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Marigold	March of Ostia, near the Etrurian border      In an obscure mountainside cave.      Only the next day after securing Ostia, Lord Hector invites the Elites back, though some of you might not have left (he ensures cozy accommodation at the castle for those who want to stay).      Your mission is to secure Durandal, the Blazing Blade, a dragonslaying sword used by Roland the Hero during the Scouring a thousand years ago, that it could be used against Bern's somehow-resurrected dragons and more mundane wyvern-riders. Hector insists fetching it shouldn't be much trouble- "to think I'd have need of it twice in a lifetime"- but such things are never really done without a trial.      A small party comes along on the pleasant sunlit mountain hike, while most of Roy's army stays behind to guard Ostia. Lord Hector takes the fore and sourly kicks big rocks out of the way ("I swear it wasn't this rough thirty years ago"), Lord Roy follows just behind him ("Such things do come with age, Lord Hector), and Father Lucius with his boys ("My apologies, Lord Hector, but they couldn't stand to be left behind) tags along at the rear, alongside Sir Marcus the knight.      The older three- Marcus, Hector, and Lucius- all seem familiar. The younger three are bubbling with quiet anticipation. "I can't believe it's even real," Lugh murmurs to Chad. "Maybe it isn't," the sourer boy replies.      There is no path to where you're going, and the cave they lead you to looks like any other, at first. It looks natural, cool and granite-walled, and big enough for even Hector to walk inside without bowing, but none of that is exceptional. You might imagine Hector's taken you all on a walk to nowhere as a practical joke.      Only, twenty feet into the cave, it starts getting brighter around the bend. And the breeze on your face from ahead feels like you've opened the door to an oven. "Now, the heat in here will damn near kill you. Lucius, you remembered?" "Of course." His staff looks a little different than usual. He taps it to everyone who doesn't object, limning them in a thin protective barrier that softens the heat.      Hector nods when he gets his, then continues on with Roy around the corner. The lordling gasps and draws back before most of you see it. "Hector! Look! Is that really--" "Yes. They shouldn't give us trouble.      Then you see it too. The path ahead is a natural stone bridge in a larger chamber, with a river of actual magma running uncomfortably close beneath. The room is lit with ruddy fire. Smoke rises up to form a canopy of black haze overhead; the ceiling isn't visible. And to either side, above the magma . . .      Ghosts of ancient soldiers form from wisps of the smoke, like seeing figures in clouds but far too clear to be deniable. They stand casually, spears pointed upwards, but the gazes of their ancient cinder-eyed helmets are all upon you. "Roland's men," Lucius murmurs, sounding more sad than alarmed. "They haven't changed a bit," says Marcus.
Ru Li Cheng	All it takes to put Ru Li up for the night is a place to sit his wheelchair and some food. The Ru Cheng god doesn't need to sleep, and he's happy to continue fulfilling his end of the training bargain and letting everyone else rest well while he keeps an eye (and ear, and nose, and...) out for trouble. All it means is that he has more time to think.      Lately, he's been wondering if having more time to think is in fact the problem with him, especially after his conversation with Petra and Lilian. When all he had to do was his job, he wasn't...*happy*, but he didn't have time to stop and contemplate much. He just let his imagination go as he read reports about heroes and their exploits. Nowadays, out here in the Multiverse, he has...too much time, perhaps. Maybe he wasn't meant to have this much time to think. Maybe he's just been making himself miserable.      Still, he's a god, and thus, in his own way, a public servant, and he's happy to have a public to serve. So when the sun rises and he's still there, it's a nice reminder that they're safe under his watchful gaze.      The mountain hike is not easy for a god in a wheelchair. He manages. He's strong enough, even now, to push his way uphill with little damage to his body. He's been healing relatively well, too, despite the occasional rough and tumble, so he's able to expend a little extra force when the terrain gets rough without hurting himself. This produces the relatively funny sight of the Ru Cheng gods occasionally bouncing his wheelchair off rocks to get over them, twisting the wheelchair for some very mild acrobatics, such as they are. He's getting used to this.      He says relatively little on the way up other than some pleasantries and small talk. Mostly, he's just sort of listening to everyone else. Voices are...nice. Warm.      Less nice, and more warm, is the cave itself. The minute the heat is on him his face starts to turn gold and silver. He hisses with steam as his body tries to cool itself down. While he manages a decent job, it's only when Lucius puts up the thin barrier that the hissing stops. A last breath expels more silver-and-gold steam from his lips as his body cools itself rapidly.      "Thank you."      They enter the magma chamber.      Ru Li stops to look over the place, to take it in. He also stops to hold up both hands and bow, as best he can, to the ghosts. "Echoes of the past, thank you for your service," the god says in a quiet voice, expecting them to hear one way or another. "Your worthy efforts are without peer."      That done, he straightens and stretches. The magma on his tongue is an odd feeling - liquid stone that tastes like fire and feels like something oozing around him.      "This is certainly the resting place of a legendary weapon."
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Madeleine stayed over at Hector's castle, knowing the trip to claim Durandal wasn't long off. She made the most of the accommodations, gallivanting around in pretty dresses, eating tiny cakes, living it up like a proper courtier. Drogrung appreciated the amenities as it was able, too, with several visits paid by Madeleine to the armory to get the weapon a proper polish.     On the trail the huntress takes point among the Elites, consulting with Hector on the route and scouting ahead for any untoward surprises. She smirks a little at the lord's grumbling about the road quality. Once she reaches the cave, however, she waits for Hector to take the lead - this is (or at least was) his legendary weapon, after all. Drogrung is remarkably perky - Eckesachs displayed no intelligence, but there's always a chance with relics like this to make a new friend. But perhaps it shouldn't be so pleased to meet a dragon-slaying sword, given its own origin...     Madeleine tugs at her collar from the heat rising off the magma, but doesn't appear struck by the grandeur of the sight before her. She's just regretting wearing her usual black-and-metal getup today. "Will they recognize you, Lord Hector? Since you've been here before. That's gotta be an 'in', right?"
Shinmyoumaru Sukuna	Shinmyoumaru absolutely would come on a trip ('adventure') to see a magical sword. It's a very easy hike for her because she's not doing it. She's riding her bowl, which only requires her to lean out and pole once in a while, using a length of bamboo to do it. (It doubles as a scabbard for her needle-sword, which is tucked neatly inside the hollow pole.) This is probably good, as Shinmyoumaru would have to scamper to keep up with the longer-legged humans in the party if she was on foot. "I bet it's real," Shinmyoumaru says, "because if it *wasn't* we wouldn't be wasting time all the way up here. It's a pretty big cave though," she admits, because - well, it is. The few times she's seen caves, they've been small and cramped and twisty tunnels. She has been deciding if she wants to ask Ru Li if he wants help or if it would be embarassing or rude for her to do that. She doesn't want to make him feel bad about it, but the wheelchair does *not* look as convenient to get around in as her own bowl. She has eventually decided that pride outweighs the rest and unless he actually gets stuck she's not going to. But as they get further in, there's a bend, at least, and heat. Shinmyoumaru hunches down in her bowl, tugging her hat down like a lid, which helps - but she is still appreciative of Lucian's spell. "Thank you," she says, as he passes. ... "I want to see!" Shinmyoumaru blurts out, darting off after Hector and Roy as they exclaim from around the corner. She brakes pretty quickly when she sees the strange ghosts, dragging the tip of the pole against the rocky floor with a scraping noise and bringing herself to a stop, bobbing gently in the air. Her eyes are wide as she looks down at the bridge, and the magma, and then up at the ghosts. "Roland? The one who used the Blade a long time ago? ...Have they been waiting here the whole time?" Shinmyoumaru asks, a little uncertain about ashen ghosts.
Flamel Parsons	Flamel comes along, of course. Not just to continue his efforts to care for Lugh and Chad. "I can't wait to see what kind of psychometric information I can get off of something like this." He rambles, adjusting his instruments as he hikes. He's got a proper backpack, and his outfit looks more like a Federal Bureau of Outdoors, so he's not cooking himself in a blazer. Good thing, too. "Sheesh! Getting pretty hot in here, you weren't kidding about the blazing part." He laughs a bit and takes a swig from a canteen of cold water after Lucius generously guards them.     Speaking of guards... "Wow! Roland's men must have been so loyal... And I'm sure they'll understand the direness of the situation, with these horrible dragon-monsters around!" Flamel says, walking forward with his instruments. They're meant to detect the nature of the psychic presence of these ghostly beings. But also to detect hostility. "Soldiers of Roland! I'm Flamel Parsons, acolyte of a mysterious yet clearly supernatural order. We're here to retrieve Durandal, to defend Ostia, the Lycian League, and all of Elibe from draconic monsters and the nations that choose to do their work. We'll accept any necessary trials, but not any rejection -- since that'd mean death for us too, you understand!"     He explains things to the kids, helpfully also elucidating for anyone unfamiliar: "Ghosts and ghost-like supernatural beings are so unusual. If you're firmly connected with standard humanoid logic, it's pretty much a dice-roll if a haunting winds up being hostile or just benignly spooky. You can have anything from unbreakably hostile psychic impressions of perpetual conflict, to complete or near-complete minds, to emotion-spreading non-sophonts, to anything in between or elsewise." He taps his chin briefly. "The word 'ghost' is like the word 'fish', in that you know what it means, but it also doesn't really usefully tell you much about how something works or let you predict what it's going to do."
Blemishine	In much the vein of vehemently asking your parents if you can go to a sleepover, Maria absolutely /had/ to spend as much time as Ostia as she could before they got on the road again, Maria had to be sure to inform a certain worrywart aunt that she'd be staying. The would-be civil war slash revolt is over now, it's fine! She just wants to enjoy Ostian hospitality while there's the chance, what with the war and all!     She may or may not have glossed over the part where they were descending into a cave to retrieve an ancient divine weapon, but that's okay.     What's actually important is that they're here now; stepping into this outwardly-unseeming cave. "How in the world did you find the location those thirty years ago, Hector? Anyone would look at the entrance and not see anything worth exploring, if they found it at all..." But her contemplation quickly gives way to awe, her golden eyes going wide as the orange brightness picks up more and more, Roy's reaction speeding up her step as they move ahead to the corner.     Into the massive magma chamber, her gaze drifting from the smoke obscuring the higher reaches to the river of molten rock as if she just encountered some sort of ancient treasure trove. "A place like this hidden in the depths of the mountain--!" A clenched fist comes to rest on her chest, over her armor (already cleaned up since the battle in Ostia!).     "Thinking about it, I shouldn't be surprised the 'Blazing Blade' is kept in a place like this! ...Ah, but it's so sweltering, now I almost wish I brought my work clothes for the forge more than my armor..."     The complaint doesn't even sound like a serious one, but the look of wonder on her face dims as she glances towards the spectral figures standing guard. Blemishine makes eye contact with several, briefly meeting the burning stare beneath their helmets - but as they don't seem aggressive to them at first, and Hector mentioned 'not giving them trouble', neither does she put her guard up.     "They were here watching over the place on your last visit, then?" The blonde knight addresses the Old Man squad of Hector, Marcus, and Lucius with a bit of a solemn look on her face. "...Roland must've really been quite the hero, to have his men keep an eye on this place for so long, wasn't he?"
