monday's child is fair of face (2/2)

[palfriday]

CW: death, probably gore, possibly more TBA

[and that’s what you missed on glee.

and so, there “Friday” is, standing on the roof of the bar. the attention of the party has surely turned to her by this point, but she doesn’t care about that. she just needs one person to still be a little too distracted to stop what was coming next.

Monday snaps her fingers, and Jenny disappears from wherever she was standing before, reappearing directly in front of Monday, who embraces her from behind, an arm wrapped firmly around her middle. those with enhanced senses might catch what she whispers, seconds before she snaps Jenny’s neck so hard it hangs at a 90 degree angle as Monday kicks her, her corpse toppling forward onto the deck below.]

Surprise, bitch.

[well, there. unfinished business settled. onto more pertinent matters.]

Let’s get a little more comfortable first, hm? Can’t waste too much of her magic, but audiences love a quick change.

[she snaps her fingers, and Monday finds herself in an outfit that is far more to her taste. now. time for her grand performance.]

Greetings, foolish mortals! You may or may not have noticed that things have been a little bit different this month. While the Captain is off having a good old bitch cry about whatever it is he’s so upset about, poor little Friday was running herself ragged keeping this shitheap floating! She was so distracted, in fact, that she happened to have a little accident, while fixing something in the elevator shaft! [a laugh] I guess even clay bitches can break their necks! And there I was, sitting in Fucking Nowhere, doing Fucking Nothing, feeling Fucking. Nothing! And I saw her empty shell. And I was, like, hey, free real estate!

Whatever tear in the veil that your whiny little Captain just didn’t feel like fixing? I ripped that fucker right open. And you’ve all met a few of the sorry little fuckers that fell out already, hm? [another snap] Not all of them, but, hey, that’s what now is for, right? Because, see, we all kinda got together a little bit, and we were like… You know, just borrowing some shitty bodies to have some fun for a few weeks? What a waste! And we still have a lot of bitches we need to spring from jail!

And that! Is where you assholes come in! And, trust me, you are all assholes. Have you even seen some of the psychotic shit you people have said and done to us? Like, yeah, Mary is legitimately insane, but she’s still a kid! Even I’m not gonna call a fucking nine year old a bitch!

You can try to run, but I fucking hate running in heels, so I made that a little bit… difficult. So. Why don’t you nice people just lay down and let us kill you. I’ll be gentle. Promise.

[perhaps people have tried to flee already. they likely have. and they’ve found that the entire party area has been blocked off by the same sort of barrier that surrounds the realm, an invisible orb holding them captive.]

Now. Let’s get the actual party started!

Comments

ota

[skaikru]

pre—

ota.

( monday's speech ends, and the pit of dread in clarke's stomach has barely managed to dig itself halfway down before a blinding white sheer of spiritual energy rips through the right side of her chest. she drops like a rock onto hands and knees, and in the wake of white light there's just black a veritable torrent of blood as black as coal bubbles from the open wound, soaking half her pristine white nurse outfit within three minutes. chaos erupts around her as ghosts and true passengers set upon each other like rabid dogs, no one's really going to be paying attention to her dragging a whole tablecloth and half the contents of a snack spread onto the floor while trying to stand.

second time in ten days she's relying on an adrenaline dump to keep her upright and moving through a truly inconceivable amount of pain. every step eeks a whimper out from behind her teeth, but clarke's up. she's moving. she's making the split second conscious decision that she'd be a liability running into the fray of unhinged ghosts with supernatural and magical powers, and instead turning her attention towards everyone else. the wounded, the scared, the shocked, the hypnotized just milling about like everything up til now has been a totally normal occurrence....

the exit seems blocked but they still need to do something. band up, form a blockade, try to break down friday's barrier or — maybe the best bet for the moment — hide. clarke's grabbing the sleeve of the first person she comes upon who isn't actively trying to kill someone and trying to haul them into step while stumble-staggering towards the edge of the party space. )

Come on, move!

—

closed to: notsuno, cw: she basically dyin' folks

( she will run and run and try to play hero for as long as humanly possible in this futile little bubble of chaos. but that's not very long at all in the end. dizzier than she's ever been, vision glitching, eventually clarke half stumbles into, half trips over an errant fog machine and can't quite get up again. crawls for a pace or two, just long enough to find something prop herself against and alternates watching the chaos unfolding across the pool deck, and looking down at the wound in her chest.

the gushing of blood has slowed to a measly, sludging trickle, and she's fairly certain she can see bones of her ribcage exposed when not clamping a cold hand over the wound. this absolutely sucks, and personal experience dictates that she's going to die here. surrounded, but momentarily alone.

at least, until she isn't. until warm (presumably bloody, wet) fingers are plucking up the limp hand laying on the floor at her side. )

post—

closed to: rita, cw: now she basically dying folks!

