EVENT #10: AFFLICTION - IC POST

[abraxasmods]

Event #10 - Affliction

go to the OOC event info & plotting post

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With tensions heavy across Abraxas and all the destruction that's happened, it's no surprise that the dark shadows which sweep over the land go unnoticed...at first.

Winds initially stir in Solvunn, where the influence of the Old Gods remains the strongest. Slowly each Herald infects Thorne and the Free Cities, as well. The Summoned are the first to feel its effects and are the most heavily impacted.

Though no one will realize it until well afterwards, Nocwich remains unaffected. After all, the Summoned don't reside there.

NOTE: This event will deal with themes of death (people and animal) and horror imagery.

Emergence

It begins sometime in mid-October, around the 18th. Not everyone will experience it at the same time. You might even believe you're spared until days afterwards when you're visited by an unusually vivid dream.

The dream starts the same for everyone: you are going somewhere, anywhere, walking to your bedroom or enjoying a stroll on the beach. You might be driving down a familiar neighborhood. Wherever you're headed, you eventually come upon a stone tablet engraved with your Arcana. Laid on the tablet are three objects:

◎ A dead moth trapped inside a wilted rose, symbolizing Koth of Festering Lands
◎ A teacup inside which sits a single nightshade berry, symbolizing Adlewyrd of Poisoned Tongues
◎ An ornate cracked hand mirror that contains no reflection, symbolizing Sannleikr of Many Faces

Make a choice. Something inside your soul will be drawn towards one of the objects. Maybe you spend hours in the dream deliberating, but sooner or later, you'll pick one of the items up. The moment you do, the other objects vanish and the chosen Herald appears before you. Where one might expect a god to seek subservience, the strange figure instead extends a friendly hand towards you - as though it's greeting you as an equal.

Whispered around you, you hear its name. Then it fades and with it the dream. You awaken.

Affliction

You go about your day as usual. That's when you realize something isn't right. Creatures and people around you behave strangely. You begin to sense that you are the cause.

Depending on your chosen Herald, you'll experience at least one of its afflictions. The effects might start small, then grow. They might rush you all at once. You can't shake what haunts you, though you can try. Spells, potions, and willpower can help keep the afflictions at bay but you won't ever be completely free.

As the afflictions seep into your mind, you start to find shadows of it following you: a dead moth here, a nightshade bloom there, a cracked mirror elsewhere. You may even wonder if it's following you in the first place. What if instead, you are the one leaving these signs behind?

Corruption

The first time you inflict your ability on someone else, you don't mean to. It might be a stranger, some unsuspecting soul, or it might be another Summoned. Regardless, the afflictions that ail you seem to spread through you into another. Someone falls down as if in the throes of an invisible death or secrets spill. You brush by someone and they're suddenly upset and confused.

The more this happens, intentionally or not, the better you feel. You may grow full of life and energy, gain a renewed strength of heart, or radiate a charm that turns heads and garners compliments. The afflictions haunting you could even start to fade or completely vanish. And if you use your newfound power deliberately? You'll feel better even faster for longer. Of course, these boons are temporary, lasting at most an hour or so. When the feeling wanes, you might miss having it.

You are not possessed. You can't control this power that spreads through you, but how you respond or behave is up to you. You could be attracted to the allure of power, enjoy the boons you are granted, or realize you can gain relief from your afflictions if you choose a victim. Not everyone will fall headfirst into the pull. Some are not easily swayed by power, some struggle to overcome their dark impulses, and others would rather endure their suffering than inflict it on someone else. But others still might succumb to temptation and turn on those around them with purpose: once, twice, multiple times. The choice you make is yours alone.

Blight

With the call of the Herald at your fingertips, the world around you twists. No one knows whether this stems from you and your newly imbued afflictions, or if the Heralds are exerting power on their own. It's for sure easier to think of what occurs as the influence of something monstrous beyond your control. No matter the cause, the earth is changed all the same.

Omens

The omens arrive shortly after the initial Summoned receive their dreams, but they don't come to every faction at once. SOLVUNN is first, being home to the Old Gods' shrines, before THORNE and the FREE CITIES follow only days afterwards. Depending on where you are, the omens will affect things a bit differently.

Solvunn

In Solvunn, the ground stirs. A desiccated hand breaks through the grass, a cloven hoof. Human or animal, they crawl forth, animated against their will. Some might attack, but most do not. At the same time, crops around the settlements begin to fail. Some chickens lay rotten eggs while cows produce spoiled milk. Any livestock that perishes overnight will surface in the mornings with empty eye sockets - pecked out by crows or gnawed on by rats. From a distance, the ocean can be seen bubbling as leviathans beneath thrash.

Worth noting is that many of the dead are concentrated around the shrines, especially the ones deep in the woods. They're too decayed to recognize, and some might not even move from the site, as though they are waiting for the earth to take them again...or as though they once chose to give up their life at this very spot.

