come_sailaway | Fable the First: Fuck this shit I'm out

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Fable the First: Fuck this shit I'm out

WHO: New beastie boy Gil!
WHAT: Memory share event!
WHEN: throughout March
WHERE; Everywhere while he gets his settle on, also memories in Arcadia
WARNINGS: Memories may include: Body horror (potential for mutilation, dismemberment, disembowelment, decapitation); cannibalism; cruel/unusual torture leading to death; forcible sedation; mind control/manipulation/commands to murder; Faeries but like, old school Gaelic horror stories. Please let me know if there's anything you'd like to hard opt out of!

I. Where's the beef (OTA, everywhere)

Alright, well. That was a stupid-ass safety drill. And Gil can't say he's fond of Friday either, with the whole No Face thing, but at least he's free and can do what the fuck he wants.

So at least step one is easy: work out what the fuck this place is. Cruise ship? Easy. Specifics? What the fuck. Also he's never been on a cruise ship before so it's very... new.

It's pretty easy to find him: he's the new guy, what's there to say. He's short, he's jacked to the shithouse, he's got a black buzz cut, he has thick scars covering every inch of his visible body in his singlet and cargo shorts and bare feet (some thick and ropy, wrapping around limbs and his neck like the pieces got melted back together, some are small, narrow and deep, and yet others are just shallow and superficial, and everything in-between), he has bare feet as he wanders the decks.

(For those with special eyes, though, he looks a bit different: the same height but a monstrous beast, his knuckles nearly dragging on the floor, arms almost half as broad again; thick, dark fur where the scars glint through like streaks of silver and flesh, the fur short but deliberately clipped down to the same length around his neck and chest, where there was clearly a mane at some point; his face is more like that of a bear or hyena, with jutting fangs and huge, bat-like ears; and his bare feet are now cloven hooves, oil-slick black and almost serrated at their tips.)

II. Thks fr th Mmrs (CW: ALL OF THE WARNINGS ABOVE)

If you're unlucky enough to fall into one of Gil's memory slips, it immediately and intensely feels...

Wrong.

There's a brilliant force of emotion in the air, like the buzz of an audience anticipating a stellar performance, made tangible in the air, like breathing through glitter, a sparkling hit of energy and life that feels like wading face-first into a dream. Or maybe the best high of your life, where everything is surreal, beautiful and overstimulating and intense.

And in every one there's a huge behemoth, black as sin, eyes like burning embers - sometimes it's like a wolf, all teeth and hunched shoulders, prowling - sometimes it's almost a bear, claws and thick fur and a roar that burns through to the soul with unbridled fear - sometimes it's no longer a human, disproportionate, foul and fury.

And in all of them, there's blood.

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There's a deep growl in the being's chest, but it's more of a nervous sound than an angry one.

"...Beast," he rumbles thickly, watching her warily. "...rrrrvaldis. Should... not here. Bad."

"Bad, yeah. I got that when you tried to attack me. If this is who you are, then why are you...fighting with spectators? Where even are we?"

How how the hell can she end this memory so she can escape?

He shakes his head, like a dog with a fly caught in its ear.

"Show. Gotta... gotta show." The frustration, words that are supposed to be there aren't, and a snarl escapes him, harsh and desperate. "Leave, or- or show finishes. You finish show. Hurts."

Show. She still can't tell if he wants to be here or not, but she suspects he doesn't, and they are running out of time.

"And how do I finish the show before you do. How do I leave?"

He stares at her for far too long.

And then his whole head turns to look at her sword, and he snuffs softly.

Of course that would be the answer to whatever cruel game is being played in both his memory and on the Eterna.

"I don't want to kill you, but with your permission, I will take you to the gates of Death and leave you there. You will not be able to pass on, but it may grant you some rest for a time."

His ears flick back - but the angle they're at suggests he's annoyed, not distressed.

His gaze fall to the ground as he jerks his head away with a sharp snort, and he watches as their little starts getting even smaller.

