The Fate of Empyrenea

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<div class="chapterHead"><h2>Prologue</h2> </div> The War is your Mother. She nourishes you on her breast as it bleeds blood from the corpses. They litter the ground like drecks washed ashore on a beach after a terrible storm. You are taught under dictatorial shrieks and whistles of incoming cannonballs, honing your natural instinct to slither and weave around danger; you are guided into the heart of chaos and brought from your infanthood into young adolescence: you shed your skin for a tougher one. You weren't raised a weakling. War, your terrifying but well-meaning Mother, desires an equal and wants someone to care for you together in the little time she has left, for she is dying as the piles of bodies grow like tides by the hour. She brings in a companion, one day, an eternity ago; he blooms from the dark horizon like a mystery. His steely gray eyes sweepings over the land from the hilltop like a king. He commands the air around him and he strikes fear into his enemies, their heads rolling to his feet as he deftly slays them. [[And who are his enemies?]]

Blearily your eyes open to a chestplate in front of your face. Its color obsidian black, which is unusual to see in uniforms. But that is not your concern. You look down and almost cry. If you weren't being held at this moment you would have fell. You have two tails— like the humans trying to hurt you. Your scales disappeared, leaving you bereft. Naked. You are no more protected than the clothing these men wear, punctured and desiccated by your fangs, their squishy bits squirting through cracks and seams, wetting your tongue as you had supped on them. You are weak. A huff of breath above rattles your nerves further. The meaty things attached to your skulls permits… these sensations into your brain. Before you could dwell any longer on the increasing madness of your situation, a pair of arms wraps themselves around you, picking you up like a hawk plucking off a dazed hare. You hiss, twisting and cantering your head to bite. To tear. But instead, you are pushed against the cold chestplate and the arms tighten their hold on you. It does not feel like how your tail would be around a boar. It is… like a bird spreading its wings over its [[chicks.]]

The actions of this human —and it must be a human. No other species would be stupid enough to do this— is strange, and very, very [[galling.]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h2>CHAPTER ONE</h2> </div> //221 //New Age//, 200 years after Ophiuchus founded Empyrenea// //Libra District, The Stone Acropolis// Darker daubes define the contours of the endless gray sands. Reposed in the stagnant landscape is the crumbling, ancient Piscean battle fort, occasionally enlivened by the surging tides of the East Ocean. The tall and powerful ones splashes against the walls, fanning into beautiful displays of lights reflecting and refracting, froth layering and dissolving— that was the last thing Merit ever saw of his homeland before his enlistment to the [[rebellion force.]]

The castle and waves are in his mind even now, chafing him as he tightens the bandage around [[Hiwa.]]

He scans her, taking note of any other bodily injury besides the shoulder that got nicked by one of the Serpent’s fangs after she landed an arrow into its neck. If Jaggery, their roguish front-liner, wasn’t right behind her, she would have lost half of her body. With their quick thinking and swiftness, they pulled her out of its jaw just as it furiously jammed shut. Her expert shot forced a pivotal change in what was becoming a [[one-sided onslaught.]]

He clicks his leather case full of concoctions close. “Don’t move. It will make your wound worse,” he brusquely orders. Hiwa, her eyes clamped shut, nods. Sweat and dirt has dampened her shirt. The rest of them weren’t faring any better appearance-wise. His stern gaze softens. To be honest, he had heavily doubted her abilities until she struck the Serpent. The youngest member of their operation is timid, but she is the very best of the sharpshooters and the territories needed the cream of the crop for their mission. And no one can refuse a vital asset in [[aerial combat.]]

The vicious beats from the wings of the Serpent reverberates from the ground up, calling him to the battlefield. He steps out from beneath the dense canopy of the tree he carried Hiwa under. A hellish scream draws his eyes to the sky— and he can’t help the savage smile from overtaking his lips. The Serpent is flying, well, //struggling// to fly. The rhythm of its wings falters into discordant, spastic flaps as it attempts to keep itself stationary in the air. His poison that he laced Hiwa’s arrows with worked splendidly. It lowers itself, trying to regain balance, ripping open an opportunity for Jaggery to leap on top of it and clip its wings with their blades. The forest floor had broken stones of the gargoyles —the Serpent shattered them with terrifying might and ease with numerous flicks of its tail— jutting out like nasty pikes, which sufficed as weapons of area denial for the Serpent if it decides to try its luck fighting on the ground. The automatons were the only things that helped them in the beginning, along with the flaming catapults blasting from Lieutenant Clay, who have been scouring the sky for the monster as they try to take it down from an [[old battlement on a hill.]]

Regardless, Commander Senixte’s militia of gargoyle is not to be scoffed at. It was equal parts beautiful and damning to see hordes of them swarming the sky, synchronously lunging for the Serpent to maul it to shreds. If he hadn’t known any better he would have thought a storm was coming upon them It was also a good thing that they were in a dense forest, impeding the monster and obscuring its vision of them as they set traps and figure out their plan of attack when things go sideways. Speaking of the gargoyle maker, he leaps like a shadow onto its snout and slams down a ward, [[paralyzing it.]]

All is quiet. He can hear Hiwa’s labored breathing, hear the blood rushing, thrumming in his eardrums, anticipating what will happen next. Jaggery and Senixte jumps off of it the same time it dispelled into a mushroom cloud of dark energy. From this distance he can smell the sulfur and the reek of unpleasant musk. It reminds him of the ditches on the side of the roads in [[some Cancerian villages.]]

Rat infestations invite families of snakes. The health officials from the capital recommended a mass hunt which was in some part influenced by the government’s pent up frustration with the Serpent, Ophiuchus’ loyal pet. It was all symbolic and [[not subtle.]]

Senixte and Jaggery are immediately on… <blockquote>[[▹ Him|Next Passage 1][$child to "son", $heshe to "he", $himher to "him", $hisher to "his", $hishers to "his", $himself to "himself"]] [[▹ Her|Next Passage 2][$child to "daughter", $heshe to "she", $himher to "her", $hisher to "her", $hishers to "hers", $himself to "herself"]] [[▹ Them|Next Passage 3][$child to "child", $heshe to "they", $himher to "them", $hisher to "their", $hishers to "theirs", $himself to "themself"]]</blockquote>

<<set $pronouns_plural= false>> <<set $aggressive to 0>> <<set $calm to 0>> <<set $name_approval to 50>> <<set $s_approval to 0>> <<set $c_approval to 0>> <<set $m_approval to 0>> <<set $Tstat to 0>> <<set $Ostat to 1>> <<newmeter 'Territories' $Tstat>> <<colors '#efd9a1' '#efd9a1' 'gray'>> <<sizing '90%' '2em'>> <<border radius 10px>> <</newmeter>> <<newmeter 'Ophiuchus' $Ostat>> <<colors '#efd9a1' '#efd9a1' 'gray'>> <<sizing '90%' '2em'>> <<border radius 10px>> <</newmeter>>

<<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>>... <blockquote>[[▹ Taller than average|Next height-chosen-t][$height to "tall"]] [[▹ Average|Next height-chosen-a][$height to "average"]] [[▹ Shorter than average|Next height-chosen-s][$height to "short"]]</blockquote>

<<set $pronouns_plural= true>> <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>>... <blockquote>[[▹ Taller than average|Next height-chosen-t][$height to "tall"]] [[▹ Average|Next height-chosen-a][$height to "average"]] [[▹ Shorter than average|Next height-chosen-s][$height to "short"]]</blockquote>

Like Clay. <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>peer<<else>>peers<</if>> over his team members. Jaggery forces $himher on $hisher knees. <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>choke<<else>>chokes<</if>> on a mouthful of dirt when they brutally push $himher into the ground. <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> hair is... <blockquote>[[▹ Brown|Next hair-chosen-br][$hair to "brown"]] [[▹ Black|Next hair-chosen-bk][$hair to "black"]] [[▹ Blond|Next hair-chosen-bd][$hair to "blond"]] [[▹ Ginger|Next hair-chosen-g][$hair to "ginger"]] [[▹ Gray|Next hair-chosen-g][$hair to "gray"]]</blockquote>

Like Jaggery and Senixte, and the absent Noose. Senixte holds a dagger to $hisher neck, murmuring orders into $hisher ears to kneel. <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> hair is... <blockquote>[[▹ Brown|Next hair-chosen-br][$hair to "brown"]] [[▹ Black|Next hair-chosen-bk][$hair to "black"]] [[▹ Blond|Next hair-chosen-bd][$hair to "blond"]] [[▹ Ginger|Next hair-chosen-g][$hair to "ginger"]] [[▹ Gray|Next hair-chosen-g][$hair to "gray"]]</blockquote>

Like him and Hiwa. Jaggery pushes $himher on the ground, face-down, with ease. If their capture had full bearings of $hisher mental capacity, his team would have had a much harder time subduing $himher for sure. <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> hair is... <blockquote>[[▹ Brown|Next hair-chosen-br][$hair to "brown"]] [[▹ Black|Next hair-chosen-bk][$hair to "black"]] [[▹ Blond|Next hair-chosen-bd][$hair to "blond"]] [[▹ Ginger|Next hair-chosen-g][$hair to "ginger"]] [[▹ Gray|Next hair-chosen-g][$hair to "gray"]]</blockquote>

The color of $hisher skin is... <blockquote>[[▹ Ivory|Next selection-finalized-i][$skin to "ivory"]] [[▹ Beige|Next selection-finalized-b][$skin to "beige"]] [[▹ Tan|Next selection-finalized-t][$skin to "tan"]] [[▹ Olive|Next selection-finalized-o][$skin to "olive"]] [[▹ Deep brown|Next selection-finalized-db][$skin to "deep brown"]]</blockquote>

The color of $hisher skin is... <blockquote> [[▹ Ivory|Next selection-finalized-i][$skin to "ivory"]] [[▹ Beige|Next selection-finalized-b][$skin to "beige"]] [[▹ Tan|Next selection-finalized-t][$skin to "tan"]] [[▹ Olive|Next selection-finalized-o][$skin to "olive"]] [[▹ Deep brown|Next selection-finalized-db][$skin to "deep brown"]]</blockquote>

Just like his. Even from here, the welts of plum-purple and red is visible on $hisher skin. He is reluctant to admit that he sports [[similar markings.|5]]

Just like Clay's, who is still on the hill. Merit squints his eyes and sees them sending off a trained, sleek falcon with a letter clutched firmly between its talons, most likely to apprise the territories of their victory. <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> skin is that of the trees it has felled with its hefty body: bruised. Broken, too, if he accounts [[internal damage.|5]]

Just like Noose’s, their bastard of a material requisitioner. The bruise on $hisher skin shares the color of the streaks of clouds which $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>have<<else>>has<</if>> poisoned with its foul, [[acid breath.|5]]

Just like Jaggery's, flushed from pain and exhaustion. <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> deserves more than that, $heshe suffered a fraction of the misery $heshe have wrought years ago. His fist tightens against his sides in [[impatience.|5]]

Just like Hiwa’s, who he has to check up on. He cast another glance at their captive. <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> skin glistens with beads of sweat mixing in with [[blood and dirt.|5]]

//Its// eyes reveal its true nature. Instead of white, its sclera is noxious yellow. The creature is a skin-walker wearing the hide of its latest victim. [[Nothing more.|6]]

[[Nothing less.|7]]

As if it heard his thoughts, the Serpent snaps up, pin-pointing exactly where he is at this very moment. Snakes don’t have good eyesight, so he doesn’t understand the mechanism behind the little party trick it had just pulled. It... ▹ [[Is still. Watching him.|pers-check-1.c]] ▹ [[Tries to fight back.|pers-check-1.a]]

[[Everyone that is trying to kill you.]]

But you don't know that, so you fly over to the hill. Jaws open wide to consume. Your stomach hungers and the pain agonizes you so much that the afflictions on your skin could not compare. What had happened next you could not remember. All you saw were stars that blinded your sight and screamed their blistering whites. Which gave away to confusing non-whites and non-blacks, but they were darker than white and lighter than black. You choke on spit as fear grips you close. Are you up or down? Incoherent explanations rise at the back of your mind. Has someone flung you across the sky and gravity refused you the mercy to pull your body down to earth? Something warm settles against both of your sides. What can possibly be big enough to cover you like so? You realize that whatever it is— it is bringing you up, slowly, on your tail— [[tails?]]

[[Like a hammer bashing down a skull.]]

The black cloud subsides. His stomach leadens with dread when can not see the Serpent anywhere. He had expected a charred skeleton, even if they were tasked with capturing the demon alive. He //[[wants|All he sees is a human.]]// that to be the case.

All he sees is a human: naked and bloodied. [[His eyes widen, pupils shrinking in disbelief.|disbelief.]]

<<set $calm +=1>>Horror shudders down his spine. It really is a demon. No two ways about it. A menacing scowl twist on Jaggery's face, between their eyebrows are creases of befuddlement. Clearly they were expecting some resistance. On the other hand, Senixte must be pleased that it's making his life easier. Merit thinks otherwise. It looks like it has never morphed into its human body; a snake tightly wound, observing its prey before delivering a disastrous strike. He exhales, turning around. He has better things to do than indulge in such thoughts that falsely inflates the image of his enemy. [[Hiwa needs him.|Serpent.pov.1.1]]

<<set $aggressive +=1>><<if not hasVisited("Next height-chosen-a")>>It slams its head back into Jaggery. Blood spurts and splatters onto the frenzied captive. But the ward on its forehead weakens its strength; its movements sluggish and haphazard, which Jaggery gladly takes advantage of.<<else>>It somehow had found mobility and spins around, right into the hammerlock position, uncaring of the thin stripe of red carved in its neck from the dagger it had slid from. Senixte reads its movement and intercepts it. He rams the Serpent down on the floor, cluthing its wrist and twisting it as he plants a firm foot on its chest.<</if>> No fruit to show for its vehemence, but the spunk is applaudable nonetheless. It reminds him of those old crew captains that puff their chest and act like they harbor the stoked embers of youthful vigor, to hopelessly stave off the ashes of old-age fragility. The Serpent is a myth that needs to be put down, pushed into annals of lost history. Forgotten. Forever. Bards and storytellers and ma ‘aniyans of the future need not laud this reviled animal with hushed whispers of its deeds. It catch his stormy gaze once again. A pleased noise flits in the back of his neck. He can't wait for those eyes to be [[ripped out.|Serpent.pov.1.1]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h3>serpent</h3> </div> The whiplash from operating in a straightforward black-white and glaze of monotonous gray to a reality bursting with painful colors stuns you first. [[Your capture, second|Serpent.pov.1.2]]

Legs wobble as you are frogmarched into a cool space after a sack was tied around your neck. The primordial black soothes the nausea from the colorful assault that had barraged your human vision. They stuff you in a caravan. They all leave, you think. Your sensories are all jumbled, but you can hear if you strain hard enough. They must have flagged down a local because the customary gems and stone beads dangle from the hood, jingling rancorously with every hurtle of the wheels, twinging the scathes you sustained on your legs from the stupid splinters. And besides, only locals are able to journey far out here in the Libran [[woodlands.|Serpent.pov.1.3]]

The vehicle rattle, bounce; tracts of mud squelching beneath you. A pot-hole nearly commenced a matrimonial union between your nose and the floor. Someone scoffs. Well, at least it is just one person here witnessing your undignified state and not the entire party. You sleep a restless sleep and wake up in a dungeon. [[How typical.|Serpent.pov.1.4]]

At least they had the grace to clothe you, and not robe you in burlap, unlike other captors. You touch your shirt with a raised brow. They even chose the color that matches your scales. <blockquote> [[▹ Red|scale-pick.r][$scales to "red"]] [[▹ Pale pink|scale-pick.pp][$scales to "pale pink"]] [[▹ Orange|scale-pick.or][$scales to "orange"]] [[▹ Yellow|scale-pick.ye][$scales to "yellow"]] [[▹ Lime green|scale-pick.lg][$scales to "lime green"]] [[▹ Dark green|scale-pick.dg][$scales to "dark green"]] [[▹ Turquoise|scale-pick.turq][$scales to "turquoise"]] [[▹ Pale blue|scale-pick.paleblue][$scales to "pale blue"]] [[▹ Dark blue|scale-pick.darkblue][$scales to "dark blue"]] [[▹ Purple|scale-pick.purp][$scales to "purple"]] [[▹ White|scale-pick.wh][$scales to "white"]] [[▹ Black|scale-pick.bl][$scales to "black"]] [[▹ Brown|scale-pick.bro][$scales to "brown"]]</blockquote>

A dull stabbing pain travels up and down your legs as you try not to teeter and sway to him, itching to give him a piece of your mind. Spasm of twitches in your jaw replicating the feeling of your retractable fangs expanding— but you have no such genetic weapon, obviously, because you’re a feeble primate. His arm shoots through the cage between the bars, hand crushing your bicep in a grip as he hauls you forward. The suddenness of his action punches the air out of your lungs. At the same time with his other hand, he clicks his pen, the tip of the nub riddling into the junction of your neck and shoulder. Instantly, pain torches down your body from the stab, burning and freezing you. Slack-jawed, your head lolls forward as numbness spreads its wings from the center of your chest. You fall, the ground meets you with a rough impact. It is weird to think this. But whatever this poison streaming through your blood is, its instantaneous effect and terrible sensations are faintly [[recognizable.|Serpent.pov.1.6]]

The dungeon strobes black. And with stars. The same white screaming stars that spastically dance and hover. You calm them before you once again slowly open your eyelids, bracing the terrible agony beginning to brew in your [[head.|Serpent.pov.1.7]]

You can never understand sounds— especially not the abrupt shouting that spills into your ears soon thereafter. It is muddied, muffled. [[Annoying.|Serpent.pov.1.8]]

“Stop fucking around, if you don’t mind,” someone politely threatens. You detect the distinct baritone ire from the man that led the battle against you. Fingers faintly skimming the cuts on your neck, you wince at the memory of gargoyle claws tearing into you. You hear grunts of refrained anger from the blond. But you don’t pay him any attention. Anxiety creeps up your spine as you belatedly realize the ever ubiquitous humming from your Father is gone. You lost your telepathic connection with him, which had been fraying due to the long distance, and the damned man severed it when he stuck that accursed tag on your forehead. He took your Father's //gift//. The blister from the paper unceremoniously yanked off during your unconsciousness stings. But it remains a tangible ghost from the lingering scent; burnt tree sap. This is all your fault. You thought this would be a simple wipeout. You didn’t think for a second to send a signal for help— you thought you could have handled it. [[Teeth gnash on teeth as bitterness deluges you.|Serpent.pov.1.9]]

<blockquote>[[▹ You will kill them all.|Serpent.pov.1.10.choice-1]] [[▹ You have to hand it to them. You are impressed.|Serpent.pov.1.10.choice-2]]</blockquote>

<<set $aggressive +=1>>Energy crackles to your hands. Tongue swiping out of your lips to taste the imagined blood of these meatbags in the [[air.|Serpent.pov.1.11]]

<<set $calm +=1>>The territories really have given up everything for this moment. You can not comprehend just how much money they pooled for this. For them you can only pray that it was worth [[it.|Serpent.pov.1.11]]

The blond jackass fades into your view. Scorn flashing brightly in his eyes, but his face is tempered and restrained. His hand is like a band of ice bracketing your arm as he twists you this way and that to administer a dosage. An antidote. When some feeling returns to your numb limbs, you punch him square in the nose. A satisfying crunch beneath your fist; but the low growl from the man quenched your irritation more. Satiated, you lay down on the floor, intent on recouping lost energy. “That I will allow. A beating wouldn’t fulfill the retributive measure that should be taken against him for his disobedience.” [[“And there’s nothing I hate more than disobedience.”|flashback.1.0]]

The hooded attire staggers you for a second. But you anchor yourself in the sharp azure and dull crimson beads adorning his front in V shape. Your gaze draws upwards as you assess the bottom of his face, which he lifted his veil to show for you. Chin, jaw, lips— those are the few features revealed, but other than that he is part and parcel of this dimly lit room. His head tips. “Do you remember me?” Carried out in a low voice, the words resounds like echoes compounding intensity. He repeats, “Do you?” There is a familiarity to his voice now that you think about it. Huh, that is the second time today you had that feeling— at least this time it isn’t literal like that poison. It is also the second time today that you are in no mood and in no state to pin down which ghost of your past he is, exactly. <blockquote>[[▹ Tell him off|Serpent.pov.1.13.choice-1]] [[▹ Stay silent|Serpent.pov.1.13.choice-2]] [[▹ Roll over and sleep|Serpent.pov.1.13.choice-3]] </blockquote>

<<set $aggressive +=1>>“If you were important I would’ve remembered,” you snark. That made him laugh. It isn’t a pleasant laughter; it has bears none of the airy quality that your Father has. His is cut from jagged rocks. Deep and ugly and cruel. “So you //do// have a brain. Humor requires it. Alas, it is a shame that the cause of my ruin doesn’t remember what it ruined— but it will come back. In due time,” he promises. Which really is more of a threat. “Senixte. Chain the name to your soul,” his voice rumbles from his throat. “Shame I didn't ruin you enough, //Senixte//,” is the last biting remark you manage to hurl at his receding back. It is a hollow insult. He makes his exit, leaving you alone. With your thoughts. [[Dreadful little hails of thoughts.|Merit.pov.1.1]]

<<set $calm +=1>>“No answer? Come on now, surely Ophiuchus taught his dog how to bark as well as bite.” You can't help but notice how he says your Father name. It's weird. Wrong. He leans on his knees. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel them viscerally pinning you down like a butterfly nailed to a wood. “Let me tell you this. You are better off siding with them. At the very least you will gain recognition and power, and, more importantly, //freedom.// That is a horizon you will never touch if you willingly keep on that muzzle he strapped onto you.” “Senixte. Chain the name to your soul,” his voice rumbles from his throat. He gets up and makes his exit, leaving you alone. With your thoughts. [[Dreadful little hails of thoughts.|Merit.pov.1.1]]

<<nobr>><<set $aggressive +=1>> <<set $calm +=1>><</nobr>>“No answer? Hm.” His heels tap on the floor. “It would be my dream to have him ruined. Your retainer took everything from me. //You// took everything from //us.//” A shadow looms over you, bringing over a cloak of chill. He nudges your head with his foot. You hear the briefest click of teeth when you don’t respond. “You best hope that he agrees to the territories’ goal for independence. To burn the world for his defeat—is the furthest from what I desire.” This time, you turn around, sneering at the fool above you. “Then… maybe don’t burn the world? Other living things //live// in it.” Being considerate is a lost virtue, you swear. You hear him scoff. “That means nothing coming from you.” That is a fair response. “Senixte. Chain the name to your soul,” his voice rumbles from his throat. His shadow ebbs and enjoins among many as he makes his exit, leaving you alone. With your thoughts. [[Dreadful little hails of thoughts.|Merit.pov.1.1]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h1>Merit</h1> </div> Libra is a ghost nation. His district is desolate, but at least he could hear people from afar and rarely alone with critters mucking about, be it a seagull or a stray cat. About three hours to their north, the broken castle of the previous rulers of the Libran territory, which once went by a different name, overshadows people and horses like a mountain. He had broken into it when he was a [[drifter.|Merit.pov.1.2]]

The castle is stunning. Relief from the wall that reminded him of the temples between the copses in the fallen Taurus. But instead of a pantheon of idols, what stands are forgotten royalties commemorated for wars won and lands conquered. For every member born, statues of sunrise, sunpeak, twilight, and sunset years were added. Some old soothsayer retelling an old story spoke how it was a tradition for this peculiar bloodline to add more rooms, to increase the size of the castle to accommodate their reified lives. It must be an experience to have a castle as an heirloom and an [[ancestral memory bank.|Merit.pov.1.3]]

He finally gazes up at the sky in reverential silence, its beauty far superior than any earthly inventions, tracing the twinkling beads of stars that ornaments the otherwise peerless black void. His fingers trace likewise on his thigh, already piecing together lines, stanzas, duets for his next poem; the mystical cadence of the hymns and verses from the religious scriptures that he aspires to emulate before clawing in— hurting and bruising the skin under the fabric of his pants. “I’m not a fucking poet.” [[“Thought you were?”|Merit.pov.1.4]]

An amused voice jolts him out of his reverie from behind, and he has less than a second to compose himself: like a marble statue reversing its exterior warped from decay. Second-in-command Clay drifts from the building that is their holding cell for Ophiuchus’ [[infernal pet.|Merit.pov.1.5]]

“Which sucker did //that,//” they refer to his broken nose. The poet-poisoner of Pisces grimaces. What is it his pride that prevents him from telling them that the Serpent punched him? Maybe. “Knocked into something, Lieutenant.” Clay nasally exhales. Was that supposed to be a laugh? “Was our lovely prisoner that ‘something’?” “…Yes, Lieutenant.” His shame wanes. Clay is a balm compared to Senixte. Preferring to dip into the scorching vat that is the Commander's personality would be equivalent of outing oneself as a masochist. Silence cloaks them, until he rip it [[away.|Merit.pov.1.5.interlude]]

Clay settles beside him and he stiffens in response to the unexpected combination of their warmth and the cold metal of their prosthetic left arm grazing him. Silence falls over them; it is cloying to him, but Clay seems unruffled. “Why are you here if not to lecture me?” They shrug. “I just wanted to… hang out. It is kind of lonely—” “This isn’t some debut.” Merit tries not to roll his eyes. “We’re not here to mingle, //Lieutenant// Clay. You also didn’t answer my question. There’s no way you are keeping it alive as some… insurance. That thing is stronger than that its owner. We finish it off, we solve our two-century [[problem|Merit.pov.1.7]]—”

“You realize that //$heshe// <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>> no older than [[you|Merit.pov.1.8]]?”

