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pluviooc2024-03-18 02:45 pm
pluviosamods) wrote in pluviooc2024-03-18 02:45 pm
Entry tags:
TEST DRIVE 02
TEST DRIVE
Hello, and welcome to the second Pluviosa Test Drive!
This Test Drive corresponds to Days 4-12 in the ship calendar, and will run until around the game's next major event. You can get a better idea what's going on in the most recent Game Update which covers Days 5-8. Currently, character IC housing is not in operation yet; it is expected to open on Day 9 (part of the way through the Test Drive period). Otherwise, the ship is largely in the state described on the Setting page and in other game information.
Test Drive threads involving characters who are accepted are considered canon to the events of the game unless otherwise agreed by players/mods. Pluviosa does not do welcome mingle logs nor does it have any kind of in-character welcome information, making your test drive threads your character's arrival to the game setting. That said, mod-run interactions such as formal exploration and/or interactions with the Ship as an NPC are not available on the Test Drive.
It is advised that potential players familiarize themselves with the Premise page, the Rules/Session Zero page, and at least the first few paragraphs of the Setting page. As Pluviosa is a horror game, we especially encourage players to be aware of the content warnings that will be major themes of the game. If you have any further questions, you can ask them on the QUESTIONS header in the comments!
If you're test driving a character, you're welcome to join the game Discord and hang out and meet your fellow players!
You wake up. You remember waking up, right? In another place, another time...
There's blood running down your fingers. Outside, the rain isn't pounding, yet, just a gentle patter...
Or is it?
As characters gain fuller awareness of their surroundings, they will realize that there is, in fact, no blood on their hands (save any that might have already been there). It feels as though they lost focus for a moment and hallucinated, but the hallucination ended with them somewhere else entirely.
There is not actually the sound of rain. If characters are near enough to a window, balcony, or even a hole in the ceiling, they will find that it is cloudless, beaming sunlight outside. The emptiness in the distance rolls on and on, completely absent any signs of life.
That being, of course, because the signs of life are all in here. Characters might wake up on any of the decks on the upper side of the ship - anywhere that isn't the cafeteria or lounge where previous arrivals spend most of their time is free game. This also means, of course, that they have the jungle of plants to contend with...
Most areas in the ship are dark when characters arrive. That doesn't mean that they stay dark. Occasionally, lights overhead flicker on and off for a few minutes at a time.
The problem with this isn't the lights themselves (cool white and kind of industrial). It's the reaction that the addition of the extra light causes the plants in the dark areas of the ship that's cause for alarm. To describe the growth as explosive isn't an understatement - vines, saplings, and even thicker branches surge with growth, pushing outwards towards the distant sunlight and upwards towards the flickering bulbs.
The growth is sudden enough to take all but the most aware characters by surprise, and if they're in the wrong corner of the room, it's very easy to get tangled up, wedged in by a tree trunk, or otherwise trapped against some corner or wall. If you're lucky and skilled, you might be able to cut yourself out from there (or break down the wall you're shoved up against), but otherwise, there's only one solution left.
Yell like your life depends on it, and hope somebody out there can hear you. And that whoever hears is someone who is inclined to help, rather than leaving you there. Or worse.
Oh, and the lights flicker back off after a few minutes, of course. Hopefully you're not waiting for rescue in the dark (with the smell of mold and the general faint dampness of the forest) for too long.
Occasionally, the whole ship tilts.
This is not simply the side to side motion of a ship on the water (or the equivalent motion brought on by the way this particular ship moves); it's an extremely forward or backward tilt that sends things sliding across the floor if they aren't secured by roots or something else. Unlike storm-tossed ships, the tilt is somewhat prolonged - rather than everything sliding back and forth a couple times a minute, the tilt lasts for five, ten, maybe as much as twenty minutes.
Although it's not enough to knock a well-balanced character off their feet, it's quite likely that new arrivals will not be particularly on-balance. And attempting to traverse the ship with the tilt is a tall order... especially when the ship's angle does unexpectedly change... to the exact opposite direction. All that goes up the mountain must go back down, and a glance out the windows reveals that that's exactly what's going on, as the ship progresses across a mountainous landscape without real regard for the concept of mountain passes.
And for characters who have managed to make their way to the "civilized" parts of the ship, namely the cafeteria and the lounge above it... None of the furniture in these areas is secured. The cafeteria carts under the direct control of the Ship don't seem as inclined to go anywhere, but the tables and chairs in the cafeteria and the couches and armchairs upstairs... Well, it's a good thing both spaces are surrounded by railings. Large chunks of tree trunk also still littler the lounge, sliding back and forth and occasionally rolling with great force across the floor.
Better hold on tight.
While wandering around the ship's interior, characters might occasionally hear a person whistling.
The sound always seems to be coming from just around the corner, but it sounds alive in a way that other sounds don't. Maybe more alive, even, than the rustle of leaves, the occasional drip of water, and the sounds of things sliding back and forth across the grimy, leaf-covered floors. The whistler, whoever they are, doesn't actively respond if called out to - but the whistling does pause, as though indicating that the call was heard, before starting up again.