( he gets it, honestly. vengeance is a pure and all consuming sort of drive; it could shape every action you take, it could shape your entire life, and — plenty often — contribute directly to how you die. he understands, he is not angry, and searching the depths of this new body's memories, it seems neither is she. was she. there's maybe a chuckle at clarke griffin's expense, low and rumbled. it is good to be back. and the pain is no matter, the pain is familiar. but put him in a body with working legs that shouldn't be pained, and ask him to suffer the again at the behest of anyone other than the gods...

he's going to find her first. )

Rita.

( a single word, just her name. calmly spoken, as if trying to summon a child. trying it out on his new tongue, the intonation comes out wrong; rrii-tah, too long on each letter and punctuated unnecessarily in the middle. and he grimaces. but it's good enough, just so long as she turns around and doesn't cast another godly ball of flames in the time it takes him to get a hand around her throat. )

—

ota.

( mithos, angelic scourge against humanity that he is, is back walking among them. and past that ivar the boneless is just taking this prime opportunity to stretch his legs. picking his way through the chaos with all the presence and confidence of a god walking untouched through a battle field and laughing at the destruction men have wrought on each other. it is glorious, it is bloody; the symphonic hymn of gunfire and explosions and screaming in every key from pain to pleasure to pride borders on a religious moment. his blood is the steel of a reforged blade, vibrating with each clang of the hammer used to shape it. so long spent as nothing, when destiny demanded more from him and now —

something unimportant explodes nearby, shrapnel peppering the ground at his feet. right, that is enough lavish enjoyment, he needs a sword. the girl who's battered body he's wearing has a gun still strapped to its leg, which could be used by muscle memory alone but where is the fun in that? i. in the meantime, the heavy detached leg of a table is scooped from the ground, weighted in his hands and will make an excellent bludgeoning instrument for the time being.

ii. then having acquired weaponry made of shadows from a beautiful magician secreted in a corner, he's ready. there are still bodies to be cleaved and bodies to be taken, and he will do his share of the work. collects some of this girls blood from the damp front of her clothing and smears it across the bones of his cheeks, then drags another line of blood down the center of his new tongue — copper and heavy. predatory and selective, ivar scans the crowd until he locks eyes with someone. gives them a smile that twists clarke griffin's face beyond comfortable measures, then offers a neat little half-bow. )

Please.

( for all the politeness, it sounds less like an invitation than it should.

iii. the fellow dead-returned aren't free of harassment either, but it's at least a little more light hearted. any he passes that are not currently out for blood of their own get flagged down. ..."flagged down", snatched roughly by the back of the neck or an arm slammed into their chest to prevent them from moving past him. or waved at politely with a little waggle of the fingers thrown in, complete with a big ol' smile that's too much teeth and black blood. ) Ah, my companion. ( approx 2% chance he was ever your friend. ) Tell me, have you seen my brother arrive yet?

( he's talking about the dashing, bearded bjorn ironside. and the two of them definitely murdered each other approximately 27 times during their last round on the serena eterna, but that's just family for you man. )

ooc—

( everybody say hi to ivar the boneless from history channels vikings! he's an ancient... viking, obviously, with some anger issues and absolutely no fear of violence. ready to fight any and all passengers, and maybe even some ghosties if y'all wanna manufacture old grudges. blanket content warnings for blood stuff, gore, violence, wound talk for both pre- & post- possession. post-possession specifically, another for some self-directed ableism on ivar's part: he was born with twisted legs and constantly in pain/unable to walk without extensive braces & crutches. you can opt out of this if you want. voice/accent sample, show spoilers obvs. hmu on discord or plurk for plotting specifics! )

Post ota II as discussed

[saltwaterlungs]

Look, the way 'Clarke' is strutting about with a sword is suspicious. Nothing concrete, but suspicious. The fray is bloody and chaotic and it's hard to tell who's on what side.

ALL of these are the reasons Darcy will give for very suddenly appearing in Clarke's shadow and punching her in the face afterwards.

No follow-up, just wanted to do it, and she'll try and scamper away just as quickly.

