[voicetest] it's this guy

[unsunderworld]

[To the surprise of absolutely no one.

Shadowbringers spoilers abound beyond this point.]

Comments

It sure is That Guy

[castcure]

[There had been so many sandwiches waiting for Dakki, when she returned to her room in The Pendants. More than she could finish on her own, though not for a lack of trying. The efforts she'd been putting in to helping save the First were exhausting, and this was the first properly prepared food she'd had in days... but even a Warrior of Darkness has limits. And thus, leftovers.

She really doesn't want any of this to go to waste.

And she has a feeling that someone is lingering about the lobby even when, surely, he ought to have better things to do.

So it is why, after sighing and wrapping everything up neatly in a napkin, she makes her way down to where she last spotted Emet-Selch. Through all of this, she is starting to feel a funny sort of... almost-fondness for him. And being so ominous and dramatic had to be exhausting, too. Surely even an Ascian needs to eat...?]

[unsunderworld]

[There's no sign of him, at first. It simply wouldn't do for him to be caught in the same place twice; he has a reputation to uphold, and no mortal role to play on this particular stage. The First requires his touch only due to the failure of its previous caretakers, and he can push things along perfectly well from the shadows.

But a bit of looking around will eventually reveal him well enough, perched on a ledge overlooking the comings-and-going of the little ants of the Crystarium. True to his words, Emet-Selch chooses to watch, rather than interact.

When he's inevitably spotted, he gives a bit of a smile and a little wave. Hello, hero, here he is, in perfectly plain view. Nothing at all suspicious going on here, no?]

[castcure]

[Well. She should have known that this wouldn't be as easy and trotting down some stairs. She takes in the lobby with a frown, pondering to herself just where an Emet-Selch would go if he has no one to pester. It would be reasonable for him to want to keep an eye on things... and he's not likely to be be anywhere all that social, she guesses...

Out Dakki wanders, looking this way and that... and she almost misses him on his spot from high up above. She stops and double-takes... and then she finds herself frowning at that wave. No, no, there's nothing suspicious about him being up there. Just a bit annoying. How is she going to get up there fast enough that he won't just walk away?

He will see her tilt her head, see her gaze wander this way and that... then see her set off for a nearby stack of crates at a steady run. To hells with taking the stairs and the long way around. She's going to climb. Those crates will get her a boost to the top of a high fence, and that will get her within leaping distance of the balcony, if she gets a strong enough start.

She'd done far more ridiculously athletic things while in Eulmore. This is fine.]

[unsunderworld]

[Why on earth is she...?

If Dakki is expecting anything other than the 'are you fucking with me right now' expression by the time she arrives, she's in for a sore disappointment. Because there are not really words to express it, just that particular look that says that some mortal has done something both inexplicable and stupid yet again.]

In such a rush to see me, are you?

[After all, in the whole course of her climb up to him, other than his head following her movements, Emet-Selch hasn't moved in the slightest, legs still dangling over the edge of the ledge where he's seated.]

[heart_of_the_wood]

She felt as if she were tearing apart at the seams, yet there was something strange as she walked the pathways, boggling up at buildings that loomed above her. Mind reeling, she stared up at the trees, to the ocean surface where light, so very far away, filtered through the water. Skull feeling fit to split and all her limbs ached as if made of crystal shards, she could feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

“Why...why do I know this place?” It was a lie. She knew it the instant the words left her mouth. She didn’t know this place.

She ached for it with such a ferocity it stole her breath away. Far stronger than the need to return to her forest home that she’d long since been severed from when she stood in Fanow. Whatever this feeling was, there were no words for this pain. This sort of desperate, desolate longing of something long since lost. Raising a shaking hand to press her fingertips to her eyes, she gasped for air, fighting for each breath as her mind struggled to wrap around something she knew lay just beyond her reach, burning her with its loss.

“Why?” So many questions and she never had enough answers, and her body was going to burst from it all if she didn’t bite it down again.

[unsunderworld]

"Is it not obvious?"

Surely she didn't expect that her passage through the city would have gone unnoticed; massive as the buildings are, this remains a tiny corner of the realm in the grand scheme, no trouble at all for him to oversee all of it. He has raised kingdoms, empires, domains far larger than this, but this is the only one that he has ever called home.