Merit pauses. “That doesn’t matter.” “Except it does.” Clay shoots him an uncharacteristic icy [[glare.|Merit.pov.1.9]]

“<<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> spent $hisher formative years thinking what $heshe <<if$pronouns_plural is true>>were<<else>>was<</if>> doing was the right thing to be doing because $hisher parent said so. A child doesn’t know a realm where there’s a possibility that their parents are wrong.” The talk about childhood is unexpected and unwelcome. He shifts away from them. To his luck, they didn’t notice. They steeple their fingers beneath their chin; they have that look in their eyes that makes his stomach queasy: it is glossy and deep all at once. Merit grits out, “What is it?” “We can show $himher a life free from Ophiuchus’ constraints; $heshe can help us as an ally in our cause.” “You want that— that //thing// to be our friend?” “Oh come on. You have to understand where $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>> coming from—” “If you’re so sympathetic to that monster’s plight then why don’t you kiss its ass and lure out an apology for the hundreds of thousands of people it has killed!” “Because a wounded animal can’t tell the difference between a friend or a foe.” “That wounded animal wounded hundreds. Wounded you.” Merit gestures to their bandaged right arm. Maroon specks forming a light crust at the site of the injury. “Wouldn’t be the first time losing an arm. //If// I lose this one.” They grin at their private dark joke. Which, frankly, he didn’t find funny at all. He is reluctant to meet their gaze. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.” [[Clay nods, understanding his silent demand to turn to a different topic.|Merit.pov.2.0]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h1>Hiwa</h1> </div> Hiwa is assigned to overwatch the Serpent. It is the most she can do considering that she is out of commission to be doing other physically intensive tasks that Merit and Jaggery were entrusted with. Lieutenant Clay and Commander Senixte must complete their full official report by the end of tomorrow as well as rotate through their administrative duties. Noose will be coming in soon to meet with Senixte. It’s going to be a busy night for everyone except for her. She nibbles on the bottom of her lip as she gracelessly plops on her haunches. Her fingers tuck into her boots to remove them before stripping away the wet fawn-hide socks from her gelid feet. Libra encountered a week worth of storm before they moved in, rendering the stable soil into a veritable obstacle of mud. A shiver runs through her. She squeezes her eyes shut, readying herself for a sneeze that never comes. “Ugh,” she groans. No amount of heat charms that Senixte placed in their dreary temporary establishment will alleviate this nightmarish lack of heat. She could stand closer to it, but she doesn’t trust magic-infused materials. [[No one sensible has and will.|Hiwa.pov.1.2]]

From between the threshold, she throws a cursory glance over the Serpent, who is diagonal to her, and though $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>> face forward to the wall, she can still make out the outline of $hisher form. <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>look<<else>>looks<</if>> vulnerable. //Deceptively// vulnerable. She walks a little closer. <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>>... <blockquote>[[▹ Gingerly curled in fetal position, taking care not to disturb any injuries.|Hiwa.pov.1.3.choice-1]] [[▹ Sprawled on the floor like a starfish.|Hiwa.pov.1.3.choice-2]] [[▹ Ramrod straight, like a soldier.|Hiwa.pov.1.3.choice-3]]</blockquote>

[[More caution taken than most of her colleagues if they were bedridden.|Hiwa.pov.1.4]]

Either $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>> used to imprisonment or $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>don't<<else>>doesn't<</if>> care. [[She kind of admires that.|Hiwa.pov.1.4]]

A burst of jelousy inflames her for a second. This type of dilligent posture her father would commend within others and use as ammunitions to belittle her with. [[She has the nasty habit of needing soft pillows around her.|Hiwa.pov.1.4]]

<<if not hasVisited("Hiwa.pov.1.3.choice-3")>> She takes a foot out of the cell room when she sees Merit shuffling in from outside; a man she hates to admit she is jealous of.<<else>>She takes a foot out of the cell room when she sees Merit shuffling in from outside, another person she looks afar with green-eyed envy.<</if>> Merit Mariume: Renowned Poet of Pisces, Siren of Words. A young legend her friends rattled off her ears about. She learned the last epithet not voluntarily from a swooning fan. She did her research on everyone before joining. And Merit was the easiest to investigate; he is everywhere in the Virgo district. Scraps of newspaper clippings utilized as wrappers for hot cups of coffee from the stalls, in the critique column, a dismayed Virgostea author begrudgingly calling the Pisces poet a homme fatale wielding a pen in the place of a sheathed dagger. A carverer of hearts instead of bodies. She read a poem of his. Vapid stream of risqué words from his works gouged out her soul like a filleter plucking eyes out of a fresh salmon with a swish of a knife. History is a more substantive subject. She learn things. //But// that doesn't mean his poems never barred her from understanding that the words he churns out are pretty. “How are you holding up?” He inquires, sotto voce. Hiwa notes the tape across the swollen bridge of his nostrils. It would be impolite, she feels, to adress that. “I'm recovering.” He nods. “That's good.” The Serpent shifts in $hisher sleep. Hiwa glances over her shoulder before turning to see Merit regarding their prisoner dispassionately. There is a certain intensity molding her colleague disposition that ennervates her. Jaggery is like that, too. But Merit reminds her too much of her parents, and the nobles that would frollick across the marble floor of parties as they accost the daughter of their hosts. Gauging leers ferreting out a single mote of weakness in her. [[She sidles away, the door jamb cuts into her back.|Hiwa.pov.1.5]]

[[The need to fill the silence is strong.|Hiwa.pov.1.6]]

“You were excellent on the field,” she starts. Merit hums, his attention switches to her. “The poisons and the antidotes, were they passed down?” He freezes. He knows what she is referring to: [[her idol.|Hiwa.pov.1.7]]

His late grandmother, Locusta of Pisces, who recently attained the special national status of //anzathanan//, those worthy of extreme praise, for she had killed numerous sea monsters and was even once hired as a court assassin. Leaf through her notebooks for the secret ingredients and formula and one would perish from the fasting-spreading poison laced in ink entering their blood, like one unfortunate archivists did. She was a genius. She also weakened the Serpent once in a Piscean uprising— the uncomfortable thought draws her eyes to the human body of the [[Serpent.|Hiwa.pov.1.8]]

Soft falls of $hisher chest, breathing uneven, as $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>fight<<else>>fights<</if>> off the remnants of Merit's —no, //Locusta's//— creation. [[Hiwa would trade her life just to be a shadow of what she was.|Hiwa.pov.1.9]]

Merit says nothing. “I was taught well.” He didn’t elaborate, the corner of his mouth lifts cordially. The minute difference in the muscle contracting his lips could have transmuted it into a sneer. Hiwa pulls up a forced smile. “I see. Goodnight.” He briefly nods, pivoting his heels and briskly walking out. She sucks in a breath as she watch him leave. [[“That was the most sorry attempt of a friendly small-talk I’ve ever had the honor of hearing,” a voice drawls out.|Hiwa.pov.1.10]]

She whirls around, aghast. Her heart thunders in her chest as she peers into the beady black eyes glimmering in the gloom, emphasized by the demonic halo of yellow sclera. “Or were you brown-nosing? I know networking is an important skill to have but I don’t think a jerk like him would yield to sycophants like homes to avalanches.” That is an eccentric analogy. Hiwa chalks that up to where $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>> from. Apparently $heshe <<if $pronouns_plural is true>>live<<else>>lives<</if>> in a palace nestled in a mountainside. She swallows, wobbling back a little before steeling herself and stapling $himher a cool look. “That is frankly none of your business.” The esteemed archer blisters at the impudent eyeroll. [[“Hard to mind businesses when we are a few feet within each other's spaces.”|hiwa-interjection-1.1]]

<blockquote>[[▹ A warning falls from curled lips|Hiwa.pov.1.11.choice-1]] [[▹ Portentous eyes deeply bores into her|Hiwa.pov.1.11.choice-2]]</blockquote>

<<nobr>><<set $aggressive +=2>><<set $calm -=1>><</nobr>>“Clam it,” $heshe growls, “Or is it the territories’ norm to blabber mindlessly?” <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> voice rebounds, hauntingly. <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> fingers grip the bars. Hiwa had to double check to see if they weren’t claws. Her shoulder burns from the remnant pain of $hisher bite. [[She doesn’t press again on this matter.|Hiwa.pov.1.12]]

<<nobr>><<set $aggressive -=1>><<set $calm +=2>><</nobr>><<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> abrupt quiet flusters her. <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> should be easier than the different snakes in the political arena. But something tells her that $heshe <<if$pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>> well-versed in that field. Her shoulder burns from the remnant pain $hisher bite. [[She grimaces.|Hiwa.pov.1.12]]

“How's Scorpio?” Merit ask. “Never been there.” Clay shrugs. “Tumbleweeds and bandits and sandwraiths. Not much to tell stories about.” He narrows his eyes at them, but doesn’t prod further, preferring to absorb himself with the celestial tapestry above instead. “What a prig with the whole shtick he has running,” Merit scoffs. He nods up at the sky when Clay quirks a questioning brow at him. “He named the territories after the constellations.” Clay smirks. “It fits with the image he has built. The Conqueror that succeeded the previous ages of rulers. Baptizing his land with heavenly names shows that he has reached the unreachable in his mind.” He lets out a soft groan. “God, his spawn from hell seems more grounded.” [[His night-time companion can only sigh in response.|Hiwa.pov.1.0]]

Curiosity gets the best of Hiwa and so she chooses, unwisely, to indulge. And besides, maybe this will help break the prisoner out of $hisher acerbic shell. The goal //is// to have $himher ally with them, after all. “If you had a name, what would it be?” <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if$pronouns_plural is true>>cock<<else>>cocks<</if>> $hisher head. Her stomach flutters uneasily when she realizes a mite late that the mundane action was… cute. Her nails digs into her palms. She will //not// be the one who spend her whole childhood criticizing peers who adulate fictional villains only to grow up tripping over some ill-advised infatuation with the damn Serpent. The Serpent! She cringes at herself before swivelling to the current object of her misery. [[The Serpent hums. “I would pick…”|name-choice]]

<<textbox "$name" " ">> ''[[Confirm Name]]''

“<<print $name.toUpperFirst()>>.” Hiwa tips her head in thought. “That’s a… really nice name.” Their newly-named hostage raises $hisher brow at her. She realizes how awkward the compliment uttered from her mouth was. She moves a frizzly hair behind her earlobe. “Name is Hiwa...” <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if$pronouns_plural is true>>are<<else>>is<</if>> going to find out about it anyways. <<print $hisher.toUpperFirst()>> grating silence, palpable now. She looks away, stony and determined not to continue their conversation. And thank her lucky [[stars|Hiwa.pov.1.13]]: neither does $name. <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> <<if$pronouns_plural is true>>fall<<else>>falls<</if>> fast asleep.

The smell of expensive tobacco glides from Senixte as he strides into the hall. “Did it say anything?” She purposely botches the conversation, nixing the more… unappealing slip-ups from herself. “<<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>> just tried to get a rise from me, Commander. That’s all.” He tilts his head at her, as if deciding whether he believes her or not. Probably not. Nobody makes it that far in his station trusting people’s words. Unease prickles the back of her neck. Hiwa shifts her position into a more poised, relaxed one to mimic his. The heavy moment pass. Senixte barely notes the Serpent before departing. [[Hiwa releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding.|Senixte.pov.1.0]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h1>Senixte</h1> </div> Deep trance, a state that primes the soul to revelations, prophecies, and insights, told and re-told in the universal mythos; he hasn’t entered it for years, not through the normal meditative means, at least. His heart rotted to the nubs; therefore he opted to graft his spiritual roots in a different source. The door of his cabin closes behind him. He knows the geography of Libra intimately, and where he gathered his group is in one of the more secluded regions. This cabin used to be a storage for a stronghold long buried beneath earth, a piece of it stands on the hill that they fought by. Now it is his office. He removes his veil, cold gaze inspecting his place of reprieve. Nothing of his character could be derived from the barren interior. His throat and tongue aches for the burn of cold alcohol. His fingers curl around the dagger hidden in his pockets. Produced and tailored to his liking from a Libran company, it fills out his hand, the spine perfectly fitted against the curve of his palm. The handle begins thick, waning then into sharp slimness at the point of the head. Convenient to handle; made to flay. He doesn’t use it as much, though. It serves more like a talisman. He removes the weapon from his pocket and sets it on the table pushed against the wall near a window. The young moon has crowned from the folds of the night sky, later wolfed by jackals of clouds, heralding its premature demise; the spastic tides of light inundates him like rolling waves. [[He draws the curtains.|Senixte.pov.1.1]]

He heads for the alluring line-up of alcohol waiting for him in his charmed chest which he repurposed as a cooler. He picks two out, corks one open while setting down the other on the table. Disregarding glass, he pours a thread straight into his mouth. The mead flavor of honeysuckle twists around his taste-buds, settling, igniting a nice buzz of pleasure that diminishes his problems grinded to the back of his skull. He brings the bottle with him as he makes his usual trip around the cabin before returning to his second bottle, and wipes off the condensation ring dewing the surface. The table gleams from his touch. Light from the flaming candles skitters across the obsidian round table, writhing against him, but his dark outfit drinks in the effulgence. There is an intricate patchwork of glyphs in the center, patterned in a way that it spreads to the edges like an unfolding flower. He grabs a ream of paper from a small stack. [[He is not sure if anything on it will grab his focus for tonight.|Senixte.pov.1.2]]

Mind consumed with the Serpent, its eyes and fangs and wings have left no space for breathing. [[A snarl contorts his thin lips.|Senixte.pov.1.3]]

[[He can do it.|Senixte.pov.1.4]]

[[Go back, rip open the prison door and slay it.|Senixte.pov.1.5]]

[[Offer its head on a silver plate to the man who took and took and took, until he had nothing left to give.|Senixte.pov.1.6]]

“I will be the most sorry if that happens,” he mutters to himself, tone empty of any apology. However, an inapposite, wistful note ripples through the ashen sarcasm. Were Clay and Noose there besides him they would have noticed, without a doubt. He abstains his murderous desire and saunters to a settee and sinks into it. Legs spread apart in a careful, but lazy sprawl; the pristine image of undisturbed. Another slow sip of his drink, he peruses the papers he had laid on his lap. Elegantly inked words scored on a slip of white paper between his gloved fingers taunts him. He forgot he kept this. Why does he bother keeping artifacts from a past which his future will not hinge on? A dog-eared map peeks out from behind a cream colored, aged letter. It is the most updated one Noose gave him. Expression darkening, his eyes travel instinctly to where… his home is. Senixte has no idea how that man managed to learn of anything about his territories from a crevasse of a mountain, of which is among the many dotting the eastern continent, altogether named, ludicrously, //Tears of Heaven//. At the heart of it is Drakken, the so-called homeland of the Serpent. He scoffs. His mind wanders to it. Again. He doesn’t know what quality he sees in the sniveling animal that he can’t. It can’t even execute its duties properly. There is a cracked seed of indiscipline in its soul which must be extracted. //He// should know better that no insolence must be tolerated. Deference from people must be absolute, because errors sprout from uncurtailed variables. Thus, one must take necessary precautions to limit such errors in order to exploit power in all of its manifestations. [[And that is why Senixte will triumph.|Serpent.pov.1.14]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h3>$name</h3> </div> The sun is the vessel of liveliness you draw your energy from; the spread of white blaze pulsates like a heart pumping blood. You can function in its absence, but the warmth makes fighting much, much easier. It is a medicine for your strained ligaments that you kept unused for a period in your freezing homeland. You stretch, joints and muscles creaking and popping. A frown forms as fragments of the nightmare you had shifts in like water through a sieve. Untangling the meaning of it is a work for your Father. An omen, premonition, a false memory— it could be either one. But the human screams. They were real. You think. They sounded like you, which is why it might be just a nightmare, some fictional, abject shards that have protruded your dreams. You never made such soul-piercing howls as a human. But... There are scars and cuts marring your skin, depicting a triptych of a forgotten, violent past. Perhaps your mind harkened back to those times, the blank slate you tried hard to fill in? Ah well. [[You have the present to deal with.|Serpent.pov.1.15]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h4>“And there’s nothing I hate more than disobedience.”</h4> </div>                 You blink.   Once.   [[Twice.|return.flashback.1.0]]

You press your temple on reflex. The blond man curtly nods at the scathing reprimand and leaves. In his place, a man enters the cell: masked and clothed in shadows. It is the devil from before; the one who turned you into //this// and cut the mental connection from your Father. He stands there looking at you, silent, while his broad profile —a black, forceful outline– quivers against the wall underneath the milky incandescence glowing from a [[bulb|Serpent.pov.1.12]] stringed to a cord out in the hallway.

Your frown deepens as you mull over your name. <blockquote>[[▹ You are not sure how to feel about it.|Serpent.pov.1.15.choice-1]] [[▹ You finally have something that is yours.|Serpent.pov.1.15.choice-2]] [[▹ Is it not the equivalent of being tamed? Like a dog branded as property with the first utter of its name.|Serpent.pov.1.15.choice-3]]</blockquote>

You huff out. At the end of the day, you //chose// to pledge yourself by your Father's side, not theirs. [[You have wanted to learn the fine arts of spying, anyways: you shall mingle among the humans named for ease and for gathering information.|Serpent.pov.1.16]]

You will sift through your feelings later. The cage is quite an issue that requires your love and care— in breaking it. Or breaking out of it. [[You're not picky.|Serpent.pov.1.16]]

Sure, Father gifted you his telepathic connection which you possess. Something he said that he gives people he deem precious and dear to him. But this is something from //you.// You thought about it. You brought it to existence, and now it is //yours//. [[You smile, softly.|Serpent.pov.1.16]]

Hiwa is still stationed at her post, her dozing head tilting to the side before jerking into wakefulness. You smirk. Senixte placed her in baby-sitting duty so she can catch up on some sleep, accelerating her healing. Nobody is expecting anything from you —it is a reasonable assumption, isn’t it?— with how battered your state is. You can't revert into your true form. You are handicapped two-fold. You don’t want to get up and unnecessarily signal her attention to you. The bars could be corroded if you were a Serpent. But you have dredges of your superhuman strength. You look around: the walls are made of bricks and the floors are made of wood. Your eyes roam to your jailor. Hiwa, the woman who leans into concillatory behavior more than the rest. She is in a suggestible state. On the other hand, you’ve been doing nothing //but// snoozing, and are invigorated as a result. After considering the details, you assemble two plans you can feasibly enact. <blockquote>[[▹ Tear apart the floorboards|breakout-attempt.choice-1]] [[▹ Ask her for water, and then incapacitate her|breakout-attempt.choice-2]]</blockquote>

<<if hasVisited("pers-check-1.c", "Serpent.pov.1.10.choice-2", "Hiwa.pov.1.11.choice-1","Serpent.pov.1.13.choice-3")>><<nobr>>//“You don’t even have a name, unlike your victims. What shall we consider you if not less than umimportant? No, you're a phantom bound to a master. //Soulless.// Both you and that tyrant.”//<</nobr>> That talk with Hiwa grated you, scorching bits of it scraped your mild temperment. You roll, facing opposite of her and glare at the floor. You doubt your jailor will be that much of a snoop during this. Which is why you need to act precisely now. Your hands flex, thumb cupping under a board, finding purchase in the grooves and shallow divots. The floor is built well, so you had to leverage your entire body to get an inch of its length up from the ground. Nails crack, blood begins to pool beneath the cuticle, flushing straight to the edge. Your actions stutter when you lose momentum. With a deep inhale you lean forward, using both of your arms now to wrangle out the lone board. Hiwa is must have noticed the sound, probably conufused as to where its coming from. So you work quicker. //“What shall we consider you if not less than umimportant?”// Breath puffs from your mouth. You snarl. //‘Eat this, bitch.’// Your nails, they crack and break, like something you once had long ago. “Hey, wait, what are you—?” With an enraged shout, you pull free the damn board, the others are easier. You turn around to Hiwa wrestling her belt for the keychains, when she looks up, her eyes flick towards the gap in the floor, her confused expression distorting into that of a mortified one. You can almost scream in laughter, two other pieces of the building wrested from the foundation with your bare, bleeding hands. The adrenaline is razor-sharp; exhilirating and freeing. Your jailor shifts into gear and takes out a bone whistle which she had hidden below her shirt. You think it is enameled with silver; the bone glistens when it catches a filament of light. But you dash forward, snatching it through the cell and twine the thread around the wrist as you tug on the necklace with enough pressure to choke her. She wildly flails and bucks headfirst into the bars, her hands flying to your arms. Seconds pass forever until she slides down —eyes rolled to the back— but alive. An ugly smile warps your face. “Not your time to whistleblow.” The whistle leaves an imprint in your palm. [[You throw the thing into the hole of your making, and jump in after.|breakout-suceeded.passive-aggressivepass]] <<elseif $aggressive >= 5>> <<nobr>>The floor receives your undivided attention. You roll, facing opposite of Hiwa. You doubt she will be that much of a snoop during this. Which is why you need to act precisely now.<</nobr>> Your hands flex, thumb cupping under a board, finding purchase in the grooves and shallow divots. The floor is built well, so you had to leverage your entire body to get an inch of its length up from the ground. Nails crack, blood begins to pool beneath the cuticle, flushing straight to the edge. You lean forward, using both of your arms now to wrangle out the lone board. Hiwa is must have noticed the sound, probably conufused as to where its coming from. So you work quicker. Breath puffs from your mouth. You grit your teeth as all of your nails crack and break into shreds. “Hey, wait, what are you—?” With an enraged shout, you pull free the damn board, the others are easier. You turn around to Hiwa wrestling her belt for the keychains, when she looks up, her eyes flick towards the gap in the floor, her confused expression distorting into that of a mortified one. You can almost scream in laughter, two other pieces of the building wrested from the foundation with your bare, bleeding hands. The adrenaline is razor-sharp; exhilirating and freeing. Your jailor shifts into gear and takes out a bone whistle which she had hidden below her shirt. You think it is enameled with silver; the bone glistens when it catches a filament of light. But you dash forward, snatching the necklace through the cell. She bucks headfirst into it as you rip out the whistle from the thread. An ugly smile warps your face. “Not your time to whistleblow.” [[You throw the thing into the hole of your making, and jump in after.|breakout-suceeded.aggressivepass]] <<else>><<nobr>>The floor receives your undivided attention. You roll, facing opposite of Hiwa. You doubt she will be that much of a snoop during this. Which is why you need to act precisely now.<</nobr>> Your hands flex, thumb cupping under a board, and find it trying to muster up the strength to tilt it to give you a better position and purchase. Lethargy washes over you. You grind your teeth. This attitude is inexcusable. Your nails start to crack. Blood begins to pool beneath the cuticle, flushing straight to the edge. You lean forward, using your entire body. It gives. Only a little. It's not enough. Not nearly enough. Invigorated your //foot.// Knells of headache rings in your ears, vomit swells from your stomach. You didn't have a bite, forgoing your breakfast. You are not certain what is there inside of you to expunge. Anger could have kept you going. But that is not the emotion you cycle on. The ringing provokes an explosion of caustic hues, and your hand to skid the wrong way, catching an array of splinters into the meat of your palms, digging deep. Pulling them out would be possible with heated tweezers. You hear movements. An unwarranted smile breaks out. Hiwa had taken notice of you. Fortune has graced her, she has risen in ranks above her peers, for she has caught the Serpent red-handed in $hisher flimsy attempt at a prison break-out. “What are you doing?” “Mind your business.” The eyeroll in her tone is audible: “Hard to mind businesses when we are a few feet within each other's spaces.” Mirthless laughter puffs from your lips. You slump against the floor; your fingers are screwed and with nothing to show for your pain. Plan failed. Maybe if you were more agressive, just maybe things would’ve been different. //[[Fuck.|breakout-failed]]//// <</if>>

