[ GM PRP ] Smoke and Mirrors

[kuropeco]

He did not know if he necessarily wanted to be here.

Sitting beside Lifen, Mengyao pressed his lips together in a thin line, his hands folded together in the voluminous drapes of his sleeves, the fan hidden beneath the blue cloth. Medea was speaking, and Mengyao was listening, but his chest felt tighter than it should have, a feeling of frustration welling deep in his heart.

Why me?

The question was always there, tucked into the recesses of his mind, but he tried not to ask it, tried to keep it from dominating his thoughts and his actions. He did not want to think about the reason behind it, partially because he did not want to know the answer - but mostly because he felt as though he already knew the answer. Mengyao knew very well what sort of person he had been - what sort of person he still was

Sometimes he wondered why those close to him were still close. Why had they not abandoned him yet? Did he really want to know the answer? His head slowly looked sideways, landing on the pale-skinned face and dark-hair of his best friend. Lifen looked wan and tired in the firelight, but she was still here beside him, despite all he had done. Yuzhi had even cried for him, and Lan had not yet walked away from him.

Why?

Inside the tent, the fragrance of the incense was thick, so very thick, and Mengyao felt it clouding his senses, pervading into his thoughts, filling his head with a cloyingly sweet scent that seemed to sink into his very bones.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the tent was gone, and what replaced it was a field - a wide expanse of lush green and small, delicate flowers that peppered the grass. Here it felt open and airy and beautiful, and the dark forest behind them only marred the beauty. Mengyao pulled himself to his feet, reaching almost automatically for the red thread, his discolored fingers touching the soft material.

He stepped into the forest.

For the first several moments, all he could hear was silence; a thick, all-encompassing silence that almost felt claustrophobic, pressing down on him and weighing heavily on his shoulders. It mimicked the fog that surrounded him, and Mengyao's fingers tightened around the thread.

"Mengyao."

"Why are you here?"

They were soft, at first, the whispers. He could feel them prickling at the corners of his consciousness, quietly invading his mind, his inner thoughts.

"Go home."

His mother's voice.

"Go home. Why are you here?"

"You do not belong here.

His father's voice.

"Turn back.

Sen.

"Go home."

Lifen. Lan. Yuzhi.

His legs felt heavy. Mengyao grit his teeth, his fingers clenching around the ball of yarn, and tried to push forward. He could not fail, he could not simply let everything collapse around him - but his body felt so heavy. Why was that? His eyes traveled down the length of his legs.

Grey.

So much grey.

"No," he whispered, as horror began to seize him, the grey rapidly spreading upwards, encasing first his legs, and then the entire lower half of his body, seeping up his torso. He tried to lift his legs again, tried to keep walking, but it was impossible, and Mengyao felt terror rise in his throat. The fear, however, was slowly being overtaken by a sense of complete and utter blankness, and any thought he might have had slowly ebbed away, dissipating into nothingness.

What had he been thinking?

Mengyao closed his eyes.

Grey settled into his veins.

One of his fingers - stiff and the wrong color - twitched. He felt something soft against his skin, something that wasn't hard stone, like the rest of his body. Whatever it was felt distinctly out of place, distinctly not a part of the petrification of the Insanity that had a hold on his body.

Something shifted. Mengyao, using every ounce of strength he had left, forced his eyes open again.

Red.

The thread was still there, but it was no longer stagnant. In fact, the thread was moving - it was pulling him forward slowly, urging him to move, pressing him to keep walking.

There was a small crack as one of Mengyao's legs moved, stiff and uncertain.

They grey was starting to recede.

...what is it that I want?

One foot moved forward. Then another. The grey slipped away from his torso, dripped off of his legs, disappeared from his feet, and then he was walking by himself again; no stumbling forward, his body feeling weak, his legs unstable. He could hear the soft murmuring of the voices in his head, a small edge of desperation in Mengyao's eyes as he surged forward.

A familiar figure - she was just ahead -

Mengyao staggered free from the forest, colliding with Medea, his breath coming out in a short, small gasp. His fingers trembling, his entire calm, collected facade shattered, Mengyao took a step back, feeling shaken and uncertain.

He lapsed into silence, thinking hard.

The voices were still there - he could hear them as they whispered nonsensically inside of his mind, brushing against the edges of his thoughts. But they were quieter than normal - they were softer.

