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

[Nyahna Sasin]

He couldn't stop a smirk gracing his lips at Kamalia's speech. How very peculiar. He was going to have to keep an eye on her. He listened quietly, saying nothing. When Stitch spoke up, he nodded. "Who knows who, or what we'll need next. Although..." He grimaced. "We're going to have to be careful. I believe only you two and Gromhir are still innocents."

He was startled as Gromhir appeared. He looked on, confused as Kamalia rushed to him, and did....nothing. He glanced at Stitch, who motioned for him to stay silent.

His eyes widened as she spoke. "Would it be better to simply move on without continuing the play? As said, all we need are five masks. But what if there's something here we'll need later on?"

Agh, decisions, decisions.

Hearing clanking, he turned to go check, just remembering to slip his mask back on. Evidently, Jaeden had had the same idea. He let out a soft hiss as he spotted the ballista.

Returning to the three on his team, he grimaced. This was bad. "Long forgotten magic's or no, the audience is raising the stakes, so to speak. They're bringing out ballista's and oil. Boiling, from the looks of it."

He didn't like this. Not at all. But he was determined to stick this through to the end.

[Stitch]

Red eyes shone behind the frowning skeleton mask, a horrifying visage that shouldn't be attached to the man it was. He almost felt dirty wearing the mask, as it was supposed to represent something that he was not. It was a being of malice, sadness, pain, hate, and misery. It was someone who had long since died, someone who should have moved on a long time ago. He had originally chosen it because it was really the only mask left, but he was regretting his decision now. He wasn't the best actor in the world, and it didn't help that he was under these kinds of circumstances. His head was swirling with the reality of what was happening to him, and the bright Auras that were all around him did little to help. He was assaulted by all sorts of colors and emotions, twirling and swirling in all sorts of complex ways. They were complex in the fact that they were all wildly different people, from wildly different walks of life... But in here, their emotions were running wild as well, and that added a whole new host of colors to their respective Auras. All of this was only making his now-constant headache that much worse.

He listened quietly as his companions spoke, now counting even the other team as something of an ally. As silence fell upon the unsure group, no one really knowing what kind of plan to go with, Stitch would be the one to venture forward first. "We haven't met, milord. Not really. This one has seen you about, and has said a few things to you, but..." The blind man stepped forward, putting himself close to Jaeden. The man would find himself nearly eye-to-eye with an odd-sighted man, a man who was nearly able to match Jaeden's own impressive height. Stitch's voice was warm and genuine, and the air around him would carry over that feeling. His voice still shook just a bit, but it wasn't too horribly obvious that he was putting on a brave front. Out of all of them, Stitch was perhaps the most terrified. He was scared for his companions, and his children.

Who wrote that note, Stitch?

"...What this one is trying to say, is this one would like to formally introduce himself. This one goes by Stitch, milord. It is a pleasure to meet you. This one is familiar with Alistair, your respectable team-mate, and wishes that you would keep a beautiful blue eye on him. Milord Alistair seems reserved and intelligent, but ask him about Hana. She told me he was a wild sort of man." The cheerfulness was radiating from Stitch, but one would have to take pause and consider the blind man's words. That was an awfully odd compliment he had given Jaeden, but it was spoken quite innocently. Stitch now stuck out a hand, planning on giving the man a firm handshake. If it was met, Stitch would enthusiastically give a hearty shake. If not, Stitch would withdraw it with out any problems.

"But, to address our current situation... This one can't give up. Call it a competitive streak, perhaps?" The blind man's voice shivered more than normal at this point, but the trembling soon went away. "This one is planning on staying, but this one won't argue if Milord wants to go. So Milord knows where this one will throw his vote. As for what to do? This one thinks the group should work together, at least until we pass this vital point. Work together to 'kill' each other. That should be too difficult, yes?" The man said it in a teasing tone, but it was obvious he was now trying to be happy-go-lucky on purpose. He was being a bit too jovial about the whole situation, and his voice had risen a bit too high. It didn't really matter though, did it? Stitch had stated he would stay, and stay he would. He had too much to lose. "This one is going to go start the play. They demand our presence, this one believes. Come to a consensus soon, my dear fellows."

With that Stitch stepped away, vanishing into the curtain, and onto the stage beyond.

The minute he burst through the curtain, he was met with the literal army of foes that awaited. They had set up weapons that were much more deadly than the ones before. If a single person acted out of line, than the spectators had enough ammo to destroy the entire lot of them. Stitch continued moving, lurking in the shadows cast by some of the props, but he wasn't so sure how he was walking any more. His feet were moving on their own, tugging him into a play that he wasn't sure he could act out.

