Event Annex - The Senate Room

[pumpkinhollow]

CRY HAVOC, AND LET SLIP THE DOGS OF WAR.

W

elcome, esteemed guests, to the Senate Room.

The rules of the game are simple. You have a word over your head that you cannot see, and the same word written on a piece of paper in an envelope that also contains a key. There is a door out of this room. Each key opens the door for only one person. You can see the words above others' heads, but you cannot say them, nor can you say any direct synonyms that might give it away too easily, nor can you spell the word or its synonyms. You must find other ways to describe it to allow the other person to guess. More abstract. Get creative with it.

If you believe you know the word, speak it aloud and open your envelope to retrieve your key. If you are correct, you can leave without incident. If you are wrong, your organs will immediately fail and you will die.

Here are the words each participant has been assigned. Players can use them to refer to other players' characters to help them guess, and you can use them to check your answers when you guess, but you can also OOCly know your answer provided you don't use it to ICly cheat. Good luck.

Agent Connecticut

Fickle

Agni Azimar

Traitor (there is an additional document contained in this envelope)

Aloy

Obstinate

Ancient Fuelweaver

Ruined

Anzu Menelikov

Deceitful

Artemy Burakh

Tainted

Capochin Bastone

Inadequate

Cassandra de Rolo

Cynical

Dahlia Leeds

Insatiable

Daisy Tonner

Merciless

Elias Coldwood

Discarded

Ethan Winters

Insufficient

Felix Gaeta

Imprudent

Hector Monaque

Covetous

Jonathan Sims

Hubristic

Lev/Lyubov Morgenshtern

Weak

Luo Binghe

Alone

Marik Ishtar

Megalomaniacal

Mr. Ant Tenna

Histrionic

Papyrus

Ineffectual

Sasavachi Chunome

Misanthropic

Shen Qingqiu

Pretentious

Simon

Selfish

Violet Vespertine

Cowardly

✦Return to Event ✦

Comments

[mortifer]

Cruelty, observed or inflicted, sloughed one down to their basest parts. It is those basest parts that cannot be trusted. Easy to say that someone ought to do something. Easier still to hollow yourself and bid others to take shelter in you. The body drops his hand. Wonders, if the man knows that, no matter how much he breaks himself, not everyone will fit into his salvation.

The body's gaze flicks over Ethan. "No weapon on you, save your wit and words. Yet that's no reason to remain ignorant of your word. Is it?"

[mycotic]

Stubbornness has been a vice of Ethan's since he was a boy. He can still remember making retorts he shouldn't have made with his parents, his family. Within him, a veil sort of shifts so when he looks upon the body, there is a burning ember of stubbornness roiling in his pulse. Hiding it is is pointless, so he doesn't. Ethan has never been the sort to not roll his eyes and click his tongue and put his hands on his hips. Salvation is never on his mind, just the moment— not unlike a dog, really.

"Didn't say it was," he says, dragging out the words. "Okay, fine. Let's play murder charades. Can't have been anything you've said so far, so we'll cross out ignorant, right?"

[mortifer]

There's the bite. This one has a kick, after all. Good. But will he maintain it when the pressure bites down? When his choices are constricted to a miserable few? The body smiles, sharp. Eyes narrowing slightly, like a content feline.

"Foolish, as well," he says, bemused. "How fortunate, that they are not your defining traits. Would you like a story, as you did for us? Or would you prefer a trail of suggestions?"

[mycotic]

"Us," Ethan parrots, voice enveloped in a softness now. He'll think about this later. Right now, all he needs to do is focus on the body before him, the task they both need to do. With a hardening gaze, he just shakes his head.

"Act it out if you have. Do whatever sticks. I'll figure it out."

[mortifer]

A story requires an artistic touch. Better suited for his other half. Takes a moment to sift through memories, to decide upon the path that Ethan will follow.

"An empty belly," the body says, "fed only crumbs. A drop of water to douse an inferno. A toothless dog to snarl at a trespasser. Are these satisfactory pieces for you to work with?"

[mycotic]

None of these sound particularly favorable, yet they resonate within him at the very basest level of his existence. Satisfactory, says the body before him, the piece that has unveiled himself, but Ethan only stares, marveling at how sufficiently this all cuts through to him. He remembers the man he was only six months ago, the crumbling architecture of himself, the way his heart and appetite were dust.