Summoned can assist by helping to cast spells or place warding charms around shrines, farms, and gardens to protect crops and livestock. As a commune, the Solvunnites will share their resources as much as possible and would appreciate those who might lend a hand bringing supplies, herbs, and offerings to neighbors who are lacking. The Summoned can also brew a common herbal remedy to aid any animals who have fallen ill or to help purify the well water.

Free Cities

In Libertas, the dead buried under the rubble dig themselves out. More crawl forth from graves in Cadens' cemeteries. Beasts and bandits slain in the desert wilds rise, hungry or searching for the ones who killed them. At the same time, dead fish wash up onto the shores of Aquila while birds fall dead from their perch, dropping like flies from an unknown illness. Vultures and other scavengers begin to prey upon the eyes of the dead, leaving behind hollowed-out corpses.

Worth noting is that in the Badlands, a few very old and skeletal corpses rise with a metal plate or two screwed onto their bones, which are also oddly elongated. Only one or two make their way near the city. The army is quick to dispose of them before many can notice. They will not disclose any information about this and will claim these are just monsters like anything else.

Summoned can assist by going on patrol with the soldiers to put down any risen dead. Merchant caravans are also hiring escorts for their journeys. Additionally, they can help look through any received supplies and packages to make sure the food isn't rotting or worse, use a special dissolving compound to purify the waters, and donate staple food items to refugees and the less fortunate who can't afford the rising prices.

Thorne

In Thorne, the dead emerge only from the outskirts of the castle city. Thanks to information from one of their Summoned and their recent monitoring of the Singularity, Thorne was able to act swiftly and was able to ward any royal or otherwise significant burial sites. Graves and tombs of less importance, though, will not be protected in the same way. There are fewer encounters with eyeless corpses, though some animals might appear outside the castle in such a state. Normally extravagant dishes from the Castle's kitchens use simpler ingredients as they struggle to ration their food stores.

Worth noting is that a few unexpected corpses make their way up from deep under the castle in places beyond the dungeons. These are twisted and mangled, missing limbs, heads, fingers. The castle guards are quick to dispose of them before they get too far into the rest of the castle, but one or two may be spotted.

Summoned can assist by contributing to the wards around Castle Thorne and the city, using spells to put down the dead without mangling the corpse, and taking inventory of food stores. Further, in Nott the situation is more dire for anyone who is traveling there to continue assisting with repairs following the attack. Nott will welcome help with any problems caused by the omens. It'll be clear the kingdom has neglected the city somewhat. Thorne will claim the Castle takes priority, of course, due to King and Queen residing there along with the entire royal court.

Apprehensions

Across the factions, locals are beginning to catch on that something isn't right with you, the Summoned. No one will say it outright, but there's an air of caution and wariness around you where you go. Merchants might be quick to hand you your wares so you'll leave or locals give you a bit of space when they walk by. Chatty innkeepers are more reluctant to hold lengthy conversations.

Much of the time, it may not be conscious. The natives might simply sense something off that instinctually makes them want to put some distance between them and you. The only exception? If you've chosen Sannleikr of Many Faces, you'll continue to exude your charm towards people you encounter. At least for as long as you continue to inflict that ability you've been gifted.

Displacement

Everyone responds differently while in the Horizon. You might exert better willpower over your afflictions or you might feel its effects more strongly. It all depends on the individual and their mindset. Regardless, the Heralds are only one part of the equation. There's a much bigger disturbance going on.

It could happen as soon as you enter or it might be as you're stepping over the threshold into another's domain. Whatever the case, you are suddenly not where you're supposed to be. Instead, you're in one of two places depending: transported into a domain you never meant to go into or in a foreign setting altogether.

Visitation

Whether you're the one transported or someone teleports unexpectedly into your space, the Horizon becomes unpredictable for the next little while. Rooms normally locked to strangers, areas you yourself may not even realize exists - you and your fellow Summoned continue to pop in and out despite your intentions.

The effect isn't painful, just disorienting, like missing a step you didn't see or stumbling through a door into a too-bright room. The person whose domain you've inadvertently visited might sense an unwanted presence, whether they're inside the Horizon or not, or they may be completely oblivious. This will depend on the strength of their connection to the Singularity and the Horizon.

Not to worry. You won't be trapped or anything in these cases...unless the domain you land in happens to seal from the inside. You might stumble on secrets you weren't meant to find, though, locked away in someone else's mind.

Ensnared

The less fortunate will be pulled into a space that they've never encountered before. The bizarreness of it resembles the glitchy visions that flashed through a few months ago, but rather than an image flickering by, you are now inside the space itself.

Trapped between minutes to hours, you can't use the Horizon's creation magic as normal. Attempts will falter or go sideways: trying to fly out might cause you to tumble, tools and objects are broken or not quite right, wounds don't vanish or heal completely, etc. More significantly, you can't seem to send or receive messages through your connection. Anything that manages to come through will be garbled and distorted. It's as though the place you are in is just out of the reach of your control.

Luckily, you may not be alone. Someone else may have gotten lost alongside you. They might already be there when you stumble through or they might arrive after you do. They might even fade out sooner than you, unintentionally leaving you behind.