Aidan Proudpick	Aidan has never seen a named cursed sword up close. Well, okay, he actually OWNED a nigh mythic weapon, but perhaps the fact that he undervalued it was a good enough reason to lose it. "So, what's this thing do? Does it just slay dragons, does it bend time and space around it? Oh, can it cut through anything?" Aidan hops and slides easily across each rock, having no trouble on the rocky path as he continues to think of amazing abilities of Durandal. "I hope it lets you fly. I love weapons that let you do that." At the first wave of heat, Aidan leans back, lifting his hand up. Already, fur begins to singe, which is a very unpleasant smell, until a tap from Lucius prevents further burnt hair. He leans forward again, staring at the river of lava(does it count as magma if it's in a cave?). An excited noise bubbles up from Aidan as he tracks his eyes across it, then up the ghosts of ancient soldiers. "Hurricanes," he whispers in eager awe.
Angela	Tennant and Ceri haven't returned home to Lobcorp. Tennant wove an elaborate story about how they needed to stay behind to make sure the castle was secure and Ceri HAD been given orders to recover and cozy castle accommodations is a great way to let your body heal up. The real reason they haven't gone back to Lobotomy Corp isn't because Lobotomy Corp is kind of generally rough to live in but so much as because it's specifically tough to be there right now with the elevator repairs still being worked on. The elevators were supposed to be fixed last week but Schadenfreude got caught in the middle of the elevator shaft and now its egg is wedged in the shaft and it's a whole operation--Breaches just exacerbate the repair processes repeatedly and often. Happy to let...Central and Safety handle that problem. Haschen, however, has joined the team. The lady in Training Dummy Rabbit EGO Gear that makes her look like a crash test dummy has joined the team for today in the hopes of writing standards and practices for visiting 'sword and sorcery' worlds. "Wow..." She says to Lucius as he taps her with the protective shielding. "How does this work? Is it a specialized singularity embedded in your staff or does it come from you? Psionic or alchemical? Oh perhaps it is relic-based...?" she taps excitedly at her datapad. "Nobody's gonna try to kill us ''today'' are they?" Ceri mutters to Tennant. "Now what would the odds of that be?" Tennant retorts. "You have to change the formula up now or--" "STOP...treating real life like it's a movie or I'll split you head to toe." Ceri interrupts. "I'll bet they want us to bring back some details on this dragonslaying sword for the records so focus on that, alright?" Tennant is quiet for a moment, expressing souring but then a thought occurs to them and they glance over to Hector. "How does Durandal specifically target dragons so effectively?" They ask. "Is it simply a very impressive sword or is there magic or material in the blade particularly harmful to draconic entities?" They look back to Ceri as if to say 'see? I can be professional even while doing the bit because it fits cinematic tropes, you got got!'. Then they see the ghosts. "Wow...!" Tennant is in awe and asks one of the ghosts as it's rising up in smoke., "Are you really Roland's men? Can you talk? What's it like being the subject of legends?" Tennant draws out their enkephalin scanner, taking reads and hoping to learn more about what BINDS these spirits to this BLADE.
Dysnomia	Arriving at the cave was enough to put a stop to the odd, conflicted stare Dysnomia thought that she was hiding. She'd been in darker, more cavernous, more remote caves, carved out of rock in the shadow of asteroids, never seen before and likely never to be seen again. It made it all the more inexplicable, the chill that ran down her spine, the hair? that rose on the back of her neck--she was crossing a threshold.     She allows Lucius to offer his protection, as they walk deeper and deeper into the cave. Until, eventually... "You've been here before." She doesn't look at anyone, when she says it, but there are only three people here who it could. "Why would you leave it in the mountains, instead of where you could guard it?"     Whatever answer she gets is rendered moot by what she sees when she turns the bend. She stops short, stopped not by the lava, not even the citadel--but the guards. They weren't there--No warmth of their own, no presence except for most visible wavelengths of light. Their minds were themselves a foggy echo. Dysnomia breathed in, breathed out, crossing her arms and concealing any other expression that might crawl across her face with a scowl. "...Just how long have they been here? All just to guard a sword?" She tries for flippant, but her voice comes out too quiet, too full of something she can't articulate.
Alucard	Alucard hasn't left Ostia since the attack. He's been using his unholy physical strength and endurance, plus his willingness to get his hands dirty, to help clean up and make repairs after the skirmish. He has taken no payment, no thanks, and refused every marriage proposal. (This is what happens when you're a very pretty man with great strength and impeccible manners.) It's just the right thing to do. Now, it's another adventure. More things to keep his mind occupied. He permits the priest to 'bless' him, so he's not horrifically uncomfortable in his coat in the cave. If he marvels at the magma cavern, it doesn't show, though his golden eyes gleam oddly in the orange light, and he is absolutely watching the unquiet dead. He doesn't trust them. He loosens his sword in its scabbard just in case.
Trudy Grimm	Trudy stayed the night here in Ostia, feasting and reveling and telling stories from her homeland-- ultimately concluding with sleeping in a disorganized heap somewhere presumably provided by the resident Lord. The Black Knight did none of these, instead standing before the smashed gate with his great sword resting across his shoulders, his visor facing out across the fields and hills of the land, as an immovable guardian. Almost perfectly still, only his head moves slightly at this sound or that, likely unnerving the actual guards.     The following day, unhindered by the usual downsides of a night with heavy drinking, she's up bright and early, cheerful as normal and spookier than ever. She says little while setting out to retrieve the sword, save to fetch her Knight and make him carry her up the mountain. The tireless undead doesn't seem to mind. Crossing rough terrain without breaking stride, only the faint rattle of his armor with each step to announce his presence.     "Oh?" Trudy glances back over the Black Knight's shoulder towards Lugh and Chad, "Are such artifacts a rarity here, then? Lord Hector wields the legendary axe, you know~. A magic sword shouldn't be so far-fetched, with that in mind."     Reaching the entrance, the Black Knight doesn't react at all; it's Trudy who puts her hands up to shield her face from the heat on the breeze. Drawing closer, she hops out of the Black Knight's arms to receive Lucius' blessing. The Knight himself doesn't even actually stop. He is, after all, already dead.     "Thank you, Father Lucius~" the witch chimes. She leans aside to look past him at the Knight now leading the way.     Once inside, she becomes distracted from the oppressive and terrible heat (even with Lucius' protection) by GHOSTS.     While the others move on, Trudy slows, transfixed by the spirits above the magma pools. Eventually she comes to a stop and crouches down, resting her hands on her knees to look at them more closely, "Oh my~. There certainly are a lot of you here, hmm? How are you all doing? Are you tied to this place of your own volition, or has something perhaps bound you here?"
Odette Raskins	Odette is one of those Elites that didn't leave for the evening, partially because of her duty as a medic ("I need to make sure Mister Hector's blood stays inside where it belongs"),  partially because of her lessons with Lucius ("It's easier to meditate out here"), and definitely not for any other reasons whatsoever. She's all too eager to join in on helping to find this Blazing Blade, of course, and she even seems to take the existence of a dragon-killing blade (and dragons, by extension) as truth rather than showing any amount of skepticism towards it whatsoever. Heading up that mountain path, Odette keeps herself busy with steady breathing exercises. She closes her eyes every now and then to really feel the breaths, then jolts herself back to attention whenever she hears Hector kicking a rock or tripping over one herself. She refuses to look at anyone each time it happens, too, as though the act of not seeing anyone means nobody saw her do it. Inside the cave, Odette lets out an anxious noise as she feels the growing heat, and she's already holding her arms out to her sides to try and feebly stop whoever might be even more distracted than she was on the way up. "H-how are we supposed to get through all this...?" Luckily, Lucius has the answer! She stays still while he gets to work, of course, and lets out an understanding noise once she feels the heat-dampening effects on her skin. "Oh, that's new...! Neat. Would've snagged a firesuit from home if-" Odette clams up when she sees the river of magma, and she's REALLY wishing she brought more flame-resistant clothes for this. More importantly, however, she sees... No. Not ghosts. Those can't be ghosts. She can see them clearly, after all, and they're looking right at her. "D... Do you know them, Mister Marcus?" Odette asks with a fearful tremble, stepping over behind him and Hector while holding a hand up. She watches the figures carefully, slowly waving her hand and watching their reactions. "Or.. Oh, y-yeah! Miss Madeleine's got a... Point. Er. Mister Hector? If they're Roland's guys, how... Um. They must be friends of yours by extension, right?"
Desire Stars	Ace and Neon are back in their DGP activewear, following the untimely reception from last time. The both of them are true to their word about helping Hector's people recover; be they from this world or another, the laborers working to mend the embattled kingdom will have well-paid company.     The two Riders make the hike on foot, this time around. I can't believe it's even real. Maybe it isn't.     "Two frogs stood on their hind legs atop a mountain, looking over the countryside," Ace replies to Chad, "Will only see where they've been, not where their noses point."     Accordingly, he doesn't seem inclined to think it's a practical joke even when it seems most likely.     Neon goes a little cross-eyed, when Lucius bestows the protective barrier to her--like someone watching a butterfly land on their nose. Hector! Look! Is that really-- Yes. They shouldn't give us trouble. Roland's men.     "If you say so," Neon says warily. This isn't her first time with ghosts--or any kind of 'from-the-afterlife' thing. it doesn't comfort her to think about that fact.     "What do we need to do, here?" she asks. "It looks like they're... waiting, for us to do something."     Flamel's open, honest approach seems to strike a chord with her. She smiles, despite her unease. The word 'ghost' is like the word 'fish', in that you know what it means, but it also doesn't really usefully tell you much about how something works or let you predict what it's going to do.     "So... are you saying that you might as well just be polite and direct anyway? That makes sense." What's it like being the subject of legends?     "The accolades and the royal treatment aren't bad," Ace replies to Tennant with his usual smug smile. Why would you leave it in the mountains, instead of where you could guard it?     "Hector probably could protect it, but some things are more than just 'what they are' in a physical sense. The sword is from a more difficult time in this world's past." Ace shoves his hands into the pockets of his DGP track pants. "Things like this need more than just the will to use them. We know what that will looks like, on its own."
Lilian Rook	For the first time since leaving that farce of a peace conference, Lilian has to do without her enrichment cloak. It'd be, with great reluctance, because of the scalding heat, if it wasn't already because a bunch of Ostian traitors put holes in it and she hasn't had the heard to ask Cecilia or Tamamo to repair it yet. The coincidance is opportune and depressing.     'If I'd thought to ask for protective talismans' comes to mind, but is quickly dismissed, because she had no reason to think of it anyways. "You're-- joking. This is where it's hidden? Why is there a lava river?!" comes to her lips in places of it. She makes a half-hearted sound of relief when Lucius reaches out to help, but after some amount of thought, she changes into her armour (away from the pack) to deal with the heat. Which should be gravely counterintuitive.     "And like fish, if you're educated on the topic, it's easy enough to know what you're dealing with." Lilian says to Flamel, trying to keep her mind off trudging through the oppressive heat. "These men are almost certainly 'the duty to protect Durandal', shed or imprinted from the departed person. A reasonably complex one, but likely not enough to carry the serious impression of they complicated feelings and relationships surrounding the task. Enough to be intelligent guards, perhaps."
Lilian Rook	'So, what's this thing do? Does it just slay dragons, does it bend time and space around it? Oh, can it cut through anything?'     "Who cares? It's not as if you can use it. All we need it to do is to kill dragons very very well; anything more than that is up to the swordsman, not the sword." says the lady who carries around the same nebulously magic sword all the time.     'Is it simply a very impressive sword or is there magic or material in the blade particularly harmful to draconic entities?'     "Integrated spells that discharge only on contact with dragons, or reactive materials that catalyze with the magic inherent to draconic blood. Those are my bet." Lilian says to Tennant, totally reversing her tone unfairly. "Night Mist works in the latter way. Though, obviously not for slaying dragons."     'Why would you leave it in the mountains, instead of where you could guard it?'     "Consider what just transpired in Ostia."     'Are such artifacts a rarity here, then? Lord Hector wields the legendary axe, you know~. A magic sword shouldn't be so far-fetched, with that in mind.'     "There are allegedly only nine. For an entire world to produce only that many in more than a thousand years, I'd say so." Lilian says. "Weaponsmiths put out more work over their lifetimes than you'd imagine."
