4462/Dismantling Devotion

Dismantling Devotion
Date of Scene:	25 August 2016
Location:	Antichthonian New York <ANY>
Synopsis:	Aborted Attempt to corrupt Sigrun. The player decided to hold off until later.
Cast of Characters:	975, 992

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Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
Too many times. Too many times had the Queen of Tears had her plans, her vengeance against the multiverse, stalled by a well placed strike from holy silver. She had tried to be 'polite' about things of course - she'd walked up and tried to take the woman's head off.
But people? People just don't learn. They're all a bunch of self indulged fuckers, clinging to the last vestige of their world, refusing to face the inevitable. The irresistable. But Drowned Ophelia? She faced that finality with a doomed glee, with the knowledge that as alone as she is - in the end everyone else will be alone too. It's a much slower song that plays on the far side of 'Manhattan', the creature's head hung low as her clawed hands run and trickle along the guitar in a melancholy tune; For her battles, she focused on how much she fucking hated everything, let her grief be her power. But this?
This is pure fucking sorrow. Black tears crawl down her cheeks, her face hidden beneath the tresses of her hair- her body slowly swaying back and forth to the glacier tempo of misery. The Black Tears drop from her cheeks, the strange ectoplasm evaporating before it hits the ground. Slowly wafting away, black smoke in a black night, seeding the pregnant and dark clouds above.

And far away, the clouds drift over the poorer district of town. A dull rumble of thunder that only makes the homeless and destitude pull themselves a bit deeper into their wrapped coats and boxes, huddled beside the floating buildings. The moonlight dull and sullen, in the brief moments it had peeked through. This was no crashing against the walls, no battlecry - this was as slow and potent a poison as grief, welling slowly up like a sob in the throat. Unexpected until it broke, rain pattering against the side of the unkept buildings...

THEMESONG: Daylight Dies - 'Dismantling Devotion'

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
After a long day of collecting clues for one of her clients, the monster exterminator has found her way to a little pub at the street corner. Run down, older than the buildings around it, but maintained by a man with a passion for the place, and a small but familiar set of regulars.

As one of those regulars, she sits down at the bar, takes off her mask and orders "The usual." A glass of a clear liquid is put in front of her soon after, and she casually twirls the glass in her hand, thinking about work before consuming the alcohol.

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
The rain patter turns into a full on storm as lightning cracks and crawls along the sky; A tantrum in the heavens. But there is something else in the clouds, now, something that hunts the bitter-sweet sting of sadness like iron fillings hunt a magnet. The clouds thickening - deepening - above the pub for only a few moments. The rain that falls, pitta pitta, upon the pub's roof leaving black puddles.

Beneath, the pub windows rattle briefly from a crack of thunder before the storm settles back down to a lazy fall. The street lights outside fractured and smeared by water trails, interrupted by a passing pedestrian huddled against the cold, weeping rain. A faint few drops strike the floor within the pub as well, clear water building against the ceiling before falling with a faint 'plip'. Plip. Plip.
Threads of ink slither into the next droplet, which tracks slowly sideways as the rest continue their metronome. Plip. Plip.

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
Tired and trying to relax, Sigrun is not as vigilant as she would otherwise be. The passive spells that might have warned her about any impending threat disabled to preserve energy. This is a safe place, a comfortable place. Thus, Sigrun is wholly unaware of what makes this any different from any other rain.

It's New York, rain isn't exactly an unfamiliar experience. She finally raises her glass to her lips, taking a quick, small sip.

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
The blackened droplet slithers across the roof, trembling always on the edge of falling; An tear ready to be shed. There it hovers, as Sigrun nurses her usual - and when the glass touches the counter, it falls.

"Seen you in here a few more times than usual."
Begins the pub owner, rubbing his finger over the glass as a cleansing spell flashes along palm. His voice masking the 'plip' of the black tear striking the edge of the glass, particulates quickly dissolving into the hard liquor. Booze had always been a friend of sorrow, after all - a courier of the little madness that came with escapism. Nothing but a faint shimmer left in their wake.

