freedom_is_grey | Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause

Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause

Given that the Labyrinth is basically an unknown quantity -- anecdotal stories aside -- Ysalwen comes downstairs geared up for a long and perilous journey.

Which is to say she's got brown and tan mage robes on, her staff and sword strapped crosswise on her back, a pack with provisions and a metric boatload of healing poultices and lyrium potions, a spellbook, a dagger, and her most comfortable traveling boots.

Liranan, at her side, is wearing a spiked collar, and his brown fur is covered in dark paint, making up a thick striped pattern. Ah, kaddis.

She sets the pack on the ground next to her, then takes a moment to look around for Bossuet.

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Generally, beautiful young women clutching breathlessly at his arm is the sort of thing Lesgle dreams of.

It figures that the reality would be more like this.

He is entirely agreed on the advisability of a brisk walk. He's good at brisk walks away from things, ready to break into a run as needed. "Do you see that one there?" he asks in an undertone. "The one that looks like..." Well, it's not quite human-shaped enough to look like a person. Nor is it quite canine-shaped enough to look like a dog. But it's not mirrory enough to look like a proper mirror either, that's for sure.

At least it's not moving. Visibly. Except for the black hole where a mouth should be.

"Yes," she says, after a long silent moment. "Yes, I do. Here, take this."

She lets go of his arm in order to unsheathe the dagger at the small of her back, handing it to him hilt-first without looking away from the increasingly un-reflective reflection.

"Don't be surprised if it bursts into flame at some point, particularly if these things prove to be afraid of fire. Or ice, as the case may be. Or spirit energy. I'll try to give you a warning if it comes to that."

She may fail, however. So it goes.

Lesgle takes the dagger. Lesgle is glad to take the dagger. Lesgle doesn't know how to do anything very effective with a dagger, but goddamn is he glad it's there. He's also really glad to be with someone who can make nightmarish mirror monsters burst into flame.

The not-really-human-shaped one remains still, looking for a moment flatter and more properly mirrorish. Then it twists to one side and opens like a book into two mirrors.

Edited 2015-05-21 14:04 (UTC)

"Okay," Ysalwen says, as several more mirrors flip, twist, and open up to reveal more mirrors whose reflections look increasingly non-mirror-ish.

"That's it. You two, keep moving."

Liranan doesn't even whine, just slips past her, nudging his nose into the back of Lesgle's leg in order to make him go faster. Then Ysalwen turns, staff twirling in a complicated pattern, gaze gone unfocused and a little bit too bright.

They're still in a cavern, which means if they were trying to circle around and somehow retreat they way they came, what she is about to do would be really stupid. As it stands, since they can only go forward and not back, there have been worse plans.

She stops spinning the staff very abruptly, slamming the butt of it down on the ground hard, three times. The earth under and around the mirrors that are cutting off their retreat starts to vibrate, then tremble, then rattle so hard that stones start falling from the ceiling, larger rocks with every second that passes.

"Running now might not be unwise!"

This emphatic statement is punctuated by the sound of glass shattering. So much glass.

And at this point Ysalwen turns back toward Lesgle and Liranan and takes her own advice.

Gallantry dictates--

--oh, fuck it, he's running, and trusting that Ysalwen knows what she's doing. Lesgle doesn't even need the nudge from Liranan. A loose rock underfoot brings him down flat, but he's quickly on his feet again, never mind the skinned knees and scraped palms. (He does take that opportunity, though, to look behind and be sure that Ysalwen is with them.)

Ysalwen is definitely doing her damnedest to catch up, at least, slowing only fractionally to sling her staff across her back so that she can run faster and more effectively.

Liranan, meanwhile, is keeping pace with Lesgle just in case he is needed.

And behind them there is only the increasing roar of a cavern collapsing on itself.

"I'd say 'whoops'," Ysalwen says, breath coming quick and light as she runs. "But it would be a lie."

And at least down whichever corridor they are running through, there do not seem to be any mirrors.

And it is getting warmer.

And . . . brighter?

Brighter! Yes! Laigle runs for the source of the light, hoping fervently that it's something other than a mirror. No--no--it's a row of low lanterns on the ground, lanterns or candles, little spots of light that remind him of something he can't quite place, not until the ground underfoot turns abruptly into wooden boards.

He skids to a stop at the end of the stage, staring wild-eyed into the faces of a very puzzled audience. To the left of him (or is that stage right?) there's a woman on the ground, clutching her belly, with a showy goblet in her hand. To the right, a man with an unconvincing white beard is gasping and staggering.

The man in the beard glares angrily at the newcomers and says with determination, "Oh, yet defend me, friends; I am but hurt."

"Defend against . . . who?"

There's an audience, which is incredibly -- well, actually not incredibly unexpected, people do strange things at executions, after all. And (almost) everyone likes a public spectacle. It's the unconvincing beard and the overly-stylized speech that's got Ysalwen off-kilter. That and the obviously false sword suddenly in her hand. Um.

"I suppose we could kill everyone here, but that doesn't seem like the point. And -- is everyone here that's marked for death -- clearly dying already?"

That last is in an undertone to Lesgle.