"You shall not have me!" Stitch paused, still lurking in the props, red eyes flashing defiantly at the woman and her chariot. He stared her down, trying to fit into the mindset of a defiant ghost woman.

Woman.

Oh dear. He resisted the urge to glance down, knowing full and well he didn't have any breasts. Hopefully the audience didn't care, as he was supposed to be acting... But still, best to stay hidden in the shadows. He kept himself back, between a few of the cardboard props, lurking in the shadows like a true ghost should. He only let his head rise into view, and only moved his body about when he was sure they wouldn't really notice his flat chest. His shirt was rather loose, so it shouldn't be too much of a problem. He moved with the grace his martial arts had taught him, prowling almost. Back and forth around the very back of the displayed stage, eyes still locked onto the woman and her chariot. "I am not ready to go! Not today! Not until he comes with me. My love, I have to wait for him!" Stitch's voice sounded high pitched and scared, which might work in his favor. Wouldn't the ghost be afraid that the "Goddess" was here for her? And wouldn't his normally high-pitched voice sound a little feminine, when pushed even higher? He hoped so. He was really testing his luck here, he was starting to think. Hopefully they would like it. He was sure to add a bit of a spooky tone to his voice, drawing from his experience with telling ghost stories. This was a wildly different scenario, but hopefully it would work. He was placing a lot on hope.

"But do not worry, milady! No, do not fret! What you say is true! This is a petty sqaubble, but a sqaubble that has lit the hearts of many! Evil hearts, milady! Evil hearts that plot and plan, and I have heard their devious whispers! They will all join me, they will all die! My love will join me, and the rest will as well! Wait, milady! Wait for them, and they will come to you! My love will come to me!"

Stitch paused, cocking his head in a really crooked fashion, focusing his hot red gaze onto the crowd. These eyes of his should help the spooky effect, he was figuring. "All of the players in this petty Game will die. They will all kill the other!" He turned his head back to the woman and her chariot, letting out a short, nervous giggle that sounded quite unhinged. "Just watch, milady. Sit back, and watch the show..."

The haunting ghost held out a hand, motioning to the closed curtain. He was starting the play, no matter if the other players liked it, or not.

[Kamalia Timandre]

Although it was almost beyond belief, Kamalia found that Stitch spoke with reason and only the truth as he perceived it. The konti reimancer was not certain whether to regard Stitch’s unnatural capacity for trust and friendliness with delight or scorn. Even during these moments when their lives and the lives of the children hung in imminent danger, Stitch managed to be cordial to his enemies, even suggesting that they collaborate with them. Sometimes, Kamalia considered the blind man to be beyond incredulous. “We already have five masks in our possession, Stitch. I have in my keeping the masks of the two princesses. The dhani has Ashak’s squire while you have Zakria the Ghost and the queen’s jester. We certainly require no assistance from those fools,” the elementalist said, “but if you insist to give credence to those imbeciles, then so be it. We can work with them if you please. Just bear in mind that one misstep then it will probably be over for us,” she reminded her sightless friend. And for the Orphanage. The last words were not said aloud, but Stitch likely knew.

“The male drykas is nowhere to be found. This play is called ‘Ashak’s Wedding’ and we do not have Ashak,” Kamalia said in reply to Nyahna Sahsin’s suggestion to interrupt the wedding. “We are left with little choice but to finish the act with a tragic end and without the other major characters. Let’s just make it as convincing as possible. The appearance of Dira, the deus ex machina, meant that this might actually not be a tragedy. It could be a plot device where an impossible problem is solved by some intervention of a powerful character.”

She turned to her bondmate and held his large hand in her own. “I want you to hide someplace secure for now, away from the sight of those spell-twisted abominations,” Kamalia said softly. For a moment, the masked konti seemed concerned and anxious. Stitch could almost sense that the konti loathed parting with Gromhir, but it was something that had to be done as the kelvic had little to no notion of stage acting. “Stitch will protect me. If something happens, alarm me through our bond. Pray be safe,” the konti said warmly, before gently caressing Gromhir’s face with the back of her free hand.

The end of your doubts.

The konti took on a haughty mien as members of Team Dawn began to approach. She listened to what the human warrior had to say, before lifting her chin to an imperious angle and turning a lance-sharp glare to Jaeden. “We appreciate your… hurl of wisdom. Your perceptive powers know no bounds. Now, if you are done stating the obvious, let us refrain from this meaningless chatter and engineer a plan. We do not partake in any voting game,” the konti said icily.

