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INHUMAN COURTESY

I. PUSHING UP DAISIES

cw: depiction of hanahaki, mention of blood, mild body horror

The Frightful Harvest ended on a bloody, eerie note, but the Respite's most welcome interlude has proven exceptionally fruitful. The sky's darkened again, moons struggling to glow through turbulent clouds, but crops all over Stygia have grown dense and healthy, herbs and plants and flowers aplenty. Normally, it'd be a time to rejoice, even as sleet pours and winds grow bitterly cold -- and it might have been, had greens and stems and petals NOT elected to blossom inside you. Your lungs, specifically.

It's an uncommon side effect of the Harvest, affecting those who foster affection or attraction towards another, triggered only by a stray thought. Almost as if punished by Oblivium for harboring any kind of positive feelings. The worst part is that the object of your desire doesn't even have to be in the Netherworld for you to be afflicted. Over the span of three months, you'll gradually experience various degrees of the "harvest's curse", depending on the source of your feelings:

► PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ATTRACTION & REQUITED LOVE
It starts with an itch. Your throat tickles, an odd sensation in your lungs, slightly constricted. Allergies? Not quite. It worsens overtime, and days pass by, perhaps weeks. You cough, a little more every day, a little deeper, and then it happens: petals, stuck to your lips as you wheeze and try to empty your chest. Marigold, carnations, daisies, peonies... Thankfully, for you, it's more of an annoyance, sporadic at best and leaving you exhausted at times, but you're in no immediate danger. Unfortunately, not all Restless share the same luck.

► UNREQUITED LOVE
It doesn't matter whether it is truly unrequited; as long as you think it is, whether you're fully convinced or distantly resigned, you get the whole package. It starts the same way the lesser variation does, gradual, and with unsavory (!) additions: lilies and dark red roses. The first slowly spreads its poison in your body, inducing fevers, skin rashes, blistering in your mouth and stomach aches. The second pricks your throat bloody, making speech difficult and breathing even more so. It spreads throughout Stygia, and if most wound up meeting their end in the past, some speak of a highly hypothetical cure. It's believed that if the object of your affection confesses equally strong feelings for you, the curse should rapidly subside. If this option isn't viable, Doran promises that all Healers in Hale are working extremely hard to find a solution. In the meantime, symptoms can be partially soothed with poultices and spells that you can find in the Marketplace or in Serene. Some merchants might even take pity on you and offer them for free.

if your character has heard of similar diseases in their home world, they're absolutely welcome to share their insight on the netherwork or anywhere else
the evolution of the disease can be as gradual, as fast or as severe as you wish it to be
a mini quest to retrieve ingredients for a cure will be available in december or january
by february, all characters should be cured

II. DO NOT PASS GO

cw: mention of blood, torture, branding, violence, forced captivity

Full-swing investigations concerning the Harvest's murders have begun, though the mysterious rider has yet to resurface. The day is young still, but no matter; the Hierarchy firmly believes that the creature was summoned by a group of renegades, fully intent on finding and dismembering the organization. Perhaps even literally.

If you've spilled blood not your own in the previous event, the Hierarchy finds you. Do they know? It doesn't really matter; they've targeted you for reasons they won't divulge, persuaded of your involvement -- and off to the Gallows you go. Each of you receives the same greeting when you arrive, held down by rough hands and branded upon the arm with the letter F. The mark signifies ‘forsaken’, and the painful scar is indelible proof that each of you has betrayed the Hierarchy's hospitality. Writhe and scream and glower as much as you want; next thing you know, something heavy hits you across the head, and you collapse.

When your vision slowly creeps back, your eyes adjust to a dimly lit stone cell. Your feet are secured by iron cuffs tethered by one long chain, and you lie in nothing but filthy, tattered rags. It's dark; the air is bloated and filled with agonizing shrieks. Dead vines scrap the walls of half-crumbled buildings, weather-worn stone pillars surrounded by withered clumps of grass. You may converse with your cellmates: the guards patrolling the Gallows couldn't care less, convinced that no one could possibly escape anyway.