Liranan, meanwhile, has taken it upon himself to investigate the showy goblet to see what the woman on the ground might be dying of.

The 'whoops' this time might be more genuine. Eventually.

Edited 2015-05-21 19:16 (UTC)

"I am but hurt," repeats the false-bearded man pointedly in answer to Ysalwen's first words; when she fails to deliver her line his glare intensifies. "...But...I drink off this poison! Is my union here? I follow thy mother!" He slumps to the ground, because the show must go on.

"--it's Hamlet!" exclaims Bossuet, a split second later. "That is--um--Hamlet, I-- Oh, hell, my English is terrible. Am I Laertes? I-- Have at thee, Hamlet!" He thrusts his false sword at Ysalwen, fixing her with an intent and desperate gaze. It's that or burst out laughing.

Edited 2015-05-21 19:30 (UTC)

Ysalwen, not expecting him to turn on her with his fake weapon, flails mightily and gets her own blade knocked out of her hand.

"Maker have mercy, what are you -- What are we -- Who are Hamlet and Laertes?"

That last really is delivered in an intense hissing whisper as she dives after her dropped sword, coming down on her shoulder and rolling to her feet in a low fighting crouch.

Something certainly seems to have changed. She looks a lot less lost, for one. Except --

"Have at thee, as well, Laertes?"

Several of the other people on the -- stage, is it a stage? -- are glaring at them now, but at least the woman with the cup is too busy fending off Liranan's enthusiastic 'hey, you're healthy!' licking to join in the effort.

And Ysalwen is swinging her shitty fake sword at Lesgle, careful yet persistent. How flashy does he want to be, with this whatever-they-are-doing?

Hints would be welcome. So, so welcome.

"Prince Hamlet," he declaims, trying to be helpful. Oh, God. He and Joly were just talking about Shakespeare, in connection with Joly's new theater project. But what the hell happens in Hamlet besides everyone killing one another? "You--thou--hast--insulted my sister? And--" He drops back down into a whisper. "And we're both supposed to die. The swords are poisoned. Everything is poisoned."

He's having a great time parrying, while he talks! Fake swords are so much more fun than real ones.

("Git," the poisoned Gertrude is hissing between clenched teeth. "Go on, dog. Git!")

Isn't Prince a gendered title?

Ysalwen looks down at herself as if to make sure everything is where it belongs, then swings broadly at Lesgle again.

"I shall not die from such and insult. And see -- I have -- already -- poisoned my other enemies?"

Liranan, from where he is still trying to lick Gertrude, stop with the licking and looks up, barking once. No Ysalwen, everyone is okay! No poison is here! Do not worry!

Meanwhile, Ysalwen trips over the out-thrust foot of the man with the dubious beard and falls forward, whacking at Bossuet as she does so. Since the blade is 'poisoned'.

"Oh no, I am -- betrayed?"

An actress she is not. Wow, no.

"O, I am slain!" He clutches at the spot on his arm where the poisoned blade struck, and lunges wildly at Ysalwen, just trying to make contact. "O, I die! I am dead, Horatio! Horatio, I am dead!"

Wait, are those Hamlet's lines? Well, it's not like Ysalwen is going to say them! He puts a little more ghastly grimacing into his stagger before flopping down into a suitably dead pose. "Good night, sweet prince!"

Yeah, that's all the Hamlet he knows.

"Ow, that was my knee!"

We're back to the hissing again, but only briefly. Ysalwen stumbles again, then falls to her knees.

"Hoist by my own -- petard? Woe is me. Also, ow."

Then she falls over on her side and is still.

Liranan howls, starting to move toward her in confusion. Her hand flutters very slightly, tapping on the stage. The mabari stops, then, and does an incredibly convincing rendition of 'playing dead'. He also makes the stage vibrate a little when he falls.

(Gertrude is relieved. Probably.)

"Okay," Ysalwen hisses again, head tilting by tiny degrees toward Lesgle. "Now what?"

Liranan has a real future on the stage, that's clear. Someone in the audience lets out a strangled noise that turns into a cough of suppressed laughter, drowned out by a blare of trumpets and cannon sound effects.

Unfortunately, Liranan's excellent death leaves Fortinbras and the English Ambassador without anyone to talk to. They cobble together some lines between them--Fortinbras digging his toes vengefully into Bossuet's ribs--and the curtain falls on Such a sight as this becomes the field, But here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

Ysalwen taps the floor again, rolling from her side to her front and pushing herself upright. Liranan, too, is scrambling to his feet and moving over to investigate Lesgle, making sure that he, too is okay.

"Maker's breath, but that was a mess. Poison everywhere, honestly, I don't even understand why -- "

Isn't this where people gather together and bow to the audience while they cheer? Because the curtain's going up and the -- well, they have to have been actors, really, there's not another good explanation for all the ridiculousness -- they seem to be gone.

Odd.

"Lesgle? Does that look like the lake out back of Milliways to you? Because if it is, I think we should run toward it even faster than we did when the tunnel was collapsing. Fun as this has been."

She turns to look back over her shoulder at him -- and Liranan too.

"Ready?"

Steady.

Go.

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Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause

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