She faced the assembled group with the poise and confidence of a warrior. “What we face, as likely as not, are aberrations fashioned from ancient sorcery. They are likely a creation of a long forgotten magical discipline called Unity, which existed long before the Valterrian charred the world. Such powerful magic could weave souls into one, and it was banned by the Imperial Academy of Magic in Alahea for the considerable threat it posed. Its practitioners toyed with life; the magic they wielded could plausibly put a stopper to death. It is an irregularity in the cycle of life and death. This might even explain why Dira takes part in this act,” the konti explained in a softly-accented Common. “It is imperative to know what manner of abomination we are facing. I may have no firsthand knowledge of the power Unity could unleash or how it works, but my theory is that these masked fiends operate on a hive-mind of some kind. Though they might appear to have many physical forms, they could be essentially a single entity with their souls merge into one.”

Kamalia remembered the masked person in the visions Gromhir shared with her. “Or they could simply be puppets ever dancing for the amusement of a patron unseen,” she added. “Whoever or whatever it is—it has disclosed that “they” are looking for individuals with specific traits. Are the winners to be made puppets? I cannot say,” she said, pulling the hood of her cloak over her white hair.

The curtains rose, and Kamalia stiffened once again like a stark statue. She was now Princess Iolanda, the daughter of Queen Eugenia. By claiming the role of Iolanda, she would at least be able to keep the story moving. She listened closely to the monologues of Dira and Zakria, and waited for them until they finished. Princess Iolanda strode towards the stage with royal grace with her head bowed low. She pulled the hood of her white brocade cloak away from her head, and stared up, facing the chaotic audience squarely. There was melancholy in her crimson eyes, and they were dark, empty and dull. The unseen spotlight closed on her.

Again stormed the tempests of fear and inhibitions that assaulted her heart. She feared for the children, for Gromhir, for Stitch. She feared for herself. Should they win the Game, what would she herself become? She wanted to tremble, but she found she could not. She wanted to run, but found she could not. There was no place for a single mistake.

The end of your fears.

Princess Iolanda took from her cloak a water flask and lifted it high. Her voice, tragic and wavering, thundered throughout the theater hall.

“To fall in darkness… denied a lover’s embrace, a lachrymose fate,
This I thought a burden light enough, long as our kingdoms knew peace.
Our lands torn asunder; this union comes to naught,
I played my part, yet still Invari runs red with blood.
Shattered are the eggs unprofaned; the rebirth of peace.
Shattered is the aegis of matrimonial sacrament, and a love pure and chaste.
Shattered is this baneful world that does not reward endeavor.
Wherefore? Wherefore, O, gods above?
Too far we’ve come. Too late we see. Too soon we die.
My acquiescence reaps me naught but death’s embrace.
Erelong I shall know darkness deeper still.
Never again shall I see Syna’s light.
Hither, Dira, take me to thy chariot!
My blood, the roses on unhallow’d graves!”

Princess Iolanda opened the lid of the waterskin, and took a sip from the flask half-filled with silvery liquid. She fell to her knees and crawled towards the platform. At last, she drew her last breath at Dira’s feet.

[Alistair deGrey]

[color=grey]Alistair entered back stage alone, Jaeden having already come in from the courtyard a chime or two ago. He stepped into the darkness just as the platform was lowering, and the familiar grind of machinery reached his ears. Watching the figure descend from above, deGrey mentally berated himself. What foolishness, how could I not have seen this? From his position away from the lights, he followed the platform's ropes up to the top of the crane, and back as far as he could. It was a quick attempt to approximate the location of the crank, which must be backstage somewhere. After all, there would not be an inaccessible prop, or would there? Perhaps the actors could have staged somebody above to operate it, but that would indubitably be too difficult. No, there must be a crank here. Yet that thought was paused as he snapped from his reminiscence and to the apparent conflict before him. The Konti witch appeared to be assaulting Jaeden, for what offense the inventor had not heard. Yet by the time he'd inserted himself into the assemblage, the topic had changed to something entirely more disconcerting. The witch was rattling off a short monologue about merging souls, and how this was all a product of said magic. deGrey soaked it in, thinking on the subject for a few moments before addressing her. His yellow eyes glowed through the wizened mask, lending him a strange air as he spoke in his even and calm tones, "Yes, but we do not know enough of this magic to assume so much. Do the souls simply become linked on a metaphysical aspect? Would combining souls increase the lifespan via some liquidation process? Or if we suppose souls have no life span, and thus splitting the soul into many different bodies would be the route to immortality. Regardless, there are many questions to be answered before we can attribute this to Unity." As Kamalia left and subsequently died, Alistair's mind redirected itself to the figure sitting on the stage. Deus ex Machina. God from the Machine was a concept Alistair was familiar with, though he'd often warped the phrase into something entirely non-theatrical and more obviously mechanical. Still, the phrase had a certain eloquence to it that sent shivers down his spine. He attempted to change his stars through a game. Even lies exist for truth. What if the witch was right? What if stars was his destiny from Leth? Could this entity be trying to remove himself from something? What if this entire game was allegory for a machine? A great mechanism through which this being achieves... Achieves godhood? Deus ex Machina. It wasn't truly something new, just a different perspective he had thought of after seeing Dira's figure. It made sense that this great plot figure would also be centric to the working of this mechanism. Perhaps he was overthinking this, perhaps he was allowing his mind to fly off the hinge with wild fantasy. Alistair looked out into the audience from the cover of the backstage, his eyes scanning the stage. But maybe not... Regardless, he would need a specific mask to join the ranks of the dead. Alistair crouched and began scouring the dark floor out of the limelight for the mask of Queen Eugenia But if it had the power to make this mechanism, then why would it need these players?[/silver] Alistair's mind reeled with possibilities as he searched.

