January Event: Rejection Rooms

[lifeaftr_mods]

JANUARY EVENT: REJECTION ROOMS

Who: Anyone and everyone!
What: Rejecting your Light comes with dire consequences
When: January 25th - 28th
Where: All over Monsun
Warnings: Violence and possible character death; please note any specific content warnings if they come up!

You're Ruled by the Things You Feel

This log is primarily for the Rejection Room portion of the event, for ease and convenience. To quote our event post:

Characters intent on rejecting their Light will find themselves irrevocably drawn to Monsun's shores. They might not even be aware of it - driven by their rage, their paranoia, their fear, or all of the above, and more. Monsun, for its part, is happy to receive them. Its landscape has become so warped over time...and those parts of Monsun consumed by shadow will start to distort, molding into structures that such characters are only too happy to hide within: Rejection Rooms.

Those who challenge the Rejection Rooms need not worry about death for themselves - damage taken within the rooms will simply translate to exhaustion outside of it, with seemingly mortal wounds leading to expulsion from the room itself, and an inability to re-enter.

The same holds true for the boss of each Room. Failure to beat them into expulsion means that the Room will continue to feed from their wildly catastrophizing mind, until there's nothing left to save at all.

So, simply top-level below with your character if they've signed up for a Rejection Room and prepare for whoever wants to gamble a confrontation. We recommend linking to the comment that details your character's Room, for the benefit of others. Remember to communicate; if your character is still trapped in their Room by the event's end, they will suffer a character death, though characters who merely try and fail to free them will not.

If your Rejection Room opt-in comment did not receive any response or additional discussion from the mod team, consider your Room and moveset approved; we want to allow for retroactive edits to your comments and plans, if those become necessary!

---

Some useful links, for reference:

[ ♆ ] OOC Event Post
[ ♆ ] Rejection Room Sign-Ups, for information on what Rejection Rooms look like
[ ♆ ] Deaths Page; death penalties have been reduced for the duration of this event, but remember to let us know if your character is still stuck in their Room by the event's end!

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] January 20th: The monthly Storytelling occurs.
[ ♆ ] January 21st: Shadows of both initial variants appear.
[ ♆ ] January 23rd: Shadows of both initial variants disappear.
[ ♆ ] January 25th Lights and Rejection Rooms appear.
[ ♆ ] January 28th: Lights and Rejection Rooms dissipate. Those still trapped in their Rejection Rooms by the event's end will suffer a character death.

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Comments

Troupe Master Grimm | Open

[fireindreams]

[The only thing that breaks the silence is the rhythm of a heartbeat.

This room takes the shape of an open area. Beautiful and thick white fluffy clouds drift by against an light orange background and all was lit by a large sun. A mysterious and powerful energy seeps off of said sun in wisps of smoke and jutting out from the ground were four large sets of horn shaped structures. Strangely if one has met the Hollow Knight, these horns will look very familiar.

It is peaceful here and possesses a dream-like quality to it. For you see, this is the Dream Realm of Hallownest, the place where the Radiance once ruled from on high. But her rule created a shadow as bugking all began to have nightmares. The veil pulled back, the fears that bugs pushed deep down and away, that which burned with an eternal flame.

Her brother, the Nightmare King.

The large platform one stands on with they enter looks like it was stitched together, a patchwork of felt with the colors white, red and blue. Veins of a heart that are stitched together wrap around the platform and glow with a pure white light. A promise, a protection. They will not be harmed. Red smoke mingles freely with the light of the sun and a steady heartbeat echos in the silence. In the center of the platform is a large beating heart. But unlike the stitched together nature of the Nightmare Heart's veins and the patchwork floor, the Heart was whole. The slits in the organ poured out nothing but white light. Another promise, another form of protection. The cycle will continue.

To sleep is to dream, is to have nightmares. This is what it was like before all was lost and torn apart.

