[They're in the refectory! Love the spice embargo, dry bread forever.
Everyone's cleaning up nicely, now that they have their own duds. Lots of interesting picks here. Sure livens the place up.
Meanwhile Camille continues to fade into the scenery: dark sweater, dark jeans, leather ankle boots with scuffs at the heels. Funny how that makes her the sore thumb here.]
Feeling peckish?
[She scoots out the chair opposite with one foot. Sit.]
[ Great news, he looks much better on Saturday than the day prior. Not amazing, because all he had to work with was Cabin water and his fingers to try to comb through his hair, but he's not so covered in grime anymore.
What he's wearing might depend somewhat on the mod answer it's nebulous for now. But he probably at least has his practical eyepatch back rather than the odd flower on a string.
He pauses at being spoken to. He'd kind of forgotten about his hunger these last twelve or so hours, and while it's not the unnaturally grating, supernaturally exhausting famishedness he'd come to know, he realises he's objectively starving. ]
[ I'M SORRY FOR MISSING YOURS AHHH slots us Tuesday if you don't mind...
You can find Daan at the river! He's got a bucket and some cloths that he seems to be wringing out in the water, careful to avoid these damn leeches. You can see him occasionally stop and stare into there while he wrings out a rag until they go away before he goes back for a rinse.
The busywork is all fine, but he's also got blackened writing appearing over his back spelling out things -- EIHNER VON DUTCH, ELISE VON DUTCH, and FATE. Pick your poison... ]
[A warning called from a prudent distance, in case he's rinsing his skivvies. Camille approaches at a leisurely pace, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a losing battle.
She's got her own mysterious missive gleaming through her chest. The teeth were in the floor. ]
Glad someone's got the right idea. We're getting ripe. [And... Well. She can't tell what any of this might mean just from looking, but she shouldn't let him walk around unawares.] Your back's got a lot to say this morning.
She's sat down with her knees up behind the theatre. Less foot traffic here, manageable distance from where their dear gambler got punched through a clown stage.]
You don't need to call me "Ms." anything. Camille's fine, Daan.
[ This is the most tired bitch in the world but today it appears to be a different kind of tired. He's giving off the usual somewhat grim aura he usually does, but there's a distinct lack in anything particularly strong -- anger, sadness, frustration... none of it.
He's somewhere, rulebook propped open in one hand, scribbling some stuff on a sheet of paper with the other. ]
[She'd steered clear after the trial. Hadn't been in the mood for company and had a wretched impression he wouldn't want hers. So much had happened in the long nine hours that her feelings on most everyone had been tossed into a cocktail shaker and rattled into new shapes.
It's a new day though. New catastrophes have been witnessed. Her stomach has finished whirling and her mind only intermittently replays the end of the shovel punching through Erin's chest. Maybe Daan's too tired to remember his disappointment in her.
Maybe he's got better things to think about than some sadsack he met two weeks ago.]
Camille has had the privilege of a gruesome picture show by now. There were selling sob stories by the dozen here, fifty cents extra per additional pint of blood.
This one is a Rob Zombie wet dream. Even caught in the throes of it Camille shudders with repulsion, as if to eject herself from its grip by force. It doesn't work. She watches as her new hands work through stitched tissue. It's her eye dragging over the details. Her mind putting the pieces together.
Eloise.
Wrong flares up, heating her sternum as she comes to, nauseated, taking urgent breath.]
...She was turned into that thing?
[Camille looks to him, mortified. Heartbroken.
Losing her was bad enough. The desecration was a bootheel on a third degree burn.]
[ Eventually Camille can find Daan just sat somewhere, going through it as he usually does -- bent with his hand on his temple, mumbling under his breath. ]
[ Whoaaaa except he is having the worst fucking time of his life, it's a miracle he even got here at all because he borderline actually just collapses the moment he gets what could even be considered close enough.
[ Wowee, it's a new week and a new location! We can be there or wherever Camille is hanging around extremely awkwardly now that she's here. Daan's just kind of doing a quick morning routine around first, looking at things, for anything amiss. The usual routine.
Oh, and he's on a shoddy crutch. It hasn't been a full 48 hours since the whole Aqua incident and immediate post-swamping.
