EVENT #7: THE SIGHT

[abraxasmods]

Event #7 - The Sight

go to the OOC event info and plotting post

---

The night before APRIL 18, your dreams are disrupted by a vivid image of the same eclipse that occurred last month. The black sun seems to be an endless void in the sky, growing ever darker - until it suddenly opens into an eye that stares straight at you.

When you wake up, much of your night seems a blur except for the vivid dream of that eye. Whether you find it unsettling or try to ignore it, the image is something you cannot get out of your mind. If you ask, you will discover that none of the locals of your faction saw another eclipse. Speak with your fellow Summoned, however, and you may learn that while there was no eclipse that formed over the world, you were not the only one who had this dream.

Of course, dreams don't need to mean anything. You can't feel or see any immediate effects, and nearly everyone around you is going about their day as usual. Maybe you should do the same.

The Awakening

It might happen that very morning or a day or two later. You could be discussing the dream with a fellow Summoned or perhaps you simply brush shoulders with them as you walk by. Whatever it is, as soon as you make brief physical contact, one of you is struck with a sharp pain in your temple that grows into a terrible headache. It's disorienting and painful as the world around you shifts to someplace you may or may not recognize. Like an old film reel, you watch the events of the past play out before you: the past of the other Summmoned. It might be something they would rather hide, a moment of failure or despair, or something they are immensely proud of and brings them great joy - or even a jumble of several images over the course of a person's life. But you see it as if it were real and right in front of you all the same. When you come to, you'll likely find yourself on the ground or bent over, possibly with one or more people around you to see if you're okay. It'll take you a bit to gather your bearings, and the subsequent pounding in your head could last from minutes to hours.

Or, maybe you aren't the one who receives the vision. Instead, as you watch, another Summoned might grasp their head and crumble in front of you. They may go silent or groan in pain. They'll be impossible to shake out of their stupor until it's over. If you ask what happened, they may be inclined to tell you the truth - that you, you were what happened to them.

Or, if your Arcana signs happen to line up in a specific way, you'll see each other in the shared memory itself. You may also find that for certain Summoned, you can help soothe the effects, calm their emotions, or help draw them out of the memory before it consumes them for too long. It's not entirely clear what determines which effect, but one thing is for certain - within each memory, every Summoned as they appear in the past seems to wear the mark of their Arcana somewhere on their person.

For some, they might experience this only once. For others, they might experience it multiple times: with the same person, with several other Summoned, or with a different memory each time. Over the next 7 days, you'll find the Summoned around you are all receiving a glimpse into each other's past, as if the Singularity has awoken an eye within each of you.

Flee for the safety of the Horizon if you want, but you'll find that in there, it's much the same. In fact, inside the Horizon, the other Summoned don't even need to be anywhere near you - just existing in the Horizon space itself together will be enough to possibly set off a headache-inducing vision.

The Factions

What has occurred between the Summoned will not go unnoticed within the factions. While it's difficult to say how faction officials have picked up what's happening, it'll be obvious they do know.

In THORNE, characters will be asked to remain in the castle walls until further notice. Characters will not be allowed to leave the castle grounds, not even to go into the surrounding city, and anyone who is already outside will be requested to not leave again as soon as they return. If asked, they will be told it's for their own safety, given the Singularity is behaving unpredictably and the Summoned have a unique connection to it. Soothing potions and healers are on hand to offer assistance, if anyone is particularly suffering from ill effects.

In the FREE CITIES, characters will find the army by the outposts show more activity than usual. A higher number of guards will patrol the streets throughout the event, particularly in areas frequented by the Summoned. Anyone who publicly and visibly experiences the effects of the memory share (pain, doubling over, etc.) will be offered assistance by the guards. They are generally there to help, but they are also there to maintain order and ensure anyone behaving erratically due to this incident is properly contained. This might include confinement for a day or two if anyone is especially posing a risk, but no one will be punished except in the most extreme cases, as the locals are aware this is not within the control of the Summoned.