[Tarot]

And so it began, the second and probably last Act of the play. With a drastically reduced cast and facing greater danger than ever before, the participants were forced to think fast and foresee the consequences of their actions. Stitch, perhaps the most motivated and personally invested of those present, stepped onto the stage, his figure still half-wrapped in the shadows. His lack of resemblance to a woman did not seem to be much of a problem, as the audience completely disregarded it. It was probably the entire point of wearing masks - as long as you stayed true to character, physical appearance did not really play a role. "Dira" nodded gravely at the ghost's speech, but did not speak. No fiery projectiles were being loaded or fired either, which was good news in its own right, given the circumstances. Then Princess Iolanda came on stage and gave one of her monologues in front of the goddess' masked gaze. After drinking the 'poison', Kamalia collapsed and played her death to perfection. Dira looked down for a long moment, as if to make sure the actress did not have second thoughts about this. Then, the sword-wielding figure kneeled down, its arms wrapping around the Konti's slender body and picking her up with surprising strength for its frame. Kamalia found herself being gently laid on the platform, by Dira's side. After this, the entity seemed to lose interest in the Konti - however, something else had happened, something the Seer might not appreciate. The Sinner's mark, the tear, had surfaced, marring the paleness of her hand. Apparently all sorts of violence, even if fictional and even if on oneself, qualified one for the mark of sin. The fact did not escape any of those watching the scene either on or off the stage. A bunch of suicides wasn't a solution - it would only result in everyone gaining the mark and losing the Game after all the effort that had gone into it. Right here and now, those willing to give death to an innocent were those who held true power in the Game. And innocents were becoming a scarce commodity among the surviving members. Jaeden and Stitch were to have their innocence protected at all costs, and the matter of teams was not settled yet. Who was to say any previous deals would outlast this particular trial? Sinners like Sasin and Alistair certainly had the power to bring an innocent to victory, but would they? As for Alistair, his search for the backstage crank led him to one of the darker areas of the place, so dark in fact that he had to feel his way with his hands lest he bump into something. Yes, it was a crank with a long coil of thick rope controlling Dira's platform. It seemed unmanned, so it had probably moved on its own before; a pretty unsurprising thing around these parts. As for the Queen's mask, it was nowhere to be found on the floor. However... the message still rang in the inventor's ears. It was a hint, no doubt. But perhaps it also held some practical usefulness too? And it might even be far easier than his convoluted mind thought it was...

[Jaeden Kincade]

Jaeden’s hands fell to his waist for a moment, his gaze watching over every aspect of the play thus far. Finally a frown crossed his features as he saw a single tear form over Kamalia’s hand soon after she drank, acting out the suicide in the play. “Well, I see that’s no longer an option.” Jaeden muttered silently under his breath as he observed Kamalia laid out over beside Dira.

Jaeden took close to a chime thinking things over for a moment, every now and then his gaze slipping over towards the black exit. When his gaze filtered back to his surroundings, he had noticed that Alistair was now gone from the group. A slow grumble exited from his lips as he tapped his thumb along the hilt of his sword.

He turned, making his way out of the theater proper before slipping back out into the courtyard. He once again began to rummage through the shop, first finding emptying his waterskin along the ground. He made his way back into the bakery again, looking over the various supplies there and before long he was eventually mixing liquids and together with cherry, cranberry to make a deep reddened liquid and finally mixing a little strawberry jam into the mix to give it a slightly thicker texture to it. He filled his waterskin with the liquid then, capping it before carrying the jar he had mixed it in with him as he left the shop.