Eventually, you'll be released back into the Horizon proper, spat out in a random place in the Horizon. While you're stuck, though, you can try to survive, explore, sit and wait it out, or make friends with your fellow trapped partner. Each area has its challenges and quirks that you'll need to deal with.

Scenes to Explore

JUSTICE ◎
FULL IMAGE

High in the clouds, these snowy peaks are as cold as they look. Giant marble hands reach out, though their sheer scale means you might not recognize them as hands from up close. You can scale the mountain, but if you try to go down, the hands will flip the mountain, which sends you tumbling to the top again.

It's up to you whether you can be injured when you fall. Maybe the snow will feel like marshmallows, or you'll break a bone on the jagged rocks. No two experiences are the same. If you have a partner, they could end up faring better than you despite being in the same place.

Conjure some warm clothes or a log cabin even if you wish - they might not manifest perfectly, but it'll be better than nothing. At least the view's fairly nice...while the sun is up. A blizzard will come through by nightfall. With it arrives a strange hovering light that entices you or your friend to follow it into the frozen darkness. What draws you out depends on you. It could be a familiar voice, an image, or a simple compulsion. If you're lucky, the person with you is unaffected and can try to stop you. Or maybe you're the one desperately chasing after the other person?

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THE CHARIOT ◎
FULL IMAGE

From a distance, it's hard to tell if they're shipping containers or houses stacked atop each other. A gooey mess covers the ground below. Oddly, the smell isn't as unpleasant as the goo looks. It smells like bubblegum or cotton candy, artificial and sweet. When you first fall in, you might land inside one of the homes, on top of the stacked structure, or the ground. You can try to reach anyone else who's there with you, but be careful: the ooze is spreading. Climb if you must or move from room to room. If you don't keep moving, you risk getting sucked into its sticky mass.

Each block of a home is different. Some are furnished, whereas others are empty or filled with strange knickknacks. Some might even have subconscious creations spawned by you. Keep ahead of the gloopy substance, and you'll be fine, probably. Or you can try to fight it back or block its path by sealing yourself in a room or otherwise, which can slow it down significantly. Mostly, you'll have to hope you fade out before the pink mass completely consumes the landscape.

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THE WORLD ◎
FULL IMAGE

The hazy neon glow obscures a nothingness that seems to extend forever. In the middle of the wet ground are several stacked television sets with wires plugged into nothing. Inexplicably, there's also a cat. At first, it appears perfectly normal, but keen observers will notice that its behavior is on a loop where it will walk a certain path, pause at specific intervals to lick its paws, and meow at set points. It does not acknowledge any of its intruders. You can break its loop by picking it up, at which point it'll go limp as a ragdoll. As soon as you set it down, it'll resume its actions as before.

While you can see the same images as someone else on the screens, it's also possible you'll each see something different despite being in the room together. What you see is up to you. It could be an old fuzzy movie, home videos of your childhood, trivia questions you have to answer correctly, or even a memory or vision you wouldn't want to share. Words or faces taunting you could appear between staticky flickers, or maybe your very thoughts are projected onto the screens for anyone with you to read.

Break the televisions if you want, but given a few short minutes, they'll reform between one blink and the next. Looks like you'll have to keep watching until you're released.

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THE FOOL ◎
FULL IMAGE

Sprawling and massive, you're unlikely to recognize at first that you're trapped in a labyrinth. Stone walls rise around you, and your surroundings are pitchblack. Manifest a torch or a flashlight if you can, though these will be prone to going out at inopportune times. Escaping over the walls will only send you into another section in the maze.

As you navigate the twisting corridors, you'll encounter any variety of trials and troubles: gaps in the ground, spiked traps, haunting whispers, monsters, decaying corpses. Some of these might've formed from your mind, others might've spawned from anyone else who's trapped with you.

If you aren't alone, do your best to locate your fellow Summoned. Voices do carry and echo over the walls, and there could be landmarks that help you find each other. Finding the exit, however, is another matter. Walk and climb all you want. A way out is impossible until the Horizon chooses to set you free.

Players can pick any scenario that interests them from the four choices above. Unlike the visions from before, characters can accidentally be trapped in as many of the scenes as you want, as many times as you want. Another option is that they can stay trapped in only one scene while a variety of characters fade in and out to join them, or some combination of the two. Choose what works best for your plans.

Each scene will once again carry an associated Arcana etched somewhere inside it, which can change from person to person or instance to instance. It might be on a wall, a table, or on the ground. Characters with a stronger connection to the Horizon are likely to be trapped for longer but the extent of this is your choice and it won't ever exceed a few hours. It's also your choice whether the afflictions continue to haunt them or not. If you want characters to deal with both problems while stuck together, you're welcome to!

Generally speaking, there are no restrictions other than that they won't be able to communicate with anyone outside the area, they can't escape it until the Horizon chooses to release them, and their creation magic will go wrong just enough that it'll make things tricky.

