The Game - Acting it out [Team Dawn & Dusk]

[Tarot]

OOCSorry for the delay, and for having to rearrange some of your actions for this to make sense.

Rhylen's burst of Djed, conjured at a time of stress and in the middle of much distraction, was far from irresistible. It would not cause Alistair to topple over or even stagger back from the shock. The sudden gust of air through his finger was, however, enough to make it hard for Rodosius to hold both eggs in one hand. The end result was a double omelette on the stage. Heads from the audience turned their way, but surprisingly did not reach for their weapons. Indeed, they seemed to regard this as part of the play - a terrible omen hanging over this doomed wedding. The Game judged the event with far less sympathy. Both Alistair and Rhylen instantly received the drop-shaped tattoo of the Sinner on their right hands, and the flag outside was updated to reflect the presence of four Sinners. If they stopped to think about it, though, they might realize there was a silver lining to this - by sacrificing the innocence of both, two answers could be had from the eggs as opposed to just one. Interestingly, neither party had had time to decipher the question on the other's egg, so they would get two answers, but only one question. Rhylen's egg was filled with black ink. Alistair's egg contained a miniature of the Game's castle, burning with tiny tiny flames. One could barely make out tall ladders against the walls, and the gates were both shut. Was that blood, too? Could it be that…? Elsewhere on the stage, the actors' battle continued on. Evarette's eyes were still filled with horrors, though the curse was so chaotic that it escaped even the will of its creator. No longer blinded, Evarette was looking at the world through a grotesque deforming lens. Everyone's head was way too big and the masks seemed to be writhing and laughing at her, or trying to swallow her whole into their dark gaps. At least she would be able to walk around without tripping, and she may get used to it, if her willpower could overcome the horror. Kamalia felt the delicious tingle (it's what you want) of released Djed washing over her body as the princess Queya summoned claws of ice (it's all you ever wanted) to decorate her pale hand. While its effectiveness in combat remained to be tested (the end of your doubts), it sure looked gorgeous enough. The recovering alcoholic had taken just this one tiny shot of Djed whisky (the end of your fears), and it was sending warm and pleasant ripples throughout her body and soul. If such a small amount felt this good, one could only imagine to what orgasmic heights a full release could take her, if only she wanted it (I am the answer). Jaeden could feel that the audience's eyes were still on him after the first debacle. He would have to be twice as careful as the others. Karona revelled in the audience's silent gaze on herself. The Queen felt her gnosis mark throb dully, as if her actions had stirred attention from more than just these masked men. Now, most followers of Rhysol enjoyed a few moments of their master's attention at one time or another; keeping his attention was another matter entirely. Devandre's planning was interrupted by a loud thud against the stage floor as a mask dropped from high above. Finally everyone would realize that there was some kind of platform right above the stage, suspended in the air through wires of steel that could ostensibly be lowered onto the stage itself. A lone member of the audience stood and a sharp dagger spun with surprising momentum, aiming to end Gromhir's life, but it missed its mark and embedded itself into the platform instead. The Kelvic quickly reached the last ledge from the platform and opened the door. It closed quietly behind him. Gromhir found himself in a small square room, lit by flickering candles. A larger door was on the opposite wall, with five hooks protruding in a pentagonal fashion. The masked man from the tower was waiting quietly in front of the door. He greeted the Ivaski with a polite gesture. "You are early," he said, "but I am afraid you cannot proceed further without five masks from the actors' original twelve. You interest us greatly, young creature. Out of all the participants, you are the only one who has shown utter disregard for our rules except for matters of basic survival. But do tell me, have you given any thought to my words? The very thing I warned you about may be occurring as we speak… Gromhir."