If he happens to see Camille, he'll stop and watch her carefully first. ]
[She's had like. A few hours. Getting readjusted. Most people are taking to her return quite readily. Guess it's a surprise, but not such a big one to the swords and sorcery crew.
There's one outlier though. A holdout. Probably the next most perturbed after she is.
Camille waits for him, sat outside wherever he's staying with quick popping emoticons whirling over her head. A dark cloud, fat cartoon sweat drops, lines and a purple has hanging over her forehead. Nothing good.]
[ HELP THE ONLY BITCH WITH A NORMAL REACTION TO SEEING THE DEAD SUDDENLY RETURN
He emerges... out from the lonely cabin room with the comically large Iwatooshi bed :(, and stops when he finds someone was waiting for him. He takes in a slow but sharp, shallow inhale, and looks at her. ]
Ms. Preaker. You're still here.
[ And sane, by the sounds of it... looks whole... just a scar... no, doesn't seem like... so far... ]
[Shortly before curfew, when the rush dies down, Camille will take a silent seat at his side. A respectable distance. Their last conversation still burns hot in her mind. A repeat now might break something, real or metaphorical.
[ He's just here in the cabin, a bunch of stuff scattered around him. Bloody damp cloths, bandages yet to be applied, a... fucking... spine......
He's also got what appears to be a ring between his fingers, on a string, looking at it. His thoughts have a dull hum of Elise... to them.
He vaguely looks up at Camille. With his eyepatch gone you really can see that he only has the one eye, the other one being nothing else but a half-closed lid. No secret second eye here this whole time even though that'd be sick and funny in its own way. ]
...
[ He makes some kind of rough sound that sounds hoarse and wheezey. The silence is because his throat isn't doing so hot. He's still in his Nood Doods uniform :(. ]
[SHAKES....IS HE STILL CYOA WEIRD....I know he's still extra depresso
That's okay because Camille is too at the moment. She is at the pyre, smoking, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at the bulletin with a haunted look.]
[Welcome to our last thread forever Lowe, make sure it's worth your while.
Camille doesn't come until it's the middle of the damn night. She is bleary eyed, hair mussed, fresh off a crying jag. She looks, frankly, like hell. And if smell can pass the barrier, she absolutely reeks of their grape wine.]
Looks like he can appear anywhere if he focuses enough, so he's just. Well he's somewhere, somewhere in the camp. Just frowning vaguely at it all... it's been a week and a half since he last saw this place. ]
[They can be in the clown theatre/clinic. Alfyn has made great use of the space, and you can't even smell the stinkbomb anymore.
Camille startles a little when he blips into being. Then relaxes. She's been sitting in the near dark alone for a few minutes, trying to sort herself out.]
Voids them because i can't comprehend your locations after midnight. She's a little loaded but nothing she can't handle, walking slow among the sights. Too tired to do anything productive, too uneasy to rest.]
All this and you could only represent the Jamba Juice.
[ The Nectar that Pickles gave him has worn off, so he's glad to finally escape the damn party and have some peace and quiet. Not that it helps much because Camille is here. Every effect is on, and the emotionshare is so much loud static. There's a ruefulness, the side of him that demands why did you die, the distant part of him that's come to accept the cruelty of this place softly feeling you're free now, and the third twisted part of him, exacerbated by the town and the monster and his deal with the Pocketcat whose border wears thinner than ever that is oh so happy to see her here.
None of these present themselves in the way he walks and talks, outside of the slight skulkiness that one could reasonably expect of the situation. ]
...Mr. Aventurine has some notebooks prepared as a sort of primer to catch people who arrive up to speed. I can lend you mine. It's in the apartments -- you can claim a room for yourself.
Anyway as a broad blanket just in case since this IS a Termina mini-CYOA, but includes general cw for various trauma, self-harm, suicide and/or suicidal ideation, gore, death, etc. not that this is a promise that these things will appear but it's just to generally cover my ass for the canon, I cannot predict what will come up.
~✦~
Camille will find herself enthralled in a memory. It overlays far too perfectly with everything that's been going on in scawwy, because I am a clown who chose my Silent Hill-inspired canon and changed my plurk theme to Silent Hill half a year before scawwy premise came out, and everything happening here is just a repeat of Daan's whole-ass canon.