If characters choose to follow the whistling, they're inevitably led to the same place - somewhere overlooking the great gap down the middle of the ship, whether an internal suite's balcony, one of the bridges crossing between the two halves, or one of the hallways that runs alongside it. Once they're there, there's no whistler in sight; however, characters will be filled with the overwhelming urge to look over the edge of the railing and down into the lower parts of the ship.
Exactly what they experience after looking down varies. Some will hallucinate that they've fallen over the side, feeling their balance go haywire and seeing the floor rushing up to them right up until the moment of "impact," at which everything returns to normal. Some will feel a stranger's hands on their shoulders, threatening to push them over with a great shove that goes through them with incorporeal fingers. Some will just hear unidentifiable laughter right up close to their ears, and experience the distinct sensation that there's someone laughing at them, in a haha-made-you-look kind of way.
But whatever happens, when they look up, there's no one there - or at least not anyone that physically close to them. The one good thing about being drawn to the middle section of the ship by whatever prankster this is is that it makes it a lot easier to run into people if you're all drawn to the same, highly visible place.
And at least the other person is flesh and blood, right? Probably.
This Test Drive corresponds to Days 4-12 in the ship calendar, and will run until around the game's next major event. You can get a better idea what's going on in the most recent Game Update which covers Days 5-8. Currently, character IC housing is not in operation yet; it is expected to open on Day 9 (part of the way through the Test Drive period). Otherwise, the ship is largely in the state described on the Setting page and in other game information.
Test Drive threads involving characters who are accepted are considered canon to the events of the game unless otherwise agreed by players/mods. Pluviosa does not do welcome mingle logs nor does it have any kind of in-character welcome information, making your test drive threads your character's arrival to the game setting. That said, mod-run interactions such as formal exploration and/or interactions with the Ship as an NPC are not available on the Test Drive.
It is advised that potential players familiarize themselves with the Premise page, the Rules/Session Zero page, and at least the first few paragraphs of the Setting page. As Pluviosa is a horror game, we especially encourage players to be aware of the content warnings that will be major themes of the game. If you have any further questions, you can ask them on the QUESTIONS header in the comments!
If you're test driving a character, you're welcome to join the game Discord and hang out and meet your fellow players!
ARRIVAL - LIKE THE RAIN
You wake up. You remember waking up, right? In another place, another time...
There's blood running down your fingers. Outside, the rain isn't pounding, yet, just a gentle patter...
Or is it?
As characters gain fuller awareness of their surroundings, they will realize that there is, in fact, no blood on their hands (save any that might have already been there). It feels as though they lost focus for a moment and hallucinated, but the hallucination ended with them somewhere else entirely.
There is not actually the sound of rain. If characters are near enough to a window, balcony, or even a hole in the ceiling, they will find that it is cloudless, beaming sunlight outside. The emptiness in the distance rolls on and on, completely absent any signs of life.
That being, of course, because the signs of life are all in here. Characters might wake up on any of the decks on the upper side of the ship - anywhere that isn't the cafeteria or lounge where previous arrivals spend most of their time is free game. This also means, of course, that they have the jungle of plants to contend with...
LIGHTS ON, SHOW START
Most areas in the ship are dark when characters arrive. That doesn't mean that they stay dark. Occasionally, lights overhead flicker on and off for a few minutes at a time.
The problem with this isn't the lights themselves (cool white and kind of industrial). It's the reaction that the addition of the extra light causes the plants in the dark areas of the ship that's cause for alarm. To describe the growth as explosive isn't an understatement - vines, saplings, and even thicker branches surge with growth, pushing outwards towards the distant sunlight and upwards towards the flickering bulbs.
The growth is sudden enough to take all but the most aware characters by surprise, and if they're in the wrong corner of the room, it's very easy to get tangled up, wedged in by a tree trunk, or otherwise trapped against some corner or wall. If you're lucky and skilled, you might be able to cut yourself out from there (or break down the wall you're shoved up against), but otherwise, there's only one solution left.
Yell like your life depends on it, and hope somebody out there can hear you. And that whoever hears is someone who is inclined to help, rather than leaving you there. Or worse.
Oh, and the lights flicker back off after a few minutes, of course. Hopefully you're not waiting for rescue in the dark (with the smell of mold and the general faint dampness of the forest) for too long.
TILT-A-WORLD
Occasionally, the whole ship tilts.
This is not simply the side to side motion of a ship on the water (or the equivalent motion brought on by the way this particular ship moves); it's an extremely forward or backward tilt that sends things sliding across the floor if they aren't secured by roots or something else. Unlike storm-tossed ships, the tilt is somewhat prolonged - rather than everything sliding back and forth a couple times a minute, the tilt lasts for five, ten, maybe as much as twenty minutes.
Although it's not enough to knock a well-balanced character off their feet, it's quite likely that new arrivals will not be particularly on-balance. And attempting to traverse the ship with the tilt is a tall order... especially when the ship's angle does unexpectedly change... to the exact opposite direction. All that goes up the mountain must go back down, and a glance out the windows reveals that that's exactly what's going on, as the ship progresses across a mountainous landscape without real regard for the concept of mountain passes.