Comments

[gynvael]

Silence falls. Geralt lets his attention turn to his surroundings for a moment. Same stone walls, same narrow corridors. Hard ground. Filthy, dusted with dirt and rats and age. He's starting to catch on, as he sees the long paths, the even steady walls lined around them. The sharp turns.

A maze. Great.

He rests his arms on his knees. Right. Assumptions. He can acknowledge he's been stubborn about it. Born of too many decades learning not to yield, that it is not worth it to lay himself out for the approval of those who will only find reasons anew to hate and fear his kind. Deep down, he's aware they do not come from the same world. That this does change things, even if it's simpler to pretend it does not, that people are the same everywhere.

(And they are. But sometimes— )

He does not wish to mire himself in bitterness, either.

"It's alchemy," he replies at last. He shifts, feeling raw, exposed. "The smell. They force mutations in the body. If you survive, you become a Witcher. Most do not."

[tobeclosetohim]

Some of those words strike harder than others. Jo'd have to be that level of heartless she was errantly thinking about for them not to matter. Forced. Survive. Most don't. Broken children's bed where once there were children (who broke their own beds? Who broke each other's bed and possibly worse?) and the child-sized cuffs on the wall, that doesn't need clarification against that cold light.

"You weren't born like this." It's a statement, but it reads like a question (even as her mind is reciting those first words from earlier), and there's a tip and nod of her head toward him, and the obvious question slides out right against its back. "How much of all of this is it?"

She almost immediately tacks on a shopping list of options at the end of her guesses—the yellow eyes? the black ones and the veins? the hyper-reflexes?—but she manages to stop herself time. To let the question be left up to him what it touches, without the demand of specific dots and lines connecting immediately for her.

[gynvael]

Like this. She doesn't need to run the list for him to grasp what she means. The noise he makes is wry, exasperated, because of course that's what it comes down to. He looks up at her, steady and unwavering once more.

"I don't recall the colour of my eyes before they improved them," he says. "If that's what you mean. Though at least I kept both of mine."

Lucky him. How much. All of it, is the answer, and maybe she can surmise that from his reply. He sighs, unfolding himself from the ground. His arms cross over his chest. Why is he still entertaining this conversation? And it isn't a secret, no. He's told plenty before that he was made. Created. That is a simple fact. But it's different with her, when she's seen him—

In there. (Afraid.) It is more intimate, even, than exposing a memory. That was not a memory. Something he could dismiss as long ago, the terror and agony of a child. That was here, now, his breath seizing and his stomach turning inside out. All from of a dark room and a too-powerful stench.

His weight shifts. "We should go."

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo frowns because she can feel the pointlessness smack her in the fucking face of actively choosing not to assume the answer first, out loud, without waiting, and then having it assumed of her. And it's fuckall annoying that it's not even wrong, but it burns at the edges where it feels stupid for having even attempted to press that inch into existence. To let him draw the lines instead of her.

He still answers,

but Jo's posture has shifted toward an aloof tension.
Part of her wants to ask if that means someone else didn't,
make it out with both eyes, but that part of her is still smarting.

That part knows she wasn't supposed to have asked for details to start with.
If it's smarting. That's on her. She was supposed to actually know better. Did.

"We should," Jo returns as her only words this time. He's up, and that means whatever this is, it's over, too. They're on the ground, and he's not falling to crackers in the open. She turns toward the only direction the path has again.

The intersection with three directions: right, left, and forward.

"Thoughts?"

[gynvael]

At a certain point, once he'd knitted himself back together, the doors were always going to close again no matter what she asked or didn't ask. That's simply how Geralt is. It's a damn miracle she's drawn even this much out of him—but he is clearly finished with the matter, unwilling to dig any deeper into his past. For now, at least.

They walk, and he's quiet—no longer the casually stubborn silence he's often held around her, but just quiet. Like he's still thinking about other things, like he's still not quite all here.

He stops when she does. Peers left, head tilted to listen. This place isn't real, which means anything can change in an instant. But. They work with what they have. And what he has is a whisper of wind, the scratch of rats.

"There's something to the west." He peers around the corner. When he lights another torch, this time he hands it to her. The orange glow illuminates the path, dotted with iron spikes this leave just enough space to walk between and no room to trip. "Watch your step."

[tobeclosetohim]

He stops, and it takes Jo a few seconds, wrinkled brow about to ask a question about what he's doing before the answer comes, and if there's a tally she's supposed to be keeping, her inability to hear anything adds something like super hearing. But there's a sour edge to it; petulant and annoyed at her, and then him, and then herself, again, for it.

But she can't hear anything, and something is still better than nothing.

Jo takes the torch afforded to her, trying not to think about it being weird, and wafts the light play from the flames in the right direction, looking down at the spikes, that, on closer examination, look like swear tips almost more than spikes. She reached out a foot and nudged the closest one to her, saying, "Mmm, spiky death. Just what I've always dreamed of."

The moment the tip of her boot touches the closest spike, the ground violently shudders, and the spike-speartips up and down the whole section suddenly shoot up several more inches in every direction they were pointing.

