ORIGIN - SKULL PARADE DETOUR

Coils of shadow scraped at the smooth alabaster floor. The ultraviolet air hissed brighter and hotter in the wake of darkness that crept like a serpent, falling into ridges between tiles, burning motes of dust to ash. Under voidlight, the entity became potent, oily ichor so deep that no light otherwise would claw its way out past the shimmery refractions of its movement. It slithered through the palace, up stairs and around pillars, dragging fingers across familiar surfaces, but only to get a taste for the creatures which had touched them.

One presence shed and cycled her chaotic energy more prolifically than the rest. One presence stronger--undeniable, unmissable and inevitable, and absent for far too long. Schemes unfurled in the scattered facsimile of neurons that the shadow crafted in its headless head; experimentations with the facade that felt spent, or with more selfish hopes of candidness? What was she expecting of the power that had been trapped in these walls? The encounter with Master Vargas made her tender and stupid. You’re all worms, again until the end of time.

At the grand doors of the palace library, Lord Dhracia materialized, her shadow cast unnaturally long onto the far-off bookshelves. Deluge of heat threatening to crisp the tomes, her omen. The bristling hairs of her stole shuddered and moved, alive, belonging to the clan of monsters she kept beside her neck, her silks gleaming dark, dark grey, silver moonlight on her arms, around her ankles. She strode briskly into the library, her presence more suffusive the grander the room; and in the vast stillness, she was all-consuming.

“Too long my ears have been quiet of nest whispers,” declared Lord Dhracia to the undertone of amusement. “You're awake.”

@Aethril

Candles and smoke. The scent of black ink scorched her sinuses and her eyelids were heavy. How long had it been, now? With Isra back on her feet and Obieth partially trained and aware of what was threatening the palace, Aethril could work in peace, but that didn't necessarily feel like a good thing. She was tired of maps and scheming and it'd only been-- what, a month and a half? --since she'd woken up. While being busy was good, Aethril found herself longing for just a moment to spend laying in the grass somewhere and resting in dappled light.

Her fingerbones were stiff. The muscles cramped, and she was beginning to lose the ability to read her own handwriting. It was just when she was debating heading back to her chambers to rest that a shadow dropped over her desk despite the candle flickering back and forth with a violet flame. Aethril froze where she sat.

Oh, but not with fear.

Anticipation. Her belly flipped with delight and there came that little voice of Chaos chattering in the back of her head-- a fight! --preparation spilled into her very fingertips. Adrenaline made her breath shake. Pointed ears strained for the sound of footsteps, a predator waiting in the faint darkness of a shelf corner and candlelight. She just needed the right moment to set every book in this room ablaze.

But, she realised. Even a failing memory couldn't turn away from Dhracia's presence. She knew that shadow, that walk, that voice.

A very slim part of her felt disappointed. Another was grinning ear-to-ear, the type of genuine delight that forces its way through and scrunched up her eyes. Although she was left often intimidated by Dhracia and her sheer power, it still very much felt like seeing an old friend. Hell, seeing any other Valkhand right now was something of a blessing.

A clip of a heel on marble floor and Aethril had stood up to face Lord Dhracia. "You're here," she responded-- an attempt to match that slight amusement mostly overpowered with something akin to relief. "You look very well, Lord Dhracia."

@Game Master Madison

Regarding the Valkhand, walls erected with a smile; Lord Dhracia strode into the library aware of everything in the room. Every candle and drip of wax. Every book nestled safely in its place on its shelf, every word printed on its page, every fingerprint impressed into fibers; each thing had a blade on her body meant for it, if it should misstep. She was ready to gouge Aethril despite her warmth, but for as adjusted to the regular hostility that kept her safe these infinite years as she was, Lord Dhracia was finding suddenly her own detachment... tiring.

“As do you, Aethril,” she spoke in approaching. Lord Dhracia paused a few feet from the Valkhand, appraising the light on her skin that colour of a winter's night, picturesque waveforms in her midnight hair; truly, this was the gemstone of the palace crown, both its greatest source of power and its finest detail. She looked at home in the marble estate; ironically fitting, since this was where she had been trapped for the last few thousands of years.

“The slumber must have served you well. I sense it has refreshed your patience for the tedium of this place, of which I am tremendously admiring,” she chuckled, which might have been meant to cut, or maybe to jest; Lord Dhracia's internal war left the true meaning of the compliment negligently ambiguous. “Do tell me that it's by your hand the grounds are so pristine,” and lacking in filthy rebels, was the implication that followed.

Without reluctance, she extended a hand and dared to caress a curl of Aethril's hair, her reminder encoded in feminine spite: You're pretty, but you're not prettier than me, in the sense that pretty could mean any number of callous or mortal or malevolent things.

