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.]
[ Just another thing to add to the disgust and vileness of the city of Prehevil. You'd always known the town had a reputation for being backwater, but this was certainly more than you bargained for. More than any of you bargained for, even the townsfolk themselves.
Asa watches Camille empty out her guts with a mixture of disgust but pity, all sympathy of course. If her canon wasn't Chainsaw Man, she's sure she'd be the same. Lavi is grimly looking behind you all, keeping watch for any stray bobbies still patrolling the streets upholding some long-shattered definition of justice, or worse yet, bellends watching from the rooftops, ready to pounce with sharp iron spears in hand. Astarion, meanwhile, observes a corpse on a pike with a mixture of disdain but he dares to be impressed at the cruelty of it all. ]
It better not be locked, after everything we went through...
...
I know we don't have any other ideas, but touching that feels like... a bad idea...
[ That's the last comment you hear as you approach the grand gates. If nothing else, you understand here in this moment why this tower was revered in ancient times. The carvings date back hundreds if not thousands of years and something about the structure commands authority and presence. You feel grand eyes down upon you, an overwhelming pressure, like a coldly scorching spotlight.
And yet, at the same time, you feel the animus building in your throat, the apprehension, an exhilaration struggling to break free from underneath. The doors call to you, welcome you, invite you to demand entry. You feel sick and on the verge of a breakthrough in equal measure.
You place your hand on the stone and you feel a rush, euphoria. Your heart thuds so loud in your chest you fear it may burst. You made it. You're at the finish line.
Just one problem.
There can only be one champion of Termina.
Your vision blurs and you feel a pounding in your chest. The air grows thicker than ever. Asa, Lavi, and Astarion all clutch their heads, fall to one knee, curl in on themselves. ]
U-uh... no, I...
This isn't part of the deal...!
...Shit. No, I can't...
Did my time run out...?
Cam, you gotta... you gotta run...!
What? How did you -- ...?!
No, I can't go back, I'd only just --
[ Their bodies break. The moonlight burns their skin, scorching it, melting them and twisting them, inviting ecdysis into new forms. All of them but you. ]
[The other names hit the choke on her throat and wither. Camille freezes.
Only one.
Who gets to choose? Does it have to be this way?
If she'd waited a moment longer, asked them to think for a minute...
Camille steps back. Adrenaline stiffens her posture, the unheeded exhiliration snaking through her veins to smother the fear. No.
Except she can't escape it. Watching them bend under unseen hands, their flesh burgeon. Warp. They're just kids, she thinks, futile. Pleading. He's been through so much already. ]
Please, no, no... [Useless whimpering. Hands in her hair, bargaining with gods who couldn't care less.] Not them, not them, please.
[She has seconds. If that. She knows they won't be themselves much longer. Weapons. Is she armed?
Three. All three. Friends, can't do it like this. Not to them.
She wrenches at the doors. Open, for the love of god. Don't make her do this.]
[ It's too late. No matter how you plead, the cold moon has no intention of listening -- wordless and far beyond your reach, despite how ominously and too-closely He seems to loom overhead. ]
This -- isn't -- help -- Yoru --
[ Asa screams, voice rough. Scars lacerate her entire body, ripping her open from unseen seams. Feathers and wings burst out, wet with blood, cracking out of her shell, but so does something else -- speartips of red-stained ivory, guts twisted into protruding claws, every knob of her vertebrae bursting through the back of her shirt into a series of blades ready to tear. A walking vessel of destruction, valkyrie ready to herald the coming of blood. Her eyes line with bright rings, barely visible as her very flesh ignites, the Devil of War as she should have been. Chainsaw Man can't save her now. The Asura rips out the protruding bone from what was once her stump of an arm, procuring a makeshift dagger and begins to march. ]
C-come on, Gramps... I didn't forget what we are, promise...
I just... I wanted just a little bit more time, is... I...
[ Lavi's ribcage cracks and snaps as he keels over, breath heavy and wheezing as he tries to hold on. He gives you one last regretful look as he loses himself. Eyes split open all across his body, but none look towards you -- instead, they're all too occupied with the pens of bone glued to each hand that bursts out of his body, forcing the curve of every rib closed over his beating and exposed heart. Around it, on pale flesh like parchment, they begin to write chronicles, records of the proceedings in the rotten city. They carve directly into his own flesh as if his body were nothing but a stone tablet. Only when the fervish writing runs dry do the eyes finally look towards you, Camille -- the Scribe spots a fresh inkpot of red. ]
I don't want to go back.
[ That's all Astarion manages out before his body changes too. Every joint breaks in a moment, twisting him cruelly as he grunts underwhelmingly despite agonising pain, deep cuts in ritual patterns across every inch of visible skin and more under cloth. His entire body becomes stained red, but the crimson concentrates itself in certain places. His wrists. His ankles. His neck. Cuffs and chains of blood as his body exsanguinates itself, turns himself into a dry corpse unfit for the light of day. The chains yank at him as they do an unwilling animal, forcing his dessicated body to bare bloodied fangs. The Thrall is ready to lash out, nothing but fear and ferality left in it.
The door doesn't budge. Only one champion, snickers a voice, and a helpful wave of bloodlust, panic, the onslaught of survival instinct to give you that helpful push. You have a gun, a knife, a small thing's amulet that blesses your reaction time and speed.