"Lacking," is what he says. Gaze trained on the body's, brows thoughtfully low, a glint in his stare as sharp as a knife. He's thinking— or annoyed. He can't tell, can't pull one from the other. "Weak," he offers next, breath a bubble around the word. Not untrue, he feels. "Suffi—Uh. Insufficient?"

[mortifer]

Luck? Or a keen perception of his shortcomings? The body does not look away, for that sharpness is what he wants to test. If they are to work together to aid those stolen away, a categorization must be made.

Is Ethan to be pushed, or is he to be protected?

"Well, well, well."

The body's hands move, halfway to a clap. Fingers stiffen. They taste it then: acrid burning in the back of the throat, a sensation mirrored by a spasm in their arms, as if the muscles had been twisted the wrong way. He hisses and immediately jumps off the table. He does not need Ethan Winters to see this moment of weakness.

He speaks in a low, strained voice, back turned to the other man.

"Now we are equals. We may freely risk our lives if we so wish."

[mycotic]

Within the ornate room filled with captives, there is no kidnapper to lay claim to the way their bodies constrict agonizingly. Ethan's skull buzzes with understanding as the body's pain crystallizes before him. It is a moment he knows. He knows the mystery pulse of squeezing and choking, the way your veins all seem to freeze, heart skipping one long beat. How wrong your existence feels.

The body dips below the surface but Ethan follows. This time, it's his hand on the body's shoulder, gripping it with a grounding squeeze. "Hey, stay with me, alright? I— know." Weakness matters little to him. What he sees is pain, and a flaring desire to help overtakes him.

The body speaks, when it is convenient to do so. Ethan doesn't mind, only watches his muscles in his back move, the heave of his weight as he speaks. A scoff manages to roll past Ethan's mouth. "I'm not risking anything. I'm getting out, one way or another. You are, too. Now, are we opening these letters, or not?"

[mortifer]

Don't touch me, is the body's first instinct, born from years of cruelty beaten into it. Touch is closeness, and closeness is something he won't tolerate from a relative stranger -- even if he was the first to offer it. He jerks his shoulder away once he regains control, teeth bared like a cornered animal.

-- and then it's gone. Wiped clean into a narrow squint of irritation. But he faces Ethan Winters, one hand shoved into his pockets for the envelope that'll either save them or damn them.

"Aye. Let's not postpone it any longer."

This is not the first time they've risked their lives. It shall not be the last. But what gives the body hesitation is the idea that this world is not truly theirs -- that their souls may not find a way home, to where they belong. If they were to be stranded here in a foreign afterlife, could they bear it?

(I trust Ethan, Sasavachi whispers, deep inside.

You've only met him.

We've no choice but to trust him.

And what of our jailers?

Sasavachi, curled up, does not answer.)

The body smooths out the envelope. He regards it with a cold eye. Then, with sudden violence, he tears it open.

"Misanthropic." He whispers it. Flips open the letter.

He breathes again, to his surprise. He had not noticed that he'd been holding his breath. The world -- humming, buzzing -- settles for an instant. He looks up at his unusual accomplice.

Will he fall?

[mycotic]

The body tears its shoulder from him in a sharp tug, as though sickness might infect it through mere touch. Ethan's fingers curl into his palm as he considers this, wonders if this is a new thing or something that has happened before. Adjusting in his seat, he just watches. The body reveals his trust again, evening out in the grand scheme of the play they're forced to take part in. The next line, misanthropic, holds Ethan's breath too, as if honesty somehow might have secretly been the wrong choice.

"Alright."

Ethan plays his bit as well as any other mediocre actor might. He retrieves the envelope from his pockets, announces Insufficient into it, opens it sloppily. Something severs within him. A marionette no more. Nothing happens— he could stand and leave. Heaviness still sits on his shoulders.

"...Not too bad."

[mortifer]

Good. Two have risked it; two remain. Nothing will prevent their escape, save for soft consciences.

The key lands in the body's hand, a prize easily gained despite the pains taken to attain it. He curls his fingers around it, half-afraid it will vanish. It would be like the demons to make such a joke.

"Now here lies the fork in the path."

He holds up his key, its metal glinting in the light.

"Will you remain to assist your fellows? Or will you venture into the unknown, Ethan Winters?"