In SOLVUNN, the locals will be watching what's happening with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Host families and neighbors will be on hand to help with charms meant to offer protection, as well as general care and assistance (soup, blankets, and so on) if your character seems to be especially under the weather or afflicted by the event. Towards the end of the event, more elders and mages will be out and about to check up on the Summoned to make sure they're doing okay. If asked, the mages will say they aren't sure what's going on, but that they are currently divining with the gods and hope to have a definitive answer soon in the upcoming days.

None of the factions appear to be doing much more than keep a watchful eye on the situation - but as the week comes to a close, officials will start making a decision as to what they want to do and how to handle the Summoned who have demonstrated this unforeseen connection to the Singularity.

Comments

[gynvael]

So that's the name. The sound he makes is of vague acknowledgment. Garrus, Eden Prime. He slides the information away without commenting. The memories he's slipped into in the past were chaotic, torn at the edges. This one is much more steady, and he supposes he can see why when it's all fairly quiet.

He wants to say, When have they ever? because he's never met a king or council in his life who gives a fuck about a few hundred dead of their own kind, never mind the other races. How many humans are slaughtered in a matter of days at the hands of other humans, because they bear a different flag or sit on a piece of coveted land? (Because they habour one princess who fled the kingdom?) Thousands? Not that it matters. Loss is loss. One or many, it all cuts the same.

He brushes his fingers through a glass surface. He can't touch it, of course. He's been to castles and throne rooms. They do not reach the level of opulence this entire space conveys. It makes Cintra feel like a backwater village.

There's a slight squint at the statue of the frog-like creature looming. Intriguing. "Why were you the one to tell them? Did you find the bodies?"

[earthborn]

"They weren't actually after the colonists, it's just that people living there were in the way," Shepard tells him, while the memory of what this walk had orignally had been stops to look at the statue as well, full of pointless commentary, "Got there right at the tail end of the attack— the bigger issue is, they're being led by a rogue Spectre, and comprised of Geth, and that there's a fucking Reaper in charge of the whole thing. That's the extinction of all intelligent life, not just one colony."

The council wouldn't care if a hundred thousand humans died. They wouldn't care if a million. They probably wouldn't care if all of them died, but Shepard still has to believe she can at least guilt them into something, even now. The alternative is the death of the galaxy.

"Not that they care— oh shit, the preacher guy," She coughs a laugh, and looks ahead to where a luminescent jellyfish, seven feet tall and balanced on a series of long, tapering tentacles is rippling with color, bright and difficult to ignore, "I almost forgot about that asshole."

The elevator to the council chambers was looming above them, seeming narrow only because it was so tall, and then it was nothing but the long, scenic lift ride. At first it was just the presidium itself, from higher and grander angles, and the sky rushing up and down past, and then a long moment of dark. And then the grand and glorious view of the citadel from the center, all the ward arms spread out like the petals of a flower, glittering, with the deep velvet-black of space visible between them, and the brilliant Widow Nebula speckled with stars.

Think they'll actually do anything?

Have some faith, Williams.

I'm just saying.

Keep living in that dream, Kaidan. It's inspirational.

Silence reigned and the magnificence slid by, was abruptly replaced by darkness again, and then they were there. The Council chambers, and a pair of arguing Turians in blue armor at the top of the stoop. The memory was attenuating, the chamber up beyond was opulent, beautiful, full of flowering trees and vaulted ceilings, populated by well-dressed sentients of every shape, but it was fragmenting away.

Commander Shepard! he had blue markings across his face, plates smooth and unscarred, and turning towards them with enough angry desperation that the memory of Shepard checked her progress.

"Damn, look at him," But it was over, it was fading, or would be very soon, "He's so young."

[gynvael]

The who? He expects a person, or something vaguely resembling one. It is not that at all. It's a jellyfish out of water that is, indeed, preaching. He can't help but stare, and some part of him instinctively wants to prod at it. Does it jiggle? What in the hell is it? For all that he's been tired of these fucking memory trips, this one is admittedly fascinating. It isn't quite that he wants to stay—he's better things to do with his time and his damn head hurts—but it feels like a place he would not mind peering about some more were circumstances different. He's lived a long time; he almost never sees anything new. More of the same, even when it's on another sphere: corpses rotting in the sun, war-torn landscapes, dark pits of suffering. The woman with him speaks of the Citadel as though it were routine, and to her, he supposes it is. But for him, it's so far beyond anything he could imagine.