► Ironically, a magical barrier around the Gallows prevents magical/spiritual abilities from functioning. However, characters who roam free still can absolutely sneak in! Be careful not to get caught, though!
► Loud disagreements might attract unwanted attention. A single guard will come, and if he finds nothing else amiss, will threaten them to be quiet. A second violation earns the offender a rap on their bare feet with a club. A third violation will cause the offender to be gagged. Note that in order to beat or gag the offender, the guard must first open the cell.
► If you share affinities with Gargoyles, incapacitating a guard in any way will draw the attention of one. It'll show you to the gates where you'll be able to escape, taking care of sentries on your way. You should probably keep a low-profile from then on, and avoid showing-off your brand.
► A secret passage may be found through a mausoleum nearby; an arrow of flaking red paint marks the entrance. Or is it blood? Inside, it's nearly pitch-black. Perhaps, if you're lucky, your vision extends as far as 30 feet in front of you, but occasionally, the darkness is broken by clinging phosphorescent fungi or crawling luminescent creatures, and from out of the silence echo sounds of dripping water. You're underground, and Abysmals can be encountered here if you're too loud. You should also watch out for cave-ins, but as you get farther away from the general region of the Gallows, your magical abilities gradually come back.
► Eventually, a long, broken staircase will lead you to Hale. If you're injured, you'll be sent to the main infirmary; characters with healing abilities or knowledge are super welcome to help!

Luckily for you, there are so many prisoners it's a difficult task for the Hierarchy to always keep track of all of them. Your brand, however, is a dead giveaway, so you might as well try and find a way to get rid of it; you might hear through the grapevines that the dead skin of Badaliscus can be used as bandages, and overtime, the brand will fully heal and disappear.

III. TO THE RESCUE

As you attempt to escape, or perhaps once you’ve successfully snuck in, you come across a terrifying spectacle: in front of you, impaled through the shoulder by a spear, a weary humanoid figure covered in blood. The body is being restrained by additional shackles on each arm and leg, which are linked to chains anchored within the walls. There's a guard nearby, armed to the teeth… and still you decide to free them.

The guard’s magic is just as useless as yours, and while impressive in size, dexterity definitely isn’t his main strength. He hits hard — with brass knuckles, a chain mace, and a sturdy shield — and his stamina almost seems endless, but it’s not. Keep evading, and he’ll eventually tire enough to topple over. It’s also possible to have him chase you around if you don’t go too far, which would allow someone else to grab the spear. Once he’s too exhausted to go on, you can either kill him or chain him to the wall. The keys are in his boots, and you’ll find a bottle of water as well as a small vial of ointment in a satchel on the ground, where he previously stood.

The prisoner is a young man, perhaps in his mid-20s. Once freed from his shackles, he immediately keels over, though he’s not unconscious. He thanks you with a deep and raw voice, begging for water. You can tend to his wounds if you’re able—the ointment quickly soothes—and when he finally stands again, he asks you a question: “I’m a stranger to you, and you could have died. Yet, you chose to free me, unaware of my past. Of my crimes. Of my virtues. Why?”

Regardless of your answer, he smiles, a private understanding that turns the stretch of his lips enigmatic. There’s a bubbling chuckle in his throat, very hoarse, and then he hisses, touching where you’ve helped him apply the ointment on his body. “You know what they say. If it stings...” He looks at you, deliberately pausing there and staring bold into your eyes. “... then it must be working.”

