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vestigelogs2020-10-26 11:08 pm
vestigemods) wrote in vestigelogs2020-10-26 11:08 pm
(event) WELCOME TO THE MASQUERADE
WELCOME TO THE MASQUERADE
OCTOBER 31ST
► THE ARRIVAL
- Whether you'd like to admit it or not, some part of you couldn't quite take your mind off of this so-called Masquerade Ball. That part may have been buried deep down under layers of introversion or party-pooping, but it was there. Something about it fascinated you, as if a choice not to attend would be one you couldn't help but feel you'd regret for months to come.
Or perhaps you weren't reluctant at all. Perhaps as soon as the flyers went up, a thrilled gleam flickered across your eyes, and you made tracks for Foodland to scrape together some kind of costume for the occasion. Learned to dance, maybe. Even asked your friend or your sweetheart or that passably-attractive stranger on the street to be your date for the evening. Hey, we're not here to judge.
For some, this is your first time visiting the tent in the brand new clearing. Others may have passed by it sometime since it the night it popped up nearly ten whole days ago, stealing a glance but never quite recognizing that the arrival of such a thing might be odd (or perhaps even ominous). Either way, the lifeless polyester husk has come to life on this night, the formerly drab-looking purple now rich and glowing through from inside. The tent flap sits unzipped, catchy dance-worthy music trickling out from inside. This might just be the best shindig since the @cock.licking.idiot's lake party. (Or it might be an absolute fucking disaster. You know how these things go.)
THE PARTY
- The tent flap unzips of its own accord at precisely six in the evening, and already the sounds of a sort of era-neutral dance beat trickle out of the dim. Assuming you have a costume, you'll be able to stroll right inside. If you've tried to cut corners by simply dressing nice, your feet will stick for a moment just before entry, but it seems to merely be a warning. An 'I know what you're trying to pull and I'm letting it slide just this once', but from who? It's impossible to say. If you've not dressed up at all, well, you'll find your feet stick fast just outside the entry flap, unable to move in any direction but backward. That's alright, really - you can run quick to fetch a costume if you'd like, any costume will do.
From the inside, the tent is even larger and more grand than it seemed, and is decorated with subtle but eerie Halloween decor. The lighting is dim but not nearly enough to strain your eyes, coming largely from the scattering of old-fashioned lanterns dangling from the ceiling on near-invisible chains. Touch the walls of the tent, at least in the main ballroom, and you'll feel a nearly unseen layer shift under your fingers, feeling entirely too much like a layer of sturdy cobwebs for many's comfort. The music itself comes from out-of-the-way black speakers in various corners of the ballroom, along both the floor and the ceilings. There's no 'deejay station' or any kind of stage. There is, however, a small tablet halfway up the wall next to the refreshments tables to allow you to queue up a song through a rather simple-to-use interface or even voice command. It even responds to vague requests, like "something less stuffy" or "gimme a slow jam".
Speaking of refreshments, there are plenty. Two tables large enough to seat at least eight are covered in plates and bowls of various snacks and finger-foods, from sweet to savory. The food is absolutely fresh, more so even than what you'd find at foodland - the veggie tray is crisp and well-stocked, and the chunks of various meats and cheeses taste almost artisanal. Next to the food sits a similar table with two large punch-bowl centerpieces - one bowl of 'Blood Punch' (like regular punch, but darker red), and one bowl of 'Kicky Blood Punch' (the same, but with alcohol in it). The punch is almost definitely the best refreshment on offering, the absolute perfect mix of tangy and sweet, complete with floating and submerged chunks of fresh pineapple. The plates and cups both are a sturdy transparent plastic, the one break from the otherwise uniformly festive gathering.
Near the refreshments are the only other furniture in the room (beyond the occasional bench along the wall), a handful of lightweight faux-cast-iron tables, each with a set of matching chairs. It's a place to sit while you catch your breath from all that dancing, or even just to kick back and mingle.
A couple of hallways shoot off from the ballroom, one at each side, and while they each lead to a bathroom, wandering past the bathroom may very well get you lost. The tent wasn't this large from the outside, was it? Unless you're looking for somewhere to be alone, you may want to consider heading back.
THE PANIC
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This Masquerade Ball's been quite an occasion... Music, celebration, and plenty of good food and drink. But once the clock strikes nine, it all begins to unravel.