Dreamcatcher symbols of both white and red that drift in the air are disturbed by the familiar firework-crack of teleportation. And there stands Grimm, standing tall and carefully watching those who walk into this world. There is a piercing glare to his expression, something normally not present on the Troupe Master's face.

For this is the past and he did not exist then. What stands before you is the Nightmare King in his mind. He is still one with his sister, a fall has not taken place. They are the cycle of sleep as a whole and not yet broken.

Those who enter this place best be prepared for a fight. It will begin at the sound.]

[ooc: room and moveset details are here.]

[lightlessfuture]

[ This place is terrifyingly familiar. (This place is terribly unfamiliar.)

They know what it is (they know what it is not)

It's not safe here. (m͟҉ą̛͠ybe̴̶ it never was?)

In dream (in nightmare)

The light is to be feared, it pierces any darkness (the flame burns when it is touched, the shadows fly from it)

They are terribly afraid. (They are ashamed of that fear.)

There's a kind of numbness to their actions, like they're disconnected. Like the part of them moving and the part of them thinking are separate things. Their heart pounds, but it seems muted. Only fear is sharp, sorrowful, painful.

They don't know how they should feel, so they stop thinking about it. Focus narrows to a sharp point; reality begins at the point of their nail and nowhere else.

They don't bother with a challenge this time. Everything feels wrong.

They dash forward into battle, closing the distance between them. Their nail sweeps out, shining brightly; the sound echoes from the force of their opening strike.

(They don't know what they fear the most; that their opponent will recognise them, or that he won't.) ]

[fireindreams]

[The wisps of red smoke calls to them. The white energy pouring from the sun rejects them.

And in the center of it all stands Grimm. The Troupe Master, the side of him that was no God, now gone. The God of Nightmares, the side that remains, the pure essence of Flames.

The wanderer and the Vessel. The Troupe Master and the God of Nightmares. A share of common points, fates etched in stone. Only one of them has defied their fate, however. Grimm remains where he stands.

They come at him with blade at the ready. The Knight no longer sees with their eyes just as Grimm does not. What happens will happen when the blade meets shell.

Or it would if Grimm did not act. He does not teleport away but rather opens his cloak. No firebats come flying out to intercept the Knight, no spikes, no overt gestures of flair that they know from him. Even the Nightmare King possessed some level of grand gestures but there is nothing here.

What is hidden under the God of Nightmare's cloak is nothing but darkness.

It claws its way out of Grimm's form in large, thick tendrils, shooting out at the Knight and chasing after them if they retreat. It is a level of stubbornness to match their own, regrets that trail from Grimm to the Knight in hopes of catching them in their grip.

It will stick to them, as regrets will do, if the tendrils touch their body. There is no pain involved, however. Nothing will hurt them and if they are quick they can still damage Grimm as he is standing in the same place.

But they know regrets, they know the Void. And Grimm is the God of Nightmares. The veil that bugs threw over their fears is torn to shreds by his mere presence.

And shadows will always dream of his fire.]

beauregard | open

[lesbeau]

[It seems, at first, there's no one there.

The destroyed library before this room seems like it's in media res; the cathedral like room trashed by something with enough force to break the building itself in two. The deep blue of the dome in the ceiling is untouched, but the single light that seems to shine down from the top only adds to the ransacked nature of the space. Shelves are topped and broken, the staircases carefully carved into them crumbled and chipped. Certain ones that were pillars for other higher stories, platforms built into the spiraling expanse, leave these landings without support and they too slope towards the ground.

Welcome, adventurers, to The Archive of the Cobalt Soul. I hope you signed in correctly- though no one in this dream is here to check.

To get to Beau is to walk through her mess- the wreckage of a hurricane she left behind, books ripped and waterlogged, tables and chairs destroyed and thrown astray. But despite the wreckage, following the path- and the light- will make her location apparent. In the very center lies a large sinkhole, the wood of the floor splintered like a crashing star down a floor to the basement below. From the swinging light overhead, the stage can be seen- a sand pit, speckled with blood. Spectators against the walls in blue coats and slicked down hair, tied and posed at the ready. Four archers, one in each corner, stand with weapons; when a challenger enters, they will draw, but not yet fire.