[Alistair deGrey]

Oh lovely, do I detect foreshadowing? The small castle miniature sat, aflame, in a puddle of pooling ink. The tiny ladders and blood spattered on its walls being noticeably there in the miniature, as opposed to their absence in the real world. It appears as if we may be in a little more danger than I had previously anticipated. He glanced sideways at Karona, then at the heavily armed audience, upon second inspection, I do not think any situation could be worse than one involving her. Still, the answer to his question was not exactly calming. Regardless of what impending storm Alistair saw on the horizon, there was still an angry sky overhead. deGrey's mercury eyes examined the players, recalculating their worth as allies. Karona, vile, evil, chaotic. I'd rather not die. His eyes flickered over to Kincade, A swordsman, and unafraid at that. Of course, I may be mistaking lack of fear for lack of intelligence. Then there was this princess, Imperious, mildly insane. Whats worse she's an insane magician. But I would rather work with her than have her kill me, perhaps she is different than Karona. deGrey knew the symenestra woman was beyond reason, but there may be a chance with Queya, despite the looming threat. Rodosius began to retort to the imposing Queya, but his monologue was severed as what appeared to be a mask clattered to the floor from above. The inventor looked up, noticing a large platform. Before he could further examine the mechanisms though, a dagger whirled into Alistair's line of sight and embedded itself into the platform. Best to continue the play then. The audience must be irked by our poor performance. His attention returned to Queya, a shiver walking down his back as he recalled the frigid claws scraping against his mask. As much as Alistair would love to believe this was naught but a play, the witch informed him otherwise. "Ever lovely Queya, I will forgive your momentary lapse of respect for those your elder. We must currently speak in private. This is of utmost import, the omens are dire." Rodosius sounded shakier, and huskier than deGrey's cool and collected voice usually managed. It was an awkward attempt at mimicry, the projected voice. The burning castle sat in its lake of black ink, reflecting the firelight like a mirror made of midnight. Yes, cooperation would be best, thought the old advisor, mildly nervous about what the eggs implied. I will have to discover the other question first. He hobbled around the ink, the cane he carried creating knocks that echoed across the huge theatre. A subtle motion for Queya to follow, "If you will, princess."

[Gromhir]

Gromhir took a few moments to catch his breath, even as the masked figure spoke once more. For a few long moments at least, Gromhir chose to ignore the man’s words. That dagger had come perilously close to ending his life. If he hadn’t been so quick to move, he would have been finished. It was a struggle and painful to make the leap but he had done so and now he was here. What was here anyway?

Gromhir refused to acknowledge the man that stood before him in the room, in favour of taking in the room itself first. It was a small room lit by candles with just a large door at one end. A large door with five hooks for five masks. Did that mean only five people could progress or did that mean that one simply needed five masks? From the way he was greeted, Gromhir guessed it was the latter but they may not be true. The Ivaski moved over to the door running a hand over the hooks before choosing to speak his own piece.

“I have given thought to many things,” Gromhir replied, still looking over the door that blocked his path. “I am a Guardian, first and foremost, to Kamalia. It is my job to ensure that she is safe. Should that mean that I push ahead and leave her behind to remove dangers from the game then I shall do so gladly. Your words themselves are poison. Designed to twist and toy with the minds of those who find themselves trapped by you and your… beings.” Gromhir turned his gaze to the mask now. The red eyes showing intelligence and determination. “I suspect that the passage of magic through our bodies did more than just change the colour of our eyes. If it allows you to mark us as sinners then it would allow you to affect us more.”

“Do not take me for a fool,” Gromhir continued, his gaze held firm. “I can feel what is taking place in my bondmate’s mind. But she is strong enough to withstand the whispers in her mind and should she not, I will make sure to remind her of what happened the last time she gave in to such seduction.” That was a lie, Gromhir was not sure what he would do if it came to that but he had faith that Kamalia could overcome the trails and become stronger for it.

“As for your rules, I will play your game only because Kamalia is but I refuse to play it by the rules that your creator set out. Your rules mean nothing outside of these walls where Nature stakes her claim. I will follow Nature’s path as I always have. I will follow what she has taught me and should that contradict with your rules then so be it.”