He continued to search through the shops, grabbing first another piece of leather armor. Then he stopped, looking over a large white tunic, almost appearing as though it would have been made for an Akalak. “This should work.” Jaeden said to himself as he began carrying the contents back with him.

He grabbed his pack once again along the way, slipping it over his shoulder before cutting away to lengths of rope free from the amount he had been carrying with him since the beginning of this little game. As he began making his way back into the backstage of the theater, he had already tied one length around the neck of the waterskin before the length was wrapped around his waist, the other end being tied off at the bottom of the waterskin itself. He spied around for a moment until his gaze finally fell on Sasin and his feet carried him heavily towards him, his gaze falling down to Sasin’s hand to look for the Sinner mark that may have branded him. Jaeden began tying the other length of rope over the bottle skin a third of the way down from spout. “You’ve got a Sinner’s mark, correct?” Jaeden then asked, tossing the length over his shoulder before it crossed his back and slid under his right arm. He gave it a quick tug, taking up any slack until the waterskin rested just in front of his stomach, securing the other end to the waterskin as well to keep it held in place.

“Well, considering that, you’ll be the one to cause my character to slip away from its mortal coil since its become painfully obvious from her newly acquired sinner mark that the Konti isn’t quite as smart as her stuck up attitude she portrays.” Jaeden said before handing out the jar to Sasin. “There’s still some liquid left, create some fake wounds for yourself, ones that wouldn’t kill right away but would if left unattended after for a few chimes. The way you carry yourself, I suspect you know what would be.”

Jaeden then pointed down to the waterskin. “You’re playing the squire of Ashak if I recall. I’ll dialoging that my character started a coup, and that our battle was the last one. I thought I had killed you, but I was wrong.” Jaeden said softly so that his voice wouldn’t carry to the crowd before he began tapping the waterskin. “When I fall silent from my dialog, you come in from behind at a side angle and slice the waterskin open.”

Jaeden leaned forward then, quirking his brow at Sasin. “Don’t miss your mark.” He then cautioned. “If that crowd goes bat shyke crazy, I won’t be any good to any of you in escaping them all with a real stomach wound.”

“After, your character could simply perish from the fake wounds you got from the previous encounter I dialoged about, with whatever line you want to give.” Jaeden then explained as he began slipping the large tunic over his frame. He dipped his fingers into the juice once more, dabbing just a small dot along the white fabric to mark the waterskin’s location underneath for Sasin, something he could see when approaching from behind and a little to the right of Jaeden. “With our characters dead, the one called Stitch would be all that is left of living characters, and considering his character is a ghost, his character should already be considered dead, left to give whatever finishing lines he wants. Hopefully then we’ll be able to have this whole thing considered over with and move on to the next part if those two are set on continuing this till its end.”

The large tunic hung loosely over Jaeden’s frame as he rolled the sleeves of it up to his forearms. He then looked to Sasin as he grabbed his pack, slipping it over his shoulders. “I don’t want to sound bossy or anything, but considering the circumstances, it’s the quickest way to convey what I have in mind. You can approach while I’m dialoging, I’ll be looking to the Iolanda character, the Konti during this and will keep my eyes fixed on that, but wait for me to stop my rant before you strike.” Jaeden finally explained one last time before giving a slow nod as he slid his mask into place. “See you at the after party.”

Jaeden then slowly drew his sword, dipping his hand into the fake blood concoction one last time as he smeared some over the length of his blade as well as along his sleeves and hands. Finally, picking up the extra piece of leather armor he had grabbed, he walked out onto stage, the spotlight finally shining on him. He took on a visage of someone who had been up for way too long as his upper frame hung and his feet dragged along the stage, remembering countless times how he had moved after being driven to the point of complete physical exhaustion by his mentor, Olevar’s, training when he was young. “Iolanda, my love?” Jaeden called out, trying to concoct how his character, Fyodor, would be. “We’ve won.”

Jaeden looked around aimlessly as if searching. “The Queen is gone, struck down by my sword when troops loyal to the rebellion I led captured her. She left her castle, arrogant and overconfident in her safety. She considered us all mere rabble, peasants. And wanting to see me die so much when she found us in bed, couldn’t resist the rumor that I had been captured. She wanted to deliver that death stroke herself.” Jaeden said weakly, but loud enough that his voice carried to the crowd. He stopped in the center of the stage, lifting his arm as he dragged his wrist across his brow.