As soon as someone drops into the pit, all of the monks in the edges will speak in unison.]

Challenger approaching! Get up!

[And out of a corner of the shadows, Beau will appear, dressed only in a brown gi with her hair tied back in a single blue ribbon.

She'll take her stance. And wait for the call.]

[ooc: Room information and movelist is over here!]

[hyperlit]

[Under any other circumstances...this would be their favored sort of place. A vast library, full of things to take in and learn, a massive, sprawling archive so massive that it's impossible gauge just how high up that vaulted ceiling goes. It reminds them, inevitably, of the great Library present in the mountains of the North, though it is just as solemnly in a state of utter disarray. It looks even worse off than the rooms built into the deep, swooping chasms and rising peaks, which merely seemed dilapidated and forgotten, acquiring a patina of dust and wear due to so many years of disuse and neglect. By all rights, a space this massive shouldn't exist in the pockets of shadow that glistened on the banks of Monsun, but the rules of space are easily mutable beneath the right amount of pressure, they've learned.]

[This place looks as though it was torn apart with purpose, or that it was simply the backdrop in a flurrying hurricane of blows. The centerpiece of it all suggests that this might be the case; that massive crater of sand, declining into a sinkhole with Beau at its heart, dominates all else.]

[The Drifter takes in each of the spectators, and the four archers, one by one. None of them attack.]

[There's no question of what must transpire, before any sort of reasonable discussion may be held. The Drifter's blade springs to life with a quiet tone. They are fully armed. Their arsenal has been untouched. Six shots in their rifle. Four in their zaliska. Two Roly Poly bombs. And, of course, their trusty hard light blade.]

[It's difficult to perceive this as a true challenge, when every confrontation with foes of this grandeur and set-up were always...they were bigger, for one. The artificially tall Hierophant, the crystalline Hanged Man, the gluttonous Emperor. Here, it is merely Beau.]

[Beau, and those who have surrounded her.]

[They know this routine. One must be beaten into submission, before they can be addressed.]

[There is no harm in trying. And Beau...Beau is someone with whom they've braved several gauntlets, at this point. It seems a particularly cruel oversight to not, at the very least, try.]

[So they do.]

come with me

[lesbeau]

[It may be worse that this place was destroyed, rather than left to rot. But as a reflection of her inner self, of the identity she's fostered, it's apropos. She can put whatever fronts she wants forward, whatever they've made her into, but inside it's all she has to knock it all down.

She doesn't know what that makes her, now, pulling herself from the dirt as the monks announce The Drifter's arrival. Taking their commands, looking to prove something, trying to fight on her own power. At least it means she isn't stopping. At least it means she won't die.

Beau looks at them ahead of her, the words appearing, her face flat. She doesn't even seem to move from her stance as one of the monks from the side shouts begin! and an archer from the corner lines up and takes the shot. In an instant, Beau reaches out grabbing it just before it hits her head, and she screams as she spins back an arm like a pitch and sends it heading their way. She's just behind it, feet hitting the sand with her staff at the ready, the question left without a reply.

It seems, first, you will need to fight before anyone can be saved.]

[devilstongue]

BEAU!

[ The place is a mess, and he doesn't really recognize any of it. It looks fancy at first, aside from being absolutely wrecked. He'd expect a library from Caleb - but then again, he doesn't know much about the Cobalt Soul other than the outside of it.

The pit below is a lot more Beauregard-ish, though. Fighting space with sand and blood? That made sense. Molly carefully jumps down, landing pretty well and even with an unintended flair of that overly patterned coat. His weapons are sheathed, obviously not looking for a fight.

He's getting his friend out. ]

I'm not gonna challenge you! We're leaving.