[skaikru]

He's been hit harder than that plenty of times in his life, but — joys of a new body, it feels pain on a much different scale than he. Knuckles crack the side of his new, softer jaw; teeth grate against each other hard, his head snaps to the side. But it's just a punch and on old, old muscle memory he's lashing out with his sword arm at Darcy's retreating form. Absolutely slaps the shit out of her back with the flat edge of the blade and barks:

"Fucking French rat— "

He's smiling though, and doesn't follow through with a secondary overhand cutting blow. It's... playful, really. The way one plays with their food before ripping it apart. Run away, little rabbit. Run yourself ragged. The inside of his cheek has been bitten through upon impact, a fresh wave of blood oozing across new, lively taste buds. It's the taste of war sliding down the back of his throat with each heaving swallow, and he wants more.

[saltwaterlungs]

"We're frogs, get it right, prick-"

Darcy snaps after totally not yelping at the clang of metal against metal. This totally isn't over!!!!

Post ota III

[ossie_oswald]

Being hoisted by the scruff is pretty commonplace for Yakko, but in this body it feels even weirder- probably a function of him having actual bones that do more than serve comedic purposes! Nevertheless all 5'10 of him dangles limp, probably some of him dragging on the floor.

"Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Ivar- you know I think I saw him on the other side of the ship- you know, thataway-"

Limply points as far away from himself as possible. Some people even Yakko can't befriend, man.

"So if you could just put me down...?"

[skaikru]

Here's the thing, Ivar has to put him down pretty immediately. The bones and muscle mass of a 5'5" girl child from space don't suit the ferocious physicality of a Viking from the late 800 AD era, especially not one who'd spent the vast majority of his life dragging himself around and hoisting himself up onto furniture by sheer arm strength alone. Tactics are going to have to be adjusted, he must start accounting for the late Clarke Griffin's limits. But the intensity? That's all him.

Yakko gets put down, on his knees, and hard. The grip on the back of his neck remains punishingly tight, but here Ivar can tower over like he ought to. Like he always ought to when it came to people — animals? what is Yakko, several years on the ship and he'd still never been certain — beneath him. Leaning in close...

"Inconvenient, inconsistent, impossible weasel." Enjoy some blood-flecked spit spraying out in the close proximity of their faces, Yakko. Then, a quick and assessing glance down the front of his new body's length — a grimace, and a subsequently sickly sweet smile. Ivar shakes his head a fraction of an inch in each direction, black coated blond hair tickles both their faces.

"Do not lie. It was only a question."

[ossie_oswald]

"Incorrigible, incomprehensible, inconsequential?"

Oof- he can't wiggle free in this body, he's never wanted to be his usual charming self ever so badly. Hell, he'd even take needing Pickles and Ginger to get his alcohol for him if it mean he didn't have to put up with this bozo. And hey don't feel bad Ivar- it's been 29 years and nobody's been able to work out what he is yet either.

"I don't know how you expect me to answer from this angle- he could be right in front of me with bells on and I couldn't see- hey is that jingling I hear?!-"

Please please take the bait-

[skaikru]

Honestly, he could have happily gone this entire evening without being reminded what it is to strongly desire — more than oxygen, more than food and drink and women and war — strangling the everloving fuck out of Yakko Warner, and not be able to do so. They've bigger plans to accomplish, but the creature is right here, spine beneath his palm, and Ivar wants to squeeze until he hears something break. One hand still at the base of Yakko's new neck, he dismantles the proper hold on his shadow blade in the other; holds the hilt in the loop of pinky and ring finger, uses the other three to make a pinching choke gesture in the other ghosts' line of sight... before seemingly recomposing. Shoulders slump in mock (very real emotional) exhaustion, and Ivar casts his gaze skyward for a beat before zeroing back in.

Clarke Griffin is stupid, she's the type to take the bait. The day an ill-begotten animation gets the best of Ivar the Boneless is the day he spits upon his mothers grave and praises Lagertha Lothbrok.

The bait is left untouched, but a switch is manually flipped in Ivar's head and he's suddenly screaming, roaring directly in the others face —

"HAVE YOU. SEEN. MY BROTHER!!"

His eyes are wide and, while not quite the right shade of murderous blue as they had been, sparkling. You shouldn't get in the middle of family affairs, Yakko, who does that?