Yet, this tiniest gesture which used to come so naturally--now she was too aware of its persuasive nature, and she second-guessed herself. Lord Dhracia retracted her hand and smiled thinly.

Her head inclined and her hands clasped over in front of her, briefly brushing down the skirt of her dress. For a moment she was simply... enjoying herself. Relishing in the presence of someone other than Isra worth talking to. Dhracia's words, her voice, were a perfectly-tuned siren's song to her ears, until she realised what she'd said.

And it did sting. A shallow cut in her chest that almost stole the breath from her lungs, not terribly deep but enough that Aethril could swear she felt the tang of blood in the back of her mouth. Hibernation had done nothing good to her but weaken her, make her soft, give her nightmares-- but surely, Lord Dhracia wasn't aware of this. Surely, she was jesting. Being sarcastic.

Don't go soft, the Hand chided herself, and although her smile had faltered-- weaker --it lingered on painted lips all the same. "Thank you," and she was pleased to find her tone was bright, strong, ringing like a clear, silver bell. "There is much to do here-- it keeps things... a little fresher, I suppose."

It should be noted that Aethril did not find it fresh in the slightest. The Palace was beginning to feel like another chrysalis to be trapped in already; that chattering, nagging voice wailed at her day in and day out to burn it all to the ground, bring each pristine, ivory deer to slaughter and watch white hallways run with streams of scarlet. The very thought of the destruction made her shudder (or perhaps that was Dhracia's hand in her hair?) with twisted delight.

Wait--

There was no shared feminine spite for Dhracia-- in fact, there was something akin to wonder in sparkling eyes, only made brighter by the darkened flush of high cheekbones. Whatever cut the Lord had tried to impart with this glided off Aethril like water sliding from feathers. Whatever Dhracia had meant to say-- 'you're not prettier than me,' 'you're not as powerful as me,' 'you're not as important as me' --Aethril's response was blatantly clear in large, hungry eyes.

'I know.'

As Dhracia dared to touch Aethril, Aethril dared to touch Dhracia. Her own touch was feather-soft, barely-there, catching the Hand's hand just as it began to move away. She held Dhracia's hand in both of her own, knuckles to the ceiling, and slowly bent at the waist.

A bow was all she did. Though her nose came close to Dhracia's knuckles in a gesture that might have suggested something else (and what had stopped her from kissing her hand? There was so much reverence in this quiet gesture as it was) she soon lifted with a little smile and let go.

She held Dhracia's eye for a moment. One stolen breath later, she continued with a much smaller voice. "I do what I can. I think, perhaps, you may be interested in what plans I have to clean up the rest of this nest."

Aethril's chest was tight, but her thoughts were careful-- was this a casual visit, or had Dhracia something to request of her? Regardless, her head was was inclining to a seating area filled with plush chairs and cushions. "Would you like to sit?"

The Valkhand received her without fracture save for the slightest lapse in her smile--and Lord Dhracia noticed. Without acknowledgment of it, Aethril merely dismissed the drudgery that she was condemned to, painless. The fracture was what Lord Dhracia mulled on, wishing that, like with Master Vargas, she could crack the creature open and look inside of her. Once, empathy came a little easier; but it was lost somewhere in the years, shuffled in some time after the era of wrath and before she began to forget mortal luxuries. The clarity of Aethril's voice was only reassuring at the surface level.

It was nothing compared to what accompanied the Valkhand's reverence, ensnaring her Lord's hand as though to encourage the fallacy. Lord Dhracia's smile remained venomous with satisfaction, allowing Aethril the mercy of the touch; admittedly to find it nourishing her pride. In fostering so much violence, gentleness was a fleeting and savored notion. That her Valkhand would deliver without second thought had Lord Dhracia wondering why she was ever so unnerved of Aethril's reawakening in the first place. Surely this creature couldn't be capable of the potential treachery that drove her to confide in Master Vargas.

Surely, said the cloth that polished the blade's edge. Most often, Lord Dhracia was the blade, but recent circumstances left her feeling more like the whispering cloth.

In the breath that Aethril caught Lord Dhracia's eye, her mercury bore down on Aethril, ambivalent. But as Aethril continued, Lord Dhracia wondered if she couldn't use her own discomforts to her advantage. Later, if it should become necessary to enforce the loyalty that nothing but paranoia had endangered.

Could she not just enjoy this moment for what it was--a reunion of kindred spirits?

“Indeed, I am,” Lord Dhracia agreed, dulling her oppressive atmospheric heat for mollifying warmth instead. I am not among enemies here, she remembered. “This nest has squandered its resources for far too long, and I have been too busy with affairs on and off the mortal realm to tend to it as it deserves. Unfortunate that it has fallen to the derelicts. Now that you've returned to us, I anticipate it reclaiming its former glory,” she said.