You didn't want to kill them... well, they're not themselves anymore, are they? Death would be a mercy, is the thought that floods your head. Surely you wouldn't leave them to suffer like this? It's two birds with one stone. ]
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no subject
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.]
no subject
Asa watches Camille empty out her guts with a mixture of disgust but pity, all sympathy of course. If her canon wasn't Chainsaw Man, she's sure she'd be the same. Lavi is grimly looking behind you all, keeping watch for any stray bobbies still patrolling the streets upholding some long-shattered definition of justice, or worse yet, bellends watching from the rooftops, ready to pounce with sharp iron spears in hand. Astarion, meanwhile, observes a corpse on a pike with a mixture of disdain but he dares to be impressed at the cruelty of it all. ]
...
I know we don't have any other ideas, but touching that feels like... a bad idea...
[ That's the last comment you hear as you approach the grand gates. If nothing else, you understand here in this moment why this tower was revered in ancient times. The carvings date back hundreds if not thousands of years and something about the structure commands authority and presence. You feel grand eyes down upon you, an overwhelming pressure, like a coldly scorching spotlight.
And yet, at the same time, you feel the animus building in your throat, the apprehension, an exhilaration struggling to break free from underneath. The doors call to you, welcome you, invite you to demand entry. You feel sick and on the verge of a breakthrough in equal measure.
You place your hand on the stone and you feel a rush, euphoria. Your heart thuds so loud in your chest you fear it may burst. You made it. You're at the finish line.
Just one problem.
There can only be one champion of Termina.
Your vision blurs and you feel a pounding in your chest. The air grows thicker than ever. Asa, Lavi, and Astarion all clutch their heads, fall to one knee, curl in on themselves. ]
This isn't part of the deal...!
Did my time run out...?
Cam, you gotta... you gotta run...!
No, I can't go back, I'd only just --
[ Their bodies break. The moonlight burns their skin, scorching it, melting them and twisting them, inviting ecdysis into new forms. All of them but you. ]
no subject
[The other names hit the choke on her throat and wither. Camille freezes.
Only one.
Who gets to choose? Does it have to be this way?
If she'd waited a moment longer, asked them to think for a minute...
Camille steps back. Adrenaline stiffens her posture, the unheeded exhiliration snaking through her veins to smother the fear. No.
Except she can't escape it. Watching them bend under unseen hands, their flesh burgeon. Warp. They're just kids, she thinks, futile. Pleading. He's been through so much already. ]
Please, no, no... [Useless whimpering. Hands in her hair, bargaining with gods who couldn't care less.] Not them, not them, please.
[She has seconds. If that. She knows they won't be themselves much longer. Weapons. Is she armed?
Three. All three. Friends, can't do it like this. Not to them.
She wrenches at the doors. Open, for the love of god. Don't make her do this.]
no subject
Yoru --
[ Asa screams, voice rough. Scars lacerate her entire body, ripping her open from unseen seams. Feathers and wings burst out, wet with blood, cracking out of her shell, but so does something else -- speartips of red-stained ivory, guts twisted into protruding claws, every knob of her vertebrae bursting through the back of her shirt into a series of blades ready to tear. A walking vessel of destruction, valkyrie ready to herald the coming of blood. Her eyes line with bright rings, barely visible as her very flesh ignites, the Devil of War as she should have been. Chainsaw Man can't save her now. The Asura rips out the protruding bone from what was once her stump of an arm, procuring a makeshift dagger and begins to march. ]
I just... I wanted just a little bit more time, is... I...
[ Lavi's ribcage cracks and snaps as he keels over, breath heavy and wheezing as he tries to hold on. He gives you one last regretful look as he loses himself. Eyes split open all across his body, but none look towards you -- instead, they're all too occupied with the pens of bone glued to each hand that bursts out of his body, forcing the curve of every rib closed over his beating and exposed heart. Around it, on pale flesh like parchment, they begin to write chronicles, records of the proceedings in the rotten city. They carve directly into his own flesh as if his body were nothing but a stone tablet. Only when the fervish writing runs dry do the eyes finally look towards you, Camille -- the Scribe spots a fresh inkpot of red. ]
[ That's all Astarion manages out before his body changes too. Every joint breaks in a moment, twisting him cruelly as he grunts underwhelmingly despite agonising pain, deep cuts in ritual patterns across every inch of visible skin and more under cloth. His entire body becomes stained red, but the crimson concentrates itself in certain places. His wrists. His ankles. His neck. Cuffs and chains of blood as his body exsanguinates itself, turns himself into a dry corpse unfit for the light of day. The chains yank at him as they do an unwilling animal, forcing his dessicated body to bare bloodied fangs. The Thrall is ready to lash out, nothing but fear and ferality left in it.
The door doesn't budge. Only one champion, snickers a voice, and a helpful wave of bloodlust, panic, the onslaught of survival instinct to give you that helpful push. You have a gun, a knife, a small thing's amulet that blesses your reaction time and speed.
You didn't want to kill them... well, they're not themselves anymore, are they? Death would be a mercy, is the thought that floods your head. Surely you wouldn't leave them to suffer like this? It's two birds with one stone. ]