Footsteps echo behind Mykha, but come to a stop before he comes into her view. When she should turn, Emet-Selch looks not at her, but the buildings reaching far above them.

"When you throw a bottle into the ocean, the fragments remain glass, even when they've become sand," he says, before looking down and shaking his head. "So it is with your kind, the grains of sand that were once Amaurot. Even if you do not know it, you know it."

[heart_of_the_wood]

"I—" Whatever it was she'd meant to say was snatched from her, lungs straining as she choked down the surging sensation that threatened to spill from her lips. Her insides churned, burning with an icy heat and she felt the whole earth tip around her as she teetered on the sense of knowing. His words echoed in her head and she reached for him with a trembling hand, needing some sense of stability in a world that reeled and spun without her.

"Emet, please—" Everything was too large. It was all wrong, she'd been—they'd all been normal why was everything so large? Her body was ungainly and numb. She wanted to unfurl the too-tight flesh and stretch her limbs, she couldn't stand the way it burned her a moment longer, trapped in a shell that writhed from within like something fresh to hatch from its chrysalis and she felt a sandal catch on the tile and she was tipping—

The world spun as they laughed, holding aloft their latest creation, beaming with pride and delight beneath the mask as they called to him to see—

Then the world jolted and the memory was gone, leaving behind a sickly feeling in its wake. Why wasn't there enough air? She choked on it, claws rending fur and fabric as she let out a shriek as her mind struggled to piece things where they belonged, fresh pain blossoming bright and hot along her scalp as she clutched her skull in a vain attempt to keep it from breaking.

[blackrose_born]

It's been three days since Innocence. Three days since the Light nearly overtook her, and the skies went back to everlasting, blinding white. Since she became unable to wield the tools of her various and sundry menial pursuits, being largely unable to see them through the bright haze.

Since Emet-Selch betrayed her. Huge shocker, that - she'd expected the knife in the back to come much sooner. But come it had, finally, at the perfect moment to damn her and all her friends. Perfect Ascian timing.

Even monsters have to move, eventually, and so she had - following old, worn-in paths in her mind to give her body something to do that wasn't giving in to instinct. As those paths tended, it led her onward - and downward, into the depths of the Tempest. Into a city where giants walked, and talked, and generally treated her as one of their own - albeit a child. And she learned. Horrible, terrible truths that seemed utterly unbelievable, but the evidence was there - had been all along, if she looked back far enough. Hindsight is perfect, after all.

So now she wanders the too-large streets of a familiar-unfamiliar city, guided by nothing but vague non-memories and the urging of her friends and the kind words of a not-stranger who wasn't really there.

The pain was less, now, than it had been. Her head wasn't quite splitting, and her vision was actually somewhat clearer, down here beneath the waves. Away from the everlasting white above, the evidence of her failure.

She had one goal, now. Find Emet-Selch.

[unsunderworld]

The city is occupied by the particular sort of silence one finds when there are ghosts around every corner - never truly silent, but brooding with a definite melancholy nonetheless. To find the one truly living person in a city such as this might be an impossible task, if he didn't want to be found.

As it is... A door stands open, and the ghosts are happy to point her in the direction of it. The man inside faces away, his back to the entrance. Tall by the standards of the Source, he's not quite as towering here, surrounded by the specters of what were once his kin, who tower just as impressively over him as he ever has over her.

It is rare to see him with his back straight, but now his shoulders are back and proud, as though whatever burden he carries has been lightened. Not put aside, not ever that - he is no more capable of such a thing than he is of bending knee before Hydaelyn Herself.

But there is a determined set to him, when he turns at her footsteps. "Took you long enough," he says, but there's less bite in it than one might be expect. He's tired of waiting, and that's all.

[blackrose_born]

Ever had he towered over her, but she was used to that - she was short, even for a Lalafell. The set of his shoulders and the straightness of his back alerts her more instinctual side that this is not the mopey bastard suffering the world's banality she's come to know and, even a little, like - no, this is a man who knows his path and intends to walk it.

Shame she doesn't know hers, anymore.

"You didn't exactly make yourself easy to find," she says, sighing and wishing she'd thought to summon a Carbuncle before walking in here. The familiar glowing, fluffy friend of so many adventures would have been a great comfort, even if it was just a chunk of her own aether given form.