It might feel like there’s more to what he’s trying to say, though it’s pointless to ask: he bows, and then he slowly inches away from you. “Until we meet again.” White and thick tendrils of smoke envelop him, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and then just like that, he’s gone.

so you’ve chosen to free him, which in turn has generated a future plot point that’ll occur some time in february. some of you WILL see him again.
what he says to you is a clue.
you can answer his question OOCly right here. it’ll have some bearing on the way your character will be approached re: future plot point.
if you've voted no and would still like to participate, you could always allow your character to be convinced or reluctantly dragged by another!

ooc note

► As always, check out the Notice Board if you'd like additional prompts! Older quests from previous months are always available as well. You'll also find the Calendar right here.
► You'll find already answered questions just here, and if you'd like to ask new ones, ask them here!
► For fun's sake and similarly to the puck adventure, you may play it out in different groups or on your own, and still obtain the same results as everyone else whether your characters threaded together!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

01. alexa, play "love hurts"

[ as others rattle at the chains binding their ankles and at the cell bars, mavis closes her eyes. here, everything is as quiet as the wilds had been. as if they were not crowded in here together, overpacked into cells. as if they were somewhere far from stygia, and she were alone.

a hacking fit seizes her. a fluttering sense crawling up out of her lungs, blooming to the shape of red rose petals on her lips. she pulls one indelicately from her mouth, lips curling in a grimace. she crumples the wet petal in her fist, which is further marked by red blotches. it leaves smears of blood behind on her thumb and forefinger, her palm, her lip.

her head thunks back against the wall, and she tries to slow her breathing, shallow and steady so that she doesn't aggravate the sting in her throat. ]

02. leaving a mark (cw: self-harm)

[ an argument has started down the row from her cell, one that turns to shoving. mavis lifts her head to watch. she's not the only one. the guards approach, unlocking the cell to step inside and gag each of the offenders with some oily, filthy cloth. the same scraps that they each wear.

an opening.

mavis looks up at the door of her own cell. she rises to her feet, shuffles over, metal clanking from her ankles all the way. she closes her fists around the bars and considers the door, considers for the first time how it might open.

the burn on her forearm itches. the skin has puckered into something shiny and keloid, glinting in the dim light of the cell. when she had found it that first night, she had been struck most of all by the fact that it was the brightest pain she felt — no one else's pain, no one else's thoughts, and it even distracted from the irritating scrape of her own breath across the thorns in her lungs.

now it is something else. a piece of the cell that she'd carry with her. primitive but indelible. she paces the length of the cell, searching for — something. anything she can do about it. disrupting her cellmates, shoving them haphazardly out of the way so she can try to get a look at if there's anything under or behind them, but there's nothing.

nothing in the cells with them except the shackles around their ankles, with their unevenly cut corners and protruding metal bolts. as she returns to her seat against the back corner, she pulls her ankle towards herself, considering the brand on her arm. it hasn't fully healed yet, that burn.

she takes her shirt off first. or what passes for a shirt in here. then she puts it between her teeth just before she starts to scrap the branded part of her arm against the protruding bolts and corners of her shackles, trying to gouge her flesh further, obscuring the shape of the letter into some worser wound. ]

03. the great escape

[ either by the aid of another or by her own gumption, she has made it out of the cell, skulking the quiet corridors of the hale, bleeding down her arm through the makeshift banadage she'd given herself, still only wearing her pants and bra.

further down the corridor, footsteps. she draws up short, pulls back around a corner, and grabs the sleeve of her nearest companion. she presses a finger to her lips, then peers out around the corner to confirm.

and there he is. the guard, carrying heavy metal weaponry of a kind mavis doesn't recognize. she breathes out annoyance through her nose, then loses it in a coughing fit again.

her eyes widen, even as she can't stop herself from hacking, clutching the wall and heaving rose petals and blood as she does. there's no way he didn't hear that. ]

04. wildcard

[ if you'd like something else, you can message me on plurk at

protects. ]

( The petals were one thing. They were impossible not to take notice of, too bright, too soft, too cheerful for the kind of place they were in. Hers were different than his, more easily recognizable, although the rose petals were the same vibrant crimson as some of what he was trying to hide as well. And maybe because he was trying to hide his own, to swallow down his own hiccups, he didn't really reach out to any of the similarly afflicted cell mates. He just assumed it was some...strange sort of seasonal allergy that must exist around this place.

