Quintessence

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<<link '<div id="back" title="turn back time"><span>🜀</span></div>'>><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>><span class="tooltip"> <span class="hover"> <<link "saves">> <<run UI.saves()>> <</link>> <<link "settings">> <<run UI.settings()>> <</link>> <<if tags().includes("menu")>><<link "return" $return>><</link>><<else>><<link "menu" "menu">><</link>><</if>> <<link "restart">> <<run UI.restart()>> <</link>> </span> <span class="delta"><<link "🝰">><</link>></span> </span>

<<link '<div id="codex"><h1>Codex</h1></div>'>><<run Dialog.setup("Codex");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Codex").processText());Dialog.open();>><</link>> <<link '<div id="character"><h1>Dramatis Personae</h1></div>'>><<run Dialog.setup("Dramatis Personae");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Dramatis Personae").processText());Dialog.open();>><</link>> <<link '<div id="credits"><h1>Credits</h1></div>'>><<run Dialog.setup("Credits");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Credits").processText());Dialog.open();>><</link>>

<b>//Rusalka//; //Русалка// (pl. //rusalki//; //русалки//)</b> - the drowned souls of women whose deaths were brought about by acts of betrayal. Reborn as //rusalki// and tethered to the earth until avenged, these women haunt the waters that took their previous lives. <hr> <<message "''The First Rusalka''">> Once upon a time, in a village blanketed by snowy peaks to the north and sprawling fields to the south, there lived a pair of sisters, one with hair as dark as night and the other with hair as rich as honey. The night-haired woman fell in love with a hunter. They married in a bountiful spring and lived a simple but happy life together in a small house lined with snowdrops. The woman’s honey-haired sister also fell in love, and was married the following summer, and congratulations were poured as generously as the wine. Their happiness, however, was sadly short-lived, as the sister’s husband fell in with a band of brigands whose heads were soon wanted by the king himself. The sister’s love was strong enough to keep this a secret, her worry and silence growing stronger still with every piece of pilfered finery and gold her husband brought back. One day, a troop of the king’s men came to the village, searching for the bandit. They approached first the sister’s home and she, recognizing her husband by the description the king’s men gave her, bit her tongue and told them that the man they sought lived past their field, in the house with snowdrops by the door. They thanked her, assured her that safety would soon be assured once again, and set off. The sister with hair as dark as night had been called to help a friend of her husband herd their sheep back into pasture, and so she returned back to the happy snowdrop house with no knowledge of the king’s men, or what her sister had done. Her first step on the path was just in time to see the snowdrops at the door turn red as the hunter’s head rolled from his body. The honey-haired sister, guilt weighing heavy on her, decided to warn her sister and the hunter. She arrived to find her sister, dropped dead in the path, and the snowdrops by the door dyed crimson. Three weeks later, a girl from the village went out to gather mushrooms in the woods behind the happy snowdrop house—her mushrooms were forgotten when she stumbled upon the honey-haired sister, lying cold and face-down in a shallow stream. In threes, things have power, and so this tale gives its warning: speak truthfully, remember kindly, and beware the knife that guards your back. <</message>>

<<set $galina to 0>> <<set $dana to 0>> <<set $vitya to 0>>

Created by <b><a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.itch.io">LapinLunaireGames</a></b> for <b>Ectocomp 2022 (Le Grand Guignol)</b>. * UI template by <a href="https://nyehilismwriting.tumblr.com/">nyehilism</a> * Chapel's excellent <a href="https://twinelab.net/custom-macros-for-sugarcube-2/#/?id=chapel39s-custom-macro-collection-v290">Custom Macro Collection</a> * Forest Photography by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@alienowicz?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Artur Rutkowski</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/dark-water-trees?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a> * Watercolour hand assets by NalaDesignStudio, via Canva * Background pattern assets from <a href="https://twitter.com/mikehearn">@mikehearn</a> * Droplet icon by <a href="https://lorcblog.blogspot.com/">Lorc</a>, available on <a href="https://game-icons.net">game-icons.net</a> * Rusalka theme palette inspired by Iwan Kramskoi's //Rusalki//, 1871 * Firebird theme palette inspired by Igor Stravinsky's //The Firebird//, 1910