And for characters who have managed to make their way to the "civilized" parts of the ship, namely the cafeteria and the lounge above it... None of the furniture in these areas is secured. The cafeteria carts under the direct control of the Ship don't seem as inclined to go anywhere, but the tables and chairs in the cafeteria and the couches and armchairs upstairs... Well, it's a good thing both spaces are surrounded by railings. Large chunks of tree trunk also still littler the lounge, sliding back and forth and occasionally rolling with great force across the floor.
Better hold on tight.
SOMETHING WHISTLING
While wandering around the ship's interior, characters might occasionally hear a person whistling.
The sound always seems to be coming from just around the corner, but it sounds alive in a way that other sounds don't. Maybe more alive, even, than the rustle of leaves, the occasional drip of water, and the sounds of things sliding back and forth across the grimy, leaf-covered floors. The whistler, whoever they are, doesn't actively respond if called out to - but the whistling does pause, as though indicating that the call was heard, before starting up again.
If characters choose to follow the whistling, they're inevitably led to the same place - somewhere overlooking the great gap down the middle of the ship, whether an internal suite's balcony, one of the bridges crossing between the two halves, or one of the hallways that runs alongside it. Once they're there, there's no whistler in sight; however, characters will be filled with the overwhelming urge to look over the edge of the railing and down into the lower parts of the ship.
Exactly what they experience after looking down varies. Some will hallucinate that they've fallen over the side, feeling their balance go haywire and seeing the floor rushing up to them right up until the moment of "impact," at which everything returns to normal. Some will feel a stranger's hands on their shoulders, threatening to push them over with a great shove that goes through them with incorporeal fingers. Some will just hear unidentifiable laughter right up close to their ears, and experience the distinct sensation that there's someone laughing at them, in a haha-made-you-look kind of way.
But whatever happens, when they look up, there's no one there - or at least not anyone that physically close to them. The one good thing about being drawn to the middle section of the ship by whatever prankster this is is that it makes it a lot easier to run into people if you're all drawn to the same, highly visible place.
And at least the other person is flesh and blood, right? Probably.
same guy different font!!!!!
His heart leaps, at the thought of it being Robin. But her frequencies were never like this... Unless it was his own halo, warping them. Had he hit his head? Damaged it? He takes his gloves off to touch it, to make sure everything was all in place, aside from a few loose leaves and vines draped around it.
The frequency gets stronger, closer, as do the sounds of the other person. He tries not to focus too heavily on it, as he feels a peculiar pressure in the back of his head. Sunday's eyes focus in the dark, as he receives a response when the noise dies down, and the other person seems to be making sure their limbs were in order, before continuing to move.
"I'm... I've been better."
Sunday grips a wall close by for a little more stability. He grits his teeth quietly. The pressure in his head hasn't mounted into pain yet, but he can tell it will. For now, he continues to move towards it.
Sunday eventually gets close enough to find out what room the other person is in, and finds.... Not a halovian, for sure. But he seemed to have wings of some type. And a halo, that was the epicentre for that strange resonance. Just being in the doorway of that room, with their halos interacting in this way was a bit of a challenge for Sunday, the dissonance heavy in the air between and around them.
"That frequency... What... is that?"
TRULY. Both operating off VERY limited information here…
The muscles around his eyes tighten near imperceptibly as they draw closer to each other. The…resonance with this strange Sankta is like…when Arturia played her instruments poorly on purpose. Like two notes, which are right and powerful, but too close in tone that they clash and grate on the ears. That is the closest approximation he can think of.
And he’d not seen a Sankta like this before. His halo is resplendent, covered in plant matter as it is-and that must be the disgust he’s picking up-but…the wings are by his ears instead of his back, and feathered, more like a Liberi…
Is this another anomaly, like with Ezell’s ward…?
He tilts his head slightly, jaw tightening as the pressure increases. He needs to be close if the person falls…as for his question-
“I believe you are receiving a signal of sorts from the empathy link that all Sankta share. Were you born outside of Laterano? I have been informed that can cause anomalies with the link. I myself have been away for some time, so my resonance has weakened…” And for it to still cause this much of a clash…is this one of the omens the Pope foresaw? “I…apologize for the discomfort. There is no way to nullify it.”
oops! suffer!
Sankta... What was that?
This man was no halovian, for sure... perhaps that was his own race? Sunday's head is full of pressure, and it only rises the closer he gets, before edging into pain. All he can think about is trying to silence that stray frequency. Off-key, disorderly.
"An empathy link... I can communicate my own emotions through mine. And influence others, if I so choose..." It was hard to think, hard to speak. "Ah, Forgive me for this."
He reaches out with his own halo, trying to Tune the stranger's into submission. An attempt to force it to either lower or increase the frequency until they both of them were on the same page. Or perhaps even drown it out. Sunday doesn't care, so long as he can think properly.
What ends up happening, is that the mix of frequencies and his influence worsen the ache in the back of his head, bringing it to the forefront, behind his eyes. Sweat beads on the back of Sunday's neck as a wave of pain washes over him, and he stumbles, reaching for the wall to keep him steady as he approaches. He keeps trying, finding no way through, no means of reaching any sort of agreement.
Eventually, the pain increases to a point where Sunday can no longer continue trying to get the frequency under his influence, and he stops, clutching at his head. Their halos were close, but very much out of sync. He breathes heavily as the pain slowly ebbs away with his power.
"I. Whatever you are. We are not the same. I don't believe our halos are designed to cooperate with one another."