Not blatantly, of course. It may even take a few minutes for the partygoers to realize quite what's occurred. One lantern burns out, then two, then three, enough to dim the room even further but not plunge it into darkness altogether. The slow zip of the entry flap is nearly inaudible over the sounds of the music, but once it's zipped, it's stuck hard and fast and not even inhuman strength can budge it - nor can you slice a new exit through the wall of the tent. Even the music itself begins to distort, from clear to scratchy, or from quick to slow as if toggling the fast-forward key. By twenty minutes after nine, whichever half-mutilated tune it's playing degenerates to a single long screech, like feedback almost but much too raw. And then the speakers are silent... But by now, most of you have your own troubles to deal with.
Because fears have begin to manifest - not just any fears, but your deepest and darkest, the ones that terrify you and plague your dreams. Some, you'll recognize right away. Others may be the best available interpretation, foreign to you but for the visceral fear it elicits in your gut. Some go away in a few short minutes. Others will haunt you until the very instant midnight strikes.
It wouldn't be Halloween without a few good scares, now would it?
Once the clock strikes midnight, all remaining fears disappear back into shadows or obscure corners, or even through the newly-unzipped flap of the tent, never to return. Has it really only been three hours since that started? It feels like much longer, enough so that it's jarring to see by the moon that the night has just barely begun. By now, it's painfully obvious that attending the Masquerade was a shady idea at best - why didn't you see it before? You can't imagine how something so obvious slipped past you, but it did.
As soon as the last shaken partygoer steps out from inside, the tent collapses in a formless heap on the grass. There it lingers, a deflated shell of both the vibrant party and the den of terrors it was just minutes or hours ago. In fact, it's still there even as the last person leaves the clearing, but should you return for another glimpse even sixty short seconds later, you'll find that the tent (in all of its immensity) has disappeared altogether.
At this point, weary partygoers are free to drag their tired, potentially traumatized, and generally hungover asses back to wherever they call home. Into bed, most likely - if they can even fall asleep, after a nightmare like that.
► MOD NOTES
- This is a catch-all log for top-levels pertaining to October's Welcome To The Masquerade event. Go ahead and utilize vestigenet for any event-related network posts you'd like to make.
- All event information can be found in the Event Write-Ups tab of the October Bulletin, as well as the Masquerade FAQ.
- Please take care to label your top-levels or prompts with either which segment of the event it pertains to (the party or the nightmares) and/or what time it takes place (before 9 or after 9), so that folks looking for either fun party stuff or horror stuff can see at a glance where they might hop in.
- The network does still work during the fear portion of this event, and characters are able to post to it and/or contact others within or outside of the tent.
- Reiterating that it is possible for your character to resist the inclination to attend the Masquerade - it's more of a shove in the party-ward direction than any sort of compulsory thing.
- Any questions can be directed to this top-level or, for a quicker response, to Trace on discord/plurk.
gilia | open
It wasn't necessarily a costume to her, at least not directly. It was certainly however the finest cloth she had been able to find of the dozens there. The fine and beautiful velvet that was just sitting there! For the taking! No one else seemed to know what it was good for. That combined with the patterns of the dresses she had found in the other costume garments that she had tried until she found something that sat a little... better. Then pulled it apart and began to modify the pieces.
Until she had something quite pretty she thought. Much nicer for the winter months. a mask she thought was quite pretty once she added the feathers and those to anyone else: very tackle little sparkly sequins but Gilia hadn't gotten the memo and had a great time... sewing them on. She also didn't get the memo of glue.
With her hair for once, out and free - it makes her look quite different. It floats a brilliant halo of gold in the sparkling lights, as one of the many guests milling into the party.
"How beautiful it is! Do you not think?" She is eager, not used to it yet, the tricks this place could play. It feels fitting that as the cold grows deep into the earth, that there should be a party of some kind.
the song lures the soul through it's shape | party
Reserved as she is always - it all goes out the window when the music begins to play, and she realises that they are meant to dance. Dance, truly dance. As she has not, not for the weeks and weeks she has been here.