[gynvael]

If he notices the annoyance emanating from her, Geralt says nothing of it. He does not frankly have the time nor patience for what registers in his mind as childishness. Perhaps that's uncharitable; but he's still raw after what she saw, after the small cracks he's allowed her to have, and if anything that's only made him shutter the windows more firmly than ever.

He isn't sure what to think about her anymore. And he doesn't know what she thinks of him, either. At least before, the lines were clear. Now it's suddenly grown complicated. Part of him wants to push them back to where they were: tense, wanting nothing to do with each other nor to have any understanding of one another. That's not possible. She knows now, these pieces of him he shows to almost no one. It leaves him in a limbo state he's ignoring because it's easier than—what. Talking to her about it?

Essentially.

He's almost grateful for the spikes she triggers. Another impossibility: he had not heard a switch, a click, no gears. She had simply brushed it with her foot.

Shit. He turns around, but what path was open before ahead and to the east are abruptly closed.

He touches the spikes with a thumb. The shaft is rough, covered in tiny smaller points along. He can fit between them. It just won't be pleasant. What choice have they got?

He goes.

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo had jerked back from the one near her, seeing it coming out at her chest before noticing it was the rest of the area. But not catching those bits yet, she'd missed entirely the one that lanced up from behind her half in the wall. She hisses sharply at the score it lands across one shoulder, and it's ducking down slightly, with her hand going there—thin, shallow, just a surprise, just a graze, a fucking little miracle.

She learns fast and doesn't rebound through movement this time. Her fingers are touched red, but it's not deep enough to matter. Only lace into the annoyance already there under her skin, as she starts making it Geralt's way far more carefully, aiming to see if she can keep the fire from touching any of the now far too protruding metal. She'd rather not learn the hard way it reacts to everything that touches it that isn't air.

The question comes even as she's navigating between two that she's just slim up to slide sideways between without touching. "Let me guess—" It's to him, to the spears, and to the life of her that can't not bounce back, even if it's just all in a cloud of judgemental noise. "—one person just happens to fall on one them wrong, and not lift fast enough, and everyone in here is a shishkabob suddenly."

It doesn't help matters that she's pretty sure the further they get, the walls?
They seem closer together, rather than standing their same distance.

[gynvael]

His gaze snaps back to make sure she's not spiked clean through. He can smell blood, though her reaction tells him the wound is shallow. Something that can be dealt with after they're out of this damn mess.

He exhales, pushing past the spikes as best he can. Could he conjure some armour? Perhaps, but with how fucked creating anything has been, he'd rather earn a few scratches. Or. A lot of scratches. It's fine. She's right at least: unintentional or no, triggering it was the safer option. One misstep would've skewered them otherwise.

He sees it, too. The walls. Narrowing as they press forward. A hiss as a barbed shaft scrapes a chunk out of his arm. It's irritating more than painful—and he can't say he wants to be leaving trails of blood around this place. For him, it's not a matter of how careful he is. He can't do shit about the width of his shoulders.

He steps slow. The problem is, nothing here is real. Things morph and change, and it means his hearing, his senses, can only predict so much.

Something that's especially clear when he edges too close to one of the narrowing walls and—without an ounce of warning—has about a hair's breadth to duck a spike that shoots out from the side. He throws a hand up on instinct, catches the tip in his palm. Fuck. He yanks his hand back with a wet squelch.

"Keep center." His eyes lift upwards. Are there ceiling spikes? He's aware one cannot perish in the Horizon, in theory, but he also doesn't want to test that while everything's...twisted.

[tobeclosetohim]

She did not sign up to be a burglar. Lines, duck dodging, and constantly contorting into a different shape to slip past these things are annoying. Balancing where any and all of the spikes are coming from in every direction. Sticking to wherever there's enough space to get both feet and precarious shifting balance from one foot to the other foot around clusters of spikes where she can't.

If they weren't razor, she'd consider some gymnastic climbing of them, but Geralt gives a grunt up there, and that's just her point, isn't it? He's shaking a hand dripping blood, and Jo only calls out, "Are the walls actually getting closer? Are you going to fit up there?"

What. It's a sensible question. If the walls kept moving in up there, and Geralt can't, she's moving in the wrong direction. Though she's already well into the idea, there is not a right direction anywhere in this place.

[gynvael]

It is, in fact, an extraordinarily sensible question. Geralt squints into the distance. Tries to gauge if he can.

"Stay there."

There is no right direction, but there's no reason for her to follow at his heel if he's going to end up wedged between these fucking walls. The walls are closing in, but they aren't moving. Yet. He's time to reach the end, see if he can even slip through. So that's what he does. Just moves, ignoring the blood dripping down his hand. The end is so tapered, he can't even tell what lies beyond it. Maybe nothing until they step through.

He fits. Barely. Part of him half-expects another spike to nail him through the eye, but he forces himself through with a dozen more rips in his skin. He curses. Yeah. All right. She should make it intact. Provided no further surprises await them.

He flexes his fingers. "Clear."