Much more difficult to ignore is when she starts undressing. Or, at least, seemingly so, though she stops at her shirt. Yuuji isn't staring, but he isn't...not staring, even when it becomes obvious she doesn't plan to remove anything other than her shirt. The determined way she stuffs it between her teeth is confusing, but he supposes it's one way to try to stop the coughing. And he's about to say as much until the words die on his lips and his eyes widen with shock.

It isn't the state of the burn on her arm; his hardly looks better, especially with the way he idly picks at the edges. No, it's the wild look on her face as she drags the fresh, seeping letter on her own arm over the battered, rusted manacle clamped around her ankle. )

Don't!

Oh, but do, a voice chuckles inside of him, while his Shadow waits idly, seemingly smirking.

( He shouts before he can stop himself, and he's scrambling hand over hand on all fours, his own chain rattling with the effort as he drags it out taut behind him. Perhaps he doesn't understand the full gravity of the mark just yet, or maybe it just means something so much worse to her than it does to him. In either case, it's the thought of watching her put herself through that pain that has him reaching to stay her hands once he's close enough. If she'll let him touch her at all, let alone actually try to stop her. )

[ a stranger's hands close around her own. the lack of pressure against her arm should provide some relief. no more scraping, no more seizing upon the sensitive, damaged skin of the brand to cause a wider wound.

but the pause just lets the pain set in. blood has smeared over her brand, almost black in the dim light. the burning sensation of the brand has nothing in common with the stinging ache that lances up her arm, radiating from the fresh injuries. she bites down tighter on the shirt, grimacing, pressing her forehead to her knees. she howls into the fabric.

if she succumbs to the pain now, she realizes, she won't finish. she yanks her arm back from him. spits out the fabric so she can growl back, ] Let go.

( The relief he feels at being able to help is short-lived, overtaken by several simultaneous sensations. The look on her face as even he can practically feel the rush of pain taking hold. The wail of agony that comes straight from the belly, up and through the filthy gag in her mouth meant to muffle it. And the overwhelming guilt he feels when she seizes her arm back, realizing that this moment wasn't nearly as black-and-white as it had felt when he first took her arm. )

I'm...I'm sorry.

( A menacing chuckle bubbles up, not nervous laughter—there's not so much as a hint of amusement on his face—but something more sinister. His hands, one simply dirty and the other accidentally smeared with a bit of her fresher blood, clamp over his mouth to silence it. His Shadow savors his remorse, while the Other voice delights in it openly, laughing more at his dismay than her troubled perseverance. )

It's not funny.

( Insisted seemingly to the room at large, but directed fully at the darkness in him. His voice is softer, worried, when he speaks to her, fumbling over another apology before continuing. )

You probably shouldn't do that here. What if we can't stop the blood? ( A beat as he dry swallows. ) What if they just come back and give you a new one?

If it comes to pass, I will deal with it then.

[ she looks down at her arm, at the bloody mess she has started to make of it. she feels light-headed, which only does a little to distract her from the burning pain of her open wounds. the brand had been painful enough, moving towards itchy as it healed more, but this. ]

I will not stay here. [ she grabs for the fabric again, ready to begin anew. blood slowly runs down her arm, gathers into the fabric. ]

[ There's an impatience that burns through him, and he hates that she's taken the lead here--he hates that she's taken the lead since they made it out of the cell, that she's trudged forward and he hasn't had the heart to stop her, almost like his awkward jolt at seeing a woman in only pants and a bra has forced him to clumsily follow along. It isn't his first time breaking out of a prison, really, and isn't his first time dealing with guards that will likely put up more of a fight now that he doesn't have a sword to fend them off with; when the girl tugs at his sleeve, he nods, swiftly, flattens to the wall and takes in a slow, decisive breath. The guards follow patterns here; it's not like they'll struggle to make it past this one, just like the others.