Post OTA II

[prince_of_beasts]

[ Faerghus's history shares some traits with the reputation of the Vikings -- wild warriors in animal pelts screaming and frothing at the mouth, seemingly inured to pain and injury until none remained to oppose them or their bodies simply failed. It's in Dimitri's blood, the wolf-lords of his Blaiddyd name. With gore smearing the boundaries between skin and costume hide, teeth bared and bloodied, slit pupils moon-wide and flashing green in the dark, he looks the part.

He doesn't know Clarke well, but when his eyes meet hers, his hackles bristle. The blood-paint, the hungry grin, the bow -- this is one of his people. ]

Gladly, [ Dimitri snarls, and flings himself forward with a howl of challenge. ]

[skaikru]

( the midnight air is thick with the sickly scent of the fog machines, fuller still with sweat and blood, and the air reverberates with shouts and the sound of impact. everyone who was dead now feels so very, very alive — and the still living remnants of the current passenger manifest are steeped in dread and fear. it's a potent mixture, a sharp and jarring juxtaposition from existing in nothingness and suddenly thrust into the chaos he loved the best. in a new body, too; able, spry enough even if not particularly strong. and her memories...

they're a lot to parse through in this instance, but between locking eyes with dimitri across the way and bowing, he flits through them with a clinical sort of precision. the vehicle in the desert, all those hours at the fight club where his host had stood to the side taking diligent notes. oh, it was beautiful. like being told a story, but so vivid he could taste the dust and rotten guts of the undead.

his smile is more like a sneer of intent, twisted; delight undermined by blood lust because — yes. yes. this is what he'd wanted all this time. it's not bjorn, but blond hair? blue eyes? in the right light, dimitri could be a brother. ivar inadvertently lets a tight little giggle escape his lips, eyebrows dancing as the other man charges. and steps to meet him.

clarke's arms wobble under the impact, her back aches, the the hilt of the sword twists against the skin of her hands with a bite due to the lack of callouses. but ivar leans into the space beside their swords and whispers, sing song and lovingly, full old norse lilt: )

Berserkr.

( he has legs now. functional, fully capable legs. and while his footwork is sloppy, it's also underhanded. he lifts one leg and slams the heel down on top of dimitri's shoe, shoving low and hard against where their blades have met in an attempt to send him sprawling. )

this is comforting right

[neverleave]

[He should have kept his distance and waited to see who will claim this body, but something made him approach anyway. Maybe this body still remembers how much she meant to its original owner, how painful it is to see her bleed out again and again. Maybe it's because of the way Rita screamed at him earlier, begging to give Natsuno back. Or maybe it's just an impulse.

Whatever the reason, he sits on the deck next to her and takes her limp hand in his, black blood mixes with red. She's a touchy-feely type, or so say memories not his own.]

It doesn't hurt, you know. Where you'll be going.

super comforting :c

[skaikru]

( her eyes aren't focusing right, and that's awfully familiar. it's an effort to drag her gaze up and fix it first on the hand attaching itself to hers, then the wrist, following the blood soak all the way up past the elbow, the shoulder; the blurry edges of purple hair, the familiar jawline, those eyes that are usually so blank and sad. now just unfamiliar, and worse for it.

clarke makes a weak groaning sound, a grunt of pain when she drops her free hand from her chest and braces against the floor like she means to move. to lunge, maybe to reach for her knife and stab him through the heart. but, once again, she can't feel her extremities that well and it's just a lurch before slumping even further down.

this is familiar in the worst ways. and awful, for all the ways it's different this time. )

You — ( that comes out ragged and torn. there's no sucking puncture to her lungs, but it's getting increasingly harder to breathe. a further struggle to push out: ) — don't have to pretend to care.

[neverleave]

Heh. Guess not.

[Yet he's still holding her hand, and she's not letting go either. These souls have to go so he and his friends can live again and he doesn't regret it, but once it's over - he doesn't need to see them suffer.

Some of his fellow ghosts would murder for the fun of it no matter what, but to him it was always about the fight. You could beat each other up bloody and blue and still get drinks later.]

I could justify myself to you, buuuuuuut you wouldn't want to hear. And you'd be right! But you're not dying for nothing, so. Let's hope whoever gets your body will make good use of it.

post ota ii

[decohere]

As far as Ava is aware, Clarke truly seems to be thriving in her element right now. She always appears so hungry for a good dirty fight, something to rip her teeth into, and so a full out us vs. them massacre should probably be fulfilling so many of the young woman's feral desires. They might not be particularly close, or trusting of each other, but she does feel a little bit proud of this adorable little terror.