Sunday's hands shake, and he looks a little pale.
Oh boy!! Suffering!! (Warning for mentioned animal death)
He blinks, the pressure mounting in his mind. He'd never...encountered this before. And then-
"Influence...please clarify-" and then his breath stutters out with a gasp. Something...lunges over their link, seeking to dig into his mind, to smother it. He makes a pained noise, his already stinging ankle suddenly flaring, sending him to his knees.
A bird in the air, flying high, free, beautiful-anxiety trepidation loneliness fear--
Images bombard him with this overwhelming pressure, things he's never seen, emotion he'd not..felt...he doesn't understand-
"What-what are you--doing-" He hisses, strange colors clouding his vision, oil slick and cloying-
That same bird, trying to return, crashing into the window of her (whose...?) room--pain grief sorrow fear-- it's broken body cradled in small shaking hands as it twitches-- resignation regret horror--
"Cease this...at once," he rasps, fighting for breath, to stay upright-
His sister, too pale too tired, with bandages around her neck as she smiles why why why how could this happen how could he let this happen--
What sort of Arts...is it like Arturia? He'd spent so long chasing her, only to fall to something so similar--
He cannot allow that.
He pushes back, which becomes easier when the man stumbles. Executor fights back to his feet, grasping the other's arm in his hand tightly. To hold him up, and to hold him in place. Distantly he realizes he's shaking as well.
"I can concur. What did you just do?" He bites out, near growling, with more inflection than he'd managed in a long, long time...if ever.
no subject
A man, dying. Propped up against what looked to be religious statue. Speaking:
'May I curse God... Curse Laterano.... I curse that paradise never exists.'
Emotions flood through, along with the vision-- confusion, tinged with something else. A memory? A thought? It's hard to tell. Sunday can barely focus, his head screaming. The other... He seemed to be in pain too.
But maybe he could just--
Familial feelings bloom in his chest, before the memory reveals itself, a gun pointed towards this... strange woman. She looked. Similar enough to the man before him, enough for Sunday to realize that they were the same race. Someone he'd loved? His... His sister?
And yet... The other man had still aimed at her. He remembers Robin, how distraught he'd been when he'd found that she'd been shot, how he'd rushed to her aid immediately. How he'd been horrified to not be the first to know. How he'd ultimately had no choice, no control.
And in this moment, Sunday can feel what it might have been like, to be the one who shot her. He'd never held a gun in his life, but for a moment, he was intimately aware of how to use one. The thought of shooting Robin himself invades his mind, and for a moment, he worries that he might have been the one to do it, all those years ago.
Disgust and fear overtake him, as does the other man, reaching for him as he stumbles, legs weak. He wretches, sweat beading on his face, his whole body trembling, as the connection finally severs, Sunday withdrawing entirely, as the stranger's frequency overpowered his own, shutting it down. He feels ill, faint.
The feeling of the other man touching him, the pain in his head. All of it is so much. But, for a moment, just a moment, he allows it.
"I... tried to Tune you. I wondered if perhaps the frequency was... not intentional."
Disorderly. His mouth tastes bitter at the thought. He notices that the other man is shaking, too. Guilt weaves its way around him. What had he done? Why?
"I apologize. I-- Overstepped, greatly. Are... are you alright?"
Sunday looks up at the man-- they were both in rough shape, but his worry laid in the other, that poor sankta, that he'd subjected to all of this. That he'd glimpsed... something, of. A terrible invasion of privacy, that he'd do his best to forget.
How may times can I refer to Sunday without Fedi knowing his dang name
And yet Executor had not reached for his gun. He’d reached for the person. Strange.
He’d been thinking of the Gardener, and how he’d believed his only choice was to die. How could he change that, here, now?The power is dangerous to others, and this man himself, apparently. His current state makes Executor think of operators with acute Oripathy, how using their Arts for extended periods drains them…his eyes scan the person. No black crystals in his skin, but there is such little skin showing…he cannot make an accurate assessment.
Executor…Federico. He reaches forward with his other hand, only a little hesitant; there’s a sense of overwhelm from the remaining resonance here, but if the man collapses, it will only get worse. He places it on the other’s shoulder, hoping to steady him. His hands…should not be shaking. A strange malfunction.
The dying bird in shaking hands flashes through his mind again, and he files it away to process later.“I do not know this Tuning…does it normally cause such pain to both parties?” He asks, softening his volume. He theorizes both of their minds ache badly right now.
Arturia took the inhibitions of others with her Arts, and caused chaos unrepentantly. This man is in a horrid state, from an experiment to…help? Dubious. He at least does not seem to be deriving joy from it. But then he asks after Federico’s status? His lips draw in a thin line.
“My capabilities are…operational. The link is not intentional, as I was born with it, as are all Sankta born in Laterano.” The man trembles under his own shaking hands. He tries to shift him so if he falls, it will be towards him, and not the grime slick walls. “I will see to the minor malfunctions and pain experienced when the objective is complete. Objective: ensure the safety of the occupants of this ship.”
Arturia never apologized for overstepping boundaries like this. This man was doing so, clearly in poor shape, and asking if he’s “alright”? It’s…illogical. And yet he finds himself thinking of Ezell who would do the same for that scared little girl, and strangely…he thinks of the woman (the sister…?) from those visions from before. Curious.