<<if hasVisited("pers-check-1.a","Serpent.pov.1.10.choice-1","Hiwa.pov.1.11.choice-2","Serpent.pov.1.13.choice-3")>><<nobr>>//“You don’t even have a name, unlike your victims. What shall we consider you if not less than umimportant? No, you're a phantom bound to a master. //Soulless.// Both you and that tyrant.”//<</nobr>> The tip of your mouth quirks as the conversation replays behind your eyelids. You open them with an attained tranquility found in the locus of repressed anger: in the eye of the hurricane. You get up, your movements coy. Hands like talons curl the bars. Your head rests against the biting metal as you fight off the tension coagulating the muscles in your back. “Hiwa.” Her name rasps out of you, and she reels to the hoarseness that peels from you like cracked paint. “Water.” Your throat bob as you push down a harsh swallow. Tongue strip away from the roof of your mouth which taste of metal and dirt. The thirst is genuine. Real. You are //parched.// “Please,” you beg, hands loosening its grip from the prison as you slip a little to give the impression that you are deflating. Hiwa scuttle close, a tad jumpy. When she stand before you, the fact that her hand had wavered to her shoulder before pulling back did not go unnoticed. She has trouble looking you in the eye; a stark difference from how she was a little while ago making snippy comments about your moral conduct. Unsure whether you should find this amusing or sad, and uncaring of unwinding those emotions, you charge on: “I am not sure if I should be asking this but—,” you cough, Hiwa winces at the pink-tinted spittle flying out from the corner of your lips, “—water, I need it, and I won't need anything else after this.” Hiwa is silent. You frown. “Don't tell me you have a policy against ensuring your prisoners the right to the bare necessities.” You force out another cough, to prevent your line of questioning from devolving into acerbic jests. You lean closer, innately directing her gaze towards you. You envision the perceived the image of yourself: eyes that of a feline, readying to pounce a bystander stooping to pet the stray, unaware of its malice. Hiwa creeps closer, naive sympathy glazing her eyes. A frown crinkling her mouth. “Us Virgoste never debase a living being, regardless of their status. You will get your water,” she declares, more to herself that you. She shifts her back to you. //‘Gotcha.’// You launch yourself at the bars, arms threading through them to grip Hiwa in a chokehold. All the strength you have fuelled by anger rushes into your strangling attempt. Less than a second and she passes out with the last of her gasp. You rifle through the keychains hanging from her belt and finally found the correct one for the lock, the metal imprints red on your palm from how tight you are holding it. You insert the key. One turn in and you are //[[out.|breakout-suceeded.calmpass-passiveagressiveness]]// <<elseif $calm >= 5>><<nobr>>You get up, breathing even out, and stalk to the bars, slumping against them. Your head rests against the biting metal.<</nobr>> Genuine exhaustion permeates your act. “Hiwa.” Her name rasps out of you, and she reels to the hoarseness that peels from you like cracked paint. “Water.” Your throat bob as you push down a harsh swallow. Tongue strip away from the roof of your mouth which taste of metal and dirt. This is, too, is genuine. You are //parched.//“Please,” you beg, hands loosening its grip from the prison as you slip a little to give the impression that you are deflating. Hiwa scuttle close, a tad jumpy. You restrict the crisp confusion from thwarting your defeated air. They didn't put her on rotation? But then again, regular watch clocks in about four to six hours in your experience, and she's been here for half of that. What got under her skin? When she stand before you, the fact that her hand had wavered to her shoulder before pulling back did not go unnoticed. She has trouble looking you in the eye; a stark difference from how she was a little while ago making snippy comments about your moral conduct. Unsure whether you should find this amusing or sad, and uncaring of unwinding those emotions, you charge on: “I am not sure if I should be asking this but—,” you cough, Hiwa winces at the pink-tinted spittle flying out from the corner of your lips, “—water, I need it, and I won't need anything else after this.” Hiwa is silent. You cock your head. “You guys... do have water right? Don't tell me you have a policy against ensuring your prisoners the right to the bare necessities.” You force out another cough, to prevent your line of questioning from devolving into acerbic jests. You lean closer, innately directing her gaze towards you. You envision the perceived the image of yourself: eyes that of a feline, readying to pounce a bystander stooping to pet the stray, unaware of its malice. Hiwa creeps closer, naive sympathy glazing her eyes. A frown crinkling her mouth. “Us Virgoste never debase a living being, regardless of their status. You will get your water,” she declares, more to herself that you. She shifts her back to you. //‘Gotcha.’// You launch yourself at the bars, arms threading through them to grip Hiwa in a chokehold. You glimpse a hint of silver hidden under her shirt. She lashes up her right hand, her reach faltering up to touch the necklace, but you don't yield your strangling attempt. You realize her other hand was directing your attention to her neck. Her left hand is pinching your thigh, which is going numb. The barrage of adrenaline numbs the pain. Your solace is that she didn't attack your crotch. Her breath gasps out, short and stuttering. And then she slackens. You rifle through the keychains hanging from her belt and finally found the correct one for the lock. You insert the key. One turn in and you are //[[out.|breakout-suceeded.calmpass]]//<<else>><<nobr>>The rigid tension in your spine refuses to melt when you slump against the bars. Your head thumps against them, the heated need to claw everything around persistent and needy. “Hiwa.” Her name rasps out of you, though it sounds more like a wolf growling from its den.<</nobr>> She beholds you, wary. You smooth out the angered lines on your face. Your eyes widen. “Water,” you beg. Your throat bob as you push down a harsh swallow. Tongue strip away from the roof of your mouth which taste of metal and dirt. And the thirst is genuine. Real. You are //parched.// “Please,” you beg once more, hands loosening its grip from the prison as you slip a little to give the impression that you are deflating. Hiwa shakes her head. “I understand your situation is difficult, but you need to hold on a bit more. Then, you will be graced with luxuries and be pampered.” She looks away. “Maybe,” she mutters. Being calm could have kept you going. But that is not the state you thrive on. “Hilarious. Was that your way of telling jokes?” You gruff out. Patience evaporates and your hands slip into rigidity. You clench the damn cage. “I will break you.” Your jaw opens, sucking in tang of copper rust; a close substitute for blood. She grips her shoulder, anger raging through her expression. But she turns around, stonewalling you. Plan failed. Maybe if you were more calm, just maybe things would’ve been different. //[[Fuck.|breakout-failed]]//// <</if>>

The lone bulb flickers behind you as pass a vista of rooms. You did not expect the innards of the building to resemble a spiderweb you have to trawl through; you thought you were holed up in a ramshackle. From the sterile antiquated scent spits out a bizarre, fruity fragrance of the jungle. This new information jars you for a moment. You mark a cranny and wedge yourself against the wall, forcing your limbs to be close to your body, minimizing your surface area. When the foreign smell leaves, you rush out on silent footsteps and fortunately find a small window to squeeze through. [[You are free.|breakout-thwarted.1]]

You recall the moment Father decided to enfold you into his telepathic bond. He was quite frustrated with the magical paper that transcribes writing in real time. It was a gimmicky thing he had used as a boring subsitute for a pigeon letter-carrier. Telepathy supersedes all modes of communication. And like that, your bond vanished. It left a gaping hole in your mind and in your chest. <<if $aggressive >=3>>You glower at nothing.<<else>><<nobr>>You expel a long suffering sigh.<</nobr>><</if>> Grains of seconds pass, sluggishly. You are laying on your side, numbly staring through the gaps between the bars. The bulb outside glows brighter, the contrasts of shadows patterning you become darker in turn. Buffered pitter-patters resonates to you from the ground: another person has entered through the halls. You do not bother looking up. Your foiled getaway diminished your vim. <<if hasVisited("breakout-attempt.choice-1")>>And your hand hurts.<</if>> <<nobr>><</nobr>> [[Polished crocodile-skin shoes slows to a stop infront of you.|noose-meeting.1]]

The basement reeks of rank and must built up for decades, a relic meant to be buried. Forgotten. And it would have stayed that way, frozen, ageless, until your presence disturbed it. Heels slaps the ground, sending a plume of dust sullying your face, unclean as it is. You have no time to dally around to note down observations. Hiwa is onto you. Her footsteps preponderant as she sprints into the prison above you, coming to the gap that has allowed faint light to slip through, allaying the drab semblance. Air seeps in from somewhere. Wildlife rushes in through your nostril and you envisage your freedom. Dosed on a strong boost of energy, you frisk the edge of the ceiling and find a grate window You shake it open, drawing strength from your muscles. It takes one attempt before you get the metal —disused for years, and as a result, the rust weakened the structure— to break it open. You climb over, the night embraces you, openly. [[You are free.|breakout-thwarted.1]]

You catch a whiff of a jungle from the newcomer, who slinks onto the floor, adjusting themselves in a traditional pose with their legs folded under their knees, uncaring whether they scuff their shoes or not. The pair must cost two rice sacks for each. At //least.// You intuit their upbringing and origin from this alone, and croak out, “Which territory.” “Cancer.” [[“Figured.”|noose-meeting.2]]

The head of the Cancerian state is engorged on money, the sheer amount of it puts the bourgeoise class Librans to shame. Last you heard of him was from an underling, his reading glass hooked over his nose as he squints at the typed words. His voice not loud, but disbelief radiates from his whispered exclamations, //“An outrageous investment! He had a pleasure palace built in a //caldera.//”// You hope the engineers and architect get to live in it as part of the reward for what their ruler put them through. Regardless of the oligarch, Cancerians like to mimic him. They have higher wealth index than other territorries because of their excellent agronomy, which was made possible due to their [[fertile land.|noose-meeting.3]]

You think back on the time when your Father told you a story over dinner, about how the head of Cancer turned his pet crocodile into shoes… [[Humanity's audacity to nature is never-ending.|noose-meeting.4]]

<<if not hasVisited("Next height-chosen-s")>>“Did they cut off your tongue or somethin’? Heard you had chutzpha.” In you periphery, Hiwa shakes in her position, agitated. Whoever this fellow may be, they're big deal. And from their voice alone, you think you've met them, maybe heard them talking to your Father. If they are an associate of his, then you have to be polite, despite them betraying. You've worked with traitors all the time, on field or behind the scene. There is a different method you have to take for this //special// person. You slowly graze on their appearace: wool suit of muted orange color —it clashes terribly with the shoes; a gaffe you tallied— and the shoulder padding speaks of pretentious peacocking. Gold rings adorn each of their fingers. Calloused. You lips slants at that. Strange. There are cruel marks in mangled flesh that bridges the thumb and the pointer finger. Cigarette burns? You finally meet their face. They wear a black hooded cloak which does a shoddy job of concealing their thick garnet mane, a messy tail of a braid spills onto their [[broad chest.|noose-meeting.5]]<<else>>They make such an abrupt bark of laughter that you flinch and almost draw your hands close to your chest in a defensive position, curling inwards. “Damn, aren’t you a pint of a fucker?” <<if $$aggressive>=3>>>Your head jerk up, a growl spilling from your rusted throad. “Projecting aren’t we?” Noose didn’t deign you with a response, unbothered. You can feel the sleazy grin behind the mask.<<else>><<nobr>><</nobr>>You spare a nonchalant glance at him before yawning. “Average, yet puny” They sputter. You’re guessing they do not get ruffled easily, and this impromptu meeting probably skipped you straight onto their shit-list. Par for course when you’re everyone’s most behated.<</if>> Hiwa shakes in her position, agitated. Whoever this fellow may be, they're big deal. They emulate authority. And from their voice alone, you think you've met them, maybe even heard them talking to your Father. If they are an associate of his, then you have to be polite, despite them betraying. Despite them making moronic jabs at your height. There is a different method you have to take for this //special// person. You slowly graze on their appearace: wool suit of muted orange color —it clashes terribly with the shoes; a gaffe you tallied— and the shoulder padding bespeaks of pretentious peacocking. Gold rings adorn each of their fingers. Calloused. There are cruel marks in mangled flesh that bridges the thumb and the pointer finger. A short person probably did that, or whoever they fuelled the anger of. And then their mask: cow skull. You know who this mask represents. The Warden of the Storm Tower: the largest prison complex on the continent. Noose. [[You crack your neck.|noose-meeting.5.shortsplitoff]] <</if>>

And then their mask. Cow skull. Waxy. Crumpled. Like it has been melted on a rack held over fire. There are beautiful incisions carved on the pale forehead trailing to the splintered nose ending right above their chin. You know who this mask represents. The Warden of the Storm Tower: the largest prison complex on the continent. Noose. You flash them a smile, but there is no practiced crinkling of crow-feet around the eyes, the tiniest facial arrangement that should have been interlocked into place— doesn’t. A similar simulation of a smile appears on Hiwa, like a mannequin, her short dreads damp against her skin. You think she might have caught a fever, or is unused to Libran weather. But the hollowness lining the edges of your mouth on both of yours is, in a way, the closest thing to a performance of honesty. “The only visually interesting thing here— why don’t you make it worth my while?” [[“Would be my utmost pleasure.”|noose-meeting.6]]

This was //not// what were you expecting. “So this is how the cards are ranked!” Noose split the deck down to the middle and deal two stacks. They tap their ring on the right pile. “Upper class has all the rich assholes you need to fight for your cause: knights ranked from eight to ten, and then you got Jacks, Kings, Queens, and Aces.” “The other pile contains members of the lower caste. Fodders. From seven under. Of course there's the revolutionist two that shakes things up and likes to be a general thorn in the derriere,” they snicker. Their humor bounces right over you. Nonplussed, you ask. “We gambling?” The thought of betting enters your mind before the rules are laid. “Hmm. Not for this game. Call it a practice run. Though for your benefit pray that we never have to play with high stakes. Ever.” They put a finger to their chin. “Against each other,” they add as an afterthought. “Moving on, do you know which card beats which in the upper-caste?” <blockquote>[[▹ “No.”|noose.pre-game]] [[▹ “Don't bother.”|noose.game-start]]</blockquote>

They morosely laugh. “Eat or be eaten is the law of our world. For you and me, specifically.” The dark holes of their mask pin you. “There are no gradations. The middle ground does not exist.” Darkness plays over the crags and dents of the cow skull. The light outside flickers brighter, harsher. Instead of easing the baleful expression that had tided over the mask, the cold calculating intent the maker of mask desired to give off regresses into eerie gormlessness. The beautiful incisions carved on the pale forehead looks like arcane scripture in this demented perspective. “Stature and pose define your person the moment anyone set their eyes on you.” You roll your eyes, tired of the sermon that they barely started on. You are the biggest predator you know. “What are you here for?” [[“Nothing much. Just have something to make our time worthwhile.”|noose-meeting.6]]

“Ace //trumps// everything except devious twos. King comes second in lead, ruthlessly; Queen follows after in her cold gloriness. Jack is the weakest of the quartet but still dependable.” Caves in their mask sheens. Wraiths haunt within. “Got it?” [[You nod.|noose.game-start]]

“We're going to ignore symbols. So markers like spades, hearts, and clovers are impertinent; we're not going to deal with complicated sets, either.” They lean, tone susurrant, “As a matter of fact, we each play with a single card.” You are sitting criss-crossed, your hands looped similary around the bars, enraptured by their hypnotizing storyteller voice. They have a proclivity for dramatic flairs that you are not sure if you enjoy. “And we will play a //single// round.” Your eyebrows raise in interest. “Any why is that?” “Poker isn't a matter that should be taken lightly. We will use all the time we have to make the final decision. Every single moment deposited in this game can determine your destiny. We play, wisely, like those old farts at the park with their chess.” Noose pushes the right pile towards you. “Pick your aristocrat. Don't look at it, yet!” <blockquote>[[▹ Pick a card at the very front|eight-picked]] [[▹ Pick a card in the middle|ace-picked]] [[▹ Pick a card in the very back|king-picked]]</blockquote>

“Now select a card from the left pile, aka, the Commoners.” <blockquote>[[▹ Pick a card at the very front|four-picked]] [[▹ Pick a card in the middle|three-picked]] [[▹ Pick a card in the very back|two-picked]]</blockquote>

“That'd be all?” They give an affirmative hum. It is their turn to pick. They nimbly withdraw their desired card from each stack, finalizing their selection. “I do believe you haven't mentioned how we win the game.” “Pick whichever card you have to to fight against mine in the gladiator match.” They chuckle, raising their card like a toast. [[“May the strongest card wins.”|game-starts]]

“That'd be all?” They give an affirmative hum. It is their turn to pick. They nimbly withdraw their desired card from each stack, finalizing their selection. “I do believe you haven't mentioned how we win the game.” “Pick whichever card you have to fight against mine in the gladiator match.” They chuckle, raising their card like a toast. [[“May the strongest win.”|game-starts]]

<<if hasVisited("eight-picked", "four-picked")>><<nobr>>Eight and four. Your game is built on glass with these two cards. You hope that Noose has eight as well, and a lower //Commoners// number than four.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("ace-picked", "three-picked")>><<nobr>>Alright, an Ace is in your sleeve. It would be a remiss not to use it. Three can go cry you tears.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("king-picked", "two-picked")>><<nobr>>The noble King is at the front of your army. Two works in the background, in a whirl of cloak and dagger.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("eight-picked", "three-picked")>><<nobr>>Eight and three. Your game is built on glass with these two cards. You hope that Noose has eight as well, and there is a slim chance that they have a //Commoners// number lower than three.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("eight-picked", "two-picked")>> <<nobr>>Two is your lynchpin if Noose plays an Ace. But other than that, eight is doing little to reinforce your offense.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("ace-picked", "four-picked")>><<nobr>> Alright, an Ace is in your sleeve. It would be a remiss not to use it. The heart on your foor seems to shatter at the glowing attention you are giving to its mightier colleague.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("ace-picked", "two-picked")>> <<nobr>>You and Ace will be in a harmonious partnership against your foe, notwithstanding the tiny detail of working alongside with its archnemesis: two. Double dipping at its finest.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("king-picked", "three-picked")>><<nobr>>The noble King is at the front of your army, shielding flimsy three. <</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("king-picked", "four-picked")>> <nobr>>The King is at your disposal. Four is your cheerleader, for whatever paltry encouragement it proffers.<</nobr>> <</if>> Noose speaks, “Like what you're seeing?” [[You make a non-commital hum.|convo-interlude-game]]

“Favorite food?” “Pardon?” They chuckle. “We're taking our time, right? Let us oil our brain with a light-hearted conversation. Plus, I want to treat you sometimes later.” You flatten your lips in a tense line. “Not sure if I would appreciate that after—” you gesture vaguely at the bars partitioning you from the outside world, “—this. You //are// a conspirant, you realize that, right?" They shrug. “Never said we would have to discuss shit like allegiances and forming friendships. That is not my style. So: favorite food?” You stretch, cracks rippling from your spine to your shoulders. <blockquote>[[▹ “Lamb shanks and herbed rice.”|lh.noose.convo]] [[▹ “Fried pastry with vegetable stuffing (shingara).”|fp.noose.convo]] [[▹ “Fruit salad.”|fs.noose.convo]] [[▹ “Buttered toast.”|bt.noose.convo]] [[▹ “Humans.”|h.noose.convo]] [[▹ Ignore them|ignore.convo-interlude-game]]</blockquote>

“Valid cuisine. Astonishingly refined.” It is an insult and a compliment rolled into one. “Thanks…” The card in your hand immaterializes. A spell of vertigo spins the room, the floor expanding and contracting. You are cast into a liminal space of weightlessness. [[Your mind wanders to a bitter-sweet time, while you cling to shreds of stability.|memory-lh.1]]

“Oh, I eat those a lot. It's a decent snack. I drench those in sauce every chance I get.” “I can see that. They can be dry if they’re not fresh.” “Wait— so they were served to me not-fresh for my whole life?” You make no comment. Can't assemble the constituents needed for a sentence. The card in your hand immaterializes. A spell of vertigo spins the room, the floor expanding and contracting. You are cast into a liminal space of weightlessness. [[Your mind transports you to a bitter-sweet time, while you cling to shreds of stability.|memory-s.1]]

“Your taste buds are still in development, I see.” You give a one-shouldered shrug. Hard to mess up bread and butter. It’s your go-to when you can’t stomach anything in your primate body. You would love to chow on a loaf fresh from the oven now. You glance back at Noose, who wears an expectant look on their mask. As if such thing is possible. You sigh. The burden of continuing the conversation is transferred, without your consent, to you. <blockquote>[[▹ Ask them their favorite food|noose.favfood]] [[▹ Goad them to place down their cards|game-start.1]]</blockquote>

“I mean, ‘//hummus.//’ Apologies for the slip of the tongue.” Noose laughs with heartiness fed from the core of their chest. You almost give in and cackle alongside them. It has been a long year. You both commiserate for a moment, and the silence reaches amiability. You could pretend that you are relaxing in the presence of an affable stranger. Glancing back at Noose, they wear an expectant look on their mask. As if such thing is possible. You smirk. It seems like the burden of continuing the conversation is transferred, without your consent, to you <blockquote>[[▹ Ask them their favorite food|noose.favfood]] [[▹ Goad them to place down their cards|game-start.1]]</blockquote>

You flop on the floor, expression neutral. “Tell me when you are done picking your cards.” They cross their arms, feigning mock-hurt with their tone, “You're not going to bother putting up a front that you are interested? Harsh.” They rummage through their pocket and fish out a cigar. Hiwa clears her throat. “Sorry, Warden. But smoking is not allowed.” A conflict did not erupt, to your dissapointment, for Noose has an unusual, mild character. “Gambling does not feel right without cigar and a glass of wine, but this is Senixte's jurisdiction. Not mine.” They chuckle, wringing their hands. “Thank you for your clemency.” Noose waves her praise away and resumes their attention on you. There is a hint of expectancy that disturbs you. You stifle a groan. The burden of continuing the conversation is transferred, without your consent, to you. <blockquote>[[▹ Ask them their favorite food|noose.favfood]] [[▹ Goad them to place down their cards|game-start.1]]</blockquote>

“That’s… a joke?” Your face lean into your hand. “You should have a bowl or two. Looks like you’re deficient in a few vitamins.” They sigh. “Wish I could balk back at that.” You were about to tell them the best fruits you have ever eaten were produced from the Cancerian territory, but change your mind. You glance back at Noose, who wears an expectant look on their mask. As if such thing is possible. You sigh. The burden of continuing the conversation is transferred, without your consent, to you. <blockquote>[[▹ Ask them their favorite food|noose.favfood]] [[▹ Goad them to place down their cards|game-start.1]]</blockquote>

<<if hasVisited("memory-s.2")>>“Fried banana dipped in bourbon. Or tequila. A nice treat for a hard day at work. Top it all off with vanilla ice cream and you can get me singing.” They snap their fingers. “It is better enjoyed with friends.” “You have friends?” You ask, incredulous. “I do.” “You’re an executioner,” you deadpan. “I can not imagine people would be appealed to you, with your line of work.” “Now you are being actively hostile.” A childish rebuke form on your tongue. Hollow. “Where are they, then? Show me one.” They remove a small mirror from behind a lapel, and shows it to you. The broken mandible of their mask seems to curve upwards in a bovine grin. You grace them with a wry smile. In another world, maybe you would have chortled at that piss-poor humor. But you know that this premeditated talk, this needling and coaxing, was behooved on them to instigate. What lies infront of the Warden is a garden ripe with insight into your Father However, every equal action has a reaction. You have your own thoughts about Noose that you might able to use. Unchanged is the truth that you are //tired.// And the mention of food incites a growl from your stomach. But you tamp down the hunger. [[“Think it is high time we start.”|game-start.3]]<<else>><<nobr>><</nobr>>“Fried banana dipped in bourbon. Or tequila. A nice treat for a hard day at work. Top it all off with vanilla ice cream and you can get me singing.” They snap their fingers. “It is better enjoyed with friends.” “You have friends?” You ask, incredulous. “I do.” “You’re an executioner,” you deadpan. “I can not imagine people would be appealed to you, with your line of work.” “Now you are being actively hostile.” A childish rebuke form on your tongue. Hollow. “Where are they, then? Show me one.” They remove a small mirror from behind a lapel, and shows it to you. The broken mandible of their mask seems to curve upwards in a bovine grin. You grace them with a wry smile. In another world, maybe you would have chortled at that timed humor. But you know that this premeditated talk, this needling and coaxing, was behooved on them to instigate. What lies infront of the Warden is a garden ripe with insight into your Father However, every equal action has a reaction. You have your own thoughts about Noose that you might able to use. Unchanged is the truth that you are //tired.// And the mention of food incites a growl from your stomach. A spell of vertigo dizzies you. The floor expands and contracting, and the cage heaves upon you like an organism. You place a firm hand to your head in a useless attempt to stem the dawning pressure. Recollections of your past sludge in like mud, clogging. [[Disabling.|game-start.2]] <</if>>

You know that this premeditated talk, this needling and coaxing, was behooved on them to instigate. Hence, you deem it insensible to partake anymore in this dance. But the mention of food incites a growl from your stomach. A spell of vertigo dizzies you. The floor expands and contracts, and the walls heaves upon you like an organism. You place a firm hand to your head in a useless attempt to stem the dawning pressure. Recollections of your past sludge in like mud, clogging. [[Disabling.|game-start.2]]

//Many years ago, you had issues eating. You never figured out the reason, but all you knew was that your Father was behind you every step of the way, a supportive presence that moored you. One evening, you passed by a particular vendor on the outskirt of your Father's main province. An old woman with a beard that curled to her feet was kneading a dough speckled and mixed with black seeds. They smelled like cumin. You gravitated to the basket of the finished product on the counter, enchanted by the spicy fragrance. You bring out your coins and lay them on the counter, counting them individually before pushing the sufficient sum near the basket. You took a bite and enjoyed it very, very much. Father noticed somehow. It is difficult to hide anything from him. He would buy them often, calling them gnome caps because of the cute floppy shape; and he would never fail to buy them on your your unofficial official birthday: the day he adopted you.// <hr> [[Your throat hurts.|memory-s.2]]

Embarassed, you let out a grating cough to erase that feeling. “What can a monster do to get water around here.” “You need a moment? You're kind of… out of it.” You deflect their befuddling concern. [[“What's your favorite food, Warden?”|noose.favfood]]

//When your Father determined that you were sixteen in human age, he threw a gigantic gala. The first of the plentiful rich dishes you tried was lamb with rice, and you never forgot the taste that overwhelmed your senses. Father barely gave you enough time to greedily paw off a second serving when he forced you to attend a throng of elderly, lined up to hand feed you sweetmeats. You honestly thought you were getting married, as it was normal for such occurences in those kinds of celebrations.// <hr> [[Your throat hurts.|memory-s.2]]

[[She simmers, refusing to speak.|hiwa-interjection-1.2]]

The Serpent clicks $hisher tongue. [[“They should have hired more entertaining conscripts.”|hiwa-interjection-1.3]]

“The //[[conscripts|hiwa-interjection-1.4]]// took you down.”