[ He glares over at the weird people on the sides, more likely to try to fight them than Beau. ]

[barberian]

(It looks like a storm passed through here, but Yasha does not feel relieved and energised by the thought of that as she usually would. She stoops to fish up a book from the floor, realising too late that it has no pages left in it. The empty cover flops in her hand. She tosses it aside.)

What happened?

(Molly isn't looking at the books. He's started to move toward the center of the room, following the blow-back of debris toward the edge of what looks like a pit. Yasha approaches with a bit of caution, gaze flicking immediately toward the monks lining the edge with their bows at the ready.)

Molly, (she hisses, watching him drop into the pit with nary a worry. She rolls her eyes, draws the Judge, and follows him. Molly might like to appear unarmed, but Yasha wants everybody in this place to know she's not afraid to start shit. Even Beauregard, who stands before them, unnaturally still. She drops a hand onto Molly's shoulder lightly, gaze flicking back to the monks. They don't seem like they might fire, but that doesn't assuage her concern.)

We should get out of here. Something isn't right.

Foster | Open | Mind the CW

[cacoethes_mori]

It's enough to cause a headache within seconds. The distorted space, rooms fitting together incoherently--a long, stark-white tube-like machine emerging from a wall, simultaneously perpendicular and parallel to a wall covered in black and grey monochrome mosaic of X-rays and MRIs and photographs of brains, the bed central and yet furthest away; the sink and cabinets at an oblique angle to the examination table with its roll of white, coarse paper to cover the leather; the too-bright, fluorescent lighting; the air both sharp and flat with antiseptic smell.

There are flowers in vases and balloons tied to teddy bears and trays with medical items, surgical implements and bottles of pills and syringes of yellow-green fluid that might as well be radioactive highlighter ink but probably are not.

And there's Foster by the bed, his hind end pressed into a corner and back legs half-buckled, front legs stiff and braced on the waxed-and-sealed tile floor. His claws curl tightly into the sheet tucked over the bed-bound figure, eyes fixed, the heart monitor beeping, and the energy of the room rings with the tension of waiting.

Until the MRI machine starts, and the arrhythmic banging layers over the steady beep, immediately joined by the hollow PA voice announcing code violet, repeating code violet--

Foster yanks back, head up, eyes wide as they lock with his intruders'. The body under the covers is ripped off the bed and hits the floor, blanket and all. The heart monitor's grating flatline tone begins.

And with it, the fight.

[bitch4bitch]

The nice thing about this whole situation is that Erika has no compunctions about beating Foster up. In fact, this is a welcome fucking opportunity, and one that could be argued to be for his own good to boot.

So, when he jolts upright, dragging the body off the bed, she doesn't hesitate. She charges toward him, fist clenched tight around her brass knuckles, just... 100% aiming to punch him in the face. She'll figure out a more detailed plan from there.

[cacoethes_mori]

Foster doesn't look supremely impressed at Erika's appearance. He watches her arrive, watches her square up and break into a run right for him.

He doesn't even do anything about the body on the floor, or the amount of (and volume of) noise ringing through the room(?)

He just sinks his own teeth into his upper arm and swings his arm wide, spattering fresh blood across the floor.

And that blood flows together, and coagulates, and rises out of the floor.

As a fuck-off massive bear made of blood and ghostly energy.

It's huge. Impossibly huge. It takes up Erika's entire visible field, somehow fills every corner of the warped, multidimensional hospital space. And it charges right for her, into her, and over her, all claws and muscles plowing through the room before disappearing entirely. All that's left are the medical carts, medical tools and trays scattered all over the floor, files drifting through the air... and a small, wet spatter of blood on the back wall.