Why was she here again? To find Emet-Selch, that's right - but there he stands. What had she meant to do, now?

"I feel... strange. Why did you make this place?" Something lingers at the edge of her perception, like the ringing of tinnitus but more subtle. That wasn't the question she had meant to ask. There was something else - something important, or so it had seemed before.

[astralera]

Era had tried to remain on the Source for a stretch, but until the Scions were returned along with her the option she had were quite limited. She visited her friends, giving them a bare bones explanation of what happened. She slew the Lightwardens and returned the night sky back to a world drowning in Light.

She breathed not a word of the danger she was in, nor the revelations that were revealed to her — not even to Edmont, though Era knows the man is aware she omitted a fair bit from her retelling. She spent most of her days lingering in Fortemps Manor, spending time with the only father she's known. Each day that passed she noted the lines of worry etched ever deeper upon his brow. She did her best to seem herself, and yet the man's intuition was particularly keen when it came to his children, whether they be his by blood or by choice.

Every night her sleep was restless, to such an extent that Edmont had taken to checking on her long after he should have been to bed himself. Era hadn't realized her dreams had been a bother to anyone else — not until she awoke from a terrible dream (memory?) to find the man hovering at her bedside, clearly concerned for his ward's well being. It took her some time to shake herself fully awake. To remember who and where she was.

It was then that she learned it was a frequent occurrence. Every time she drifted to sleep and dreams came for her, she would call out in a language not a single soul could comprehend. Edmont had taken to sitting in the chair at her bedside most evenings after she retired, ready to place a comforting hand upon her brow and soothe her back to sleep like any father would. Most nights, he said, it seemed to help.

When she asked if there was anything that stood out about what she said each night, and his answer told her precisely where she needed to go.

So Era packed up her things the next morning, readying herself to the journey back to the First. The Fortemps household made sure her inventory was fit to bursting with all manner of foodstuffs, freshly laundered clothing, and whatever else they deemed a necessity for her. It was as she was about to teleport to Mor Dhona that she was overcome by the uncharacteristic urge to give Edmont a hug. She does not, however she does pause to take one of his hands in hers, looking up at him with an earnest, thankful smile.

"I shall send word of my safe arrival with Feo Ul," she promises, then whirls away in a rush of aether.


-

"Did I say aught that stood out to you?"

Edmont fell silent then, hand a heavy, comforting weight on her shoulder.

"Hades."

-

The sight of Amaurot silhouetted against the murky twilight of the Tempest fills her breast with something she cannot quite put name to. The enormous streets do not feel quite so foreign to her, though that make sense to her as this is not the first time she's set foot in the phantom city. Still... She finds herself pausing at certain junctures she never paid heed to before, wondering why something seems to be missing from that plaza, or why she can recall the scent of roses when eyeing the remnants of a garden — a garden she has no logical reason to know existed, but her mind's eye tells her there were flowers of the loveliest shades of blue and violet all the same. A red fruit whose seeds burst like overripe grapes between her teeth. The scent of old books and ink. The feel of silken cloth against skin and...

Only skin.

Era continues wandering, fear and comfort warring for dominance within her chest. Every step fills her with a sense of déjà vu she cannot shake. She had always desired to know of her life before she was Era, but...

Her breath catches in her throat and she finds herself in desperate need of a seat. Something (memory) tells her one is nearby, but logic tells her it will too big, much like every other thing in this city.

Everything is too big for her, but —

Why does that feel so wrong?

In the end, Era finds herself sinking to her knees upon the cold, unforgiving stone in the middle of a deserted road. Hands pressed to her eyes, she inhales slowly. Exhales. Inhales. Does her best not to let this overwhelming feeling drown her. Focuses on the way her tail curls around her side. A tail that feels both comfortingly familiar and uncomfortably foreign.

Memories.

She always wondered what it would be like, if she could remember. Era would not call these flashes memories, but does not know what else to think of them as.

"Hades," she says, the name foreign and familiar on her tongue.

It occurs to her then, quite suddenly, what this feeling is.

Grief?

[unsunderworld]

She is, almost, alone in the city. The ghosts of the Amaurotines have not faded away; rather, it is as though they do not see her, preoccupied in whatever routines they are eternally embroiled in, bereft of their creator. They are nothing more than memories, after all.