ANYWAY. She's trudging along the city of Prehevil, exhausted after a long three days that felt much more like weeks, months. Her entire body is sore and her head pounds, sanity low from all the horrors you've seen and the ever-present voice in the back of your head demanding that you kill, participate in the Festival, become the champion. You stubbornly have ignored it thus far though, and you'll continue to ignore it, gods-be-damned. The last thing you want is for this place to win you over. It's the last 'fuck you' you can give to that feathered freak at the top of Prehevil's Moon Tower, or you'll fucking die trying.
Behind you follow three people.
A one-armed girl with black hair, picking grimly at the bandages there. You recall a cackling madman in a white mask had chopped it off with a machete like her arm was mere paper, not flesh and bone. Fortunately you had cloth fragments to stem the bleeding, but guilt strikes you when you see it and the blood and grime on Asa's face. If only you had warned her just a moment sooner when you saw the lid of the coffin shift.
A boy with ginger hair, though his hair is so thick with grime that in the dim atmosphere, you wouldn't have been blamed for thinking he may have been a brunette instead. Bandages cover his face and over the eye there. A strange half-cocooned townsman with a mallet had all but hurled a handful of broken glass right into his face, shredding the flesh. If you got out of here fast enough, got him to a hospital quickly enough, then perhaps Lavi will be able to salvage his vision, but you're pretty certain in the deep of your gut that he won't get that eye back.
And last in the line is a lanky pale man, whose perfect coiffed hair when you first met him is now nigh-unrecognisable with the blood matting it and weighing it down. Even he who learned how to revel in violence out of necessity due to the cruelty of the Great War has his limits, a permanent frown on his features and a decided exhaustion in his blood-red eyes. Astarion's sleeves are alarmingly red up to the elbows, a testament to how many people you've had to cut down just to survive here.
They're all you have left now. You arrived to this city on a train with a handful more people, but... things happened. You watched as the odd little shadowed girl's bones twisted right in front of you, her terrifying scream of pain as she bent and broke under the moon's influence into a horrifying monster, the way Laudna had to step in and swiftly put her down. The beautiful young singer with the halo, gutted and crucified in the midst of the old town, her once-bright eyes dulled as villagers danced around her entrails during the onset of night, bile lining the crest of your every tooth watching this. That quiet foreigner with the eyepatch, unassuming when you all met and spoke on the grass patch outside of the train -- found in the apartments overgrown with white mould, one empty bottle of vodka and a pool of his own blood around him, scalpel in pallid hand and clean cut to the jugular like he knew exactly where to do it.
Day by day you lost folks, and Per'kele was more than happy to remind you who had died thus far whenever you managed to get even a wink in of sleep. You know what to do, so get to it, he'd always say. Bastard. Still, you had little direction other than the place he suggested: Prehevil's Moon Tower. It was an arduous journey getting here, finding the three effigies in strange dimensions, fighting through the horrors, getting through the awful church basement and through the back-alleys... but you're finally here.
...Ew...
But this is it, right...? We're finally at the tower...
...Everything we've seen so far has been pretty bad, but somehow, this still takes the cake.
Oh, how wonderful. I'd just been thinking we'd been getting too used to the smell of rotting innards.
Well? We're not here just to ogle all of this, are we dear?
Camille moves forward more from inertia than willpower these days. She feels hunger most strongly. Left to fish in barrels, cupboards, shelves of emptied house for whatever scraps got left behind. She picked a maggot out of a meat pie this morning. Carved around the spot, ate the safe selection. Stomach gurgled. Downed the rest. She's managing well. No poisoning this time.
She focuses on the stone weight of the bad pie in her gullet, because it's the most mundane of their miseries. A comfort, even. At least she's full now. She almost catches Lavi's eye and stops herself. The bandages still daunt her. Asa and her stump give her fretful sweats. Astarion's footfall is flagging, but at least he's in one piece. Better than she can say for either kid.
By the time they get to the tower Camille's thought she'd gone noseblind to the stench of open gore under the heat of day. Turns out she isn't. Thanks, Astarion, for giving her the prompt.
She darts off quick, to an open crate. Leans over and wretches up her hard-won meat pie, in two and a half rushes of bile from her gut. She turns back around and yearns for a tall glass of cool water. Shit out of luck, all around.]