Petra Soroka	Petra, as of yesterday, has experienced war. This makes her more normal, somehow, about her place within the army, as part of a collective, so there's no more need for her to gripe about having comfortable accomodations available so early in her time as a part-time offworld volunteer solider. Not that she can take advantage of them, anyways-- mere hours after rescuing a princess from a tower, Petra has to report to work to hold hands with the bathtub that makes you want to kill yourself.     Instead, when she comes back, she has the mental energy to muse about more interesting things than the alienating nature of only having been betrayed once instead of thrice: the incredibly strange life story of an old man. During the hike, Hector is pestered by the oddly Ritoid posture of Petra in a good mood, hanging behind and to his side and occasionally scurrying to keep up with his significantly longer pace, positioned right beside Roy.     "How *is* it, actually, that you ended up needing it twice? Like, that's the kind of thing that's mythologically only needed in a dozen lifetimes or whatever, right? What *was* the first time you needed it, I don't think I've heard the story?"     After continuing along that track of questioning for some time, Petra wanders onto one that's related in her mind, but considerably more abstract, and simply continues saying her thoughts out loud as they come to her. "Does being familiar with that kind of huge mythological symbol make it seem kind of like, diminished in your mind, or does it feel *more* important that you're alive and, like, relevant, during a time period where Durandal is needed *twice*? Would it feel more like the former if it was just, like, Roy and the other world locals, who already know a lot of the story, and having a wider multiversal audience changes that? You said it won't be that much trouble to get, but you still brought us, right? If you didn't expect *any* trouble, there'd be no reason to take us along, but, like, assuming you're not just pretending to be overconfident and smug, because I don't think that's it, having history with the sword means you're *comfortable* enough with it to expect that it won't surprise you at all?"     ... Maybe she's acting more like *Tennant* now, actually, but at least Petra has the decency to not use the word 'sequel'. Once she's forced, either by being shooed away or by entering into the superheated cavern, to pull the metaphorical microphone out of Hector's face, she reacts to the cave surroundings like it's her first time seeing them at all, completely distracted by babbling.
Petra Soroka	"Ugh-- oh my god, it *is* hot, is there-- oh, thanks, Lucius." Petra, slowly frogboiled without noticing, is red-faced and sweating by the time Lucius gets to her, and once she has his magical barrier applied she slides her transteam gun-- the only other way she'd have to survive it-- back onto her hip, whining when her fingers come away from the black plastic with very faint blisters.     The lava is a surprise at first, but Petra takes its presence as a learning opportunity. Eggman *had* recommended that she try out using lava pits on Hydrochoeria, so getting some experience with it in a natural setting will help with designing a more fitting artificial placement of it later. It's also really cool looking, and the only thing stopping Petra from scooping up a rock and throwing it into the river is Lilian's presence.     Then, looking up when others comment on them, Petra considers the soldiers, tugging at the already stretched neckline of her t-shirt in the heat. "... Haven't changed. If they're the old legendary hero's men, they want us to test our determination to get *his* old weapon, right? The question's just how they expect us to prove it; if they insist on fighting, I mean, or if they'll be--" Lilian provides the words, "Emotionally complex enough to be 'convinced'."
Marigold	What was the first time Durandal was needed? Hector's never answered 'what happened thirty years ago' before, but something about Petra's good mood infects him. "Mmmm. ... It was called the Black Fang Incident," he says.      "A dark sorcerer named 'Nergal' figured out how to rip the life right out of people so he could live forever. Started making servants, tried to stir up war so he'd have a steady supply. Roy's father used Durandal then. I can't tell you everything that happened. But it sure hasn't made me respect Durandal less. It was... a fulcrum of our lives."      His jaw works. "It's just a difficult thing. I hope you don't have to understand."      "You're very welcome," says Lucius in honeyed tones, not the type to brush off gratitude. To Haschen: "Ahaha. It's an outpouring of my heart! Nurturing the light within is the hard part. To release it is simple." And to Aidan: "Ah... Durandal is a sword too heavy for even our Hector to lift, which gives its wielder the strength to bear it. Lycia was uninhabitable after the war with the dragons, or so they say. Roland used Durandal's sacred flame to cleanse the land and make it green again."      "Magic? Material? I don't know," adds Marcus to Tennant, blissfully oblivious to their schemes. "It just glides right through dragons and wyverns. I'm not sure anyone alive understands it. We've come a long way from the Scouring, but they did things with magic back then you just can't do today."      "Hector wielded the legendary axe," says Chad, looking up at Trudy with slightly narrowed eyes. "Says he left it back in the Western Isles. That sure seems dumb now." As for rarity, he shrugs, and adds in Lilian's direction: "It's the stuff of stories. I'm not even sure they were 'smithed'."      He stares at Ace, his apparent senior by only a couple of years, with utter bafflement. "Huh? Frogs? ... Are you stupid or something?"      "We won't have to 'mind-dive' them or anything, will we, Mr. Parsons?" says Junior Psychonaut Lugh. He draws his cloak in a little tighter despite the heat. "I don't think it'd be very nice in there."      Flamel, indeed, detects that these are mostly people, sort of. At least the recognizable residue of a person, or the characteristic echo of one. Their duty to Roland burns brightly, and everything else is hazy, unimportant, just beyond recollection. It'd be an uphill battle to reason with them.      One of the ghosts seems to nod at Ru Li's acknowledgement. That one hesitates, while all the others drift to form up on the bridge just as Flamel speaks of tests: a spear formation three layers deep, with axemen guarding longbow archers behind. Their coordination is eerie, just imperfect enough to make it clear it's the result of incredible discipline rather than anything supernatural.      Roy takes as deep a breath of the choking-hot air as he can stand, squints his eyes, and lifts his blade. The tip trembles a little. He's both afraid and enthralled: "Loyalty beyond death, for a thousand years." "Mmm. I wonder if they even sleep," Marcus asides to Blemishine. "Lord Hector, if we hurt them, they won't really die? I'd hate--"
Marigold	"MOVE! You know me!" Maybe it's a trick of the boiling air, but the ghosts seem to flinch slightly when Hector booms and stomps forward. "Have I gotten so old you don't recognize my face? Or didn't my axe make an impression before? My name is Hector, descendant of Roland, and I have been judged. Give us the sword."      There's a tense moment of hesitation. Then they blow away, as if on the wind, and Hector relaxes with a shoulder-slumping sigh that the limits of his curse won't have to be tested.. Roy looks almost like he'll collapse from dread too. "Come on," he half-pants. "It's not too far ahead."      And so it isn't.      Visible through the smoke as one approaches is the worn, half-crumbled stone of an ancient small temple. Laying on its altar is a black-red double-edged sword that would be sized for Hector like Night Mist is for Lilian. Anyone with magical senses detects it as cracklingly energetic. Ru Li can sense it as at least loosely 'divine'.      But even to ordinary sight, it feels jarringly 'detached'. It isn't quite of this world; or maybe this world isn't of it, anymore. All around it, wildflowers and climbing ivy have sprung up even though the cave should burn them.      "I don't think I could lift that," is the first thought Roy voices after his disoriented shock. "Ha! Probably you couldn't. They say it picks its wielders. Your father Eliwood is a rare sort of man. If only we had him..."
Madeleine Cadrasteia	"I'm not even sure they were 'smithed"'.     Chad's words catch Madeleine's attention from halfway across the group. "I'm still convinced Zephiel's plan involves the heroes' weapons closely, some way or another. Do you reckon that ancient shame he mentioned about Hartmut had to do with his weapon's origin? A thousand blood sacrifices or whatever. The Scouring had folks pretty desperate. Lucius, do you know anything about how they were made? Or know someone else who could tell us?"     The sight of the weapon further emboldens Madeleine's train of thought. "That doesn't look like the sort of thing that just comes out of a blacksmith's." She takes a half-step forward. "It's beautiful... I'm reminded of, well." She reaches behind her back, as if to check that Drogrung's still there. "You seeing this?" "I am," the spear rumbles. Something about the sword's otherworldy presence has put Madeleine at ease - she's clearly in awe, but there's not a hint of nervousness in her voice.     "They say it picks its wielders."     "Picks them how? Like, it's got a mind of its own? Or is there like, a curse that hurts anyone who's not 'worthy'?"
Alucard	As the ghosts line up in a proper military formation, Alucard stops, reaching over to grip the hilt of his own sword. Even he flinches slightly when Hector booms, his voice projecting through the burning cavern. As they seem to dissolve, he releases the grip on his weapon, posture going back to relaxed. "Well then," he says to no one in particular. "That seems too easy." When he sets eyes on the Durandal, he squints at it. His own mystical senses yelling at him. "...'tis potent," he says. "I have not witnessed such a weapon. Even the Morningstar Whip is not so." Though it might be close. Maybe. Probably not.
Flamel Parsons	Flamel listens to Lilian with some rapt attention, nodding a couple of times. He observes the defensive formation, then observes its dispersal. Hector wins it again! "I see... I'll admit, most of my knowledge is generalist, so seeing this kind of specialist insight is fascinating! I should learn more about ghosts, from the sound of it." Neon gets a nod, though. "An approach of earnest kindness almost never winds up being the wrong one, even if you don't know all the details about a situation."     He gives a thumbs-up to Lugh as Hector handles most of this. "See? No problem, and no need to mind-dive them. I'll be honest, things like this tend to only have a partial mental landscape to begin with. Someone who gets possessed by a ghost, now, you can get a foothold on that because the fragment has a framwork. But this, less so."     He pushes foward with the rest. Sword time. He almost reaches for it by instinct, as an otherworldly artifact. Then he pulls back instantly, long before his hand even gets near, blinking. He starts pacing back and forth across the path everyone's taken to the sword, brandishing some of those scanning instruments, like a government investigator trying to find missing radioactive waste. He recognizes that this isn't his type of thing to touch. "Someone who knows swords decently get that, and let's get back to the castle. Not Hector, too much possibility of imprint conflict with the axe and the curse and all."
Aidan Proudpick	"Who cares? It's not as if you can use it." "We don't know that yet," Aidan offers back, though it's not heated. Just an observation. "Ah... Durandal is a sword too heavy for even our Hector to lift, which gives its wielder the strength to bear it." "Oh! It's almost like it's weightless, but still has inertia! So you still feel the weight, but you are better at swinging it!" He nods eagerly. Not in the high percentile of super magic weapons, but still enough to make Aidan eager to see it. "How *is* it, actually, that you ended up needing it twice?" This time, he stops entirely, and just listens to Petra. He lifts his eyebrows slowly, listening to her go on. "You've already thought a lot about this, Petra! I'd hate to miss out on a sword like this, though, whatever he wanted to do." A bright smile on his face before he turns back to the task at hand. Watching Hector work is always atonishing. He gets the whole 'knights should have muscles' thing, because watching Hector stride forward and simply shout the soldiers into line is awe-inspiring. "Stale winds," Aidan whispers as he watches, awed by each soldier simply falling into line. "It's beautiful... I'm reminded of, well." "I guess Drogrung isn't forged either, right." That gives him new awe as he steps up to the sword besides Maddy. "It picks its wielder too... Maybe you have to be true of heart? Or strong enough to be a commander in battle?" "That seems too easy." Aidan turns to Alucard, finally looking at him for the first time. He frowns, looking over at Ru Li, then back, frowning again, but continues on, "Lord Hector already did it once, right? They probably just remember him."
