The Water Shrine’s mazelike interior is familiar—like the last shrine you visited, it’s a Manse, the local flow of essence directed toward the singular purpose of creating some kind of spiritual journey—but that doesn’t make it any more easily navigable, and you’re uneasy. Especially since, passage by passage, your small band is separated, until you find yourself alone.
It’s not like there’s an easy way to tap out, though, and the only way out seems to be through, so you push forward. After wandering for... some minutes? An hour? Multiple hours? You find your way to a circular chamber—windowless, of hewn and carved stone. A narrow hallway circumscribes a series of alcoves, each of which holds a single stone goblet, standing on a pedestal beneath a spigot.
You take one of the goblets in your gloved hand, and sniff dubiously at the contents. It contains a cold, briny, bitter-smelling liquid, but a carved diagram above the alcove shows a humanoid figure (sporting... a halo?) drinking from a goblet, so—well, you’ve drunk worse, in the army. So you do it, although you have to choke it down.
The smell is hard to get out of your nose, and you realize with growing alarm that you recognize the scent, just barely—not unlike a drug called Bright Morning. The Realm outlaws it—it allows mortals to see immaterial spirits, among other things, and you recall a special section of the officer corps being trained to use it to fight ghostly enemies.
But once you drink it—aside from being disgusting—it doesn’t seem to do much, though, and you frown, turning to one side to follow the next passage—
And then you see.
Battle rings in your ears, and you cry out, desperately calling the half-trained soldiers of your Circle’s nascent kingdom to close ranks and hold fast against the Dragons’ heavy infantry. The golden blade you hold cuts through the ranks of the mercenary troops arrayed against you, buying your forces some breathing room—
But it’s too little, too late. Your right flank’s collapsed—only by sacrificing half the town have you managed to keep your forces from complete encirclement.
You hear Lark sing out, a high note ringing over the chaos, and glance to your left—and you feel the breath leave you suddenly. Your lover’s kiai shattered the volley of lightning-javelins aimed at her torso, but—
...but.
Her flank was open. You didn’t see it in time—open just long enough for a tall Fire-Aspect, red hair blazing behind her like a banner, to bury her mismatched shortswords in Lark’s ribcage. Around her, the troops lose their courage, shrinking back—she’s always a bolster to those around her, and now, as the life fades from her eyes, they remember how colorless the world seems in her absence.
You can’t—you can’t do this. It’s not going to work, and she—
You squeeze your eyes shut, and blinking back tears, call for the retreat.
The Water Aspect shudders as your daiklave runs him through, the spatter of his blood adding yet another stain to your golden armor. You jerk your blade free of his corpse, catching only a momentary glimpse of how haggard you look in its reflection, and impose it in the path of the next Dragon-blooded rebel’s blade.
The blow never comes—your one-eyed circlemate has already intercepted that traitor and literally torn her apart with his bare hands, in a move that makes you cringe, slightly. It’s not pretty work, and you’re not sure this is even the best way to solve this, but—you only have so many solutions available to you, right now. And this was your first and best one. The remnants of the scale of soldiers, already starting to recoil, explode in a shower of gore as your other companion, the world’s greatest sorceress, unleashes her magic in a sudden burst to shred them down to their very Essence.
All right, now you’re just bodily wincing.

The two of them hold the stairway behind you, guarding your back so that you can manage the final stages of the battle. From your shining balcony, you see smoke rising from shattered crystal towers, shards of shimmering rainbow falling like rain. Blood and bodies line the streets the city, but your Charms let you sense that the battle is all but won. The only remaining body of rebel troops is pinned in the market district, and the loyalist artillery is finally in position.
Gritting your teeth, you wordlessly signal the order: finish it.
Maybe now something resembling healing can start. Maybe you can fix this. Who knows.
You lean upon the dark stone railing of the balcony outside your study, watching the door of your citadel as you await the arrival of your newest student. Your thoughts drift to the last time you saw each other, and you can’t help but find yourself short of breath in anger, just thinking about it.
Remembering the Final Feast, when the traitors cut you both down—it always gets your blood up. Your ghostly servants keep their distance; they know better than to bother you, when you’re thinking.
As your spectral butler announces the arrival of your ranger and his charge, you crane your head down to gather your first impression of her—and, hm.