“Ashak was more of a challenge.” Jaeden then said, conveying everything as though he had been speaking with Iolanda for the first time in a short while. “He led his troops and defended the castle himself, inspiring rather than dictating. His troops fought for him, believing his cause was right. Mine fought harder is all. Our swords struck, conflicting with each other and seeking an opening of vital flesh for near a bell. A Prince well trained, but not nearly as experienced as your Champion. His Squire fell shortly after, wishing to avenge him. I sympathized and was light on my thrust, but he fell all the same.”

Jaeden then paused in front of Iolanda, looking down on her motionless frame for a long moment of silence. “My love, why do you not reply to me? While marred in blood, this is a joyful occasion. We have won, and nothing can keep us apart now. Not your mother, not Ashak by marriage. We are free to love each other openly now, and you can right the wrongs you mother plagued the lands with.“ Jaeden then said, his tone exhausted but soft, trying to convey almost a desperation to hear her speak back.

Jaeden then took another step forward, letting the tip of his boot fall softly over the flask that Kamalia had drank from, slowly looking down to it. He knelt down, picking the flask up in his free hand as he hovered it under the area of the mask where his nose would have been. His sword was suddenly dropped to the ground as it clanged along the stage. At that moment, Jaeden needed painful emotion to, something the Konti herself couldn’t seem to bring out of him oddly enough. So Jaeden dug deep to his past, visualizing that night when he had lost his family. Their screams of panic as silhouetted figures forced them into their burning home. The screams of pain and smell of smoke as they began burning alive. It shot through Jaeden like a blade to his stomach and the flask suddenly dropped from his hand, rattling along the floor. His whole frame dropped to both knees as his hands started to shake uncontrollably, both of his hands reaching up and gripping his hair as his body rocked back and forth in grief. He almost had trouble remembering to stay in character at that point as soft tugs were given to his hair to remind him that he was still alive while those he loved were dead. “You were burned away out of my life!” Jaeden suddenly yelled, his voice shaking and full of grief. “You promised you would be there with me. You promised!”

Jaeden’s arms then fell downward, hanging at his sides as his knuckles rested along the stage floor. His chest heaved with heavy sobbed breaths as echoes of pained emotion lingered through the theater. “Iolanda!” Jaeden yelled, barely remembering that it was her name to be called, rather than his parents and sister. “Why did you leave me?!”

Jaeden then dropped his gaze towards Kamalia, a few tears running down along his cheek under the mask as he fell into total silence at that point, giving Sasin his cue.

[Nyahna Sasin]

Unlike Jaeden, Sasin hadn't noticed the blood-red teardrop on Kamalia's hand. He had been slightly more preoccupied with the inventor, who had disappeared somehow, and with trying to figure out exactly what was happening. They would all have to die, that much he was sure of. Exactly how, though, was not something that he was certain of. This would certainly be a learning experience, he thought dryly. If they survived, anyways.

If they survived. That was a very big if. This too was new. The idea of not living, of his own death, was not something that had ever really occurred to him before today. If he messed this game up, if any of them made a false step, they could all die. It was a sobering thought. He didn't like it, and pushed it to the back of his mind.

Glancing around, he noticed he was the only one left. Stitch and Kamalia were out there, the inventor was still missing, and he could see the other human out in the courtyard. He was painfully aware of the silence, of the fact that the audience was still waiting for something to happen. He should do something, he knew, but what? What could he do?

He started slightly as he noticed the human approach him. He nodded as the man spoke, turning his palm upwards to show the blood tear. Just what was he doing? He appeared to be….tying a waterskin to his stomach, for some reason. His gaze dropped to the jar of red liquid, and grinned as he understood.

He took the jar, smirking a little at Jaeden's words. Glancing down at the jar in his hand, he dipped his finger in the mixture, rubbing between thumb and forefinger. A little thicker than actual blood, and redder than the blood that came from surface wounds, but the lightening was dim, and he doubted the audience would notice. "A tragic ending to a tragic story." He murmured.

He nodded to indicate he had heard everything said, and raised his eyebrow at the man's implication that he could miss. "I don't tell you how to act, and you don't tell me how to make fake stomach wounds." he said, smirking up at Jaeden (damn tall humans.)

Dipping his fingers in the fake blood, he thought for a few seconds, deciding on where to place his wounds. An abdominal wound was definitely needed. Holding his shirt away from himself, he cut straight through it, as if he had been run through. He soaked the area immediately around and on the fake wound, and dripped some down his shirt. He made a few more minor fake cuts before slipping on his mask.