...I don't know that we have any choice but to go in. [A wretched thought. She eyes the corpses among the base and feels, impossibly, a new prickle of fear. Her nerves are shot to hell, it's a wonder that she's kept moving in any direction, much less forward.] I'll go first. I guess it doesn't matter for the article.
[A lie. One covering the absurdity of running back to see Frank Curry, waving papers in hand. "I've got it! Front page scoop!"
She doesn't know if she can do it after all. Camille steps in, dizzied. She can feel her pulse pounding in her neck.]
[ You're a normie you understand the absolute feeling of 'what the FUCK', right? Right???
Anyway it's after the fall of god, and Daan is just standing here watching people disperse. He's fished out a cigarette and is just probably astral projecting at this point but it's fine. ]
Camille has put on a passable game face for folks. It rather reminds her of being in school again. Not an exact parallel: she likes most of these people, and throwing on a smile is less a defence against aggression than it is unnecessary affection. She doesn't want to kill the mood.
She wipes the sweat from her brow and beholds the crowd sharing hugs, final heals, exclamations of joy. Daan's off to the side. A similar vacuum of congenial cheer. Camille jerks her head in another direction.]
Think I'll peel off. Before I get dragged out to celebrate anything.
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W0: Saturday
Everyone's cleaning up nicely, now that they have their own duds. Lots of interesting picks here. Sure livens the place up.
Meanwhile Camille continues to fade into the scenery: dark sweater, dark jeans, leather ankle boots with scuffs at the heels. Funny how that makes her the sore thumb here.]
Feeling peckish?
[She scoots out the chair opposite with one foot. Sit.]
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What he's wearing might depend somewhat on the mod answer it's nebulous for now. But he probably at least has his practical eyepatch back rather than the odd flower on a string.
He pauses at being spoken to. He'd kind of forgotten about his hunger these last twelve or so hours, and while it's not the unnaturally grating, supernaturally exhausting famishedness he'd come to know, he realises he's objectively starving. ]
How's the food?
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W0, tuesday
You can find Daan at the river! He's got a bucket and some cloths that he seems to be wringing out in the water, careful to avoid these damn leeches. You can see him occasionally stop and stare into there while he wrings out a rag until they go away before he goes back for a rinse.
The busywork is all fine, but he's also got blackened writing appearing over his back spelling out things -- EIHNER VON DUTCH, ELISE VON DUTCH, and FATE. Pick your poison... ]
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Hey.
[A warning called from a prudent distance, in case he's rinsing his skivvies. Camille approaches at a leisurely pace, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a losing battle.
She's got her own mysterious missive gleaming through her chest. The teeth were in the floor. ]
Glad someone's got the right idea. We're getting ripe. [And... Well. She can't tell what any of this might mean just from looking, but she shouldn't let him walk around unawares.] Your back's got a lot to say this morning.
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W0, friday
Daan is just out here somewhere, the word TERMINA IS UPON US lacing around his throat like a choker. ]
…Ms. Preaker, where were you last night? And are you feeling alright…?
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I—
[Breaks off coughing. I'll be nice and say she's marginally dryer with a blanket but she is still very leeched and damp and smoke addled.]
Refectory. [Breaks off coughing.] With that Geto kid.
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W0, sunday
Which is why when he sees Camille, he's definitely coming over to check on her. ]
Ms. Preaker, how are you feeling...?
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I'm fine.
[not well...
She's sat down with her knees up behind the theatre. Less foot traffic here, manageable distance from where their dear gambler got punched through a clown stage.]
You don't need to call me "Ms." anything. Camille's fine, Daan.
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W1, monday
At least that solves the problem of our limited food choices, at least for now. Provided people know how to cook?
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Somebody has to. Or at how to hold meat over a fire.
You cook?
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W1, friday
Daan can be found just kind of sitting on a bench somewhere before the pyre and staring into the fire I guess. This is fine. ]
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Heard you found something.
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W1, sunday
He's somewhere, rulebook propped open in one hand, scribbling some stuff on a sheet of paper with the other. ]
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[She'd steered clear after the trial. Hadn't been in the mood for company and had a wretched impression he wouldn't want hers. So much had happened in the long nine hours that her feelings on most everyone had been tossed into a cocktail shaker and rattled into new shapes.