Alexei Dinoia | Open

[ideismo]

[In the end, he can't really say what drives him back to Monsun's shores; it hadn't struck him as a source of comfort or solace the first time, the area seemed a bit too much like it was suffering from some sort of hideous aer imbalance, but the fact of the matter is that it's somewhere and perhaps more importantly it's somewhere that he isn't running much risk of being found - he's made a point for the past two months to tell Yeager where he'll be but he hasn't even told him about this, much less anyone else. He just wants to be alone, with his thoughts and his anger and his...this, whatever this new thing is that's been eating at his mind and preoccupying him and he can't quite identify it, whether it's fear or guilt or something else entirely, but either way it's something that he hasn't felt in a long, long time and he'd really quite like it to stop.

And it doesn't, after he arrives, but once he's there he isn't inclined to leave, either.

The area he's in - the room, if it can be called that - is massive and circular and more to the point it's bright, the walls ringing the area opening up to the bright sky above; the first thing that will likely register apart from the room's size is the sound of rushing water as thick, heavy curtains of it spill down over the top of the structure, endless waterfalls pouring down into a deep pool of water down below. Protruding from the depths are four pillars, equidistant from one another around the room, each bearing a bright green crystal hovering atop them; the "floor" of the room is hovering a few feet above the water in the form of a raised, narrow bridge leading to a diamond-shaped platform in the center of the room.

Alexei himself can be found on that platform at the center; he has Dein Nomos out, the business end of the sword resting against the floor, his hands settled on the crossguard. The apatheia at the crux of it is bright, seeming to glow from within with some sort of energy that's difficult to describe but very, very alive. He isn't alone, either, the entrance to the platform is flanked by a pair of people that are looking very, very dead behind the eyes. They don't seem to be interested in attacking you just yet, but they are keeping watch, silent and still; they seem to be waiting for something.

Either way, the innermost chamber of the Enduring Shrine of Zaude awaits whomever chooses to enter - but in the end, there's nothing here for you. Nothing to use, nothing to hide behind, nothing to help you - nothing but the fight to come.]


{OOC: Room and moveset details are here.]

[scythegun]

[Let's get one thing clear: Yeager didn't come here after Alexei.

Sure, he was mildly irritated when he'd discovered Alexei had taken off without telling him, but it was something he figured might happen at some point. It wasn't like he's been relying on Alexei anyway. He's more than capable of taking care of himself. He always has been. He was only sticking around because Alexei's familiar, and familiarity is better than being here entirely alone, without anything or anyone he recognizes.

He doesn't set out after Alexei, because it's not like he cares what happens to the man. If Alexei ends up dead, he'll only be a bit annoyed he wasn't the one who got to land the killing blow. So it doesn't matter, and since there really isn't anything that matters at all anymore, he figures why not head back to Monsun. It was strange and bizarre, and he didn't really care about that either, but perhaps with any luck he'll locate monsters to fight or something to do with himself to burn all the excess energy that's been building since he found himself here.

He doesn't exactly expect to find himself in Zaude, but he's not really surprised when it happens.

Yeager hadn't seen this area of Zaude, but it's not difficult to tell where he is. He'd stayed behind, while Alexei had gone ahead to mess with the blastia and do... well, whatever the hell he wanted with it, really. Yeager had been so far beyond caring at that point, it really didn't matter to him what happened to Zaude, to the world. Even now he doesn't feel anything about being back here, and he feels even less about the three people before him.

Another illusion, another trick, yet another instance of something he should care about.]

It was nice of you to leave me out of your bizarre puppet show. It'd be even nicer if you'd point me in the direction of the exit. I'm not exactly interested in dealing with whatever any of this is.

[He's got his weapon with him, still in its briefcase form, but he knows better than to think this will end without resorting to violence. It's the sort of thing that should be interesting, exciting even, but unfortunately, it isn't. How annoying.]

[ideismo]

Then go.

[It's clipped, blunted in a way that he usually isn't; he's often distant and stoic and more than a bit cold, but this is something else entirely, there's a sharpness to it that usually isn't there.]

If you can't find your way from here, that's of no concern to me. I didn't order you to be here; I have no need of you.