[[“Humble yourself. I have fought worse assholes.”|hiwa-interjection-1.5]]

[[“Who?”|hiwa-interjection-1.6]]

<<type 120ms start 3s>>[[“Don’t know…”|hiwa-interjection-1.7]]<</type>>

<<type 130ms start 4s>>“…Can’t //[[remember|hiwa-interjection-1.8]]// to be honest.”<</type>>

“Too important to remember who you've killed?” “On the contrary, they’re too unimportant. Faces bleed to the next.” This time, Hiwa derides $himher. “You don’t even have a name, unlike your victims. What shall we consider you if not less than umimportant? No, you're a phantom bound to a master. //[[Soulless.|Hiwa.pov.1.11]]// Both you and that tyrant.”

//Concretions of rocks sits along the width of the lake —which you once thought to be a silvery piece of sky that fell, crashing to earth— against the foot of the mountain. The wintry atmosphere is blessed with laughter rippling through small crowds under the meteor shower. You are accompanying your Father to a quieter places to enjoy the awe-inspiring show above. You swerve, lantern in hand as you hunt for the favorite vendor he used to go to. He had decided in the spur of the moment to reposess his delectable hobby of tasting tea. The crowns of the trees dipped in snow has begun to melt, rustling leaves crackle as the ice repositions. Dodging the impending icicles shattering into glittering smithereens is second nature. You are afraid to breathe in the crisp air. You don't want a terrible cough hacking away from your rib-cage. Again. Your Father is immune to cold, an enviable power to occupy in this environment. You find the vendor, an old man, chatting to a young girl crushing herbs in a pestle. You snatch pieces of their talk, hearing the name Yoke being referred to the merchant. In the meantime, your Father ushers you onto a log besides the kiosk. Yoke tosses a curious look over his shoulder before brightening. “Patrons that venture out in the night are adored fiercely, for they remind me of my youth when I be causing mischief with my companians.” He pops open a jar of black tea leaves. “I was wondering where the most adored of my customer have been. What can I get for you, Ophiuchus?” Your Father lets out a low chuckle. You tune out the conversation, letting the gale ferry its mountain scent over you. Yoke gets to work as he situates a kettle over the fire. He ladles water into it from the pot besides him, taking meditative pauses in between, and proceeds to strain the leaves that has brewed when he is finished. The young girl from before comes in with a tray of pancakes with a slab of melting butter. She sets it by your side with a bashful smile and spins on her heel, frantically retreating, but still retaining a composed posture. You assume that she wasn't supposed to put in that much butter. Your Father places a chipped cup in your hand that Yoke has given to him. The tea-maker finally comes around and pours into your cup a milky ribbon stretching from the spout. You insist to your Father that you pay, but relent when he offers his rebuttal, voiced in intermittents, characterized by the same deliberate, thoughtful manner Yoke lovingly makes his customers tea. “It's been a while since I spent time my own $child. I think I deserve to spoil you for a [[bit.|inbetween.2]]”//

<<if hasVisited("eight-picked", "four-picked")>><<nobr>><</nobr>>The prospect of you winning is dreary like it was on the morning you set out flying to the rebellion force, the storm relentless on your wings. Four is not //the// weakest card of the Commoners set, but a two would have had more use. But losing this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card they pick from the royalty deck. Their immediate upright position must mean they have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who's to say they didn't [[cheat?|eight-picked", "four-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("ace-picked", "three-picked")>><<nobr>><</nobr>> The game is an oyster for you to harvest a point that will translate into nothing outside of this hovel. But winning this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card. Their immediate upright position must mean they have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who's to say they didn't [[cheat?|ace-picked", "three-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("king-picked", "two-picked")>><<nobr>><</nobr>>You have a King. Useful and reliable. But the two could prove to be a better option in a high-risk gamble. An interesting duo that could open up different plays you can make. But winning or losing this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card. Their immediate upright position must mean they have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who's to say they didn't [[cheat?|king-picked.two-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("eight-picked", "three-picked")>><<nobr>><</nobr>>The prospect of you winning is dreary like it was on the morning you set out flying to the rebellion force, the storm relentless on your wings. Three is not //the// weakest card of the Commoners set, but a two would have had more use. But losing this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card they pick from the royalty deck.Their immediate upright position must mean they have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who's to say they didn't [[cheat?|eight-pickedthree-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("eight-picked", "two-picked")>> <<nobr>><</nobr>>The prospect of you winning is dreary like it was on the morning you set out flying to the rebellion force, the storm relentless on your wings. Two is a maverick. They can make you or break you. Eight is //the// weakest card of the upper-caste set, next to useless compared to two. But losing this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card they pick from the royalty deck. Their immediate upright position must mean they have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who’s to say they didn’t [[cheat?|eight-pickedtwo-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("ace-picked", "four-picked")>><<nobr>><</nobr>> The game is an oyster for you to harvest a point that will translate into nothing outside of this place. But winning this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card. Their immediate upright position tells must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. They must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who’s to say they didn’t [[cheat?|ace-picked", "three-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("ace-picked", "two-picked")>> <<nobr>><</nobr>> The game is an oyster for you to harvest a point that will translate into nothing outside of this place. You have Ace, the triumphant, and its Achilles' heel two by its side. But winning this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card. Their immediate upright position tells must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. They must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who’s to say they didn’t [[cheat?|ace-picked", "three-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("king-picked", "three-picked")>><<nobr>><</nobr>>You have a King. Useful and reliable. Three is a deadweight. But winning or losing this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card. Their immediate upright position tells must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. They must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who’s to say they didn’t [[cheat?|king-picked.three-picked.1]] <<elseif hasVisited("king-picked", "four-picked")>><nobr>><</nobr>>You have a King. Useful and reliable. You are not hedging high hopes on your four. But winning or losing this game would matter none; losing your emotions on the other hand will pave victory beyond this prison. Your comportment apathetic as you peer at your opponent, studying their profile. They had turned themselves sideways and shifted to a cross-legged position, the cards they set between their legs. They flip over the card. Their immediate upright position tells must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. They must have got an outstanding pick from the royalty deck. An Ace, you are willing to bet, because who’s to say they didn’t [[cheat?|king-picked.four-picked.1]] <</if>>

Your breath is heavy, chest heaving with exertion as you scramble away, putting as much distance you can between you and your captors. Wherever this place is, it is [[swallowed by the woods.|breakout-thwarted.2]]

Though why //would// they cheat in a lowly showoff like this would be tough to explain. Then they flip over the second, and slump, disheartened. For a person with a remarkable background like theirs, this honest body language is [[unexpected and refreshing.|ace-picked", "three-picked.2]]

They might not have a card higher than five, [[you postulate.|ace-picked", "three-picked.3]]

In the end, they won't need one. Your Ace is rearing for its [[release.|ace-picked", "three-picked.4]]

A thought niggles in your ear, compelling you to listen to an unforseen direction this game might [[take.|ace-picked", "three-picked.5]]

The two most valuable cards you personally would want to have in tow is an [[Ace…|ace-picked", "three-picked.6]]

[[And a two.|ace-picked", "three-picked.7]]

<<if hasVisited("ace-picked", "four-picked")>>Maybe it wasn't an Ace they were excited about, maybe it could have been a two? If that is the case, then playing an Ace would be an error. You suck in a breath. What should you do? <blockquote>[[▹ Draw Ace.|finish.game.tie]] [[▹ Draw four.|finish.game.win]]</blockquote> <<elseif hasVisited("ace-picked", "two-picked")>> <<nobr>>Maybe it wasn't an Ace they were excited about, maybe it could have been a two? If that is the case, then playing an Ace instead of settling for a tie with a two would be an error<</nobr>> You bite the inside of your cheek. <blockquote>[[▹ Draw Ace.|finish.game.tie]] [[▹ Draw two.|finish.game.win.two]]</blockquote> <<else>><<nobr>>Maybe it wasn't an Ace they were excited about, maybe it could have been a two? If that is the case, then playing an Ace would be an error.<</nobr>> You suck in a breath. What should you do? <blockquote>[[▹ Draw Ace.|finish.game.tie]] [[▹ Draw three.|finish.game.win]]</blockquote> <</if>>

They might not have a card higher than five, [[you postulate.|eight-picked", "four-picked.3]]

Then again, maybe it wasn't an Ace they were excited about, maybe it could have been a [[two?|eight-picked", "four-picked.6]]

They might not have a card higher than five, [[you postulate.|king-picked.two-picked.3]]

And they most likely have an Ace as their royalty card. You could use your two and kill their win. But what if they have a King, like you? You suck in a breath. What should you do? <blockquote>[[▹ Draw King.|finish.game.win]] [[▹ Draw two.|finish.game.win.two]]</blockquote>

They might not have a card higher than five, [[you postulate.|eight-pickedthree-picked.3]]

Then again, maybe it wasn't an Ace they were excited about, maybe it could have been a [[two?|eight-pickedthree-picked.5]]

Regardless, if it is a two that they will use, then using either of your card won't matter. Except that is safer to deploy eight in case they do have a higher number card. <blockquote>[[▹ Draw eight.|finish.game.win]] [[▹ Draw three.|finish.game.win]]</blockquote>

They might not have a card higher than five, [[you postulate.|eight-pickedtwo-picked.3]]

You bend your head to the side. There is a sharp certainty that they have an Ace. Not playing two would be an error. But then again, you are going out on a limb with that poorly construed hypothesis. Eight would be safer, albeit, not by much. You suck in a breath. What should you do? <blockquote>[[▹ Draw eight.|finish.game.win]] [[▹ Draw two.|finish.game.win.two]]</blockquote>

A two and Ace is a pair you would want in your arsenal. Regardless, if it is a two that they will use, then using either of your card won't matter. Except that is safer to deploy eight in case they do have a higher number card. <blockquote>[[▹ Draw eight.|finish.game.win]] [[▹ Draw four.|finish.game.win]]</blockquote>

They might not have a card higher than five, [[you postulate.|king-picked.three-picked.3]]

There is not much you can do except play. <blockquote>[[▹ Draw King.|finish.game.win]] [[▹ Draw three.|finish.game.win]]</blockquote>

Wading deeper into the labyrinthine verdant corridors, you keep low and out of sight to prevent yourself from tripping and making noise that may alert nocturnal animals. [[You must not alert anything to yourself.|breakout-thwarted.3]]

Your ankle [[throbs.|breakout-thwarted.4]]

The front of your toes [[aches.|breakout-thwarted.5]]

This mere human skin of yours an [[impediment.|breakout-thwarted.6]]

Weed, thistles, and thorns bristle your calves; dirt and blood caked under your nails. The universe has composed a musical piece of tribulation. [[And your body kept score.|breakout-thwarted.inbt]]

A growl rumbles from you. Pockets of heat scurry in the womb of the soil, kicking and screaming. You ponder for a moment on the cost-benefit of prying a nesting vole out of its burrow and plop the warm, struggling flesh in your mouth— but you shall not risk an easy meal for the painful contraction it will ultimately elicit. The extent of the acid your stomach produces is meager. You will not digest the devoured animal [[properly.|breakout-thwarted.8]]

The night is becoming old. The sun will slant through the veil of black, casting away your shroud. Swiftly, you must act. [[You get up.|breakout-thwarted.9]]

Eyes dart from tree to tree for droppings or signs of animal activity. You try to find a slump in the ground. And when you do, you lope on an incline that winds to a [[body of water.|breakout-thwarted.10]]

The anthem sung by crickets and bullfrogs, and the soft, gentle sounds of running water announces the embankment cleaving off a lake you noticed when you were soaring over it to fight the gnats that is the rebellion force. And like gnats, they trail behind smell. You must perform ablution. Fences of reeds guards the still waters. Your feet split the necks of the spires. [[You close your eyes—|breakout-thwarted.11]]

&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;[[—and dunk yourself into the lake.|breakout-thwarted.12]]

You float up to the surface, eyes strained heavensward before plunging back into the cold. Unrecalled memories sears into the sanctuary of your idling mind, like an iron branding its [[victim.|breakout-thwarted.13]]

You slide onto the ground, leaves rustle underneath you. Decaying matter and breathing vermin thrums around, like your Mother: you relish the [[familiarity|breakout-thwarted.7]] of it all.

//Mist chokes the town sprawling around the castle— or the elephantine structure you think is the castle. The mist is that thick, rendering the place into a dream. You feel as though you are walking in your sleep. The haze calms your anxiety about your upcoming meeting with the Aquarian figurehead. Father said it was good to socialize with important people, and to get out more in general. This visit is your first bite of true, unbridled independence from your [[Father.|breakout-thwarted.14]]//

They might not have a card higher than five, [[you postulate.|king-picked.four-picked.3]]

There is not much you can do except play. <blockquote>[[▹ Draw King.|finish.game.win]] [[▹ Draw four.|finish.game.win]]</blockquote>

The fragrance wafting from the stall a wisp gliding on the sweetness of bygone times, archived and meant to be experienced sparingly when it arises. “You alright? Eyes were foggy for a second. Never seen such melancholy in a snake before.” You roll your eyes as you intone, “Why would I be alright. I'm imprisoned.” They nod. “True.” You notice they still haven't flipped over their cards yet. You glare at them. [[“Think it is high time we start.”|game-start.3]]

When you both ascertain the cards you shall use, you place them face down opposite of one another on the ground. On a mark of three seconds, you and Noose simultaneously turn the cards [[up.|finish.game.win.1]]

When you both ascertain the cards you shall use, you place them face down opposite of one another on the ground. On a mark of three seconds, you and Noose simulatenously turn the cards [[up.|finish.game.tie.1]]

“And the game is won!” “By you.” “By me,” they dutifully confirm. They boast, “Ah, it is a shame, for your card to have been felled by the suite’s bogeyman. The enigmatic Ace has assassinated Kings, Queens, and Jacks for centuries!” “A tragedy,” you droll. You lean back. “I know you said there wasn't any staked pinned on this. But I can't help but think there is something you want.” Noose shakes their head. “I meant what I said. I keep my word.” They stand up, dusting their pants off. “Besides, what I want will be siphoned out from you, one way or another.” [[That rakes a shudder down your back.|finish-game-forreal]]

<<run memorize("achieve003", true)>><<notify 6s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''one-in-three chance: still a win''</n></div><</notify>><<nobr>>“A tie! If this isn't a divine sign that I should keep you around, then I don't know what is.”<</nobr>> “Should I mourn?” “Nay, rejoice!” They blabber, “For both of us to have the wicked Ace. That is a beautiful equalizer.” Their gushing praise of the objectivity the card carries is lost on you. How can some pifling pasteboard level you with //them//? Is the Warden a Serpent, too? The notion is preposterous. They stand up, dusting their pants off. “I confess, I was sorely dissapointed to see an Ace—” “You cheered up seeing a three?” You ridicule. “It is my lucky number, I can't help it!” [[You restrain your exasperated sigh.|finish-game-forreal]]

For a moment they peer at you, assessing. Searching. “You doze. Frequently.” The emphatic stress on the last word is concerning. There is no perfect response to their accusation. You settle for a nonchalant shrug, instead. They huff at your indifferent reaction, but say nothing of it. Their time to leave is nigh. “I will be seeing you, Serpent.” [[“Cherish yourself,”|hiwafeedsyou.1]] their voice floats behind their back as they step out of the room.

Their three beleagueres from the weight of your glare. You can't believe it. They played a three when they had an Ace. To think of going down the route Noose marched into is preposterous. They chuckle at your expression, the sour taste of loss perceptible in the crinkle of your brows. “There is great luck in threes. Heard it in legends from dad. The Holy Trinity, the cosmic triad. I was delighted when I got that.” They point to their damnned three card that defeated your two. You remember their glum disposition before. “You were sad about getting an Ace?” They ignore you, determined on monologuing. “Fortune in three, I live by it. I was born on the third date of the third month. Dad even took time and said I was born three at night. And this year might be my luckiest year, yet.” You think they had paused their ramble to throw you a cheeky grin, but did not realize their face is obstructed by their mask. “And why is that, Warden?” You question as if you are humoring a child. They stand up, dusting their pants off before putting up three fingers from each of their hands. “I am thirty-three. Two threes! I am hounding for the last three to complete the divine set.” An [[adult-child|finish-game-forreal]], to be exact.

<div class="chapterHeader"><h6>[[WHERE DO YOU STAND?|Relationship Status]]</h6><div class="chapterHeader"><h6>[[STORY CODEX]]</h6></div><div class="chapterHeader"><h6>[[THE CAST]]</h6></div><hr><div class="chapterHeader"><h6>[[Achievements]]</h6></div><hr>

<center><div class="chapterHeader"><h7>ALLIGNMENT</h7></div></center><hr> <center><div class="chapterHeader"><meterfont>Territories</meterfont></div></center><center><<showmeter 'Territories' $Tstat>></center> <center><div class="chapterHeader"><meterfont>Ophiuchus</meterfont></div></center><center><<showmeter 'Ophiuchus' $Ostat>></center> <center><<link "↤ Return To Game" $return>><</link>></center>

Red, the taint glossing those juicy beetles waddling beneath their home of fallen logs. They were refreshing to munch on during hot summers. Nowadays, you are more selective with your [[refreshments.|finished-scale.interlude]]

Ignoring the injuries, you heave yourself onto your knees, eyes flitting up to meet a man about your human age. He scrutinizes something wrapped in his palm, the intensity of his assessment almost matches your Father when he is reading through scrolls on updates and information collected pertaining the territories. His light, wavy hair tied back in a messy bun —while some mutinous strays frame his face— threaded with pearls, seacones, and other astute assortment of impractical, nautical jewelries. He puts whatever he has in his hand back into his pockets, his attention latching onto his pen which he had withdrew and begun twirling. When he finally looks at you, you see the imperceptible shift hardening his features with unmistakable rage. [[Cold, distant rage.|Serpent.pov.1.5]]

Pale pink, the color of flayed carcasses. You close your eyes, viewing a memory smudged with time, like the butcher's window smudged with handprints. [[Hungry and pawing.|finished-scale.interlude]]

Orange, like the muted rendition of the sun painted on paper scrolls, or splayed across [[ancient caves.|finished-scale.interlude]]

Yellow, dear yellow that curls out of the grenades projected at you. Fumes that signal for help as you slowly raise your body, shifting from a coiled crown to hovering over them— a [[predator.|finished-scale.interlude]]

Lime green, the color of beautiful marshes that hugs the banks, where danger lie, such as you. When the rain comes, you are the nightmare rising from the [[flood.|finished-scale.interlude]]

A wildlife trophy collector once praised your scales under the light coruscating through the magnifying glass, observing a shard he pared from you. //“Has the radiance of an elegant emerald,”// he whispered, stunned. You were, too. From the pickaxe he [[bludgeoned|finished-scale.interlude]] you with.

Turquoise, the color of the gowns the ladies wear, immured within the portraits decorating old, old hallways. You never gleaned any liveliness from their sunken cheeks, their pale, moribund features. You are the most [[alive|finished-scale.interlude]] you know.

Pale blue, like the stately attire your Father sports with his snow leopard coat. He had to stop dressing like that when he saw a stack of proposals atop his desk. People were using you as their [[love wagon.|finished-scale.interlude]]

Dark blue: the color used in noble emblems. It is no secret that the most expensive of gems evacuated from the mines in //Drakken//, you and your Father's homeland province, are those bearing the [[rarest|finished-scale.interlude]] of the deepest hues.

The sheen of aubergine, your Father's favorite fruit. Whenever he is inspired to cook, he would make his favorite dish laden with those: [[goulash.|finished-scale.interlude]]

You heard rumors circulating in your hometown, about white snakes. Something they jubilate whenever they see you. Snakes with white scales represent the mysterious ouroboros, the symbol of [[immortality and wisdom.|finished-scale.interlude]]

The color of an assassin, lurking in the cover of night, waiting to //kill//. Fighting is effortless during the absence of the [[sun.|finished-scale.interlude]]

A striking, molten brown that is similar to those bothersome garden sculptures dispersed in the field of this one wealthy farm. They would scrape everywhere when you slither through, for they have the fattest chickens in their [[coop.|finished-scale.interlude]] Well. They //used// to.

<center><div class="chapterHeader"><authorfont>by Riyadth</authorfont></div></center><hr>

“The Serpent took souls of children yet alive.” There is a thoughtful pause before a solemn, “Yes.” “Then why won’t you kill $himher already?” The Serpent is Ophiuchus' symbol and right hand of power. To eradicate it is to declaw and defang //him.// Without it, he is nothing. “Well,” Merit can hear them tasting their well-formed insults on their tongue, “it just isn’t the next best thing to do.” //‘Not the smartest thing to do,’// went unsaid. But it is painfully obvious that was the intention beneath the [[facade|Merit.pov.1.6]] of the spoken sentence.

//Well, you were born alone, so that is untrue. But it has been a long time since the both of you were willing to part from one [[another.|breakout-thwarted.15]]//

//The ruler of Pisces had invited you to use their ship as means of transportation to the island. You wanted to test your wing-power and fly there yourself. [[You scan the Piscean capital.|breakout-thwarted.16]]//

//The houses are built on man-made terraces, sloping down; the battered shop signs and the shuttered windows of businesses hardly inject optimism— signs of a withering economy. It feels less of a prominent nation-state and more of what it appears to be on the surface: a simple fishing village. Faint sounds of the waves lap up the land like a lover, a gentle music guiding you. You sprint down, tired of pacing your gait to the rough downward incline. You want to meet the East Ocean. The fish-market on the quay extending from the fortress greets your nose with a strong punch of brine. Like your hometown, the people here are up and ready before light. Sailors curse and sing shanties; sellers scream their pitches to a skeptical group of women; men tell each other stories while they look out to the shore. The town square of Drakken is its heart. [[The same can be said about the fish-market.|breakout-thwarted.17]]//

//Hands curling over the fence that borders a section of the market, you look at the waves, soothed by the motions. A single boat skates along the small tides coming in one after another, but the fishermen remain undisturbed. They throw a bait and let it float to the bottom. When there is a jerk on the string, they pull out— a squirming squid. There must have been a recent storm if they can catch a creature like that far out here close to the land. “Peaceful, isn’t it?” An elder comments by your side. You nod. The market is the opposite of peaceful. But it melds whole with the sea at its side. A majestic presence on the back of the sellers and buyers. You belatedly realize there are no young adults. Back home, those of mature age always helped out their parents. They either man the front or help them out in the back. When you mention this to the elder besides you they frown. “Men and women are enlisted to the navy once they are of age. Turning sixteen contains more weight than marriage and funeral. Combined. Serving the nation is an honor, sir— an honor of paramount importance.”// <hr> The water hurts your eyes. You close them, welcoming [[another|breakout-thwarted.18]] memory.