It's a new day though. New catastrophes have been witnessed. Her stomach has finished whirling and her mind only intermittently replays the end of the shovel punching through Erin's chest. Maybe Daan's too tired to remember his disappointment in her.
Maybe he's got better things to think about than some sadsack he met two weeks ago.]
What is it?
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time to icly implement the ichiban monster confession retcon
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W2, monday
Might be these shadows enveloping us and showing Camille a very unhappy memory, by chance? Nauuur. Couldn't be.
Ftr Daan is just super silent and unmoving when made to relive this. ]
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Camille has had the privilege of a gruesome picture show by now. There were selling sob stories by the dozen here, fifty cents extra per additional pint of blood.
This one is a Rob Zombie wet dream. Even caught in the throes of it Camille shudders with repulsion, as if to eject herself from its grip by force. It doesn't work. She watches as her new hands work through stitched tissue. It's her eye dragging over the details. Her mind putting the pieces together.
Eloise.
Wrong flares up, heating her sternum as she comes to, nauseated, taking urgent breath.]
...She was turned into that thing?
[Camille looks to him, mortified. Heartbroken.
Losing her was bad enough. The desecration was a bootheel on a third degree burn.]
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Cw: self harm mention
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1/2
2/2 ((SPOILERS, CW: self-harm, parental/caregiver abuse, sadism, loss of autonomy, body exposure))
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W2, friday
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The first she passes to Daan. The highest proof beer they had in stock.
The second is a bright-coloured soda. Some lime-flavored variant. She cracks the top on hers and takes a seat at his side.]
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WEEK 2: Saturday
Anyway Daan's legs move of their own accord, stomp stomp stompity-stomping towards the barrier! what awaits him there, whoa....]
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He needs a moment he is actually in delirium. ]
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WEEK 2: Sunday - DELIVERY
Please find: one case of beer
Four packs of smokes.
And a note:
For the pain.
- C.]
W3, monday
Oh, and he's on a shoddy crutch. It hasn't been a full 48 hours since the whole Aqua incident and immediate post-swamping.
If he happens to see Camille, he'll stop and watch her carefully first. ]
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He does see her first. She's second to catch sight of him, stiffening too. Then her face falls some. Heartbreak. Then resignation.
Camille swallows and puts up both hands in peace.]
Easy, tiger. I'm just walking here.
[They can play it cool. Can't they? Please?]
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Cw: talk of death/suicide
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WEEK 3: Late Tuesday, post party
I feel like the longer you're at the circus, the more clown-like you become.
[The animes are getting to her.]
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Seriously? You're the one that took Ms. Laudna's dare.
[ You signed up for that carnival willingly, man. ]
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WEEK 4: Tuesday
There's one outlier though. A holdout. Probably the next most perturbed after she is.
Camille waits for him, sat outside wherever he's staying with quick popping emoticons whirling over her head. A dark cloud, fat cartoon sweat drops, lines and a purple has hanging over her forehead. Nothing good.]
...Daan?
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He emerges... out from the lonely cabin room with the comically large Iwatooshi bed :(, and stops when he finds someone was waiting for him. He takes in a slow but sharp, shallow inhale, and looks at her. ]
Ms. Preaker. You're still here.
[ And sane, by the sounds of it... looks whole... just a scar... no, doesn't seem like... so far... ]
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WEEK 4: Thursday
Her voice is low as she murmurs to him:]
Rough day?
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He's also got what appears to be a ring between his fingers, on a string, looking at it. His thoughts have a dull hum of Elise... to them.
He vaguely looks up at Camille. With his eyepatch gone you really can see that he only has the one eye, the other one being nothing else but a half-closed lid. No secret second eye here this whole time even though that'd be sick and funny in its own way. ]
...
[ He makes some kind of rough sound that sounds hoarse and wheezey. The silence is because his throat isn't doing so hot. He's still in his Nood Doods uniform :(. ]
Cw: mentions of medical/caretaker abuse
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CW: AGAIN. SELF HARM AND SUICIDE MENTION. i hate it here.
cw: suicide mention
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WEEK 4: Friday
That's okay because Camille is too at the moment. She is at the pyre, smoking, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at the bulletin with a haunted look.]