[Stitch]

The world swam around him, and Stitch tried his best to understand what was happening. So much aura was assaulting his senses, and it made his reality spin. There was something very wrong with this castle. Was this stone even real? He was suddenly aware of how brightly the entire structure was glowing, how magical everything suddenly seemed. This couldn't be real. But how could someone construct this entire thing out of simple magic? Was a feat like that even possible? A single vein throbbed in his head, and he winced, reaching out for something to hold onto. Kamalia and Gromhir were moving forward. Did they not notice what confusion he was in? He realized he was standing upright. Or was he? He didn't know any more. Maybe he was moving, and the world was standing still. Maybe that was it. He couldn't tell anymore. Magic assaulted him from all sides, huge waves of magical, pulsing color. There was so much aura in this place. Why hadn't he noticed it before? What had changed?

You may be dealing with a God...

A voice echoed in his head, and he pushed it aside. Was he talking to himself, or was that someone else?

The children, Stitch. You have to save the children...

He dimly realized he was walking forward, even if the world was swimming around him. He was responding to the things said to him, smiling comfortingly and nodding as the Lady Kamalia spoke out about her determination. He nodded again as Gromhir made him promise to protect her, felt the solemn oath to carry out his wishes fill his lips. He was acting perfectly normal! He wasn't normal! There was something wrong, something was wrong, something was horribly wrong! All the people in the crowd, those weren't people! Why hadn't he confirmed it when Kamalia had suspected it aloud? They were all just huge bundles of super-charged aura, holding several deadly weapons, and EVERY SINGLE aura out there looked EXACTLY the same as the next. It was like they were all the same person, split into multiple bodies.

He gave Gromhir a wave, and silently followed Kamalia through the shadows. Keeping on the outskirts of the massive theater, avoiding the eyes of the horrifyingly similar crowd, he eventually ended up at the masks. He stood there silently, struggling inside his own body, still stunned. By what? He didn't know.

Who wrote that note, Stitch? How did you find it?

His head ached again, but he did not show it. He simply stood there, a neutral look on his face, observing as his team planned out their roles and actions. They did not really regard him, why would they? He had stood back in the shadows that Kamalia had emerged from, to simply observe and protect. He didn't want to be too hasty yet, he had to be cautious. He had to protect, not charge forward and try and save the day, try to win the game.

But the children will burn, Stitch. Who will set them on fire? Who wrote that note, Stitch? The children will burn if you don't win. The whole entire orphanage will burn. Do you really want that to happen? You need to take control, Stitch. You need to win this game. You have the power to take control. You have so much power, and you never even use it.

"Shut up, milord." He whispered it to himself, referring to himself. The voice was loud, the aura of everything was bright, and he just wanted it all to leave him alone. People were moving around him, taking masks and applying roles, going out onto stage to play for a finicky crowd. Somehow, he understood everything. Understood they had to act, and they had to act their parts correctly. He took the mask of the distrought lover, the dead lover, and applied it to his face. A skull mask, a mask of shadows. He simply applied the mask and watched from the shadows, which seemed like the correct role of a ghost. For now. Information continuously flooded to him, even if he was still stunned by the voices in his head and the assault of aura. He still understood it all, although he didn't understand how exactly he was comprehending such an onslaught of knowledge.

The play was soon getting close to ending its first Act, and he snapped off the wall he had been leaning on as if in a stupor, and stood tall and straight. The brightness of the surrounding aura had dimmed back to normal, and he was seeing all of the colors and shapes in their normal form. Well, as normal as the blind man had ever seen them.

He was angry.

What are you angry at, Stitch? Whoever said they would burn the children? Who wrote that note, Stitch?

"You group of misfits..."