So, she does. Perhaps it is old but is certainly not some slow, meandering dance. No, she flings herself in skipping steps with her skirts pulled up in handfuls at her hips. Jumping, twisting, at times with her arms above her head, others swinging it back and forth in wide sweeps as she moves half-abandoned and half-wild. Her hand tangling itself in waves of curls and her breath rising and falling faster and faster.
When she stops, it is to drink deeply of the beverages, and it turns out - she is something of a giggling, laughing drunk, light on her face, and her magic sings with her. For a moment, in her exuberance, it can be heard. The rush of the tide that batters against the senses that is in each of her hastily drawn breaths. That wash of fresh salt air that should not be possible. How at times, it seems she looks like nothing at all human, some creature of coral and seaweed, fishing nets and glowing, shimmer eyes that hang in her body that beckons and repels all at once, for you did not need to be on the sea to know a lighthouse was always a warning and safe haven. Stay away to stay safe.
But then she smiles, laugh, and spins, and it is gone again.
into weather and wind you fade | nightmare
The horrors come - the creatures she does not know, and she begs. She begs not for hers. From whatever it is that has done this - not this.
Because she knows his voice before he speaks. She knows the sound of his footsteps since she was born. She knows when she turns, and she sees her elder brother, that she can have no other pain. No other nightmare than this one that she has had since the day that the bog took him.
Gilia is no small woman, even less so when her hair was out. But her brother cleared her by a good half foot. Six foot five, the image of his father with his brown hair and lazy, charming smile like all the world was to him marvellous. He was handsome as she remembered her brother being, not that moment, not that screaming terrifying moment as he died when fear had twisted him beyond all beauty. That had her waking up gasping every night, reaching with hands to save him as he does for her now. "Godfinn - Godfinn - " But he hushes her, her disbelief, her pain.
"m̴̖̖̦̞͔̂̏̿̀̉͑̀͒͜y̴̫̳̹͓̝̟̓͆̀̌̅͛̚͝͝ sister, my beautiful Şιˢt𝔢Ｒ." He cups her cheeks with both palms and tilts her head up to kiss her forehead. "S̵̳̋econd-C̶̗̍hild now. What a q𝓤𝕖𝕖𝔫 you 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎." He smooths his thumb against her cheek. "Pity you're a 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒. A waste of your Ṯ̶͆itles. A waste of our 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂. St. Loe himself would roll in his watery grave to know 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊."
Dancing, perhaps?
That is...odd. Intriguing. Alarming.
The glimpse he catches of her inhuman form, however, almost takes him out a the knees. The implication of a myth wrapped in human skin, though the form is radically different, sets off a wave of grief strong enough that when he approaches her to ask her to dance, he is a little shaky. When he smiles at her, there's a touch of sadness amid the amusement.
"Would you care for a partner for the next dance?"
The reasons he had for wanting to ask hadn't changed despite the taste of salt he can still feel upon his tongue, after all.
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Oh, but he is so very handsome this night, isn't he? Not that she would even know what to say or do about that, not particularly.
But luckily, she doesn't have to think very much at all, or at least the drink assures her she doesn't. "I would love to."
Re: gilia | open
When the music deteriorates into noise, Lana's first instinct is to find her friend and make sure she's alright. Protecting people who (she thinks) can't protect themselves is kind of her job. She finds Gilia, being approached by a guy who's giving off all sorts of unsettling vibes. She can't help but have pause.
"Uhhh, Gil? Do you know this creep?"
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Because 'you look like you've seen a ghost' is far too real, right this moment. It is worse than a ghost, she thinks she should find nothing fearful in that.
But to see him, her own brother. Walking around like death had never touched him. Like his grave had not been so absolute.
Instead, he turns that grin, that disarming charming grin that parts easy on his lips as he let's go of Gilia like she was so much rubbish to be forgotten, and steps towards Lana with the brightness of a man used to commanding whatever room he was present in, beautiful and controlled. "Aha! 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇, cat has her tongue, so she cannot make the cₒᵣᵣₑcₜ ᵢₙₜᵣₒdᵤcₜᵢₒₙₛ. It often does, she is a bit Şi๓plē like that. What do we have here? 𝙰 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜? Any friend of Gilia's is a ƒяιєη∂ σƒ мιηє, 𝖒𝖞 𝖑𝖆𝖉𝖞."