He takes his breath, and the girl? She breathes out through her nose, and then--

The blood doesn't bother him, but the flower petals take him to another place, a jolt of a thought that rockets through him, piercing his vision. For a moment, it feels like he'll be lost to some memory, something he doesn't understand, can't seem to process; he grits his teeth, holding on firmly to the feel of the cold stone beneath his bare feet, and stretches out an arm. His palm, firm and cold, curls itself across the girl's mouth; her blood, her petals, whatever comes out of her mouth oozes over his fingers, dribbles on his knuckles, but he muffles the sound and waits, presses her back so they're both against the cool stone wall.

The guard's footsteps ease closer. Cloud's eyes dart to the girl, a single shake of his head, as though telling her not to move. If the guard breaches the corner and finds them, now, he'll deal with that as it comes--for now, he shifts, pivots himself closer to the stranger, and squeezes his hand a little tighter across her mouth. ]

[ instinct has her reaching up to defend herself, grabbing for his shoulders, trying to wrestle him away. she is stronger than her size suggests, but she lacks any of the formal training or discipline to compete with a proper mercenary in brute strength, especially after days in a cell, especially when her arm is still stained with her own blood where she has obscured her brand with further scars and scabs.

for the best. a last string of coughs comes out against his hand. but the petals stick in her mouth. the texture is strange and unpleasant, sticking to her teeth and cheeks, and her whole body revolts against her senses, but it comes out only in a shudder of her shoulders.

she realizes, then, what he has done, and lets her eyes shut, stops fighting. tries to grasp for some form of command over her body and stop the coughing. to little use. instead of fighting him off, she brings her own hand up, intent on replacing his with her own. no one has ever been this close to her before. she can smell the sweat and dirt on his skin, and the narrow space between his body and the wall feels claustrophobic.

the chance is lost, however, as the guard emerges around the corner — 'hey!' — and draws his weapon. ]

[ Anyone, he thinks, would cringe--anyone would feel the blood spattered on their skin and recoil, would flood with worry or dismay or even disgust. She coughs, sputters against his hand, and despite her reaching, he knows better than to let go; it isn't as though he doesn't think she could muffle her own coughing, but it's more that there's no time to risk a cough latching into the space between one hand and the other. Another small, subtle shake of his head: her blood seeps between his fingers and there's another jolt, a memory, a voice in his head, something sinister that tries to take hold--

It isn't the time to lose himself. His eyes squeeze shut, his brows knit together, and his shoulders shake; a slight shift of his weight between his feet and he loosens his hand, slightly. It doesn't matter. The guard curves around the corner and there's a shout--immediately, Cloud's hand drops, flicks blood onto the stone between them. ]

Move. [ --is all he says, sharp, and his blood-stained hand goes for the girl's shoulder, pushing it behind him. Somehow, he knows she's not going to like it, but it'll be easier for him to evade if she gets a head start on the run behind him. ] Come on. I'll be--

[ The guard swings: it's a heavy chained mace that comes towards them, one that Cloud just narrowly avoids taking to the chest; it smashes down into the stone at his feet instead, and he trips back a step, pushing the girl further to get them both out of range. Without a sword to parry, a blade to try to wrap and tangle the chain, he figures the best chance they have is to get it stuck; but where the hell are they going to do that? In the floor? One of the walls?