Accepting the invitation to sit, Lord Dhracia picked herself the most sumptuous seat, admiring its shining velvet upholstery before lowering herself onto the cushion. Breathing in long and slow, she leaned back and untensed her shoulders. Her eyes closed. How long had it been since she'd rested her feet? Since she allowed herself the comfort that her role should have earned her?

To anybody with eyes, it would become plainly visible how tired Lord Dhracia was.

"As do I," said Aethril, and for a moment she barely recognized her own voice. Soft, silky satin around the edges, but focused-- none of that daydreaming tone or precise point she often found in it. Heels clicked against alabaster as she followed Lord Dhracia. "I intend to root out the last of the filth--" the rebels "--and either make something useful of them or put them to the pyre. It is early days-- but I do not expect it'll take too long."

Pride, something bordering on arrogance. While Aethril did like to consider herself patient with her strategies, she certainly didn't expect this to take as long as, say, five thousand years. "I have a number of creations looking for their little dens and nests. As I understand it, Farina has some creations of her own doing the same-- though I've yet to find and speak with her."

She waited for Dhracia to sit down first before she followed suit on a lounging chair. Not too close. Not too far. One arm hung over the back as she leant right back and lifted her legs onto the plush to settle. Her eyes trained on the Lord for a moment still, her exhaustion not drifting past her head.

For a time, Aethril was silent. A thought crossed her mind to offer Dhracia something to eat or drink, but this was quietly tucked away for the time being. She knew that fatigue, to fall and melt as soon as you're no longer entirely vertical. Dhracia needed some solace, some quiet peace, just for a moment.

That wasn't hers to take away, but she was still watching with her tongue thoughtfully swiping along her teeth. Aethril let her gaze drop away, and she was stretching quietly before relaxing again.

A minute or so later, her head turned towards Dhracia again. "Will you stay here for the night?" The Hand asked. "Or, perhaps, is there anything I can do for you?"

Anything, Aethril realised a split second later, being a little too vague for her liking.

The fates of the rebels were largely inconsequential. There were few lives in this cave that Lord Dhracia really cared to preserve in the long term--that she needed to, at least, so it was easy for her lips to quirk with amusement at the thought of putting rebels to use. What use could they have (outside of living free, unburdened lives?) What use beyond meat, and absorbable power, and entertainment? If she were to fall back into the facade, it should be with zeal, so Lord Dhracia purred with satisfaction at Aethril's optimism--not long. She hummed again when Aethril spoke of her incubating creations, then made a sound of vested interest. “Farina. I thought her dead,” lied Lord Dhracia.

What creations exactly did Farina have scuttling around? She didn't think the crab capable of it while stuck in that boiling pit of hers.

There was no silencing the tumult of her looming errands, but in the luxurious seat sheltered deep in the safe corridors of the palace, Lord Dhracia could at least worry about nothing else. Eyes closed, she relished the silence. The stillness. The heat that reflexively hissed off her skin, having dulled to amicable warmth, now placated entirely into the slightest glow reminiscent of a hearth indicative of Lord Dhracia's calm, disrupted only by the sudden itch on her neck. Her monsters were not so easily soothed.

Lord Dhracia peeled one eye open, disgruntled. “Shoo,” she said, dismissing the writhing pelt. With a hiss and a chorus of horrific screams, the amalgamation of monsters split, fleeing as gleeful stygian comets through the voidlight like children given reigns to infinite playspace. Her shoulders left bare slumped in the seat, lungs emptying. That felt much better.

She could have lost herself in the quiet moment; they were so rare. Aethril's question pulled her out of it.

“Are you requesting?” she teased dimly. The palace had a way of disarming her into casual snickers and friendly banter, which surely would be made all the more lively with the palace guardian, Isra. And, perhaps, Nemean--supposing the nymph hadn't burned all her bridges yet, given Farina's return. She did wonder what her usual acquaintances were up to.

Dhracia punctuated her silence with a hm to invite the possibility that she was considering an extended visit. It would be nice. And well-deserved. But at the risk of endorsing weakness, Lord Dhracia finally said, “No, I won't be staying. There are a few denizens I must yet... enrich.” One, at least; who knew who else she might feel compelled to visit. Perhaps she would check in with her new punching bag with wings, up on his lonely mountaintop. Bastard.

“I'm told you've spoken with Master Vargas,” she said, finally sitting up. “What do you think of his promotion?”

Pale eyes skimmed over Dhracia at the mention of Farina. One ear flicked, catlike, and then Aethril was lazily relaxing into the lounger again. Farina had been... more of an afterthought in her mind. Among the many priorities Aethril found filling her life, Farina was far from the top of the list. "Not yet," she said softly. "She seemed furious, from what her Hound told me."