Stitch's voice was low, dangerous, and actually held a note of anger. Was the blind man angry? Barely a soul had ever seen him angry. Perhaps the Lady Kamalia would understand why he was angry. Perhaps she would be able to feel it. His aura, his Djed was thick in the air, seeping out around the stadium to produce an air of... intensity. Anger. Wrath. Danger. It would just add to the atmosphere of the play, and it would compliment the personality of what he assumed his character to have. His dangerous voice, his deep tone, it would echo across the stage, interrupting the flow of the scene for the moment. From the shadows, his eyes would blaze a bright red, the skull mask doing little to hide his eyes. His were different. His blind eyes contained no pupils. They were simply a solid red, nothing more. The glow of his eyes lit up his mask, revealing a bit of the frowning skull mask from the shadows at the side. He was now Zakria. He was now the dead lover, who only wanted to be with the one she loved. His anger at the situation only helped to intensify his voice of anger, one he thought a ghost witnessing the scene should have. Anyone skilled in Auristics, even lightly so, would definitely be able to feel the palpable anger in the air, and see it radiating from him.

Stitch attempted to put a feminine spin on his voice, and it came out an odd mixture of haunting, angry, male, female, and demonic. An incredible change from the once gentle-man's voice.

"How dare you. How dare you turn what was supposed to be a happy day, into a day of treachery, loathing, lies, hate, and malice... How dare you turn the special day of my beloved into a game between yourselves..."

He paused, and shrunk his face back into the shadows, his red eyes glowing darkly.

"Mother Queen, a treacherous reprobate. The princesses, weak to their own emotions. The advisor, only encouraging the Queen which he bows to. The squire, a fool, the jesters, fools as well! My prince..."

His voice paused, and he tried to turn it into one of agony. "...why have you forsaken me, your true lover, your Zakria...? For fools such as these?"

He was barely able to mask his anger with the very mask the Game had supplied him with, channeling a huge amount of pent up emotion through his sudden assumption of a role. The Lady Kamalia would feel his gaze on her though, an oddly un-nerving thing, seeing as he was somewhat blind. It was an angry, confused, hurt gaze.

She had promised both Gromhir and Stitch that she would stay strong, and still her Djed-charged soul. Why had she betrayed them? Slapping a hand over his glowing eyes, to once more drown himself in darkness, he shrunk back in the shadows to let them resume their play, yet give the image of being a foreboding, foreshadowing ghost. He hoped the crowd had approved.

[Kamalia Timandre]

The plethora of pleasurable sensations overwhelmed the mage-princess as her djed coursed through her veins of silver. Whispers, seductive and sultry, echoed in her mind, tempting her to shoot the crystal claws as projectile shards towards Queen Eugenia;’s elderly advisor. The tempestuous djed within her raged like the Valterric cataclysm, surging forth arcane energies towards her hands, and thrummed at her fingertips, waiting to be released. The addiction was strong today, fuelled by her own wrath for the lecherous old goat’s disrespect and misdemeanours. Only with great conviction and sheer resolve was the Princess Queya able to contain the temptation to injure the man and bid her glacial claws to sublimate into wisps. Queya was about to respond to Rodosius’ latest indignity with a genteel putdown of her own when suddenly, the bond---the invisible arcane thread that connected her to her sworn guardian—twanged and vibrated and flickered, alarming her of the gravity of the dangerous situation Whitemane was in. For a moment, she was Kamalia again. The konti’s heart leapt and her eyes widened, terrified and panicking. She shook and dithered as fear began to spiral around her heart, seeing a dagger fall from above before implanting itself upon the platform. Then came Whitemane’s soothing telepathic voice echoing in her mind like a gentle song, asking for her forgiveness. Kamalia felt a surge of relief, feeling her bondmate’s lifeline as if it were her own. The lady’s eyes went cold and unreadable once again and she pulled herself erect. Her face took on something of the haughty mien of a regal princess. She was once more Princess Queya, a royal scion of Mullonde. She fell silent, incredulous as the eggs fractured, earning both Ashak and Rodosius the mark of the sinner. The actress of Queya was not pleased. The princess herself, even more so. Anger flamed in Queya’s heart, as bright and hot as Ivak’s inferno, her body quivering with sheer wrath for this latest disgrace. The eggs were symbols of rebirth of the two kingdoms, and by all standards, no whelp that did not belong to the royal lineages had the right to touch the imperial artefacts! Queya did not fail to notice, however, the answer to Rodosius’ egg, even though she did not know his question: a miniature fortress castle, the exact replica of the Game’s Alahean structure, sat alight with tiny flames licking it. The princess was about to burst into a tirade when Stitch emerged from the shadows, wearing the mask of Zakria. Queya’s actress felt relief at first, seeing reinforcement, but she realized all of the sudden with the konti’s natural empathic abilities that the blind person before her was no longer the friend that she knew. His eyes were all blood crimson, his irises, pupils and sclera were all red. It was a disturbing thing to watch, to see the usually kind-hearted person turn into someone fearsome, someone spiteful and malevolent. Queya froze in place like a statue, eerily motionless as Zakria commenced her own entrance and monologue, and quietly listened to the voice that was not quite Stitch’s. Queya’s auristics were not powerful enough yet to grasp and read the hateful emotions that radiated from the corona of the blind man’s aura, but she could feel—almost taste—nonetheless, the cold lingering emotions that kindled in his heart: he was confused, angered and feeling betrayed. Suddenly, Kamalia wanted to comfort her friend, to express her regret and apologize to him, but once again shadowy scenes of a burning orphanage flashed in her mind’s eye. This was not the time to get carried away by emotions. They had to win. They must win. The end of your doubts, the end of your fears. Queya stood, cold and composed, shutting out the host of intense emotions that assailed her heart. There was little time to say more, and so she turned to the Queen’s Advisor. “I have considered your proposal. We must confer on this pressing matter,” the princess said in a proud, dignified voice before following Rodosius, vanishing into the darkness.