"Like the whole... look," she flickers in closer, traces her finger right across the girl's bloodied cheekbones. "How many you get?"

[skaikru]

Sorry Ava, the old Clarke can't come to the phone right now because she's dead. Please leave your message regarding respectable girl boss rage mode admiration at the tone...

Ivar's attention is easily drawn to Ava when she speaks, the grin along his borrowed mouth too much teeth, cheeks too flushed and entire body thrumming with delight. While smiling at her like a maniac, he deigns to categorically flip through the war manifesto that is Clarke Griffin's memories for mention of this woman, and pretty immediately comes across a first impression — useless. Well, she certainly doesn't look useless, but...

"Not enough," he drawls back, eyes bright and the arm holding the shadow blade from the St. Expedit flexes in it's rest post, but does not swing. "And you?"

How many of his brothers and sisters — loved or loathed — have you slain, Ava Starr? It's laughable, you thought this girl was dangerous? You've not met dangerous yet.

[decohere]

Ah. No, there's such a heavy self-important determination that colors every battle that Clarke throws herself into, that this manic glee warping her face doesn't quite fit. A shame. It would have been nice to fight side by side for once, than this perpetual sizing of each other up. Her gaze flickers, from the face, to the weapon, calculating and reassessing the threat.

"Not enough," Ava echoes, her own mouth curling into an angelic grin befitting of her battered wings and crooked halo. "Everyone's dance card is already full up," and she's not about to go around stealing anyone's kills. She's got some integrity as an assassin.

"But she hates me. Doesn't she?" Ava flickers in and out, the fog catching at the staticky glow. She's not striking out quite yet, slightly fascinated, but her usually slouched posture squares up into a recognizable fighting stance.

now the fake memory becomes real

[myagic]

[When Clarke last spoke to her, Rita had been mentally and emotionally all over the place, and yet--the awful wounds on the other girl had been horrifying. More horrifying, now, with the new and terrible context of her memories. Under normal circumstances, she never would've let Clarke go off again on her own into the chaos, but--

What's even normal anymore?

Rita's still a mess. She's had a bit more time to compose herself and push aside the confused kaleidoscope of new and old memories, in favour of focusing on the chaos--or would have, if she wasn't now mourning the real loss of Natsuno Yuuki. Tears streak her face now, as she searches for him--for the one hijacking his body--intent on doing something, anything to bring him back, and maybe breaking open this barrier and saving those she can will happen in the process...to do something better than chasing someone down and throwing flames at them, this time...

She hears her name in Clarke's voice, and it sure is timely, when she had the other girl's injuries on her mind. If it sounds a little...odd, well--Clarke was kind of looking like she'd been to hell and back already, and Rita can't imagine she's doing anything but worse now-]

Claugh-!

[Just as she turns, Clarke's name turns into a choked groan at the hand closing around her throat. Rita grabs the other girl's wrist with her own hands, an awful sinking feeling of deja vu washing over her.]

Wh...at...?

[She chokes out only part of her question, trying to suck in a breath.]

with an added side dish of awful

[skaikru]

Shhh, ( ivar soothes, in direct contrast to the way his fingers cinch around rita's windpipe and turn a question into choked silence. fight hard enough for a breath, and she probably wouldn't die; but nothing is coming out of that throat other than wheezing, she can't be allowed incantations. ) Shhh.

( there's never any real joy in killing children. through borrowed memories he knows this girl is closer to his own age than the likes of mary, but she's so short and with big green eyes that flash with confusion before they ever do fear. it's basically the same thing; small, frail things had no place in the midst of battle.

but she is a sorceress. a powerful one at that. distant, ancient kings and jarls had kept her kind at their side to guide through prophecy and counsel, though he'd never lapped at the palm of the seer and been rewarded with fire on his fingertips. )

Little Vǫlva. ( he says it in old norse, that's the shape his new mouth is making. but the translation reverberates quite clearly as witch (affectionate) in the air between their faces. a pause, then he leans in til their foreheads almost bump and smile he gives rita borders on magnanimous. forgiving. she doesn't need to know exactly what he's talking about, this moment is for him. he is not a monster completely devoid of the capacity to absolve. ) ...It's alright. You didn't know. This is nothing I cannot live with. And this will not take long if you just hold still.