Their halos still hum pressingly with an awful pressure, creating a pounding ache that’s…hard to think through. So he falls back to known strategy.
“Operation assessment: you are an occupant of this ship, and in clear distress. Executor Federico Giallo will assist you.” He eyes the man’s feeble stance. “Requesting permission to carry you, if needed.”
no subject
The other man is trembling too, he notices. Guilt feels like lead in his gut.
"Oh, hah. Good. I am... Halovian. I was also born... like this. I don't think it was meant to connect with one like yours."
Similar enough to communicate in the same way, but different enough for the very presence of the other to hurt. He wonders if it's he himself who needs Tuning, and not the Executor. Maybe he'd fallen, hit his head, his halo. It would certainly explain his fragmented, cloudy memories...
He breathes, deeply, slowly. Letting the other man grip him, hold him steady. He normally hated being touched, but... He welcomed this, if only so he didn't fall onto the filthy walls or floor. He could take another person, he thinks. At least for a little while. He holds onto this... sankta. They'd introduced themselves, right?
Ah-- Executor Federico Giallo. There it was. Sunday holds onto him like a lifeline.
"I... I suppose I am. I can walk, I. I need a moment." He says, out of breath, clinging to the Executor. If only it were easier to think, if his thoughts would simply put themselves in order, if his brain wasn't quite so addled. His condition is slowly improving, the longer he stop trying to pry into the other's frequency. Withdrawing his own. "My... name is Sunday."
When his halo's song is barely above a whisper, a feeling of absolute relief flows through him. He sighs heavily, slowly standing on his own, still holding onto Federico for support, just in case. His stomach settles, and he can finally focus.
His head still hurts, of course, but the pain was beginning to ebb away. He still expects it to remain, as their frequencies were still clashing, but certainly not as severe as before. After a few long moments of the halovian gathering his bearings, Sunday straightens up, and lets go of the poor man in front of him. Attempting to look put together, and proper, and not at all as ill as before.
"...Perhaps I should have started with that. I am... I'm not sure what memories we might have shared. I... Apologize, for prying. It was very rude of me, Mr. Executor."
no subject
In the end, with the pain of his head, it's hard to think through. He just keeps his hold on the other man's shoulders as firm as possible, remembering do not hurt, not too much, gentleness can be just as effective (the Doctor's voice...), working to steady the shaking. For both of them.
"Halovian? I have not heard of such a race in Terra. And yet to have such a similar ability to a Sankta..." His brow furrows in thought. He's coming across stranger and stranger things on this landship. Is...it possible he somehow ended up on a previously unexplored continent in Terra? He files that away to look into later.
For now... "Sunday. My cursory assessment reveals no immediate threats in the area." He lowers his head a little, tone softening. "Take the time you need." He will support this Halovian. He lets him breathe, and collect his thoughts. Federico's wings twitch upward a little when the man grips back onto his arms. He was correct in his plan of action, then. Good. He will stay this course. His own shaking eases considerably, and one of his hands moves to the other's shoulder blade, a gesture he's seen other operators use to offer support. Comfort.
The quiet is...good. The pain in his ankle has dulled, and his frequency is able to settle, the unconscious need to fight for independence easing back into a general equilibrium. He can still feel the resonance from Sunday's side, like a song he can't understand...but that feeling alone is familiar. And it's almost...comforting? To find a way to just...coexist in the same space as the otherwise clashing resonance. He briefly wonders if he can achieve that with...he brushes aside the foolish notion. It is irrelevant to the current situation.
Eventually Sunday stands, regaining his balance and standing with his own power. Federico lets him go, respecting the decision but watching for any sign he may need to reach out again.
"...you can call me Federico," he says after some consideration. Unexpected as the "tuning" was, he does...feel there is a connection now that would be improper to address one another with official titles. And since when did he operate on feeling? ...new experiences. He will try this. He does wonder about the shared memories mentioned. "While some Sankta's," like Arturia, "empathy links are so strong they receive visual and audible input, I have never been one. I do not know the procedures expected for such an occurrence. Would it put your mind more at ease if I reported what I saw?"
no subject
Thankfully, the pain was slowly subsiding. No immediate threats seemed. Good. Their biggest obstacle would then of course, be the way the ship shifted. And each other, clearly.
"If this place isn't familiar to either of us, I suppose it's safe to say that perhaps... we're somewhere entirely different."
Having another, so similar to him, and yet so different in his own way... It was interesting. Perhaps even comforting, if he thought about it. Maybe they would meet again under less... awful circumstances. For the time being, though, Sunday is glad to have company. Especially the company of one who seemed to be holding up much better than he, currently.
"Federico... I'll remember that." Sunday relaxes now, as he steps away from Federico, not wishing to burden the other man any further. He notices the lack of a formal title, and the insistence seems... interesting to him. But to be entirely fair, they mave have just accidentally shared their own deepest, most private memories to one another, so perhaps that formality was no longer... Necessary. "I... I haven't heard of personally experiencing memories like that. Not between Halovians. I... Please do enlighten me. I can provide you with what I saw, as well."