<<if $g>>''Galina Gavrilovna'' - The blacksmith’s daughter; <s>Viktor Ivanovich’s sweetheart, Galya</s>. Quiet, well-mannered, and radiant as summer-kissed seas, Galina <<if $rusalka>>was<<else>>is<</if>> the envy of the village. Her heart<<if $galina < 1>> longs<<else>> once longed<</if>> to be as perfect as the happy heroines in the fairytales she loved as a child, for such goodness could only incur the best of lives.<<if $rusalka>> Reborn with her sisters in the stagnant, salt-stained waters of the forest surrounding her living self’s home, Galina is a creature of sublime, terrible beauty. Where she once reflected the light of others, she now radiates a sharp, strange power utterly her own.<</if>><<if not $rusalka and $galina > 1>> Upon her return from the rusalki, the village whispered that Galina had lost something that once made her shine with such a pristine light—but few saw the new flame in her eyes. Where she once reflected the light of others, Galina’s radiance is now utterly her own, bolstered by the imperfect edges of its writhing flame.<</if>><</if>><<if $v>> <hr> ''Viktor Ivanovich'' - <<if $vitya < 1>>To Galya (and once, Dana), Vitya.<<else>>Once known as Vitya to those he shared his heart with, but no longer.<</if>> The son of a farmer, Viktor’s fear of choosing the wrong path to tread is vast enough to sow his father’s field tenfold.<</if>><<if $d>> <hr> ''Dana'' - <<if $rusalka>>Sister.<<else>>A poor soul lost to the forest surrounding the village where she, Galina Gavrilovna, and Viktor Ivanovich live.<</if>><<if $dana > 0>> Her broken heart led to her rebirth as a rusalka.<</if>><</if>>

<div style="width:100%;text-align:center;padding-top:16vh;"><h3><a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.itch.io/">Lapin Lunaire Games</a></h3><h1>Quintessence</h1> <<include "menulinks">></div>

<<if Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()>><<link "Resume">><<script>>Save.autosave.load()<</script>><</link>><</if>> <<link "Begin" "welcome">><</link>> <<link "Remember">><<run UI.saves()>><</link>> <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings()>><</link>>

<center><span class="ru">Добро пожаловать, сестра.</span> <div class="hand turn"></div><<fadein 3s 7.5s>>Welcome, sister.<span style="color:var(--rusalka);"> ''<<link [["Hold your breath and take my hand."|Once upon a time...]]>></span><</link>>''<</fadein>></center>

<<widget "names">> <<set _names to ["Galina", "Gavril", "Papa", "Mama", "Viktor", "Vitya", "Dana"]>> <</widget>> <<widget "Answer">> <<if $answer is "love">> <<set $Answer to "Love">> <<elseif $answer is "power">> <<set $Answer to "Power">> <<elseif $answer is "rebirth">> <<set $Answer to "Rebirth">> <</if>> <</widget>> <<widget "reborn">> <<notify 3s>>''Galina'' updated in DRAMATIS PERSONAE<</notify>> <</widget>>

Once upon a time, in a village blanketed by snowy peaks to the north and sprawling fields to the south, there lived a pair of sisters, one with hair as dark as night and the other with hair as rich as honey. The night-haired woman fell in love with a hunter. They married in a bountiful spring and lived a simple but happy life together in a small house lined with snowdrops. The woman’s honey-haired sister also fell in love, and was married the following summer, and congratulations were poured as generously as the wine. Their happiness, however, was sadly short-lived, as the sister’s husband fell in with a band of brigands whose heads were soon wanted by the king himself. The sister’s love was strong enough to keep this a secret, her worry and silence growing stronger still with every piece of pilfered finery and gold her husband brought back. One day, a troop of the king’s men came to the village, searching for the bandit. They approached first the sister’s home and she, recognizing her husband by the description the king’s men gave her, bit her tongue and told them that the man they sought lived past their field, in the house with snowdrops by the door. They thanked her, assured her that safety would soon be assured once again, and set off. The sister with hair as dark as night had been called to help a friend of her husband herd their sheep back into pasture, and so she returned back to the happy snowdrop house with no knowledge of the king’s men, or what her sister had done. Her first step on the path was just in time to see the snowdrops at the door turn red as the hunter’s head rolled from his body. The honey-haired sister, guilt weighing heavy on her, decided to warn her sister and the hunter. She arrived to find her sister, dropped dead in the path, and the snowdrops by the door dyed crimson. Three weeks later, a girl from the village went out to gather mushrooms in the woods behind the happy snowdrop house—her mushrooms were forgotten when she stumbled upon the honey-haired sister, lying cold and face-down in a shallow stream. <div class="choice">[[In threes, things have power, and so this tale gives its warning: speak truthfully, remember kindly, and beware the knife that guards your back.|To the Forest]]</div>