Her Turian friend turns towards her. Unscarred. He notices that. How long ago was this memory? Can't be that long. She appears only a few years younger at most, but. He gets it, too. How quickly things change.

He hasn't got much time to ask further, though. The ground drops away, metal fading to the dusty desert of Cadens. The market square snaps into view—footsteps around them. He stumbles to his feet, the sunlight burning bright. His head doesn't just throb; it pulses, and fuck, he truly hates it, how much it reminds him of Thornean mages digging into his mind. And as he's gathering his bearings, without his knowledge—without his presence—she will see something else, flashing by.

( A different market square: muddier, much smaller, the townsfolk emptied out. Or not emptied out. Hiding, ducking around corners and into homes. There is an unnatural awareness that hums, a mix of heartbeats that shouldn't be heard, scents that should be too subtle to discern. The men standing before him are roughly hewn in the way that common brigands are, armed with weapons that are meant to frighten more than anything. A name—Renfri—and a word—ultimatum—but beyond that, whatever else the men are saying, it is not altogether audible. Geralt simply does not remember.

What he does remember is the fight itself, at once too sharp in clarity in places and faded in others. The faces in the scene are mutable, almost featureless. He doesn't recall them. Not really. Blood spills in an instant, and does not stop. The men either move startlingly slow, even for untrained bandits, or Geralt is reacting faster than most men are capable of—hard to say which. It is quick, though. Over in a matter of seconds. Then a girl cries his name, and the woman who appears with a blade to the girl's throat—her face is clear. All of her is, down to the gold brooch pinned to her tunic, an unusually expensive piece compared to the rest of her clothes. Unlike the men, she is important to him. Someone he has not forgotten.

The scene shifts, abrupt, as if the moments in between where they cross swords is not a part of the memory he's held onto tightly. Instead, it's the end, when he has the woman cornered. He drops one of the swords in his hand. She's quick, too, when she moves, but he's quicker—a dagger that pierces her throat in a blink. A heaviness settles in the air: not quite regret, not quite sorrow. It's quieter than that. The feeling you get when you hope for better and know that you shouldn't have bothered.

And then it stops. )

[earthborn]

There is a reason that militaries everywhere moved away from swords. Oh, there's always a call for a knife, or an omniblade; but a sword is more than just a killing tool. It requires skill, expertise, commitment, and a lifetime of training to achieve that end. You can teach a man to be deadly with a rifle inside of half an hour.

Shepard's head is one solid brick of pain, but even so she can see that Geralt is demonstrating the principle with shocking ease. He's had a long time to get to grips with this skillset, and the difference in ability is a fiat counter to numbers.

She takes a hostage, and Shepard makes a face. Tacky. Annoying. And worst of all: ineffective. The moment skips, and between blinks it's over. And then there's just that bemused quiet that comes when everything is done and there's nothing in the room but a bunch of oozing meat that used to be people.

"Damn," Shepard says, wincing. Her turn to get a little show, or so it would seem, "...Hell of a thing. What was that all about?"

[gynvael]

Outside, he's in the midst of saying something when the woman with him seems struck by a pain of her own. His brows knit together. Whatever she's seeing, he isn't privy to it. Like some of the others before—he isn't certain how it works, how it's decided, but that's the mystery of the Singularity, isn't it?

He offers her a hand, if she needs one. "You tell me," he replies dryly.

Hell of a thing does not quite narrow it down. She appears, mm. Not particularly unsettled, though, so perhaps it's safe to assume it's unrelated to a good chunk of his pleasant childhood. Hopefully. He's a bit tired of inflicting that on everyone else, unasked. Doesn't make for a fun conversation. And frankly, no one deserves to experience those images.