//You wake up on the ship. //Morning Angel// is the name, and someone is hosting a party on her deck. Frazzled, sleep dissipating only now, you scramble for a pen and blearily look at the charmed paper you brought with you, blinking hard at— oh for pity’s sake, //fifty-three// messages. The words become more frenetic and the spaces between them larger as they progress down the page. The last one being the most recent, pleading but stern: write back. Immediately. The curls at the end elongated, with little splatters at the end proving evidence of a pen bled out of life, sputtered to depletion. Ophiuchus’ power flows over and swarms you in fret. You consider your response. <blockquote>[[▹ An apology is in order. He is probably suffering from a cardiac arrest right this minute|response.oletter.1]] [[▹ You match him with your fifty-three messages|response.oletter.2]] [[▹ You go for a more formal approach|response.oletter.3]]</blockquote>//

//Hopefully it isn’t too late to stall this descent of madness. You jot down a condensed paragraph of your journey. //“Everything is fine.”// You eye the position of the sun outside. [[You have to get ready.|party-on-deck]]//

//Writing comments underfoot each individual line, starting from the beginning, is a superior, funnier option. It is like rolling a dice. He will either be touched by your commitment or annoyed at the blocks of tiny messy letters he has to get through when all he wants to know is if you are safe and comfortable. [[Whatever the case may be, you have to get ready.|party-on-deck]]//

//You quickly write-up condensed events of your journey as you eye the position of the sun in the sky blazing harsh and white through the stubborn mist. [[You have to get ready.|party-on-deck]]//

//Under the wash of the stringent light emanating from the lanterns draping the ship, people glide the deck, like ghosts haunting a ship. Fits and starts of conversation rise and fall, petering out when the chasm of black surrounding everyone on all sides becomes concrete, tangible, drawing them closer to one another. The night terrifies everyone. Except you. <<if hasVisited("scale-pick.bl")>><<nobr>>You are the night.<</nobr>> <<else>><<nobr>>Snake hunts in the absence of sunlight just as well.<</nobr>><</if>> It certainly made this party stand out from all the others you've attended so far. You chat with a man on the deck. He wrack with jitters and tiny muscle spasms. His gums rotten, skin sagging under the weight of a past that ills his conscious. But what attracts your attention in particular is the bird cage he possesively has tucked to his chest, as if a thief among you will steal it. You do not know the name of the feathered fellow that peeks out from between the bars, but it looks well taken care of and is used to its owner's antics. You think you saw him talking to it before you walked up to him. You ponder aloud in your best well-mannered inflection: “What pains you, good sir?” “Everything. Nothing. I don't know anymore. I exist in pain that I can't //feel// it anymore.” The whispered words come out in a rush, like pebbles he dropped to freely roll on a hill, only to regret it thereafter. [[You cock your head.|party-on-deck.1]]//

//“What… happened exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?” It seems like your prompt was uneeded because he let whatever fomenting in him spill. “A siren. It had features neither masculine or feminine, but it was beautiful.” He said beautiful with a spine-rolling shudder. “It took everyone. My crewmates.” He cries. There are no tears. “My love. My love was taken, too. Oryx, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He clutches the cage harder, fingers reaching through the bars to touch his friend's feathers, grounding himself in reality. “I was the only one left. I didn't know how to steer a ship. But I had— birds. A member kept them around, inside. Never asked why. I released them to the sky and followed the course of their flight. Jumped on a raft and paddled and followed.”// <hr> You blink. Your body had moved on its [[will.|party-on-deck.finished]]

<<if hasVisited("scale-pick.lg", "scale-pick.dg")>><<nobr>>You would felt at home in your snakely form, with the bog to camaflouge your scales as the sun peeks through.<</nobr>> <<else>><<nobr>>The bog shifts beneath your bare heels. The sun is cresting the hills behind you.<</nobr>><</if>> Plodding upwards from the lake, you trudge past patches of yellow skunk cabbages and purple moor grasses, heels squelching in troughs of mud. The past, hazy and distorting, blitzes you still, [[merciless–|breakout-thwarted.19]]

//You are off the ship. The nation-state Aquarius is interesting, for the lack of a better word. Your eyes flit to the unofficial tour guide that you convinced yourself to hang out with. A pre-teen with freckles dotting her cheeks. “They are born in freshwater and the parents come to their broods.” She points to the oval sacks glowing in the lake curled around a glade. They shine like glowing chemicals. They have a radioactive stench that compels you to take a step back. It must be from some pesticide the nearby villagers dumped in the water. Those creatures won't have a chance to hatch. “Other places with clans hunt ‘em for proteins. They make a tasy meal.” You push down the urge to gag.// <hr> You look back. The eggs aren't there. It is alright. You are alright. You are in the now. Your gaze catches the sight of the sky, once more. The night that died bore a full moon. All the time your Father cautions you of full moons. They lure out the lunatics. The pale rays splattering on the ground beckon mad folks to crawl out of the woodworks. Like you. Like //[[them.|jaggery.firstfight]]//

“Your scent escaped me for the whole night. Impressive,” they gruff out. Their voice husky, a throaty riff that demands fear. A slimy sensation coats your [[guts.|jaggery.firstfight.1]]

They have bandages wrapped around their chest. Their stare pierces straight at you even in the dimmness as they tousle their rakish mane that flows to their shoulders: a stallion infront of a invisible chariot bearing the rising sun. It shines, radiantly. The cuffs of gold on their arms traps and encapsulates the amber shimmer. They wear loose pants. Elastic at the waist and latched around the ankles with a wooden clip. [[You sigh in jelousy at the comfortable shoes they have on.|jaggery.firstfight.2]]

You snap up when they stalk closer. “Riddle me this, Serpent—” <blockquote>[[▹ “Uh, I go by a human name now.” |1.talk.tjaggery.firstfight.]] [[▹ Let them continue. You are tentative about your new name |2.talk.tjaggery.firstfight]]</blockquote>

<<set $name_approval +=5>>They glare daggers at you, but you let their anger at being interrupted slip over you with a smile. “It's <<print $name.toUpperFirst()>>, actually. What is //your// name.” Your request for wanting to get acquainted goes unheard. And they call you a barbarian. You can bet your liver that you have more succesful social maneuvers under your belt than any of these [[asshats.|jaggery.firstfight.3]]

<<set $name_approval -=5>>To simply put: it feels like an unfit [[shoe.|jaggery.firstfight.3]]

“Say that I am from Gemini.” You nod, stroking your chin. Gemini has been wrecked asunder. By Mother Nature, you were there to aid the fleeing populous. Their homes and families drowned from the greatest flood that they've experienced, yet. But you go along. “Yet I find myself born under a different constellation. What the hell would I be? What would I //do//? Be destined to fulfill the role of a pariah because of the dogmatic land-naming conventions your Master decided to adhere to?” They speak ostentatiously on purpose. You suspect they grew up a nobility and threw in the towel to join a rougher life. You level their gaze. “I’m not qualified to deal with identity issues. Maybe see someone about this?” They snort. They are feets away from you, now. <blockquote>[[▹ Run|run-jaggery.firstfight.3]] [[▹ Tackle|tackle-jaggery.firstfight.3]]</blockquote>

You twist around and pelt along the ustable ground, blisters populating from old aches torch your feet. How this cretin found you is not a dilemna you want to deal with. They come bounding after you, not suprisingly. Wet, sucking sounds from feet stomping on the bedewed grass booms in the stagnant aural landscape, and periodic pauses tells you that they are leaping for their game. Their talon of a hand clamps your shoulder, close to your neck, with brute force that belies a warrior’s strength. They //pull//, and you clench your teeth as they rip the tendons in your muscle, twisting it. They push you down the ground and turn you, so that you are facing them in their [[blood-lusted glory.|jaggery-rememberthis?]]

It is all rote, primitve instinct when you charge at them. You both tumble across the grass. There is a crick in your neck when you are flipped onto your back. You hiss, you almost //feel// your jaws unhinging to fucking //bite.// Lightheadedness hits, hard and heavy. You blink up to see their teeth bared at you. A chunk of red is stuck between them, it flaps. They rended a bit of your ear. You mentally praise them for their celerity, which was unheeded in the mindless motion. Their thighs flanking your hips hemmed you in. There is an onset of pain lighting down your back, so there is nothing left to do but bring their head foward just as you ram your skull into their nose. Like that poisoner earlier, they swell, beautifully. But they don't weaken their position on top of [[you.|jaggery-rememberthis?]]

<<if hasVisited("Next height-chosen-s")>><<nobr>>Hiwa is the last person to weasel into your quiet time.<</nobr>> “I apologize on Warden’s behalf for their… inappropriate comment.” Her sincere tone barely registers. “Hmm? What for?” “They disparaged your height.” You look at her, flabbergasted. For some reason, you have this grating feeling that //she// took their words to heart. Why does she care about some walking fashion faux pas sinking the mood of a criminal over a substandard taunt? “Don't worry about it. They're not impressing anybody with their height, either,” you blankly say with a stiff smile. <<else>>Hiwa is the last person to weasel into your quiet time. “Came to make my night better?” You tonelessly ask, not expecting anything.<</if>> Hiwa nods before bringing out a bundle tied with reed from a satchel. <<if hasVisited("lh.noose.convo")>> <<nobr>>“Lamb jerky.” She hands you the bundle through the bars. You peek into it, searching for the contents. You grab the strips of meat and plop them into your mouth. The mild smokiness in the meat bursts on your tastebuds.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("fp.noose.convo")>> <<nobr>>“Vegetable loaf.” She hands you the bundle through the bars. You peek into it, searching for the contents. The spice isn't strong, but it does its job adding flavor.<</nobr>><<elseif hasVisited("fs.noose.convo")>> <<nobr>>“Fruits. And nuts.” She hands you the bundle through the bars. You peek into it, searching for the contents. You are surprised to see //fresh// forest berries. Did she pick them up for you?<</nobr>> “I asked Jaggery to scavenge for them. They’re excellent at foraging.”<<elseif hasVisited("bt.noose.convo")>>“Vegetable loaf.” She hands you the bundle through the bars. You peek into it, searching for the contents. There is a container of butter near it.<<elseif hasVisited("h.noose.convo")>>“I don't know if you eat meat products, but there's dried lamb.” She hands you the bundle through the bars. You peek into it, searching for the contents: strips of dried meat stringed together in a modest group. Now, if there was some hummus to slather on them.<<else>>“It’s what we had for lunch.” She hands you the bundle through the bars. You peek into it, searching for the contents. Tastless ration bars. That is going to go //wonderfully// down the esophagus.<</if>> While you munch on your midnight dinner, Hiwa shuffles in her position. “<<print $name.toUpperFirst()>>.” <blockquote>[[▹ The name feels wrong. You don’t like it. Yet|hiwafeedsyou.namefeelbad]] [[▹ You are comfortable with her calling you that|hiwafeedsyou.namefeel]]</blockquote>

“Remember this, bitch?” They thumb towards the gash across their side under the rib. “I will leave the same mark on you.” Their eyes —heterchromatic— flicker in a flash of silver and gold. [[“I swear it.”|jaggery.firstfight.4]]

You roll your eyes. Boring. It should be a sin for the countless threats you hear humans say when they deliver their vengence upon [[you.|jaggery.firstfight.5]]

The moment they lean back, shifting their weight to flip out the dagger they kept concealed, time slows down. Their mouth is moving, you barely notice. Their words, white noise. You focus on their center as they display your target: their vulnerable wrist clutching the dagger. Being close to death helped you get //off// its doorstep, and being in this position multiple times means the precise focus slinks in like second nature. You slither out, the wet ground lubricating your movements. You press your palms on each of their thigh and leverage yourself foward, [[maw wide.|jaggery.firstfight.6]]

Warm bood fills your mouth, sheating your tongue. Your eyes locked with theirs, unblinking. They stare back. //Unflinching.// You snag a flesh and spit it out. Their lips upturned in a feral grin. “Won’t swallow me?” Convulsion wavers beneath the skin of your face. [[“Wha–?”|jaggery.firstfight.7]]

Your expressed confusion slurs. A prick in your nape stings. Not this again. [[You black out.|jaggery.firstfight.8]]

You are hoisted over a shoulder, face pressed against someone's torso and legs prone. Your headache ascends to an unchartable level, as if it had gathered all the passing pain flaring from the injuries within the span of the distance it had migrated from the neck to the base of your skull, and combined them in an orgiastic envelopment. A weak moan passes from your cracked lips. “Jaggery, how did you wrap $himher up like that with the burlap roll?” A person chortles near you— out of the preferred proximity of your teeth. “Reminds me of when I was a kid.” They laugh some more. “There was a swamp where I lived. And when I was hungry I’d lug in a giant catfish from the waters. Couldn’t use a net. It tore from the weight, so I had to use wrappings. Never could tie it tight and ended up dining on wherever it fell flopping, right then and there. Good eatin’.” Nausea wells up in your chest to your throat as a wind of your past trails in between your ears; a petrifying susurrus in a canyon: hardly substantial, but leaves a rippling aftereffect like a blast. A couple ensnared you in a— a bear trap? Two women, one short and the other tall— they dragged you out. Spots of black flocks to your vision. They laid you in the center of the town. Oh, how they boasted about catching a beast like you. They wanted to hold a town banquet. And the main dish they clamored to feast on was an odd large winged snake they seized. <<if hasVisited("scale-pick.dg")>> <<run memorize("achieve004", true)>><<timed 28s>><<notify 8s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''déjà vu: times two''</n></div><</notify>><</timed>>They were just like that asshole who pickaxed you and desired to have you flayed and stuffed for his taxidermy collection.<<else>>You think you are going to scream.<</if>> You kick your tail—tails—legs. //Legs.// You repeatedly strike, attempting to twist out of the suffocating grasp. A hand rests atop your head, petting you. The one who is carrying you is that fucker who chewed out your ear. //‘This rat bastard!’// A snicker from your ahead belongs to a chump decked in suit. Their strut is familiar. Is that the Warden of the largest prison complex in Empyrenea? Noose? You crane your neck and squint at the two forms trailing behind you in unison: Hiwa and the poisoner. Her arm is around him for support. Not used to relying on your ears that much, you exert yourself to hear them. The poisoner whispers to Hiwa, “You overworked yourself.” “I couldn’t just… stay behind.” A baritone voice cuts through their conversation: "No doubt my absence has incentivised problems to promulgate and fester." Senixte. He comes around by your side. You feel —Jaggery, that is their name— tauten. “Clay is holding down the fort,” he emotionlessly announces as something cold flutters under your earlobe. His gloved hand. “I shan’t waste another charm. Merit, dose it up. I want it in a semi-comatose state.” “Yes, sir.” //‘With pleasure,’// you mentally add for him. He did not bother to hide the smugness in his tone. Why would he? He got his payback for the fist you had served to his nose. Panic sets in. His affinity for liberal dosing will rear an ugly head in the future. You struggle, but another prick —under the ear, this time— and you fall asleep. Blackness undulates, fading for a moment to reveal yourself laid across the prison floor: presented as the object at the center of //their// interest. The members are all here, sans for Clay. They stare at you. Unfazed, you return them a thousand-yard stare. //‘Should I pose, too?’// The thought faintly sweeps over your mind as darkness consumes [[you.|ch1-002]]

<<run memorize("achieve001", true)>><<notify 6s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''the kids aren't alright: //i'm not passive but aggressive//''</n></div><</notify>><<nobr>>The basement reeks of rank and must built up for decades, a relic meant to be buried. Forgotten. And it would have stayed that way, frozen, ageless, until your presence disturbed it. Heels slaps the ground, sending a plume of dust sullying your face, unclean as it is.<</nobr>> You have no time to dally around to note down observations. Hiwa is onto you. Her footsteps preponderant as she sprints into the prison above you, coming to the gap that has allowed faint light to slip through, allaying the drab semblance. Air seeps in from somewhere. Wildlife rushes in through your nostril and you envisage your freedom. Dosed on a strong boost of energy, you frisk the edge of the ceiling and find a grate window You shake it open, drawing strength from your muscles. It takes one attempt before you get the metal —disused for years, and as a result, the rust weakened the structure— to break it open. You climb over, the night embraces you, openly. [[You are free.|breakout-thwarted.1]]

<<run memorize("achieve002", true)>><<notify 6s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''hiwa’s been hit by: //a smooth criminal//''</n></div><</notify>><<nobr>>The lone bulb flickers behind you as pass a vista of rooms.<</nobr>> You did not expect the innards of the building to resemble a spiderweb you have to trawl through; you thought you were holed up in a ramshackle. From the sterile antiquated scent spits out a bizarre, fruity fragrance of the jungle. This new information jars you for a moment. You mark a cranny and wedge yourself against the wall, forcing your limbs to be close to your body, minimizing your surface area. When the foreign smell leaves, you rush out on silent footsteps and fortunately find a window smalle enough to squeeze through. [[You are free.|breakout-thwarted.1]]

<center><div class="chapterHeader"><h7>Achievements</h7></div></center><hr> <center><div class="chapterHeader"><h3half>Chapter One</h3half></div></center> <<nobr>><<if recall("achieve001") is true>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>''the kids aren't alright: //i'm not passive but aggressive//''</n1></div></div></div><<else>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>locked</n1></div></div></div> <</if>><</nobr>> <<nobr>><<if recall("achieve002") is true>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>''hiwa’s been hit by: //—a smooth criminal//''</n1></div></div></div><<else>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>locked</n1></div></div></div><</if>><</nobr>> <<nobr>><<if recall("achieve003") is true>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>''one-in-three chance: still a win''</n1></div></div></div><<else>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>locked</n1></div></div></div><</if>><</nobr>> <<nobr>><<if recall("achieve004") is true>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>''déjà vu: times two''</n1></div></div></div><<else>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>locked</n1></div></div></div><</if>><</nobr>> <center><div class="chapterHeader"><h3half>Chapter Two</h3half></div></center> <<nobr>><<if recall("achieve.ch2.cthruclay") is true>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>''illusion, shattered: see through clay’s magical conceit''</n1></div></div></div><<else>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>locked</n1></div></div></div> <</if>><</nobr>> <<nobr>><<if recall("achieve.ch2.lookscankill") is true>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>''if looks can kill: fluster an ex-court assassin''</n1></div></div></div><<else>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>locked</n1></div></div></div> <</if>><</nobr>> <<nobr>><<if recall("achieve.ch2.hateonmerit") is true>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>'''here’s a merit badge: for being an asshole''</n1></div></div></div><<else>><div class="center"><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><n1>locked</n1></div></div></div> <</if>><</nobr>> <center><<link "↤ Return To Game" $return>><</link>></center>

<<set $name_approval +=5>>Her eyes light up when she sees your relaxed expression. That confuses you, but you let it [[slide.|hiwafeedsyou.2]]

<<set $name_approval -=5>>“Hiwa,” you return, [[gravely.|hiwafeedsyou.2]]

She parts her lips to say the thoughts roiling in her mind, but you halt it. “Listen, I adore being a recipient of a surprise party. But this one?” You scooch to her, smiling as she moves back an inch, hesitation clear between her brows. “What fucked-up torture exhbition is your team planning for yours truly?” That steals a horrified gasp out of her. “What? No… I…” She avoids your prying stare. “I am not obligated to disclose that information.” She then looks up, gaze hardening. “However, you //will// not be going through such barbarism.” The opening chords of a migraine plays its tune of tinnitus. You wince and turn around. Hiwa makes no remark. “You can ask me about other things, and I will do my best to answer them.” <blockquote>[[▹ “And the guy —you dipped your arrows in his poison, didn’t you? Who is he?”|askhquestion.merit]] [[▹ “Who was the one that slashed my wings?”|askhquestion.jaggery]]</blockquote>

To be honest, you are more curious about Senixte. Hiwa answers. And contrary to her assertion that she will address your question within the full extent of her ability, the report she leaks is poor. “Merit. His talents in designing poisons and antidotes are renown.” That is obvious. Your body aches in remembrance. Her throat bobs. “He takes after his grandmother. But not much else is known about his life besides the fact he was absent for a period, and he published poems under different aliases. It is only now that he goes by an official pseudonym.” “Oh? And what might that be?” “The Siren.” <blockquote>[[▹ “And what about that conniving scamp who cut me up?”|askhquestion.2.jaggery]] </blockquote>

To be honest, you are more curious about Senixte. Hiwa answers. And contrary to her assertion that she will address your question within the full extent of her ability, the report she leaks is poor. “Jaggery. That’s their name.” She stutters, “Out of everyone, I know them the least. They hail from Gemini.” Her words wither, losing firmness to an edge of an indiscernible emotion. Anger? Gemini //was// a land you destroyed. <blockquote>[[▹ “And the man who drugged me?”|askhquestion.2.merit]] </blockquote>

“Jaggery. That's their name.” She stutters, “Out of everyone, I know them the least. They hail from Gemini.” Her words wither, losing firmness to an edge of an indiscernible emotion. Anger? Gemini //was// a land you destroyed. She stands up, ending the conversation. [[“You best be asleep.”|pre-aug.22.22.demo-end]]

“Merit. His talents in designing poisons and antidotes are renown.” That is obvious. Your body aches in remembrance. Her throat bobs. “He takes after his grandmother. But not much else is known about his life besides the fact he was absent for a period, and he published poems under different aliases. It is only now that he goes by an official pseudonym.” “Oh? And what might that be?” “The Siren.” She stands up, ending the conversation. [[“You best be asleep.”|pre-aug.22.22.demo-end]]

<div class="chapterHead"><h2>Chapter two: first part</h2> </div> It had taken some time to realize that the blot outside the bars was a person. They had arrived moments ago and stood still. Your vision emerges from the incipient mess of stars and black dots. The figure unlocks your cell and steps inside, and you can discern their features easier: blond, messy hair. Ivory skin. Light brown eyes that hold little warmth. Merit. He crisply tips your head back. You jolt at the prick of a needle. The drug he injects scuffles through the veins, mingling with the viscera to capture your consciousness as you become weightless and the world becomes distant. It is like —it is like that time, your Father gathered you in his outstretched arms— the first time you both met. [[You fall asleep.|fix]]

<<type 110ms start 3s>>[[“Tomorrow lies a reckoning.”|ch1-001]]<</type>>

[[You wake up.|serpent.ch2.pov.1]]

[[Not alone.|serpent.ch2.pov.2]]

Even now, your surroundings blur together like childhood memories, or a finished charcoal painting the artist smeared angrily and ruined. Your body jostles every second. You lurch one time and bump into someone next to you. [[“Are you alright?”|serpent.ch2.pov.3]]

You numbly shake your head and rub your eyes. Hiwa. It is Hiwa that is there by you when your hands fall away. Merit is across you, staring at his palm— his pen. Jaggery flanks your other side. You stretch. Hiwa offers a drink from her canteen which you accept. Your throat is parched and dry as sand-paper. You had to control yourself from gulping the flask dry and choking on it. You breathe out a contented sigh when you finish and assess the tight, hot space you are all shuttered in. At once, you recognize that it is a caravan. There is a screen door that separates the front part of the vehicle. You shift in your seat, turning around and lifting the flap behind you. You peek through, hearing faint whinnies of horses and a low hum of flies. Jaggery grunts at the sudden influx of heavy, hotter air gushing in —swelling with insects— and they grip your wrist, clawing your flesh in a reprimand, you think. They had chopped off their hair. Less hiding places for lice. Your gaze sweeps to Merit who is resting his head over his curled knuckles. Jaggery had bickered him into cutting his hair, too. Merit was adamant in his refusal. Piscean citizens prize long hair. But the stoic poet folded and ended up cutting it short to his ears. Common sense won over cultural pride. And his behaviour too military for him to care this much about appearance anyways. On the other hand, lice and other insects are never a problem to you. Your body produce certain oils that deter them. You look back at Jaggery. <<if hasVisited("tackle-jaggery.firstfight.3")>> You roughly pull away from their clasp. Your ear twinges in pain and you suddenly remember that they chomped off a flesh from your lobe. Jaggery smirks, as if they know what is looping in your mind. “Love your new look,” they compliment with a dark, sly quirk to their chapped, callous lips. [[You ignore them and test your luck again when they doze off.|serpent.ch2.pov.4]] <<elseif hasVisited("run-jaggery.firstfight.3")>> You darkly remember your fight with them. The sore patches on your body twinges in pain. You roughly pull away from their clasp. [[You test your luck again when they doze off.|serpent.ch2.pov.4]] <<else>>You eye the menace for a second and watch their even breathing. You finally speak, “It’s for a minute.” “No,” they growl. [[You give them a frown and test your luck again when they doze off.|serpent.ch2.pov.4]] <</if>>

What meets your inquisitive gaze under the fluttering flap held by your hand [[sobers|serpent.ch2.pov.5]] you from drowsiness.

The wheels of the caravans sloppily judders about the entrails of gritty, gravely shards mixed in with deep-trenched footsteps pockmarking the muddy ground, squeezing through a forest of magnanimous giants: [[trees worthy of worship in nations of Taurus and Virgo.|serpent.ch2.pov.6]]

Your back is rod-straight when the driver at the head of the caravan steers the horses into a lone village, slinking into the open beak of the entrance under shades of enmeshed scrap metals— roofs. The road takes you all into alleyways of cobbled huts, a numerous of them sinking to their death into canvases of swampy earth. Interconnecting pipes that are the veins that tape people together in a semblance of community. Children collecting droplets of precious rainwater from chutes as they chat about their lives to parrots hiding in the gaping hole between dented roof tiles. In zones like this, there is typically a consolidated center for shopping, trading, and selling goods. There is none here. Older women run their own personal apothecary. Men have slaughterhouses shackled to the back of their homes wherein sows squeal inside cages and slobber at the clinches, domesticated geese kept in corners of the meager marshy plots, the mothers hover above their eggs with teeth bared. [[Your lips quiver into a sneer.|serpent.ch2.pov.7]]

Foundations of the village scored from violence of nature and humans alike; older, sunken fortresses and corroding monuments lend a shadow of a possibility that an older civilization existed— and if it existed it was a pain for historians to document. The chemical decomposition from humidity would render artifacts into lumps. You spy a group of old men sitting on the rotted floor of a porch built over an ancient site of worship, clinking mugs of liquors that will chafe down their tongues into a strip of tissues. Children collect droplets of precious rainwater from chutes as they chat about their lives to birds hiding in the gaping holes between dented roof tiles, of a house constructed on paved street laid out by meticulous city-planners of a far-flung, faded past. The more fortunate cottages have mud baked onto their walls to deter mosquitoes. The flap slips from your fingers. You lean back with a scowl. [[You are in Capricorn.|serpent.ch2.pov.8]]

This village reminds you of hundreds of other villages in Cancer. Except the nation of Cancer has more navigable roads in a city than the entire region of Capricorn. [[This you know keenly.|serpent.ch2.pov.9]]

You did not understand why they didn’t cuff you until your thumb feathers by your forehead and you feel a paper taped across your skin. You clench your teeth. Senixte’s charm. You didn’t even notice. The driver stops at the destination. Hiwa gets out first. Then, Jaggery escorts you out with a hand pressed onto your back. Merit exits last and makes a berth for you, voiding imminent jeopardy of you knotting him into a conversation. The group looms before the darkest and deepest section of the forest yet. A jungle unnamed and unchallenged. Your mind has regressed into nothingness. You ask Hiwa, voice hoarse, “Where are… we going?” Nobody answers, and confusion nudges way to [[billowing frustration.|serpent.ch2.pov.10]]

The blazing noon sun glints unkindly through the treacherous gaps of lush canopies. The light dies when it reaches the damp ground, but its swelter remains behind. Heady heat suffuses torpor into your limbs like nerve gas, tricking the knees into careening you over the gnarled roots stabbing forth from the soil to acclaim the [[surface.|serpent.ch2.pov.11]]

Hiwa rights you by her firm grip on your elbow. Her attention is absent as she looks at you, humming a tune. Jaggery is ahead. From their confidant posture, they seem at home advancing the group deeper into the core of the wilderness. A hummingbird or a large bee blitz by your shoulder. [[You blink and bully your vision to refocus.|serpent.ch2.pov.12]]

<<if hasVisited ("jaggery.firstfight.8")>> Merit patched you up after your botched escape attempt. Maybe you should have fought him off. Otherwise they’d have carried you. You sullenly frown that you didn't execute this ingenious plan when you had the chance. Oh well. You close your eyes, drawing out the deadened calm hiding. And breathe in through your nose. An ageless belief circulates the stretch of Empyrenea that life escapes through the nostrils. The inverse is true. Life enters as newborn animals take their starting step to assimilate themselves in a foreign world on their phantom limb. [[Humans do it, too.|serpent.ch2.pov.13]] <<else>>You close your eyes, drawing out the deadened calm hiding. And breathe in through your nose. An ageless belief circulates the stretch of Empyrenea that life escapes through the nostrils. The inverse is true. Life enters as newborn animals take their starting step to assimilate themselves in a foreign world on their phantom limb. [[Humans do it, too.|serpent.ch2.pov.13]]<</if>>

