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yongenjaya2017-10-16 10:16 pm
scaleless) wrote in yongenjaya2017-10-16 10:16 pm
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EXITVOID 101
✘ What is Exitvoid?THE SHIP: CHARON
A horror game from approximately a million years ago, which ran in yearly phases, each with a different setting. This meme is based off Beta, set aboard the Charon. It's an easy jamjar premise—you've been kidnapped from your own reality by COMPASS, a company with unambiguously villainous intent, with no foreseeable way home—so don't sweat the details if you weren't around for the original run.
✘ What is the Charon?
The enormous, rusting cruiser the game was set aboard, which is constantly voyaging across an endless sea with no foreseeable destination. The only food available is canned, creamed corn.
✘ What is a docking event?
The ship would regularly dock at different worlds based on various canons, often a mish-mash of all the entries in a franchise (e.g. Silent Hill's docking event was not based off any one game, instead borrowing from across the board).
✘ Why didn't you include [this other event I really liked]?
It's a meme, wildcard it! Here is the old write-up tag. My personal recs are Pan's Labyrinth, Jurassic Park, and to come off the tails of It, Stephen King world.
✘ Anything else?
Warn appropriately, and be respectful of people's permissions posts, comfort levels, etc. Also, please put "Hauntings Okay" in your subject line if you're fine with someone dropping in with a surprise! I probably won't for most threads, but :U you never know.
✘ Is EV coming back? Why is this happening? Do I have to have played in the game to be here? Is this restricted to anybody?
No, this is just for fun! It's October and I'm feeling nostalgic. It's a meme, so do whatever you want with whoever you'd like. For the record, you don't have to know me to play, and feel free to share with friends. Happy Halloween!
✘ CONTENT WARNING: The Food prompt contains body horror and insects.
The VoidDOCKING EVENT: SILENT HILL
✘ Full Write-Up
The Charon begins its venture into the void, and nothing about it is meant to support life. Especially the air: breathing and traversing the acidic mist swirling inside the ship only causes a tingling irritation at first, then an itch, then peeling and coughing—soon, characters are left to deal with full-on chemical burns, with only a few syringes with cures and bandages between them.
Though for once, it seems like food and alcohol are plentiful.
FEAST OR FAMINE
✘ Full Write-Ups: Drink and Food
I. In the void (see prompt above), alcohol is tainted—anyone who drinks it will have a drug in their system that increases aggression and paranoia. Rather than change their personalities outright, this drug exacerbates whatever violent tendencies they have, urging on their fears and insecurities to take out on those around them. For those trapped in the acid air, it's only a matter of time before someone snaps.
Non-alcoholic drinks will turn to blood as soon as they pass a character's lips.
II. Another day, it's the food that causes problems. After months of subsisting off only canned, creamed vegetables, characters will be invited to the Captain's feast. Of course, it comes with a hefty price tag; that squash salad you had? It must've been infested with something, because now there's something crawling under your skin—literally. Black wasps will find homes inside these feast-goers, buzzing all the while. Or maybe you had the poached prawns, and now your skin's turning transluscent, hair and nails going loose? The possibilities for side effects are as endless as the number of dishes.
Those that do not attend the feast will find that food turns to ash in their mouths.
THE HOLDS
✘ Full Write-Up
The power grid is down, and characters must find replacement pieces in the dark cargo holds of the ship before it sinks. Every other person is equipped with a strange lantern. Be warned: when the internal battery dies, it will only remain lit in someone's hands, slowly leeching their strength.
And you'll need them, because dark snakes slither about the lower, waterlogged decks; these serpentine, skeletal creatures are invulnerable in the darkness and lightning quick, grabbing victims with their enormous claws. Captured prey is bathed in the snakes' bioluminescence, lulling them into a sense of warmth and security as their body heat and life force is drained out of them, leaving them frozen husks.