[Alistair deGrey]

Ice coiled around Rodosius' lungs, a constrictor's cold blooded embrace. From the sanctuary of off stage the inventor observed the familiar figure. The curtain of shadow that divided back stage from the illuminated area was populated by none other than the caretaker of the Welcome Home. His face was porcelain, voice a warped fragment's song, but the man known as Stitch indubitably stood before the old advisor. But he was different. Vanished was the amiable handicap, naught but a faint echo, resonating deep with Rodosius' mechanical mind, indicated he ever existed. What emerged from the wreckage of his throbbing heart, an effigy of anger and sorrow. Danger's phantom hovered. It was a prudent time for Rodosius to extract himself, and subsequently Queya. Stitch was then, Princess Queya was now. Rodosius saw Queya following him, and stepped fully into the cover of darkness. As the advisor stepped into the shadows of off stage, the mummery immediately dissolved like salt in water. His back straightened to a point of overcompensation, removing the kinks and knots his bent position so forcefully offered. The wooden rapping ceased, for while many trips around the sun had twisted Rodosius' spine, Alistair's had yet to be worn weary. The inventor rolled his shoulders and turned to face the approaching princess. No, not princess. Remove yourself. He turned to face the approaching woman. A thought ran through his mind, a calculation, a query. What would he benefit of removing his mask? To fully abandon this caricature like a scarecrow throwing off his coat, revealing the worn structure beneath. Creating a human connection would be beneficial as far as Rodosius could tell, but would he be putting himself too close to the real people beneath these facades? It was like taking off your mask at a masquerade. However, if he maneuvered the dance floor correctly, friendship could be forged. A tally went up, detailing the benefits and certainty of each consequence. Rodosius removed his mask. Alistair deGrey, no longer Rodosius, spoke to the woman as she approached, his voice a whisper transmission, "Might I ask you, madame, to remove your mask, that we might drop this pretense for a few moments to speak more cordially?" deGrey rubbed his hands together, goosebumps littered his arms, but not from the ice that chilled his lungs. A recent memory, that of this woman threatening to rip his tongue out, was recollected. Let us hope there is a bit of definition between character and actor in this one. He fidgeted. "Before we become too enmeshed in pleasantries, I would say that I desire to join the ranks of Dusk." His voice barely broke the silence, "That evil woman gives me great cause to fear. I came here to examine the castle, not watch my blood leak out onto stone."