Your gaze flick to Jaggery. [[You see how their nose flares before their feet move.|serpent.ch2.pov.14]]

The second-in-command, Clay, is there at their side, fussing their prosthetic arm as it collects the tropical dew like a water tank. The way they swerve around pitfalls and bob under swaying branches is both learned and instinctual. Merit is struggling at the rear of the formation. You hear his unsteady pace as he marches through the vegetation, most of it lightened from Jaggery’s blades. A congregation of butterflies rustles on a dead log in ripples and take flight, hunting for flowers nestled in the thick brambles— and you are assaulted with the image of gargoyles, swarming, clouting, murdering, //stifling.// (//‘How did Senixte make them? Does he have a factory somewhere?’// ) The butterflies might be hunting for a fresh cadaver. [[A gruesome image cuts beneath your eyelids.|serpent.ch2.pov.15]]

//Blood sluices out of the skull like yolk from cracked egg. Liquid sinks into the ground and fertilizes the land. Droplets bead on the cold skin as eager and bustling invertebrates sip and drink to slake their hunger. You would have, too, but, for some reason, something stops you. Which is odd and strange because you are an animal and you are hungry and you killed and eaten hundreds of humans before. And this one is nobody special. So what is stopping you from fulfilling an obligation to the call of your [[nature|serpent.ch2.pov.16]]?//

You tilt your head and sniff again, tongue flicking from your mouth to imbibe the dancing molecules in the air. No scent of blood; no corpse. [[Not until you do anything drastic, anyways.|serpent.ch2.pov.17]]

Wetness settles on creases of the trees. Fauna and mold and mildew fattens themselves on the humid essence of Capricorn. The bushes and grass bulge with flowers and fruits. Eyes close, you tamp the shudder rattling your composure. This place –its energy– is //[[foul.|serpent.ch2.pov.18]]//

Thick foliage splits from Jaggery’s blades and reveals a mansion. The walls are not espaliered with vines, or dirtied from mud stains of floods that sometimes overflow from rivers during storm seasons. In all respects, its cleanliness is foreign, but the barrenness is like the rest of Capricornian territory. There are pockets of people, sure. After all, these are folks of isolation who tried to carve their own place in the enshrined jungles and foul creeks, cultures clumsily erected from the scant relics of the past. [[It is what humans do.|serpent.ch2.pov.19]]

Hiwa slaps off a spider hanging from her sleeve. Merit tangles himself in a trap of wilting, tough weeds and shakes off the flakes of soil clinging his boots when he wrenches himself free. These two put up a convincing act of grit and resolve, but you know better. Clay has a brittle smile on their face that is at risk of falling apart from the slightest rustle. However, their gaze is measuring and calm. “So this is it, huh.” They turn to Jaggery. “The mansion is made from quarried stones, so we don’t have to worry about rot. That’s good.” The second-in-command sigh out, but nod, repeating to themself, “That’s good.” Jaggery strides to you, damp leaves squelching underfoot. Their dark hair tangled, sweeping their bare neck. Jutting out from the cove of their collarbones, slicked with sweat, is a steel piercing. A precise bite and tear would leave a hole gushing blood. They would fall down, dead. The frontliner stops right in front of you and blow a steam of hot, hot breath into your face. You sputter at the powerful stench of chewed mints, leaves, and barks they’ve scavenged from combing through bushes and trees. “You need it. Can't have you sleeping.” //“The fucking //audacity// of this piece of shit”// You fix them a nasty glare. They step away before you manage to spew a biting insult. Hiwa shakes her head; the perspiration she accumulated from the ardous hike flicks from the ends of her dread. More slips down from her scalp to her collarbones. “Don’t mind them.” You peer back and survey the heavyset doors, which is undernourished and plain compared to the lavish decorations carved on the doorknobs. Twin imps facing visitors with jaws wide, wide open for hands to reach in and pull out the forked tongues: the handles. There is a confusing, varied sentiments of familiarity seeing those stone statues. You don't why but you feel a morbid sense of shame. Clay cedes their hand into their waiting maws, and swfitly withdraws. Red buds from fingertips. Blood. The obsidian eyes of the imps glows bright crimson. Soon, the devilish light dies. Slaked, the doors swing inwards, and Clay confidently walks in, resuming leadership. Jaggery follows. Hiwa grabs your elbow, but her hold is weak, as if she is concerned about the ominous mansion and is waiting for you to decide on entering or fleeing. <<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>>[[You wobble in.|serpent.ch2.pov.20]]<<else>>[[You march in, forlorn.|serpent.ch2.pov.20]]<</if>>

You are not that astonished to find people here. Attendants, you believe, from their clothes and servile manners as they usher everyone in. Some of the brasher ones openly gawk at you, whispering and elbowing their peers as they jut their chin in your direction. You snort at them, much like a bull before charging into its meaty pin-cushion. The lack of tanned skin and short height is an uncommon Capricornian feature. They look like they are from the east coast, from the regions of Libra to Pisces. Definitely not from Drakken where people have brown tones due to generations of climbing mountains. Sunlight penetrates deeper in high altitudes where the atmosphere is weaker. Regardless, the feeling of wrongness solidifies the further you walk inside. The interior is cool like a funeral parlour, provoking gooseflesh to break out. Hiwa wraps a blindfold around you and you have to restrain a snarl. What caches of secrets could they possibly be hiding that requires this type of [[caution|serpent.ch2.pov.21]]?

You are pushed onto a winding staircase. Four floors up and Hiwa –you think– turns you into a long corridor and you feel a door opening before you. Stale, sluggish air caresses your face. Blindfold off. Clay gives you a small smile. They set you up in a moderately spacious, windlowess room, which is luxurious compared to that prison you were holed in. You look back to Hiwa leaving, door closing behind her. It does not click shut, drifting in and out a little. That door has no lock. You are not surprised, but you still let out an indignant groan. You rotate on your heels, squeaking and slipping slightly on the clean tiles. Your eyes lay on Clay who you find is scrutinizing you with a steady stare. They really do suit their name. They have forgettable features. If they want, they can mold themselves to be anyone they please. Brown hair tied in a low ponytail. Straight nose. Their prosthetic arm is their defining trait. But their brown eyes has depth. And you are not talking about the color. They have jadedness that speaks to you that they lived more than their lifetime. [[Like you.|serpent.ch2.pov.22]]

You haven't talked to them at all, now that you think about it. They can't possibly be worse than the Commander. Senixte can go to the hell. “Someone is going to come and fetch you lunch,” Clay state genially. <blockquote>[[▹ What did they want you to say? Thanks?|serpent.ch2.pov.23.1.jaggeryask]] [[▹ “Thanks.”|serpent.ch2.pov.23.2.jaggeryask]]</blockquote>

“I’ve always wondered if this is Commander’s childhood home,” they ponder aloud, gesturing vaguely. “He is impersonal, that man. Like this place. It feels like a museum, doesn’t it?” They turn their attention to you, fishing for a response so they can clinch you in the weak beginning of a conversation. You solemnly nod, deciding to put some casual investment into this chat. “Reflects his personality, too.” Though they represent an unaltered fact that they are complicit in the subject of your hostage, you are not desensitized enough to ignore genuine kindness. You offer them a tired smile, and they return with a tired one of their own. You been through many folks like them, those who reach out to sympathise with your plight. “You know, I truly hope we can work together in harmony.” It is hard to contravene their positivity when their jaded brown eyes shines like so. There are flecks of green in their irises, like leaves on soil. You catch yourself from staring too hard. Clay definitely have noticed your gawking, but doesn't mention anything of it. Their tired smile upturns into an energetic grin. “You are more than what people perceive you to be; you are not a monster.” The usually groan worthy platitudes stirs warmth in your chest. Strange. //Extremely// strange. They go on. “We can recreate a future where the line between us and them will vanish. And this can only happen with the overthrowal of Ophiuchus’ sovereign. It is from his rule that creatures such as us have suffered, don’t you think?” <<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>>Tears rise, swelling, and you blink them away. You are not sure if you should examine this feeling. You don’t have the strength to. Their voice has a fading quality. You can’t make heads or tails of it, adding another injury of the crippling detail that you are not inside your mind as you’d like to be. “As a matter of fact, we are not foreign as people may believe. We are not creatures. We were once humans, I know this to be true.” You chuckle, shaking you head. They are spouting folklores, like how Scorpion nomads believe that sandwraiths are infants who died, abandoned in the desert. But they are not. Like how winged snakes and phaeries and imps and ghouls and mermaids are not. And if they are infants, nobody will chance their claws and breaths of fire to //raise// them. Clay’s words are false and empty like most promises Smile still pasted on your face, you try not to feel angry at the implication that they want you //against// your Father. Yes, that is it. What Clay is doing is like what those villagers would do: lure a poor, starving animal into their dens with trail of meats, only to have knives and sickles and everything sharp pummelling in your direction. “I think our little talk here is done.” Clay tilts their head. “We are far from done, but I concede that we should pause it. For now.” They smile at you. It is not as malicious as you hoped it to be. They look at you as if you are a friend. “I’ll see you, then… [[Soon|serpent.ch2.pov.24]].” ''ch2-clay.01'' *Author’s Note: Please type the above numbers into the comment section. This is for balancing purposes. Thank you. <<else>><<set $c_approval +=1>><<timed 5s>><<run memorize("achieve.ch2.cthruclay", true)>><<notify 6s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''illusion, shattered: see through clay’s magical conceit''</n></div><</notify>><</timed>>You see a shiver rippling through them, and you almost growl. You know what is happening now. Phaerie magic. And to prove you right, Clay comes undone. A film of shimmer lifts from their body and disappears. Horns like twisted branches verge on their skull from their temples. Tubules spot the skeletal structures, allowing winds to glide through the hollow bones, producing melodies. You call them Mother Nature’s own instruments. They don’t necessarily have to make music though, but to emit enough for a frequency that warps moods of those untrained in dispelling it. The class of people who can are monastics, and those who abstain from listening to music. An infamous one rumored to excel in the craft of his species is Peter Piper, but that is a story from the era before the Age of Magic: the Age of Decline. You squint at Clay. Besides the horns, they look the same, except for their eyes, which are now radiant green. “You magicked the windows so that I wouldn’t look outside? Really?” Otherwise how else would they have stoked fond emotions in you at their banal speech? They wouldn't be able to do jack if this room was windless. Clay softly laugh. “The islands of praise for your acumen is deserved, $name.” You physically shoo’ed away their flattery with a wave of a hand, unfavorable of this blatant use of their mood manipulation. But you are not terribly surprised that this would happen. They are using what they can to have you join their cause. “I think our little talk here is done.” Clay isn’t rebuffed. No, far from it. Satisfaction settles on their features. And it isn’t malicious. “We are far from done, but I concede that we should pause it. For now.” They tilt their head, unreadable eyes looking at you, //through// you. “I’ll see you, then… [[Soon|serpent.ch2.pov.24]].” ''ch2-clay.02'' *Author’s Note: Please type the above numbers into the comment section. This is for balancing purposes. Thank you. <</if>>

“I’ve always wondered if this is Commander’s childhood home,” they ponder aloud, looking at you, unbothered by your dismissal. “He is impersonal, that man. Like this place. It feels like a museum, doesn’t it?” You roll your eyes at their sorry ice-breaker and direct your attention to the bed, which you trudge to. Museum? You huff, glancing around. You feel like you are about to be taken behind a screen for measurements in preparation for a taxidermy exhibition. Clay sighs, shuffling to lean against the wall. They cross their arms and crane their head upwards, as if asking the heavens to give them strength. //‘I think I might just about to do the same to deal with you,’// You dryly think. They represent an unaltered fact that they are complicit in the subject of your hostage. You are desensitized enough to ignore genuine interest in you as a being with a personality. Grabbing some pillows, you hedge them behind you so your eyes are still pinned on them while lying down. You been through many folks like them, those who reach out to sympathise with your plight. It ends the same. Usually. “You know, I was truly hoping we could come to a common understanding.” For a reason unexplainable, you are magnetized to their eyes. Dull brown mud softening into a lighter shade. There are flecks of green in their irises, like leaves on soil. You catch yourself from staring too hard. Clay definitely have noticed your gawking, but doesn't mention anything of it. Their frown upturns into an amiable smile. “Do you see yourself as a hero prepared to brave a terrible, terrible evil? That is //us//? We are not your enemies.” The usually groan worthy platitudes stirs warmth in your chest. Strange. //Extremely// strange. They go on. “We can recreate a future where the line between us and them will vanish. And this can only happen with the overthrowal of Ophiuchus’ sovereign. It is from his rule that creatures such as us have suffered, don’t you think?” <<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>>Tears rise, swelling, and you blink them away. You are not sure if you should examine this feeling. You don’t have the strength to. Their voice has a fading quality. You can't make heads or tails of it, adding another injury injury of the crippling detail that you are not inside your mind as you'd like to be. “As a matter of fact, we are not foreign as people may believe. We are not creatures. We were once humans, I know this to be true.” You chuckle, shaking you head. They are spouting folklores, like how Scorpion nomads believe that sandwraiths are infants who died, abandoned in the desert. But they are not. Like how winged snakes are not. And if they are infants, nobody will chance their claws and breaths of fire to //raise// them. Clay’s words are false and empty like most promises “I am not like you. Sorry, but you picked the wrong customer to recite your sales pitch to.” “No.” They lunge forward from their spot, barely stopping themself from tackling you. Their hand is next to you on the headboard, caging you in. “Don't say that. That is not true.” They have a frantic, wild expression on their face made all the more disorienting when you see shimmers at the edges of their lashes. They are a mirage, an oasis. Yes, they are constructing an illusion. What Clay is doing is like what those villagers would do: lure a poor, starving animal into their dens with trail of meats, only to have knives and sickles and everything sharp pummelling in your direction. You scoff and push them off. “Thought you were better than your superior. Guess not.” Clay glares at you. “Senixte and I are similar in that we navigate the same domains. But I am not him.” They comb through their bangs, untying their ponytail. “Let us continue this conversation some other time. Are you open to that?” Their brown eyes pleads you to say something, but you just offer them a [[vacant smile|serpent.ch2.pov.24]]. <<else>><<set $c_approval +=1>><<timed 5s>><<run memorize("achieve.ch2.cthruclay", true)>><<notify 6s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''illusion, shattered: see through clay’s magical conceit''</n></div><</notify>><</timed>>You blink away the sudden tears and almost growl. You know what you are experiencing now. Phaerie magic. And to prove you right, Clay comes undone. A film of shimmer lifts from their body and disappears. Horns like twisted branches verge on their skull from their temples. Tubules spot the skeletal structures, allowing winds to glide through the hollow bones, producing melodies. You call them Mother Nature’s own instruments. They don’t necessarily have to make music though, but to emit enough for a frequency that warps moods of those untrained in dispelling it. The class of people who can are monastics, and those who abstain from listening to music. An infamous one rumored to excel in the craft of his species is Peter Piper, but that is a story from the era before the Age of Magic: the Age of Decline. You squint at Clay. Besides the horns, they look the same, except for their eyes, which are now radiant green. “You magicked the windows so that I wouldn’t look outside? Really?” Otherwise how else would they have stoked fond emotions in you at their banal speech? They wouldn't be able to do jack if this room was windless. There is a tranquil smile on Clay's lips. “<<print $name.toUpperFirst()>>, I am just like you.” They walk to you, or rather, float, on their delicate, agile feet. “I was not lying when I said we aren’t your enemies. You are not alone. We can make a future where beings like us can co-exist with humans.” You sneer at them, wanting to tug and break their horns, beyond angry at their emotional hijacking. “The future //I// see will envelope all of us from behind in a bear-trap. It is the same thing everytime. Co-existing? Humans can’t even stand their neighbors sometimes. Don’t be fucking daft.” A whistle sizzles from their horn, and you are not sure if they did that to express their anger. “You see the same thing //everytime// because you are the vital piece of movement that stays rooted, like a rock refusing to move in the tide of change.” Your finger dig in their chest. “Let me be //abundantly// clear. You will not dupe me into your scheme.” You feel like a student admonishing $hisher peers from causing trouble in class when you say the next thing to them. “And don’t use magic around humans!” They turn around facing the wall. The one that has a window, you presume. “<<print $name.toUpperFirst()>>, you must look at the bigger picture. All you see is you Father.” They confront your heated, scornful gaze. The gold of your sclerea flashes in the shadows. You watch as Clay's lips twists with disappointment before thinning in resignation. “I’ll see you, then… [[Soon|serpent.ch2.pov.24]].”<</if>>

You pace circles, frustrated and tired. You had sneaked out and found that the doors in the hallways are locked with charms. Anti-Serpent wards are active outside them, you assume, if you even manage to break pass the initial resistance. This you surmised from the disgusting tingling feeling that rakes your back when you are near it. So you prowl in the meantime. You glance back and frown at the sight of a raised bed. On your knees, you do a quick sweep under the bed, like a parent checking for a bogeyman. //‘Monsters don’t live there anymore,’// You think, smirking. They long left and chiseled out inside you a home. After you are finished you jump on the bed, testing the springs, and idly wait. Someone creaks open the door. “Evenin,’” an elderly woman announces her presence. There is no dent on the tough mattress when you get up. “Here is your meal.” She sounds like her trachea is stuffed with wet leaves and it rubs you in a visceral way. Her face has crags and dents, liver spots and warts; her nose squashed like a tent peg. You step aside for her as she ambulates with a rickety wobble to the small table shoved in the corner to place down a tray of bread slices and a tiny clay pot of honey. There are dried meats and fruits. You step back, unable to summon the appetite for eating. You couldn’t. //Wouldn’t.// <blockquote>[[▹ Force yourself to eat|to.eat]] [[▹ Don't eat|tonot.eat]]</blockquote>

<<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>>The fruit shudders on the plate as you shift your trembling hands to pick it up, only to set it back down after examining the contents through eyes hazy with nausea and fatigue. <<else>> You lick the spoon sticky with honey plaintive from the pot. <</if>> You spare the old woman a glance and she meets it. She gets points for not flinching. “I will send people up to draw you a bath. They will come shortly.” She bows and leaves. True to her words, it had taken the servants no time at all to get you set up in a hot bath. You should leave a glowing review for their [[efficacy.|serpent.ch2.pov.25]]

<<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>>You decide not to eat. You know you will puke it all out.<<else>>You decide not to eat.<</if>> You spare the old woman a glance and she meets it. She gets points for not flinching. “I will send people up to draw you a bath. They will come shortly.” She bows and leaves. True to her words, it had taken the servants no time at all to get you set up in a hot bath. You should leave a glowing review for their [[efficacy.|serpent.ch2.pov.25]]

Sloughing off your second layer of grime and blood is satisfying, like finally shedding after dealing with itchy scabs clotting your skin for so long. You want to soak in the refreshing bliss forever. But you get up after a ten minute scrub and pat yourself down with towels. [[You dress yourself in new clean clothes they've put aside for you.|serpent.ch2.pov.26]]

[[You are clean.|clean.mono.1]]

His jaw clenches as a cruel smile contorts his lips. “I concur. A torturing war criminal doesn't transform with a smatter of face powder and a wig.” His words are punctuated stabs of an ice-pick. Underlying dread corroborates with your overt resentment at the man in front of you. And everyone that brought you here. You are no stranger to insults. You heard everything there is to know about you under the sun, from your looks, your heritage, everything. And indeed, people do accuse you of torturing, something that is uttered in moments of passion. You don't torture, though. There is a harshness, a serrated edge to his demeanor that you think for one heated moment that he is //accusing// you of doing something despicable. As in, he claims that you tortured, has seen with his own eyes that you committed deplorable acts, not in a way to aggravate [[you.|serpent.ch2.pov.27.1]]

“…no place for ferals,” Senixte rumbles menacingly within your earshot outside the door. Speak of the devil. You want to hear nothing from him. Unfortunately, this mansion is not sound-proofed as it is weather-proofed. You freely hear the displeased, baritone murmur of Senixte berating Jaggery. You think it is funny that a clothed-up man such as he is advising his underling to adopt the same dress code to his least clothed subordinate. Jaggery wears next to nothing besides the chest wraps, shamelessly putting their defined torso on display, with their hips bordered by a loose jacket. The drudges roaming about try their best not to let their gaze wander to Jaggery’s striking clavicle piercing. You won’t ever be able to do that, to get a piercing. To have your fragility exposed to a stranger— it is [[unthinkable.|serpent.ch2.pov.28.1]]

<<if hasVisited("suit.falsechoice.1dress")>>The suit comes with a face chain that drapes across the bridge of the nose, to curl around the ear conch. There is also an intricate linked finger rings with astonishing designs.<<else>>It comes with a laurel wreath crown. You sniff in the potpourri fragrances. This whole outfit will make you look like an alluring nymph.<</if>> First you wear the clothes, though. You press down on any crinkles after you put it [[on|falsechoice.dress.1]].

[[Yes, this will do.|falsechoice.dress]]

<<set $calm +=1>>“I have dragged myself by the chin before. If this is your way of humiliating me, then try [[harder|serpent.ch2.pov.30]].

<<set $aggressive +=1>> An animalistic snarl tears out from you, guttural and low. He laughs. //[[Laughs|serpent.ch2.pov.30]]//.

[[Clean.|clean.mono.2]]

And yet, a sharpened sense of impurity invades your mind. There are no mirrors. If there was one you have the strangest feeling you will see the blood and dirt that are not [[there.|clean.mono.3]]

[[You don't want to be in your body.|clean.mono.4]]

The door opens. You turn around and narrow your eyes at Merit. The poet-poisoner’s face is furrowed in an emotion approximate to annoyance, but is too stoic to be perfectly revealing. He stands in the doorway like a faded oil painting, dull and worn. “Nice to see that your nose has healed,” you remark. You are not //in// your head as you would like to be, but in the midst of your annoying brain fog, your unappreciation of his absent bandages and relatively good state of physical health is firm as earth. He ignores you. “You will freshen up,” he sternly voices as he tightens the laces on his vambrace. He pulls one string with his teeth and coldly glares at you before stating, “We need to beautify you.” This particular moment of your life is equivalent to a needle scratching to halt across the musical disk Father would unbury from his trunks and play. You close your parted lips and laugh. Raking through his blond hair, Merit rolls his eyes. “I have to prep you.” He reveals the resistance’s plans for you in gritted halts. You kind of want to laugh at his sheer reluctance with the task of communicating with you. “There will be a conference. The rulers of the nations will convene at a place close to here. Though the representatives of the territories would not resort to summarily executing you or imprisoning you for life, Senixte thinks you are still on eggshells,” he spits out the last part. “To beautify myself and put on a show, though… like a pageant.” You turn to the wall you were staring at earlier and fix the collar on your shirt, inclining your head as if you found an erroneous speck of muck blemishing your cheek. Merit is suddenly behind you and his voice is tinted with a low growl when he curses your miming art. “Tormentor. That is all you are!” You darkly chuckle. He thought they put you in a room with a mirror, an object nobody wants near a prisoner. You listlessly stare at him for a while and suck your teeth. “Is that how you all do things around here? Scoring adoration among them… How [[trite|serpent.ch2.pov.27]].”

Servants flow in through the doorway to place stacks of packaged clothing for you to choose. You scrounge up two palatable sets. You cup your chin and cast a scrutinizing look over them. <blockquote>[[▹ A sharp suit with glittering assemblage of jewelry that adorns sundry sections of your form|suit.falsechoice.1dress]] [[▹ An effervescent, flouncy cloak that fascinates with festive colors|robe.falsechoice.2dress]]</blockquote>

“I don’t //torture.//” You blankly stare at him. “I am not humane; I don’t do what you beings do,” you say. A light, artificially playful smirk on your lips as your emotionlessly pierce his light brown eyes. He unfurls his smile and walks past you, roughly shouldering you aside. “Don’t make our life harder.” You contemplate inflicting another wound —on a different place, this time— but decide not to expend an ounce of energy that you have been conserving. It would prove his unfounded allegation. Instead, you relax your shoulders and ease yourself into an unconcerned, but alert state. You are curious about plans of the territories. To stoke Father’s avarice and present their boldness in this manner, //stealing// and using you as a pawn, it is suicidal and you want to view their fall off the cliff. Your absence has certainly been noticed. Merit thrusts his hands into his pockets, probably fiddling with his pen from the annoying [[clicks|serpent.ch2.pov.27.2]] you hear, and leans on the balls of his feet.

