is apparently not Dulcinea, she's something more. The gaze is uncomfortable, as if the woman can see in a similar way she can. Deeper than flesh and into the realm of souls and life.

She knows about the King Undying and how he is like a god. Thank goodness for her questions to Palamedes. But it's time to put on a show. She doesn't quite cross the room, giving herself space in case this sickly woman actually has some real bite.

"Something greater than even your king."

Cassandra holds both hands up before her chest, palms out, in what she hopes will be understood as a peaceable gesture. "I don't know where here is," she says. "I was brought against my will and I don't know how to leave. Please, I don't mean any harm."

Bless Camila Hect's vigilance and ruthless efficiency. Natsuno was busy watching the exchange (soul-siphoning? sounds nasty) and only notices her a split second before the knife is pressed against his back. He complies and stands completely still, hands hanging loosely at his sides.

"I'm not looking for trouble," he says in a similarly calm, flat voice.

Edited (Missed the important word lmao) 2023-03-08 12:04 (UTC)

The space is...familiar and yet not, now isn't it? There are the distinctive bones of a long-disused lab about this space, the decaying lone lab coat on its hook hardly the only indicator; Jade is, unsurprisingly, intimately familiar with such facilities even to this day. But there's little reassurance to be had in this knowledge, really, as Jade stands still for a moment or so waiting for his senses orient from yet another impromptu trip through a rift. This one had unexpectedly opened in a passing of the cabin halls back on the ship--incidentally rather closer to Palamedes' cabin than not, as retrospect will note at some point later.

There could be all sorts of reasons this whole area seems to be in thorough disrepair and falling apart. Yet a light source still struggles overhead, and two people in grey robes stand straight ahead. ...The two people being the rather more pressing issue, obviously. They converse between each other, and something in Jade does perk up in recognition at Pal's voice from the taller figure...but better sense restrains him from opening with the sort of familiar greeting that wants to promptly pop out. Jade now holds several memory-forays under his belt whether he likes it or not, after all, and the few constants between them all have started to sink in. Like the fact that all these memories seem to involve passengers on the Serena Eterna...and the additional fact that their past selves are often found here.

The young lady's voice is unfamiliar. Not someone he knows on the ship, Jade's almost certain. So then, that can only mean...

Hm. Going to have to open with something sooner rather than later. Would it be safer to try and conceal himself at this point, or announce his presence before it ends up unpleasantly surprising the two before him first? In the handful of moments listening to their exchange, Jade ultimately goes with his gut, which says:

"Scientific curiosity is always a perfectly justified reason, isn't it? Can't really go wrong when it's in the name of science, after all!" With all the sardonic cheer of somebody that's totally meant to be here, of course. Though Jade doesn't immediately approach them, at least, content to stand with idle ease in the doorway and gauge the reaction he's about to get from at least a moderate amount of distance.

There is a big difference hearing a limited collection of tales of a place, forming a picture of it in your mind, and then stumbling upon it at its worst. This house has the bones of something that was once beautiful and impressive, now reduced to a bloated and rotting corpse of itself. The aura of blood and decomp swirling up to smack her in the nostrils is so thick and tangible that, even without any aptitude for necromancy, the thanergy bites. There's plenty to look at and inspect here, but none of the collapsed bone piles or destroyed patches of floor offer as good a hint for where she might have ended up this time as the figure that stands stock still in the middle of the hallway.

Red hair, dark clothes, the mask of death painted across her face in thick, oily paint...

"Gideon?" Clarke whispers, drawing level with the frozen young woman and staring up at her face. She half expects a reaction like was normal on the ship; something big and larger than life, even if it lacked any recognition. Not her first memory rodeo, but a baseline for experience doesn't mean there's no surprises. At first she thinks this must be one of Gideon's memories, but the cavalier does nothing more than look at her with a growing sense of dread coloring an otherwise frozen face.

And then she hears more voices, trickling out from an open door not that far away. One so familiar that she all out abandons the frozen figure of Gideon Nav to press closer and peer around the door frame — rewarded for bravery with the sight of a boy she knows at the bedside of a girl she doesn't.

Clarke almost calls his name, but this isn't... this isn't right. That can't actually be Dulcinea laying on the bed like a portrait of life stretched past its limits. A ball of thick anxiety clogs up the back of her throat before burning a path down to rest heavy in the bottom of her stomach, and even without magic cast on her limbs, she might as well be frozen in place.