<<notify 5s>>''The First Rusalka'' story unlocked in CODEX<</notify>><<link "Galina Gavrilovna">><<set $g to true>><<notify 3s>>''Galina'' unlocked in DRAMATIS PERSONAE<</notify>><</link>> could not be considered overly sentimental, by any means—delicate, perhaps, given her slender hands and soft hair, but never anything in the realm of //excess//. But as she looks into the face of <<link "Viktor Ivanovich">><<set $v to true>><<notify 3s>>''Viktor'' unlocked in DRAMATIS PERSONAE<</notify>><</link>>—//once, she had called him Vitya, an intimacy whose dubious comfort was now barred to her//—and notes the emotion on his suntanned face, a sinking sensation drags through her chest. The pressed line of his mouth is pleated more in uncertainty than in sadness, his eyes drifting into a coil of thought that seemed not dissimilar. A rude corner of Galina’s mind pipes up: //Perhaps this is what <<link "Dana">><<set $d to true>><<notify 3s>>''Dana'' unlocked in DRAMATIS PERSONAE<</notify>><</link>> saw when Viktor broke with her to invite you to the harvest dance! Perhaps this feeling is the last she felt before she vanished, the poor girl!// Dizziness turns Galina away from Viktor and his uncertainty, driving her a few steps back—her feet are politely unhurried, a habit born from a life of catering to such prices of propriety. Viktor begins to speak, his lips shaping a more familiar version of her name before correcting into its proper form, but the nausea spinning in Galina’s skull does not allow her to stay to hear him through. She leaves him there at the edge of the meadow, her back turned just quickly enough to hide how her fists crumple the fabric of her skirt as she strides away—//always with a straight spine but gentled gait//—and thinks very firmly of how to proceed next. Her dizziness eases with each step, but returns with vicious fury at the thought of home and the thick cloud of steam waiting there to keep her within reach of her mother’s prying questions and vague, unspoken disappointment. She had liked Viktor more than Galina’s father had—he had not //disapproved//, but Viktor and a few of the other boys from the village had once snuck into his forge and left his tools in disarray, and the memory of that had not tarnished. <div class="choice">[[Galina turns instead to the forest.|A Walk in the Forest]]</div>

The path narrows, brushing her shoulders and skirt with glossy pine needles. Their fresh scent prickles at her nose, urging on tears that, mere minutes ago, she would have found useful, but now inspire only irritation. Galina allows herself a few seconds to roughly swipe at her eyes (no one to see her here, after all) before continuing through the trees. Dangers lie deeper in the forest, but none so great to Galina as being discovered in such a //compromising// emotional state. Her entire life, she had met expectations—exceeded them, really—without complaint, without anything more than an elegant nod and swift obedience. These tireless efforts had served her without fail: the village knew Galina as the well-mannered, fair daughter of a fine, skilled blacksmith. Her braids were always smooth and pinned neatly to her crown, her skirts spotless (with not a word slipped of the sleep lost to rising before dawn so she could scrub them clean), her voice soft and sweet as dew: Galina, in every waking breath of her life, had done everything as dictated by and for perfection. The padded rustle of fallen leaves and pine needles underfoot gives way to mud. Startled, Galina stops, a sudden wave of goosebumps rising on her arms as cold wind stirs from the sodden earth. There was no birdsong anymore, she realises with a growing sense of dread, only the gurgling of the brook in front of her. <div class="choice">[[Her foot sinks into the mud.|Renaissance Reconnaissance]]</div>

Cautiously, Galina wriggles one foot free of the mud; it sucks at her foot and makes itself slipperier beneath the other, so that she narrowly avoids falling altogether. “We have been waiting for you, Galya. But we did not expect that you would join us so soon.” Galina’s head snaps up—who would be in this dense, isolated corner of the forest, and among those, would think to address her so affectionately? A woman stands in the brook, sodden hair starkly black against her pale skin. Startled, Galina stumbles again; a wet hand catches her from behind and pushes her gently back upright. A frightened gasp, sharp and high, flies from her lips—pale, dripping arms rise slowly around her, parting water and tree branches like theatre curtains to reveal a loose ring of hollow-faced women. Water drips onto Galina’s shoulders, something like lichen pressing against the tender junction of skin exposed at her collar. She raises a hand on instinct to swat it off, turning as she does, and screams. The face peering out at her between the trees is gaunt, pupils cloudy, and heart-stoppingly familiar. <<link "Dana">><<set $dana +=1>><<notify 5s>>''Dana'' updated in DRAMATIS PERSONAE<</notify>><</link>>—//poor, vanished Dana, who surely had fallen to ill by way of her broken heart//—stares silently at Galina from her perch in the tree just behind the patch of mud, hand still extended where she’d stopped Galina from falling. Droplets cling to Dana’s body, hugging the curves of her jaw and parted lips, as her hair drips quietly to the forest floor, blonde strands turned stringy and green. Dana moves her hand in the direction of Galina’s hair, halting almost immediately when Galina flinches. A sad, diluted imitation of a smile passes like a ghost over Dana’s face. “You always had such beautiful hair.” It is not a whisper, but there is something in the quiet, granular quality of Dana’s voice that sends shivers down Galina’s spine like one, chilling her terror-stricken heart. More rusalki emerge around Galina; the one in the brook, water babbling around her ankles, smiles. <div class="choice">[[“Come and sit with us, sister.”|An Important Question]]</div>