<center><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><h3>[[Glossary]]</h3></div></div></center><center><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><h3>[[Map]]</h3></div></div> <center><div class="storychoice"><div class="chapterHeader"><h3>[[Mission Log]]</h3></div></div></center> <center><<link "↤ Return To Game" $return>><</link>></center>

<center><div class="chapterHeader"><h7>Names</h7></div></center><hr> <center>Currently Unavailable</center> <center><div class="chapterHeader"><h7>Places</h7></div></center><hr> <center>Currently Unavailable</center>

“You know of the Monstrous Colosseum?” You slowly shake your head. “Didn’t expect you to know it. The stadium was considered evil. Profane, even. It was only opened recently for gatherings.” He finally draws out his pen, unsatisfied with merely clicking it, and twirls it, making wheels in the air. “That is where you will be heading.” “What makes it un-profane now? Did they throw salt over it?” Merit shrugs. “The rumors of its evil are circulated among the people. Just superstitions. They say it was a place of worship in the Age of Magic, that the floors are sinewed with blood.” His gaze becomes austere when he casts it on you. “The rumors lessened none at all in its severity when the legitimacy of the Capricornian nation dissolved due to… the destruction of its city centers.” Cites is an overstatement. But you saw terrible photos taken of the sites. All that is left of the urban life are fallen buildings that must have buried hundreds of thousands. “I have… heard of it.” “Heard it? Peculiar. Thought your dad would update you on an important detail such as the collapse of a civilization. I suppose Capricorn isn’t of high importance?” You bite your tongue. Father’s reasoning was that you would be ill whenever you step in this land. And he isn’t wrong. Aversion overwhelmed you the moment you crossed borders from Virgo. He had to relate information of it through pictures, monograhps, newspapers, and verbal accounts of his soldiers who were there. There is a chunk of your memory missing from that time period, muddying the matters more than it already is. He jabs the pen in your direction. “Whatever the case, this is what will happen: you will go there, and the rule is that you are going to sit there like a pretty doll in a showcase of an antique shop and give them a reason to //not// off you. I don’t think you realize this, but you are in no position to fight.” You lick your lips. “Thanks to your Commander, dear Senixte. He really is something, isn’t he? He was a ghost under our radar. You have struck gold with him.” Merit glares at you, but you beam. “I am interested in their ideas.” You suppress a smirk from the surprise flickering through his features. “Yes, yes. I know what you are thinking. But as savage as you think I am, I still know when to be diplomatic. I mean, I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I did without talking, don’t you think? My father wouldn’t allow it.” His lips twist in disgust at the mention of your father but he holds your stare, detecting any falseness. You hold your ground and win. The ex-court assassin backs off, seemingly mollified. “I will be seeing you then, Serpent.” You will be seeing a //[[lot|serpent.ch2.pov.28]]// of people.

You had counted forty-three days, give or take few, from the time you woke up after seeing Merit, to exiting the Virgo border. The tiresome in-between parts when they dragged you from location to location in Libra and Virgo slogged forever. You wondered if anyone reported sightings of you. You doubt it. The rebellion force are adept at covering their tracks. It was hard to orient but you scraped by scouting for familair land markers. You weren’t fed adequately. They did everything they could to keep you in a weak condition. They keep drugging you. Or putting you down with charms, little death that wears you down to the bones. Which disaster will they posit you to? [[You groggily blink open your eyes|aug.22.22.demo.1.start]]

The door creaks open for the second time. You bristle when you //feel// him coming in. Senixte. You turn around and face the cloaked man. Internal darkness buoys him. And he wears the darkness, too, with ease; and the darkness owns him, like a lesser, but more willful organism in a symbiosis. The Commader is silent when he stands in the doorway as he peers at you from behind his face veil. It is on reflex when you straighten your spine to gaze cooly at him, all the while withstanding the oily anxiety churning in your stomach that you are unable to suppress. “Take that shit off,” he orders, the silver of danger reeking from him has solidified. And the danger and the disgusting feeling is the same feeling you had when you saw the doorknobs, the exact same, and it is stamped deeply within the folds of the Capricornian land. Rambunctious, wild noises whirls in your head. It builds. Reaches a crescendo, like the zenith of a fire devouring a forest. “I… Excuse me?” You are at a loss for words. You heartbeat speeds up, thumping against your ribcage. //Danger.// //[[Danger|falsechoice.dress.2]].//

“I will not coddle you. You think my team is here on babysitting duty? //Take that shit off.//” “Coddle? You think I was expecting special treatment? I—” You choke up, head spinning for a second. Your mind fires mixed signals. Should you laugh or scream at him? Should you still reign in your apathy and keep yourself at the right amount of [[placidness|falsechoice.dress.3]] to appear calm?

He pushes you down, heading knocking the floor. You are about to throw up. He wraps his hands around the base of your neck, but he he applies the pressure just so his grip is firm around you. There is uneasiness in you —an intuition, you gather— that the eyes behind the veil are butchering you into bits of organs and appendages, reducing you lifeless. Breath stutters out of you. He gloves his hand, you reason, to levy the most pain against anyone he can through friction that a naked hand does not cause. He is a sadist. You are dealing with a sadist. Or maybe you are going crazy and it makes all the bad things usually deal with feel much, much worse. “The affair can proceed with or without you able-bodied.” ‘//[[You are nothing that is worth care|serpent.ch2.pov.31]],//’ an inner voice seethes into your ear.

“They idolize you as a force of nature.” He walks around you, slowly, like a cougar waiting for its injured hunt to get up on its weak limbs and run. He does not hide his sneer when he speaks. “They vie for a taste of your power. Artists paint you. Weave stories about you.” You regain your bearing and pin him a blank stare. A mirthless smile carves across your face. “Jealous?” That rouses a growl from him and he charges at you, like a man possessed. You did not expect him to //[[tackle|falsechoice.dress.4]]// you. An unrefined move for a man poised and dignified like him.

His weight crushes you. Bones creak and ligaments tear as he shifts on top and you thrashing madly and wildly. He slips a hand on your knee. You promptly stop moving and look up at him with a stone of dread stuck in your throat. “Which of the leg do you prefer broken? The left or the right? We can bound you in a wheelchair. For the meeting of course. This set up won’t be permanent,” his tone dips into an inquisitive murmur, as if seriously considering the idea instead of waiting for your input to what should have been a rhetorical question. “You won’t walk for weeks. And you’d loath that, wouldn’t you? You’re such an antsy creature. You hate the cage that is your human skin. I can only imagine the despair scarring your face when you are truly //crippled.//” <blockquote>[[▹ You thrust up your chin, defiant|calm.serpent.ch2.pov.29]] [[▹ Spit in his face|agg.serpent.ch2.pov.29]]</blockquote>

He stirs, loosening the pressure on your neck. He gets up. Your eyes track him as he swfitly walks to the bed. He lays and spreads apart pieces of his desired outfit in orderly fashion, as if to dictate which you should wear first. You tug up the corner of your mouth in a cold, cold smile. The world is //loud//, you can’t be anything but dispassionate. He steps outside. He barks out an order and you suppress a flinch. “Bring it a [[mirror|serpent.ch2.pov.32]].”

“Ophiuchus’ dog won’t act rashly— [[that I’ve made sure of|serpent.ch2.pov.33]].”

He left the door ajar. You close it. Watch it drift in and out. Again. You go to the tub behind a screen where water basin is placed. You generously splash water on your face. Your lidded eyes stare back at your from the basin, and you plunge your hands into the reflection, distorting it. You take in a deep, deep breathe. A pair of servants rustles in and places a mirror against the wall. You step around the screen once they [[exit|serpent.ch2.pov.34]].

Kill your conscience. You overcompensate to protect yourself. People treat you like an object, then you will be less than that– unknown, be nothing, be unseen to come away untouched. Unhurt. You don’t process the clothes Se— he picked out for you. You go through the motions of putting them on. You finger the puffy sleeves attached to the sleek fit with side buttons trailing diagonally from the shoulder to below the hip. The last few left buttons open, unconcealing your skin for the cool brush of air. You think about him. How easy must it be to do things behind a mask— or a [[veil|serpent.ch2.pov.35]].

He has deindividuated himself and is detached from the world completely. You bet large sums of money that nobody has a drop of information on him. Which is why he is a foreman of this capture. From your time spent in the group you can not discern a motive for Senixte’s involvement in the rebellion force. Merit is here to avenge someone. Clay is here to fulfill a dream. Hiwa for pride. Jaggery you will find out soon enough. But Senixte… He has a //personal// vendetta against your Father. Why? The only person who knows is the man who isn’t here but yet is entangled with everything. [[Your Father|serpent.ch2.pov.36]].

Your hands move to correct the collar restricting your neck. You see the minute trembles coursing through your fingers. You are less than an atom; you are nothing— pretend nothing exists likewise. Equal action deserves its appropriate reaction. You–must be— [[Uncaring|serpent.ch2.pov.37]].

Next, you slip on the white elasticated trouser that is tight around the waist and is flowy around the ankles. You look around and see that there are other items you can replace or add. Thankfully, there are pants same color as this one. <blockquote>[[▹ Opt the elasticated trousers out with form-fitting pants?|realchoice.ch2.formfit]] [[▹ Opt the elasticated trousers out with a similarly loose pant, tight around both waist and ankles?|realchoice.ch2.loosefit]] [[▹ Keep the pants you have|realchoice.ch2.waistfit]]</blockquote>

You talk to yourself, trying to soothe your ragged nerves as you slip out of your pants to try on another one. You follow the territories’ thinking like [[tracks on mud|serpent.ch2.pov.38]].

You talk to yourself, trying to soothe your ragged nerves as you slip out of your pants to try on another one. You follow their thinking like [[tracks on mud|serpent.ch2.pov.38]].

You talk to yourself, trying to soothe your ragged nerves as you look yourself in the mirror, not really seeing anything. You follow the territories’ thinking like [[tracks on mud|serpent.ch2.pov.38]].

The territories has a stake to force your Father’s appeal to their demands. They must strike a balance where they are obedient enough to evade his anger and bold enough to attain their independence from him. You evoke the territories’ anger and you are slayed, triggering a war. You must do all you can to //avoid// death and prevent turmoil from being brought back into the lands. You remember the wars. The nations didn’t have names back then. People claw and clamber each other for food and water. Back then, there were droughts and floods and unimaginable sickness, both [[physical and mental|serpent.ch2.pov.39]].

You palm a white square fabric. This can be used as a face veil, covering your nose, the drape reaching to your chest. If you wear it, you will have the sole right to privacy of your emotions: all a bundle of problems simmering under your straining composure. But, if you wear it, the veil will accentuate the most inhuman parts of you, which might be off-putting to the heads of the territories that will be present at the Monstrous Colosseum. And you can’t wear the face chain if you choose to. <blockquote>[[▹ Wear the face veil|realchoice.ch2.fvon]] [[▹ Don’t wear the face veil|realchoice.ch2.foff]]</blockquote>

[[You wear it.|serpent.ch2.pov.40]]

[[You decide not to wear it.|serpent.ch2.pov.40]]

<<if hasVisited("realchoice.ch2.foff")>>You gouge your previous outfits. You can definitely incorporate some of their elements. <blockquote>[[▹ Choose the assemblage of jewelry|ch2.jewl]] [[▹ Choose the laureate wreath crown|ch2.crown]] [[▹ You’re fine with what you have|ch2.nothing]]</blockquote><<else>>You can wear the laureate wreath crown if you wish to. <blockquote>[[▹ Choose the laureate wreath crown|ch2.crown]] [[▹ You’re fine with what you have|ch2.nothing]]</blockquote><</if>>

You straighten at the sight of yourself in the mirror and look away, [[embarrassed|serpent.ch2.pov.41]]. It was a Leonine tradition to wear chained jewelry extravagantly.

You straighten at the sight of yourself in the mirror and [[fix|serpent.ch2.pov.41]] the crown on your head. It was a Tauran style to wear a wreath.

<<if hasVisited("realchoice.ch2.foff")>>You straighten at the sight of yourself in the mirror and try not to [[scowl|serpent.ch2.pov.41]]. You look like you are ready to attend your wedding.<<else>>You straighten at the sight of yourself in the mirror and try not to [[scowl|serpent.ch2.pov.41]]. Your eyes flashes menacingly. You look like you are ready to attend your wedding.<</if>>

<<if hasVisited("realchoice.ch2.foff")>>You understand why he chose white for you. It represents innocence. Harmlessness. [[Prey|serpent.ch2.pov.42]], not predator.<<else>>You understand why he chose white for you. It represents innocence. Harmlessness. Prey, not predator. That is, it would have been that case were it not for your face veil, which has given back a piece of your predatory edge. You are not something to be trifled with. Medusa has [[killed|serpent.ch2.pov.42]] armies with her stare. You will follow her footsteps.<</if>>

<<if hasVisited("scale-pick.wh","realchoice.ch2.foff")>>Regardless, the outfit matches your scales. Which is [[satisfying|serpent.ch2.pov.43]].<<elseif hasVisited("scale-pick.wh", "realchoice.ch2.fvon")>> The outfit matches your scales. You feel like yourself [[again|serpent.ch2.pov.43]].<<elseif hasVisited("realchoice.ch2.fvon")>>You can do [[this|serpent.ch2.pov.43]].<<else>>You swallow. The world [[screams|serpent.ch2.pov.43]] for a moment.<</if>>

<<timed 7s>><<run memorize("achieve.ch2.lookscankill", true)>><<notify 6s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''if looks can kill: fluster an ex-court assassin''</n></div><</notify>><</timed>>The door opens. The assured, brisk pace of the person indicates that they are not a servant. You see Merit behind you in the mirror. Oddly enough, you relax at his presence and are relieved that it is him and no one else. Not even Hiwa, who has the mildest personality of the group. You don’t understand why though. “I…” He diverts his eyes. You raise a brow at his reflection, confused. Your gaze then wander down: the last few buttons which you forgot to secure reveals to him the sight of your waist and hip. “I'm sorry.” And then he curses under his breath, probably wondering why he has to be sorry. People run amok the streets naked //all// the time. <blockquote>[[▹ You suddenly bristle. You don’t like people staring at any amount of your bare skin.|ch2.modest]] [[▹ You are indifferent, but you do not miss the chance to condescend. “Knock next time. And be sure to bring your brain along with you.”|ch2.indifferent]]</blockquote>

You glare at him, hastily buttoning up. You value your modesty. Even though you always take a risk of exposure in the battlefield if you somehow shift into a human form… which happens rarely. You wish it didn’t happen at all. “Knock next time. How did you know I was fully clothed anyways. Did you casually saunter in expecting a tease?” His jaw clenches, expression smoothing into cold professionalism of a captor. “Restricted privacy and autonomy goes hand-in-hand in the life of a prisoner. [[Deal with it|serpent.ch2.pov.44]].” But nonetheless he turns away.

You button up, eyeing him bowing his head a little in the mirror. “It won’t happen again.” He sounds strangely apologetic for his //un//-apologetic stance against you. <blockquote>[[▹ You appreciate it.|serpent.ch2.pov.44]] [[▹ The more antagonistic, the better. You know you won’t be apologizing after you break out.|serpent.ch2.pov.44]]</blockquote>

<div class="chapterHead"><mwrites> Summer ebbs With a surrendering sigh —Awaits Sprawled across the bed For Autumn <blur>To take</blur> Seasonal blues It pours and wets Once-warm skin <blur>And I</blur> play my tunes In halting lilts That you breathe in I reach around <blur>Fingertips trace dormant melodies From an unlived past And</blur> rake down On your hips Half-remembered memories </mwrites> </div> <blockquote>[[▹ You read it again (Writing will display in default text).|m-p1-default]] [[▹ Your face heats up.|m-p1-shy]] [[▹ You forgot that he was famous for writing saucy stuff.|m-p1-apathetic]]</blockquote>

Summer ebbs With a surrendering sigh —Awaits Sprawled across the bed For Autumn <blur>To take</blur> Seasonal blues It pours and wets Once-warm skin <blur>And I</blur> play my tunes In halting lilts That you breathe in I reach around <blur>Fingertips trace dormant melodies From an unlived past And</blur> rake down On your hips Half-remembered memories <blockquote>[[▹ You read it again (Writing will revert to Merit’s handwriting).|merit-poem1]] [[▹ Your face heats up.|m-p1-shy]] [[▹ You forgot that he was famous for writing saucy stuff.|m-p1-apathetic]]</blockquote>

You don’t even know what to say. Your father is a //fan// of his works. You think you need a memory-wipe. //Again.// You sneak a peek over the dressing screen to see if Merit is coming back. All clear, for now. Flip through the next one? <blockquote>[[▹ Stop. His gibberish is nonsensical and worthless.|m-p1-choice.1.STOP]] [[▹ Stop. Though his writing is good, it feels wrong to be gazing upon what essentially is his innermost thoughts.|m-p1-choice.2.STOP]] [[▹ Stop. His writing is terrible and you are suffering enough. You won’t deal with second-hand embarrassment of all things.|m-p1-choice.3.STOP]] [[▹ Continue. This is your entertainment for the next few minutes.|m-p1-choice.4]] [[▹ Continue. It may prove to be something valuable.|m-p1-choice.5]]</blockquote>

Well, saucy //sad// stuff. This thing is like his homeland, Pisces. Wet and cold, not wet and hot. You sneak a peek over the dressing screen to see if Merit is coming back. All clear, for now. Flip through the next one? <blockquote>[[▹ Stop. His gibberish is nonsensical and worthless.|m-p1-choice.1.STOP]] [[▹ Stop. Though his writing is good, it feels wrong to be gazing upon what essentially is his innermost thoughts.|m-p1-choice.2.STOP]] [[▹ Stop. His writing is terrible and you are suffering enough. You won’t deal with second-hand embarrassment of all things.|m-p1-choice.3.STOP]] [[▹ Continue. This is your entertainment for the next few minutes.|m-p1-choice.4]] [[▹ Continue. It may prove to be something valuable.|m-p1-choice.5]]</blockquote>

You ignore Merit, he is probably here to lecture more at you, anyways. And you do not have it in you to pay him any heed, lost as you are in yourself, deep inside your mind, away from the window of your eyes as you are a passenger in the backseat. Or maybe it is the other way around? You are separated from your body. Detached, like seeds of an apple separated from the pommel of a sharp knife; an element that had departed from the world and now existing outside of time. You straighten your shoulders when you see Merit lifting his hand —to touch you— in the mirror. Strange concern slants his mouth. “It’s nothing,” you half-whisper. Anger lacerates you. You turn around, glaring at him. “You may leave, //poisoner.// I am still in the middle of dressing myself up.” His features are muddled with something indiscernible and you expect an argument. But he closes his eyes and unties the jacket around his wasit to drape it over a chair before proceeding to drape himself across the seat like he is readying for a fire-side chat. He shows an infuriating amount of control; for a moment, you beheld what could be a reflection of yourself. “Rant at me more. Maybe it will help you regain your calm— I heard what happened with the Commander— so yell all you want.” “That is a excellent way to siphon information out of me. Points to you, Merit. You have a good head on your shoulders, much to my detriment.” <<if hasVisited("ch2.modest")>>He rolls his eyes. “And a moment ago you were making a fuss about how I needed to bring in my brain with me. Here I am reflecting that comment back to //[[you|serpent.ch2.pov.45]]//.”<<else>>“[[Hmmph|serpent.ch2.pov.45]].”<</if>>

Thumbing the creases puckering the cream-colored surface, you smirk and lift the book closer until your nose is almost touching it. [[Your next pick has a name|merit-poem2]].

You are in the enemy's territory after all. Foolish it would be to ignore a //diary// from your jailor. [[Your next pick has a name|merit-poem2]].

You roll your eyes, putting the diary back into the pocket of Merit’s jacket. What a waste of paper. And talents. He should stick to killing. You position the jacket so it looks how he left it.

It is no better than walking in on someone behind the dressing screen. You scoff, putting the diary back into the pocket of Merit’s jacket. Merit is fortunate that you are a prisoner of noble values. You position the jacket so it looks how he left it.

The force behind his attempt at poetry physically makes you withdraw; your face leans away from the cursed diary held between your hands as if it reeked of cow dung. Hell, at least you're used to manure. You refrain from crushing its spine.

When it becomes clear that you won’t take up on his offer to vent, he sighs and walks out, probably to check up on his colleagues. He left his jacket. By its lonesome. Which is why you will rifle through its pockets. To your amusement, he took the pen he keeps spinning with him, but not this little journal. The cover smells like sea-salt. You suspect that a component of the leather is woven from siren skin. The fact that you can open it easily confirms your guess that the ink he used for writing these pages is a soluble toxin. You are immune to most poison, [[but you play it safe and put on some gloves|serpent.ch2.pov.46]].

You fip through his diary. <blockquote>[[▹ You can read his hand-writing.|canread.mpoem]] [[▹ You absolutely can not read his handwriting.|cannotread.mpoem]]</blockquote>

You dealt with your own metamorphosis from clean letters to haphazard scribbles. You skim through the pages. They must be all drafts, or poems that will never see the publishing house, or anyone but him. His writing process was a riotous exploration of his disordered, disjointed thoughts. Scrawls littering the wrinkled pages equal parts augury and hallucinatory. But most of all, lonely. You [[pick|start-meritpoem1]] out three most legible ones that are conveniently sequential.

You have people read shit for you. So that doesn’t help. Damn, it is a natural disaster. Squinting at the words, you infer the obvious –that all of these are poems. They must be all drafts, or poems that will never see the publishing house, or anyone but him. You [[pick|start-meritpoem1]] out three most legible ones that are conveniently sequential.

You start with a nameless [[poem|merit-poem1]]. Blotches blur some of the words.

<div class="chapterHead"><mwrites> <mwrites1>exigency</mwrites1> The crowds –a tangled limb of mass— loud and disorderly As the East Ocean threatened by storms Rain besieges bodies: they throttle violently Amidst such chaos Is a man standing frozen On the quay like glass Having failed to find an encounter He then goes home Mind electric with Humanity (Soul hungry, hungry as the ocean itself) And his curtained room devour him (he goes bare, goes bare) Unwhole </mwrites></div> <blockquote>[[▹ You read it again (Writing will display in default text).|m-p2-default]] [[▹ This is… sad.|m-p2-sympathetic]] [[▹ He must be incapable of producing light-heared works.|m-p2-aloof]]</blockquote>

<div class="chapterHead"> exigency The crowds –a tangled limb of mass— loud and disorderly As the East Ocean threatened by storms Rain besieges bodies: they throttle violently Amidst such chaos Is a man standing frozen On the quay like glass Having failed to find an encounter He then goes home Mind electric with Humanity (Soul hungry, hungry as the ocean itself) And his curtained room devour him (he goes bare, goes bare) Unwhole</div> <blockquote>[[▹ You read it again (Writing will revert to Merit’s handwriting).|merit-poem2]] [[▹ This is… sad.|m-p2-sympathetic]] [[▹ He must be incapable of producing light-heared works.|m-p2-aloof]]</blockquote>

His magnum opus is literally titled “Farewell, //Love//,” a biographical account of a ship named //Love// which had set out on the East Ocean a few years ago. It never returned to Piscean harbors, nor has the Aquarian received it. It just disappeared. The book is written like an eulogy, for both the boat and people inside of it. You never read it. Your Father did. He personally looked into the matter himself and came up with nothing. There were rumors of sirens destroying the ship– which is reasonable were it not for the fact that the ship was reinforced with rare iron ores of special strength mined in your father’s territory that were processed and manufactured in Libra, the state with the most sophisticated industry dedicated for precious metals and jewels. In your opinion, that ship has found a tomb deep in the trenches: [[the skeletons it harbors will brew speculations of their fates for many years to come|cont-to-poem3.]]

His magnum opus is literally titled “Farewell, //Love//,” a biographical account of a ship named //Love// which had set out on the East Ocean a few years ago. It never returned to Piscean harbors, nor has the Aquarian coastal guards received it. It just disappeared. The book is written like an eulogy, for both the boat and the people inside of it. You never read it. Your Father did. He personally looked into the matter himself and came up with nothing. There were rumors of sirens destroying the ship– which is reasonable were it not for the fact that the ship was reinforced with rare iron ores of special strength mined in your father’s territory that were processed and manufactured in Libra, the state with the most sophisticated industry dedicated for precious metals and jewels. In your opinion, that ship has found a tomb deep in the trenches: [[the skeletons it harbors will brew speculations of their fates for many years to come|cont-to-poem3.]]