Some of the tension in his shoulders eased. Mengyao folded his hands together inside of his sleeves as he looked down at the priestess who stood before him before ducking his head in a low bow of respect towards her.

"My thanks, Priestess," he said quietly.

Zoobey

 

[x_Nata_x]

The scent was familiar. All too familiar, in fact, though she had not experienced it in a very long time. It invoked memories of hot, spiced air, so thick you could almost taste it. It invoked memories of sweet fruit, big and ripe with pulp, so thick with juices they ran down your chin as you bit into them. Unbidden, memories of the Isle of War came to her, sweet in ways that coaxed the corners of Eris' lips to turn upwards a little in a small, sentimental smile. But the smile quickly turned sour, sweetness turning bitter as fond memories fermented into the acknowledgement that never again would those memories be real, and Eris' expression went dark. From the bitterness, it was not such a large leap to the simmering anger which rekindled deep in her chest, the burning hatred for those who had taken this away from them threatening right then to consume her. Instead, War's Protector willed herself to close her eyes. To relax. Take a deep breath of incense. Feel the steady beat of her heart as it slowed again, letting her blazing anger reduce to a gentle kindling.

One... two... three...

As she'd expected, when she'd opened her eyes, everything around them had vanished. Tent walls had transformed into an open field, hills of lush green grass and simple wildflowers undulating with the soft breath of wind. Beside her, a little wildflower tickled the bare skin of her leg, the fuzzy little purple flower almost seeming to nuzzle up against her. Glancing to the side, Eris stared down at it for a second, watching it for a moment before lifting a finger to point at it, a tiny jet of flame suddenly engulfing it. Yet when the flame snuffed out a few seconds later, the wildflower was still there, dancing a little in the wind, as if she had just showered it with affection instead of tried to kill it. Flicking her newly-ambered eyes to Medea, she offered the death priestess a little sulking look. Illusions. Climbing languidly to her feet, she offered the wildflower one last petulant little scowl before focusing back on the task at hand, and ultimately on the Death Priestess.

'... it is time to continue walking, to face your insecurities...'

What did she know of her insecurities?

Already the fog, not long summoned by Medea, began to seep out of the forest, lapping at her feet and ankles. Welcoming, almost. Alluring. Before she had even stepped into the forest, Eris' mind had begun to wander. She took the ball of yarn without a word, no longer listening to what the Death priestess had to say -- her mind was already drifting towards the voices which beckoned her towards the forest, fingers of fog trying to coax her forward. Smirking a little to herself, she played with it for a moment, rolling it back and forth between her hands before giving it a gentle toss towards the forest, watching it begin to unwind. She followed it with her eyes as it approached the mouth of the forest, her eyebrows lifting as it stopped just short of where the trees began to grow thick, and the fog grew dense. Well, this world was of Medea's crafting. She supposed it made sense that their 'guide' of sorts be at least moderately sentient. Stepping away from the group to wander slowly towards it through the thick green grasses, Eris couldn't help but wonder, however, why the sanctuary of a horsewoman of Death would be so full of life.