Dysnomia	"Consider what just transpired in Ostia."     "Perhaps." Eyes flicked toward Lilian, briefly. "But I'm sure something else could've gone wrong here to get it into Bern's hands, too. Even something like this isn't invulnerable--just differently vulnerable." There were more ways to bring a castle low than treason.     "...It just glides right through dragons and wyverns..."     The glance toward Marcus would have been easy to overlook, and even if it wasn't, its meaning might have been lost to those who hadn't been privy to their conversation by that blackened ruin of a village. "Let's hope it glides just as easy through those things that burned down castle Araphen," she settled on.     Hector scatters the ghosts, and Mia finds her next exhale comes out just a bit easier. "Stars, you must have cleaved through them like like lightning, last time." Her words were as close to appreciation as Hector had ever gotten from her. "You must have been a terror."     Dysnomia found herself walking amidst the mass of elites and native champions, glad for the company. The ceiling seemed so low, the stone worn and crumbling. She had to remind herself, again and again, that she could slipped through it like it was nothing. But the weight of the thick, searing air, the old dust of the ancient temple...It piled on her, like the earth above them.     The sword looked...Not wrong, but out of place. For a moment, she wondered if it might be an 'otherworld' artifact itself, dragged here. "Even if I'd never heard a word of the thing, I'd know this was special..."     A huff, the faint smell of ozone. "...I don't know that it needs to be any of that." She says, but it's not clear who she's speaking to until her words address Madeleine--"You're looking for some dark, arcane secret. But it was war. The stories make them seem clean, but they aren't."
Ru Li Cheng	As they part, Ru Li smiles. Friendly ghosts. Doing their job. Fire in their hearts. Their word to guard something beyond even death. Heroic.      Heroic.      And no less heroic is the sword. He's eager to see it, to feel it, to taste it. It dances on his tongue, divinity made steel - perhaps not in the same way as he himself, but potent and powerful and separate from existence. The world no longer follows the flow of this thing. It is a relic of an older age, a distant age. His senses run along it as he feels the metal with a distant certainty. It is not *like* him, but it is not *unlike* him - an outsider in this place, in its own way.      It's exciting. And part of him desperately wants to reach forward and take it. Indeed, his hand rises as if to do so, as if to reach forward, and then-      He puts it back in his lap.      His fingers curl up into a fist against his robe. Selfish. Stupid. Self-centered. And, also, almost assuredly not possible.      He still really wants to. He was pathetic, on Zora. He failed to do what was necessary to get an audience with the Spiral King and Lilian interceded for him. Petra had said it was pathetic, and he'd agreed with all his heart. He had been. He had failed his first friend by hesitating.      His hand twitches again, and he moves to reach out, and stops himself once more.      But this isn't for him. This isn't his. He wouldn't be able to use it correctly. It would, in his hands, be a thing burdened by a lack of knowledge. A lack of skill.      A third motion. Then, once more, withdrawn.      It certainly needs confidence. And he lacks it, right now.      Besides, he's in a *wheelchair*. How could he wield a sword in a *wheelchair*? He's not an expert like Ceri. He can barely use a sword *out* of one.      His fingers tighten again. Finally, he bows his head and wheels backwards from the pedestal, making his feelings clear. It's not for him. He just has to accept it. Accept it, and fight down the jealousy.      Another quiet little failure.
Odette Raskins	Hector tells the first story of Durandal, Nergal, and Roland in broad strokes, but that's still enough to get Odette to join Petra (with a friendly, if still nervous "H-hi Miss Petra") and listen in on that. As usual, hearing that this Nergal once tore people's lives away and turned them ("Their bodies?") into servants is still an easier pill for her to swallow than the mere existence of ghosts despite so many of them being right there in front of her. "Why is there a lava river?!" "F-for real, though... I'm more surprised anyone was able to get it in here the first time before Mister Lucius was around with that staff of his." "So... are you saying that you might as well just be polite and direct anyway?" "If they're the old legendary hero's men, they want us to test our determination to get *his* old weapon, right?" "A test of courage and integrity... Y-yeah, that must be it!" Odette murmurs in response, although she still looks too nervous to take that first step. She's totally shimmying back and forth like she's trying to psyche herself up to go, but that's it. That psyching up halts, however, when the ghosts form up on the bridge. It's clear the EMT is far less eager to cross the bridge even knowing that this is supposed to be some kind of test, although she still takes little micro-steps to keep her feet moving. "W... We got this, right? J-just gotta... Cross, show them we're..." Luckily, Odette doesn't have to pretend to be ready to make a move for much longer as Hector bellows out to the figures across the bridge. She lets out an audible exhale of relief as the ghost-esque soldiers disappear, the phantom wind taking with it Odette's own anxiety. ".. oh! Those weren't ghosts after all. Just... Magic test illusions. Good." She's still shivering with some leftover fear, but sweating helps clamp that down rather quickly. She follows after Hector just as quickly, too, stepping to the side every now and then to pause and look backwards just to do a quick headcount to make sure everyone's still there with the group. Odette hurries to catch up with Hector each time she does that, too, watching his generic vital readings just to make sure he isn't dying or something from the hike inwards. Spotting that giant sword, Odette closes her eyes for another breathing exercise, inhaling slowly and feeling the breath settle deep in her chest before letting it out. She might not have gotten all that far in Lucius' training yet, but it couldn't hurt to try and see if she can't feel a tickle of anything coming off of it besides 'whoa, cool flower-growing sword'. "I don't think I could lift that," "You won't know if you don't try. M-maybe it's a bloodline thing, and it's been waiting for a promising young hero to save the world again!" Odette pipes up in encouragement to Roy, stepping forward slowly to get a better look at the blade. After a moment, she turns back to Roy with an encouraging grin. "Here. H-how about we both try? Worst case scenario, it just stay stuck, and..." Her mind went faster than her mouth, and she doesn't know how to finish that thought in a way that's actually encouraging at all. "Uhhh. Th-then..." She's sputtering out. Quick, time for a diversion! Odette reaches for the sword, already bracing herself for a jolt or something in case it's got some kind of thirty-year-old ancient magic wards on it.
Angela	Tennant is unfortunately the kind of person to use the word sequel. They are surprised when Ace responds to the topic of legends and accolades and then quirks their head at Ace. "Mm? Are you talking about being famous on your own world? But that's much more recent, isn't it? Not exactly what I would call 'the subject of legends...' though there are often a variety of stories that heighten the modern celebrity to the proportions of an epic story but usually that's for tragedies like Romeo + Juliet. Romeo + Juliet is an incredible movie if a bit on the nose but I think that makes it part of the charm, you see, because these people from old tales are transported to modern times but they still have to speak like shakespearian actors so they name the guns things like 'Sword' and 'Dagger' and the postal service 'Posthaste' and such but that's pretty small potatoes compared to what they do with the cinematrography, they go ALL OUT, you understand. Fast moving cameras, low angle shots, close ups, slow motions, even the setting of Verona Beach--why, it all lends to a very dramatic lens that is larger than life while imitating life in a modern era if--of course--more fictional than your own life by milestones. People don't actually ACT like that and I suppose that is what interests me about those who have become legends--some part of you has been taken away in the making of the story, something bigger and grander and made from you--but not, exactly, you. And maybe that grander version of you is actually more important than the real you?" Ceri runs her hands down her face. Tennant outranks her technically even if they are in a department of one. They seem oblivious to the tonal change or, more accurately, the original tone as Tennant considers Lilian's word on the matter and they naturally take notes on their pad indicating these as possible answers. "I was thinking, perhaps, we could synthesize ... less mythical Durandal-like blades which--isn't lacking in cinematic qualities but may prove difficult and diminish the mythology of the original which would be the same... I suppose more useful as a rallying cry if it doesn't seem difficult to make but maybe there's other concerns regarding te proliferation of arms and of course it may prove impossible anyway..." Tennant trails off. Petra is also speaking about a 'diminishment' of mythology and their eyes widen and they bob their head rapidly in amazement. Haschen seems touched by Lucius. "Oh gosh... you're so right... That's so beautiful..." A tear trickles in her eye. Marcus mentions that the blade just seems to ''slide'' through the dragons which makes Tennant leave another note. "He is the type of man who fights dreaming of peace, holding onto a weapon expecting the next one would be counter to that ideal." Ceri asides to Chad. "...Though it is hard to argue the point." Naturally she nods to Tennant who takes the reader as part of their investigations into Durandal, no doubt trying to check its properties. It seems almost unlikely to result in anything since Lob Corp doesn't tend to do much with whatever information they've been gathering. Ceri's attention is drawn to Ru Li. "..." She places a hand on his shoulder, lightly, still looking forward.
Shinmyoumaru Sukuna	Shinmyoumaru takes off her lid of a hat and fans herself with it. Even with Lucius' spell, it helps. She plants it back on a few moments later, slightly crooked. She knows a bit about old relics, as she bears one herself (she is not counting the needle). The Miracle Mallet, currently resting in her lap in the bowl, a bit of oni's power stolen away. It feels a little warm when Marcus brings up things with magic you can't do today, and Shinmyoumaru checks it. It's probably her imagination. Everything in here is hot. Honestly, she's glad she didn't have to draw her needle, because gripping the metal sounds uncomfortable. But she doesn't; Hector pushes his way forward, and the ghosts give way to him. "I guess that's one way to get past!" Shinmyoumaru does say, grinning. "If you've already done it before..." Her bowl floats. Shinmyoumaru slows down a couple times, pausing where the ghosts *were* in formation. She squints, as if trying to find them again, but can't; eventually she gives up and moves on, to look in awe at the Durandal itself. It's bright in a way that very little around here is, that has nothing to do with light or photons. Shinmyoumaru squints, trying to make out more about its magic, but she's not very well trained on the topic and about all she can tell is it's powerful, and faintly divine; everything else gets outweighed by that. "It's so pretty!" Shinmyoumaru blurts out, which it is in its own way. "And the flowers..." There wasn't anything like them in the room where the Miracle Mallet had been sealed so long. Just an old dusty case, and the smell of scorched wood... "...can I touch it? I don't mean wield it really," Shinmyoumaru clarifies. It would look absolutely ludicrous in her hands if she tried; at about four feet tall, even if it didn't have its weight, she'd be dragged around by the thing. And it does have its weight. "Just..." Okay, she kind of wants to wield it. But at least partially she just wants to say she was there... and maybe, just maybe, to see if it would be okay with her, even if it passes on to someone else.
Trudy Grimm	Given their dogged devotion to this singular duty, Trudy's questions go unanswered by the accumulated spirits. She lets out a sigh and straightens back to a standing posture, "I see. I hope your duty doesn't take too much from you. Even the most loyal soldier deserves rest sooner or later, please don't forget that."     The witch dips her head to the spirits roiling in the smoke of the volcano and hurries to join the others just as Hector bellows opposition into backing down. Here, she answers Chad and Lilian both, "Perhaps I have a skewed perspective on such things."     A formation of spear-wielding ghosts was enough to make the Black Knight pause. Now that they're dispersed, he stalks ahead again, his sword still held across his shoulders. > "They say it picks its wielders."     "I can certainly understand why; but as others have asked: How?" Trudy asks, resting her eyes on the dormant blade. Without thinking about it, her left hand comes to rest on the spine of the Grimoire hanging at her hip, feeling along the ancient leather binding.     With a loud clatter, the Black Knight drops his greatsword to the ground. He doesn't wait for permission or anything; in stark contrast to Ru Li's hesitance and reverence, the Knight just walks right up to the blade in its shrine through the greenery growing around it.     "--Ah, wait--"     Trudy's words come to late. The Black Knight shoves past Odette, already reaching for Durandal's hilt himself.