The rusalki around her sway in a way that Galina takes as gentle but firm guidance to approach the rusalka standing in the water. She seats herself on a stone that seems a safe distance from the bank, though its position is slightly too convenient for comfort. The rusalka in the river—yes, the //river//, for although the width and strength of the current is unchanged, something about the way it glimmers around the rusalka’s greying legs sends something fearful into the deepest parts of Galina’s heart and lungs, where it whispers, “//river//”—sinks down into a seated position as well. Although Galina is certain that the water lapped at her ankles when she entered the clearing, now it rises readily past the rusalka’s knees, covering her lap like a blanket. She leans back on one glistening hand and studies Galina for a moment. After Galina’s heart settles into a weak but steady recovery, the rusalka plucks a comb of fish bones from the water and begins to card it through her own unkempt hair. “Tell me, Galya,” says the dark-haired rusalka, “what do you desire most? What boon would make your life one of utter happiness?” <div class='choice'> <<link [[“Love.”|No Uncertain Answer]]>><<set $answer to "love">><<Answer>><</link>> <<link "“Power.”" "No Uncertain Answer">><<set $answer to "power">><<Answer>><</link>> <<link "“A chance to do it all again.”" "No Uncertain Answer">><<set $answer to "rebirth">><<Answer>><</link>> </div>

“//$Answer//.” Everything around Galina is still, but she is acutely aware of the chill of Dana’s wet hair and cold fingers seeping closer to her. “$Answer,” repeats the dark-haired rusalka from her seat in the river. Galina suppresses a shudder at the harsh sound of her ragged nails scratching idly over stone. “And $answer will make you happy, unborn sister?” “It will make me perfect,” says Galina. Her voice, as trained as she is in steeling herself to grace like a captain to the helm of a sinking ship, trembles. The rusalka pulls a face that might have once been wry. “That is not what I asked, sweet unborn sister. But I sense that you are unhappy.” Fear, at long last, boils into reckless courage and Galina protests, “I have no sisters.” The damp hand at her back stiffens. The rusalka in the water considers Galina’s statement. Something cold and sharp slides over her features. It is not beautiful, and yet Galina is struck by the sudden desire to bring the rusalka’s strange face to her lips, if only to know the sensation of being cut. “No,” says the rusalka, after a long silence broken only by the rushing water. “Not yet, I suppose. Very well, Galina Gavrilovna. But still, I must give you the advice I would a sister.” The distance given by the usage of her patronymic name, a proper social interaction to slot both speakers into acknowledged, quaint spaces of belonging, is not nearly as comforting as Galina wished for. The rusalka continues, “You are unhappy, Galina Gavrilovna. You say $answer will make you perfect. Will perfection end your unhappiness?” “I am not unhappy,” Galina insists, but the rusalka shakes her head. <<nobr>><div class="choice"><<link "“You said you wanted $answer. What in your life is it for?”">><<set $galina +=1>> <<if $answer is "love">><<goto "Love">> <<elseif $answer is "power">><<goto "Power">> <<elseif $answer is "rebirth">><<goto "Rebirth">> <</if>> <</link>> </div><</nobr>>