Ardyn Izunia | closed to the XVs

[scourgingstars]

[When faced with kindness extended like a hand to pull him from the darkness, when confronted by the very concept that there were any part of him still possessed of human sentiment, Ardyn only ever had one reaction. Kindness was a lie told by those with ulterior motives and those who dared claim they knew anything about him. He wasn't human, he felt nothing but the hate and rage that manifested in the darkness that made up his unliving, undying body.]

[Rejection. Reject the light, reject humankind, reject all except the darkness and the fury.]

[The atmosphere of the throne room was cold and dead, the sickly sky above darkened by some unearthly force. It was deathly silent, and Ardyn's voice cut through the stagnant air with all the sharpness of a knife as a result. He slowly stood from the throne, beneath the faintly glowing Crystal speared through and hanging chained.]

I have tolerated this foolish endeavor for all the pointless blink of time spent upon these islands, and I shall not test my own patience by humoring it any longer. You mortals forget your place, and you forget mine as the monster to blacken the sun--the scourge of the very stars. The world had its chosen--its sage, its savior, yet gods and mortals alike chose instead to crush him out. All the world's pain and suffering was borne by one, and so shall it be turned upon them in deserved vengeance. Humankind had its chance, and now all shall receive precisely what it chose to give: cruelty, suffering, and to drown in the endless dark.

It's too late for anything else, and to pretend otherwise is naught but an empty gesture. Love, attachment, happiness...all such sentiments have long since gone well beyond my reach, and I care not to seek them out ever again.

[In a flash of red he stood at the top of the stairs, looking down to those on the floor. There was no malicious smirk on his face now--just something very cold and dark, as if Ardyn were looking at nothing more than an infestation to be dealt with.]

Such meaningless things--

[Slowly he raised his arms out to his sides...and in a burst of fleeting crystals did his Armiger appear, thirteen phantom weapons of magenta light circling around Ardyn steadily.]

I'll destroy them all.

[QUEST UPDATED: Whom The Gods Would Destroy...]
[---]
[Defeat Ardyn.]

*cracks knuckles* Lets do this!

[shatteredlenses]

[Ignis has no way to know for certain that the room he stands in is the Throne Room. Sounds echo in a slightly different, but still familiar way. In his heart, though he cannot help but feel there is nowhere else Ardyn would choose for such a last stand. It is, after all, where he had his last stand. The place where it all was suppose to end and did not because he was pulled away just after Noctis...

Ignis' lips thin. Noctis is the reason Ignis has stumbled upon this place so soon. Early in the morning he had felt the bond between them severed once again as the island lost its grip on his prince, perhaps because the grip of the Prophecy was just that much stronger. Nonetheless, the loss had sent him looking for the other King to whom he had pledge himself only to find himself, not drawn to Ardyn's rundown shack, but the shores of Monsun and this place.

He tilts his head up, blind eyes searching for the man he knows stands above him. When he hears the unmistakable sound of an Armiger activating, he knows he should draw his own weapons in defense, especially after the speech that was given. Ardyn has obviously given into his darker urges, but he had made a promise to his light side--to them both--and he will not run nor will he fight.

At least, not with weapons. There are other ways to fight and it is those ways he will use. It's what he was trained for after all.

His body tenses ready for motion, and Ignis finds himself grateful that he began carrying the visor he was awarded after the trials with him wherever he went. He has a feeling it will be of invaluable aid to him before this is all over.

I'll destroy them all.

The proclamation causes a determined and challenging look to cross Ignis' face. Unsurprisingly, he has a proclamation of his own to return.]

You can try. Some lights cannot be destroyed, even by the deepest darkness, and you, beloved monster, are nowhere near as dark as you believe yourself to be.

[scourgingstars]

And yet any little flame can be very easily extinguished.

[Ardyn hesitated for only a moment--narrowing gold eyes and curling his hand around the suddenly-appearing Blade of the Mystic before darting forward in a thrown sword and flash of red, swinging his brother's weapon with intent to kill.]

by "defeat" you mean piss off more, right?