Sunday's arms and wings tighten around himself, something of a huge. He can't push the thought, the memory, out of his mind, no less than he can ignore the lingering fear that not only he might have shot Robin, but that he knows exactly what it may have felt like to do so.
It's an upsetting thought. His fingers card through his feathers, sifting through them. Something between a calming gesture, and looking to pluck out an uncomfortable impurity, like the pain of losing a feather could chase those horrible thoughts away.
"You raised your gun at a woman... Someone you cared for. I'm.... not sure what the reason was. She seemed to have a familial connection with you."
Sunday doesn't mention the anxieties building in the back of his mind pertaining to it.
no subject
"I believe that is a logical assessment." He's not sure how he ended up here. Sunday seems no more informed on the matter.
Sunday rights himself, and uses his given name, as requested. It is...a strange experience that makes his ears buzz lightly for a moment, but it does not feel incorrect. He feels a brief...warmth in his chest that he would not be averse to experiencing more of. He straightens his own posture slightly, pleased at his decision.
"I must admit...even with being born with an empathy link, I often struggled to understand the emotions of others, with or without the link. So while the visuals were...unusual and painful, they allowed more understanding than I could otherwise achieve." Even now, he can feel...whispers of anxiety against his halo, revulsion, as Sunday draws into himself with his arms and wings. And Federico...does not know why. So he just nods, willing to offer the information he'd obtained.
But first he listens to what Sunday saw. ...Ah. At the monastery. Federico's posture does not change, but his wings of black glass do droop a little, a tightness forming in his chest. "That woman...her name is Arturia. She is a distant relative of mine. My parents passed when I was young, so I was raised with Arturia...for some time as children." The tightness in his chest increases, and he pauses. He's...not sure why. It was not like this at Sanctilaminium Ambrosii. He takes a breath, exhales.
"I had fired upon her because she is a wanted criminal of Laterano. She has...dangerous Arts, which allow her to remove the inhibitions of others with her music. Lethal force was required, as she refused to stop." His jaw tenses. "She's at the center of several deaths and disappearances under investigation, including the death of our--her mother." He looks again to Sunday, watching his fingers comb through his wings. A form of self comfort? "She is dangerous, and caused much grief on the day you saw. But my bullets did not strike true. Her arts protected her, and she escaped." To cause more strife elsewhere, perhaps. A failure on his part.
"I was in pursuit of her when I found myself here. I...apologize if the memory upset you." Cared about her...? Even he's unsure how he really feels about her, about pursuing her for so long. Another reason she hates him so much, perhaps.
He nods slowly, recalling the proper information for Sunday. "As for me, I saw...a bird, which flew then fell. And...a woman. Your...sister? There were bandages on her neck, and yet she was smiling. The memory was...strong with grief." Federico lowers his head, facial features tensing as he recalls a hazier memory from the edges of consciousness, blurry with pain. "And...another of her, more recent yet confusing. I was- you were. Falling? And she was reaching for you." He nods quietly. "That is all."
cw: mild suicide ideation
"A... universe, being an... array of worlds. Stars, planets..." Perhaps the other would understand those concepts even less. "Er... Anything observable beyond the ground we walk on. In the sky."
Sunday is not wholly aware of the significance of using the other man's name like this, so casually, but. It helps him feel as though he is in well-meaning company, at the very least. Sunday himself is used to being relatively formal, at all times, keeping up appearances. But he supposed... he didn't have to, here. Now, with them having very accidentally bared their memories to one another like this.
"I am also not usually privy to the memories of others. But. I agree, scenes to the emotions it chose to show me... I suppose it helped me understand, some."
Understand what? The man in front of him? Perhaps on some level.
The sankta explains the scene he'd witnessed, his relationship to the woman he'd drawn a gun on. Sunday is more than a little empathetic about the situation: he himself wouldn't have enjoyed such a fraught memory being shared to a stranger. But the other man.... apologizes to him about it, rather than seeming upset about such a private thing being shared between them.
There wasn't much to be done about it now, he supposed.
"I'm fine. It just left me with some... Uncomfortably dark thoughts. They will pass." Sunday says, voice soft. His fingers find a pinfeather nestled within his wings, and he traces idly along its shaft. "For a distant relative to have driven you that far... I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you. If I may also add. I saw... A man dying. Cursing your homeland. Cursing God. I apologize that I ended up prying."
When Federico tells him of his own visions, Sunday's breath catches in his throat. The idea of falling, somehow, had always been frightening to him. But in that moment, he does remember it, too. Faint. The expanse of the Dreamscape below him, nothing to catch him. He and the dove being one, in that moment.
Wanting only to shut his eyes, and let the memoria have him as it had taken his mother. And... And Robin. She'd been there.
Sunday is quiet, for a long time. It feels more recent than anything else. Her face, the warmth of her arms around him... it almost lingers. He breathes slowly, deeply, as the headache does become manageable, as he processes this last, recent memory.
There were only a few places in the Dreamscape that were up quite so high, and only one that he would reasonably go to, with so much on the line. The Theatre. The Charmony Festival. She was okay, if only as far as he could remember. His eyes sting with tears, threatening to spill over his cheeks.
"I... Thank you, Federico."