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He's just out here doing whatever, coming by and throwing some old bloody bandages into the pyre. Easy waste disposal.
Just glances at Camille meanwhile, seeing if she even remotely looks like she's in the mood for chatter. ]
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WEEK 4: Saturday (CW: Alcoholism Relapse)
Camille doesn't come until it's the middle of the damn night. She is bleary eyed, hair mussed, fresh off a crying jag. She looks, frankly, like hell. And if smell can pass the barrier, she absolutely reeks of their grape wine.]
...Your turn, I guess.
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Hmm? Oh, yes. It was something like that, wasn't it... A pretty awful time I was having.
[ His features are amorphous and unclear. Blank. But he can talk because we monsterhouse it up in here friends. ]
Is this what it looks like from the other side?
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W6, wednesday
Looks like he can appear anywhere if he focuses enough, so he's just. Well he's somewhere, somewhere in the camp. Just frowning vaguely at it all... it's been a week and a half since he last saw this place. ]
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Camille startles a little when he blips into being. Then relaxes. She's been sitting in the near dark alone for a few minutes, trying to sort herself out.]
Welcome back, doc.
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WEEK 7: Tuesday
Voids them because i can't comprehend your locations after midnight. She's a little loaded but nothing she can't handle, walking slow among the sights. Too tired to do anything productive, too uneasy to rest.]
All this and you could only represent the Jamba Juice.
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Don't ask me why, I wouldn't know.
[ The Nectar that Pickles gave him has worn off, so he's glad to finally escape the damn party and have some peace and quiet. Not that it helps much because Camille is here. Every effect is on, and the emotionshare is so much loud static. There's a ruefulness, the side of him that demands why did you die, the distant part of him that's come to accept the cruelty of this place softly feeling you're free now, and the third twisted part of him, exacerbated by the town and the monster and his deal with the Pocketcat whose border wears thinner than ever that is oh so happy to see her here.
None of these present themselves in the way he walks and talks, outside of the slight skulkiness that one could reasonably expect of the situation. ]
...Mr. Aventurine has some notebooks prepared as a sort of primer to catch people who arrive up to speed. I can lend you mine. It's in the apartments -- you can claim a room for yourself.
Privacy, and a shower.
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W7, thursday
Anyway as a broad blanket just in case since this IS a Termina mini-CYOA, but includes general cw for various trauma, self-harm, suicide and/or suicidal ideation, gore, death, etc. not that this is a promise that these things will appear but it's just to generally cover my ass for the canon, I cannot predict what will come up.
~✦~
Camille will find herself enthralled in a memory. It overlays far too perfectly with everything that's been going on in scawwy, because I am a clown who chose my Silent Hill-inspired canon and changed my plurk theme to Silent Hill half a year before scawwy premise came out, and everything happening here is just a repeat of Daan's whole-ass canon.
ANYWAY. She's trudging along the city of Prehevil, exhausted after a long three days that felt much more like weeks, months. Her entire body is sore and her head pounds, sanity low from all the horrors you've seen and the ever-present voice in the back of your head demanding that you kill, participate in the Festival, become the champion. You stubbornly have ignored it thus far though, and you'll continue to ignore it, gods-be-damned. The last thing you want is for this place to win you over. It's the last 'fuck you' you can give to that feathered freak at the top of Prehevil's Moon Tower, or you'll fucking die trying.
Behind you follow three people.
A one-armed girl with black hair, picking grimly at the bandages there. You recall a cackling madman in a white mask had chopped it off with a machete like her arm was mere paper, not flesh and bone. Fortunately you had cloth fragments to stem the bleeding, but guilt strikes you when you see it and the blood and grime on Asa's face. If only you had warned her just a moment sooner when you saw the lid of the coffin shift.
A boy with ginger hair, though his hair is so thick with grime that in the dim atmosphere, you wouldn't have been blamed for thinking he may have been a brunette instead. Bandages cover his face and over the eye there. A strange half-cocooned townsman with a mallet had all but hurled a handful of broken glass right into his face, shredding the flesh. If you got out of here fast enough, got him to a hospital quickly enough, then perhaps Lavi will be able to salvage his vision, but you're pretty certain in the deep of your gut that he won't get that eye back.