Hitting the snakes with a beam of light will force them to release their targets; this is also the only way to get any hits in, so don't go out there alone.
Full write-up here.
✘ CONTENT WARNING: Silent Hill contains body horror, violence, gore, mentions of sexual and physical abuse, and generally graphic content. Everything below is tame, but be warned when exploring Wikis, etc.
FOG WORLD
The town of Silent Hill is filled with an oppressive fog, muting sight and sound, lending to a feeling of alienation and quiet. But that doesn't mean you're alone—lurking in the fog and dilapidated buildings are monsters of all shapes and sizes.
Compasses (the network device) will let out a static noise when any monsters are in the vicinity, but don't let it give away where you're hiding. Sometimes, it's wiser to run.
Here were some of our monster picks, though of course you can go wild with it. Make up your own if you want!
OTHERWORLD
Sometimes, a siren will blare in the distance, and the world around you will start to peel apart, like paint off rust, revealing a completely different dimension. This Otherworld is a parallel universe, specifically tailored to a character's fears and unabsolved sins—in short, a personalized hellscape. The area will still bear distinct similarities to the real world, but spaces that were safe before can be distorted beyond recognition, or filled with new dangers. Otherworlds can also force characters to confront their wants, desires, and regrets—Silent Hill unearths and materializes aspects of themselves they want to leave buried or refuse to acknowledge.
Characters can be sucked into and escape Otherworlds together, or exit one only to enter another. Choose your company carefully, though—those that feel no remorse or guilt over their pasts may just become monsters in the Otherworld themselves.
SILENT HILLS (2017)
While most of Silent Hill is falling apart with age, unkempt and uncared for, amidst it all is one strangely pristine home. But once characters enter this suburban refuge, they'll notice something's off—no matter what corner they turn, the space looks familiar, looping in on itself endlessly. The house grows more and more menacing with each repetition—the lights turn red. Photo frames are turned down on their faces, a flight of stairs appears with someone at the top. A figure lies beyond a window that can't be cracked, looking in. A pervasive feeling of being followed clings to everyone here—and what's that waiting at the end of the hall?
Recommended viewing: Silent Hills Playable Demo.
EXPLORE THE TOWN
If you need some more inspiration, try the map (click rooms on the image to explore).
sandra the unseeing | pyre
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dark snake wrangling ??? they both have stupid glowy shit to take down into the dark with them ig
open to suggestions tho, love me nemo
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no ddkfg I'd be into this!! glow buddies. if you're giving boxer some kind of body he could carry her around for her to ghost, or she could be full human! I'm equally game for either, love me too [woop]
I can write smth up tomorrow if we decide
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SO UP TO YOU FOR YOUR END I'm down either way (ง •̀_•́)ง
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she'll be so happy to be loose and then have so many regrets
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(she's not even sorry)
she's never sorry, I'm very sorry
[ Sandra had finally manifested in a physical form and immediately found it needy. Tiring, hungering, thirsting—all the bitter, unglamorous burdens of humanity struck at once and without mercy. Perhaps she had not imagined the afterlife to be so mortal in the end, but it would be fitting, would it not? To regain all the misery with none of the hope and promise of life? Not that she had ever had much opportunity for that, even before her exile, but inevitably and undeniably, she had caught the most fleeting of glimpses in the hearts and eyes of her most recent of Nightwings. ]
[ Yet again, it seems as if their glory was not hers alike to gain. ]
[ Everything around her is composed of cold, twisting metal. At times, the air sears like the gripping accounts of the Flagging Hands. At others, the food revolts against them in wicked ways poison could only dream of imitating. It's horrible. And she would join hands in hatred with the rest of the damned in a heartbeat, but she also can't refute that it is, in its own wretched way, exciting. It's a new, thrilling, eventful existence like one she has been denied for nearly a millennia. Plenty of times, it has been overwhelming, awful in indescribable ways... But far from anything she has wanted to lay down and wallow in. ]