Bending down slowly, the Protector of War gently plucked the ball of yarn from where it rested in the lush green grass before stepping into the forest.

~~~

Eris walked for what simultaneously felt like a lifetime and no time at all. It was strange, the sense of timelessness, accentuated by how the sun never moved from where a few stray sunbeams shone through the canopy. The forst was completely calm, an odd sense of tranquility filling the air, like the flecks of dust that seemed to almost glow in those tiny beams of light which made it to the forest floor. There were no noises, no chirping birds or flapping of wings or the step of a predator in the underbrush. Even her own feet made no sound as she made her way, step by step, along the nearly-invisible path. The leaves didn't rustle as her dress moved over them either, thin branches of smaller, delicate plants bouncing back silently as they caught her clothing. Even so, it wasn't an eerie silence, merely... peaceful. It let her thoughts wander, unburdened by the alertness taught by the War clan she was so bound to in reality.

To Be Continued -- mostly just saving this to prove I AM working on it >3>;;;  

[keiifuu]

Senga's wingtips fluttered quietly to the sound of Medea's voice, and the invasive scent of Trance. He'd heard far-off tales of it once, when he was younger, beneath the canopy of trees and within the dense jungle of home. The young executioner watched as the tent shifted and then was gone, lost, muddled reds and dull browns billowing away as though nothing but smoke and ashes, revealing the lush green of the fields beyond. His fingers shifted through the grass and wildflowers, and for one moment this world of illusion felt whole and right to him. He lifted himself quietly, a shadow along the edges of the crowd, a wolf lurking just on the outskirts and so far away from home.

Why are you here?

Senga's lips turned upwards into a bitter smile. The ghosts in the back of his mind could not be lost or left behind. The breeze ruffled his hair, pervading his senses and beckoning him into the reality of the Trance. But he held back, hesitated. The ghosts in the back of his mind could not be lost or left behind. Not even here.

Medea's words drifted, and quietly, Senga folded the small red yarn over and over in his hands, fingertips kneading into the softness of it, mapping it, remembering it. And then he too stepped into the forest, swallowed whole and alive by the darkness and the fog. And at first it was quiet, still. The horseman's wings curled outwards, arching and reacting to the fog with powerful flaps as though he could keep the mist away. But it only grew thicker, only curled closer and closer to his body, swallowing the dark green of the forest and crawling like fingers and skeletons along his spine. His lips parted into a quiet exhale, heartbeat thundering in his ears, anticipation and fear poison in his chest. The fog crowded against him now, thick and spiraling all around, eating away at the color of the forest, nipping and tearing at his vision and his calm.

"That won't do."

Senga froze, his feathers spiked like knives, his palms sweaty around a ball of red yarn. The only color left.

"No, that won't do at all." There was a scoffing sound, followed quickly by a scolding tone, "You must be fearless. Like your sister. Like Iyari. Go home, Senga. Go home."

Unabashed pride filled the voice at the name, and Senga shrunk back, as though the words were physical and like a lash. His head whipped around, searching desperately for where it had come from, searching desperately for the source. Go back? Go home? The young horseman didn't understand. Home didn't exist anymore. Home was the jungles, the huts, the training grounds and the lairs and everything his clan-members had built. Home was gone.

Silence thickened, and the mist wrapped around him, black and white and distorting the path and distorting his view.

Had he gone crazy? Was he going mad?

The horseman whirled on his feet, looking for the path, looking for a way out.

"Why are you here?"

It was another voice now; one familiar to him, one that pushed envy and joy and hate into his bones all at once. Because she was beautiful, fierce, and the one they loved above all else. Because Senga existed in her shadow, and he always had.

"Listen to father, Senga. Go home. You've left everything there."

Other voices joined hers now, whispering and shouting and crooning to him all at once. Some far away. Others close and heavy against his skin.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Go home."

"You do not belong here."

"Senga."

"Senga."

"Senga, tell me."

"Why are you here?"

Senga shivered, drew himself further and further along, and the walk became a jog, and soon enough, the jog became a leaping sprint. The young executioner could feel his breath become shallow, his lungs hollow and empty in his chest. Some part of him cried out, asking what he was doing, why he thought he could outrun the voices that were all around, and the ones that were inside. And he didn't know and didn't think, and like an animal in a trap, panic set in slowly at first, an undercurrent of shivers along his skin, growing and growing as the young executioner felt his body slow, his bones grow heavy like lead in his skin. No, he thought dimly, throwing all of his will into another flap of his tawny wings, no, I have to keep going. I can't stop. No.

The ground came abruptly, Senga's knees hollering pain to the part of his mind still locked on the present when he landed and dropped, panting as he tried to pull himself together, pull himself up, pull himself to the end. But his limps had become stone in weight, and his wings dropped uselessly to the forest floor, swallowed by fog. Please, He thought, and perhaps he whispered it as well. I can't stop. I can't stop, can't look back.