[tobeclosetohim]

Waiting is not her favorite sport, even if how good she can be at it gouged into the deep parts of her too far down. She's in an awkward position, but she's been in worse, too. In a lot of ways, all of that is easier smaller. Less to worry about. Jo squints after him, semi-planning toward the possibilities. Whether she'll have to find a way to get in front of him, space be damned, or.

Jo gives a look, a good way back through the spiked path. It's darker now, without any light left down there, but she thinks she can make out the opening back onto that spot with the three open tunnels on it. Not that she trusts that dark or has forgotten the small room slamming upward into life and vanishing immediately after. Each time a new wall appeared behind them, giving them only one way if they considered turning back.

Watching him wedge through spikes that are very clearly digging in more, as the walls are getting closer in, is uncomfortable, and she can't tell if it's weird or not. But she grimaces a little when he pushes through that smallest area, the spikes digging into him more as he gets past them. He makes it through, to what, Jo can't see well, given the bulk of Geralt, the minute space of the passage right behind him, and the dark beyond their torches, but she takes his word for it and goes back to navigating the spikes around her.

When it gets tight, there isn't anything to do but what he did. Plow through, wince, grit her teeth, doing her best not to make a sound or move away each time one of the razor-sharp points clips or slashes her. It's so many less than him, but it's still not none when she gets to the last section.

Once she finally makes it the whole way, Jo switches the torch between her hands, rolling her shoulders and stretching her arms slightly in front of her body. It wasn't even long, but it's the residual feeling of hypervigilance against movement. "Well, that's on my bucket list for things to never do again."

[gynvael]

Apprehension lies not in if she'll be able to slip through. It's in what may spring forth unbidden. He's no desire to end this little excursion with a pike through her skull because of some twisted labyrinth designed to fuck with them.

She clears the spear tips—scraped and bleeding, but alive. Standing. Best they can ask for given the circumstances. He doesn't ask if she's all right, though there's a sweep of his gaze over her, he practiced look of someone who's learned to identify injuries from a distance.

Then he turns. Barbed trap behind, what lies ahead is...

More darkness and tight corridors. He wipes the blood off his palms on the leather of his trousers. Genuinely wishes for his sword in hand but unwilling to risk what may happen if he tries to summon forth a blade in this state.

Besides. There's something they both must be thinking. They've just not said it out loud.

"This place doesn't give a shit which direction we choose."

And yet, he continues to walk. It's drawn on his emotions, his memories, once already. If they stop and his thoughts overtake him, he's not certain the outcome would be any better.

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo isn't sure what to make of Geralt giving her a once over, like it matters, like it's the first next important thing for him, before they put their throats back on the chopping block of whatever the hell this all is. Her expression is hard to read, for it; an off-balance balance with more uncertainty than sharp edges.

At his words, Jo looks right behind her. The way back through, the spikes look smaller from this side, like somehow it should be impossible to fit through just how many are networked in every space almost in those last five-ten feet. Jo turns back toward him, looking off into the far dark.

"No." Jo agrees grimly. "It only cares about fucking with us."

Beat. "Deeper into the dark, it is."

It doesn't care, but currently, there's only one direction in this pathway. There's an errant, here and then gone thought, wondering what the other two of the three paths would have led to, or been full of, or if all roads lead the spikes. Jo hated not knowing enough about the Horizon, never thinking she needed to know about everyone's favorite little mental meeting place.

Not like this. She can't even guess what this place might have to throw at them.

[gynvael]

It matters: in part instinct, in part practicality. (One part that there is a difference, always, to him of what he might choose to do for a reason and what is just bullshit coming at them on a swinging axe.)

They press forward. He keeps lighting the torches as if it matters. Wonders if at some point, he'll light a torch that'll trigger some other trap. But the ground is clear, the path leading them precisely one direction. No forks in the road. Only ever one corner to turn. He can't say it makes him feel any better. Feels like he's being herded like sheep, funnelled into a damn pen.

They're several turns in when he first hears it: a faint howl in the distance. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. Wolves. Here? His expression is cautious. He's grown up surrounded by wolves—has learned to respect them, not fear them—but that doesn't mean these wolves will be anything like the ones who make their home in the forests.

His eyes flick to Jo, uncertain if she heard the same howls. It's faint but audible—and it's growing stronger. More than one. A pack.

[tobeclosetohim]

If it was just darkness and monotony, she might breathe deeper, but nothing about this place is tame; there are only the twists to whatever is thrown in front of them. Subverted assumptions and expectations; like this stupid hallway. They'd both been sure it was a maze, but they'd walked a hell of a long way, in the muffled silence of footfalls and crackling fire, in only the forward direction. One.

No openings. Not cuts between walls sections. Nothing that looks remotely door-like.
Like the thing was refusing to play the game of even being what it was inside the path.

When Geralt pauses, she does, too. No need for a word to stop, but following what he's doing. In step with him. When he looks back. Searching for something. No. Listening for something, to something. Jo doesn't ask at first, trying to focus on just what she can hear—letting her vision slack and her attention shifts only to hearing. And it's super faint. So faint she's not entirely certain she heard it right.