And last in the line is a lanky pale man, whose perfect coiffed hair when you first met him is now nigh-unrecognisable with the blood matting it and weighing it down. Even he who learned how to revel in violence out of necessity due to the cruelty of the Great War has his limits, a permanent frown on his features and a decided exhaustion in his blood-red eyes. Astarion's sleeves are alarmingly red up to the elbows, a testament to how many people you've had to cut down just to survive here.
They're all you have left now. You arrived to this city on a train with a handful more people, but... things happened. You watched as the odd little shadowed girl's bones twisted right in front of you, her terrifying scream of pain as she bent and broke under the moon's influence into a horrifying monster, the way Laudna had to step in and swiftly put her down. The beautiful young singer with the halo, gutted and crucified in the midst of the old town, her once-bright eyes dulled as villagers danced around her entrails during the onset of night, bile lining the crest of your every tooth watching this. That quiet foreigner with the eyepatch, unassuming when you all met and spoke on the grass patch outside of the train -- found in the apartments overgrown with white mould, one empty bottle of vodka and a pool of his own blood around him, scalpel in pallid hand and clean cut to the jugular like he knew exactly where to do it.
Day by day you lost folks, and Per'kele was more than happy to remind you who had died thus far whenever you managed to get even a wink in of sleep. You know what to do, so get to it, he'd always say. Bastard. Still, you had little direction other than the place he suggested: Prehevil's Moon Tower. It was an arduous journey getting here, finding the three effigies in strange dimensions, fighting through the horrors, getting through the awful church basement and through the back-alleys... but you're finally here.
You look upon the square before the tower's doors, multiple townspeople's gutted bodies and heads on spikes, a disgusting monument to sacrifice. The sights would make an incredible headline, a photograph of the century, an exposé scoop about the horrors of this backwaters capital that would make every goddamn journalist from here to the next millennium jealous. ]
But this is it, right...? We're finally at the tower...
Well? We're not here just to ogle all of this, are we dear?
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Camille moves forward more from inertia than willpower these days. She feels hunger most strongly. Left to fish in barrels, cupboards, shelves of emptied house for whatever scraps got left behind. She picked a maggot out of a meat pie this morning. Carved around the spot, ate the safe selection. Stomach gurgled. Downed the rest. She's managing well. No poisoning this time.
She focuses on the stone weight of the bad pie in her gullet, because it's the most mundane of their miseries. A comfort, even. At least she's full now. She almost catches Lavi's eye and stops herself. The bandages still daunt her. Asa and her stump give her fretful sweats. Astarion's footfall is flagging, but at least he's in one piece. Better than she can say for either kid.
By the time they get to the tower Camille's thought she'd gone noseblind to the stench of open gore under the heat of day. Turns out she isn't. Thanks, Astarion, for giving her the prompt.
She darts off quick, to an open crate. Leans over and wretches up her hard-won meat pie, in two and a half rushes of bile from her gut. She turns back around and yearns for a tall glass of cool water. Shit out of luck, all around.]
...I don't know that we have any choice but to go in. [A wretched thought. She eyes the corpses among the base and feels, impossibly, a new prickle of fear. Her nerves are shot to hell, it's a wonder that she's kept moving in any direction, much less forward.] I'll go first. I guess it doesn't matter for the article.
[A lie. One covering the absurdity of running back to see Frank Curry, waving papers in hand. "I've got it! Front page scoop!"
She doesn't know if she can do it after all. Camille steps in, dizzied. She can feel her pulse pounding in her neck.]
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W7, saturday
Anyway it's after the fall of god, and Daan is just standing here watching people disperse. He's fished out a cigarette and is just probably astral projecting at this point but it's fine. ]
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Camille has put on a passable game face for folks. It rather reminds her of being in school again. Not an exact parallel: she likes most of these people, and throwing on a smile is less a defence against aggression than it is unnecessary affection. She doesn't want to kill the mood.
She wipes the sweat from her brow and beholds the crowd sharing hugs, final heals, exclamations of joy. Daan's off to the side. A similar vacuum of congenial cheer. Camille jerks her head in another direction.]
Think I'll peel off. Before I get dragged out to celebrate anything.
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