Lilian Rook	'A dark sorcerer named 'Nergal' figured out how to rip the life right out of people'     Well, naturally an evil sorcerer with such an evil name doing magic that evil would warrant such a response.     'so he could live forever'     Ow.     'Ahaha. It's an outpouring of my heart! Nurturing the light within is the hard part. To release it is simple.'     "God knows it is." Lilian sighs, momentarily possessed of a weight of age deeply beyond what she presents. "I can't help but admire anyone who can open up their heart like that. No longer anything to hide in it. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just . . . light."     'It just glides right through dragons and wyverns. I'm not sure anyone alive understands it. We've come a long way from the Scouring, but they did things with magic back then you just can't do today.'     "Lost knowledge? I suppose there's no reason to try and rediscover it." Lilian says, contemplative. "I'd imagine the latter, if it matters at all. Something that binds with and separates the components of dragon physiology responsible for their strength. It doesn't sound as if there's a . . ." Descending to a step more pensive, Lilian holds her chin and near-mutters "Or it could be fate. A destiny placed on the sword specifically. The smith-spirit's, perhaps? That's far from impossible."     'It's the stuff of stories. I'm not even sure they were 'smithed'.'     "Gifts from god?" Lilian raises an eyebrow. "If not humans, I don't know if this continent has faeries to be responsible."     'Loyalty beyond death, for a thousand years. Lord Hector, if we hurt them, they won't really die? I'd hate--'     "It's incredible, isn't it?" Lilian says. Deeply mistaken, she dares to unveil some of the starry-eyed approval behind her unhappy expression. Her incautiously managed enthusiasm, expecting Roy to be a fellow understander, comes from a time she was much younger. A stark opposite to minutes ago. "It almost makes you want to stop a while and just . . . coexist. If only it weren't so hot."     'Have I gotten so old you don't recognize my face? Or didn't my axe make an impression before? My name is Hector, descendant of Roland, and I have been judged. Give us the sword.'     Lilian watches in open-mouthed 'something' that borders both awe and consternation. She tries not to look like she's pouting when the ghosts vanish, and she tries extra hard to not to look like she thought it was actually really cool. She winces, just slightly, realizing that's adjacent to something she'd probably say in the same position.     The sight of Durandal itself causes all of Lilian's brooding thoughts to evapourate as the ghosts had. If it were just a huge sword surrounded by flames, she knows that she would have been disappointed. Lilian's eyes naturally fall on the flowering ivy, and there they stay for long enough for her to make the soft impression of words that she can't find with her lips.     'They say it picks its wielders. Your father Eliwood is a rare sort of man. If only we had him...'     "Well, hopefully it's not a monogamist. Otherwise we may be in trouble." Lilian says, half-jokingly. Realistically, there aren't many people here she'd consider fit for a divine sword, and most of them already have a weapon of special connection to them. It strikes her, in a moment of sudden stillness, how few a number that actually is.     "I . . . Only if there's no one else." Lilian says, skipping several sentences between. "It'd be the least helpful if I did. And . . ." She falls short of saying the rest.
Petra Soroka	"It's just a difficult thing. I hope you don't have to understand."     There's no line Hector could have said that would more quickly-- not *ruin*, exactly, Petra's good mood, but distort it in a way that feels unnerving. After a short lull of silence where she absorbs his recounting of the Black Fang Incident, her stare intensifies, and even though she continues with another short burst of insistent questioning, the edge on it feels distinctly different.     "Is that true, though? Everyone wants to be understood. No matter how awful it was, it's still a part of 'you', now, so it's kind of unfairly lonely to brush it off as something no one should ever care enough about to share it with you, isn't it?" Petra eases back, softening into a vaguely satisfied expression. "I'm glad we're here this time, at least." You've already thought a lot about this, Petra!"     Without turning around, like an offhand strike backwards aimed inerringly at his heart, Petra says, "Don't try to compliment me. Don't smile at me. Kill yourself." How did she even know he was smiling? "Don't act like Ishirou did at his worst unless you want to end up like him." "It's an outpouring of my heart! Nurturing the light within is the hard part."     Petra looks abstractly guilty after Lucius blesses her, though not exactly guilty for the same thing she's apologized for already. Instead she awkwardly raises her hands slowly up as if she's being arrested, expression skittishly distracted, and vaguely mutters, at no particular prompting, "Sorry." "MOVE! You know me!"     Petra, automatically at Hector's shouting, slides back a step, tensed up with her hand clenched around her transteam gun even when the ghosts flinch and fade away. It takes her another moment until Hector's tension-breaking sigh before her own breaks too, offbeat by just a fraction to come after Hector's rather than after the threat vanishes. Her rejuvenating inhalation after the sigh is filled with heat and smoke, and she collapses into a coughing fit before hurrying to catch up as the others cross the bridge.     "Holy *shit*, dude," Petra's low-pitched awe is addressed towards Hector, but it's quiet enough that it doesn't really prompt even a nonverbal response without intentional attention. "That's the sort of guy who retrieves a mythical sword twice, yeah."     The sword itself is approached with the reverent-adjacent awe of someone raised-secular-but-familiar taking first hesitant steps into the vaulted nave. Weight and magic is understood intuitively, even without any senses to inform her-- the most important sense, after all, is narrative, and its displacement in the world only reinforces its importance. "I don't think I could lift that,"     "Well, if anyone...." Petra doesn't take her eyes off the sword either, to murmur in response to Roy. He's mostly been goofy around her, but the respect she has for a guy with even glimmers of emotional intelligence shouldn't be understated-- and the idea that the sword might judge its wielder for anything as dumb as 'strength' doesn't even occur to her.     She blinks, then correct herself. "Well, other than Lilian, but... she's taken." By Night Mist.
Desire Stars	EARLIER... Frogs? ... Are you stupid or something?     Ace smiles. NOW... MOVE! You know me!     Neon startles, shaken from her ruminations on what the ghosts might want or expect. She will be internalizing this and Flamel's approach as very effective ways to deal with ghosts, for better or worse.     An approach of earnest kindness almost never winds up being the wrong one, even if you don't know all the details about a situation.     Neon utters a relieved sigh. "That's true for more than just ghosts. I'm glad to hear you say that, mr. 'supernatural order.'" That doesn't look like the sort of thing that just comes out of a blacksmith's.     "That's because it wasn't only the blacksmith's tools that made it. Something like that is made as much by the world as by mortal hands. It looks different to us because this world is very different than that one. With luck and perseverance, we'll keep it that way." ... oh! Those weren't ghosts after all. Just... Magic test illusions. Good.     Ace frowns, studying Odette briefly. --some part of you has been taken away in the making of the story, something bigger and grander and made from you--but not, exactly, you. And maybe that grander version of you is actually more important than the real you?     "You don't have to be a legend to get that kind of treatment. You just have to be someone people expect something from," Neon says softly. They say it picks its wielders. Your father Eliwood is a rare sort of man. If only we had him...     "Well, the ghosts have said their piece about you, I guess," says Ace to Hector, making a pointed effort to look away from Neon and Tennant. "There *is* that curse of yours, though." Only if there's no one else. Other than Lilian, but... she's taken.     "Just like in the old days, these things tend to go after the last person you'd expect." says Ace. "Roy, give it a try," he says, offering a characteristic backhanded compliment.
Lilian Rook	'I see... I'll admit, most of my knowledge is generalist, so seeing this kind of specialist insight is fascinating!'     "I don't know if I'd call myself a specialst . . ." Lilian says immodestly. "It's only what I know from growing up around so many. A little research here and there, but it's mostly personal experience."     'We don't know that yet'     "What makes you think I don't." she says. "You couldn't manage that toyetic inheritance you had before."     'Even something like this isn't invulnerable--just differently vulnerable.'     "I'd sooner trust rock over people, and the dead over the living. Both are far more lasting and much more consistent."     Every single thing Tennant says makes Lilian progressively more visibly uncomfortable, and the reason is something only one person present could half-guess at. "There's no point to mass-producing Durandal, even if were possible. In the first place, the wielder has to be of sufficient quality to fight a dragon at all."     'so it's kind of unfairly lonely to brush it off as something no one should ever care enough about to share it with you, isn't it?'     "You already know what it looks like, Petra. You've seen something you wouldn't survive understanding."     'Well, other than Lilian, but... she's taken.'     "God don't start that again!" Having a chance to suddenly yell at Petra, even quarter-seriously, takes Lilian's mind off less pleasant things. "Clarine keeps looking at me lately . . ."
Blemishine	Mmm. I wonder if they even sleep," Marcus asides to Blemishine.     "I couldn't imagine living like that... or I suppose 'existing' would be the better word!" The young knight giggles at her own joke, before her tone dips back a bit more serious. "'Duty' sure can make for some extraordinary things. I hope one day, they won't have a need to keep watch anymore. And can get some proper rest." Maybe some of her thoughts on Marcus being called back to action bled into there.     The spirit soldiers forming up and preparing to block their path, confirming there definitely /will/ be what looks to be a trial by combat, gets Blemishine reaffirming her resolve and reaching for her sword as she speaks-- only for Hector's voice to carry across what she swears has to be the entire chamber.     She blinks a few times, eyes wide and hand still inches from her weapon's hilt, before watching the ethereal troops disperse. "A-Ahaha... the more I get to watch you, Hector, the more impressed I am! But I hope we won't have to rely on stunts like that at any of the other weapons' resting places..." She doesn't blame Roy one bit for looking as if he'll keel over.     Onward and forward. Roland used Durandal's sacred flame to cleanse the land and make it green again. As they proceed the short distance ahead, Lucius' earlier mention comes back to mind. "The Blazing Blade, able to scour the scars of war from Lycia..." Her eyes close briefly, and she adds on seriously, "...I actually hope that isn't embellishment. I think the land wouldn't mind something like that, after Bern's worldwide war is stopped." There's an audible exhale.     And then a return to her usual, cheerier tone, "Aha, but it's sure a shame that things like this seem to have only been possible to create during the Scouring. The smith in me can't help but want to know more about how these divine weapons work!"     She'll just have to content herself with seeing them - and he gets her exact wish, once they run across it. Blemishine isn't possessed of supernatural senses, as they are, but her eyesight is just special enough that she can't help but focus on how obviously /incongruent/ it is with the world around it. As if... I can't believe it's even real," Lugh murmurs to Chad. "Maybe it isn't," the sourer boy replies.     "...Like it doesn't quite belong," she breathes out, once again awed just about as much as Roy. "...Belong anymore, maybe? I've never seen anything that gives off this feeling of... being from another time, is how I'd put it? And the greenery growing around it..." Lucius' mention of it making the land green again suddenly seems actually plausible rather than just the stuff of legends.     She wants to try and grasp it. She shouldn't though... this is Roy's time to try it, like his father, right? But seeing Odette rush ahead, and the Black Knight loudly drop his own weapon to the ground with clear intent against Trudy's wishes, gets her rushing ahead herself. "Hey, hold on a moment...!"     That, and a certain... pull?