[Jaeden Kincade]

Jaeden slowly moved out of the light of the stage once again, sheathing his sword as he began to pick up his gear, carrying it with him as he made his way off to the back stage. He grumbled slightly under his breath, feeling a turning in his stomach that caused a frown to cross over his features once again. His gaze soon turned to Alistair and the member of team Dusk, conversing with one another and he soon began to approach. His thumb hooked under the chin of his mask, sliding it up as his ear twitched slightly at the small bits of conversation that took place. “You aren’t the only one who is displeased with the antics of that woman,” Jaeden then said in a somber tone as he stepped up to the pair of them, making it a trio. “Frankly, I don’t care who wins this game and who loses. I feel it’s likely set up to ensure that everyone loses, either by aquiring the mark of a sinner, or running us out of time.” Jaeden then slowly looked around, feeling the hum of the castle. “I don’t claim to know anything about magic, but I do know this,” Jaeden said before looking back to Alistair and women from team Dusk, “it’s not going to last long. I sensed that much when I was tracking around the courtyard. Frankly at this point, I’m just opting to use one of the black doors and get out of here, and would have already had my concern for what might happen to the others on my team, with that forked tongue woman playing for her own twisted machinations, kept me here so far.”

[Tarot]

Without further warning, the curtain eventually fell upon the stage. The masked audience did not seem to mind, but neither did they break into applause. It had been a decent performance. Could have been better. Could have been worse. Some of the actors were clearly of a different caliber from the rest, but the weak links had marred some of the enjoyment. It got pretty dark in the backstage, and in the couple minutes that followed, a number of participants in the Game simply vanished, leaving only their masks behind. The rest would, however, not notice this until several minutes later, after discussing their dealings and propositions in the barely lit area behind the stage. Gromhir, on the other hand, saw the masked man shake his head and chuckle. "You are an interesting creature in your simplicity, Kelvic. We have given you masks, no less and no more. Masks in your eyes, and masks on your faces. Make no mistake, though, you were already wearing masks well before you stepped into our domain. Your Mistress, the blind man, the inventor, the Dhani, the Symenestra, the ladies' man, the damsel in distress, and you. All of you." "And in the end, we shall all unmask together for the last dance."

OOCOkay, let's see if we can't salvage this. Post within seven days or your character will be summarily dropped from the thread.

[Jaeden Kincade]

Jaeden’s gaze lifted as he looked around for a moment, hearing the wheels and pulleys began lowering the curtain, as things began to fall silent. Jaeden slowly lowered his equipment to the ground, picking his shirt up first as he began slipping it over his frame. “Well, I’m guessing that ends act one of this play.” Jaeden commented as he tucked his shirt in around his pants. He then began slipping on his leather armor, fastening the buckles at the side as he looked between Kamalia and Alistair. “I don’t know how much time we have before whatever comes next happens, so I’ll be heading back out into the courtyard for a moment.”

Jaeden then picked up his pack, slipping his arms through the straps as it hung along his shoulders. He then began moving towards the exit that would lead to the courtyard, deciding it would be time to check out one of those shops, if he was able. A slow look was given over his shoulder as he looked to the other two. “Anyone interested in joining me?”

[Gromhir]

Gromhir watched the masked man before. Subtly, he smelt the air around them, looking for a hint of something. He turned his thoughts to the man’s words, assuming once again that it was a man. He gave a small grin. “I have no masks, simply two forms,” Gromhir said flatly. Well aware of what the man was trying to get at but more choosing to play stupid. “You speak of many things,” Gromhir made no move towards the man. “But what is it that you get from all this? You speak of death but I will not die here. If you are as human as you would appear to be then what is it you get? What does your mask hide?” Gromhir walked across the floor. His mind whirred so much it was almost painful but Gromhir found himself enjoying it. He enjoyed the riddles and challenges this game put up for him. He was beginning to enjoy finding holes in the game. “Tell me what it is exactly you get from being part of this game.”