“Is it for your boy Viktor?” “He is not my boy,” Galina says without hesitation. The words taste odd in her mouth, and come out sharper than she intended; she cannot decide if their sourness is a thing of ripeness or of rot. “As much as you are not his girl,” responds the rusalka, amusement playing over her bloodless lips and sharp teeth. “Very well, then. Is it for Viktor, the boy who is not yours, nor really his own?” Galina hesitates, but speaks firmly. “It is for me. Love is a kind of tool that uses its wielder. I am good at being both candle and mirror in times of darkness. It would make me good.” The rusalka’s eyes curve into crescents as she smiles like a scythe. It does not make her look kind, but her voice is gentle. “Galina the Good. Is that who you want to be?” Galina swallows past something thorny and hot, studying her hands instead of the rusalka’s icy, frightening serenity. She thinks of holding Viktor’s hand in the dark warmth of a smouldering hearth and of the chill when she goes to clean the ashes alone. She thinks of how Galina the blacksmith’s daughter became Galina, Viktor’s sweetheart, in the span of a week. She thinks of how her happiness at Viktor’s presence drinks the approval of the village like a flame drinks oxygen, and how his uncertainty in the meadow had kept her eyes dry. “I am not unhappy because of Viktor,” says Galina, and there is a flash of pride in her chest when she does not stumble over his name. The rusalka’s scythe smile swings. “But you do not love him, and he does not know if he loves you.” From behind Galina comes a sigh. She watches her skirt crumple between her fingers and tries to remember what colour Dana’s eyes were in life. The rusalka lays her bone comb in her lap; it remains still, bobbing atop the water despite the current rushing past. <div class="choice"><<link "Galina cannot recall anything but the blank, glassy clouds in Dana’s dead eyes.">> <<if hasVisited("Power", "Rebirth")>><<goto "Reflections">> <<elseif not hasVisited("Power") and not hasVisited("Rebirth")>><<goto `either("Power", "Rebirth")`>> <<elseif hasVisited("Power") and not hasVisited("Rebirth")>><<goto "Rebirth">> <<elseif hasVisited("Rebirth") and not hasVisited("Power")>><<goto "Power">> <</if>> <</link>> </div>

“Is it because of your father?” “I am proud to be my father’s daughter,” Galina says immediately, but the words are sticky in her throat. Galina Gavrilovna is her father’s daughter, and until her braids grew long and her arms strong enough to pin them around the crown of her head, that was all she was. Now, Galina wonders in a rebellious corner of her mind (likely the same one that wondered at a connection to Dana at Viktor’s expression when breaking things off) if she will ever be anything other than the most valuable of her father’s creations, a child possessed by the perfection of her upbringing. The rusalka stays quiet as Galina purses her lips. Beneath her neat braided crown, her mind is racing: she thinks of how everyone she has ever known has praised her father’s craft, and lauded him for giving them the power and tools to reap any hunger they’ve sown—grain, girls, even that vein in the far neck of the river that turned out to not be gold, but bestowed a fleeting kiss of glory nonetheless. She thinks of the way that she has been beautiful in the way that dolls and jewels and the mounted antlers of a prize deer are beautiful. Quiet. Unflinchingly invariable. A reflection of their master’s decisive hand. “I am not unhappy because of my father,” says Galina. “He is a good man, and I am proud of him. I am not a child, and I have not been for some time.” That strange, sharp expression comes over the rusalka’s face again and she says, “But you are seen as one.” Galina the blacksmith’s daughter looks down at the mud on her shoes and does not answer. <div class="choice"><<link "The rusalka dips a hand into the water and speaks.">> <<if hasVisited("Love", "Rebirth")>><<goto "Reflections">> <<elseif not hasVisited("Love") and not hasVisited("Rebirth")>><<goto `either("Love", "Rebirth")`>> <<elseif hasVisited("Love") and not hasVisited("Rebirth")>><<goto "Rebirth">> <<elseif hasVisited("Rebirth") and not hasVisited("Love")>><<goto "Love">> <</if>> <</link>></div>

“Is it because your mother has put cabbage soup on the table for the past thirteen days?” “It’s been only twelve, and not yet dinner today!” protests Galina. The rusalka shrugs. “Then today will be the thirteenth day.” Galina’s brow furrows and she unclenches her fingers from where they wrinkle her skirt. It is a poor habit she has yet to train herself out of. Her mother has offered to roll and tie bundles of brambles between her knuckles—it is the same way she was trained as a child. “I am not unhappy because of my mother,” she says after an owl’s hoot has cracked the water’s gurgle thrice. “She is a good woman, and I am proud of her. She has taught me how to bend where I would otherwise break.” The rusalka’s lips twitch, and a sheen of distress beads anew on Galina’s brow. “But by bending you deny yourself.” She curls one river-slick finger against her lap, and as if summoned, an image of Galina’s mother, lips a flat line as she bends over a litany of duties, appears in her mind. Years flash by and Galina thinks of how her mother has stood unchanging but ageing through them all. She thinks of the rarity of her mother’s smile, and how she introduces herself as Gavril Petrovich’s wife Anna. She thinks of the bitterness that sometimes seeps like sorrel into her mother’s voice when her father introduces her only with his own name, and Galina wonders if she could have stomached so many years of the same. She thinks of Viktor, and if staying with him and bending to claim an irrefutable image of outward, manufactured happiness would have been worth the price of abandoning nebulous, uncertain dreams. She thinks of what she would have dreamed, had she taken the chance. The cold presence behind her shivers, and Galina takes her eyes off the rusalka for the first time to peer at Dana. She is close enough that Galina barely has to turn, her face steeped in sorrow. Galina shivers as well when she turns back around; she tells herself it’s because of the chill emanating from Dana’s skin. The river rusalka looks almost wistful when Galina meets her eyes again, but only for a single breath. <div class="choice"><<link "She runs her thumb over the edge of her bone comb and speaks.">> <<if hasVisited("Power", "Love")>><<goto "Reflections">> <<elseif not hasVisited("Power") and not hasVisited("Love")>><<goto `either("Power", "Love")`>> <<elseif hasVisited("Power") and not hasVisited("Love")>><<goto "Love">> <<elseif hasVisited("Love") and not hasVisited("Power")>><<goto "Power">> <</if>> <</link>></div>