She wears a high-collared gown over a soulsteel torc, its tight-laced bodice and flaring skirts no doubt intended to make her look taller and more impressive, all the better to give impassioned speeches to the masses. Now, however, she just looks... uncomfortable, awkward, and out of place. Clearly your colleague—her master—still has no idea how to manage those who do not conform to the stereotypes of their Caste. This is how he treats the one who was once Creation’s greatest sorceress?
But she’s here with you now—and perhaps, with your help, she can reclaim some of her lost glory. You descend the stairs, and adjust your glasses, a nostalgic smile coming to your face regardless, to meet this new version of your oldest friend.
You stagger, disoriented, residually distraught, and steady yourself against a wall as you wait for your vision to clear—you’ve wandered further into the winding passages, though you don’t remember walking. That was... strange, that it all felt like your memories, but... not you at all?
But there’s a second chamber to find, before you can get out of here. You’re starting to hate this quest, as necessary as it’s become.
It’s a long, long time before you find it—or it feels like it, anyway. It’s dimly lit, and resembles the chamber you started from, and you groan as you see what’s in it—a stone basin, large enough to draw water from a well, standing on a dais in the center of the room. More goblets surround it, and you smell the liquid in it again—
...it’s more drugs. Great.
But it seems like you have to, to complete whatever the test here is, so you sigh, and dip a goblet in the liquid and drink.
Nothing seems to happen at first, but that happened last time, too, and you start walking again, waiting for it to activate—
—you stagger as an unfamiliar feeling overpowers you, and brings tears to your eyes. A rush of emotion after emotion, with unfamiliar memory along with it. These... none of these feel familiar, but they’re in your head like you’re seeing someone else’s past made yours, jumping from one moment to the next until you feel dizzy.
Eventually, you realize that you’ve fallen asleep—or passed out, lying on the cold stone floor of the ritual chamber, your head still swimming, though you don’t feel like you’ve fallen. But you have one hell of a headache—worse than any hangover.
But, somehow, the way back seems clear, now. Steadying yourself, you take a deep breath, and head to where you can, hopefully, reunite with the others.
Notable:
White-haired Shrike this time.
She’s wearing the sort of inconspicuous traveling clothes she was wearing in Memory 7, Memory 12, and Memory 14.
The visions are for visible to the memory-viewer, for once, but they’re from her perspective.
In the second vision, her sorceress companion looks uncannily like the Illuminated Seer Beneath Tenebrous Skies, from Memory 16.
Oddly, in the second and third of the visions detailed... when she speaks, it’s with a man’s voice, and when her face is caught in reflection she looks very different.
All the combat recalled here is like, over the top badassery wuxia fantasy film nonsense.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 020
It’s not like there’s an easy way to tap out, though, and the only way out seems to be through, so you push forward. After wandering for... some minutes? An hour? Multiple hours? You find your way to a circular chamber—windowless, of hewn and carved stone. A narrow hallway circumscribes a series of alcoves, each of which holds a single stone goblet, standing on a pedestal beneath a spigot.
You take one of the goblets in your gloved hand, and sniff dubiously at the contents. It contains a cold, briny, bitter-smelling liquid, but a carved diagram above the alcove shows a humanoid figure (sporting... a halo?) drinking from a goblet, so—well, you’ve drunk worse, in the army. So you do it, although you have to choke it down.
The smell is hard to get out of your nose, and you realize with growing alarm that you recognize the scent, just barely—not unlike a drug called Bright Morning. The Realm outlaws it—it allows mortals to see immaterial spirits, among other things, and you recall a special section of the officer corps being trained to use it to fight ghostly enemies.
But once you drink it—aside from being disgusting—it doesn’t seem to do much, though, and you frown, turning to one side to follow the next passage—
And then you see.
Battle rings in your ears, and you cry out, desperately calling the half-trained soldiers of your Circle’s nascent kingdom to close ranks and hold fast against the Dragons’ heavy infantry. The golden blade you hold cuts through the ranks of the mercenary troops arrayed against you, buying your forces some breathing room—
But it’s too little, too late. Your right flank’s collapsed—only by sacrificing half the town have you managed to keep your forces from complete encirclement.
You hear Lark sing out, a high note ringing over the chaos, and glance to your left—and you feel the breath leave you suddenly. Your lover’s kiai shattered the volley of lightning-javelins aimed at her torso, but—
...but.