He narrows his eyes, swinging to look over his shoulder--he's going to be pretty pissed if his companion hasn't at least taken a few more steps back for good measure. She might be able to handle herself, but like it or not, she's part of his responsibility now, whether either of them will admit it. ]

[ she staggers back, not expecting the shove. it leaves a bloody handprint on her shoulder, its shape vaguely muddled by haste. the weapon comes flying, and she flinches as cloud does — as this guardian does. he fights like a warrior, carries himself in that way.

a lot of people outside the clans think that they war only for glory and petty land disputes. but it's about more than that. it's about the intolerability of being the kind of person who turns from a conflict, who flees to save themselves instead of standing their ground and defending their way of life, their beliefs, their actions.

if she escaped because she had fled, leaving him to the fight, would hers be a life worth saving?

the guard reels in his mace, gathering the chain in loops that cause the mace to scrape scrape scrape on the stone floor, menacing.

mavis waits until he throws it out again, another swing at her companion, another dodge. while it's loose on the ground, instead of running down the hall, she charges the guard. hunched low, chin tucked, she gets her shoulder in his ribs to knock him off balance — they tumble, but the wall is close in this narrow space, and it catches him, spares him the success of her maneuver, keeps him on his feet. ]

[ There's a certain heat to his companion that he thinks he recognizes--it's exactly the kind of thing that he's used to failing against, the sort of foolhardiness, stubborn and sure, in someone that pivots them to help instead of flee; he's been exasperated before, trying to coax a friend from doing what she shouldn't, trying to convince others to leave him to the battles. If something happens to him, it isn't really a problem, but: to have something happen to someone else feels unforgivable, precisely the sort of thing a hero would never allow.

And what kind of hero are you?--the voice is smug, completely sure of itself. You've never managed to be anything of the sort.

It's his gaze that jerks, watching the guard drag the mace back to him, and it's there he realizes the chance to disarm him, maybe knock him unconscious, could be their best bet. The weight of the mace is taking the guard a long time to recover--by the time he does, it's another shot that lands between Cloud's bare feet, purposefully delivered in the hopes of sticking solidly into the stone. By the time he's thought to pivot himself in, there's a blur of movement from behind him; it's the girl, and he curses under his breath.

She's done a damn good job, he can't fault her that: the guard tumbles, knocked off balance, but there isn't quite enough momentum to tumble back. The guard brushes up against the wall, sparing him his lack of balance, but that isn't a problem: with hard hands, Cloud reaches for the end of the chain, pulling it sharp with his weight; the handle of the mace gets dragged out of the guard's grip in his confusion, and immediately he takes it up in his palm. Gives it a good squeeze, testing the weight of it: compared to hauling the buster sword around, it's no problem. ]

Careful. [ He calls out to his companion--and there's even a little humor in his voice, dry as it is. One arm flexes, winds the mace up out of the stone, preparing to loop it around and over his shoulder to hit the guard in the head; there's only one shot he's going to get at this, no pressure or anything, and the last thing he wants to do is split her head open, too, so: ]

...Duck down, way down!

[ she staggers away from the guard, trying to get herself space to avoid his bulk, knowing that in close quarters she stands no chance, even with all her height. she is too slim and too weak from undernourishment for that. no kuruko worth their name would ignore these things.

it is when she turns to the sound of cloud's voice that she realizes what's happening, that she sees a chance to still come through this alright.

she drops like a stone, palms flat on the ground, knees bent under her and back hunched, toadlike. despite this, she directs her gaze up, as if anticipating the guard figuring it out too soon or (worse, in her mind) taking advantage of her vulnerability. ]

[ Part of it might be an act, he realizes, trying to look so cool, calm and collected, because the weight of whipping that mace up nearly unbalances him--he's trained with swords, guns, shields, fists and feet, but never something like this. This had been far beyond Shinra, the sort of crude tools that they would turn their nose down on. So there's a curse under his breath as he swings the mace over his shoulder and down; he hopes he isn't about to crush his companion with it.

Luckily, she listens. Immediately, she drops to the ground, crouched small, and the guard seems torn on where to direct his attention: his chin dips down, and Cloud can't reel the mace back, despite knowing now its trajectory will collide with--

Rather than his chest, or his shoulder, the guard takes the steel, spiked ball to the top of his head; it cascades down, tearing at his face, slicing at the side of his neck, before it catches there, stubbornly. Blood splatters, a rain over the girl's body, and stunned at himself, Cloud's stubborn hand pulls at the handle of the mace. It stays rooted there, as the guard stumbles, staggering against the wall; he drops it, lets it clatter against the stone as he feels the resistance.