“I have asked you thrice how to remedy your unhappiness, and each time you have insisted on inflicting more pain upon yourself than necessary. What keeps you from accepting a boon that you so deeply desire, Galina Gavrilovna?” The rusalka’s voice is calm and broad, granular in the same way of water rolling over reeds. She studies Galina from her seat of roiling water wordlessly, perfectly still. Galina does not dare take her eyes off the rusalka again. In her lap, her fingers map a pattern of stitches needed to mend a split seam, something rhythmic and mindless enough to release her mind to its fields. When she speaks, her voice sprouts like a chain from an anchor in her belly. “As I am, you are not my sister, but I must ask this of you before I accept your boon.” The rusalka’s eyes gleam with reflected light off the water. “Ask it of me, unborn sister, and I will answer.” Galina carefully flattens her fingers against her skirt and asks, “Are you happy?” The rusalka’s scythe-smile flashes across her face and in a voice as rich as harvest wine, she says, “I am.” Galina thinks of $answer and all the things she could do with the rusalka’s promise. Hundreds of lives flash before her eyes—all hers, and all possibilities, glittering and sharp as broken glass. Galina has a choice to make. The rusalka extends a pale, wet hand. <div class="choice"><<link [["Take the rusalka’s hand."|Reborn]]>><</link>> <<link [["Refuse the rusalka’s boon."|Refusal]]>><</link>> </div>

<<nobr>><<set $rusalka to true>><<reborn>>Something fierce and vicious coils in Galina’s gut, a frustration fermented over long years into vinegar. It drives her hand forward to grasp the rusalka’s firmly, in the way one grips a raised knife.<</nobr>> The rusalka’s skin is cold, slick, and paper-thin; beneath her fingertips, Galina can feel a shallow thrum of power like the throbbing of waves. Those deathly-cold fingers sink into her warm flesh and tug—in an instant, Galina feels the rusalka’s promise turn to water and flow away. Too late, Galina remembers what could have saved her: rusalki are created by acts of betrayal. The rusalka in the river smiles again, and this time the scythe of it carries a sinister sheen of pity. “Welcome to the water, sister,” she says. Though the water is shallow, it swallows Galina easily, driving the breath from her body with icy fists. Voices spiral around her as she sinks, crooning in her ear of closure for the wronged dead, of things shimmering wet and dark in the shadows, and of the sickly sweet taste of vengeance. Hair swishes close to her cheek, barely visible in the watery moonlight streaming through Galina’s last breaths; in the water, it is as softly golden as summer wheat and weightless as a heroine’s soul. “Each of us //can// achieve our desires alone now,” whispers Dana in Galina’s ear, “but to be rusalka means we do not //have// to.” Even in the chill of the water, Dana’s fingers are freezing as she unpins Galina’s braids and combs her fingers through them, spreading the fine strands out so they sway, unbound, with her <<link "new sisters’">><<notify 3s>>''Dana'' updated in DRAMATIS PERSONAE<</notify>><</link>>. <hr> When the search party enters the forest calling out for Galina Gavrilovna, their torches shrink, forcing them into tight clusters. The forest rustles around them, but for every trip over a gnarled root, a curiously damp path opens. By the trickle of a tiny brook, they find a trail of steady footprints to the water, and a handful of hairpins scattered in the mud. <<include "Finale">>