He bows perfectly respectful, bowing at the waist with a hand curving in front of him as he held himself stiff. "I am 𝕾𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖉-𝕮𝖍𝖎𝖑𝖉, the ᴛʀᴜᴇ 𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕. Godfinn St. Loe. He Whom The Sea Smiles With." He rises up with a wink, his blue eyes so exactly like his sister, but the smile, oh it was empty of anything like true mirth.
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"Whatever. The sea can send its smile up my ass." She shoves past him and moves to put a hand on Gilia's shoulder, ducking her head to catch her gaze straight on.
"Hey, are you okay? Talk to me."
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"But we could be good friends, couldn't we? Oh, my sister is 🄳🅄🄻🄻 compared to you." He turns, latching a hand onto Gilia's shoulder and pushes her forward. Stumbling, she goes, her arms held out to hold herself steady. That even as she does, he grabs instead by her hair and veil to pull it back on her shoulders as she whimpers. "Look at her. No one to Ɩơ۷ɛ her. No one to need her. I bet you don't even like ɦɛʀ, either. Think she's 𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰, don't you? Everyone does. Even our own 𝖑𝖆𝖉𝖞 𝖒𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 regrets not bₑₐₜᵢₙg her. Do you know they replaced me with her? 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕣𝕪 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕪, passed to the hands of a 𝙢𝙚𝙬𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙮 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝-𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 whose not good for anything but breeding a new generation. It's alright, you can say it. You can say you loathe her too. We all do. All our family. Can't believe someone so weak inherited the greatest power in all the Isles." He grows incensed, as he talks, twisting, rotting, flesh that drips saltwater. But not the clear scent of Gilia's ocean day.
But rotten. Heavy. The scent of split open fish-guts. The carcass of a whale left in the summer sun. The more he talks, the stronger he grows. Beating against his senses.
"Leave her alone, brother-heart. Please. Please, she doesn't have to say it, I know - I love you, and I will never be you." Because she can't will Lana to leave. She's terrified. But maybe, maybe if Lana left of her own accord it would be enough. That even as she looks to Lana, her head forced back the desperate scared breathes she takes? She wants nothing but to flee. Oh please, take her away from here. But nor could she leave someone cared for alone with... a creature who should be dead. "Please, Lana, it's my brother. He won't hurt me."
All signs of it to the contrary, it's still what she believes.
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Lana doesn't like this. She doesn't like any of this. She doesn't leave, quite the opposite in fact. She plants herself in place, facing Gilia's brother square on, one hand held out in front of her as a warning. As she stares him down, a circle of bright white light like a flame begins to grow around her palm. Lana's eyes flick to Gilia, cautious. She won't fire until Gilia is out of the way. But any brother that would handle his sister like that deserves to get his ass blown to high heaven.
"Gil. I won't hurt him if you tell me not to. But he has no right to talk to you that way."
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Like he will push, just to see what he will get away with.
"𝔖𝔢𝔢? Listen to 𝕞𝕪 𝕤𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣-𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕣, 𝓛𝓪𝓷𝓪. I won't ɦʊʀȶ ɦɛʀ. Ｊｕｓｔ ｌｉｋｅ ｓｈｅ ｄｉｄｎ＇ｔ ｊｕｓｔ ｌｅｔ ｍｅ ｄｉｅ!"
He hand twists and it forces Gilia onto her knees, forcing her head back at an angle enough to make her gasp, whimper, the tears stinging and blurring her gaze. "Turn about is fair, isn't it? 𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖍!"
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She doesn't even hesitate long enough to issue a quip or a warning. She just rushes forward, landing an uppercut on the bastard's jaw, and timing an explosion right for the moment of impact. As knuckles meet chin, his face is blasted backwards with all the force of a stick of dynamite.
"Get off her!"
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No, it is wet, sodden, earth that fractures under her knuckles. A spilled of rancid water that flows out of the gaping hole that Lana makes of his jaw, his throat.
But no - he does not die. It would not be easy to kill him again. Oh, he certainly breaks apart with the blow, and his now disfigured, rotten-mud jaw gapes hanging from the side as he slowly turns his head back around. Maggots and fettered weeds that spill from the inside of his body. Gilia screams in the fear of it, the smell like death had caught up with him, all at once that it's enough to make anyone wretch. So she stumbles, tearing away from him even as it rips her hair. His fingers like weeds that slip and grip.