"Ever think about taking a vacation? Getting away from all .. this?" Small talk was unusual - must be a slow evening.

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
"I have, but..." Sigrun shrugs, seemingly not really all that enthusiastic about the idea. She takes another sip of her booze, a larger one this time. "Someone has to help these people, and I don't see anyone stepping up to do the job while I take a break." She doesn't sound bitter about it, just accepting an unpleasant fact. "Would be selfish."

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
The man blinks quietly, then looks at the table for a moment as he puts the glass down. Quietly rubbing his own jowels between thumb and forefinger - which inadvertantly starts the cleaning spell on his own face. Not necessarily a bad thing. "Huh. I guess. But what do you do that helps?"

That last shot must've been a kicker, because it -burns-. It burns all the way down to your belly, where it sits like a lead ball. Grief - sorrow - was like that. It could weigh you down, make you feel like the bottom was about to drop out of you. Make your heart beat in your ears..

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
Sigrun is about to answer that question when she feels that effect, and she stops with her mouth still half open. Silent as she thinks about the question, and when her answer comes, it's far less firm than it'd otherwise have been. "Keep people a little safer. It's not much, but it's something."

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
"Yeah. I guess. Lemme know if you want to setup again."
Shrugs the pub owner, who tucks the cleaned glass away and goes to fetch more from the sink pile. It wasn't quick, but it was a cheap and easy spell to maintain. The lead in your belly doesn't cease - if anything, it simply begins to get heavier. As if you were being pulled down by your own inside, throat warm and dry.
'Keep people a little safer'. Was that it? All your efforts, all your time, all your pain and money - and that's all you could offer? But what else could you do? You might fail to make a difference, again and again and again, but. .... but what?
This room - this pub. It's getting warmer, now. Oppressive, almost.

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
Sigrun just throws down a handful of coins, enough to pay for the drink and a modest tip, and starts to head out. She's not sure why, but she feels like she has to get out of the bar, out into the open. All the while, her head keeps spinning, keeps revolving around that very question. 'What difference does it make anyway?'

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
The rain outside is cool; Cold, almost, a shock to the system. And yet somehow it feels -juuuust- right, as the thunder rumbles across the low cast sky once more - as crystals plink and sputter, their spells nearly depleted. That sickening warmth flowing up from your stomach; It's not puke. It's something else. Something familiar. But that's not really important now, is it? Because even just outside the pub it becomes obvious. Nothing -has- changed. If anything, things are just getting worse - more people, less money, more problems. And more people escaping it the only way they can.
All you'd have to do is look down any alleyway; Hobos sucking down from paper bags. People hunched over in empty corners, sharing purple dust or the flicker of fae wings.
What difference does it make? You said it yourself; If it wasn't for you, there'd be no one else. Would it hurt so fucking much for them to just fucking -try-? Just once? Just put down the fucking bottle and -try- something, rather than squatting with tongues out, waiting for someone to press coin or food?

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
Sigrun wanders around, looking at the people she's been trying to help with an emotion she has not felt for them before. Contempt. She shrugs, and walks onwards, heading for... she doesn't even really know where. What difference does it make anyway?

Are these people even worth saving to begin with? For the first time, that's a question that's not answered with an axiomatic 'yes, of course they are' and this feeling... it's somewhat liberating.

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
That warm, sick feeling keeps coming up now. A storm of your very own to match the thunder above. Everything you did for them, all that you offered, all of your years - fuck, all of your -life- you gave to these sick fucks. And all they wanted was more.

And you could feel it now; You knew what it was, what came with that liberation. That hot, burning sensation working its way up your throat; A sob. Bubbling, curdling in your throat, refusing to let air past it as it grows - as it -hurts-.
Ever have that one moment? That one moment where stress just piles on, where nothing goes right, where you take one look at your life and feel that sudden drop of loss? Maybe it was after a relative died. Maybe it was just realization of how empty things can be. It squeezed the chest, removed your breath; Left your lower lip shuddering, eyes wet and unfocused. It -hurt-, but then it was gone. It hurt, but the relief that came afterwards was cool and refreshing.