The voices came again there and then, crowding against his flesh, thick against his skin like an added weight, surrounding him on all sides with words that fueled panic and confusion in his mind. Go home, they crooned quietly, pleading and chanting and begging all at once, Senga, go home. There is no where else you can be. And perhaps he heard himself responding to them, telling them no. Dimly he was aware of his own voice, rasping and rejecting the pleas until they shouted over him, intangible, nonexistent, and so very real in his mind.

The young horseman dropped his head, bright gold eyes hollow beneath heavy lids. It was only after a few moments that he distinguished his legs from the fog, discolored and grey beneath the rips and tears of cloth and skulls. His panic was dimmed though by the voices now shouting, by the way the grey crawled along his skin, patching spaces between sharp markings of Insanity already there, and by the way it crawled inside of him, swallowing coherent thought, swallowing panic, swallowing pain. It even began to eat away at the voices in the back of his head, consuming the static in his ears and replacing it instead with a stagnant emptiness. Senga's hands dropped, heavy, into his lap, head bowing deeper, skulls rattling quietly, reminding him of something distant and far away. But it did not matter now. Perhaps it never had.

His fingers uncurled slowly, and something rolled against the pads of his palm.

Something red. Something soft. Something that he remembered.

And suddenly he was moving - or maybe the ball of yarn in his hand was moving him. And he didn't question it, only jerked forward on unbalanced legs, tripping and trailing as soft splintering cracks echo out into the forest as the grey of his body began to corrode, began to weaken and slip away. It felt as though he was being pulled back into his own body, being lifted out of a layer of skin that wasn't his. The grey receded, and Senga's head turned, watching the tawny color of his wings return, as though something invisible were there, washing away a layer of ink. The ball of yarn in his hand pulled him again, quietly, urging gently for him to move forward. His wings gave a gentle flap at first, weak and barely creating a gust of wind to the fog slowly pulling away.

But soon he was propelling himself forward, taking running steps through the forest before his wings pushed him from the ground in giant, bounding leaps, remembering how to fly, how to feel. And there was the exit there soon enough, and familiar and not so familiar figures as well. Senga's wings folded, and he dropped to the ground just feet from the exit where the others were. His head turned, and he rumbled softly, feet sliding against the dirt and forest floor -

Don't look back.

Senga halted. Stopped. Move forward, Something inside whispered quietly. He felt better now, the voices quiet and tame in the back of his head. He felt normal now, or as close to normal as he could get. The skulls rattled hollowly together, and Senga worried his lower lip between his teeth, the memory of the path behind him still fresh in his head. The voices lingered in his memory, and he remembered their pleas, them begging him to go home. Move forward, the voice urged again.

Senga closed his eyes and stepped out of the forest and towards Medea and the other two. He gave a gentle flap with his wings as the wind rustled his hair again, landing in front of Medea and beside Mengyao. He shook his head and let the hood slip backwards, revealing mousy hair and the soft sound of rattling skulls. His wings folded upwards, though he did tap Mengyao gently with one before they folded completely, glancing at him with a look vaguely filled with concern. He by no means knew the member of Conquest, but even he wasn't beyond showing some vague interest in others well-being, especially now that they were all... part of the Lost Clans.

Turning back to Medea, Senga only nodded quietly, too uncertain of his voice, of his composure to speak out now, in front of so many he still did not know well. He felt as though he should have had questions and gratitude to display, but still his mind shifted uncertainly in and out of focus, and Senga bit his tongue. He would talk later, perhaps. For now... for now he would simply wait. Wait and listen.

 

[revenant aria]

ROLLIN I AM SO LATE SOBSOBBB  

[x_Nata_x]

Although I'm not finished with my last post, I'm gonna go ahead and roll just to lock in my posts ;;;

1- 20: You head down the path - and begin to hear voices. Manifestations of those you knew from your Clan, of those who are supposedly dead begin to call to you. They ask you to return to them, to come back home to walk away from the path, but you remember Medea's words. However, their voice is tantalizing, you can't help but stop, and reminisce, even call out to the voices...  

[x_Nata_x]

81 - 100: At last, or perhaps at first, the walk is quiet. Deathly silent. And then as the fog grows thick around you, you hear the voices. Voices that call in your voice, in those you recognize, asking you to turn back, to go home. That you left everything at home, that you do not belong anywhere but home. Your body begins to slow down, and you realize your legs are barely moving: as you look down, you see that both your legs have turned the same oddly discoloured grey, literally resembling solid stone. You feel heavy, leaden, as the grey spreads into you, taking away any semblance of coherent thought, taking away your freedom and replacing it with a stagnant nothingness.