<<nobr>><<names>>The rusalka’s skin glitters like a pearl in the moonlight, but from this close Galina can see the cracks of green algae rooted in her cold flesh, tunnelling under the papery skin like veins. Her face looks even less human from here as well, skin turned greyish-green, decay cupping her skeleton like lichen on bark—like her appearance, the rusalka’s promise is false.<</nobr>> The foul odour of water rot raises bile in Galina’s throat and she musters her courage to speak. “I thank you for your offer, your hospitality, and my safety, but I refuse your boon, its promise, and rebirth.” She turns to leave; the mud allows her, but from the water at her back comes a sigh. Fingers cold as ice and stronger than steel seize her hair and yank her back. Freezing water splashes her skirt, dragging the fabric down around her legs as a harsh whisper rasps at her ear: “You invoke the power of three, but forget that gratitude for a gift ungiven is a weakness. Galina Gavrilovna, this is not a fairytale.” The rusalka plunges into the water, taking Galina with her. Just before the current closes over her face, Galina screams a name: <<textbox "$name" `either(_names)`>> <div class="choice"><<link [[“Her voice pierces the air.”|Rusalka]]>><</link>></div>

<<switch $name>> <<case "Dana" "dana">><<include "Dana">> <<case "Galina" "galina">><<include "Galina">> <<case "Viktor" "viktor" "vitya" "Vitya">><<include "Viktor">> <<case "Gavril" "gavril" "Papa" "papa" "Father" "father" "mother" "Mother" "Mama" "Anna" "anna" "mama">><<include "Family">> <<default>><<include Else>> <</switch>> <<include "Finale">>

“//Dana!//” The water seals over Galina’s panic, rushing into her mouth and nose. A flurry of bubbles streams from her as she coughs and chokes—a second pair of icy hands closes around Galina’s wrists and hauls her back up, slipping beneath her arms to throw her onto solid earth. “How dare you?! How //dare// you betray your sister!” The rusalka spits, fog seething around her bare arms. “Betrayal is what we are made of.” Dana’s voice rings clear as a fabled bell through the trees. She stands over Galina, silhouetted in the moonlight as she faces her sister in the river. The river rusalka snarls, sharp teeth slavering in a mouth like a crescent moon. She raises a hand and the river swells, looming over Dana and Galina. Dana’s cloudy eyes are unfazed; she rakes a hand over the surging water and it spills over harmlessly, drenching the clearing in a wet sheen of silver where the moon hits it. “What of this will avenge the wronged dead?” she asks. She turns to Galina and smiles; for a moment, with her face cast into shadow, she looks nearly as she once did. “I was reborn by betrayal, and forgotten by it as well. Your choice remembers me, and avenges me.” Dana touches Galina’s bedraggled, water-laden braids, and the fear freezing her in place shatters as if struck upon an anvil; Galina bolts from the clearing, her flight unhindered by the glances over her shoulder at Dana and the river rusalka. When she reaches the firelit safety of home, her family draws the story from her trembling, blue-tinted lips with honeyed tea and thick blankets. Galina is never quite the same as the good daughter who ventured into the forest that day—the strangeness in her laugh is unrestrained, her hair shining slightly green when wet, with a fluid sharpness to her kind manner that strikes whispers in her wake—but her smile is all the more radiant for it. And on dark, rainy nights, some say they have seen her sitting by the riverbank, braiding the yellow-green hair of a hollow-faced woman sitting in the water.

“//Galina!//” Her own name rises in a stream of bubbles and bursts at the far surface, distorting what little moonlight reaches through the river. The hand tangled in her hair is icy, sharp nails scraping at her scalp; they rake through skin and freeze her mind. Images flash through Galina’s mind as the rusalka’s voice echoes around her: “//For $answer…//” She sees herself confronting her fears, embracing herself for all that she is in the face of uncertainty: Viktor bends on one knee before her, devotion blooming on his face; her parents kiss her and wave her towards a stage from their places in the audience; every regret she’d bottled up shatters, flowing back and out of existence as she took a new hand to her past— Ice pierces her chest, goring through her spine and bursting from her sternum in a frenzy of blinding pain. Galina feels the rusalka’s promise melt, torn apart in the river as her blood swirls out from around the hand protruding from her chest. The rusalka’s falsehood is bitter on her tongue and too late, Galina remembers that rusalki are born of betrayal. The rusalka holds Galina close, releasing her torn-out heart to the current and curling her bloody hand around Galina’s shivering, rent chest. “Welcome, sister,” she croons. “Your faith was admirable. Its ruin will serve you so well.” And as she places an icy kiss on Galina’s temple, the watery world darkens around her.