Now imagine that moment never ends. That pressure just pushing harder and harder, squeezing down on your chest, a sob caught in the throat that never breaks. Tears that sting but never fall.
What the -fuck- where you doing with your life? What the -fuck- did anything matter anymore? If you dropped dead - if you simply fell down where you lay - would these assholes do anything to help? Or would they wait until you stopped moving to steal what coins you had? You tried to be a hero - for all your faults, you had that. You knew who you were and what you are.

But what now??

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
And Sigrun is lost, she doesn't know where to go next. No longer with a certainty of purpose, there's nothing to guide her way. Thus, she wanders, aimlessly, until she finds a quiet spot to sit in. A spot where others can't see her, and she tries to cry these feelings away.

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
What do tears matter, when the world drowns in rain? The uncaring sky crackles and rumbles above, leaving everything with a half-melted appearance; All that was hard and solid now runny and soft, an illusion by flickering crystals and blurry vision. Who gives a fuck anymore?

Lightning crackles once more; A sudden sharp hit of a guitar, a lonely echoing wail - a mourning lovers final, desperate scream at the empty heavens. The water that falls is black as ink now, churning slowly as it coalesces. The sound of wings over the thunder, and a sob from above; The Queen of Tears. But she does not fall like a comet, but as slow as the drop of a feather, raven wings spread to either side of her. Eyes bright in the dark trails of Black Tears that run down her cheeks - her black lips serene. Calm. No cruel or dark smirk this time, but a strange sort of acceptance. Her bare toes touch the wet ground first, the churning black tears curling about her ankles - embracing this broken thing.

".. You don't have to, anymore." She begins, as she settles herself to the ground as well. Voice curiously soft, throat raw. Her eyes on the ground, drawing a clawed finger through the watery puddles. ".. No one made you care. No one made you do this, give yourself up to failure over and over. And it never helped anyway.."
In the reflection is another woman; Black hair, youthful, pretty and strong and wild, with wide and dark eyes.

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
Sigrun looks up at the Queen of Tears, and though there's the emotional turmoil, and there's the current lack of caring about the people around her, she knows who that is, and even if she think stopping her wasn't much use, she's still quite confident that she doesn't like or trust the other. "What do you want?"

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
"What do I want?"

The Queen of Tears considers that question, very carefully. Her chin lowers, the falling rain plastering her long hair across her face, eyes hidden. Her clawed fingers lift once more from the puddle, palm opened towards the sniper who had caused her so much grief. ".. I want it to end." She begins, softly. Her chin lifts as well, eyes bright beneath the strands of her own sable hair. "I want it all to just fucking stop. These stupid, empty, worthless little things the living do to distract themselves. The great and simple truth is - nothing fucking matters. So you might as well do what you want." That cold, brittle little smile comes back across her blackened lips, as she tilts her head.

"But I think you get that now, don't you? I can hear it; your heart's breaking. So what did you give to them...?" Her gaze turns upwards, towards the floating buildings. Nevermind the rain that plinks against her forehead, or runs in tiny streams down her pale blue flesh. "Did you give them your time? Your effort? Did you think they would thank you, that things would change... did you think love was enough? Not kissy love, but love of another person, the willingness to sacrifice yourself for a stranger. To take their hurt to yourself, because you were stronger, better, faster. Because you could. Because they needed you too."

Those eyes drop back to Sigrun, the smile gone - empty. "Their -need- is going to eat you alive. And you know it. Look around you; It hasn't made a fucking dent, has it? You're holding back the fucking kill-all meteor, and these people are too stupid to walk out of the line of fire." Another pause. "I hate you; And you hate me. That's honest. It's hard, but it's fucking honest. But what the fuck is this place to you anymore?"

