imeeji_frontstage | Flowers of Heaven II: Star of Bethlehem

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Flowers of Heaven II: Star of Bethlehem

Who: lost(?) idols
Where: ???? a mysterious courtyard
When: day 490

[ You awaken to the feeling of cool stone at your back, and a night sky overhead.

All around is a courtyard—a wide circle of marble tile, alternating black and white, interspersed with stone benches and flowerbeds and ornamental trees, all lit by the lambent gleam of strangely vivid starlight.

It is beautiful. And it is decaying. The stone is cracked; the flowers wild and overflowing between the cracked stone; the trees bent and twisted with age, the ground around them littered with fallen fruit. There is a fountain in the center of this space, but it too is broken-down: the water sits stagnant, and nothing remains of the design except a basin and the shattered base of a once-golden sculpture.

—And surrounding it all are not walls, but dense mounds of kudzu, climbing over itself until it towers as high as any watchtower.

How did you get here?
The last thing you vaguely recall is a sudden fit of drowsiness. There’s no sign of any guide or host around, and your powers don’t currently work either. In fact, if you have any corruptions, whether mental or physical, they too are … gone? No, perhaps that's not quite it; you can still feel them—faint, like a phantom limb. Invisible, and unable to affect you.
But there is one notable exception to the rule: all wings, corruption-induced or not, remain in place, as natural as the starlight.

There are other idols around you, all waking up the same way. Is this meant to be some kind of game…? ]

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[Is there a smaller weapon? A knife or a dagger or something?]

[ there's a few smaller swords, spears, and some daggers. all of them are, similarly, strangely heavy for their size, with dull blades.

he's been in enough heart games; doesn't this feel kind of like a metaphor for something? ]

[It kind of does]

[Still, he'll see if he can take one of the smaller blades with him, before continuing on the stairs]

[ he certainly can; it's a heavy weight in his hand, but it's one he can carry.

still, though—heading down, and down, the light is still there but seems a little dimmer. and in the floor, occasionally, are gouges and scratches across the stone, and spatters of gold. ]

[He bends, briefly, to touch one of the splashes of gold]

[Is that what he thinks it is?]

[ DO YOU THINK IT'S BLOOD? ]

[HE DOES IN FACT]

[ hurricane: is this exploradora creepy or wet
me: what do you mean
hurricane: [ pulls out a chart explaining creepy and wet ]
me: it's a nice exploradora, sir
hurricane: goes into the exploradora

> it's creepy.

yeah it has the approximate consistency and vibe of blood. it's just, you know. gold ]

[Good times, good times]

[Going to carry on following the stairs, though he's decidedly warier now]

[ thankfully, there's no other sign of the living—and only the traces of the dead, although as he goes on the latter increase. there are rusted, broken, disused and discarded weapons strewn here and there, torn fabric, the remnants of old banners.

and the lights are very dim, now; it's hard to see more than a few feet ahead of him, and the weapon in his hands feels even heavier. every step feels like wading through a heavy mire. ]

Illuminate.

[There's a light on the knee of the leg Intensity made for him -- voice activated, if it will work in this place]

[ it turns on—though the light doesn't travel very far. like it's being covered by a blanket. perhaps it's just a property of this place. ]

[Perhaps it is]

[Either way, he presses on]

[ he presses on, on, on, as the light fades to just a dim glow. he can still see, kind of, but it's like walking at night, even with his leg flashlight on, and his footsteps echo strangely, in a dull way. he begins to feel sluggish, like even his limbs are becoming heavy. ]

[Surely there's something here, though; plainly with the spattered blood, someone has been here before him]

[He sets his jaw and presses on, tryinging to shrug off the lethargy]

[ and the light goes out.

there is a thickening sense of despair, of loss, of pointlessness and emptiness. it's almost enough to bring one into their knees—and might, if he doesn't keep pushing on with all his might, if he falters for a moment. what was in the water, before, when his fingers brushed it—here it is in the too-heavy air.

emptiness ought to be light, shouldn't it? but no, it is heavy—heavier than all the world. emptiness asks: here, in the dark, who is he? who is he, alone? ]

[He tucks one arm in around himself, as though to hold himself together. In the other, he grasps the dagger, so much heavier than his own blades -- holds to it tightly as he takes another step, and then another, and then another]

[Of course the emptiness is heavy]

[He knows that better than anyone, doesn't he?]

[Here in the dark, in the endless nothing, he knows who he is all too well -- knows what he's capable of, and what he isn't. He's had a long, long time alone, after all, to come to terms with it]

[And still he presses on]

[ he steels his resolve; here, in the dark, here, in the depths of the tower beneath, where the last of the light has faded and all is silent, where he is alone. where emptiness will not break him.

and then there is a sound like a drop of water—drip, drop, falling into a pool, and sending ripples tinged with light out from a center point somewhere ahead of him, roughly illuminating the shape of a circular body of water. ]

[He blinks against the darkness -- steps forward, toward the pool of water]

[ standing, moving—suddenly feels strangely light, and almost too light, like he's in a space with no gravity, the space between worlds, except there are no stars.

great gashes like scars are carved into the walls—if they can even be called "walls," still, in this strange void. they no longer bleed gold, but are inlaid with ice that stays frozen. only the path to the pool (again, if it can even be called that) is unmarred. and on the surface of the water—

every time a drop falls, there's a fleeting glimpse of a face, partially obscured by bars of darkness. across the pool is an empty chair—a throne, really—of polished dark horn. ]

[He had meant to touch the gashes along the walls, but as soon as that face appears in the pool he starts forward, closing the distance to its edge as fast as his legs will carry him]

-- Mehniel?!

[ the water is clean, and pure—even though it looks ink-black, like a mirror surface in the dark. and just for a moment, the face mirrored in the surface seems to turn toward him, looking surprised— ]

Hurricane? Is it truly—?

[ and then tendrils of water wrap around Hurricane's arm, and pull him beheath the surface. ]

[ darkness.

—and then, when he finds himself surfacing again, he's at the top of the stairs once more, the courtyard just at his back. ]

Mehniel?!

[He turns, disoriented and dripping -- looks first one way and then the other, half expecting to see him here]

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