Glancing up, he saw that Jaeden was shaking on stage. Dropping to the ground, Sasin began to crawl onto the stage. His head down, he dragged himself along the stage, not looking up.

As Fyodor began to scream, he looked up. He needed horror. He needed hate. Taking in a deep breath, he stared at Fyodor, trying to bring up feelings of disgust and fear. Glancing at the heavy weaponry aimed at their faces, he shuddered violently. Faceless, she had said, he recalled dimly. Abominations, his mind supplied. Something wrong. Something.. something that shouldn't be. He focused on that, on the wrongness. It didn't really matter that he didn't care that much, as long as he could convince himself.

Slowly, drawing his knife from it's sheath, he stood shakily. Taking a few steps towards the now silent Jaeden, he gazed down at the man, then, summoning up an expression of hate, he drove his knife into the wineskin from the side.

Releasing his hold on the knife, he took a step back, then dropped to his knees. Looking around, he bowed his head, a choked sob slipping from his throat.

"All this death….." He murmured loudly. "For what? Power? Love?"

"Useless." He whispered. Leaning forward, he supported himself with his left arm, his right clutching at his fake wound.

"We've done nothing." He gasped out, his arm buckling, as he collapsed onto the floor.

[Kamalia Timandre]

Princess Iolanda plunged into eternal slumber, enfolded in Dira’s merciful embrace. Her life plucked from Kihala’s grasp for no blade could parry poison’s saccharine kiss. In death, the princess looked like a fragile doll of porcelain— distant, mechanical and motionless. Despite her frame, the Goddess of Death picked the princess up effortlessly. Despite how people clung with all their powers to life, Dira embraced them and collected them so readily and easily. It was an inevitable circumstance where there was no turning back. This, the konti, in the guise of the Princess Iolanda, had accepted long ago.

The sorceress had been aggressive with her machinations, hoping to give Team Dusk advantage over Dawn. Yet, she felt—rather than saw—that she earned the ominous mark of the sinner. The crimson tear had surfaced on her palm, marring its starkness. The konti was deeply angered, not just at herself, but also at the Game’s master. She had played the rules well, and used them to her team’s gain, but it was never inscribed on the stele that even fictional violence on oneself would earn her the Sinner’s Mark. She could remember very clearly, engraved as the fourth rule on the stone slab, were the words “inflicting physical damage on another.” There was no rule that inflicting damage on oneself, let alone fabricated, would make someone lose their innocence!

Kamalia felt betrayed, and as her anger seethed, Stitch would sense his konti friend’s displeasure through his auristics. Was the creator of the Game trying to make her team lose on purpose? For all these injustices, someone has to pay. Now that her hand bore the sinner’s mark, she was more than eager to hurl all the spells she had mastered and restrained herself from casting at the members of Team Dawn. If this was a game of cunning, so be it.

As Dira was gently laying her on the platform, Kamalia took this opportunity to activate her gnosis. She pleaded to Avalis in her mind for a vision, to glean information from the past of this masked actress. The seer’s soul left its shell to swim into the Chavena, the ocean of memories, while the konti’s body was laid lifelessly on the floor. She will have answers.

[Stitch]

Stitch merely stood on the platform, right beside Dira, quelling the emotions rising up within him. First came Kamalia, in a death so elegant that it made his heart shudder with sorrow. Then Jaeden, in a death so bloody that Stitch had to resist the urge to cry out for him. It was an act, was it not? The audience would merely see the body of the blind man shudder, but the emotions that caused such a tremor were hidden from sight. The mask hid his emotions, and turned him into a malicious ghost. What would a ghost do in this situation? The play was working just as his character had predicted. His character was victorious. This is exactly what he wanted, wasn't it? Biting his lower lip, Stitch let the tremors continue. His body shook and shivered, and he fell to his knees, overcome by the tremors. He fell right beside of the Lady Kamalia, letting one hand rest on the small of her back. He would give her a soft pat, a comforting gesture that would only be felt by her. It was the only thing currently left of the once gentle blind man. He had now fallen prey to his part, and would fully play it out in order to leave behind this horrendous excuse for a game.

"Hahahahaha!" Laughter exploding from his quaking body as the last actor fell, bringing Stitch's earlier prophecy to bear. "Lives, loves, nations! The petty squabbles of men and women, their thirst for power, their wants and their needs - they lead to nothing but ruin! Isn't that right, my Goddess?! It is all like you said! It is all like this one decreed would happen for you! On this day, more eyes will have seen the dawn than those left open to see the dusk. For you... you are Dira! And look, milady... Just look!"

