Second of Sun's Dawn (OTA)

[blindwatchersees]

Who: Sheogorath and YOU?
What: Celebrating Sheogorath's Summoning Day
When: Februrary 2nd
Where: Not sure yet
Warnings: Probably some mentions of violence and blood, more to be added as they occur


What is unusual, when Sheogorath is involved? With him, there's very little that could be considered unheard-of behavior. That being said, sometimes he does things that seem more meant to draw attention than others. For example, right now, he's sitting in the middle of the atrium, cross-legged, with a plate sitting in front of him. Sitting on the plate, in turn, is a picture of a cupcake, scribbled with ballpoint pen on the back of a receipt from a Bric-a-Brac. He's muttering to himself, frequently shifting into different voices, as if he's trying to fill the role of an entire room.

Comments

[skaikru]

Say what you will about her, but Clarke Griffin has great prey instincts. Looking into his eyes, hearing that quiet screaming akin to a dog whistle in his voice but not properly registering it — her body at least has all the appropriate responses. Goosebumps, suddenly everything feels cold, her heart beats a little faster... And again there is that instinct to run away from this conversation, but. He's caught on to the edge of her facade and seeks to rip the mask away. Pries and digs, but most alarmingly challenges her. Right there, at the very end.

The very first words the Captain ever spoke to her on board this ship had been you are so far out of your league, Wanheda. Time had passed and for the most part, Clarke had felt acclimated. Then every so often there's moments like this that really and truly threaten her grasp on the situation...

And she just doesn't really know how to back down.

"...I guess I'll try again."

This time there's no bothering with the pretense of lowering her head or closing her eyes. And those hands in her lap twist and tangle over each other, eventually finding hold enough for nails to bite crescent grooves into her own flesh.

I want to get my people off this ship. And I don't really care about what it takes to achieve that anymore.

It's a safe sentiment, one she's confident others share. But the depth of this want gushes out of every pore like caustic radiation. If Sheogorath wants to dig in a little, there's no resistance in regards to this topic. Feel how easy it would be to kill for this; to lie, to cheat, to deceive, to break promises. Feel the intention to reach her goal, previously wishy-washy but now thoroughly cemented. Grasp the familiarity she has with this route, preemptively tired but set in her way like a bulldog that just got its teeth around a bone. Listen to the rage kept under close lock and key thus far, but beating in time with her heart and indistinguishable from the blood rushing through her veins; it is dark and tacky and cloying. Hand in hand with it all comes the frustration of not knowing what to do yet, the mental equivalent of a beast in captivity gnawing on the bars of the cage and ripping all its hair out. It wants out, she wants an out, and where divine intervention has failed every time before it doesn't feel like it hurts to ask —

Can you help me with that?

cw: blood mention, implied mention of self harm

[blindwatchersees]

He slinks in between her thoughts, a silver shape pacing before the caged beast and thrashing behind its eyes. He is the itch, that desperate feeling of no way out, and simultaneously he is the ripping teeth and a sense of relief and a rallying cry of freedom, freedom, freedom! There's a dagger in the dark of her mind, the smell of blood and the weeping and screaming that can only accompany anguished loss. A sea of black blood suddenly rises in Clarke's field of vision, swallowing everything whole, as a distant voice, totally unfamiliar yet familiar enough that she knows she must have heard it just moments ago, whispers 'please, please, please.'

Then the rising tide sinks back, and he's sitting there across from her, eyes a little deeper in hue but otherwise still a a dapper but ordinary old man.

"The Spinner watched every corner, and thought nothing could sneak past her webs. But as she tacked up thread after thread, the vibrations left her nest shaking, day and night, to the point that she couldn't sleep," he mutters, sounding almost as if he's reminding himself of a story. "She became so fixated on every tremor, that when a great howling wind passed by her, she paid it no mind. For surely, her foes would know to be more subtle than that."

carrying those cw's forward

[skaikru]

One moment she's sitting in the atrium trying her best at honest and godly prayer, and the next she's digging the nails of one hand into the back of the other in an attempt to scratch that itch. It's deep, it lives deep, it's like it can't be reached but at least in this instant she isn't worrying her thumbnail down to the quick. In the next moment, gnawing her own fingers to bleeding might have been preferable as the entire room begins filling with a swirling cascade of darkness that only registers as blood when her heart drops out of her throat and she remembers the same color is currently pumping through her own veins at heightened speed. Not real, not real — she screams internally, still halfway out of her seat and scrambling up the back of the couch in a vain attempt to keep her own head above water for fear she'd drown in her own blood again. For whatever good it does.

The begging crescendos. The wave crashes.

The atrium blinks back into stark, well-lit view and Clarke is left reeling in a terrified cold sweat. And wondering — if this is godly, do I really want to believe?

But in his own seat across from her, Sheogorath, Prince of Madness sits as if nothing happened. He mumbles, mostly to himself it seems, unbothered and at ease. And while Clarke can parse the words coming from his mouth, she can't quite grasp the concept. "I — what?" she splutters, rattled discomfort folding over on itself to sound downright affronted.

[blindwatchersees]

"You asked for help, little mortal. I've given you insight. Bits and pieces of desperation to examine, which might be from you, or might not be from you. Your blood, or mine? Your fear, or his? A pity you can't seek out my many-armed-unsister quite as directly here. I feel like her talents are best suited to what you seek. But... I think you understand, better than you did before, how desperately you want what you want. Is there anything else you want to say?" There are shadows dancing in his indigo eyes now, tiny images of daggers in the dark.