But when she speaks that name, there is a faint chiming, as though some aether-construct lying in wait for her has activated. And, indeed, it has, for very shortly she's approached by...

Well, the Amaurotine undoubtably still towers over her, but in comparison to the height of the others, they are clearly a child. If Era thinks to pay attention to her aetherial senses, there is something different about this ghost, something more of the Ascian's personal aether. The child feels more like his creator than do the anonymous Amaurotines filling the streets and the offices; like Hythlodaeus, there is a touch more effort, or perhaps a touch of an accidental thought of something else.

And their voice, young as it is, has some touch of the familiar about it, too. "You called for me?" they - he - asks, in the same dense, nostalgic tongue as all the others speak.

[astralera]

She shouldn't be here. (She is meant to be here.) She should leave. (Stay.). This place is not meant for her. (He built it for her.) Her heart aches for something lost that was never hers. (It was hers nine times over.)

There is a ringing in her horns, faint and melodic, and Era barely registers it. It is only when she feels a weighty presence behind her that she unfurls herself and twists to see the source of it.

An Ancient — a child. She goes still, staring uncertainly at the small giant. His question confuses her.

"I called for no one."

There would be no point.

Tower of Animus AU

[skysinging]

[ The glamour glitch had been going on for most of a day now, which was wearing in a number of ways. It meant time was running out, for the power to be getting this bad. It meant that most of everything was nanofilm, which even for Peryn - who'd seen more than a fair bit of Allagan technology in her time - was unsettling. It also meant there was almost nothing else to look at, besides it, her own glowing violet body, or the monsters that roamed the halls.

Overall it just left her very, very tired. Especially after a shift at trying to decode the collar fluid with the other residents.

Floor One-hundred-and-one is where she takes her respite. Normally she'd be somewhere with more people, but... Not right now. Right now the lone living sapling was more of a comfort, to open her eyes and see something alive. Not to mention the hanging gardens were gorgeous when the glamour actually worked. Part of her hoped that she'd open her eyes and see them, even if she knew it was just an illusion.

She knows better by now than to get complacent though, and even with her eyes closed, her ears are still pricked for sounds of nearby movement - hostile or otherwise. ]

[unsunderworld]

[Even with the glamour off, she likely recognizes the sound of the footsteps approaching her. Where others find the glitches uncomfortable, there is one person who has thought nothing of them since that first catastrophic breakdown, when all was revealed to the truth.

To Emet-Selch, who for so many centuries has been among fellows who were nothing more than souls and aether that happened to inhabit flesh, none of this is new. And where others would rely on the relative size of the frame that houses what's really Peryn to recognize her, he has no need of any such thing. Has not, in the entire time that they've been here.

The footsteps continue until he's standing beside her, the same shade of violet, eyes also on the sapling in front of them.]

Such a small thing, to be all that lives in this world.

[skysinging]

[ She opens her eyes, not quite turning to look over at Emet-Selch yet. ]

What does that say of us, then?

[ There's barely anything of a rebuke in her voice - almost more of a light teasing if not for the exhaustion and sort-of familiarity behind it. There's been no point continuing the fights from home here; never has been.

Not that she'd be inclined to disagree with the idea that they weren't exactly "alive" here. ]

It's young. Hopefully it will have the chance to grow.

[brokenallthelaws]

[By all rights, a world very nearly consumed by light shouldn't be something that holds any interest for the Organization. Without any Heartless - and precious little Darkness to sustain them, should they actually succeed in creating any - there's hardly any way to create any of the various things they happen to be looking for. Especially when it's clear enough that this world is already hovering on the brink. Still, it makes for an interesting case study, and the Organization's plans are in enough of a lull right now that it's not like there's any pressing need for Xigbar to do more than check in periodically.

Plus he always has been prone to curiosity, and today that curiosity has led him down into the depths of the ocean. The light might not bother him the way it would an Ascian, but he figures if the local heroes are going to go to all the trouble to bring air to the bottom of the ocean he might as well check it out.

(Of course, he also steers clear of same. No need to have to deal with more explanations then are strictly necessary.)

