EVENT ∞ LOG — July 125

[thediadem]

Event ∞ Log

In the Flesh

Jump ⇅ :: Visits — First Contact — Hitchhikers — Notes

∞ Prologue ∞

It's not real, it's not real.

Somewhere in the Blocks, late at night, a young woman repeats the words over and over, fumbling with her room key. She doesn't dare look over her shoulder again, begging her hand to obey. Her fingers are stiff and smooth, and it makes each movement more difficult. Eventually, the door gives way. She stumbles into the apartment, slamming it behind her and locking several bolts.

Leaning back on the door, she lets her key ring fall to the linoleum as she holds her hand up to her face. It isn't just her fingers now. Painted plastic has taken over her entire right hand, spreading up her forearm toward a ball-jointed elbow that creaks painfully. She grabs her neck with her flesh hand, sucking in a sharp breath as she tries to steady her heart.

It's not real, it's not real...

She takes another breath, then turns on the light. The bulb flickers. Hazy light flood the room with an incessant buzz.

She freezes.

A figure stands in the opposite doorway. It doesn't move, stuck in a pose with an outstretched hand—one made of flesh and bone. Her hand.

She screams.

Info & Mechanics — NPC Forum Post — Event Interaction ::: ⇅ Top

Strange Visits

Panorama

For the first week or two of July, life goes on as usual. You have a lot on your plate—jobs, loans, rent, that creep who won't stop staring at you when you're filling up your car—and the last thing you've got time for is other people's problems. Or maybe you find room to listen, anyway? Whatever the case, it's mostly a lot of stories and pointing fingers: a shopkeeper accuses his friend of stealing from him, somebody claims their boss must've skipped town to avoid paying the employees, and a woman is frantic about her missing husband. He never goes anywhere without telling her.

If you decide to look into it, none of the incidents seem connected. After all, people frequently go missing in the Diadem, friends betray each other, and businesses often go bankrupt, leaving their workers to pick up the pieces. Funny thing, though: here and there, you swear you glimpse a figure who isn't entirely flesh. Their features are just...a bit odd. Is it your imagination? When you move in for a closer look, something gets in your way and the figure disappears.

On the other hand, you think to yourself, it's not as though everybody on this planet looks standard. If a man can have horns, why can't his skin also be a bit plasticky?

Use the Event Interaction comment any time you need specifics or some direction for an element you're engaging within the event. This can be an NPC victim your character is questioning, an aspect of the diffusion zone your character is testing, or anything along those veins. While you're encouraged to make things up on your own, too, if you're ever unsure of the results or the answers you might get, approach us there!

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First Contact

The Fringes

Inevitably, you take the risk and head back into the Fringes. It has what you need, and the bizarreness in Panorama isn't making the city feel like much of a refuge, either. Besides, long trips aren't unusual for anyone in the Diadem. As you drive, you might even find yourself reluctant to return to the city. After all, there's so much across the multitude of diffusion zones that regardless of how dangerous it can be, perhaps some part of you is attracted to the thrill of the unknown.

If the promise of loot isn't enough, a note on the Forum might be. Here, you'll scroll across a brief message from who else but the ever-eager Felix Bjurstrom, joined by his daughter, Olive "Ollie" Bjurstrom. (Looks like he's got a new phone again!) If nothing else, the investigative or curious nature in you gets you going. What if this is a piece of the puzzle you need to go home?

If you want your character to scavenge items, check how that works. The Map identifies where each Quadrant is located.

Among the Shadows — Abandoned Mall

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 10-hour drive from Panorama, a standard American shopping mall rises through the cracked and broken highway. A portion of its vast parking lot melts into the road ahead and behind. There are cars in the parking lot, each one perfectly preserved: no rust, no dust, nothing.

The mall's lights are on. The moment you step inside, you'll notice that you're not alone. Inside, shadow corpses are everywhere, frozen in time. Their bodies show no signs of distress. If you try to touch them, a dark, ashy residue coats your fingers. You see a young couple linking arms, a mother bending over to pick up her child, and a man ordering his last meal at the KFC. It's as though they all just...stopped. While eerie, whatever force swept through here is long gone.

The upside is that nobody will bother you while you look around—aside from other fluxdrifts, of course. The shops and their offerings are stuck in the 90's. Big electronics are cosmic touched, rendering them worthless, but smaller electronics like cassette tapes, CDs, and Walkmans are all viable. You can also grab clothes, snacks, and (cheap) jewelry.

And, as you pass by the store windows, you see many mannequins on display. That's normal, so you don't think twice. At least, until you swear one of them keeps moving around the store. Though its pose never changes, it almost appears to...follow you? That can't be right. You must be seeing things.

Zone Effects
Touching any of the frozen shadows will cause the victim to believe that their companion(s) have transformed into monstrous creatures. Attempts to approach you will only register as an attack rather than placating gestures, while words will sound like snarls or spoken threats. An induced panic will make it more difficult to think logically and see through the hallucination. The illusory creatures can take the form of anything that might frighten or threaten you the most.

You can break free of the illusion through a variety of methods, including your own willpower, being knocked out by your friends, or seeing/hearing something that makes you realize it isn't real. The hallucination isn't overly intense, but it can cause a bit of havoc among you and your companions...and increase the likelihood a mannequin might make contact unnoticed.

Wall of Refuge — Strange Temple

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 6-hour drive from Panorama—and on the way to the abandoned mall above—stands a geometric structure made of metal and stone. Sharp angles shoot up from the ground to form a distorted hexagon. The gateway is littered with sigils: some weathered by time, others freshly carved into the rocky surface. They glow when you drive forward, beckoning you closer. Come in, whispers an unknown compulsion in your mind. You are home.

You may succumb to the whispers for any number of reasons: sleep deprivation, desperation for a place to rest overnight, or a need to hide from raiders or dangerous creatures lurking in another nearby zone. Regardless, you give in and enter the triangular entrance. The stone gate lifts to grant you passage, revealing an effigy of a multi-limbed being. A deity? A symbol of power? Though you're unsure, you continue deeper. Your footsteps echo across the cavernous halls.

Behind you, the heavy gate slowly closes with a rumbling finality. Despite the chilly entranceway, the interior of the temple is warm and inviting. Candles line the walls. Fountains flow peacefully. You can enter one of the many rooms to find a soft bed, fresh cakes, succulent meat, and fine wine available for you. Behind a silk curtain is a steaming bath lined with soothing floral herbs and oils.

Meanwhile, throughout your explorations, you might sense a figure or a shadow in the passageway. A glimpse of shiny plastic appears oddly out of place in a temple of this kind.

Zone Effects

• If you are a believer and decide to trust the gifts bestowed upon you, then you may safely indulge. The wine will warm you up, the food will fill your belly, and you can sleep through the night. When you awaken, you can safely leave the temple refreshed. Your vehicle will be outside, untouched, as if some power within was protecting your belongings.
• If you are a heretic and doubt the offerings you've been graciously given, the gifts will begin to rot and all amenities will crumble to dust. The more your cynicism betrays you, the more the temple will take until nothing remains except the oddly textured walls bearing down on you. As you examine the surface, you realize the stone is built from a manifold of dozens—no, hundreds—of twisted bodies. Their arms are raised in reverence, piled upon each other like human bricks. Their gaping mouths are frozen in a silent scream. As for you and your companions...what fate will await the nonbeliever?

The Last Stop — Foggy Town

©

In Quadrant 4, about a 3-hour drive from Panorama, east of the currently unused train tracks, a thick mist rolls through the highway. Here, the sky darkens rapidly into night and the temperature drops. If you've traveled unprepared, presuming the heat in Panorama spreads into the Fringes, you'll find that's not so. A chill spreads into your bones and creeps up the back of your neck.

Then the ground rumbles. The tremors shake your vehicle. Maybe it even makes you lose control briefly or sends you swerving off-road, straight into the fields. And in the middle of the fog, you see it: a figure standing in the middle of the field. Behind it are a few houses, making up a tiny rural town. The houses are dilapidated, many crumbling. Supplies within are minimal, and many items are broken or spoiled.

Do you approach? Do you drive past? Merely staring for a second too long will be enough for the hitchhiker to choose you as its ride, but its appearance may not be all that keeps you in place. In the distance is another bigger shadow. A much bigger shadow. It looms in the distance without true mass or form. Within the void of its body, a searchlight sweeps over the misty town. It does not move. It simply looks while the ground shakes. Each time its light catches a glimpse of something that doesn't belong—an animal, a vehicle that drove too deep into the tall grass, a raider that went too far into town—a sonorous howl reverberates through the zone.

Then the shadow will teleport to its target and crush the intruder without mercy before retreating back to its watchful post. And the intruder is indeed crushed: any living organism caught by the Light Guardian will be flattened with a horrifying crunch of broken bones and squished organs.

Zone Effects
While the Light Guardian can't be defeated or confronted, you can outrun or hide from its sweeping beam. If you stop far enough on the side of the road, it won't notice you...but you can still watch as it mangles an unfortunate raider or traveler. Possibly, you see the spray of blood or hear the screams before you run. Perhaps you realize how easily you could've met your own gory fate.

If you've left your car and gone too deep into the town before you realize the danger, you can do one of two things: you can risk hiding in an abandoned house in the town and hope that the sunrise comes. In zones like this, the day/night cycle is unpredictable, and many places are permanently cast in darkness. Or, you can try to run back to your vehicle and pray you don't get caught.

Alternatively, you've plowed directly into the field when raiders in pursuit force you into the zone. Should fortune favor you, they'll be obliterated by the Light Guardian while you flee. The beam tracks quickly, but can only shine in one direction at a time so the key is to bob and weave.

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Hitchhikers

Anywhere

Not everyone who enters the diffusion zone will pick up a mannequin, but the possibility is there. Once you make first contact, you will gain a hitchhiker. Unlike most aspects of the diffusion zones, this one has gathered into a storm, meaning the effects will breach even normally stable and anchored strongholds like Panorama.

Some fluxdrifts will brush off your problems while a few might believe you. Others will offer solutions in their own way, including a doctor who'll pay to obtain strange plastic limbs. Not everyone will pitch in to help. The city's big, populated, and somebody on the street turning doll-like doesn't affect them (...until it does). They've got a job to get to and mouths to feed.

Unwanted Passenger

When do you first notice your passenger? At any point, really. Perhaps it goes like this:

You glance in the rearview mirror and glimpse a figure in the backseat. When you spin around, there's nobody there. Then it happens again. This time, you realize it's not a person, but a dummy. A mannequin. It's sitting upright. And is it...wearing a seatbelt? Or maybe it's thrown itself across the back bench as though somebody tossed it there, uncaring.

This time, when you look back, it's still there. You pull over and dump it on the side of the road. That's taken care of, you think. You drive some more. For a few hours or even a day or two—depending on how long you've traveled—you don't think much of it. Then suddenly, it's back. And it keeps coming back no matter how much you try to get rid of it.

Or it goes like this:

You return from a standard trip into a diffusion zone. It went pretty well, you think. You found some clothes at a creepy mall and now you're ready to get some sleep. When you open your trunk to retrieve your belongings, you notice a mannequin stuffed inside, limbs bent at odd angles. You're a little weirded out, but you decide to dump it on the street and move on.

You shower. In the bathroom mirror, the mannequin suddenly appears behind you. Over the next few days, this continues. The mannequin appears in a booth across the diner as you're eating your eggs. It's behind a shelf in the corner store. It's in your closet. Each time you check, it vanishes...but then, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's right there in plain view. It'll even let you throw it away, burn it, anything you can think of. But it always comes back.

However it plays out, you realize that people around you do notice it...sometimes. That doesn't mean anyone will believe you that things are just that weird. Most people have better things to do. They don't know you, after all, and even if they did, well, this place does have a habit of driving people a little crazy. Witnesses casually push the mannequin aside and tell you that's a funny prank. Your regular waitress pats your shoulder and suggests you get some sleep. You're not looking well. The shopkeeper demands you take that thing before you go. He's not responsible for your junk.

But there's a small chance you run into someone who seems to be going through what you are. Unfortunately, they seem to actually have it worse and aren't making much sense. Still, you can try questioning them and see what answers you get. At least, before you lose them for good. For some of you, the victim you run into is in especially bad shape...and you have to wonder how long before you end up the same.

Trading Places

For some of you, the mannequins might not do more than be a nuisance. While that's not ideal, either, it doesn't completely upend your life. Others are less fortunate. If you're one of the latter, you'll begin to notice symptoms.

The first time it happens, you're startled to hear the mannequin speak. To begin with, its voice might be guttural and unnatural, incapable of stringing more than a few words together. Then it seems to learn. It talks in full sentences. Its voice smooths out. It starts to sound more and more like you...right down to your speech patterns and accent. As symptoms progress with varying intensity—over days or weeks—you realize with dawning horror that you're losing parts of yourself. When you wash your hands, you notice a part of your skin is smooth and shiny. The next time the mannequin appears, its previously plasticky appearance is more flesh and blood.

Eventually, the mannequin becomes independent. It shops with your money. It steals while wearing a face that looks nearly identical to yours, especially from a distance. It calls your friend and says the things you would never say out loud to them. They're thoughts you've had, sure, but you know better than to hurt your friend's feelings...except apparently, you have. And now you can't even use your own voice to explain yourself. Your leg has been getting stiff. Your joints don't bend properly.

Meanwhile, the mannequin is now striding around smoothly. Its appearance is still uncanny and odd if anyone pays attention, but at a glance, it easily passes as a part of the crowd. As its final act, it's even absorbed small bits of your abilities if you have any. Not all of them, but enough to cause trouble. Throughout everything, you cannot harm your hitchhiker. Some unknown force stops you any time you think about it. You simply can't.

Related Incidents

The impact isn't contained only to those directly affected. The hitchhikers' influence spreads through the city. For some incidents, it's difficult to trace back to the source. For others, that's a little easier. Regardless, these occurrences could help you determine how to solve your own situation. Alternatively, if you've escaped unscathed, you can still find yourself dragged into a situation involving someone else.

Return to Sender

July 11 — The Forum: An anonymous poster contributes this bit of information that might catch the eye of those affected. You can try the same method, but it's a risk going back into the diffusion zones. No one can guarantee the specific zone you found the mannequin in is still standing. Further, you have to remember where you made contact to begin with.

If you decide to try it, be sure to take a friend. The less independent the hitchhiker, the more likely it will stick to your side even as you return it home. If the assimilation has progressed too far, though, you might have to utilize methods such as duct taping inside your trunk or strapping it down with ropes. It may struggle and say vile things to you or your companion.

Victimless Burn Victims

July 14 @ 03:00 — The Pavilion (East End): A handful of troublemakers grabbed some freaky mannequins wandering the street and, in a drunken stroke of genius, set them all on fire for no reason other than that they wanted to. Not only has this resulted in damage to the corner store nearby, but Enforcers have linked the incident to four hospitalizations at roughly the same time. Doctors from Saint Margery's Hospital (located in the Blocks) report that all four individuals suffered massive shock and claim to have endured unimaginable agony as if they had been "set on fire."

Curiously, none of them bear any physical wounds and, by all accounts, are completely fine (trauma aside). Notably, all four individuals were also suffering from various stages of "joint stiffness" and "hallucinations"...which have since completely vanished. You might wonder, is this the solution? Or perhaps the better question would be, is it worth it?

The Sculptor

July 15 — The Pavilion (Medical Clinic): Around July 14 onward, word begins to spread that a Dr. Maggie Wright (who insists on being called the Sculptor, though nobody seems to heed this request) will not only do an amputation for free, she will pay you for your limb if you are boasting an "unusual trophic change to the skin, resulting in a smooth and shiny texture." All she asks is she gets to keep the sample. Her promise is that she will study it to find a more permanent cure and, if she does, she will return the limb to you for reattachment.

Some end up trusting her. You wonder, maybe she could help? Dr. Wright will happily accept you as her patient if you agree. Her methods are indeed proper and sterile: she'll put you under and provide you with plenty of pain meds. She appears to have all of the equipment required to preserve the limb, too.

If you're suspicious, you can also pay her a visit, but you won't have much luck getting her in trouble or sniffing out any evidence of nefarious deeds. Her office hasn't got anything strange, she is indeed a real surgeon, and there are testimonials from patients who've had success under her care in the past. Plus, nobody's going to her who isn't doing so voluntarily (they've signed waivers)—even if you could argue how much desperation plays into their decision. Still...the thing about her "title" is a bit weird, right?

Dr. Maggie Wright is 5'2, Caucasian with a light Northeastern accent and silver hair often worn in a bun. She's in her 50s and looks fairly good for her age. Her voice is soothing. She has intense, wide blue eyes, which some might find unnerving, but that's not necessarily her fault.

∞ Notes ∞

• Mannequin contact is not required. Not everybody who goes into the diffusion will make first contact, and many won't. Characters can explore the mall, the temple, and the foggy field without ever picking up a hitchhiker.
• The diffusion zones described are only examples. Others will exist where mannequins can be found, including grocery stores, gas stations, abandoned parks, and more. You can make up your own, but check with us if you have any questions about limitations!
• The speed and intensity of all mechanics are entirely up to you. Generally, the earlier a character makes first contact, the more severe their consequences.
• Investigating the zones or helping others are perfectly fine ways to participate! Since the hitchhikers are meant to be more insidious, it won't be strange if your character isn't in the middle of the action right away or notices things a bit late.

Questions? Ask here

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Comments

[faithfall]

[ Adrian shrugs, as if to say why not? It's not really surprising that a god would ignore a warlock like Adrian, but surely it's different for someone like Marc, with his vestments. Even violence is a form of devotion, and higher powers want nothing less than that.

The only god of Asgard that he knows is Tyr, who now belongs to Faerûn's pantheon in truth. Still, it's curious that they have any commonality. He's noticed that with more than one person. Adrian cocks his head to the side. ] I've been meaning to ask — are you a cleric of some sort? Who is this god of yours?

[ He doesn't think the question is forward in the least. Most religious men love to speak of their gods, given the chance.

Even despite his casual tone, Adrian's gaze seems to catch on Marc's arm, on his knee. A life steeped in violence is often haunted by an echo of pain, so he can't be entirely certain that these are new injuries and not old ones, but the flash of something he'd thought he'd seen earlier lingers at the back of his mind.

One thing at a time. He suspects that Marc will get fussy once he asks after those injuries, and he wants to indulge his curiosity first.

Adrian turns back to the statue, though he's still addressing Marc. He folds his arms, but one of his hands rises to rest at the center of his chest, fingers slightly curled, as if they mean to hold something that isn't there. He can feel his pact mark hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt, cold even now. ] Is your god so possessive of you that they would come into conflict with others? You certainly live dangerously, for someone so coveted...

[vestments]

( the first question earns a sidelong glance. cleric isn't the word marc would use, although he supposes it's correct, and he meets adrian's canted head with a soft mm of acknowledgement. )

Sure. ( agreement in as much as it matters, punctuated by barely a breath as he adds, ) Khonshu. Egyptian god of the moon. ( a slightly longer beat this time, and a softer concession in the form of, ) Earth.

( he hadn't asked where adrian was from the last time they'd met, and it seems foolish to assume they're from the same place — not that it means he asks now. if adrian's not from earth, there's very little guarantee marc will have heard of the place he's from, and specifics seem far from relevant without context.

it's a not-especially-helpful answer that lingers in the momentary silence between them, as marc weighs up his response to the rest of it. maybe his answre would be different, if it were just the 'is your god so possessive?', because that's simple. khonshu is controlling and possessive in equal measure, jealous and tempestuous. marc and khonshu may rarely see eye-to-eye; khonshu may have threatened to replace marc more than once, but he'd still chosen marc. someone else deciding to take away his toy and play with it would be the swiftest, easiest way to discover just why khonshu's discovered the god of vengeance, too.

which, perhaps, ties into the rest of it—. )

He's a miserable bastard. ( blunt. to the point. not exactly bitter, not in the way it would have been some years ago, before marlene had left (for the final time) and jean-paul (for the final time), when gena had first decided that she was done with marc's shit, even if that meant being done with jake, too, but there is a chord of unhappiness. )

Violence is what he asks for.

( adrian isn't looking his way, his attention all but fixed on the statue, but that doesn't stop marc from studying him — the way he holds himself, the way his fingers curl. marc doesn't say that it's been a long process of trying to work out how to balance what khonshu wants with what marc's prepared to give and prepared to lose. that while questioning might have been how he'd abandoned one god before ending up at khonshu's feet, that didn't mean he'd stopped pushing back.

instead— )

And how many gods have you encountered that are reasonable?

[faithfall]

I've heard of Earth from some of the others who are stranded here, but not your god.

[ He realizes a bit belatedly that he should have explained, perhaps, but it's all too easy to take such knowledge for granted. A cleric is something very specific, as he understands it; one who has been chosen by a God to carry their divine power, fueled by their piety and religious fervor. One who devoted, and who sees that devotion returned. (If Marc has magic, he hasn't seen it, but there are many kinds of gods and many kinds of clerics.)

He expects Marc to speak of Khonshu's virtue, even to deny that he's worthy of it, but the actual response causes Adrian to turn to him in surprise, as if he isn't certain he's heard it right. The expression settles just as quickly as it comes, easing into something like understanding.

He doesn't bat an eye when Marc continues; a god requesting violence from their followers is in no way unusual. Of course his god is jealous and possessive. Marc gives him what he requires.

Still, it seems a difficult life. He doesn't know if he feels pity or jealousy. He turns away again. ]

A fair point. [ He replies, at length. ] Why would any god be humbled by sharing what they possesses?

[ Adrian's gaze is unfocused as he looks at the statue. ] My patron isn't a god, but he has been with me since I was too young to form words. Violence is what he asks for as well. Violence and purity, as if one justifies the other.

[ Thoughtlessly, his fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. ] Though his gifts are still with me, I have not heard his voice since before my arrival here. Whether he cannot reach me, or chooses not to, I can't say. Perhaps it should be a relief. [ He turns back to Marc. ] Can Khonshu reach you from his prison? Do you know?

[vestments]

( marc makes an odd sound when adrian says his gifts are still with him, one part acknowledgment to two parts grunt that borders on derisiveness and deliberate disinterest. the only thing he's been given from khonshu is his fucking life back, and how's that worked out for him? whatever quote-unquote gifts and knowledge a fist of khonshu was supposed to receive, marc never has. marc had never known about them, not until badr took one look at him and asked what the fuck?

it hangs between them for longer than likely seems necessary, quiet, discomforted agitation sitting beneath marc's skin. he doesn't fidget with his clothes, but his gaze does slide over the temple as if looking for something else to fix his attention on and, in finding nothing, he decides quite abruptly to sit on the floor instead, knees drawn up to his chest.

I don't know.
I don't care.

which answer should he give? which one's true?
(not the second, not really—.) )

No. ( he taps the fingers of his right hand against his thigh, expression taut, unhappy. he doesn't bother to clarify what he's answering, not in any obvious way, but he does circle round to a vague explanation in the shape of, ) I died. ( dispassionate and certain, like marc's commenting on the sky being blue or water being wet: a regular, expected occurrence. what he doesn't make clear is if that's an equal measure response to adrian sharing that his ...patron, his not-god has been with him since he was a child, or whether it's referring to events immediately preceding panorama. )

The Aesir have limited his power. That's the point of being in jail. ( it's the verbal equivalent of a shrug. ) I don't have proof of whether his silence is them or here or him. ( marc's fairly certain it's the latter, and he's still not certain how he feels about it. khonshu had said he was proud, but marc hadn't prayed to khonshu. hadn't spoken to him in his final moments. the god he'd spoken to had been his father's. the one he'd turned his back on. ) But he's petty. ( and marc isn't? well. ) If he doesn't want to answer, he won't. But yeah, something like that—.

( he extends an arm and points at the statue. )

—Would get a reaction. What father abandons his son?

( the thin, grim humour in his tone is punctuated by a sharp glance up to the ceiling of the temple, and there's a momentary tug at the corner of his lips as he thinks, I know you can hear me. that hasn't been a question, not for a long time. marc's long since stopped wondering if he's mad for trying to speak to a god that rarely chooses to answer; thinks he preferred the days when he didn't know if what he was doing was what khonshu wanted, if khonshu was real or if marc was just—.

(and yet, who would he be? what would he have?) )

—Vengeance. ( seemingly apropos nothing, but it's a belated response to 'violence and purity, as if they're the same thing'. khonshu would think so. ) His duty is to protect the travellers of the night. His duty's my duty. Even here.

[faithfall]

[ It's complicated, is what that sound tells him. Complicated in ways that Adrian has rarely tried to articulate to anyone, and Marc isn't terribly keen on working through, either.

In a way, the answer doesn't really matter. Whether their patrons have chosen to be silent or have had no choice at all, the fact of their silence remains. He doesn't even know why he asked the question. He already knows what will happen if Raphael ever sees him again.

Marc's matter of-a-fact admission manages to drag him out of his own self-pity and exchange it for confusion, if nothing else. Adrian frowns, trying to puzzle out what he means, when it seems almost like a non sequitur. He isn't undead... At least, not in any way that's obvious to Adrian.

Marc seems so certain that any pact with any other deity would call Khonshu's wrath regardless of the circumstances. Father and son. The assertion seems almost blasphemous, even with the twist of dark humor in it. Perhaps that's just another difference between them. ]

We can find somewhere more comfortable to sit if that leg is bothering you. [ Offered absently, without judgement. ]

Raphael and I haven't always seen eye to eye either, I will admit... but you might be surprised. Deities abandon their faithful all of the time. [ Adrian flashes him a tired smile before stepping forward to investigate the offering of food. ] Before I came here, I was transported to a place called Barovia. Something else took possession of my bond when I arrived there. It was only later that I understood what had happened, and even then I had no way to rectify it. Even now, I don't know why my abilities are functional here, or what exactly has facilitated it this time. I only know that it isn't something good.

[ There's a certain frankness to his tone, calm and disconnected. As much as he twists himself into knots about all of this, a part of him is already resigned. He plucks an apple from the table, turning it over in his hands as if he expects it to rot. ] I don't have your faith, Mr. Spector, but I can see why your god favors you so. You died, you said... Did he bring you back? To continue your shared duty?

I had no idea that I was so lucky to have nearly died at night, instead of daytime. [ He can't resist teasing, even if Marc doesn't find it all that funny. ]

[vestments]

( it's not funny, and the way that marc's head jerks and his eyes narrow says as much. don't mock his duty, adrian. what it does do, at least, is replace the vague bristling at adrian's I don't have your faith — marc would argue he doesn't have faith. he doesn't believe in khonshu, not like that, hasn't for a long time, and more than that, khonshu isn't worthy.

and yet here marc is, fist of khonshu, with nothing else to him. no title. no attempt to make another path for himself, even on a world where khonshu has made no attempt to reach out. khonshu has threatened it before — finding a new fist, of leaving marc to marc's own devices, to try and find a way to fill that void within him by himself — but it's never come to fruition. these days, marc thinks it's not as simple as all that; marc thinks he'll have to die before khonshu can replace him, and he knows this isn't where he ends up.

(he doesn't mention that it — gods abandoning their people — rubs him the wrong way for reasons other than that, other than khonshu. silence and a lack of answers had been why he'd abandoned the god he'd grown up with, his father's god; why he'd turned his back on his people, his history. it's guilt, then, and shame, not because he truly thinks that his father's god had abandoned them, but because he hadn't been able to put aside his ego and his pride and his shallowness to realise it until it was too late.

the doubt had been the point—.)

it's with irritation, then, that he answers adrian's question before moving on to anything else— ) I died. He made me an offer. I agreed. ( it's clipped and terse and it's obvious there are details missing, but marc makes no move to fill them in. ) With debt and duty agreed, Fists of Khonshu don't die.

( it's contradictory, and marc won't acknowledge it: he's died, countless times, and khonshu's brought him back, but saying he doesn't die reframes it, makes it less about the cost, about what he's given up each time.

perhaps fortunately for adrian, the conversation hasn't taken enough of a turn for marc to insist that he in spite of that, he's a dead man, a ghost, a spectre of the moon (get it—?) )

And my leg's fine. ( abrupt, with no attempt at a segue between the two topics. his leg, of course, is not fine, but.

he could ask what took possession of adrian's bond, but he doesn't; he doesn't ask what adrian's abilities are (curiosity is not an inherent trait). what he does say is— ) Where I'm from, Raphael's an angel. A healer. ( the question, then, of what raphael is to adrian, is implied. )

—Be careful with the offerings.

[faithfall]

[ Adrian clears his throat in a way that's oddly suspicious, as if something Marc has said is funny and he knows that laughing would be inappropriate or insane. Fern would be glad to know that someone else has seen fit to warn him at a time like this, but he needn't have bothered. If all this god can offer is bounty, Adrian has no need of it... yet. He slips the apple into his his component pouch without trying to hide it.

Marc seems to jump between one topic and the next with no clear rhyme or reason, but Adrian doesn't mind, really. He can only loosely describe what he used to do with Raphael as 'talk' when his messages were so often feelings, dreams, and visions. Interpreting the disjointed flow of conversation isn't so difficult in comparison, even if it does still take him a several moments to sort through it all. ]

Raphael gave me the gift of healing, but that was my price for services rendered. For a being like him, the affliction of a single body is trivial, and evil is an infection in the world that must be purged. I understand, to a degree. For creatures like us, evil can change our very nature in a way that can't be reversed, but people are... complex. There should be redemption, for those who would seek it.

[ It's a slip of the tongue, us instead of them. In this particular way, he's more like Raphael than he is like Marc. ]

I suspect that he would like you. I also suspect that they share a name and an affinity, but my Raphael is not the same as yours. [ He turns back to Marc, a wave of his hand dismissing the idea. He doesn't know that really, but he knows how uncomfortable it makes people from Earth, if Martin's reaction is anything to go by. Marc seems to have more than enough on his plate in that regard.

Still, it's funny, hearing someone else describe nearly the exact same sequence of events that Adrian himself had once followed. When his dear friend had almost died, he'd finally given in and reached out to Raphael to plead for her life. He'd agreed to the path he had never wanted, with someone else's life in the balance, but he would be furious if anyone suggested it was anything but a choice... for him. For Marc, however— Adrian isn't above being a hypocrite. ]

It sounds like you were taken advantage of when you had no options left. To be committed only to violence and unable to die... is that not a curse? [ He really has no room to talk, but it's fine. Marc doesn't know. It's fine if it's him— it's not fine if it's someone else. ] Is your plan to wait until you die and hope that your god revives you, perhaps with limbs made of flesh again?

[ It's a gamble, of course, but Adrian has treated enough injuries to have a fair idea of what he's seeing. ]

[vestments]

( he does catch the 'us', and there's a slight shift to the angle he holds his head, gaze studious, curious. he's not certain it means much of anything about adrian beyond how he sees himself versus what he does and what he does it for, but there's no polite way to ask 'do you not see yourself as a person?' so for the immediate moment, he says nothing.

he says nothing still when adrian suggests that his raphael is not the raphael that marc's familiar with — marc imagines it's an interesting coincidence that might say something, but he's the last person to have an idea of what. while adrian's confirmed his is no god, and neither is the raphael marc knows of, that doesn't mean adrian's is an angel. doesn't even mean they have the same origins beyond a shared linguistic background, which— whatever, the multiverse has always been weird.

but all of that — the mild acceptance — dissipates as soon as adrian suggests marc didn't have a choice. while adrian had made an effort not to laugh — marc's painfully familiar with the way that a person clears their throat when they're trying not to react to something he's said, and he's long since stopped lingering on the whys — marc makes no similar attempt. his is a short, sharp heh, and the brief curve to his lips is less a smile and more a bitter twist as he retorts, ) I had options. ( he's had this conversation before. "no-one would blame you for wanting to live, marc", his doctor had said, and—

well. that's not true, is it?

he leans forward, weight resting on his knees as he looks up at adrian. his tone's low, firm — not cold, but decisive, like he's explaining something that's wholly factual. )

What you don't get, ( or don't have the benefit of knowing, ) is that I was committed to violence anyway. That was how I lived. I had the choice to leave that behind— ( by dying? sure. that's ... apparently a choice, if you're marc. ) —But I chose to continue it. ( unlike andrea, marc's therapist, adrian doesn't get the admission of what that'd meant. ) I wanted it. So if I'm cursed, ( enunciated carefully, like he finds the concept funny and ridiculous, ), I brought it on myself.

( rather pointedly and with a tight flick of his hand towards himself, he adds, )

I assume where you're from has mercenaries. ( or: get your pity out of here. which, that said— ) So that leaves the question of, what does that make you? You said 'creatures like us'.

( it's asked as he finally moves to stand back up, awkward and stiff, and it's frustrating, but not as irritating as adrian's dig. he dusts himself off, slowly and carefully, straightens his tie and for a beat, two, doesn't meet adrian's gaze. he hadn't sat down because of that, it was just more comfortable than standing—.

a little snapped, then, in the brief silence between them. )

Didn't you hear me the first time? Khonshu has no power here. If I die, I die. ( ...probably. he'd expected to be dead-dead before and, well. here he is. )

[faithfall]

[ He offers a gloved hand to help Marc up; if he's is unwilling to take it, Adrian doesn't take offense. ]

Well, then, you ought to try avoiding it for a chance of pace. [ Dying, he means. He doesn't think that Marc finds anything he says to be particularly funny, but Adrian isn't entirely joking.

The struggle to get up has made it even more obvious that a simple amputation can't be the solution to Marc's current problem. He might not know the man all that well, but can't imagine Marc resting long enough to heal, let alone sticking to a plan to recover, or learning to accommodate the loss of a limb. ] Could this not be an opportunity to try again, to let yourself have something good, in spite of the violence? In addition to it, if you must. Your god has no power here, and yet you think of nothing but how to worship him.

[ He can't help himself. He steps forward and tugs Marc's lapel to straighten it with a slightly exasperated air, like it's been bothering him for the entire time they've been here. He's been months on the road now, himself, so he ought to be less fussed, but no one else wanders around in the equivalent of dinner party attire, and for a very good reason. His lady mother would have a fit at the state of this suit, let alone the way he'd dragged his knees across the dirty floor. Vestments that have seen too many days of wear.

A part of him knows that it's a hopeless cause to ask someone like Marc to look after himself but, even so, he feels compelled. ]

I owe you my life, Mr. Spector. So, as a mercenary, you will of course require me to pay my debt, and you won't argue if I aid you in tracking your wayward mannequin. As payment. [ He gives the lapel a final pat. ] I'm nearly certain I spotted it in here earlier. Shall we?

[ He was never going to give Marc an option on this particular point, not from the moment he'd heard his approach... but this is a nice segue, and a good enough excuse. Adrian will slip past him to head toward one of the adjoining rooms. He hasn't entirely sidestepped the other question, he's just... thinking of how best to answer it. ]

Do angels fall, on earth? Can they return to a state of grace after they do?

[vestments]

( he does take adrian's hand. he's not that prideful, not until adrian starts talking, and all of it's the wrong thing to say — not in part, but from beginning to end. andrea had been able to ask similar questions, had been able to prise — eventually — answers from him that weren't couched in glibness, that weren't marc spector playing at being moon knight because he didn't want to acknowledge the heart of the matter.

but adrian's built up none of that good will. adrian isn't his doctor. adrian doesn't know anything of him, and if he'd been willing to let the first remark slide (still not funny, even if marc would be the first person otherwise to make an off-colour joke about coming back from the dead—), the rest of it earns a pointed, sharp, sour look, and adrian will feel the way that marc tenses.

his right hand wraps around adrian's wrist, his grasp firm, intending to still adrian's attempts at smoothing his lapel even if he doesn't remove adrian's hand. )

Don't. ( quiet, clipped, terse. more a growl than a word. ) You don't know what that looks like for me. ( abruptly, he lets go, allows adrian to give his lapel that final tap and step around him. marc doesn't turn to follow him straight away. instead, he stays where he is, still, gaze working over the stone statue from bottom to top. he had something good — the mission. friends. greer. it wasn't perfect, and it might not have been much, but it'd been hard-earned and hard fought for (again), and though khonshu may not be worthy, he'd turned what being moon knight meant into something that he could live with. )

Mercenary in a past life, ( he corrects eventually, half-looking over his shoulder towards adrian. at any other time, marc might have acknowledged the humour in the phrase, but not now. now he means it entirely seriously. ) I think everyone here has enough debt without adding to it.

—And besides, these days I'm a priest. ( it's dry, deadpan, uttered as he turns to follow adrian. ) Why would I want payment?

( but as for adrian's question—.

marc's answer comes in the form of a sidelong glance and an involuntary knitting of his brows. it's not happy, but it's less aggrieved than in the moments previous.

still, how would he know? )

They can fall if you're Christian. ( the verbal equivalent of a shrug, dismissive but not disdainful. ) I hear the devil's a fallen angel, but he's nothing to do with me. I was taught they're messengers.

[faithfall]

[ Adrian doesn't flinch when Marc grasps his hand this time. He knows that he ought to be more careful, or at least more respectful. A single rescue doesn't mean that someone will, or should, allow him to do as he pleases whenever he pleases.

And the truth is — Marc has a point. Adrian doesn't know him, or what he wants, or what he's had before. It's all the more reason to keep asking questions.

When he's free again, he walks toward the nearest room, keeping an eye out for any obvious signs of danger, though he doesn't really expect it after the reception laid out for them. Marc's voice follows him. Former mercenary, current priest, and now unwilling to accept payment in kind for his work. Does it change with every 'life'? Adrian glances over his shoulder. ] I thought you were a Cleric. You have a lot of jobs, Mr. Spector. When do you sleep?

[ No, he's not done making unfunny jokes. He will be like this forever.

Adrian is still trying to puzzle through the rest, but he takes a quick look around what appears to be a bedroom and comes back to lean against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. His tone is entirely serious now, even hesitant: ] I... don't know what a Christian is.

[ He's doing his best, but there just isn't enough context to understand. Religion doesn't work the same in a world where gods and devils and everything in between have always been a matter of course. There's no real question of how these things work, or what they want. ]

I'm not an angel, and I'm not going to become a devil, I don't think, but I can fall and it's a one-way sort of experience. That's all I meant when I said us. I don't want you to think that I'm trying to... It's just a fact of my nature. [ He waves a hand, dismissive. It doesn't matter if Marc's initial assumption is also true, if Adrian doesn't really think of himself as a person. It's unimportant. And when he falls, it will matter to no one.

There's something quite freeing about this place, where no one knows the full truth of it. ]

I've heard nothing but conflicting stories of how these things work on earth. [ Religion, he means. ] You seem uncertain, for a priest.

[vestments]

Aren't they the same thing? ( cleric and priest, he means, and his tone makes it quite clear he's unaware of the capital-c type of cleric adrian's talking about. it shifts into wryness at the follow-up, although it shifts back to deadpan matter-of-factness when he answers the question with, ) Dead men don't need sleep.

( if adrian's going to insist on being (un)funny, that's fine — marc can meet him halfway and make it not the slightest bit clear as to how much he means what he's saying.

(he means it, of course, but also.)

he's not surprised that adrian doesn't know what a christian is, but he doesn't think there was an easy, simple way to respond to the question beyond an 'it depends' that'd only serve to invite more questions. he gets partway to a shrug as an answer before being interrupted by the way that adrian continues.

marc's gaze shifts away from him momentarily, towards the shadows in the corners of the room. the knit of his brows isn't from suspicion, nor — for the moment — irritation, but a lack of surety in what adrian's asking him. )

Uncertain about what? ( angels? god? religion in general? it's an uncomfortable shift in the conversation, one marc doesn't particularly want to acknowledge, but since they're here—. ) Christianity's one of Earth's major religions. It's not— It wasn't mine. I didn't study it, I didn't grow up with it. For my people, there's no concept of angels falling. ( the shift of his gaze is sharp, sudden and curious. ) They do God's will, and He doesn't make mistakes.

( which, ultimately, had been the problem. if god didn't make mistakes, then his indifference had been deliberate. he'd let terrible things happen to his people and didn't say anything, didn't do anything. but that's neither here nor there, not now. that's not the conversation they're having, although adrian doesn't have to be familiar with earth's religion to be able to piece together that whatever god marc's talking about here is not khonshu, that there's a before and after he hasn't quite elaborated on the details of.

(you know, beyond "I died.")

it's not and has never been that marc doesn't believe. doesn't have faith. he's always had that, he's just struggled to reconcile it with what he thinks should be done — and so his differences and disagreements with khonshu are nothing new.

but— ah. the vaguest of realisations as the question clicks (almost). ) I know how it works for me. That's all I need to know.

( is that true? well, yes, but it's not as cut and dry as it sounds. knowing details had ultimately been unimportant to marc — he'd never asked, never wondered, never spared a thought as to whether he could or would die, just assumed he'd continue being the fist of khonshu until khonshu grew tired of him. he knows what it means for him in relation to the heritage he's thrown away, and that's what had mattered, even if he's reluctant to admit that portion of the equation. )

Whether the stories conflict doesn't matter.

[faithfall]

[ He really should have explained Cleric. He's still getting a feel for what sorts of concepts are commonly understood, and whether they're understood the same way. Still, he can't help rolling his eyes when Marc asserts that dead men don't sleep. He knows that Marc isn't undead, but he certainly has a vampire's flare for the over-dramatic.

The context of learning that the man is sleep deprived at all times does put things into perspective, if nothing else. He'll leave off the scolding, if only for the moment, if only because he's certain it will have no effect...

When Marc finishes speaking of his god, Adrian remains where he is only a moment longer. He unfolds his arms, pushes away from the wall, and starts making his way toward the next room. There's tension in the gesture. Not anger, but bitterness perhaps. ] Perhaps some of your gods don't make mistakes, and your angels cannot disappoint them. If that is the case, our worlds are very different indeed.

[ It must be difficult, he imagines, living in a world where things are so uncertain even within a widely accepted religion... but it is a curious idea. A world where angels don't fall, and gods are infallible. (If he were a bit more worldly, perhaps Adrian would know that these things are not always so perfectly understood even in Faerûn.)

Even despite his musing, Adrian does catch the logical disconnect, one that isn't easily explained by sleep deprivation. Even Marc's tone of voice is different when he says God. ] The God you're referring to... it isn't Khonshu, is it? Was He not jealous when you gave your services to another?