revivalproject | Open | My Oh My That Moon's A Fright

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Open | My Oh My That Moon's A Fright

WHO: Lark and You
WHERE: Temba Whale Comb Sent Her, Temba in general
WHAT: Storm affecting a mage by manifesting ghost-devils, and driving her magic wild
WHEN: During the storm
WARNINGS: First starter involves possible crushing/choking risks from magic gone wrong, or possible nudity (listen she's a thread mage), Second starter involves ghost-demons that will attempt to hunt people down.

I. Thread Magic Gone Wrong | CW: Magic might strangle/restrain/choke those approaching her wearing fabric, or may fall off a person completely

No amount of hiding from the storm could guarantee one would come out of it well. This was something Lark realized quite early on the first day. The fog was thick, almost magically so, not that she could sense it. Not that she could sense anything. All of her power had shuddered away from her when the fog had come, leaving Lark horribly nauseous and anxious. She had rarely felt so drained in her life, and she longed for the teas Rosethorn created that might soothe her.

Weak and tired as she was, Lark resolved she had to find something to soothe her belly. Mint collected from the greenhouse she thought as she looked out from the Whale Comb Sent Her and save the evening clear. The fog had retreated, and not thinking to look up, Lark resolved that she must seek supplies now if she was ever to find any. Tea leaves first, then perhaps she would try and set out for the ships.

So she slipped out into the night, not aware of the danger she was putting herself into as she strode out into the open night.

She didn't make it too far from the doors before it happened. A scream tearing through the air, the moon's call shaking through her and through the city. With it came Lark's magic in a rush, swelling within her in a tide she could not center and control, before it started screaming free of her, seeking threads and fibers and cloth around her to grab, to pull at.

Any fibers around her might easily be caught in this burst of raw magic, and oh but the horrid ways the pulling could go. Seams might give and clothes fall off from around the one wearing them, before the cloth and strings and fibers might try crawling toward Lark. Worse, though, might well be the threads that could not so easily pull themselves free, for those could quite easily contract, squeezing and constricting painfully around wherever they hang, as Lark's own habit did now. The green clad mage was soon screaming in pain as her own clothes started to constrict around her, crushing at her limbs and causing her to collapse.

II. The Ghost-Demons Are Real | CW: Chance of being hunted/attacked by a demon

There is quite a bit to be said for how unprepared Lark was for all of this. She'd heard talk of the storms of course, but the last two that had come she had found herself in Sh'Ka during. All she knew of them she had heard from others, and so it did not prepare her for what was coming now. A figure in the fog, a flash of green robe and crimson hair.

"Rosie?" Lark gasped, then gave chase after her. "Rosie, it's not safe outside!"

She followed the figure, and froze only when a flash of crimson light cut the air above her, lightning almost seeming to shriek. As the light faded the mist around her grew dark, swirling and shifting until it became quite like the form of a floating beast, eyes crimson, claws razor sharp, and oh but it reached for her.

"Yerui," she whispered, eyes wide as she started to back away. "Oh Mila, it can't be."

And with that she turned and ran blindly into the fog, intent on flight.

III. Tired But Sheltered

Hiding. She was hiding. Lark was very aware of this fact. Dealing with the Yerui, dealing with her magic gone wrong, it was all far too terrible. Lark, strong and experienced mage, Dedicate Initiate of the winding circle and thus in many ways priestess of a goddess, woman who had seen so many horrible things in her past, was hiding.

Cowering.

The very idea of it left a bad taste in her mouth, and Lark had to push it from her mind as she laid there in the Whale Comb Sent Her, trying to rest. Rest was not nearly so simple as it might have been, though.

"How long until this horror might pass," she asked of the room around her. "Oh Mila, let it not be long.

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A voice. A strange voice. It cuts through the pain, the constricting pain, the burn of the magic in her mind. Lark whimpered before looking up at the stranger. She can feel the fabric he wears, the way it clenches under the horrible compulsions of her magic out of control.

"Help," she whimpers at him. "Can't control. Hard to breathe."

The words are almost gasps, and with each second the threads of her green habit wrap tighter, trying to get closer to her. They don't mean her harm, they just love her and her magic is screaming for them all to be closer. Screaming in a way she can't silence.

As she spoke a thread worked its way past the cuff of his leather jacket, trying to crawl down his hand to reach the prone woman. The Soldier recoiled but that motion did little enough to interfere with its progress.

Well, drastic times meant drastic measures, or so the saying went. And the Soldier never went anywhere without at least one combat knife.

"Try to be still." Likely easier said than done but with the unpredictable movements of the fabric he wanted to minimize the chance of hurting her as much as possible. Then again, how many people would trust the man Beck turned into his personal puppet? "I don't mean you harm."

Yes, threads would do that sometimes with thread mages around. Silly little thread, go home. Not that she can manage to force the matter.

"Trying," she whimpers, even as her body trembled from the pain. It's not working the best that it could.