As you close your eyes completely, overwhelmed by the grey, you realize your petrified hands are still holding the red ball of yarn. It is pulling you now, dragging your frozen body forward, down the path. As you are dragged forward, bit by bit, you feel your body return back to life again, mobile, the greys in your body receeding. Slowly, you see the exit, and as you reach the exit, Medea waiting for you at the exit, you feel normal, or relatively normal again. The voices are still there, but they are quieter now. They can not harm you now. [ YOU HAVE FOUND THE EXIT ]  

[revenant aria]

Quote:

81 - 100: At last, or perhaps at first, the walk is quiet. Deathly silent. And then as the fog grows thick around you, you hear the voices. Voices that call in your voice, in those you recognize, asking you to turn back, to go home. That you left everything at home, that you do not belong anywhere but home. Your body begins to slow down, and you realize your legs are barely moving: as you look down, you see that both your legs have turned the same oddly discoloured grey, literally resembling solid stone. You feel heavy, leaden, as the grey spreads into you, taking away any semblance of coherent thought, taking away your freedom and replacing it with a stagnant nothingness.

As you close your eyes completely, overwhelmed by the grey, you realize your petrified hands are still holding the red ball of yarn. It is pulling you now, dragging your frozen body forward, down the path. As you are dragged forward, bit by bit, you feel your body return back to life again, mobile, the greys in your body receeding. Slowly, you see the exit, and as you reach the exit, Medea waiting for you at the exit, you feel normal, or relatively normal again. The voices are still there, but they are quieter now. They can not harm you now. [ YOU HAVE FOUND THE EXIT ]

As per some ritualistic teaching, Aisa was behind the others, her strings interlacing through the red thread. She wrapped a loop around her wrist, bow right over left and laced three times. The ritual was purposeful, her fingers interlocking in a brief motion of prayer to finish the act of tying the red rope. Members of death would perhaps recognize the actions, vague prayers that varied from priestess to priestess, all with the same intent. She leaned down, her hands brushing over her armored feet, as if to wipe away at something. Then she seemed to decide it was fit to start her descent down the warped path.

Aisa wasn't sure when the world started to look grey. She simply registered that there had been color .. and now, there was not. Usually so attentive to details, the insanity seemed to blur that distinction. Perception ceased until it became nothing. Aisa could no longer summon up a pressing care for anything. How much time had passed, if the question occurred to her, she would not have answered. The concept of time was no longer with her, as a trance was an illusion, therefore deceiving one's judgement. The truth shrouded with lies, lies shrouded with truth. Lost was both truth and deceit. The action of differing was as useful as jumping over a cliff, to find out what was at bottom. There was no sense in it, save for injuries, a partially sated curiosity and then an entrapment caused by your own demise. Aisa wasn't sure when her steps halted, she only knew that it was a strange submerging sort of feeling.

Voices. Voice were nothing new, their whispers sliding against her ear in feathery breezes. Even her own voice, cooing and beckoning to her, wrapping and pulling at her emotions and thoughts, delicately unthreading them. It was not new yet it never grew old. Tiresome but never lightening. Insanity invited with the promise of pleasure but when Aisa partook in the sinful fruit, she could hardly feel a difference from her usual state. She could not feel sated anymore. The numbing feeling of petrification prickled against her like sharpening raindrops, content to let herself freeze within the trance.

Something felt threateningly dull. It ebbed at her, the stony texture stopping before the heart thudding in her chest.

Aisa's laugh lacked the humor, laughing over how easy it could have been missed. How soft it was, how only in this trance, it could have caught her attention. When conscious, when in the real world, it would have never made it to Aisa's ears.

The chuckle in the background that did not belong to her. It chuckled and Aisa had responded.

The chuckle couldn't be identified, male or female, only the breathless amusement as it continued. Human or animal or a mixture of both, the voices gave way to recede, as if spotlighting the unknown source.

Aisa had almost forgotten that chuckle, memories of her leaders, the clans, their heirs and hunters eclipsing that waning part of the moon. Eventually, it would have waned to the point of transcendence.. and then disappearance. But a mere scent, a mere sound could brought it back abruptly before it's erasure. That single chuckle ensured that it would not be lost yet. Perhaps, it would continue as long as the insanity, persistent parts of your past you were on the verge of forgetting.. only to jerk one back from the edge.

Aisa's laughter changed, it held humor this time. She felt Medea's pull, the petrification fading. To be left behind for another day, another time.

"Quid pro quo."

Placed at the exit, Aisa did not thank Medea for the effect fo the red rope. She could only laugh, her hands lifting a earthy brown lock of hair from the priestess, before letting it spread and fall from her fingertips. She continued to laugh.