"Better pick fast," he growls quietly. "Kill or be killed."

It's permission enough and she can already feel the light magic fading, so she reaches out to touch his soul with her own and begins to siphon his life-force away. His story doesn't end here, so ending it in this memory could cause irreparable harm, but she can do this. It will take only seconds to devour enough to leave him too weak to move.

[ooc: let me know if this works/is ok! This may help both of us]

Edited 2023-03-11 02:58 (UTC)

His ears flick, fur standing on end as he feels that strange connection, and he reels back automatically at the intrusion--

But as she pulls on his energy, his breath comes out in a long slow exhale, his eyelids flicker as his eyes roll back, and before he can react properly he slumps and collapses in a heap before her.

Just as the world slams back into place around the pair of them, with the cacophony of energy and intensity that presses on every side, every sense like a migraine, all the more cloying for its brief absence.

And then the Beast isn't small or humanoid - it's a towering pile of animalistic weight, slumped on its side like it collapsed there, and- a strange, pressing silence suddenly fills the air. An edge of expectation, like it's waiting to see what happens next.

The memory is still going, but the creature seems down for the count. The heavy silence, almost like an held breath, waiting for something else. Her head hurts, this place is not made for her kind. It's oppressive and warm. Suffocating.

"Why hasn't it stopped?"

"Because the story hasn't finished."

The voice doesn't belong to the Beast, but a figure, almost doubled over from age like the world is weighing on their shoulders, emerges from behind it.

White hair streaked with the remnants of its original dark brown, knotted and tangled to form an ugly beard under their chin, and dark olive skin is so wrinkled and sunken that it's impossible to even begin to guess their gender. But their eyes are sharp, staring at Valdis intently.

"You've done him a kindness. But kindness won't save his life." Their gaze softens, as they put a hand on the Beast's arm, barely moving under its shallow breathing. "The first time is the hardest. But I'll put him back together."

The figure looks half-dead, but it is alive, and seems to be the beast's master in some way. The affection disgusts her as she recalls the scars all over the individual. If she understands correctly, this person has some sort of power to put the beast back together, even after death. Perhaps a necromancer of a sort. But not like Palamedes. And her own power, corrupted as it is, is only for killing.

"First time?"

This is a memory. Perhaps some right of passage, or test.

"I'm not generally inclined to kill defenseless creature. He's been defeated, is the next step truly necessary?"

The Crone just laughs, and under the almost hilariously stereotypical witch's cackle, it's tense and broken. A laugh because the only other option is to break down crying.

"Necessary doesn't mean anything here. This is how the Story goes." Their hand tightens in the Beast's fur, white-knuckled to stop it from trembling, and they take a quiet breath to keep their voice steady. "If you want to be kind, then kill him. Please."

"What Story?"

The frustration is evident in her voice, but this old crone seems upset, though if it is about the Beast or not, she isn't sure.

"Tell me the point of this."

"What's the point of a story at all?" they ask, as their hand relaxes and they start stroking the Beast's fur. "To entertain. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

"You'll have to be a little more convincing than that."

Her grip tightens on the holy blade, trying to decide if she uses it on the crone, or if she simply complies with what they ask of her. Though...she's never really been one to comply with anything.

That gets a scathing look, sharper for the deep wrinkles around those bright, bright eyes.

"Sorry if I don't want to lay myself bare for some stranger that can't even finish their one fucking job," they say crisply, and for a moment they sound less like a crotchety old man and more like an English young adult. Something real breaking through with the depths of their frustration. "You came here. That means you're part of our story. And if you don't play your part, it'll play you."

"I choose what my part is in this life, not you."

And yet, as a memory, what does it change for the owner of said memory if she kills this pretender instead of the Beast. Logic says that killing the Beast will end the memory, and yet the Beast is already defeated. But some other thought makes the decision for her and her blade buries itself deeply into the Beast's back, straight through the heart.

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