Her flank was open. You didn’t see it in time—open just long enough for a tall Fire-Aspect, red hair blazing behind her like a banner, to bury her mismatched shortswords in Lark’s ribcage. Around her, the troops lose their courage, shrinking back—she’s always a bolster to those around her, and now, as the life fades from her eyes, they remember how colorless the world seems in her absence.
You can’t—you can’t do this. It’s not going to work, and she—
You squeeze your eyes shut, and blinking back tears, call for the retreat.
The Water Aspect shudders as your daiklave runs him through, the spatter of his blood adding yet another stain to your golden armor. You jerk your blade free of his corpse, catching only a momentary glimpse of how haggard you look in its reflection, and impose it in the path of the next Dragon-blooded rebel’s blade.
The blow never comes—your one-eyed circlemate has already intercepted that traitor and literally torn her apart with his bare hands, in a move that makes you cringe, slightly. It’s not pretty work, and you’re not sure this is even the best way to solve this, but—you only have so many solutions available to you, right now. And this was your first and best one. The remnants of the scale of soldiers, already starting to recoil, explode in a shower of gore as your other companion, the world’s greatest sorceress, unleashes her magic in a sudden burst to shred them down to their very Essence.
All right, now you’re just bodily wincing.

The two of them hold the stairway behind you, guarding your back so that you can manage the final stages of the battle. From your shining balcony, you see smoke rising from shattered crystal towers, shards of shimmering rainbow falling like rain. Blood and bodies line the streets the city, but your Charms let you sense that the battle is all but won. The only remaining body of rebel troops is pinned in the market district, and the loyalist artillery is finally in position.
Gritting your teeth, you wordlessly signal the order: finish it.
Maybe now something resembling healing can start. Maybe you can fix this. Who knows.
You lean upon the dark stone railing of the balcony outside your study, watching the door of your citadel as you await the arrival of your newest student. Your thoughts drift to the last time you saw each other, and you can’t help but find yourself short of breath in anger, just thinking about it.
Remembering the Final Feast, when the traitors cut you both down—it always gets your blood up. Your ghostly servants keep their distance; they know better than to bother you, when you’re thinking.
As your spectral butler announces the arrival of your ranger and his charge, you crane your head down to gather your first impression of her—and, hm.
She wears a high-collared gown over a soulsteel torc, its tight-laced bodice and flaring skirts no doubt intended to make her look taller and more impressive, all the better to give impassioned speeches to the masses. Now, however, she just looks... uncomfortable, awkward, and out of place. Clearly your colleague—her master—still has no idea how to manage those who do not conform to the stereotypes of their Caste. This is how he treats the one who was once Creation’s greatest sorceress?
But she’s here with you now—and perhaps, with your help, she can reclaim some of her lost glory. You descend the stairs, and adjust your glasses, a nostalgic smile coming to your face regardless, to meet this new version of your oldest friend.
You stagger, disoriented, residually distraught, and steady yourself against a wall as you wait for your vision to clear—you’ve wandered further into the winding passages, though you don’t remember walking. That was... strange, that it all felt like your memories, but... not you at all?
But there’s a second chamber to find, before you can get out of here. You’re starting to hate this quest, as necessary as it’s become.
It’s a long, long time before you find it—or it feels like it, anyway. It’s dimly lit, and resembles the chamber you started from, and you groan as you see what’s in it—a stone basin, large enough to draw water from a well, standing on a dais in the center of the room. More goblets surround it, and you smell the liquid in it again—
...it’s more drugs. Great.
But it seems like you have to, to complete whatever the test here is, so you sigh, and dip a goblet in the liquid and drink.
Nothing seems to happen at first, but that happened last time, too, and you start walking again, waiting for it to activate—
—you stagger as an unfamiliar feeling overpowers you, and brings tears to your eyes. A rush of emotion after emotion, with unfamiliar memory along with it. These... none of these feel familiar, but they’re in your head like you’re seeing someone else’s past made yours, jumping from one moment to the next until you feel dizzy.
Eventually, you realize that you’ve fallen asleep—or passed out, lying on the cold stone floor of the ritual chamber, your head still swimming, though you don’t feel like you’ve fallen. But you have one hell of a headache—worse than any hangover.
But, somehow, the way back seems clear, now. Steadying yourself, you take a deep breath, and head to where you can, hopefully, reunite with the others.
Notable: