conchy | IF WE AMASS ENOUGH SHITPOSTS NO ONE CAN READ OUR SHAME

[Of course its not over.]

[As long as you have breath in your body, it never is.]

[The snaps of the bones in her spine come quickly, but you're quicker. Before the monster can complete the maneuver, your sword has already had itself a taste - you've already grabbed her body as the monster's severed arm goes flying into the air. It bellows and shrieks in pain, a horrific noise that pierces your ears. As you land, and look the girl over, your worst fear is realized - she's already dead.]

[In fact, as you look at your surroundings, at the rubble, familiar shapes come into vision. The battered, broken bodies of the ones you loved, scattered, bloody, unmoving. Many of whom are small children, some as young as four and five.]

[There is hope among the wreckage though - signs of life, a few terrified children huddling in the shadows. But as much as you want to go and comfort them, you have another matter to deal with.]

[The voice comes out of your mouth like a snarl.]

[Who, then, gave you the order? What now...just what is your business...was this your job?]

[A long-haired woman with a purple coat, scaled like a serpent, leaps out of the shadows to parry your drawn sword with her own, easily. She leaps backwards onto a pile of rubble. Iori. The Purple Tear.]

[A Color like you.]

[But you ask how she's here - shouldn't she be dead? But she replies coolly that the world is full of miraculous things. As she goes on, it seems that monster is key to her plans. Her search for her son, who you know and she knows is long dead. And yet, you are just one more piece in her game.]

[A shame about those children. You'd agree, no? Red Gaze. That's one less pretense for you to wear.]

[You see red, literally and metaphorically and everything in between. When you both strike again, you're aiming to kill. You will kill her. You have to. Your heart hurts, and bleeds, and hurts some more, and yet, and yet, and yet....]

[You protect the children. She sends a building crumbling on the survivors and you parry it. But the fight is wearing down on you. You're bleeding. In the end, you collapse to the ground, your body shaking from fatigue.]

[Come now, junior. There's no point dragging this out.]

[And your vision finally goes black.]

[Vergilius is on his knees in the void. He stares at nothing.]

[He stares at nothing at all.]

[...Ha. Maybe he really has changed. There's nothing but destruction abound and Lobelia can't delight in a single moment of it. Would he feel any differently were he not viewing these events through Vergilius' memories? He's not sure. He's genuinely not sure.

The memory fades into black and Lobelia is left standing in that vacuous void, but the man to whom that very private pain belongs to has been toppled by it. Understandably so, Lobelia thinks, stepping over to his side and offering nothing like pity when he winds an arm around Vergilius' back to support him and tug him upright.

There's a weight to Lobelia's voice that stands at odds with his usual cheerful calm. To say he wasn't affected by Vergilius' feelings would be an understatement, but this moment isn't about him. He'll move on from it, forget those agonized cries in time, but Vergilius never will. Not for as long as he draws breath.]

C'est fini.

[It had better be over. Lobelia keeps a tight hold on Vergilius, refusing to let him succumb and crumble to his knees once more, but the air around them buzzes oppressively. Lobelia whistles, actively trying to tear through the void with his audiomancy, having seen more than enough. Anything more would run counter to his promise to make Vergilius happy, and so he'll do as he does best and destroy even this.]

[It was the other shoe that dropped.]

[He had always expected his sins to catch up to him. The children discovering the truth one day that their parents, their families, loved ones had all been taken from this world by his own vicious hands. Sure, it was for jobs. But it didn't change the fact that the orphanage had existed out of his own spilled blood.]

[Lobelia comes to him, and as he's shaking his head out of the moment, blinking away the horrible scenery, he's leaning into the other man. His arm snakes around him, keeps him close. Vulnerable. That bleeding heart in full force.]

...This damned place. [He's gaining some strength back, pulling himself up - his head presses against the other's. Don't go. Don't go.] Let's get out of here.

Edited 2023-06-14 04:30 (UTC)

[The last thing he'll do is let go of Vergilius now. Lobelia's arm remains firmly wrapped around him, the other positioned at his lips where he whistles on his fingers, but the magics surrounding them are stubborn, refusing to yield. With his powers as severely restricted as they are in this place, Lobelia is forced to acknowledge that escape may not be possible. Until this place has shown them all it deigns to, it isn't going to let them go.

Regardless, Lobelia isn't waving the white flag and giving up. Nestling a kiss in Vergilius' hair, Lobelia ceases his whistling when the void around them refuses to yield, instead clicking his tongue and listening for where the sound echoes. Most of it is swallowed up by magic, but there is a path forward. Unfortunately, he believes he knows what awaits them ahead, and so he doesn't set their feet into motion just yet.]

It seems we aren't out of the woods just yet. We can remain here until you've caught your breath, but unfortunately, it seems the only way to exit is to proceed forward.

[That means struggling through more of those terribly painful memories. If Lobelia regrets anything now, it's that his magic is no longer powerful enough to destroy a place like this.]

...Of course.

[Something in his chest flutters like an impatient butterfly. He listens as the man moves from a whistle to a click - he's really trying his best, isn't he? For his sake, too.]

[That kiss feels so soft against him, yet at the same time it feels like a pleasant burn, filling him with a new warmth. To think that Lobelia of all people would be doing something like this - if he told the Lobelia of the past that something like this would be shared between them, would he have laughed in his face?]

[He nods dimly, starting to extract himself away from the other, but not before a kiss is placed at the junction of Lobelia's jaw over a cheek. His voice sounds renewed, though gravely as always.]

Then let's go. Hell or high waters. Which direction should we take?

[If this place were tormenting anyone but Vergilius, Lobelia would be delighting in every moment of it, but he's promised to spend the rest of his existence repaying Vergilius' favor. Letting this place agonize him runs counter to that, so naturally, the best thing he can do is lend the man his unyielding support. Overbearing as it is, Lobelia's loyalty does have its upsides.]

Par ici. It's a bit of a walk, so mind your step!

[That returned kiss is all the motivation Lobelia needs to keep trudging forward, though he does peek over his shoulder at Vergilius every so often to ensure he isn't straggling. Vergilius is strong, but none of this is particularly easy to endure.]

Right.

[One step after another. No matter what happens. He might not be in the best mental state right now, having to relive horrific memories, but he's not one to be cowed. He stares straight ahead, focused, hoping this will be over soon-]

[And within Lobelia's grip, with the change in scenery, Vergilius disappears.]

[The magician will find himself in a strange auction room. The walls are covered in off-putting surreal paintings, many of stylized eyes, and....actual eyes, it seems, staring from small holes in the wall. They shift and move, gazing over the crowd of auctiongoers. At the head of the room is a stage, a curtain, and a feminine person with a veil covering their eyes, chatting with someone who looks like he's staff.]

[Lobelia may realize that he's sitting amongst the crowd, a veil covering his head. In fact, almost everyone here is in the same position, their heads bowed, their heads obscured by fabric. The only two who have no head covering are directly to Lobelia's right - his wife, with glasses perched on his nose, and a young nervous-looking man.]

[Vergilius seems to be glancing over the auction placard in his hands, with no awareness of Lobelia sitting next to him.]

[Ah... Perhaps he simply has poor taste, but Lobelia finds the pieces on display quite fascinating in their own morbid way. Naturally, he recognizes his wife beside him, but also the nature of their surroundings: this is another memory of Vergilius', one he is now a mere bystander to.

As such, he doesn't make any attempt to interact with Vergilius or the timid young man beside him, but he does glance between the placard in those scarred hands and the feminine figure heading the auction, waiting anxiously for what's to come. What will go wrong this time? Intervening won't change history and rewrite an old, bitter memory, but Lobelia's fingers itch with the urge to snap regardless.]

[There is a bit of chatter among the staff from the front it seems they're ready to get it started. Before it gets rolling, though, the young person bends in, anxious, to whisper to Vergilius:]

["Sir..."]

[But Vergilius is as calm as ever, only his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at the feminine Maestro of the auction.]

[Don't worry. We don't have to bow down. Rather, they'd be honored to see their works frayed by my gaze.]

[The Maestro steps forward, their voice light, airy - the curtain is drawn back on the first item.]

[A member of the audience raises their placard. Then another. Yet another. 35 million. 40 million. 40 million going once, will anyone give me 45-?]

[Vergilius and the young man don't move. Lobelia should notice that Vergilius isn't staring at the urn, but at a man sitting closer to the front, who also seems to be as still as a statue - his red glasses can almost be seen through the veil.]

[Whatever they're both waiting for, it isn't this.]

Edited 2023-06-14 17:11 (UTC)

[How dreadfully morbid, and yet Lobelia doesn't see so much as a muscle twitch in the audience, nor any gasps of revulsion. The City truly is different, isn't it? A den of hedonism and wanton violence. Lobelia can imagine himself slotting into such a society with ease... but that's not the point here, is it?

His gaze follows Vergilius' to the veiled man some rows ahead, and it's on that man his focus remains. Did Vergilius know what horrors were due to unfold here, unlike before?]

[More items are put up. One of note is a man dancing like a ballerina in a glass box - Mr. Stroud, the Maestro announces, going on for dancing for 3 years now. More bids are made. But still, Vergilius, the young man, and the one he's staring at still do not move, still do not make a bet.]

[We've already reached our final item of the day. It's my favorite one, and one I will expect will sell the highest. I am overjoyed to present this piece to you.]

[Heretofore, an infamous Syndicate known for its brutal reign was wiped out in a single battle. All of its members, including its leader, were annihilated in that carnage.]

[Vergilius notably tenses as the curtain is raised.]

[Since this battle, their names and records have been expunged. Who they were, what they did, whether they deserved their fate....everything about that Syndicate and its members remains a mystery. This painting is painted from the consciousness of the sold survivor unto death after onslaught...]

[A vicious, frenzied painting with thorns, burning red dashes of paint rising from it like fire.]

[The placards are raised, one after the other. Vergilius's eyes narrow. Yes. 1.2 billion. 1.25 billion. 1.3 billion. We have 1.4 billion over there.]

[And then suddenly-]

[The man with the red glasses stands up, his tone stern, serious as anything.]

[10 billion.]

[The audience clamors at the large bid. The young man at Vergilius' side murmurs, looking more nervous - "Is it possible he's after the same thing as us?"]

[And a murmur from Vergilius in return. The corridor of the Ring, access granted to those who win the meister's most cherished work. He's determined to go there no matter what.]

[Vergilius's expression seems especially tight, but the Maestro is already calling for final bids - something must be done.]

[The Red Gaze stands to be lost to another-]

[Lobelia's eyes alight on that painting, tension setting into his every muscle. Something about its frenzied design sets a flame alight in him, nerves abuzz, but he can't pinpoint why he feels as if he's been strung up on tenterhooks.

The reason why hardly matters when he's sure to see it with his own eyes, no longer focused on the painting but on Vergilius. Red eyes, red gaze, apprehension in his stare moments before disaster. Surely Christmas was worse?]

[Vergilius-]

[Stands.]

[More clamoring. The man with the red glasses shouts, clearly shocked - Hold it!! This is not in line with the rules!! Was it not that the group with the highest bid would be allowed in the corridor-?! Even one of the staff, her smirk alighting her half-hidden face, the other half covered with a garish mask, addresses Vergilius.]

[Hey You ought to pay the full price in cash here and now, right?]

[Vergilius opens his mouth.

[I have something more valuable.]

[It's something of a counterfeit, produced by someone's dying mind. I'm sure you know the painting is unfinished. However......what if I could complete it?]

[And then the world shifts. A lurching sensation, as the scene disappears, only to be replaced by something much more macabre - what seems to be a large public bathroom, covered in piles of dead bodies, carnage incarnate. A man stands in the midst of it, glancing towards the movement of a warm body - a much younger Vergilius, his eyes blazing coldly. There's no recognition.]

[Congrats, Lobelia! You've been trapped in a memory within a memory. And it doesn't seem like there's going back - for Vergilius scoffs, readies his sword.]

Ah, I missed one extra.

[And he's going right for Lobelia without even a shift of his expression.]

[Wow! And what does he win for his efforts? Another death?

Still, Lobelia isn't prepared to die here— not in this space, this memory within a memory, and not when this death isn't meant for himself. He has no choice but to stand and fight, but what capabilities is he working with here? His own? Is he borrowing the power of this memory?

He'll defend himself through whatever means he can, but there's a creeping, sinking feeling running up Lobelia's spine. If "he" is meant to die here, what does he gain by fighting, if anything at all? Be it with a blade or his own audiomancy, Lobelia moves to parry whatever fearsome attack comes his way. Not like this. You aren't the one.]

[It seems he still has access to his powers - after all, the world of the City graces those who work hard enough (or pay enough) for their troubles, and to have someone manipulating sound is not something extremely miraculous.]

[Only a minute shift of Vergilius's face, as cold as ice, seems to express displeasure as he feels his sword get knocked back, but he's at it again. A veritable weapon. There's no displeasure, no pain, nothing. The raging fire of the man Lobelia knows is simply not there.]

[The heat of his gladius burns the air as he slams it down to try to amputate the man, nimbly stepping in between bodies as he moves.]

[No, no, no, no. This isn't Vergilius at all. This isn't his Vergilius, and if it was, perhaps he'd show this hollow illusion of him some restraint. As it is, Lobelia's loyalties begin and end with one man, and this man isn't him.

Lobelia manages to largely avoid his attack, but not without suffering some damage to his arm, blood oozing from his serrated wound. Had Vergilius shown him restraint on the eve of their fight...? Where has this bloodlust come from, this animistic rage?

There's no time to play around here. Lobelia snaps his fingers, a wall of sound collapsing on either side of Vergilius' head. His aim is to kill him, or at the very least debilitate him, but will his audiomancy have that much of an impact in this space?]

[The sound crushing into the sides of his head is the first thing so far to knock him off course - he falls to his knees, hissing and spitting out specks of blood.]

[Even though he falters, his eyes burning so harshly they're like lasers burning through metal, there's something harsh and disbelieving in them, a little hint of humanity behind the cold exterior.]

[His body is shuddering as he keeps ahold of his gladius, staring daggers into the other man.]

Who are...you?

[Ah... Seeing "Vergilius" like this almost hurts, but not quite. Not quite.

Lobelia takes a knee before the man, exposed as anything, but he's not afraid of what comes next. He's driven by the need to lose himself in those red eyes, and yet they reflect nothing of the passion, the anger, the drive that Vergilius' do.

How very, very sad.]

Votre ange de la mort.

...

[A scoff comes.]

You have to be kidding me.

[A flicker - he's pushing himself up ever slightly, gritting his teeth. What a joke. A colossal joke.]

[...]

[But there's a pause, a hesitation.]

...You're not part of the Syndicate, are you? Then I don't need to bother with you. I got the code. Lapis.

[.........]

Ha. The name of the boss's daughter.

[Now something seems to change, a mark of sorrow in his eyes, like drops in a well that has just been dug. Vergilius is now struggling to move to his feet.]

Get out of my way.

[Vergilius won't get far in his present condition, so Lobelia makes no move to stop him once he moves to stagger upright. The Syndicate, hm? Lobelia's brow raises— naturally, he isn't, but he doesn't answer in the affirmative, nor does he refute.

Still... There's no changing a memory, but Lobelia catches those filaments of sorrow in Vergilius' gaze — some semblance of the real him — and rises to set a hand on his shoulder.]

And where is it you'll go?

...Why do you care?

[He's moving to shrug the other's grip off, grimacing.]

The job has been done. Kill the Syndicate. Get the code. That's all there is to it.

[......]

[There's something that seems left unsaid.]

[He tries to move past Lobelia.]

[He allows his hand to be shrugged off only to let it spill down Vergilius' arm, capturing his hand. That's not all, is it? No, he doesn't think so.]

But that isn't all, Vergilius. I understand that you're a busy man, but you'll be a mort one if you don't fess up.

Shut up.

[Oh, there's the snapping anger - even if its mild compared to what Lobelia knows, and a bit unnatural coming from that young, almost emotionless face, its classic Vergilius, alright.]

[He's trying to pull away.]

You don't know me.

[Ah! There's his baby momma. Lobelia does his best not to snicker, but it truly is a relief to hear the bite in Vergilius' voice, so see anger spark in his eyes. Naturally, his response is to fit his fingers into a vice around Vergilius' hand.]

Tsk, tsk! What a fussy boy. I know you better than you think. In fact, I know this is not where you're prepared to die.

[But do you know how insistent these types are, Verg? Lobelia doesn't seem like the type to hesitate on making good on his word, and with his audiomancy lowly thrumming in Vergilius' veins, maybe he'd be better served admitting the rest to him.]

Is that so?

[Hi, you're getting the edge of his gladius placed against your throat, there, Lobelia, even with the humming in his veins. Even here and now, at this age, the rebelliousness of wanting to stay alive by any means possible is here, as taut as a steel wire.]

Tell me how you know that, and maybe I'll tell you what you want.

cw: child death, amputation, violence

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cw: death

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