[ Case in point here, apparently the vessel upon which they sail has found itself in disrepair to the point of danger—as much danger as the dead can find themselves in—and along with the rest of its crew, she certainly does not wish to have it all end so soon. The trouble is, the mechanical parts they seek are terribly small, scattered, and above all, woefully foreign to her. The darkness in which they allegedly reside is no concern of hers, for obvious reasons, but it makes the process of finding what she's looking for... a difficult one. It seems, to accomplish this task, she will have to make a partnership. ]
[ A slight woman, clad in the heavy folds of a ceremonial cloak, stands attentively at the head of the stairs leading into the pitch black cargo hold. Loosely under an arm, an orb of glass shimmers with a deep green light, soft, but beacon-like in the near darkness of the hold beyond. Her head is tilted to the tunes of clattering, sliding, hissing, the whole plethora of unpleasant sounds emanating from the abyss. Waiting for the concentration of sound to shift from before her to behind, and when it does—the clack of metal on metal, a steel-toed boot, perhaps—Sandra turns her attention to regard the approaching figure. ]
You, [ she addresses it coolly, lidded gaze somehow sighted perfectly upon her quarry; she holds her expression still and severe for a beat before her eyebrows quirk up, along with the corner of her lips. She senses here: a lot of metal, and only some idiocy. A healthy dose, to be sure, but somehow less plentiful than the armor. ] You seem to have at least some idea of what it is we are supposed to be seeking down here. Enough that I dare to imagine you might not entirely disappoint me if we were to make this little jaunt together.
[ This is precisely how one forges alliances. You'll do. ]
wow sandra be nice. makes some vague context up bc its a meme, yolo
Guess it's more fun that way. Harder to get your sadistic jollies when you can't see or reach your abductees to torture them. They'd want to see it. They seem the type.
(Usually, he figures, it's the eerie echo of the Transistor's lens in the dark of his eyes. Takes people off guard, because it's the first place you look when you meet someone. Harder to tell most elsewhere, though, until you know where to look. It's funny. He hungers, and thirsts, and suffers along with the rest of the crew. He chokes on the void, as it burns around them. But he bleeds black when cut, until it clots itself to a stop. And it doesn't ever seem to heal—just pulls back the curtain a little more to reveal the cold and numb and glassy surface sitting just underneath. Electric blue circuitry running under the skin, a rhythmic pulse of light flickering through, like a heartbeat. Like every time he lets this place get a piece of him, he loses a little more of that second chance at himself.
No problem, long as he doesn't get into trouble. Right? Rate he's going—well. Never put too much stock in his ugly mug anyway. Mostly the brunt the evidence is in his hands, his arms. A long nick on his jaw, a nice deep dig by his ribs that probably would have hit a kidney if he still had one. He used to wrap his wrists to stabilize them—nowadays it has the added bonus of keeping his hands and his forearms covered and protected and unalarming, because hell if he's going to sit back and not use them, if the chips fall in the right places. (As they so often do, here.) A lot has changed—his priorities haven't.
Hell of it is, he can't even complain about it. The circumstances, the accommodations, the goddamn torture gig? Damn straight he can complain about those. But whatever partial proxy of himself they'd managed to salvage from Cloudbank and wire him into—it's...not a perfect solution. Sure. But—)
But she...doesn't seem to blink. Possibly because she's just that kind of girl. Probably, also, because she has yet to open her eyes at all.
He notices. Doesn't comment. Instead, he plays along. Hefts the Transistor against his shoulder—(even "free" of it, he can't seem to leave it behind if he wanted to)—as he peers down the stairway by the green light of that globe she's holding. Answer amiable, if wry. "Might not entirely disappoint," wow. Don't flatter him too much right away.]
If that's your way of stringing me along, it could use a little work.
[Or a lot...of work... The static in his voice is harder to pick out, now—unless she's got a good ear. Helpfully—]
You could try selling it as a scenic scavenger tour. Long walks through rusty relics. [What was that about only some idiocy?] Always liked it best down by the water.