In the end, it's the massive cityscape tucked away under the sea that draws him in. He's definitely not been invited - indeed, has no idea it might be invite-only - but there are very few places that are barred to a man of his abilities. Which is to say that there is absolutely a Nobody wandering through the remembered streets of Amaurot, taking in the sights without so much as a care in the world.]

[unsunderworld]

[Considering the sort of attire that said heroes are prone to wearing, a man in a black coat with his face fully hooded fits in better among the specters than they do. Of course, he's still far too small, considering the scale of the place.

No, that's not what attracts the attention of the owner of this domain. A unusual aether signature is itself reason enough to investigate, but when you couple that with such a power as comes from beyond the Rift - beyond what even the Ascians consider the edge of the world, of all shards, even the Void - well.

He has not only the inclination to investigate, but a solemn duty, as one of the last remaining caretakers of this world. It's more likely that Xigbar will notice the new arrival, seated on the edge of a too-tall railing above him, from the warping and unwarping of space as the Ascian moves to observe more closely, than from any actual sound of his presence.

As least until he speaks up.]

And what do we have here? This is a private party.

[brokenallthelaws]

[Were Xigbar anyone else, the warping of space might have gone completely unnoticed. To him, however, it's as good as a sudden flare of light in the darkness, and the fact that he can sense a Heart up at the top of the railing besides only confirms it. (As interesting as the city is, he hasn't failed to notice that the inhabitants - if they can be called that - aren't people in any sense of the term he'd use.)

It's enough, too, that he doesn't startle in the least bit at the sound of a voice. He turns, of course. How could he not, and he cranes his head up to where Emet-Selch is sitting as easily as anything. Not that this offers any more of a sense of who he is, of course. The hood stays firmly where it is, and if anything peeks out from under it it's nothing more than a faint glimmer of yellow from Xigbar's one remaining eye. Surely not enough to base any idea of who he is as a person off of. The easy and almost nonchalant shrug that follows... that says a bit more. Enough for a start of an idea.]

Guess you're just gonna have to consider me a gate-crasher then. Or maybe... an interested party.

[The tone of his voice suggests that he doesn't matter too much one way or the other. Nor does he sound immediately hostile, should it make any particular difference.]

But if it's conversation you're after, it might be a little easier to manage eye-to-eye.

[scourgingstars]

[hit me with what you got, i genuinely have no idea how this should shake out]

[unsunderworld]

[Their kind hasn't interfered overly much with this world; in some ancient time, primals who still yet exist devastated the land of most of its aether, leaving the sundered people unable to work magic almost entirely. It's long been considered uninteresting, and the attentions of the Convocation devoted instead to more aether-rich shards for the Ardor.

But now, a most curious event. A Calamity by any other name would smell as sweet, and the lasting darkness upon this shard now - nearly ten years and yet to pass - certainly qualifies as such. The only pity is that it is aligned with the dark, else they could have forgone the entire nonsense with the First and the Flood entirely.

Alas, hindsight. For now, with so many of their number out of commission, waiting for rebirth, it falls to Emet-Selch himself to investigate.

And that investigation has lead him here, to a dead city that nigh trembles with aether, not of dark but of light, woven into the stones of the pavement. Or the concrete of the pavement, rather.

Of course, he's no fool, perfectly well aware that he's an intruder in someone else's domain. Thus, with the grace of many lifetimes spent as royalty, does he approach the largest building, in a city far more Amaurotine than any he has yet seen built by mortals.

And there, before the gates, he bows and waits. Sooner or later, the king will come out.]

[scourgingstars]

[...Something felt off. It wasn't the motions of the useless Kingsglaive remnants or of the half-ruined automata in the empire's abandoned base camps, but something else. Some force Ardyn couldn't identify--not daemon, perhaps not human, an existence he couldn't put a name to and yet felt on the sort of level he felt his covenant with Ifrit. Well. He certainly had nothing better to do than look into it, moving from throne room to gates in no more than a few seconds and a burst of shadow.]

[And truthfully, he wasn't entirely sure what to make of who he found himself faced with. Attire from an era Ardyn couldn't place whatsoever, and some air about him that felt...wrong. Much as that was casting stones in a glass Citadel, something was quite unusual here.]