Cytherea’s eyes narrow. Her spine straightens, and though she still looks like a woman on the brink of death, she seems to grow without tangibly changing. Her eyes glow, their color shifting, just for a moment.

“Another soul melange?” She shakes her head, “I would remember you. Even after ten thousand years, I wouldn’t forget a face as pretty as yours.” The Lyctor’s gaze becomes searching, a faint frown crossing her features. “Could it be— No, no. You’re not her. Even if she escaped her prison, even if she found herself another body, she couldn’t change her eyes. His eyes. His curse.” She laughs coldly. “Oh, if only you were her. The poetry would be too sweet.”

Palamedes remains in his chair, gaze darting between both women. He had come into this room with a singular purpose and not a lot of hope that he would walk out alive, but he has enough self-preservation not to throw himself into the middle of this brewing battle.

Cytherea is standing now, unsteady and monstrous. “Who are you, then, you who claims to be greater even than God?”

“Hullo.” Palamedes slowly steps forward, a choice that Camilla clearly isn’t pleased about. She takes another knife from her belt and grips it at her side, rocking up onto the balls of her feet and back down again.

Pal, meanwhile, looks like he has spotted a rare animal or made a scientific discovery. He holds out his own hands in an effort to look as non-threatening as possible. The creature seems fully aware, almost human in his affect and not at all dangerous, but one never knows. “Where did you come from? Do you live down here?”

Teacher had said there were strange monsters in Canaan House’s basement.

“Cam,” Pal says softly, and the woman lowers her sword just slightly. Pal’s eyes don’t leave Cassandra. “This is Canaan House. We’re on the First House—a planet that, for what it’s worth, has not been occupied for thousands of years. So you can understand our confusion.” He gestures to one of the desks. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell us your name. Assuming you know that, at least.”

Camilla makes a small sound of satisfaction. At least this interloper is cooperative. “Well, you’ve found it. Tell me what you’re doing down here, and quickly. I'd say you have about two minutes before the Master Warden notices you.”

Meanwhile, Palamedes and the girl in the black cloak are kneeling near the bodies, deep in murmured conversation. After a few moments, they seem to come to some kind of agreement, and Pal begins to draw a series of symbols on the ground in chalk.

Wayne attempts to relax a little as the man approaches, though it seems obvious that his companion is ready to strike at the slightest provocation. He's moving right past the immediate feeling that being called remarkable gave him, that if he had the subcutaneous blood supply for it that he might have blushed, because this is not the time nor place.

"No, I, uh. I'm kind of. Lost?" His hands fall back to his sides, only moving some as he tries to explain himself. "I was only trying to explore a little and ended up not knowing where to go. Not the first time it's happened." He sounds, for all intents and purposes, like a normal person, quiet and somewhat monotone as if trying not to disturb their surroundings. "What even is all this?"

The desire to not change Pal's memories, and the desire to put this woman in her place war behind her green eyes, but she smiles, no sign of the confusion showing on her face. This woman seems to be at odds with another, someone else powerful, someone else cursed. Someone who has the woman's ire. Palamedes seems to have a decent sense of self-preservation, as he doesn't move, but he doesn't press either of them.

"Surely a necromancer of your stature would recognize the very embodiment of Death."

She's really just guessing, but the thousands of years, paired with Palamedes telling her about his research into immortality, plus the fact that this woman seems to have two souls, well, it's probably a good guess.

"Thank you." She gives a nod to him, a slightly shallower one to the swordswoman (bodyguard, some part of her mind categorizes her), and moves to the indicated seat.

"My name is Cassandra de Rolo. I ... know something of your empire, if it's the one ruled by the," gods what was the phrase Palamedes had used, "Necrolord Prime?"

Master Warden. So she is with Palamedes.

"I fell through a rift in reality and ended up here," he says, still calm and business-like. He doesn't know if she'll believe him, but the truth seems easier than coming up with a lie. Natsuno hopes it will ring close enough to the "River."

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In her sepulchre there by the sea

The Wind Came Out of the Cloud By Night

The Demons Down Under the Sea

We Loved With a Love That Was More than Love

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screwing over and gaslighting annabel lee

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