[piercetheheart]

[Seeing Ardyn upon the throne when his last memories were of Noctis' body pinned upon the throne, limp and lifeless for him to remove Regis' sword from his chest, makes his heart crawl up into his throat and for a moment he has to swallow back that surge of emotion. Especially now when Noctis' power has faded, their link broken once more and he knows that Ardyn is once again the only king left here.

All the more reason to beat some sense into him.]

Destroy them...?

[Gladio sighs, tugs the teal feathered cloak higher on his shoulders, casually adjusts the strap of his shield.]

You can destroy people all you want but it's not going to end concepts like love and happiness, Ardyn. You know that. You couldn't destroy our hope with 10 years of darkness and you're not going to convince everyone to stop caring about you just because you throw a hissy fit.

[He spreads his feet, ready to defend but still relaxed. There is no way this can go that he won't be okay with it.]

bingo

[scourgingstars]

Oh, Gladiolus. [He walked down the steps in slow and deliberate motions, Armiger still spinning around him.] I've no desire to hear that from you, of all people.

Why do you insist upon keeping me around? Is this perhaps my punishment for all that I've done? You try to get me to lower my guard, and then- [Raising a hand slightly, Ardyn snapped his fingers.] -just like that, you and he alike abandon me.

Certainly wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps I'd even deserve it the second time around.

[want_to_belong]

[Prompto wasn't overly familiar with the throne room, but as he wanted into the place that seemed stripped of all joy and warmth, he could take a wild guess where he was. It was only natural that he had been on Monsun, a place he had loved so much before and came crawling back to hoping to soothe his mind once again. He came to explore the oddities while no one seemed to know exactly what was going on.

When his eyes turned up he instantly took a step back. He might have always been taught to 'take the shot', but that was a shot he didn't want. As much as they were people he never got to know well enough, he knew who they were, and what they meant to his companions. What he knew of them, he knew he didn't want to see them strung up.

He swallowed, lips tightening. His eyes lowered back down to Ardyn. Hands held his camera protectively to his chest.]

Dude.

[His relationship with Ardyn had been completely separate from Gladio and Iggy. He couldn't say they were on 'friendly' terms, or that he'd even exactly tried to become BFFs with him. He was more tolerating him and distantly hopeful.

He shook his head.]

Why bother with this now, after everything? You can't just... pretend there's no good side.

[He furrowed his brows. He was not about to win a physical clash with Ardyn. Neither was he in a spot to try and win via words. He would have to figure out something different.]

[scourgingstars]

Oh, I absolutely can because there isn't. You of all people should know that for a fact. You can't truly be so deluded as to think I could ever change?

Dirk Strider | Open

[timaeus_testified]

[It's all too easy to duck and dodge some kind of sign that he's some great person and living up to the legacy of martial nobility left to him by his vaulted ancestor. He hasn't felt like he's living up to anything for a long time. Everything he touches seems to get messed up because he can't get out of his own damn way. He's so sick of himself.

How many times will his other selves take up the slack when he tries to retreat? He's drawn to Monsun's shores like a siren calls to sailors. It's an out and he takes it. The light turns emerald green and the world he'd been trapped in gives way to the familiar scuffed and battered by battle and age apartment roof top he's known all his life. Buildings rise all around him. They're empty, some are crumbling with age. He is the noble, meant to wait and that's exactly what he does.

It's all he's good at. Dirk rests the dull edge of his sword against his shoulder as the scuff of sneakers briefly catch his attention. Lightning cracks briefly illuminating the trio standing together under the ugly sky. The roof is wide and flat, the perfect kind of place to throw down. If there had been railings they rusted and fell apart long, long ago. The exit from the roof is shut tight and a heavy sense of anticipation and danger fills the air.