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Nightmare
What can he do about this, except try to snap others out of it? He has no idea how to find whoever or whatever is causing this when he can't leave and the hallways don't end.
For now, he approaches the closest person, who just so happens to be Gilia. She seems completely spellbound by the vision, and that's bad.
"He's not real," he says, as he barely touches her shoulder with his fingertips.
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The eyes that look back to him are not mortal eyes. They are ring in black, deep as blue as the sea, and in the presence of two children of St. Loe, the pressure of the ocean presses in at the edge of each of their breathes.
"My Lord Geralt - "
But whatever she says, doesn't get that far, because real or not, true or not, the pain of her heart made form, his touch certainly has weight.
Godfinn grabs her face, snapping it back, cold, dirt-stained fingers sunk into her cheeks and pushing her head back on her shoulders as he bears down, his great height enough to tip her backwards in a staggered step as he forces her to bend.
"ᴛᴇʟʟ ʜɪᴍ, tell ｈｉｍ I am ｒｅａｌ. I am as real as the day you let me 𝕕𝕚𝕖, §ï§†êr-mïñê! " His voice a wet, gargling snarl. "𝙏𝙀𝙇𝙇 𝙃𝙄𝙈!"
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No.
He doesn't have a silver sword, and one can't normally just touch an apparition. This one looks unusually sturdy for an apparition, though, and there are always the signs.
That's a very strong grip on her, though, so he can't just do whatever he wants to do to this man. Which, at the moment, is wrench him away and beat him bloody. Instead, he reaches out one hand to grip the bastard's wrist, and if he can actually grip it, he will squeeze with every bit of strength he has.
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"Ｓｏｒｒｙ ｉｓｎ＇ｔ ｇｏｏｄ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ， ｓｉｓｔｅｒ！" He has to give in between her pushing, her shoving, and the sudden grip of Geralt's arm.
So he does let her go, but not without his price as he backhands her. The smack of his knuckles against her face enough that for a woman who knows no violence, it's enough to send her stumbling back, holding her face with the crack of pain. That with her taken care of, he rounds on Geralt, the ugly sneer splitting his face, and with it, his skin so literally begin to crack. Like old earth, rot and damp, as it bleeds out, the scent of earth. The damp. A body left to fester, of death, death, death.
"Look at this 𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙠𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, I am a 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘, Dog! This is ϝαɱιʅყ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ." His breaking apart, dying body, advances the same, with each step, he grows heavier, deeper, more and more like a dead thing.
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His nose scrunches slightly as the smell of death and decay washes over him. But he doesn't flinch, because he's almost intimately familiar with the stench, and backs up a little to have enough time to take his stupid cape off and unsheathe his sword. There's no point answering the bastard, as far as he's concerned, so he swings without hesitation. Is there even a neck to cut off? He can't really see properly, but that's what he's aiming for.
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But he has little care for her, only something to attack. To drive his wretched, hateful self at someone to make them suffer as he suffered. To get out of his way so he can finish his business with his sister.
Because it's not knives or swords he reaches with. No. Thick heavy dirt surges up around Geralt's feet. The manner of his death made weapon. Grabbing him and dragging him in.
At least until the sword hits him. The sound of his pain is a horrifying thing. A creature half-rotten and shrieking like a banshee.
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So far, the shriek is a lot worse anyway, loud enough to feel like it's splitting his head in two. His face twists in pain, though it's barely visible, and he follows it up again with another strike.
At least steel still hurts it. That's good.
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So yes, he had been planning to avoid Gilia - totally not like a coward, just out of principle.
But when he sees her with an imposingly tall man getting uncomfortably handsy while she looks upset...
Well. He is no coward.
He steps towards them, voice stern, "Maiden St. Loe, is there a problem here?"
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Godfinn turns, his head tilting, his smile beautific, "She is 𝕱𝖎𝖓𝖊, just 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑒, ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ꜱʜᴇ? Aren't you, ǝuıɯ-ɹǝʇsıs?
She tries to push out, shoving at his shoulders. "Godfinn, please leave them be, please..."
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Some high-born foreigner who isn't part of the cultivation world, someone to whom Jiang Cheng isn't beholden for political relations, doesn't warrant such effort.