Blemishine	What she had planned to do was simply lay her hand on the hilt of the massive blade, preventing the Black Knight from getting hold of it himself, and likely chastise the armored warrior a bit before leaving that matter to Trudy and encouraging Roy to give it a proper try.     What ends up happening instead is-- she finds her hand gripping around it, tight and taut. "Ah...?"     A firm grip, as the edge of the black-red blade gleams brilliantly, as if grown white-hot. Before she can completely comprehend why, her arms pulls up to pry it up from its altar; seemingly effortless despite its bulk and her one-handed hold on it. As it's drawn aloft, her body turns with the momentum of doing so, and widened, golden eyes catch Dysnomia in their corner. It's in that moment that something calmly touches at the edge of her thoughts.     Destruction given form. The end of humanity. There's no hatred involved; it's all automatic. Natural. Done without thought.     In the stunned shock she's in, Blemishine's body moves on its own, as if pulled along by innate gravity. It's only when she consciously realizes exactly that, that the whirling motion abruptly freezes up, her other hand almost panickedly grasping onto Durandal's hilt as well. But conscious will by itself isn't quite enough. It's only for a split-second, much too short to even get a word out, but perhaps enough to react.     As in the next instant, Durandal's burning blade glints as Blemishine tries to rend a diagonal slash right through her body, shoulder-to-waist, almost too quick to see. A flash of steel that will cut through her as easily as if she weren't there, tearing a gash as white-hot as its edge right through her an instant later - as if the slice was so quick and simple, the world has to catch up with it.     No sooner has the force of the sudden attack halted than Durandal is twisted in her grip, realigning the edge towards another. If Madeleine has the speed to try and ready Drogrung, she'll find that the divine sword will try and cut her god-slaying weapon in twain.     On its way for yet another target - as the tip lines up with Roy's throat, and thrusts forward to close the distance.
Odette Raskins	It doesn't take much to shove past Odette even on a good day. Even one of the kids could do it without much resistance! Naturally, the Black Knight doing gets a startled noise out of Odette as she's shunted aside, and she's about to make another irritated noise of protest when she realizes... He is really, REALLY big. Definitely not worth getting his attention over something like that. What surprises her more, though, is seeing Blemishine of all people going for it as well, and... Actually, Odette's pretty okay with this course of action. If Roy sees even full-fledged knights failing to lift it properly, then he's sure to feel better about not being able to do it, too! Except it turns out that Blemishine is not only able to lift the weapon, but start swinging it like it's the natural thing to do. "... M-Miss Maria?! What are you doing? St.. Stop!" A terrified yelp comes out of Odette as she dives down to avoid getting caught in Durandal's arc, cowering briefly as she sees Blemishine headed straight for Dysnomia, Madeleine, and Roy.  With little time to really think about what's happening, the EMT scurries for Blemishine's back and just throws herself at the knight's back, trying to cling onto her back and pin her down with sheer mass. "S-s-someone get the sword off her!"
Marigold	"Oh? I'm sorry, dear, is something the matter?" In the half-ruined stone temple Lucius reaches out to wipe Haschen's tear away with his sleeve, stops a little short when he remembers she's an adult and a stranger, and smiles self-consciously. "The heat may be getting to you. But if you'd really care to learn, I'd love to teach you. I've already taken Odette under my wing. Only, mind that it takes a while to bear fruit."      He looks up to Madeleine, then, and his lips press uncomfortably while he leans on his staff. "Forblaze was written by Athos the Archsage. Aureola and Apocalypse were revealed to Saint Elimine and Bramimond. The rest... I don't know. Even people of the time said they were gifts from the gods." Not 'God'- Saint Elimine hadn't spread her gospel yet. "That doesn't sound like the Eight Heroes, but I suppose I can't deny it."      Lilian brightens his mood, but again, only with a self-conscious laugh: "Light can exist in any soul, Lilian. I'm enchanted that you believe me so perfect, but I do have many things to be ashamed of."      "Clarine keeps looking at me lately . . ."      Lucius clicks his tongue sympathetically. "She does--"      "Fighting for peace," Chad murmurs to Ceri, pulling his oversized cloak's collar up over his mouth. "Isn't that stupid? Everybody fights for their own peace. I'm fighting for a peace where Bern's gone. He should've--"      Hector exhales a silent laugh and shakes his head at Ace, while resting his elbow on a temple wall that's meant to be head-height. "I couldn't wield it then. I shouldn't wield it now. Wherever you go from here, I'll probably stay in Ostia anyway."      And for Madeleine and Trudy asking about the sword's choosiness: "Oh, it's still got Roland's ghost in it," he says, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. "We talked to him once. Figure he only gives strength to the people he likes, or something like that."      Then, unwinding a little, he circles back around to Petra. An avuncular smile pushes up his lips. "It's not that. You're a real sweet girl. But I've got people to lean on. Me, Marcus, Eliwood, Lucius... what happened then tied us all together. Just like I'm sure you're tied together with other people by things you've done. You can't--"      Roy beams at Shinmyoumaru, still-shakily endeared. "I don't see why not. I feel like I want to, too. There's just something about it." Odette's words catch him at just the right time to bring out a little laugh, for the first time anyone present has heard, and even Ace only seems to brighten his mood. "Well, alright. As long as you'll take responsibility if I can't--"
Marigold	- - - -      https://youtu.be/pNSsy2XrUMc      Durandal chooses Blemishine.      Hector seems to see the danger coming with the first shift in her posture. He lunges for her, forgetting that he shouldn't, and is luckily a little too slow. Marcus hurls himself between the blade and Roy, and it pierces clean through his solid steel breastplate to draw blood. Lucius snap-fires a beam of light for Blemishine's arms and misses, too slow for her too.      But it's strange, what Marcus coughs up while he clutches his chest: "ROLAND, DON'T!"
Dysnomia	There isn't time to think.     There's barely time to react.     As Blemishine lifts the blade, she can taste the change in her thoughts, the cold lethality that bleeds into her intent. A cold feeling writhes in Dysnomia's gut as the blade gleams, burns. She can't disguise the fear that runs over her face. Her eyes fall on it, and she knows that she looks upon death.     Smoke erupts from her back in a panic, assuming the sweeping shape of wings? that swing, wildly, sending her spiraling off toward the side. Fast enough?     No.     The Durandel carves into her side with a flash of burning light, and the scream that erupts from Mia's is half vocal, half psychic screech. She half-crumples to the ground, one arm held up to a terrible cut into her midsection, bleeding.     Smoke coils around the wound, seethes, trying to fill the space, to assert the shape of unmarred flesh. But the blood keeps pouring to the ground, and the wound burns at Dysnomia until she feels herself...crying?
Ru Li Cheng	The Ru Cheng god feels Ceri reaching for him long before she touches him. He allows her to do so, and puts his hand briefly on hers - an acknowledgment that he appreciates the support.      The undead's blatant disrespect of both Roy and Odette is enough to get him to wheel forward, moving to grab the giant with one firm hand. And then Blemishine takes the sword, and all Hell breaks loose.      Ru Li's first instinct is to wheel in front of Hector. That's what he does nearly every time. That's practically his job here. In fact it's almost a selfish relief when he hears Hector say that he intends to stay in Ostia - and even that he feels a little guilty for. Hector is strong, and Ru Li is strong, and while Ru Li may not be able to completely stop Hector he does grab him by the shoulder and squeeze.      "That is the son of your last wielder!" Ru Li says, hurriedly, "If his tears would mean anything to you, stay your might!"
Trudy Grimm	Blemishine intercepts the sword before the Black Knight can touch it. There is the briefest flash of what might be anger from behind his expressionless metal visor. It lasts about as long as it takes for the horse knight to suddenly swing the blade towards Dysnomia.     The Knight's bulky body is, after all, in the way.     There's a sound of rending steel as his torso is cut into just under the armpit, ripping through the ribcage on his right side and sending out a spray of black dust and bone fragments. It catches him completely off-guard, crumpling the colossal Knight in a tangled heap of limbs and exposed bone and metal with a satisfying, crunchy clatter.     Letting out her breath in one long, low sigh, Trudy reaches out. The Knight sinks into his shadow. As he disappears, his one still-attached arm raises and presents Blemishine with a rude gesture just as he sinks out of sight.     "I should have known better than to keep him around for this," the witch mutters. Her attention shifts to Blemishine as she lunges at Roy and everything devolves into combat, "So it's cursed too--" Hector straightens that up. When he mentions Roland inhabits the blade, she pauses, glancing towards him, "Oh?"     Trudy has already pulled up her Grimoire, unfastened and opened. Eiwaz the Death Rune flickers into sickly green life above its pages. She freezes, partway through reaching for it, when Marcus calls out that same name. Eyes shoot to the elder knight, then flit back to Maria, uncertain what course of action is best to take. Fortunately, those with better understanding of hearts and family ties are present who could follow up Marcus' plea.
Shinmyoumaru Sukuna	Shinmyoumaru had been gliding forward in the hopes of touching Durandal, especially once she's got Roy's blessing - she wanted to make better sense out of what her magical senses were telling her, but mostly she just wanted the prestige of being there when the legendary weapon was picked, or picked, its bearer. (And if it's her, she wouldn't complain, but she's not aiming for it.) She was *not* expecting someone to start wielding it. "Hey - aah!" It's not aimed at Shinmyoumaru and she's not in the line of fire, but she squeaks out in surprise anyway and reflexively brings her lid-hat down, holding it in front of her, shield-like. Her other hand goes for her Mallet, still resting in her lap for lack of anywhere else to put it - she tends to leave it in the bowl when she's riding in it. Gripping the Mallet, Shinmyoumaru pushes herself forward, swinging the wooden tool. It looks like something ceremonial, or maybe (if you're being unkind) a toy, not a weapon, and she's not swinging it at Blemishine anyway, but instead at the sword she holds: Durandal itself, trying to rap it sharply with the Miracle Mallet and knock it out of line. "Be small!" Magic surges out from the Miracle Mallet as Shinmyoumaru reflexively dumps far too much power into the effect to try to make sure it sticks on something as inherently magical as Durandal - and it spreads, extending into Blemishine. If she succeeds, Blemishine finds herself shrinking - becoming half the size she was before, with the proportionate changes to strength and reach, the blade (and all her other gear) matching her and staying in proportion. Keeping her lid-shield in hand, Shinmyoumaru switches her Mallet for the oversized sewing needle she wields as something between spear and rapier. If it works, she's taller than Blemishine, now, and going into a defensive, deflective posture. "What are you doing?" she yells. "Put it down! Put it down!"
Flamel Parsons	Flamel's eyes shoot wide open behind his sunglasses. He screams out in a tone of controlled panic, professional and just a little military: "PSYCHOHAZARD!! LEFT-INFERIOR PARIETAL INVERSION!" The tool-use center of the brain, conducting an invasion of sorts to the rest. Outsiders, things that are of kins dangerous to humanity, are being sliced -- and Roy too? His reflexes are too slow to catch what happens next, but not too slow to act instantly on it. "Keep everyone safe! I'm starting astral projections!"     Two fingers plant onto each of his temples. Can he get a psycho-portal onto Blemishine at this speed she's working at? Unlikely. A dozen psychokinetic hands surge out of the air around them, an imitation of a technique done by Persephone Kore when moving structures -- a full-body telekinetic grip. He's trying to immobilize Blemishine for just a single moment and plant the tiny door that the Psychonauts use onto the back of her head. It's likely she'll tear out of that grip after less than a second or two, but it should be enough time to get into her head.     "Lugh!" The one who he's been working with regularly, the one who now has some half-decent astral projection experience. "On me!! We have to solve whatever's in her head NOW!!" The invitation is extended to anyone else, of course. But he rips his sunglasses off quickly, eyes shining white, and starts up the ASTRAL PROJECTION. Everyone nearby can feel the tug, the nudge in the mind and spirit that intends to bring people into Blemishine's mind -- right at the site of the mental invasion, the beachhead that is the left-inferior parietal lobe, the tool-use center of the brain.