[Goldwalk, the canals... Maybe even the beach, someday. A real one. (Careful what you wish for, right?)]
no.
[ Ironically, she's gotten a little better at seeing throughout the centuries. Reading people, as she never could in life. It isn't as if she can see the sword at this man's side, after all, but there is something about it so ingrained in his nature, strangely engraved. Almost more akin to her attunement to the Beyonder Crystal than any sort of learned attachment. It's a faint yet powerful feeling. An intriguing one. Her head tilts toward his voice, brow pinched faintly at the gravel in his tone she cannot place, before she lets off a scoff. ]
Although the view is surely lovely, I am quite possibly one of the last people aboard this vessel that should advocate for the scenic. [ She's fucking blind, asshole. Though she does seem all parts amused and no parts offended. ] If our crew is to be believed, it is only a matter of time before the ship becomes much more to your liking, then, but as for me, I prefer my quarters a little drier.
[ And this rings true as a mortal as much as it had as a wraith. There had always been an unease, certainly a close call or two over the centuries, on the Sea of Solis, sailing through the Deathless Tempest. If she had been unseated and rolled off the edge of a ship, left to sink to its blackest reaches, perhaps then she would have truly gone mad with isolation. Whether or not the Scribes would intervene and prevent her from escaping her duty, she could never say, but it would surely be a fitting punishment in its own right. ]
[ But that aside for now. She has a scrub to string along. ]
So I should hope that you would be willing to set aside, for now, your pining for the sea, and assist in making sure it does not come up to meet us. For the good of the people. Mostly for me.
[ She shifts the orb to fold her arms around it over her chest, in some display of finality. If only it wasn't so unwieldy, she would not begrudge its presence so. Like a Celestial Orb, forever in her grasp in this endless Rite of newly-discovered life, sapping her aura. Or at least sapping the usefulness of her hands. She'll have to get a satchel for it one of these days. Accompanying said finality, she huffs a sigh. ]
Was that a sufficiently heroic pitch, Swordsman, or must I actually spin something to titillate your romantic wanderlust?
[ Her lips settle pursed, as if they would much rather eat dirt. ]
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"Swordsman" gets an arched look. Both because it's A: not a way he'd describe himself, exactly. (Though maybe a little more apt, these days—literally. If you can consider the Transistor a sword at all. Most people around here seem to think so.) But mostly it's B:...she observes as much, but she still hasn't opened her eyes.
Huh.
Without shifting his tone, or missing a beat—]
Couldn't hurt. [He wouldn't say no. The put-upon expression she's wearing only really encourages that notion. (They don't get much for entertainment around here.) But, since they don't have much for time, either—]
C'mon. I'll give you a rain check if you light the way.
[Which, he can only (wrongly) assume, is what that glowing green orb is for in the first place. The verdict here was never really in question; he was headed down there to start. This place is about as far from Cloudbank as you can get—the damage to the power grid isn't going to fix itself on an Admin's whim. Someone's gonna have to get their hands dirty.
He hesitates, though, just before starting down the dark of the hall. (HOLDS// Flits helpfully into his consciousness without his permission. VISIBILITY: NONE. Yeah, no kidding.)
But, to Sandra—]
You good to walk?
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[ Perhaps the blindsense could impress him a touch, but only because its source is impressive in its own right. It's not as if she can sense every feature and manner of accessory one might choose to carry, there would be no point to her loss of sight, but it is the spirit of things, she has found, that she can tune into, after centuries upon centuries of business with them as her only function. And this spirit is such a peculiar thing, such a broad, flat, curious thing, crackling with energy more incomprehensible than her crystal. The closest label she can rightly ascribe to it is a sword, a blessed sword... Though more accurately, if her faint feelings of kinship are to be heeded, a cursed sword. ]
[ Perhaps they shall have need of it. Hopefully not. ]
[ Her pout edges just to the brink of a full on scowl before he decides to rescind his demands, like a good boy. There will be no follow-up on this rain check, of that he can be sure, but regardless he pushes on without the slightest bit of hope. Excellent. ]
Of course, do I look abandoned here to you? [ Waiting for the next adventurer to hitchhike with? Well, she wasn't. She simply isn't going to be locating small, strange parts on her own. Nevertheless, she does cozy up to his side, and with her ear tilted to the height of his voice, it doesn't take much of a feel for and along his arm to loop her own around it. ] But it could not hurt.