No one speaks. They stand silently until intruded upon. The sandy haired blond teenager that looks so much like Dirk turns and walks to the right side of the roof. The girl with sharp horns and a shark tooth kind of smile walks away to the left. She plants her cane tip down on the roof. Dirk walks slowly back to the edge of the roof and studies the intruder.]

No. I'm not going anywhere. [Maroon light ripples and spreads up his arms like the lightning spreading over the thick dark green clouds.]

There's only one way you'll get me to listen to anything. [Dirk stabs a finger at his opponent, sword held in his right hand. He brings the blade up, closing both hands around the hilt and launches forward in a blur of speed.

[S] Dirk: Reject.

ooc: Room and move set are here.]

Chip Abaroa | OTA

[demonpuppy]

[The room you find yourself in is small...or it should be. Despite there only being ten or so rows of pews in this church, the sanctuary stretches on near endlessly, twisting and turning in on itself and even bulging in places to create small alcoves. Scattered growths of clear quartz crystal cling to the walls, pews, even jut out of the floor into massive columns that cast a small circle of light that somehow stave off the oppressive air of fear and dread that marks the rest of the church. Everything, from the light to the objects to even those standing within are cast in stark shades of pure black and white, though details are still somehow clear despite this.]

"Our Lord, who paints the world in Red and White..."

"Who are these people? I'm surprised they didn't burn themselves on the wards coming in!"

[The pews, though empty, still hold an unseen presence. Voices fill the air, their murmurs only just audible as one passes further and further into the chamber. Though hard to pick out at first, the words become clear the further one ventures. Prayers, gossip, judgement...they pick away at flaws in appearance, stature, morality, unceasing and uncaring.]

"Guide us to our salvation, free us from our earthly sins."

"You know what that type is like. I don't care how devout you are, nothing changes what you were born with!"

[Directly ahead stands the pulpit, seemingly abandoned with a massive bible sitting open upon it. Behind is a mass of solid obsidian that engulfs a massive cross, cracked in half and fused into the fluid curves of the stone. The flow is formed into masses of flesh-like shapes, arms with wicked-looking spurs and mouths containing far too many teeth--almost reminiscent of a Fustercluck, if not for a certain uniformity to it all. In the center is a formation almost like a partially broken egg, hollow inside with a single occupant.]

[Chip scribbles furiously in a notebook, their grip on the marker in their hands white-knuckled with something like fury or grief. Before anyone can pass the third-to-final pew, their head shoots up to stare at the intruders, their eyes pitch black and empty of any light. They grit their teeth and thrust the notebook forward, and a pack of malformed monsters spring out to charge those nearest as Chip screams in defiance:]

GO AWAY!!

[bitch4bitch]

[There is pretty much nothing about this that Erika doesn't hate. Moving through the warping church only makes that bad feeling worse by the second, and her hand tightens on the hilt of the knife tucked into her jacket. She's reluctant to draw any weapons at the moment - as creepy as this place can be, she can just see Chip from here, and she doesn't want to scare them. If she can get their attention--

She's just about to speak when their scream rings out, and those things are charging at her. Erika swears under her breath and draws her knife, darting back and to the side to put a little distance between herself and the monsters. Not much chance of getting far enough back to make using any of her limited bullets worth it, no matter how much she's not looking forward to fighting these things up close.] --Chip! It's me, I just-- want to talk!

[lightlessfuture]

[ A church. Empty pulpits. An unceasing whisper.

The Knight barely pays them any mind; they straighten their back and lift their head. They are ghosts, or dreams maybe, and if such things cannot touch them then they will pay them no heed.

If they are too weak to bring nail and claw and fang to bear, to be made flesh or dream-real, then such voices may as well not exist.

Chip's eyes are empty again, like theirs. They sit in an egg, much like theirs, and the darkness that crawls from it and from their book and words is given painful shape.

If they can't reach their friend through kindness, it must be combat. And, at least, combat is what they're good at; so they launch themselves forward without fear or hesitation to strike the monsters down. ]