Finish him! his shadow howls at him, pleased, enraged, as though the sight and the smell of blood--different from the almost sickly sweet smell of the girl's blood, on his hand--encourages even more violence. Cloud grits his teeth, crouching down so that he can take the girl by the arm as though to help her up. He doubts she needs it, but he needs the touch to steady himself, his pale face spattered with flecks of red. ]

Let's go. [ It's in a soft, low voice, as he glances at her face with his glowing eyes, darting between the sight of her and the darkness of the corridor beyond. ] We'll find a way.

[ she lifts her head to regard him as he pulls at her arm. mavis draws it back from him, stubborn, and looks back at the dead guard.

when she reaches over, forcefully shoves at his ribcage, it is bereft of sympathy. she is only assuring that what lies beside her is a corpse, properly dealt with, incapable of sending more after them or remembering their faces.

satisfied, she quickly pats him down, but he doesn't have anything useful on him aside from the mace. a shame. she doesn't know how to use it, and it's too heavy to consider, so she gets to her feet and joins cloud. ]

What's your name? [ she asks only now, as they stumble into the dark of the corridor that seems to go on forever. now, when he has proven himself an able warrior. ]

[ he normally has no interest in interfering with the actions of others, so he has ignored the girl's antics so far. but when she removes her shirt and begins to scrape her flesh against the sharp edges of her cuff, he immediately grabs her by the wrist, stopping her from doing further damage. ]

Stop. [ he meets her gaze with sharp red eyes, his expression solemn. ]

[ the sudden contact is unexpected. her first impulse is to bristle into violence, but when she settles on his stony face and sees that he is not a prison guard come to get his kicks, she instead yanks at her arm, tries to wrench it free of his grip. one swift movement paired only by a loathsome look.

even if he is not a threat, he is an inconvenience. she does not take well to being told what to do and not do. ]

It's my arm. [ she'll do as she pleases, thank you. ]

[ sorry, mavis. he refuses to let go until he is certain that she won't continue to harm herself. boy ain't gonna budge that easily. ]

It isn't worth it. [ he lowers his gaze to the brand on her arm, which he assumes is the central target of her displeasure. ] Deal with it once we're out.

There is no escaping this.

[ she turns her arm to draw more attention to the brand, already bloodied somewhat by her efforts, the fresh brand still red and irritated and shining beneath. it's not fully obscured. not yet. ]

You should do the same, if you want out.

[ he understands the gesture, yet he remains unwavering as he meets her eyes. ]

It only has meaning if you give it one. Prioritize escaping here first.

And when someone sees it? [ she lifts her chin, stubborn. ] They will throw me back in.

[ the wilds were not without their ways of marking prisoners. it didn't matter that they wore no physical shackles. ]

You won't be the only one at risk. [ he turns his own arm — the same one whose hand clutches her wrist — to reveal the brand seared into his skin. ] It's a concern for later. Even if you mar it now, they might just give you a new one. Rid of it once we're out.

[ she looks at his brand, then up at his face. he isn't stopping her for good — just for now. that, to mavis' mind, is more reasonable. and it also makes him a potential ally, someone who is considering a way out instead of dwelling in their failures.

slowly, she nods. her jaw is set, twitching as she grinds her teeth together to withstand the pain. it is worse now than it was. her fault, admittedly. she had hoped to be out soon enough to deal with that on its own, but now ...

she takes the shirt from her lap. it will suffice as a bandage. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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mavis | original (cw: self harm)

leaving a mark (cw: self-harm)

cw: blood (icon & text)

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the great escape

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leaving a mark—

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