And what, might I ask, brings one so far into daemon-infested lands apparently unarmed?

slams in here again because i'm not making a new post

[astralera]

She is drenched in blood mostly her own; thick crimson pouring from her chest not in a flood, but a pulsating wave. There is a downside to being a Summoner — a trade-off. In return for the ability to channel more aether through one's skin, one first must leave that skin exposed. Like a cannon made of glass, ready to shatter at a moment's notice should one small thing go awry.

And go awry it did, leaving Era to all but drag herself back to her place of respite, one hand pressed uselessly over the gaping wound. Healing aether flares weakly between her fingers as she does her utmost to shove it into her skin, lacking all the delicate refinement of her usual healing touch. It helps to slow the tide, but not to halt it. Even were her magic currently stable and she at full strength there is only so much it can do, and knitting skin back together that has been torn so asunder is not one of them.

At least there is comfort in knowing she will not die from this. The Echo had not triggered a vision (yet, comes a traitorous little voice from within), and thus she is spared that fate for now. Still, that means nothing if she doesn't continue onward.

Her vision fizzes, twinkling spots dancing in front of heavy eyelids; the corners go dark, which even half-delirious from blood loss is a relief. Darkness is more welcome to her than Light. Light is love and life and home, and Light is stagnation and corruption and the loss of self.

A cough, deep and painful, wracks her chest. Lifeblood bubbles from between her lips. She tastes the metallic weight of it on her tongue and chokes it back down. Suddenly as the flick of a switch, as though an invisible threshold has been reached, she feels so very ravenous, her body crying out in want of the living aether it needs to survive. Era's tottering pace slows to a stop as she coughs again, stumbling to her knees. Her focus has suddenly shifted from finding safety to keeping her mortal form. She licks one hand clean of blood, then the other. Uses her tail to wipe more red from her skin that she might consume. Like water spilling between one's fingers, it is an ultimately futile effort — she will never be full again until the wound closes and the bleeding stops.

But still she sits in a daze upon the ground, feasting upon her own blood as it oozes from a wound she has no way of mending.

I MEAN

[unsunderworld]

Normally, he would only observe. That's what he does, what he has always done - a gentle push here or there, and see what happens.

But what is happening here is curious enough without his prodding, and more to the point, all but requires him to step in. It wouldn't do to lose her now, this mortal he has invested so much time and energy in.

(Not that he truly believes that she would die without his interference. If he did, he would be unable to lend a hand, forced to put his god's priorities above his own as all the tempered are. No, the hero would survive, it's just a matter of how much she would suffer doing so, and suffering for the sake of suffering doesn't sit well even in an enemy.)

Aether-rich as he is by nature, in her state, Era will likely sense him before he properly appears, from one of those tears into the rift that Ascians are all collectively so fond of. And so he doesn't bother with a greeting as he approaches, instead just coming to her side as the red bleeds from her.

The orb of aether he offers her is shaped almost like a fruit, swirling dark with a bitter shell and a sweet, juicy inside. She is not gone, not on the edge of turning, but the touch of the Light remains. And if the hand that should contain that aether is showing a bit of claw beneath his gloves, that is a problem for another time.

"Here. This should be enough to sustain you until you can stem the flow."

[astralera]

Era has never been overly aware of aether in the way that someone like Y'shtola, Minfilia, or the Emet-Selch himself are, but over time she's grown more sensitive to it, and right now he is a beacon of it. And even were she not always at least partially aware of his presence she would most certainly have sensed his impending arrival; thick with a dark, heavy aether that counterbalanced her own.

She is already staring up at him as he steps out of the rift, pupils blown wide enough to make her eyes dark as the fruit of aether he creates for her, and the eclipse of light around them grows all the more prominent for it. Her hand is give one last, long lick (it wouldn't do to let it go to waste); slow and languid as she stares at his offering with clear hunger.

The thought of consuming another's aether should repulse her, and it does — just not when it is Hades'. It is a dark temptation. A forbidden fruit.

Reaching out, Era offers nary a word of thanks as she takes what is freely given. She takes one small bite (cautious even now, while her mind frays at the edges with primal instinct), teeth sinking into the shell to the rich innards that burst upon her tongue. It is a flood of sensation and flavour she cannot describe; thick, heavy, and rich. Light, and yet dense. Denser than anything she has ever felt before.

It is enough that she promptly tears into the rest of it with savage abandon, eager for more of the sweet, aetherial juices contained within.