You cast a furtive glance to the door, well out of your hiding spot before bunching your body against the mirror, half-expecting Merit to suddenly manifest. Should you read the last poem? <blockquote>[[▹ Stop. This is too much. You didn’t even learn anything useful.|m-p2-choice.1.STOP]] [[▹ Stop. You don’t want to risk your fragile position as a prisoner.|m-p2-choice.2]] [[▹ Stop. You don’t want to risk your fragile position as a prisoner over tepid poetry.|m-p2-choice.3.STOP]] [[▹ Continue. In for a penny, in for a pound.|m-p2-choice.4]] [[▹ Continue. It’s just some stupid diary.|m-p2-choice.5]]</blockquote>

If Merit is using his diary to hide a comphrensive set of codes, then you must concede that you posess no such knowledge, and that this little literature-snooping excusrion is all but futile. There is a group of code-breakers under the helm of a higher up, Lieutenant colonel Claw. You could ask her for a lesson. When you manage to get out, that is. You perch on the edge of your bed, waiting. You assume everyone else is going to be dressed up for the conference as well, [[right?|serpent.ch2.pov.1.p-2]]

Who knows what else they could do to you? The nations doesn’t protect rights of prisoners, unlike Ophiuchus. You perch on the edge of your bed, waiting. You assume everyone else is going to be dressed up for the conference as well, [[right?|serpent.ch2.pov.1.p-2]]

You won’t suffer broken hands and legs because you couldn’t keep your paws to yourself and leave alone some fool’s diary. Even if the said fool deserved as much of a punishment, if not more, for leaving that in a room with a prisoner. // “Dolt.”// You perch on the edge of your bed, waiting. You assume everyone else is going to be dressed up for the conference as well, [[right?|serpent.ch2.pov.1.p-2]]

You resume your post by the mirror. Compared to the ones you have read, the next poem is short; it appears naked in the single line it was gifted with by its creator. Interesting. [[You read it.|merit-poem3]]

If they flay you over this, then that spells trouble for the future of their resistance. You resume your post by the mirror. Compared to the ones you have read, the next poem is short; it appears naked in the single line it was gifted with by its creator. Interesting. [[You read it.|merit-poem3]]

You read piece by piece: <<timed 1s>> <<next 4s>>The sun leaves behind emptiness <<next 2s>>once it sets <<next 3s>> Mother, you are the sun <<next 1s>> <<if hasVisited("m-p1-choice.4","m-p2-aloof","m-p2-choice.5")>><<goto "merti.confront.sawyoursmirk">> <<elseif hasVisited("m-p1-choice.4","m-p2-aloof","m-p2-choice.4")>><<goto "merti.confront.sawyoursmirk">> <<elseif hasVisited("ch2.modest")>><<goto "merit.confront.notsomodestarewe">> <<else>><<goto "merit-confrontation-mild">><</if>> <</timed>>

<<set $m_approval -=1>>Your book is snatched away from you. “Did you enjoy reading it?” You glance up. Merit standing right there, close to you, blank-faced. There is a tightness around his jaws, as if he is ready to lurch forward and //bite.// <<if hasVisited("tackle-jaggery.firstfight.3")>> Wouldn’t be the first time you were bitten by the resistance.<<else>> You don’t want Senixte’s dog bite on your résumé.<</if>> <<if hasVisited("m-p2-sympathetic")>>“I… I am sorry. [[I shouldn’t have done that|importance]].”<<else>>“Hmm. I’ll give you my rating. [[Later|importance]].”<</if>>

<<timed 4s>><<run memorize("achieve.ch2.hateonmerit", true)>><<notify 6s>><div class="chapterHeader"><n>''here’s a merit badge: for being an asshole''</n></div><</notify>><</timed>><<set $m_approval -=2>>“Wipe the fucking smirk off your face or I’ll do it myself.” A blur bounds for you. You dodge and feel the displacement of air his punch left when he made a close shave to your ear. You look at him through your lashes. Your initial excitement discovering his little //poisoned// secret waning. Merit moves. There is a cold glint in his eyes, alight with rage; it is sad, that his eyes are only alive when he is consumed by anger. And you think perhaps sadness as well, although you haven’t seen that yet. You throw the book on the floor, hear it thump— that almost broke him. You can see that. Merit is a brittle man. “You left information on your own volition. What, you didn’t expect me to look through it? You’re lucky that,” you point to the fallen object, laid like a carcass, “it didn’t contain anything of…//[[importance]]//.” You perch yourself on the edge of the bed, gazing at Merit.

<<set $m_approval -=1>>“And you accuse me of perverted intentions,” Merit growls. <<if hasVisited("m-p2-sympathetic")>> You swallow and look away. Embarrassed. <<else>>You meet his gaze, unfazed. <</if>> “Did you enjoy reading it?” There is a tightness around his jaws, as if he is ready to lurch forward and //bite.// <<if hasVisited("tackle-jaggery.firstfight.3")>> Wouldn’t be the first time you were bitten by the resistance.<<else>> You don’t want Senixte’s dog bite on your résumé.<</if>> <<if hasVisited("m-p2-sympathetic")>>“I… I am sorry. [[I shouldn’t have done that|importance]].”<<else>>“Hmm. I’ll give you my rating. [[Later|importance]].”<</if>>

<<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>> Stuck inside a windowless chamber like this twists the knife of claustrophobia into your throat, and you work your breathing around that anxiety, that feeling of being trapped. Despairingly, you gaze at what the wall hides: the impenetrable tangle of Capricornian jungle, a detestable environment soaked with national and personal trauma, yet you admit its familiarity as opposed to this husk of a mansion the resistance corralled you in. You come closer, frown, and sprint to the wall, disbelieving the faint wind //phasing// through it. Yes, you are not losing your mind. You //feel// the wind. //What the fuck?// Did someone use illusion magic to conceal the window? For what? You shake your head, flabbergasted and impressed in equal parts. They really did think through everything —from Merit disrupting your cognitive functions through his drugs, to Hiwa’s barefaced and Clay’s charismatic attempts at thawing you open, and recently, Senixte’s own method of dealing with you— you squeeze your eyes shut and trudge for the bed. <<else>>Stuck inside a windowless chamber like this twists the knife of claustrophobia into your throat, and you work your breathing around that anxiety, that feeling of being trapped. You frown at the thought of Clay, their illusion magic concealing what you want to see: the impenetrable tangle of Capricornian forest— a detestable environment soaked with national and personal trauma, yet you admit its familiarity as opposed to this husk of a mansion the resistance corralled you in. You sneer. They really did think through everything —from Merit disrupting your cognitive functions through his drugs, to Hiwa’s barefaced and Clay’s charismatic attempts at thawing you open, and recently, Senixte’s own method of dealing with you— you squeeze your eyes shut and trudge for the bed. <</if>> Laying yourself on it, you cross your arms across your chest as those saints and saintesses people still worship, mind hollow and eyes glazed over. You haven’t cried in a long time, only //learning// how to after… after the last time you were… here. In //this// place. Something happened to you here. Something here took something from you, though you are not sure what else is left inside of you to take. There it is, the burning coming up your ribs to your eyes in a bright gash. It feels like you have lived your life with a cry stuck in your throat. You don’t want to lose your composure in a pit full of strangers, but you are at your limit. People here reckon you as a force of nature, don’t they? You can’t let that image be tarnished now. You press the back of your hand against your eyes.//[[“Stop thinking.”]]//

But you can’t, what dredges up to the back of your eyelids are— nebulous, but what you instinctively perceive as //agonizing.// It isn’t a second later when you perceive a physical pain this time, though incomparable to the devil dust of emotions brewing in your mind. You look at your reddened palm in surprise and realize you had slammed your hand to the wall, rattling the plate with an uneaten morsel on the table near the bed askew. You hear pitter-patter outside, probably a scared servant who now has second thoughts entering your room. You dispassionately watch the meek menial —who finally had gathered his meager courage— breach the privacy of Empyrenean's most feared. He is carrying a big bucket with a smaller one rattling inside, he winces at the loud noise it makes. Merit trails right behind him, and who you assume had help bolstering this servant’s slight wobbly scrabble to a semi-confident stride with his reassuring presence. The poet-poisoner throws a cold glare in your direction. You respond with an equally cold smirk before rolling around, pretending to sleep. The wind whistles through the window.<<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>> You //hope// that whoever was responsible magicking the window had it sheathed with mosquito net first. You think they did, considering your skin isn’t marked with a flurry of red bites. But it could be that the oil from the candles have deterrent properties.<<else>> You //hope// Clay sheathed the window with a mosquito net before concealing it. You think they did, considering your skin isn’t marked with a flurry of red bites. But it could be that the oil from the candles have deterrent properties.<</if>> The dreadful miasma that the Capricornian humidity carries is dangerous. The prime harbingers of illnesses in the form of mosquitoes are a worthy adversary to the bulky bears that prowl Libran forests. You look back at Merit who is silently watching the servant draw out the dirtied tub water with a bucket into a bigger bucket. He has a small pouch filled to the brim with lavendar straws hooked to the belt slung around his waist. His personal mosquito repellant. But that is not enough, you think, when you see the ring of red tainting his pale collarbone an ugly red. Merit turns, glancing at you before settling his eyes on his jacket with his little journal inside. His calm expression did not change. You roll your eyes. <blockquote>[[▹ “Take care not to leave behind your diary next time.”|convo.wmerit.1.a]] [[▹Stay silent |convo.wmerit.1.b]] [[▹ “I had the most magnificent time going through your journal.”|convo.wmerit.1.c]] [[▹ “Are Senixte’s underling this inefficient?”.|convo.wmerit.1.d]] [[▹ This continuous back-and-forth antagonism is tiring, you’ll try something different for a change. Like, being friendly. “How’s everything outside?”.|convo.wmerit.1.e]]</blockquote>

To your surprise, Merit smirks— maybe it is a half-smile? It is practically a smile. “With a diary like mine, I need not worry about invasion of privacy.” “That’s… reckless,” you flatly state. “I don’t say this out of arrogance.” “I understand, but… there are people trained to resist poison of all kinds –including ink— I am assuming that was your insurance against pryers.” His smirk promptly drops, and he sits on the bed, next to you, surprising you once more. You are even not sure why you said what you said. You honestly couldn’t believe he did that out of sheer confidence in the potency of his poison. He pins you with his blank stare. The tension between you is taut; silence trickles in. You ignore his stare, watching the boy-servant like a hawk as he completes his duty draining your blood tainted water from the tub. He finally confesses, “I admit. I left that there to see whether or not you would touch it. I wanted to see if I could trust you.” You are unimpressed, but not surprised. “Unprofessional. Don’t you think?” “You won’t remember. It’s fine.” It is true, your memories have been jumbled with snatches of the past, while the present goes by you like clouds as you remain static. [[All Merit’s doing|He didn’t comment on that.]].

Merit retrieves his jacket, putting it over his arm before walking over to you, brow raised. “Are you sulking? Get up. You’re wrinkling your attire.” You hasten your arms behind your raised head and criss-cross your ankles. “It’s alright. The wretched steam here will smoothen it out anyways. Capricorn is a fucking //sauna.//” Merit looks away, watching the boy-servant finish his task of draining the water wholly tainted with your blood and grime. He glances back at you— and you both thought of the same thing, you think, from the way he slightly grimaces. Someone amid the servantry will be quite eager to sell a flask of fluid collected from the famed Serpent. No helping that, you suppose. You are sure matters are kept strictly under wraps here, but there is always that one weasel slipping through the cracks. “I wonder what sickness your sweat will cure,” Merit speculates. <blockquote>[[▹ “Heartache.”]] [[▹“Death.”]] [[▹ “Cure? More like an ailment.” ]]</blockquote>

<<set $m_approval -=2>>Merit walks over to you, cocking his head as he searches your gaze. “You didn’t.” “You don’t know that.” Your smirk widens into a mad smile. “Forget that— it is imbecilic, don’t you think? Not even lobotomy would plant the notion of //considering// leaving a journal behind with an enemy in anyone.” Merit shakes his head. “No, you’re not the enemy you think you are right now. You are a prisoner effectively defanged. The most you can do is bark. So, shut the fuck up.” That draws a sharp gasp from the boy by the tub. He looks away, watching the boy-servant quickly return to his task, intent at finishing his assigned duty of draining the water wholly tainted with your blood and grime. Merit glances back at you— and you both thought of the same thing, you think, from the way his lip twitches in disgust. Someone amid the servantry will be quite eager to sell a flask of fluid collected from the famed Serpent. He mirrors your smile. “Maybe we should offer these superstitious folks something more than filthy bathwater. Tell me Serpent, does your fangs contain droplets of venom in your human state? We can //physically// defang you, simply dropping figuratives in our sentences make us seem false.” He steps closer. You don’t back down. “I think we would derive more use from those than holding you hostage.” His hand reaches out for your mouth and you snatch it— snapping his wrist. He just numbly watches how your fingers wrap around him, bursting his blood vessels into a storm of purple and red. The menial observing all of this gulps and scrambles to the exit with water sloshing to-and-fro in his big bucket. He finally confesses, “I admit. I left that there so you could touch it. I wanted to see if I could trust you. And I am vindicated to know that I was proven right.” You are unimpressed, but not surprised. “Unprofessional.” “You won’t remember. It’s fine.” It is true, your memories have been jumbled with snatches of the past, while the present goes by you like clouds as you remain static. [[All Merit’s doing|He didn’t comment on that.]].

Merit raises his brow. Your verbal bait fails to lure him. He looks away, saying out loud to the room. “Strange you say that as our captive. Have some shame and stay your tongue.” That was //his// verbal bait; you try not to pay heed to it. You snort and turn around. “Are you sulking? Get up. You’re wrinkling your clothes.” You hasten your arms behind your raised head and criss-cross your ankles. “It’s alright. The wretched steam here will smoothen it out anyways. Capricorn is a fucking //sauna.//” Merit looks away, watching the boy-servant finish his task of draining the water wholly tainted with your blood and grime. He glances back at you— and you both thought of the same thing, you think, from the way he slightly grimaces. Someone amid the servantry will be quite eager to sell a flask of fluid collected from the famed Serpent. No helping that, you suppose. You are sure matters are kept strictly under wraps here, but there is always that one weasel slipping through the cracks. “I wonder what sickness your sweat will cure,” Merit speculates. <blockquote>[[▹ “Heartache.”]] [[▹“Death.”]] [[▹ “Cure? More like an ailment.” ]]</blockquote>

Merit opens his mouth for a moment, closes it. “… It wouldn’t be any of your business.” You roll your eyes. “I am starting a mindless conversation. I am not asking what dastardly plans you guys are cooking in your devil’s lair. What if I want to know how your //day// was. Say, how did you feel all the while cooking in your devil’s lair? Hmm?” “It was fine.” “Seriously, that is it?” “I will not go into lengthy details about how my day was in the worst place in Empyrenea— why don’t you take a guess, Serpent?” “You're a blasted poet. Your job //is// to go into ridiculous details about anything and everything.” You huff. “Poets multi-tasked —they held offices, were genealogy records personified— but most importantly, they were entertainers. So entertain, not for me, but for your pride as a poet.” Merit solemnly shakes his head, like someone refusing an accolade for their talents. “Going by the long list of criteria poets of the past had to fulfill, I affirm that I am a failure, but will not attempt to improve myself and branch out into the avenue of entertaining.” That… is a depressing admission. “Why?” He doesn’t answer, simply nodding at the servant-boy when he had finished his task of draining the dirty bathwater. You massage your forehead, remembering to contend with the issue of your memories, which is jumbled with snatches of the past, while the present goes by you like clouds as you remain static. [[All Merit’s doing|He didn’t comment on that.]].

<div class="chapterHead"><cf>senixte</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf> Nation: Libra He/Him. Tasked with commanding the resistance against your father. Short black hair. Black clothes. Everything else remains to be seen.</s-cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><cf>clay</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf> Nation: Scorpio They/Them. Second-in-command. Their agenda is concealed, for now. Long brown hair tied in a loose ponytail. Hooked nose. Beige skin. Tallest of the group. Brown eyes is what they choose to show. </s-cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><cf>noose</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf> Nation: Cancer They/Them or He/Him. Material requisitioner and Senixte’s secret ‘left-hand man.’ Warden of the largest prison complex in Empyrenea. Wide, square nose. Thick lips. Messy, tangerine hair that dips to their back above their waist. Freckled, tanned skin. Black beady eyes, like crocodiles.</s-cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><cf>merit</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf> Nation: Pisces He/Him. Poisoner and poet; prodigious in taking lives and serenading souls. An inheritor of an envenomed legacy. Shoulder-length blonde hair usually done-up with intertwining sea-shells in noble Piscean tradition. Ivory skin. Light brown eyes. </s-cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><cf>jaggery</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf> Nation: Unknown They/Them. Where did they come from? They seemed to be raised in the wild. Olive skin. Black wavy hair that is untaken care of. Eyes heterochromatic silver and gold. </s-cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><cf>hiwa</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf> Nation: Virgo She/Her. Daughter of Virgo’s ruler. To other people, she is a shadow to the dazzling light that is her mother. But perhaps she snuffed out that light long ago. Snub nose. Black skin. Black dreadlocks rests on her shoulders. Shortest of the group. Big brown eyes. </s-cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><cf>Ophiuchus</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf>Nation: Drakken He/Him. Overseer of Empyrenea’s affair; head of the Drakken’s district. Pale skin. Decadently rumpled white hair. Gray eyes. </s-cf></div> <<if hasVisited("5")>> <div class="chapterHead"><cf>and Last but not least…</cf></div> <div class="chapterHead">''//<cf>YOU</cf>//''</div> <div class="chapterHead"><s-cf>Nation: Drakken <<print $heshe.toUpperFirst()>>/<<print $himher.toUpperFirst()>>. Ophiuchus’ $child and soldier. But most importantly, you are The Serpent. <<print $hair.toUpperFirst()>> hair. <<print $skin.toUpperFirst()>> skin. <<print $height.toUpperFirst()>> stature.</s-cf></div><<else>><center>Currently Unavailable</center> <</if>> <center><<link "↤ Return To Game" $return>><</link>></center>

<<if $m_approval < -1>><<if hasVisited("ch2.jewl")>> You circle the jewelries adorning your person, a hollow smile upon your lips. “Have you heard how Librans torture?” You look up, smiling still at how anger picks at Merit like millions of ants. He is trying to suppress it, though— those twitches, he is rubbing his thumb against his finger. If only he had his pen. You continue: “First, there is a set up,” a dark chuckle from you interrupts a moment, “they carry carts of dust from the gems when they are broken down in the mining process, and later, cut and polished— they carry it into this windowless building.” Merit turns around, now twirling and pulling the strings on his vambraces. “I know about it. They submerge people into the dust, stir it up from the outside with the paddles attached to the building. They suffocate on it and their insides turn into blood crystals. And they carve out the crystals and sell them for millions. What is your point?” “I am the dust, but who is funneling it into your lungs, Merit? It can’t all be The //Serpent.// Even folks who write about flaying me in their underground articles aren’t this personal.” Merit barks out a harsh laughter. “Then you truly aren’t aware of the scope and magnitude your actions have caused. Everything leaves a ripple.” You are about to say more when a soft ‘ahem’ halts the mounting antagonism from cresting another peak. Hiwa is at the door, confusion writ between her brows. She looks at her blond colleague. “Is there a problem…?” “Not at all.” The lie snags oddly. Again, his hand claws and clenches. If only he had his weapon, his darts. Hiwa then glances at you. You shake your head, already withdrawing into your headspace as you challenge your memories of them telling you the future you have to face: you will be at the Monstrous Colosseum. You pinch the bridge of your nose… //“[[My memories.]]”// <<elseif hasVisited("ch2.crown")>> You take off your laurel wreath, circling the precious stones on the branches, a hollow smile upon your lips. “Have you heard how Librans torture?” You look up, smiling still at how anger picks at Merit like millions of ants. He is trying to suppress it, though— those twitches, he is rubbing his thumb against his finger. If only he had his pen. You continue: “First, there is a set up,” a dark chuckle from you interrupts a moment, “they carry carts of dust from the gems when they are broken down in the mining process, and later, cut and polished— they carry it into this windowless building.” Merit turns around, now twirling and pulling the strings on his vambraces. “I know about it. They submerge people into the dust, stir it up from the outside with the paddles attached to the building. They suffocate on it and their insides turn into blood crystals. And they carve out the crystals and sell them for millions. What is your point?” “I am the dust, but who is funneling it into your lungs, Merit? It can’t all be The //Serpent.// Even folks who write about flaying me in their underground articles aren’t this personal.” Merit barks out a harsh laughter. “Then you truly aren’t aware of the scope and magnitude your actions have caused. Everything leaves a ripple.” You are about to say more when a soft ‘ahem’ halts the mounting antagonism from cresting another peak. Hiwa is at the door, confusion writ between her brows. She looks at her blond colleague. “Is there a problem…?” “Not at all.” The lie snags oddly. Again, his hand claws and clenches. If only he had his weapon, his darts. Hiwa then glances at you. You shake your head, already withdrawing into your headspace as you challenge your memories of them telling you the future you have to face: you will be at the Monstrous Colosseum. You pinch the bridge of your nose… //“[[My memories.]]”// <<else>> You finger the buttons made of gem on your waist. “Have you heard how Librans torture?” You look up, smiling still at how anger picks at Merit like millions of ants. He is trying to suppress it, though— those twitches, he is rubbing his thumb against his finger. If only he had his pen. You continue: “First, there is a set up,” a dark chuckle from you interrupts a moment, “they carry carts of dust from the gems when they are broken down in the mining process, and later, cut and polished— they carry it into this windowless building.” Merit turns around, now twirling and pulling the strings on his vambraces. “I know about it. They submerge people into the dust, stir it up from the outside with the paddles attached to the building. They suffocate on it and their insides turn into blood crystals. And they carve out the crystals and sell them for millions. What is your point?” “I am the dust, but who is funneling it into your lungs, Merit? It can’t all be The //Serpent.// Even folks who write about flaying me in their underground articles aren’t this personal.” Merit barks out a harsh laughter. “Then you truly aren’t aware of the scope and magnitude your actions have caused. Everything leaves a ripple.” You are about to say more when a soft ‘ahem’ halts the mounting antagonism from cresting another peak. Hiwa is at the door, confusion writ between her brows. She looks at her blond colleague. “Is there a problem…?” “Not at all.” The lie snags oddly. Again, his hand claws and clenches. If only he had his weapon, his darts. Hiwa then glances at you. You shake your head, already withdrawing into your headspace as you challenge your memories of them telling you the future you have to face: you will be at the Monstrous Colosseum. You pinch the bridge of your nose… //“[[My memories.]]”// <</if>><<else>> <<if hasVisited("jaggery.firstfight.8")>> You ignore Merit, tamping down the buzzing guilt in your chest, and bounce over to the adjacent wall. Stuck inside a windowless chamber like this twists the knife of claustrophobia into your throat, and you work your breathing around that anxiety, that feeling of being trapped. Despairingly, you gaze at what the wall hides: the impenetrable tangle of Capricornian jungle, a detestable environment soaked with national and personal trauma, yet you admit its familiarity as opposed to this husk of a mansion the resistance corralled you in. You come closer, frown, and sprint to the wall, disbelieving the faint wind //phasing// through it. Yes, you are not losing your mind. You //feel// the wind. //What the fuck?// Did someone use illusion magic to conceal the window? For what? You shake your head, flabbergasted and impressed in equal parts. They really did think through everything —from Merit disrupting your cognitive functions through his drugs, to Hiwa’s barefaced and Clay’s charismatic attempts at thawing you open, and recently, Senixte’s own method of dealing with you— you squeeze your eyes shut. You ponder out loud. “The illusion hangs there. Persistent, yet subtle. The conjurer of this trick is powerful.” Merit plays along with your deflection. “We select the very best at every field. Another reason you shouldn’t overestimate yourself.” You look back the same time Merit averts his glare to the doorway. Thankfully, Hiwa shows up, halting the mounting antagonism coming from the poet, who takes his cue to leave. She quickly steps aside before her colleague can shoulder her. She looks at you, confusion writ between her brows. “Is there anything that happened…?” You shake your head, already withdrawing into your headspace as you challenge your memories of them telling you the future you have to face: you will be at the Monstrous Colosseum. You pinch the bridge of your nose… //“[[My memories.]]”// <<else>>You ignore Merit, tamping down the buzzing guilt in your chest, and bounce over to the adjacent wall. Stuck inside a windowless chamber like this twists the knife of claustrophobia into your throat, and you work your breathing around that anxiety, that feeling of being trapped. You frown at the thought of Clay, their illusion magic concealing what you want to see: the impenetrable tangle of Capricornian forest— a detestable environment soaked with national and personal trauma, yet you admit its familiarity as opposed to this husk of a mansion the resistance corralled you in. You sneer. They really did think through everything —from Merit disrupting your cognitive functions through his drugs, to Hiwa’s barefaced and Clay’s charismatic attempts at thawing you open, and recently, Senixte’s own method of dealing with you— you squeeze your eyes shut. You ponder out loud. “The illusion hangs there. Persistent, yet subtle. That conjurer is powerful.” Merit plays along with your deflection. “Clay is the very best at what they do— another reason you shouldn’t overestimate yourself.” You look back the same time Merit averts his glare to the doorway. Thankfully, Hiwa shows up, halting the mounting antagonism coming from the poet, who takes his cue to leave. She quickly steps aside before her colleague can shoulder her. She looks at you, confusion writ between her brows. “Is there anything that happened…?” You shake your head, already withdrawing into your headspace as you challenge your memories of them telling you the future you have to face: you will be at the Monstrous Colosseum. You pinch the bridge of your nose… //“[[My memories.]]”// <</if>><</if>>

''ch1-001'' *Author’s Note: Please type the above numbers into the comment section. This is for balancing purposes. Thank you. You may continue to [[Chapter 2|aug.22.22.demo.1.end]].

''ch1-002'' *Author’s Note: Please type the above numbers into the comment section. This is for balancing purposes. Thank you. You may continue to [[Chapter 2|aug.22.22.demo.1.end]].

<center><mission-log>Goal(s)</mission-log></center> <center>Currently Unavailable</center>

[[He didn’t comment on that.]]

<<if hasVisited("convo.wmerit.1.c")>> You are about to say more when a soft ‘ahem’ halts the mounting antagonism from cresting another peak. Hiwa is at the door, confusion writ between her brows. She looks at her blond colleague. “Is there a problem…?” “Not at all.” The lie snags oddly. Again, his hand claws and clenches. If only he had his weapon, his darts. Hiwa then glances at you. You shake your head, already withdrawing into your headspace as you challenge your memories of them telling you the future you have to face: you will be at the Monstrous Colosseum. You pinch the bridge of your nose… //“[[My memories.]]”// <<else>>A soft ‘ahem’ at the door reveals Hiwa, who is standing nervously, but she is trying not to show it. She looks at her blond colleague. “Is there any problem…?” “Not at all,” Merit coolly answers. And with that, he exits. Hiwa then glances at you. You shake your head, already withdrawing into your headspace as you challenge your memories of them telling you the future you have to face: you will be at the Monstrous Colosseum. You pinch the bridge of your nose… //“[[My memories.]]”//<</if>>

<center>END OF CHAPTER TWO, FIRST PART</center> Who's you favorite character so far? Who are you interested in knowing more about? Let me know! Please rate and review if you liked it :)