Maybe she only saw him take off a ghoul's head. He's got a thousand memories of inconsequential hunts that don't matter a damn. Can't he share a few of those for once? A nice walk with his horse? The incredibly uneventful task of butchering a deer for dinner?

[earthborn]

"Some kind of... city?" She says the word as if she's not sure it applies. But then, what else to call it, really, it was at least filthy enough to be urban, "You were there, and a bunch of guys. They looked pretty rough, had a woman leading them. I think her name was Renfri?"

That part stood out, among all the verbal groping for detail. Shepard's had a vision or two in her time, but she's never found it beneficial to try and force them to make sense, try as the might. It was like trying to squeeze a palmful of water; unproductive, to say the least.

"You went through them like they were nothing. I'm not a fan of the hostage thing, though. Never have been."

[gynvael]

City makes him imagine Oxenfurt or Cintra, but he realizes when she says Renfri that she means Blaviken.

His expression shifts: recognition and a sense that there's more to the story he probably will never say.

"It was a long time ago." He steps off the street, finds a wall to lean back against. "I was only there for a simple contract."

Never quite turns out that way, though, does it? He made his choices. He did not need to return to town that morning. He'd turned back and in the end, like all things, it's one more lesson in his long life. He hasn't got her brooch to carry here—there's a different pendant affixed to his sword now—but some part of him will always carry it in a different way.

[earthborn]

"It always starts simple, doesn't it," Shepard grumbles, without thinking further than her own perpetual hangover. And then remembers herself, "...Sorry. Mind if I ask what it was all about? You got an eyefull of my business, it's only fair."

Life's not fair, she knows, and more than half expects him to say so. But some would argue that that's why people keep trying to make it so; not that it's any of her business.

But then, either way, she's always been nosy.

[gynvael]

His head tilts. Mm. Did he? As far as he's concerned, he received a massive cityscape he can't fully comprehend, a glimpse of her crew, her ship. A brief overview from her about the politics of a faraway world he did not quite ask after. (Fuck knows he barely wants to be involved in the politics of his own damn sphere.) Not that he's unsympathetic. Maybe to her, who knew what she was hearing and looking at, it feels like more. Hard to begrudge someone for feeling invaded upon, no matter how innocuous the memory itself might be. They're still memories. Still pieces of one's life not intended to be shared. This whole affair's been...uncomfortable, to say the least, from the start. Even when he's shared his quieter memories, ones with Ciri or his brothers, memories he'd have not minded speaking of, a sense of uneasiness lingers underneath the relief that it was not something worse. When the choice is wrenched out of his hands, it complicates matters.

One, two decades ago, he'd have a much different reaction where Blaviken is concerned. These days—it's an ache rather than a fresh sting. Time scars all wounds. Even the deepest cuts.

But Geralt has a habit of neither explaining himself nor what's on his mind. His answer comes plain, straightforward. "You can. Might not answer."

What's there to say? A princess turned bandit, humans too frightened and disdainful of what they don't understand, what they've no interest in understanding. When has it ever been anything different? It's long stopped being a thought that brings resentment or bitterness. He's too old for that. It's a fact he learned to live with, if only so he can continue to exist among those who do not want him.

this took forever, i'm so sorry

[earthborn]

"Really?"

If you don't want to talk, Geralt, then just say so. But then, it's not the first surly bastard Shepard's ever had to deal with. Even so, people usually loved to talk; you could hardly stop them, most days.

Fine, then. Specifics.

"Who was she? She was important, I could see that."

[gynvael]

He's already walking again, not looking back.

"She wasn't." Not in the way Shepard means. Any other time, any other circumstance, he'd have left that town and put her out of his mind soon enough. Passing company. Someone who desires not to be alone for a night as much as he did. "One of many princesses."

It is complicated, to explain what Renfri meant: the prophecy, the girl, the town. So he doesn't.

He sighs, seeing where this is going and not keen on laying out the intricacies of his life, the history of his kind, inch by inch for the sake of a stranger wanting context.

"Why does it matter to you?"