Stitch turned to the Goddess, lifting his head to point in her direction, sweeping an arm out to the massacre on the stage. Stitch burst into giggles again, his body trembling, his hands coming up to hold his twitching muscles. "Your chariot is now full!"

He paused now, sweeping his head about, red eyes flickering from body to body. He paused, and drew a shuddering breath, crawling around to now bow at Dira's feet. "Now... My goddess.. Your chariot, it is full! Please, take us!" The laughter slowly died away, turning to small, soft sobs and hiccups. "Take me wherever you will! My Ashak... He has passed too, has he not?! He has vanished from here, and I can only hope he has vanished to the afterlife! Just please, take me there... I have exacted my vengeance, and I tire of these games... I simply wish to go and be with him, or go and wait for him!" Stitch bowed his face to the floor, letting the sobs replace the laughter, letting the sadness overtake his madness. "This one is ready, milady. The players of this fool Game, this ill excuse for a marriage... They are dead"

[Tarot]

Playing this convincingly took some effort on everyone's part. With so little to go by, and so much at stake, even professional actors would have been hard-pressed to perform adequately; yet, these amateurs performed admirably and covered their roles to perfection. Providing acting schools with armed audiences might actually prove a viable strategy, after all. Jaeden cried in despair over Kamalia's fallen form. It didn't sound like something rehearsed or fabricated. There was a sincerity about it that didn't belong in Ashak's Wedding, and the same could be said of Sasin's final scene. In a way, the Dhani turned out to be the biggest surprise for the audience. With characters like Iolanda and the Queen taking the stage, his acting hadn't been credited with any special favor so far, but this scene raised him immensely in the hollow eyes of the armed watchers. With both of them going still in the fake death of their alter ego's, it was up to Stitch to seal the tragedy with his last monologue. Alistair and Gromhir were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they'd gotten lost or trapped in the treacherous halls of this place. The Game could progress without them. They had more than enough masks - and enough innocence - to go on. Dira nodded slowly - and Kamalia's awareness expanded, aided by Avalis' mark, piercing through the Chavi of the masked creature. Never before had she tried to pry into the recesses of such peculiar existences, yet the connections remained. And all of these figures had been actual people at some point. The one who now interpreted the goddess of Death had perhaps the most interesting story to tell, short of the Master of the Game. What Kamalia saw was a gold-skinned woman radiating a cold beauty. Possessing four arms dressed in rich brocades, she could have been nothing but an Eypharian living in far better times. Her smile was subtle and her demeanor aloof as the walked down the corridor of the Royal Palace in Ahnatep. Marks from a stoic goddess graced her forehead. "Lady Lalilah!" a voice called out to her. The woman turned slowly, like a statue awoken to life. It was a courtesan from the palace, exhilarated at the sight of the regal-looking lady. "Please, please, lady Lalilah, if you have one chime, tell me more about the goddess Gnora!" Lalilah motioned for the other woman to approach. "Ah, my dear girl, you ask a question great and terrible. Many gods represent an extreme, meaning that the opposite extreme is their enemy. The goddess, however… she stands for balance, and when you strive for balance every single extreme is your enemy. It means you must indulge not in any attachment of the heart, for you may have to let go of it as it branches away from the Way." The poor girl looked all the more confused. "You will never be able to get close to the goddess," Lalilah explained calmly, "for you can only find her by distancing yourself from everything else." "But, but…" the poor girl fell behind as Lalilah continued to walk. "But what joy is there in such a life? What warmth? What glow?" Lalilah joined both pairs of hands behind her back. "I can see clearly. The goddess has decided how I am to live, and how I am to die. As you enjoy the murkiness of your future, I enjoy the clarity of mine. You will love and live and wither here. I will go on a long journey and make a difference with my Weight upon the Scales - as I live and die. There is not a 'better' or 'worse' life. It is just that people's worlds never really touch…" When Kamalia came to her senses again, the "chariot" platform had already begun its ascension. Pulleys and levers pulled and turned, and the platform was slowly lifted from the stage with Dira and the four remaining participants. The audience aimed their crossbows at the hanging weight for several long seconds. Then, breaking the silence of the theater, the first crossbow fell down on the floor with a loud thud. It was followed by another, then a dagger and a sword, all clanking as they flew down from the boxes. The audience calmly broke into polite applause. They did not stop as long as the actors were in sight. The platform stopped some ten meters above the stage and against the wall, where a camouflaged door stood open. Gromhir had been here before. Dira gestured for the actors to enter. Beyond was a small room with a door. Around the door they could see five slots for their masks. "The Master of the Game is awaiting you," Dira's actress said.