( idly — still way too hopped up on the novelty of it — he balances on one foot, brings the other knee up level with his waist, and grapples for the bent bladed knife that clarke griffin had attached there. )

[myagic]

[What's intended as soothing is, actually, one of the scariest things Rita's probably heard in her life. Being shushed while also getting strangled--no, no, hell no! Her mouth works, but wheezes certainly are all that come out. Clarke might not be that much bigger than her, but she has more muscle in her hold and murder in her eyes. Rita digs scrabbles at the hand at her throat, digging in fingernails as her lungs start to scream for air, and her right leg kicks at whatever's in front of her. At this rate, though...

She can barely concentrate, black starting to creep into the edges of her vision, when she makes a last-ditch effort: she slaps her palm against the arm holding her and fires a weak, messy burst of magic from it--the same thing she tried against Torn, and it didn't work then, and as for now...?]

pre ota

[fonomena]

[So, things are...things are a bit--

Honestly, confusing is putting it lightly. Like very abruptly waking up from a particularly chaotic sort of dream, except you've actually been awake pretty much the entire time, and--

One moment he was simply drifting about the party, so to speak. Almost hadn't even wanted to attend, honestly, but it was a ship-sponsored sort of event and almost every one of those has been some occasion of chaos or another. With everything else going on this month...it hadn't felt like it'd be a surprising thing, for matters to come to a head here. Alongside the fact that there might have been certain faces attending the party as well...though he never had been able to track down Clarke. Between the excessive fog from the fog machines and her own likely efforts to circle around and away from him. Until...

Well. Rapid succession. Friday leaping on top of the bar, and declaring war with a tone most certainly not her own. The invisible barrier, cutting off all party-goers from escape. The overall time, reaching midnight. And...some fogged thing he hadn't even noticed suddenly lifting, from his head. But it's pretty unfortunate timing for the hypnosis to be breaking now, as all hell is also breaking loose pretty much everywhere, the possessed rounding upon those still living--

Jade has never been one for particularly loud panic, or even overtly expressive discomfort. Defensive muscle memory's taking hold while the rest of his head's still trying to catch up, at least, arm curling at his side to summon his spear at any moment as he immediately withdraws towards the perimeter of the area, trying to just find a spot to breathe for at least a moment as complete disorientation threatens to take hold. Very new and fun sensation--one that he's pretty sure he's never actually experienced in his life, up to this point--this horrific sort of realization, that sets in, as bits and pieces of suppressed memories are rushing up all at once. Confronting Tear, not Clarke, in that Halloween store--Natsuno intervening in the possessed Tear's favor, and then fighting, and then blankness. ...A lot--of blankness--just how long has it been, since that night? There are fragments, of waking up some mornings, of registering a familiar silhouette and then feeling something biting--but vast stretches of blurs in between. Not good. He thinks...he knows what's happened, but trying to process that is...

--Someone's grabbing at his arm. Clarke's grabbing at his arm, and there's still some sort of lingering vestige from the past week that very nearly knee-jerk demands to grab back, incapacitate. But. By the time Jade's actually properly focusing upon her, uncharacteristically wide-eyed, frame freezing up and legs not quite following yet...no. But he remembers know. He'd known, before--had been well convinced of it--that she couldn't have...]

Clarke. You weren't-- [--the one who did it, it was...well, those thoughts welling up to words aloud end up breaking off in his throat midway, though. Because with proper focus comes really seeing, including:] --no, that injury. You need a healer--

[skaikru]

No, I need —

( the last time she'd seen jade curtiss properly, it'd been while he diligently escorted her to palamedes's cabin in the wake of rita's revival and subsequent rampage. she had been limping horrifically, skin blackened and raw with burns, and after a brief attempt at playing untouchable, unflappable hero had fisted a hand in the fabric of his sleeve and leaned on him like a crutch. he had believed her then.

last time she heard jade curtiss speak, clarke had her back to the wall behind the door of cabin 105 while (enter some gentle godmodding) jade and pal argued in clipped, professional, quiet tones of increasing frustration and anger in regards to another murder she hadn't committed. he didn't believe her then.

and this time, well... through the duration of the party she'd tried to avoid the man himself and his line of sight, same as she'd done for rita. and luckily, perhaps, both were drifting through the festivities like they hadn't a care in the world; neither looking for a fight. there was no not attending the end of month bash, and plenty of strategically placed, spooky shadows to dip into should either draw too close. three hours of milling about, people watching, being absolutely floored and upset in watching natsuno drink with ebalon and flirt with jinx; being told less than twenty minutes ago that he was very obviously possessed and having the last lines of defensive denial wiped away. puzzle pieces had begun to slot into place, highlighting cagey warnings from jade and pal alike. and she'd been working towards the courage and calm to confront the shell of her best friend proper when all hell had broken loose.