Alucard	The son of Dracula watches Blemishine grasp the blade. He's only a little surprised that she lifts it, enough that his head tilts, pale gold hair spilling over his shoulder. Something goes wrong. The blade moves like lightning, and Alucard just -reacts-. His own blade is out of its sheath so quickly it looks like frames of animation are missing. One foot shifts, and then he's gone, a red outline left where he was standing for a moment as he teleports. The sharp eyed can see him slide through space, a shadowy suggestion of the half-vampire before he reappears. When he materializes again, he's too late to stop Marcus from getting stabbed. Too late to stop Mia from being struck. He doesn't stop, though. He has to get her disarmed. So much so that he briefly considers swinging with intent to truly injure. They can reattach limbs, right? He doesn't, though. The heirloom blade swings for Blemishine's wrists, aiming to strike with the flat -incredibly- hard. They can surely heal a broken wrist. He strikes fast. Blindingly so. His blow is efficient and the only mercy he is showing is that he's using the flat of the blade. "Forgive me." Of course this probably draws aggro and he's not entirely human, so this might REALLY suck for him.
Aidan Proudpick	"Don't try to compliment me. Don't smile at me. Kill yourself." A snort escapes Aidan's nose. The barb only skids across his ribs, hardly more than a flesh wound. "I don't need you to like me. I can respect something about people without needing them to like me." He shrugs, "I'll ignore ya, though." "What makes you think I don't." He turns around to look at Lilian, face scrunching up into some anger, then relaxing as his mind catches up with his emotions. The face becomes curious, as if looking at something from a new and different angle. "Because we hadn't looked at it yet." Then a wry smile, "I couldn't handle it." He turns back towards the sword. "I wasn't really worthy of it." He feels freer with it gone. As if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He's no longer bound by it, or the word Knight. "I'm fighting for a peace where Bern's gone. He should've--" Attention from the squirrel becomes immediate, Aidan turning his head, "Burn all of it down? Every person? Not everyone over there is a soldier, Chad." He grows softer, less harsh, "The people there deserve homes too. They ain't responsible for Zephiel." A slash. A claim. A swing of a blade. Aidan's eyes track over each one, seeing Odette near the start of the battle. A follow of the sudden stab from Blemishine and Aidan starts moving. A baseball slide to Marcus. "Thanks, Hazelthistle," He mutters to himself as he pulls open his bag. He pulls out a basic commonwealth first aid kit, pulling at the straps of Marcus' breastplate to get pressure on the wound with a thick gauze pad.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Madeleine does have the speed to ready Drogrung, and she realizes her mistake a moment before the weapons clash. The huntress twists her weapon away, but sparks fly as the blade tears a chunk out of Drogrung's haft. The lindworm screams, a deafening bellow that shakes dust from the cavern roof. Venomous smoke pours from the rent in the weapon - and lunges, as a great maw-shaped cloud toward Durandal's wielder. Whatever defenses a divine weapon can provide, Drogrung is built and honed to overcome. The venom-blood-vapor rushes around Blemishine, gaseous jaws 'slamming' shut on her and flooding her system with supernatural poisons of every stripe. This is the sort of stuff that brings gods low with agony.     What's more, Drogrung isn't finished with its tantrum. Feeling its blood flow for the first time possibly *ever*, it rages against everything and nothing. Its great tail, thick as a tree trunk, thrashes around the cavern, threatening to send elites and locals alike careening into the magma below...     Madeleine holds tight to the spear's weapon-form and leaps backward, then spins and rushes along the bridge, carrying Drogrung with her in its throes of pain. The sharper-eyed elites may notice that she, too, is clutching her side, blood flowing freely between her fingers as if Durandal had struck her as well - but did it?
Lilian Rook	'Because we hadn't looked at it yet.'     "I can literally see the future." Lilian says, without actually asserting that she had. "And I've been swinging a sword since I was nine. I've trained under one of the historical great masters. I know what a worthy hero looks like; even King Arthur had to become worthy of Excalibur between pulling the sword from the stone and meeting the Lady of the Lake. Or do you think of yourself as a sort of David and that God is on your side?"     'The Blazing Blade, able to scour the scars of war from Lycia...'     hat draws Lilian's attention in a suspicious sense. She's not even sure what of, but "You don't usually say things like that. Did someone say something that bothered you?"     It's her best guess before Blemishine takes the blade. Normally she'd be relieved that someone stepped up but her; someone useful, consistent, approved-of in a way that doesn't totally disgust her, to be selected and shoulder that burden and make everything from here uncomplicated. It's only the way that the group's own white knight had suddenly fallen to unusual rumination that brings goosebumps to the back of her neck.     But it's still Blemishine. It's still someone she knows, and nominally trusts, pointing a perfect sword, worthy of heroic admiration, at someone she doesn't. If it were at herself, she'd react in an instant; believing in betrayal comes easy to her, for any reason. But at Dysnomia, it doesn't register at the same speed.     "Get that fucking thing under control Cadrasteia!" leaves her mouth before she thinks about it. "Drop focus on restraint Parsons! Undivided attention!" The pileup of Elites is already so severe that Lilian doesn't see a way to get in and disarm Blemishine with any kind of convenience. Instead, she skips out of range of Drogrung's thrashing, and tells Blemishine "Halt." and then "Kneel." in order.     The telling is not an asking. Something drives into the back of her mind where the sword holds the fore in stranglehold. Whatever compulsion drives her forward competes with the overpowering urge to stop and listen, register the grave misdeed of disobedience, and submit fully to her proper role.
Odette Raskins	So much blood. Too much blood. Marcus just got stabbed through his armor, Dysnomia got her gut cut open and might not even be going into shock properly, Flamel is screaming about psychohazards and poison, and Madeleine's weapon is screaming and flailing its giant tail and poison fumes all over the place. Odette's got her hands full just trying to feebly weigh Blemishine down, but her mind is snapped back to attention by Flamel's direct call to aid. "P... Poison?! Aw, crud... C-coming!" First things first: She needs to make sure people don't die from all of this. With Shinmyoumaru and Alucard already on task for physically stopping Blemishine and Aidan working on Marcus, Odette scurries away from the knight while yanking the flap to her medical bag open. She pulls out a bottle of antitoxin, about to pop it open before it promptly gets slapped out of her hand and into the lava by Drogung's flailing tail. It's only by virtue of already being near-ish the ground and diving again that she gets away with a light bruise from the tail-swinging skimming against her head in the process. "Dang it..." She mouths quietly while taking out another bottle of antitoxin out and rolling onto her back. She holds it low this time so she can down a third of it herself before worm-scurrying along the ground (knees up, feet push, knees up, feet push) over towards Flamel, only glancing over at Aidan once she realizes he's got a first-aid kit. "Stuff some of it in if you have to, then keep applying pressure! I'll be over soon!" Only when she's actually next to him does she finally get back up, holding the bottle up to his face so he can register what she's about to do. "Drink." She waits just long enough to get an affirmative response from him before sticking it in so he can drink it hands free, making sure he gets the extra dosage to compensate for however much he may have already started breathing in.
Angela	Haschen says, "Hah...? Oh... No, no no...!" Her cheeks rapidly pinken. "No, I just...gosh..." Haschen IS an adult, albeit close enough to not being an adult it's pretty reasonable to forget for a moment. She rubs away the tear from her own eye after a moment. "I just really liked what you said, it seemed like such a kind and beautiful thing to say. Oh um--I'm happy to learn I just--Odette is very sweet but um I just--nurturing the 'light' in your own heart... I like how that sounds. It sounds like...oh! I should ask... Captain may I--?" "Naturally! Outpour your heart until it drowns the world if you'd like!" Tennant says. "um. That sounds like a yes, but i don't want to drown anybody." Haschen manages, awkwardly. "Not even metaphorically... It sounds like a lot." ''Fighting for peace, isn't that stupid?'' "Wrath is useful for the axe in your hands but let it engulf your heart and it will take over. Not that I am innocent of succumbing." Ceri says, glancing back over to Chad. "Peace is ephemeral. But it is still worth fighting for. If all you let yourself see is war ... I was not there for the Smoke War, but I've seen its veterans who haven't yet found out an escape from that war. It is a terrible thing." ''You don't have to be a legend to get that kind of treatment'' "Haha, of course but ...it helps!" They glance to Lilian and adds, "Hm... You know, you're not wrong, but there are many elites I could imagine fighting a dragon, no? Haha, not myself, of course, not with a ''sword''--Ceri..." "I am still using a cane." Ceri says as a signifier of her readiness to fight giant dragons. Bad things happen Ceri moves quickly, aiming to swing up her cane=not trying to block it, but to hit it in the side of the blade to try and make its cleaving strike go astray.
Desire Stars	"What?! Blemishine, stop!"      The tip of the sword heads for Roy's throat, but finds Marcus' breastplate instead. Ace is on Roy in a moment, his hand finding the neckline of his cuirass and yanking him--back, hard.      The momentum from Roy, as he's pulled back, Ace uses as a counterforce for a dropkick. The tip of his black combat boot kicks the sword aside while Marcus is tended to. ROLAND, DON'T!      "If she's your champion, fine," Ace says, as his back hits the bridge. "But we're not your enemies, Roland," finishes Ace, as a kip-up brings him back to his feet.      Neon's Desire Driver is clutched in her hand, ready to equip. "Roland?" she asks, her hand hovering in hesitation, one leg back and primed for a kick.      "Yeah," says Ace, stanced up to juke another swing of the sword, "Marcus' idea, not mine. But the style doesn't match hers, and there's no reason she'd up and attack us." Nodding at the sword, "None for you to, either."
Petra Soroka	"You already know what it looks like, Petra. You've seen something you wouldn't survive understanding."     Whatever other arguments Petra might have, Lilian interjecting diverts them entirely. Obviously, below the shallowest veneer of justification, *that's* what she was talking about this whole time, so having the topic directly addressed shifts her mood down to be more soberly considered, much more invested in communicating her thoughts correctly. She still can't fully agree-- if she could, she never would've ended up here-- but her soft pushback only comes after acknowledging Lilian's point.     "... Yeah. There's still... *degrees*, though, I think." That is to say, Petra means to get as close as possible to the brink of not-surviving, and that not surviving isn't enough of a deterrent to keep her away; especially not from *this*.     "It's not just impossible." Even if Lilian would say that Petra doesn't understand anything even a little bit more than she did-- *Petra* would disagree with that, but it's not her argument to make-- she still likes the idea of 'learning how to be closer, even without fully understanding'. "Clarine keeps looking at me lately . . ."     Petra yips at Lilian's suddenly raised voice, but her mood immediately lightens too when recognizing the intentional tone shift. That isn't to say she isn't still worked up and stupid, but she can pattern match Lilian's direction at least.     "H-huh? N-no, *I* meant that you already have a magical sword that you're bonded with; I wasn't talking about how Clarine looks at you and Rutger like she's writing fanfiction of you and her in her head! Whatever *she's* got going on is too weird even for *me*." That's a lie, but it's one Petra wishes was true. Durandal chooses Blemishine.     Petra wasn't actually expecting a curse from Durandal, or at least, not one so clumsily blatant. It's a sword that cleansed the land of the scars of war, or something, not one of those classic cursed blades that drives the wielder into a bloodthirsty frenzy every time it's drawn; so the fact that Blemishine is puppeted the instant she touches it to attack her allies seems incoherent to her. And on top of that-- someone capable of wielding Durandal would need to have a strong character, obviously, but instantly being subject to forceful control like that is entirely in opposition to that idea.     Besides! It's just attacking people randomly! What could Dysnomia and Drogrung possibly have in common to make them a target of a dragon-slaying blade!     The latter answer is revealed quickly, at least, when Petra's delayed reaction towards the sudden attack puts her square in the path of the lindworm's sweeping tail. The breath is knocked out of her by the impact, and after a spike of morphmetal appears in a flash to bury itself in the ground and anchor her, she's much more willing to believe that Madeleine is the threat here and Blemishine (and Durandal) are in the right, until she sees Marcus cut down in front of Roy.     "In her head? Like--?!" Petra, sprung up to nearby Roy with a Silver sword in her hand and keeping distance from Blemishine, feels the tug of astral projection like a superheated fishing hook embedded behind her eyes. She recoils automatically, aura flaring up around her to burn and itch beneath everyone's skin, including her own with the psychic hook latched on to her.     "I-I don't know if that's-- safe?" Petra doesn't specify why, but Flamel's plenty aware. It's not as if her psychic defenses are limited to inside of her head, and she's already seen the result they had in her own mindscape.