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
"I don't make it a habit of hanging out with people I hate." Sigrun says without much emotion to it, leaning back and looking right into Drowned Ophelia's face, "And you don't seem like the type either. Your timing is awfully convenient too, have you been waiting for this? Stalking me?" She reaches for her bow. "Get out of my face."

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
"Yeah. So what? Am I lying?"

Laughs the Queen of Tears; Bitter and cold is her voice. She remains seated upon the ground, her bare feet poking out from beneath her dress, knees drawn up. She loops one arm over the leg, clawed fingers dangling loosely as she watches Sigrun. "It's always inevtiable; What you love the most is what kills you. Not bullets, not daggers; Those hurt. And hell, they might end your life. But it's what you love that -kills- you; Empties you out. Leaves you a breathless shell. All I have to do is -wait-; It'll happen to everyone, in the end. And I won't even say 'told you so'."

She rises at last, the blackened storm crackling above her - framing pale blue skin, casting her features briefly into shadow - save for the bright whites of her eyes. Clawed hands stretch outwards again, as if offering a hand.
"You know what's here. Fuck all. Me, leaving? That won't change what you've found. Maybe it's time you tried something -else-, now. That hurt's never going away - so maybe it's time to just... let go. Let go, and float. Atlas shrugged and all that shit. No one asked you to carry this world."

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
Sigrun has no answer, at least not for a bit. She goes over what's being said in her mind a few times, and eventually decides she might as well, reaching out for Drowned Ophelia's hand and grasping it firmly. "So what do you propose, then?"

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
Ophelia's clawed hand is cold; Cold as the morgue. Sorrow calls to sorrow alike, to grief and loathing, the stain of that misery flowing down Sigrun's wrist to drip from her elbow; And then twisting in its path. The broken creature's grip tightening, even as she tries to pull Sigrun to her feet. White teeth behind black lips, a cold and empty smile.
"Walk with the Doom. See the multiverse. Figure out if any of it's fucking worth the effort - or, maybe.. just maybe.. you'll learn to love your empty, like I did. Nothing can hurt you like you can hurt yourself; When you figure that out, you're going to be surprised at just how strong you really are - and how nothing can fighten you again."

Ophelia's tight grip isn't slackening in the least, if Sigrun tries to pull loose - the Black Tears tracking the outside of skin, following veins of warmth back to their source. Sigrun had a taste of sorrow; Now it was time to really break her heart.

"Come; Come and drown with me."

Sigrun Stem (992) has posed:
Sigrun still doesn't trust Ophelia, and as the grip tightens and that push is made, she tries to pull away. "Walk with you? I'd sooner kill you." But then, then the sorrow really starts to come in and she buckles over, unsure what to do, how to handle what she's feeling.

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
Needles; Booze and needles, Sorrow's couriers. The little liquid lies that say 'everything is okay' - that you can replace happiness with nihilism, with numbness, that you can empty out the places inside that hurt. Whether that hurt is from the outside; Or the inside. From personal failures, from personal stress, the places we bury all the piled up problems. The place where you save someone from a soul sucking dust pusher - only to find them right there again a week later, their mother crying broken hearted tears in the apartment above.

That place where you realize that all you have, all you do, all you are - it won't make a difference in the long run. The shores of dying starfish, the seas of spilt oil, the mounds of dying animals - the poor, the destitute, starving in the street when it'd be so -fucking easy- to fix it all. Just a little effort. Just a little attempt. Just a little change here and there, a few degrees from paradise that will never come.

That's what it is that bites its way to the flesh; Needles. Sigrun may feel her heart beat hard, her breath trembling as the Black Tears continue to draw out all the worse. All the bad, all the little sins, all the worse of her. It's a baptism not in water, but in knowledge - NOTHING she did mattered. It's like a dark epiphany. And maybe - maybe those who are getting left behind? Who are refusing to do anything but sit in the mud and scream for help?
.. Maybe they deserved it. Maybe they deserve... -more-.