Thus, he doesn't try to hide his scowl as he steps closer, or the sneer pulling at his lips. "She doesn't look fine to me! Don't patronize me!"
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But even with her squirming, her begging, her demanding. The cold fingers of the dead have no mercy. Grabbing her shoulder he twists her, turns her. Pulling her sharply back against his chest as he grips her throat.
"That's right 【J】【i】【a】【n】【g】. I'ᗰ ᕼEᖇ ᗷᖇOTᕼEᖇ. The rightful 𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧. Second-Child. Who was going to raise the greatest army the world had ever seen. She told you about me, didn't she?" The cold, dirt stained fingers sink into her cheeks as he holds her face right where he wanted. The other arm tight around her waist. "And I am going to take back what my snivelling, cowardly, weak, sister stole from me."
She wants to be strong. Wants to brave. But all that comes from her voice is a pathetic almost scream of fear. "I didn't want it! Godfinn, please, you must believe me, I never wanted the throne - I never wanted any of this."
"𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐏! 【Ｙｏｕ ａｎｄ ｍｏｔｈｅｒ ｓｔｏｌｅ ｉｔ ｆｒｏｍ ｍｅ】. We have the power to devour TᕼE ᗯOᖇᒪᗪ and you beg for s̴̖̤̬̰̗̳͘͜ͅc̸̨̦̟̞̫̹̹̣̖̰̏̒͆̀̌̂̽̓͐̇r̸̦̮̙̟̩̥̖̞̐̓̀̿͒̈͊̍͘͘͜a̵̢̭̖̬̫̝͇̖͇̤͑̑̌͌̓́͠p̸̤̯͚͗́͠s̶̲͈͎̖̞̰̯̯̖̝̀̅̌̾, and now you're going to 𝕓𝕖𝕘 like I 𝕓𝕖𝕘𝕘𝕖𝕕! You will be cut off from our beloved Father like I was! You will watch them watch you die like I did!"
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He may have often berated Gilia himself for being too nice, too weak, too optimistic about human nature, but this still has him bristling. This man has him bristling. She shouldn't be afraid - but he shouldn't be interfering in the matters of other families, that is improper, too.
But is this man even family? Is he not, at very best, a spirit returned resentful and dangerous? Family matters are not his to interfere with among the living.
He places a hand on the man's shoulders, finding himself a little surprised after everything to touch a solid body, and digs his fingers in deep with a cultivator's strength. If he can turn this resentment on himself, then at least he won't have to look at Gilia looking so anguished any longer, and facing the wrath of the dead is his duty not hers.
"She told me about you, yes," he says, eyes on Gilia instead. "She told me enough to know you are pathetic. You turned against your clan and you died in disgrace."
cw: degrading sexist slurs, etc
Godfinn turns, snapping his own arm out to shove the other man off.
"𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔢?! ＤＩＳＧＲＡＣＥ?! 𝕊𝕙𝕖 is the Disgrace! 𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝕴! ᴀ ᴡʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʙɪᴛᴄʜ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴏʀɪɴɢ!"
Gilia can't help but sob, so barely smothered and Godfinn laughs, laughs and laughs until it turns itself to ugly, wheezing, shudders of the earth groaning. "𝓕𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓷, 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓱𝓮𝓻! 𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕦𝕔𝕜 𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕪. She's sure to cry through the whole thing, she always ᴄʀɪᴇꜱ, ᵢ'd ᵣₑcₒₘₘₑₙd ₛₘₒₜₕₑᵣᵢₙg ₕₑᵣ ₕₐₗf wₐy ₜₕᵣₒᵤgₕ."
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Alarm, though, alarm there is. The anticipation of battle makes him tense up further, that hand dropping back to the handle of his sword, eyes flickering briefly to Gilia. By everything she has told him she is far more powerful than he is, but will she be able to use her power against the face of her brother? It doesn't even matter if it is him or some local evil wearing his face, the resentful dead still have to be dealt with even if they once used to be loved ones.
But there is no attack, no attempt to choke him with earth and rot or claw Gilia into pieces, just more words which are bound to cut her even deeper.
Disgust coils his stomach but he forces himself not to take the bait any longer, there will be no reasoning. Instead, he reaches out a hand to Gilia. ] Come here. Let's leave. He isn't worth your time.
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