It's the bare breath of a question. "Wolves?"

Then, "Where?" No. Wrong. Where is pointless. "How far away?"

[gynvael]

That's the thing, isn't it? Whatever gulf exists between them (vast as the two seas), he can still trust her with him for as long as they're both trying to get through this shithole in one piece. That understanding that runs deep in your bones, perhaps, from too many years and too many battles.

A beat. He listens a second longer. "Not far. Circling around."

His fingers twitch. He has got Axii if need be, but he can't cast it on an entire pack at once. If they're here, they're meant to stand in the way. That's the nature of this place.

He leans down—dagger out of his boot and into his hand. The snarl comes around the corner before the first wolf does: thick white fur, teeth bared. Behind it, several pairs of eyes glow gold in the darkness, matching his own.

Then they pounce.

[tobeclosetohim]

Child of Her Generation, Jo's definitely heard more howls of wolves in things on television than; Child of Hunters, she's heard them in forests she had to in for one case or another. Not enough to have done anything like this—as the howls get louder and louder, far become closer becoming close; heart rate kicking up—but far more than enough to know what you should do. Which should be somewhere anywhere not there, not in their way.

Her mind doesn't even think about the monsters in the desert or the weapon she's been training with for almost three months now; it's all instinct. Her hands are empty. The slapping and sliding sound of many running feet on the stones is vast, fast, and multi-strained. One wolf and then several round the corner, eyes golden-wild and mouths slavering a clear & reddish mix, the same bloody color staining the muzzles.

A heavy, pained slam of déjà vuu Jo can't give any of her attention to ricochets through her, but her hands are moving already. A crack cuts the air loudly, shooting from the (very familiar feeling) sawed-off shotgun suddenly in Jo's hands.

[gynvael]

That crack splinters the air like a knife to his ears. It makes them ring, and for that split second he can't hear the panting breath barreling his direction. The wolf sends him sprawling across the hard pebbled dirt. There are bones, he realizes, littered between these walls: bones, chewed on carcasses, dried blood.

He pins the animal down, takes a claw across the chest for his efforts. His dagger pierced the thick coat of fur. Blood splashes over his hands, the floor. Not red blood, but thicker, blacker. A sulphuric burst that hits him.

He hasn't got time to think about it. His dagger holds, at least—not breaking, not morphing, not yet. He wrestles another wolf, slices clean down its belly. The ground is slick with viscera, his hands slippery—and the air. He can't explain it, but it shifts. He senses it even if he can't see it, can't put a finger on anything tangible.

What's changed, he doesn't know. Whether it's the wolves, the maze, Jo. All three. Only that something has.

[tobeclosetohim]

One fell with the first shot, and while Jo managed to get off a second, directly into the face of the next to leap at her (each a shower of black gore and white fur), she knows it was going to stop there. It's too tight quarters and too much scrabbling movement, and she's not going to shoot Geralt (again). It's not going to matter if she tried firing because the wolves aren't about to stand still for target practice. Geralt is leaning over one, and Jo's not going to look close—she doesn't give a fuck currently what he's doing if it keeps that one from getting up again.

Flipping the hold of the gun in her hands takes all too many brief seconds, and for that she ends up colliding with a third wolf's leap. Sharp claws gouging down one leg, even as she starts slamming the gun straight into its head. Not stopping until there is a vicious, sickening (viscerally satisfying), c r u n c h of the skull into more pieces than it was ever supposed to be.

Jo turns, looking for more, but Geralt's on the fifth and last one just as she hears it. The sound is a blade plunged directly into her spine and drug up sharp and fast. There's a jackknife in her chest, not a heart, when she spins to face the inky oblivion dark of the forward path the wolves had come from, as the darkness growls again. Low, menacing, warning, too hot and deep, emanating from that perfect shapeless empty darkness. Her finger was already pulling on the trigger again.

The gun clicked.

And clicked.

And clicked.

"No."

Not again

[gynvael]

His head snaps up. That growl. It's different. The medallion shivers where it rests against his chest. He's distracted for a half-second, lets the wolf beneath him clamp its jaws over his arm. Fucking—

The weapon in Jo's hands click. Several things are happening at once: him, cracking the bones of the wolf beneath, the snarl from the shadows he can't see, and Jo standing there with a weapon that's failing. The wolf goes limp. He shoves the warm carcass aside, rolling to his feet.

What is it? Out there? The darkness yields nothing. Or, almost nothing. If he looks at an angle, skewed just right, there's a shape yet not. A flicker of a disturbance in the corner of his vision. He can hear its panting breaths, but there's no heartbeat to speak of. The only heartbeat is Jo's, racing.

A dagger needs a target to aim at. Aard does not. The burst of magic that ripples down the path slams through everything in its way: the torches scatter, flames sputtering; there's a canine yelp, the sound of claws scrabbling for a foothold. He moves quick, unhesitating. If he can't see it to strike, he can bait it to come to him.