We're not in (Kansas) Terra anymore! (tw vague mentions of suicide of a bg character)
"...so it is...logical to assume that we are no longer located on my...world. Terra." he says, his tone incredibly flat, not able to spare any attention to inflection as he processes. That. They are on a landship, but the wastes never looked like they do here. And landships never had appendages to walk on...
Fortunately, the use of his given name brings Federico back around.
He nods slightly about the memories being more understandable. Still not his preferred method of communication, but for its surprise, it was...effective enough. He was settling into it, the pain abating.
"Dark thoughts..." Federico repeats. He looks to Sunday, searching. "You did not...hear any of her music in the memory, did you? It does not affect me, but you...Arturia is my responsibility. If she has caused more damage through even indirect means such as this, I must know." He watches Sunday closely, his posture tightly wound. Their connection may belay something like concern, even if it's not quite something he can name himself yet.
He pauses when Sunday gives his...sympathies over the matter. Federico is not good with these concepts. "...I may have called her soror once," Sunday's beacon would translate this to mean sister, cousin, friend, all at once, "but now she is a dangerous fugitive I need to stop. That is all," he says, like delivering a report. Like it's the only way he knows how to say it.
Federico's wings flare out in alarm at the mention of Clément's final words. He bows his head a little. In reverence or thought, it's unclear. "The Gardener...he'd given up, under the weight of hardship, discrimination, the law...I still do not understand...why he chose to end it like he did. His sentence would have been light...he could have..." Federico shakes his head, looking up at Sunday again. "You did not mean to see it. I bear no offense. It is...something I have been thinking about much lately...to understand." Why his chest aches over the whole affair. Why he couldn't speak when Clément brought Gerald's last wishes, his knife, his head to him, all to save his people who had nothing. Why Executor could not move when the gardener destroyed himself, right in front of him. "It is...confusing. I barely understand it myself. Apologies."
And upon sharing his side...Federico does not need the link for read the surprise in Sunday. It's strange, as it would have been one of the halovian's own memories, right...?
A deep sadness, acceptance, warmth....whispers of such, only hints. And then Sunday's eyes grow damp...emotion threatening to overflow. Sadness? Did he see something painful?
But then Sunday thanks him. For...what, he's not sure. He only nods, hoping the other's mind will be more at ease, somehow. "She is important to you. Due to the recent nature of the memory, it appears she is safe." There is still the pain and blurriness of the memory... "Did you acquire head trauma, recently?"
As for the tears...Federico reaches into his cloak, retrieving a square of red cloth. He offers it to the Halovian, a practiced gesture learned from interacting with many victims of tragedy. It is neatly folded and very clean.
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Thankfully, the pain was slowly subsiding.
Federico explains his relationship to that woman, to that lost soul Sunday had seen. The memories seemed to trouble Federico greatly. Sunday can only imagine how much the other must have mulled over these events-- He knows he would have, if it were his memories. They didn't need to be his own, for him to wonder, to think.
What brings someone to desire death? Release, comes a quiet reply, a snare over his heart.
Federico questions his dark thoughts, and Sunday's wings fall, slightly. A quiet fear hammered away in his chest: If he put these words to thought, would that not give them ground to stand on? Would that not be like putting the gun in his own hands?
"Her... Music? No, no. I'm okay. These are not thoughts tied to her, specifically. They..."
Sunday's arms cross over his chest, in a sort of self-hug, gripping tightly at his sleeves as if for dear life. He doesn't want to speak it into existence. But he understands that the other feels it is his duty to know, to be sure, to clean up after her, he can feel the concern ebbing through their connection, as flawed and strange as it was. And Sunday can respect that, as an older brother who has left far too big of a mess for his little sister to begin to fix on her own.
"I was in your shoes. I was you. And instead of your Arturia... I could imagine it being my sister, standing there. And now I am intimately aware of how it feels to raise a gun towards her--- I cannot help but worry that what if I already have, in some way."
Each word feels like he is hammering nails into her coffin. His hands shake, he can feel it. Thankfully, gripping at his sleeves doesn't make his trembling too obvious.
"I am alright. I will be, soon."
It's a lie, meant to draw distance between them. Sunday's weaknesses and fears were his own, proof that he was still fallible, painfully human.
The tears spill easily, when Federico confirms that she seemed safe, that he wasn't imagining the memory being more recent than it was. The offered napkin, red, pristine. It was the cleanest thing here by far, but he takes it graciously. There's a pang of guilt, at the idea of soiling it with his tears, but it is. Preferable to the filth of his gloves.
"I'm. Not sure, if I am painfully honest. I did not even rememebr that, until you relayed it to me. We fell from a great height, within a dream. But... "
Could the injury have translated to his body, in his own Dreampool? Or was there more to this? Perhaps the veil had been thin for him and him alone, that final line separating dreams from reality.
"As long as she is safe."
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He is relieved that Sunday had not heard her music in the memory. It may not have been as powerful of an influence, as the remembered music is...through his unskilled perception. And the song was not for Sunday. But it was still good to make sure...
And then the halovian seems to shrink in on himself. His words grow pained, as he relates the thoughts of firing upon his sister. His own sister. The young woman, injured in the hospital bed...?
He thinks of how she smiled, despite seeming to be in great pain. The bandages around her neck....