[ As little as she may care to admit it aloud, ever since regaining a human form, touch has become such a thrilling luxury made staple. And being one that had definitely only been restored for pain and misery in this place, she has every intention of defying it at the slightest provocation with applications of pleasure. Her pleasure. If he takes issue with it, he may find his own way in the dark. ]
[ So she cocks a smile up toward him briefly, much like a cat that has settled itself upon its owner's chest at a most inconvenient moment, before she takes the orb in her other hand and holds it out slightly before them. As if on cue, it glows even brighter, bathing the hall before them in a pool of green. At such a luminosity, the orb begins to hum ever so slightly, an ethereal, resonant sound, though she is sure to keep it below the calling card of their steps as she leads them surefootedly forward into the hold. ]
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At least he gets the good sense that this getting-cozy is definitely more of an inconvenient-cat kind of situation than the romantically-titillated kind. Prickly as she seems, she weaves an arm around the one of his that isn't busy propping the Transistor up against his shoulder and looks utterly satisfied about it for reasons he can't begin to guess at.
But if she's inclined to lead, he's inclined to oblige it. She's surefooted enough. And they're equally blind here, outside the small perimeter of green light the crystal is casting, so why the hell not. He's got to be twice her size, he'll use the arm she's looped around his as a convenient anchor if he spots anything fishy out there in the darkness. Nice to be able to throw his weight around again.
Sandra holds out the crystal and it hums to life. Bright in a way that feels alien to him, the reverb ringing oddly in his teeth. (The Transistor makes a game attempt at analyzing it, when his attention narrows there, but it doesn't seem to have the context to understand it, and it just throws back enough confused errors to make him blink away fast.) He wonders, not for the first time, what it is. But one thing's for sure—]
Hey, not so bad.
[It's a hell of a lantern. He sounds pretty pleased by that trick. The few prisoners brave enough to have tried the holds already had reported that the ship lanterns held down here were dodgy at best and dangerous at wort. And while the Transistor does emit some light of its own, it's not quite so bright, and not nearly so steady.
Of course, once they enter the wide dark of the holds proper, there are fewer walls for the light to bounce off of. Things get darker again pretty quick, as the glow fades out into the empty black air. He can see her, the walls to his left and right, some shattered overturned crate a foot or so ahead....and nothing. Nice while it lasted.]
...or not. [With an air of well, what can you do. He gets down to business for a second—it's clear this is going to be a needle-in-a-haystack job at best, so to start—] Parts ought to be around here somewhere. Lets see...
[As if to himself, considering. Then—]
Should be able to follow the wall around the perimeter.
[He's got a pretty good sense of direction. But better to get your bearings first. Any objections?]
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Once again, this damned artifact proves itself so useful to everyone but myself...
[ And yet she is the one saddled with it. Such is life. She does have her body, now, though, so beggars really can't be choosers. There's a soft laugh somewhere in that smile, a baleful reflection of their plight, or perhaps her own, that flickers out along with his commendations. Apparently it's helping less than she could hope for... Well, at least if she's going to leave him in the dark, he isn't planning on returning the favor, is he? Such a narrative mouth on this one. ]
Had I known I would be receiving a full and running commentary of our little adventure, I might have been a little noisier myself.