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo is staring at that dark, fingers on the gun covered in that black body sludge that isn't blood, trying to press hard enough, slipping just slightly. She can't see anything. It's just darkness. Just that sound. The slap of paws and scraping of claws has her frozen. Not even a gun this time. No other weapon. Her brain won't agree to move, slam into action. Even the weight of the sludge on her shirt feels too right. Soaked through, heavy-slick. Dipping everywhere.

Something happens suddenly, and Jo swings to look at Geralt (even as her brain s c r e a m s that's the wrong move, don't look away, don't look away, don't look away). His hand is out, and the ripples of magic are visible even when the hellhound isn't. Waves slam through the air, all too clear compared to the nothing still in the space the magic flares into, as the hound yelps, and the body can be heard rolling, hitting the wall, scrambling hard in its attempt to get back up, to fight back, that growl turning full-throated into barking.

It's not there. But it is. It's just a series of noises echoing.

Geralt still has his knife and canvases the dark in a rush. But, somehow, the sound of the feet, claws clicking, is between them next, nothing in the air at all still, but it's there, and Jo scrambles back into the wall, as small as possible suddenly, terror an unquenchable spike, hands dropping the gun as she's instinctively, desperately wrapping her arms around her stomach, her mind reproducing in every cell the violent pain ripping her wide open before it's even started again.

[gynvael]

The unseen creature charges—not at him, but at Jo. Paws pounding on the ground right past him. As though it hardly even notices he's there, a hound on a trail. He's expecting her to roll out of the way, grab her weapon, something. But she's pressed against the wall; her pulse spikes, thrumming.

He moves on impulse, dives in its path. Brings the dagger down blindly, wet fur under his hands. It yowls, a noise that pierces the air. Jaws snap, blood spilling hot and heavy. He holds it down until it stills, panting breaths silent.

(Invisible hounds. That's new.)

Shit. He pushes himself upright. He's sticky with blood, his own and the wolves. No injuries deep enough to worry about, though. His eyes go back to Jo. Has he got questions? Yes. But. They need to get the fuck out of here first. And he's not certain she'll appreciate being asked. He knows what genuine fear looks like. Whatever that thing was, she clearly recognized it. Encountered it once, likely.

He picks up the fallen gun. Offers it back to her—a gesture that functions almost as a hand to her feet, but not quite.

Are you okay? circles his mind before he settles on, "Can you stand?"

[tobeclosetohim]

It goes down. Geralt is on top of a pile of air, and if she could think outside of the shame (and relief when that heavy rattle of breath makes it dead), it would be comical. But it's not. Nothing is funny now. Every laugh, every smile, every deep silence is demolished utterly and stripped to nothing but her skin and even less than that.

Jo's jaw is locked, teeth pressed so hard there's pain radiating into her neck and head. Too certain if she released it, they'd be shaking, chattering inside. It's hard to say if it's hate or shame or fear that has the more brutal hold of jaws around her neck. One part of her yelling to get back up, spine straight, shoulders level. The other wants to burn these last five minutes to the ground, take back any proof she could ever be this weak. Another is desperate to curl up tighter into herself until the Horizon makes her disappear.

There are tears in her eyes, and that pressure is keeping them only there, too. She doesn't cry, doesn't do tears; another weakness. Her fist is pressed against her mouth, but there's not a single sound coming out of her (just that still speeding sprint of her heart; that too forced rhythm of her breath muffled against that curl of fingers, trying to escape her and being granted, forced into, only even breaths).

It's his feet she can see first. It's worse at that, though. It's worse that it's him. It takes her seconds—nearly makes her nauseous to try swallowing; hot, sticky, clinging shame is so much worse than fear, suffocating in her blood; this isn't her—to even make it to four words. More breath than sound in them, like any more force, might crack her voice, too. "I need a moment."

[gynvael]

A pause. Something in his expression shifts. And yeah. He does get it. Knows this is not really something to solve with talk. That isn't his nature, anyhow.

Dead wolves surround them. The body of the strange wolf or hound remains, even if it's unseen: a lump that he can nudge with his foot. There's nothing left to kill, no further threats looming.

So he sits down with her. Not close, but not too far. An easy distance between them where she can ignore him if she wants. It is not difficult, if he gives it some thought, to begin to piece together what may have occurred. He doubts any regular monster would bother her so. And this maze has proven it likes to spawn what they least want to face. What is it then? Her death or another's? (The one he made her witness without meaning to? Dean's?) Both?

Silence hangs over them. Not uncomfortably, not on his part. More a lack of need to fill the air with words for the sake of it. He stays that way for a while. Manages to conjure a scrap of cloth to at least wrap his arm so he stops dripping blood on himself.

That's what he's doing, tucking the ends of the cloth in, when he finally says, "At least you didn't vomit."

There's a softer edge to his words, deadpan but with a kind of understanding alongside it. Because they've both had their turn, have they not? Being thoroughly fucked with? And here they are. With the person they least would have chosen, but since when does the fickle mistress of life care about what they might have preferred?