monday murdered jenny, the slip of paper tucked in clarke's shirt exploded, then monday murdered whatever replaced jenny. chaos struck up like a fevered crescendo of violin strings; there was magic, there was swordplay, there were animitronics still cackling and fog machines still putting out sickly sweet mist. there was blood, there was bloodloss; there were revenants shedding their restraints and passengers fighting for their lives. instant warzone, just add the strike of midnight.

then there's jade again, right in her path. and an internally screaming concern that he'd still be acting like none of this was suspicious or worrisome strikes, guides her to change coarse in this wild dash for cover and, once again, grab his arm. not being speared through the chest or shaken off immediately feels like a good sign, and she'll parse how that you weren't — was supposed to end later. right now there are two other pressing concerns taking the spotlight.

one (minor): she absolutely needed a healer, and was maybe slowly dying.

and two (major): they were all maybe going to die here, if the shotgun blasts and explosions and screaming was any indication. they needed to escape. )

— for you to bring down the barrier. Please, Jade, there must be something you can do.

[fonomena]

Bring down the--there's a barrier?

[Much as his head's all but spinning at the moment, memories true and false still vying for dominance all at once...it hadn't even occurred to Jade to try outright escaping the premises, of the violence breaking out every which way now. Yet this news, delivered in Clarke's pleading tones, does manage to properly pierce through the confusion at least somewhat; breaks down the resistance locking his legs in place, so that in the end he does follow Clarke's tugging to the perimeter of the area. The unhappy uncertainty on his features is still plain as they move--Clarke may have forcibly switched the gears of the subject, but Jade isn't quite so willing to let go of it yet. Finds about half a dozen different things he wants to say to her, welling up all at once. But...]

--Do we know the source, who or what is producing it? No, that--the speech, the start of all this. [Distractedly, Jade's answering his own question there almost at once.] It may be Friday--but not her. Whatever is possessing her. ...Clarke, what happened to you? Who attacked you?

also post ota wildcardish 🎉

[fonomena]

[At some point they'd ended up separating, after that encounter at the very start of this chaos. Against Jade's better wishes, perhaps...but Clarke had been too easy to lose, the moment attention might be diverted. Too many people crammed into too small a space, and so much violence--a great deal of violence. It's the most surreal sort of warzone Jade has ever attended, but there's still familiar hallmarks that uncomfortably mark it as such at the back of thought anyhow. The fighting, of course, and the blood, the frantic scatter of bodies hurtling every which way--even the myriad powers that crackle and burst to life on occasion aren't so jarring as they could be. Especially when he's also been unfurling his own fonic artes, a bid at self-defense alongside the spear he now carries in hand, as attempts are made to neutralize those who seem to demand it--

Yes, that's the true difficulty in all this. What sets it apart from battlefields he's known. The fact that the enemy truly cannot be determined on glance--that on some level, even the confirmed enemies are still inexorably tied to allies, by the bodies they've stolen...

Jade finally spots Clarke again at length--or so he thinks--black-bloodied nurse costume and head of blond hair. Now carrying some form of...black blade? ...Approaching her from behind, Jade has yet to see the expression actually on her face at this point, as he draws towards her in this stolen lull within the chaos and calls out:]

Clarke! How are you holding? [She'd been bleeding so much earlier, for all that there had been so little to be done. He'd hoped she'd have opted to at least take some cover and conserve what energy and blood she could, but...]

[skaikru]

( he hears feet on the ground behind him, the call of a name that is not his but snags on his attention just the same. borrowed familiarity means he knows exactly who's come up to check on him, and ivar bides a careful second of time before turning sharpy on his heel with a snarling howl; swinging the shadow sword from ground to sky in a swift, violent arc. the intent is to cut down jade curtiss before he can utter a single devastating incantation, but...

ultimately, ivar misjudged the distance by a few inches. merely cuts an idle slash or misses entirely on the first strike. he huffs from exertion and frustration in the aftermath, but quickly corrects and rolls from the base of his spine to the edges of his shoulder to draw himself back up to height. it's of no matter, he's fine, he's calm. he wishes to talk for a moment anyway. )