[ There may be no objections to his perimeter-hugging ambitions, but she has an addendum to her side of the bargain to make. Steadily, she shifts the orb a bit further still from her body, and the hum graduates promptly into a sing as light radiates ever brighter, to about the maximum she can ever coax out of it when she's whinging for attention. His field of vision should extend, ever slightly, not by much but enough. Up the wall beside them and to the shadows beyond the remnants of the crates, to a formidable shipping container more discarded than placed behind it. Just as the light catches it, something in the darkness lets out a shivering hiss, and a thud as if the glow had physically knocked something from its perch. ]
[ Beyond the noise emanating from her hand, she snaps to the faint but curious sounds immediately, stopping short and bidding him to do the same with a tightening hold upon his arm. Equally ready to throw around her far more meager weight. Gotta be quick on the draw with that body, Swordsman. ]
Did you catch that?
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Not like she doesn't do a pretty good job of keeping up with him in her own right. Before he can open his mouth to ask what she means by damned artifact, she's already moved on to being noisier, herself, while she extends the reach of their light. But then, a more immediately alarming kind of noise from the far end of their perimeter. Not too far away. She pulls on him to a stop, and he seems to shifts himself in front of her. Straining out into the shadows where they'd fickered, just now. Just barely.
By way of agreement—]
Something moving around out there.
[A shape, then a glint of blueish light moving away from them. Too fast to be more than a streak in the darkness. Then...nothing.
Not for long. He's not that optimistic. He eases the Transistor off his shoulder, and it scrapes sharply against the metal hull of the ship, casts its own small halo of cyan light against the floor. Waxing and waning with his voice.]
Just out of sight. Maybe you spooked it.
[They should be so lucky.]
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if not body horror or fog world, i'm flexible. )
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[ To mince fewer words, Sandra has taken the lull in the action as an invitation to turn up. ]
[ With a tall bottle of a sweet-smelling red filched from the generous stores, the former wraith at least has the good grace to return with it to where they had made their quarters. They being she, and the Demon Nightwing woman, one of the few—if only—individuals she remotely recognizes from home. Separate, but close, keeping a sliver of the ship's terror at bay with familiarity, despite their sparing acquaintanceship. ]
[ The empty glass, held loosely in one hand, is a formality. The swig straight from the bottle is a far more honest display of her current regard for the week's nonsense. She is about two of these in by the time she hears the stirring of her unlikely companion from afar. And a mix of emotion is quick to stir within her. While she had intended to wallow in her own despair for the evening, the thought of the company of a Nightwing amidst all this foreign chaos, however stoic, seems at this point nostalgic, and... about as intoxicating as the drink. ]
[ A whole plethora of less agreeable thoughts begin to shift as well, like murky dregs sloshing at the bottom of a well, though she has had many a century to learn to temper the better part of her mood. ]
[ At the telltale sound of hooves clanking ever gently as they do (they do not) Sandra leans to inch open the door beside her until it's slightly ajar. ]
Demon, [ she calls, as affectionately as one can utter such a word, gesturing a toast with the open bottle, ] Whatever it is you may have planned for this evening, might I convince you that your attention would be—for once—more appreciated with me?
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Had been, during her time as captain. Even more so, once she had been exiled ( when's the last time she's had the sweet taste of wine on her lips? ), to the point where it was no longer an option. But she adapted, as one does during the exile ( the only other option is death ). No time to worry about relaxing with a drink when Howler's threaten a peaceful night.
It's no different here — she hears the bemoaning of the other passengers on the Charon, and yet the idea that there's at least enough to eat is reassuring. Their captors aren't looking to starve them to death ( just nearly ). Jodariel bends just enough of her pride to keep herself alive, on their conditions, takes the rations as needed. Eats some disgusting excuse for vegetables inside of strange, metal cans, but— food is food.
Except apparently, there's an occasional reprieve. She hears the door open and a certain call that has her bristling against her best intentions. Chooses silence as a proper greeting in return, head slowly raising as she notes the offer.