Federico's gaze lowers in an attempt to meet Sunday's. "Sunday. I assure you, that it was not your hands that held the gun." ...The man looks like he's never held a gun in his life. Uncommon for sankta, but not unheard of. And this man was not a sankta. "My orders are given by The Law, and I follow them. Arturia is a dangerous fugitive. Your sister is...precious to you, and innocent according to the few memories I've seen. You would have no reason to harm her. You have not." His voice is firm, if halting in some places. He is...unused to giving words of comfort.
...."Arturia was not even harmed. She'd wanted an..."interesting reaction" from me. I am not...sure if I'd met her expectations." How his heart thudded painfully as he pulled the trigger, how he was so sure it was the end, and he'd never see her again, how he...felt about that--he shakes his head. "Even if you are unable to be convinced you did not hold the gun, please understand that Arturia was not harmed. Therefore, you could not have possibly harmed her, or your soro- sister." For all the unknowns of the event, he knows that much.
He....hopes it helps. Sunday insists he is fine, but the faint waves of...grief? Guilt? Still hum their warbling song over their strange connection.
The handkerchief is taken, and Sunday's tears flow freely. The event he speaks of must have been very emotionally taxing upon him.
"Within a dream?" he asks, finally registering that. The ship tilts...Federico places his hand on the wall, his ankle stinging with the change. "Even with her safety assured, yours should be as well. This environment is not...optimal for a thorough search for injuries. We should relocate to somewhere less..." his eyes sweep over their overgrown surroundings, "dangerous."
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Arturia had not been harmed. He'd missed. Sunday flexes his hands as if trying to dispel the feeling of the gun in them, casting his eyes back over to the Executor. It helps, if only for now.
"I... I understand. I did not wish to claim your memories as my own. You have your own struggles. I can... imagine it was difficult for you."
The handkerchief helps.
"Yes, within a dream. Our world, Penacony, is... divided, between Dreams and reality. I have spent much of my life walking our Dreamscape, while my sister... She visited other worlds. Numerous places. Spreading her songs, and her light. That was... how she was shot."
The ship tilts, and Sunday agrees, they need to get out of here. Somewhere more solid, less likely to trip either of them up. A slight feeling of pain seeps over their link, and Sunday was unsure if it was his own, or Federico's.
"I've seen outside the windows, that there are other floors, here. Above us. We should look for a staircase." Or an elevator, but Sunday was.... unsure if one would work. Though, looking down, and seeing how the other man seemed to be favouring a leg, confirming the earlier feedback, perhaps an elevator was their best option. "An elevator, then. Is your leg alright? Do you need to rest?"
Sunday could look for a means to escape alone, and help the other reach it. He was more than willing to.
"You stay here. I'll find some means to ascend."
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As for the handkerchief…the thing is, Federico will not ask for that handkerchief back. It’s up to Sunday if he’s keeping it or not; the Sankta does not seem to mind either way.
“A world of dreams…I have not heard of such a concept.” There is a very faint memory of a report about…some scientist facility about…data, extended sleep, a shared consciousness…he cannot remember the details. It is odd that it’s coming to mind now. It must not be relevant; his memory is better for retaining relevant information. His brow furrows at the last part. “Why would your soror be shot for singing and giving light? Those are actions I assume are generally enjoyed by most people.” And it seems Sunday’s soror does not have the power Arturia does, so there would be no need to stop her…
“An elevator will suffice. I-“ he blinks, when Sunday’s attention turns to his leg. He looks down. “The injury is minimal. I had fallen earlier and seem to have sprained my ankle in the process,” he explains flatly, as if delivering an incident report about someone else. He goes to follow the halovian as he steps away, unwilling to leave him alone in this place. “I assure you that I am still fully operationa—hh—“ There’s a sudden hiss of air through the sankta’s teeth when he puts more weight on the injury the pain flaring more than before. It must have swollen as they’d conversed…
Federico’s hand flies out to balance against the wall, and he eases off of the injured ankle, his normally stoic expression bearing the echo of a grimace. “Perhaps…I do need some time to reassess. Your proposal is acceptable.”
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"She... was shot on an active battlefield. She was on the front lines of a war, doing so. Wishing to assist the injured, and lead any refugees to safety." Sunday says, closing his eyes, as if that would stop the tremor in his voice. "Our shared desire has always been to help those in need. She found her calling, travelling to many worlds and offering her voice and aid. And I..."
Stayed within a dream.
"I assisted people upon our home planet. I would absolve them of their sins, hear their confessions."
The hiss makes Sunday turn and wince. Ripples of pain thrum over their connection. He gives the other a look of sympathy. It was okay to need help.
"I promise to you, I will be back soon. Stay here, don't move any further. I will help you, if you allow me."
With that said, Sunday would duck out, and begin to search for an elevator, preferably one that was working. It takes him some time to find one, as he greatly dislikes walking around and feeling every leaf and fern brush up against his clothing, but he feels that he has a duty to Federico, now, to get him somewhere comfortable and safe. Sunday does eventually find an elevator, one that opened its doors upon him pressing the call button, giving the halovian some confidence that... something could be normal here.
It isn't overly long before he returns to Federico, his expression hopeful. He would step close, hand reaching for Federico's arm on his bad side, pausing just inches before touching him.
"I think I found one. Let me help support you. You may lean on me, if you need to."