What sort of name is that supposed to be, eh? Ka-larh-ke. ( if the wild swing meant to bloody, if not completely bisect him from clavicle to hip is not indication enough, if jade could have had any chance to chalk it up to wartime frenzy and paranoia over enemies approaching from behind... now gets his first glimpse into just how wrong the rest of this encounter will go. gone is the mixed-accent apocalypse twang, twisted is the body's usual intonation, and absolutely absent is the sense of heartfelt intent and worry that clarke griffin would usually greet her friends with. nah, ivar is casual. ivar's voice is nasally and lyrical, words punctuated awkwardly when translated, and pronunciation aggressive when he punches out each syllable of her name.

his sword arm swings in a lazy pendulum at his side for a moment, then he hoists the shadow blade up and rests it across the back of his shoulders. cocks his head, content to take a moment in battle to work at a question that'd niggled in the back of his mind since he'd woken up and been flushed with a girls memories. and... (hold this thought). )

Old English, yes? Kalarhke, Kuhlarcki... clericus. Clergy? ...a fucking secretary?

( the following laugh is high, and unkind. a giggle as ill befitting as the smirk this new face wears. but at least the eyes are close cousins; murder and mirth in place of anger and sadness. blue, blue, blue as the sea. burning bright and fixed on jade like he's setting sights down the shaft of an arrow. )

I know her parents to be self-important and stupid, but to that extent? With no higher hopes for her achievements? Did this woman — ( with his free hand, coated in so much black blood it looks akin to wearing a glove of fine leather, ivar gestures at the wrecked body he's wearing for emphasis. ) — ever strike you as the type to scribe for fat, bald, Christian — ( spoken like a slur. ) —monks who thought silence, piety, and childbearing would be her best features?

( (thought resumed) ...and loving every drop in jade curtiss's face as realization after realization hits, then every subsequent blow of horror strikes deeper. ivar absolutely beams. )

Hm. Had this been my daughter, she would have been Gunhild, Ragnahild. ( battle in war, advising in war. then a beat like he's thinking back and thinking hard, then a knowing smirk. ) Hillevi. ( happy in war.

poignant interpretation but also ivar shut the fuck up you're like 18. )

[fonomena]

[There might have been a split second, yes, in which the sudden and vicious slash Clarke whirls about to deliver could have been mistaken for fraught nerves in the heat of battle, instinctive reaction that kicks in before level reasoning can. After all, it's reflex from activated nerves in turn that surely manages to keep Jade from being cut open right then and there--forward momentum jerked backwards just in time--alongside Ivar's reach falling those couple of inches short. The dark blade does bite into a uniform sleeve, as Jade throws up an arm in defense, slashing through fabric and drawing blood--only a superficial wound, however, before he's quickly drawing back several steps. Barely feeling the sting of pain that accompanies the injury...

...When there's a far greater concern coming to light, all at once. It's a visceral wrongness the moment Clarke turns around, the bent of her frame and the utterly unfamiliar accent to her voice--and, most of all, in the look upon her face. The hostile blaze behind her eyes, jarring against the casual stance she takes on as she speaks, mocks the structure of her own name aloud. The look on Jade's own face surely does drop in that moment, yes, from concern to terrible realization. ...So soon--so soon? It couldn't have been more than a half hour since Jade last spoke to her, torn between reconciling earlier false memories and ensuring her wellbeing, even as she had implored him to focus on aiding the others. Earnestly, painfully herself. By this time...he had hoped she'd found a way to staunch the bleeding, or she surely would have--

Well. But, it seems, such thoughts and hopes hold no bearing any longer.

Ivar is only given a moment or two, to savor the shock that crosses Jade's features--before the expression draws shut. Emotion drains from his face, though it lingers in his eyes all the same, something frigid and sharp that meets the murderously burning blue gaze across the way with unnatural red. ...Jade couldn't begin to guess the finer details of what this ghost inhabiting Clarke Griffin's body might be talking about. "Christians" do not exist in Auldrant--and the finer meanings behind names are primarily the concern of nobility, often cobbled together from roots of Ancient Ispanian, when there isn't a Score reading already dictating what it's fated to be. But it doesn't matter, anyhow. It truly couldn't be more irrelevant, in this particular moment. Because...]

That's no concern of mine, and it won't be yours either. That name isn't yours to change--shade of this ship. Depart at once!

[Or he will force you to--

There's a window of opportunity to take in that casual stance, at least seemingly. If Ivar isn't moving quickly, Jade is surging forward with a sharp and efficient lunge--foregoing artes, in this moment, in favor of an attempt to drive his spear right through Clarke's torso.]