The alcohol, the glasses. And while she's tempted, she chooses to furrow her eyebrows. ] And bow to the whims of them? [ She spits the last word, as if it's an insult. ] Has your newfound freedom intoxicated you to the point of recklessness?
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Perhaps it has, but after all this time would you deny me the simple joy of indulging in a bottle of spirits now that I am finally— [ As if the usual snickering at her own jokes isn't bad enough, the alcohol bolstering her sense of humor has her softly giggling before she can even finish, ] —no longer in one?
[ Lips still smiling incorrigibly, it makes it almost difficult to negotiate them around the bottle, but she manages another pull without dribbling wine down her front. She is nowhere near that far gone, she simply feels more carefree than she has in centuries, and that feeling alone is tantamount to a glass or two in itself. Of course, it does not come without a borderline painful swell of nocent emotion in her chest, as alcohol legendarily exacerbates the bad as much as the good, she full well knows. Perhaps... this will be her last drink. Plenty more for Jodariel should she be able to convince her to stay. ]
Come now, I have already begun this reckless journey, will you not at least supervise my foolishness in these dangerous times? It seems to be your lot in life.
[ And of course, creatures of purpose ought to return to theirs sparingly in their freedom. No, they hadn't ought to, but she does, on occasion, still find herself terribly listless even in her own liberation, without the liberation of others to see to so dutifully. Surely this woman feels the same without the rest of her precious blackwagon to take under wing. More notably is the touch of desperation in her tone she had definitely not intended to apply. The faint but noticeable lean forward where she sits, don't leave me suddenly strong in the language of her body. What it isn't often—or more accurately, has never been before—but it is now, smile faltering, is don't you dare leave me. ]
give me the orb because I love roleplaying with inanimate objects
Still he searched. Empty cabin after empty cabin until a door lead him to a room with a dull, green glow. Opening the door further, and taking a few steps inside, reveals a green orb. Oralech's face twists into a scowl- he's seen this before.]
+1 orb added to inventory
[ She's been left to her own devices (or lack thereof) in an unoccupied cabin, cold and dark and unforgiving as the void in which she currently languishes. It makes it all the more noticeable when that void is disturbed by the sound of clacking hooves and a creaking door from somewhere far, far above. Somehow simultaneously reluctant and eager, she drifts to the crystal's surface... ]
[ And about as equally oppressive as the air around them, a formidable presence looms near... Severe, icy, hopeless—a hauntingly familiar presence, but a warped one. ]
[ Curiosity piqued, the orb's ambient glow burns a little brighter, shimmering and shivering with a gentle hum as she reaches out to him. It snares his senses, tugs enticingly at the sleeve of his consciousness. Come closer so I can get a feel for you... ]
B)
The orb burns a little brighter, bathing the whole room in green light, beckoning him. He remains in the doorway.]
I have no need for practice Rites, Sandra.
[He knows she can hear him.]
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For once, you would be correct with that statement. [ After all. Look upon this place and tell her enlightenment has any influence here. Her voice emanates sharply from the orb, or perhaps they echo in Oralech's mind, not quite willing to show her form to the irritating air just yet. But it is with an equal bitterness that the orb shudders faintly once more, needling at the coattails of his mind that she can reach. ]
My apologies, for a moment there I was beginning to forget my only purpose.
[ Her now incredibly irrelevant only purpose. Maybe she had not appeared before him because he's a bit of a cock. Has he ever considered this? ]
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There's a small part of Oralech that feels pity for Sandra. Despite losing everything, the one thing that none could take from him was his freedom to move as he pleases. And his freedom to die. She must be truly cursed to have the Scribes revoke that one mercy from her. But emotions like pity had long worn away from the forefront of his mind, buried under a decade of bitter resentment.]
Maybe one day the Charon will bring us to shore on the Downside. Then you can be useful once again.
[And then we will know we are truly in hell.]