What had her name been? Elayne? She made a quiet note to see how she'd been doing before she was focusing back on Dhracia again as the fur along her collarbone twisted and fled under the Lord's command, though its screams, as well as where it went, were largely dismissed as her eyes followed the curve of Dhracia's bare shoulder.

A child's sense of getting caught overtook her throat when Dhracia spoke again-- for a split second she felt as though she were back in a cabin filled with woodsmoke, her hand caught in a jar of sweets. "I might be," came a quick response (too quick to fully think though), though it matched her Lord's tone. Lightly teasing, playful. Perhaps only a little genuine.

She thought of the gang getting back together. She and Dhracia, Isra and Nemean, lounging after a long hunt. A distant fantasy, but one Aethril found herself lingering on regardless. She craved companionship. She craved laying in the grass with her friends, laughing over long-forgotten jokes that made little sense in hindsight.

The Hand swallowed down her disappointment with a gentle "ahh," hand lifting to support her jaw. "How very lucky for them."

Dhracia was sitting up, now, and Aethril followed suit a little more slowly. Is this why Dhracia had come-- to inquire about Vargas? She shifted and folded one leg over the other. "I've spoken with him many times, yes," she said. "I find him quite... innovative. He has interesting ideas and he seems quite capable. Eager."

... but, she was going to be honest, too. "He seems... perhaps... naive, almost. Soft. I get the sense that he would bend over backwards for his creations, no matter if they should be deemed failures or not. Though," and she took a second to really think about this one, "that might speak for his loyalty."

@Game Master Madison

Lord Dhracia briefly mused over the crab, but didn't linger. Of all the monsters trapped in this musty cave, there were few that held enough value to the Lord to sway her mind, and Farina was not one of them. Instead, Lord Dhracia found amusement in glimpsing Aethril's eyes on her, bolstered by the swift response that practically screamed veracity from its undertones. Now that she did entertain--staying for the distraction of good company, knowing that she'd be returning to drama and strife in the world beyond. Her fingers ached pulling so many strings. Couldn't she neglect it for just a little longer...?

No, the last time she looked away, one of her dogs had gotten into the garbage. One day of absence could amount to another world-ending mistake, and Lord Dhracia was not keen on do-overs. Actually, she was pretty sick of them.

Lord Dhracia hummed, her lingering smile a promise that she would have liked to stay, if she could.

The subject of Vargas remained one of her stronger interests. Lord Dhracia nodded along to Aethril's observations of him, all aspects that had extolled the monster in her eyes. Traits that made him a worthy and powerful superior in the nest. A sufficient replacement for a Master that had been lacking. Her head then tilted as Aethril went on, divulging her suspicions of the monstrous Master. Her lips twitched, betraying a smirk at mention of his loyalty.

“You think so?” Lord Dhracia prodded, leaning in with a scandalous glimmer. “I thought I had spied some familiar designs--schematics turned rebel, alive again. You don't suppose he harbors mercy for them, do you?” She already knew the answer. “I was skeptical of the old Tamulus designs he's been keeping around. That Orthoclase seems particularly high maintenance, for so little productive value...”

xoxo, Gossip Dhracia.

@Aethril

Tamulus? It was the second time she heard that name, and the second time that no face came to memory to join it. She knew the bare essentials: valkmother, rebel, betrayer, and soon her mind had joined into a conclusion that sent her eyebrows lifting-- because there was a link between Tamulus and Vargas.

Dhracia was leaning in. She was enjoying this. The pot was on the boil and Dhracia had her spoon in it, furiously stirring. More than stirring, in fact: she was throwing her own shit in there.

For a few beats, Aethril was silent, fingertip grazing her bottom lip as her head tilted into her hand. Was this why Dhracia had come to the Palace, to gossip? To reinforce fears and concerns that Aethril had been trying to push away and bottle up? Disorder and chaos were Dhracia's bread and butter. Should she really be surprised?

More importantly, why was Aethril also tilting into it?

"Of course he does," she said, and that scandalous glimmer didn't just twinkle in Dhracia's eyes. "I haven't seen this Orthoclase, or heard of it, but he doesn't seem particularly short of high-maintenance designs. I don't see any other reason why he would keep them around other than because of some sense of mercy." Vargas experiencing parental love. It seemed funny.

Her hand dropped from her face. "He was Nemean's Overseer, wasn't he?" A casual question-- one that she needed gently reinforced. Vargas having multiple connections to rebels seemed... concerning.

She licked her teeth. Her words were prefaced with the slightest of tuts, tongue clicking against her teeth. "My Lord," her voice came soft, playful. "Did you come here just to gossip about the new Master?"

It was a reasonable question.

@Game Master Madison