“//Viktor!//”<<set $vitya +=1>> Even as she sinks below the surface, Galina is struck by the fact that even in peril, her fear names Viktor her saviour—when had she called him last? Memory eludes her as bubbles stream from her nose and mouth and spiral up to the surface, the air punched from her lungs by freezing fists. <<fadein 1s 3s>>//Vitya…//<</fadein>><<fadein 5s 4s>>//Vitya…//<</fadein>><<fadein 12s 5s>><<link "//Vitya…//">><<notify 3s>>''Viktor'' updated in DRAMATIS PERSONAE<</notify>><</link>><</fadein>> Although she had not called him so affectionately, the sound of it rings in Galina’s ears. Far from the spot in the forest, by a lit hearth, a chill shivers down Viktor Ivanovich’s spine. He raises his head and scans the room. His gaze lingers on the foggy blue square of nightfall outside his window; something calls to him from the rustling woods at the edge of the horizon, something that coils and tugs darkly at his ribcage. The pull intensifies and Viktor stands, knocking his knees on the table. His parents stare at him, spoons raised halfway to their mouths. “Vityusha, what’s wrong?” He hesitates, unable to pull his gaze away from the dreadful sensation thrumming in the woods. Indecision rises in his gut, swelling at his temples. Dangers lurk in the forest, and he has never been so devout to reckless, blindly faithful heroism as Galina. “I…nothing. I thought I heard something.” In the icy river, Galina’s bones crack beneath the rusalka’s grip. In his home across the fields, Viktor Ivanovich finds himself weeping.

“//$name!//” For a moment, the water shimmers as if with the orange light of approaching torches, and hope sparks in Galina’s chest. The next moment, red and orange leaves scatter through the water and her hope is dashed, ice spreading through her veins. Galina had always treasured and feared being alone in equal measure; solitude was a time of freedom from the eyes of others and the standards they held her to, but in that freedom was the dizzying chasm of possibilities that Galina had never allowed herself to ponder. What did she want, when she had the choice? Air punched from her lungs by icy fists and swallowed by water she’d thought too shallow, the answer comes to Galina: she had wanted assurance, an end to the fears that drove her to seek the unobtainable at every turn. She lashes out blindly, kicking up a froth of bubbles but gaining no purchase. Something like laughter warbles to her through the water before cold lips brush her numb ear. “They loved you well,” the rusalka croons sweetly, pulling Galina close. “And you were such a good daughter. Now it’s time to see what kind of sister you will be. Welcome to the water, Galya.” Ice pierces her chest, goring through her spine and bursting from her sternum in a frenzy of blinding pain. Galina feels the rusalka’s promise melt, torn apart in the river as her blood swirls out from around the hand protruding from her chest. The rusalka’s falsehood is bitter on her tongue and too late, Galina remembers that rusalki are born of betrayal. The rusalka holds Galina close, releasing her torn-out heart to the current and curling her bloody hand around Galina’s shivering, rent chest. And as she places an icy kiss on Galina’s temple and combs out her braids, the watery world darkens around her.

“//$name!//” Birds lift from the trees, cawing raucously, but no footsteps sound through the pines. Too late, Galina remembers what could have saved her: rusalki are created by acts of betrayal. The rusalka in the river smiles again, and this time the scythe of it carries a sinister sheen of pity. “Welcome to the water, sister,” she says. Though the water is shallow, it swallows Galina easily, driving the breath from her body with icy fists. Voices spiral around her as she sinks, crooning in her ear of closure for the wronged dead, of things shimmering wet and dark in the shadows, and of the sickly sweet taste of vengeance. Hair swishes close to her cheek, barely visible in the watery moonlight streaming through Galina’s last breaths; in the water, it is as softly golden as summer wheat and weightless as a heroine’s soul. “Each of us //can// achieve our desires alone now,” whispers Dana in Galina’s ear, “but to be rusalka means we do not //have// to.” There is almost an apology woven into her words. Even in the chill of the water, Dana’s fingers are freezing as she unpins Galina’s braids and combs her fingers through them, spreading the fine strands out so they sway, unbound, with her new sisters’. <hr> When the search party enters the forest calling out for Galina Gavrilovna, their torches shrink, forcing them into tight clusters. The forest rustles around them, but for every trip over a gnarled root, a curiously damp path opens. By the trickle of a tiny brook, they find a handful of hairpins scattered in the mud. Viktor Ivanovich stumbles to a rock by the bank and begins to weep.

<hr> <center><<fadein 6s>><span class="ru">До свидания, сестра. Sweet dreams, sister. Thank you for sharing in my story.</span> <span style="font-family:Vollkorn SC;"><<link "Play Again">><<run UI.restart()>><</link>></span><</fadein>></center>