He couldn't blame the thread. He couldn't even blame the woman; clearly she felt both distress and misery. The Soldier couldn't even be sure the Agrii were to blame on this once; as far as he knew, they didn't have control over meteorological events. Even so it felt weird. And when threads tried to crawl down his left arm, weird escalated to problematic.

First, free the woman. Then he could worry about threads tangling the plates of his arm.

Nodding in response to her whimper, he slid the edge of the blade under the hem closest to her throat. Methodically the Soldier sliced through cloth to her waist, then cut along both arms. Hopefully that would give her enough breathing room — figuratively and literally — but he mentally prepared himself for the possibility of needing to cut her garments completely off.

If the storm ever ended, Lark would apologize profusely and then make sure to coax any stray threads out of bad areas. For now she was silent as her clothing was more or less cut off, and she didn't even blush before the whole situation.

Lark was far too old to be bothered over such a thing, especially when her home was so prone to bathing in large, communal baths. No, she was fine with this, even trying to shed the back of her garment away as quickly as possible so she could hold the rest just to her chest, more to drive away a chill than anything.

"I suppose I held to the habit quite long," she said, painting in some relief. Given it was more a skirt below the waist, she had time before it would constrain her. "Forgive me."

The fact that she remained as still as possible spoke volumes to her determination; the Soldier doubted that just anyone would be comfortable with a stranger cutting off her clothes, even with the goal of trying to save her. He didn't like considering what might have happened had the crushing continued. As it was he had enough familiarity with death to picture it quite clearly. That she seemed able to breathe freely and without pain told him that he'd acted in time.

"Forgive you for something the storm caused?" No need to take senseless blame, in the Soldier's eyes. He considered her — and considered his own situation — for a long moment before shedding his jacket and offering it to her. Mostly leather, it had been fortunately unaffected and his shirt, though partially unraveled, still covered the scars and damage of where metal met skin on shoulder and side. It was enough. "Here. Where were you headed?"

"it is my magic," she corrects, her voice still shaking. Perhaps the storm had a hand in it, but it was her hand it was moving.

The offered jacket, though, is quite happily taken and pulled around her shoulders. It was something.

"I was... I just wished to find supplies. Food and tea and the like. I never should have wandered."

What reply could he make? The Soldier understood more than most the particular feeling of one's skills put to use without one's consent. The fact that this place caused it mattered not, when it came to the complicated feelings.

"You could seek out shelter." He wouldn't blame her. Most people would probably choose it; most weren't at least somewhat crazy like him. "I was heading for the greenhouses. If you're not too afraid, you can come with me." He spoke plainly, not intending his words as an insult. Having control over one's very self wrenched away could be unpleasant, to put it mildly. He wouldn't blame her for wanting to run back to where she'd been.

"I should," she agreed. "I had not fathomed this possibility. And so I have come to ill."

The greenhouse, though, sounds right. She would feel safe there, caught up in something that reminded her of Rosethorn, even if only in her love's hatred of the things.

"Would you be willing to guide me, young man?"

"Might not matter much if you did. This place has a way of twisting things." Planning for every possibility was all but futile, when the impossible could come to life. The Soldier wouldn't be surprised if around they encountered a laughing sun to counter the screaming moon.

"Ain't that young," he grumbled mostly under his breath, before he even realized it. Well, whatever; he planned to go to the greenhouse, and she at least seemed polite. He could do worse in companionship, and they could always part ways. He rolled smoothly to his feet, sheathing the knife. "Can you walk?"

A laughing sun might be its own form of fearful construct, and she wanted nothing to do with that, not at all.

"I shall have to," Lark noted as she worked to her own feet, trying to catch her breath. She did hold his coat tightly around her.

Exactly. And best not to give this place ideas.

After a moment he offered his right hand to assist her up, if she needed it. The reaction was definitely delayed, not so much an afterthought as the awkwardness of not knowing if that sort of assistance was needed. Life threatening situations were easy; chivalry was much more difficult.

"I can carry you. If needed." He could certainly run faster than most humans, especially with the moon causing a surge in his strength.

Yes, ideas would be dangerous. And she had more than her fill of danger today. The hand up is more important now, and she is glad to be lifted up to her feet.

"I... I think it could be useful," she admitted, though she wasn't sure what to do. Then, after a moment unsteady on her feet, she nodded.

"Yes, please."

"Hold tight then." A princess carry, simple and hopefully comfortable for her — or as comfortable as possible with his left arm supporting most of her weight. Once she was situated the Soldier started off toward the greenhouse at a steady pace: not so fast as to jostle but not a slow stroll either.

"You have an awareness of your magic acting strange? You can warn me if our clothing is going to try to suffocate either one of us?" Would she have any warning or would it just happen? With this place anything seemed possible.

Oh she shall, her arms around his neck and everything. It isn't the fully most comfortable thing, but she's happy with it anyway. She feels sturdy like this. Likely she would have been sturdy even without that, but this was helpful.

"I will tell you if I sense it happening," she agreed. "It's... never done anything like this before. My young student Sandry is more likely to have that sort of pure force of will behind her magic, more than I am."

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Open | My Oh My That Moon's A Fright

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