Marigold	"Marcus?? Mia?!" Roy looks between the two of them in a heartstricken panic, but the old knight shielding the lordling with his body grunts that he's alive, and so Roy goes for Dysnomia first. He tries to offer her a hand up, then sees her wound, and the color leaves his face. "Oh... oh, no..."      "On you!!" Lugh yells, breaking out of his panicked paralysis. He forms up next to Flamel to help with the projection, putting two fingers to his temple just like he's been taught, even though his eyes water and he covers a cough against Drogrung's poison. If they stay for just a moment longer, who knows what it'll do to him--      So they don't stay. All of the Elites feel their tug; an invitation to help Blemishine, to descend into her mental world and pull this influence out. Hopefully everyone takes it. And inside her head...      - - - -      https://i.imgur.com/e3A3mEL.png      It's a beautiful day, one thousand years ago.      Your feet set down on soft grass or sun-warmed stone. The light of the sun washes out details and the whole thing has a feeling of degraded film, but anyone who met with King Zephiel can recognize the foliage of the Bernish countryside. In the background looms a vast, ornate stone temple. Dysnomia is lying on the ground, just as she was in the real world. Eight people- all with a ghostly, grainy-luminous quality- stand over her. It isn't hard to guess who they are.      Here, Blemishine isn't the one menacing her with Durandal- indeed, she's present and in her right mind. It's a young man who doesn't look so different from a blue-haired Roy, siding with a disdainful woman who looks strikingly like Lucius. And the man shielding Dysnomia with his body is the spitting image of Zephiel, only with less cruel eyes. The others look down indifferently, condoning what must be her impending execution.      "Hartmut," says the trembling-angry Saint to the Champion defending her, "have you, at last, completely lost your mind? What possible reason is there to spare her now?"      The young man wielding Durandal by the Saint's side is the first to notice the Elites' arrival in the mindscape. He looks around, slightly bewildered as if gently waking from a dream, and then registers the words spoken to him in the real world: "Maybe I don't have to hurt the boy," he says to Ru Li, almost pleading for understanding, "but I still have to do this. And turning gently to Ace as he lifts his sword: "Please. I do. It's hard enough already; don't make me feel guilty. If I don't... we'll have no future at all."      Lugh is the only world-native to have come along, but presently he's hiding behind Flamel's side and squeezing the agent's arm. He knows what this means.
Ru Li Cheng	Poison.      No, more than poison. Poison that kills the divine.      Ru Li is knocked out of his chair by the lindworm tail. He's knocked *under* the chair, in fact, trapped beneath it as the god-slaying poison seeps out. The merest breath of it burns his lungs, hisses in his blood.      His fingers literally dig into the earth as he screams. The rock cracks under his thrashing. Gears shriek, loudly and furiously, as hurt sinks in. His world is agony, so much so that even his senses have retreated inwards, focused entirely on the pain - he can't even perceive *light* right now, let alone his massive field of awareness. If he does, he'll just get more of the poison, more of the agony, the touch of god-hate and the smell of it and the taste of it. He literally cannot sense anything outside himself right now - and what he senses inside himself is pain.      Golden blood seeps out one eye. Silver blood seeps out the other. The sound of gears ticking as loudly as possible is *overwhelmingly* loud, drowned out only by the god's screaming.      And then he's in the mindscape, and there, he looks radiant and divine, his mechanical mien overlaid like a hologram on top of his flesh form - or perhaps the other way around? Or maybe neither - he might be too real for the world, too similar to the thing possessing Blemishine.      Then he doubles over, cracks of nothingness running through his shining form. He gags, trying to gain control of himself as he locks eyes with the man wielding Durandal.      "A future..." He manages, through gritted teeth, "Built on genocide...indiscriminate...hateful..."      "Is that...is that a future...you want to leave..."      "To those...who would be like you?"      "Another...blood-soaked...hell?"      His head hits the grass, agony overwhelming him as his physical body continues to burn under the poisonous clouds of god-slaying hate.
Flamel Parsons	Flamel, struggling to breathe with the poison filling his lungs, nods quickly. He gasps and wheezes more, a hand trembling when he helps get some of that antitoxin into his mouth. Unlike most here, his physical body doesn't actually have a vulnerability to the poison -- but his mind does, being made of components from people who were very much vulnerable. His weakness starts to subside some, though much of the damage is done.     By the time he gets into the brain, he's mostly back on his feet, thank goodness. The sunglasses come back on slowly, and he approaches the heroes. He mutters, tensely, "What kind of *power* do these weapons have? The psychometric storage alone, needed for high-clarity echoes of eight humans... I'd be in awe if I weren't scared! Hahah, you know, I can't perform a Cobb Maneuver like this, I'll have to be very convincing. Won't I?" He laughs nervously, then squints a little. "Is there something...?" He whispers under his breath, but shakes his head.     "There's never, *never* an absence of a reason to be merciful. It's easy to get caught up in the inertia of violence, but you have to make sure you're always remember that the option to stop exists at every single second. And if it's so simple, then," He gestures to Lugh behind his side, planting a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "Explain to him, okay? Explain why this needs to happen. You have a good reason, so, could you convince him why you need to do this kind of violence, cause this kind of harm? Father Lucius has taught him to believe the word of Saint Elimine, you know, so you can definitely do it if you've got a good point!"     That's right. When dealing with potentially psychohazardous materials, Flamel Parsons hesitates not even one bit, working with absolute ruthlessness. It's time to bring out the "explain this to a child" technique. Lugh is the centerpiece of his entire tactic, a crucial fixture of his mind-dive.
Dysnomia	As Roy clamors to Mia, he finds her fading. The interior of her body holds the suggestion of an interior, but no details, not really. "Ha..." When Mia looks at Roy, her smile is pained, teeth stained with steaming orange blood, her eyes glimmering with a certain relief. "Might not...Get to have our...chat." She coughed. "S..or...ry..." Her hand falls, and her body.     She doesn't say 'yes,' when Flamel's astral projection takes hold of her--she doesn't even have the option. The scattering mist of her mind is pulled with the others into the Roland's dream of the past...     Here, she doesn't look human. Her wings are the sweeping arms of a nebula, pulled behind her. Her body the coiling rings of a planet. She looks smoky, indistinct...Like she's bleeding away into the background. Like an imaginary friend being forgotten, while blood spills into a torrent onto the grass.     Mia presses her hand against the grass, struggling to push herself to her feet, but...Can't. She laughs...Or tries, before it turns into a pained, hacking cough, ending in spitting blood onto the grass. "F...Funny." She managed. "I thought. From the beginning. You'd be like...this." There's a grim vindication in her eyes as she looks up to the Saint, to Roland.     "Go...Ahead, then..." She lays her head down on the grass. "Do...What's...Natural."
Desire Stars	Please. I do. It's hard enough already; don't make me feel guilty. If I don't... we'll have no future at all.      Ace frowns. His smug persona seems, in this moment, an ephemeral thing blown away in the wind. But it's Neon who answers.      "No you don't," she all but shouts. "And don't try to sell us on some future without her!"      Ace smiles, at Neon--but it's something a shade warmer and more appreciative than his usual. His eyes settle on Roland.     "You wouldn't mention guilt if you didn't already feel it. So, I'll ask you... how many close calls were there, before this moment?" he asks. "Before you even had that sword to wield? How many nights on the road did you spend, wondering if you'd ever find a way forward?"      Ace stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You did, in the end. So long as you don't *lose,* you can fight, for another day. If you really believed the future was so fragile that one person could destroy it, you'd have done it already. You don't believe that. So put the sword down."
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Madeleine is across the bridge and halfway out of the cave when she feels Flamel's psychic invitation. Whatever's going on back there, it must be important if she's welcome after Blemishine's attack and Drogrung's outburst. So she accepts.     The first thing she does once inside, before even taking stock of her surroundings, is a headcount. All the elites, all the locals from the present... good, nobody's been tossed into lava, somehow. But the poison's clearly done a number on some, especially Ru Li. Madeleine's face is awash with visible shame. But she's not the only one who felt - and went along with - Flamel's psychic pull.     "YOU DARE!" Drogrung bellows, fully embodied as forty-plus feet of draconic indignance. "YOU WOULD SHED MY BLOOD!? AND FOR WHAT!? WHEN HAVE I RAISED ARMS AGAINST YOU, WHERE IS THE BLOOD OF YOURS THAT *I* HAVE SPILLED?"     Madeleine hurries to put herself between the lindworm and the eight heroes, apparently forgetting how dangerous it would be to put herself between the lindworm and the eight heroes. "I, uh, please, listen to me on this," she babbles at the heroes before they can raise their weapons. "We're uh." She realizes that they wouldn't be able to conceive of an 'otherworld', but there's no time to compose her thoughts. "We're from the future! And people can get along with dragons there. You uh, don't need to kill this one either." She gestures at Mia, forgetting to look surprised by her unusual appearance. "Because she's from the future too. Say, how did you make those weapons of yours, anyway? Just curious." She's desperate to change the subject away from human-dragon vendettas.
Lilian Rook	Then:     'I wasn't talking about how Clarine looks at you and Rutger like she's writing fanfiction of you and her in her head! Whatever *she's* got going on is too weird even for *me*."'     "Of me and who?" Lilian replies, briefly locked up in squinting interpretation-confusion. "What does that have to do with--"     Now:     'The Saint was a violent woman. I have spilled blood, too. Please--'     "Oh."     Lilian understands something so grievously heavy that it drives the air out of her after a single syllable. Searchingly, she looks for Flamel, and asks him what she should have understood instead. "Can they actually kill her here? This is inside Blemishine's mind, isn't it? I know that psychohazards can harm us here, but this is . . ."     She looks to the perfect recreation of Zephiel, and says "So that's the man that he curses with all of his being. Of course it'd be something like that. A fool and a traitor, in the eyes of a man who's given into despair and violence. The fact that he'd hate his ancestor for an act of mercy is so obvious it stings."     What's not on her lips are the words to save Dysnomia. Uneasily, Lilian reaches for her sword, quietly drawing a foot of shimmering black steel into the open air. Her grip is steady, despite her reluctance, expecting she'll only be able to intervene physically unless she thinks of something quickly.     Shining luridly through the metal of the blade, Death to those who have wronged My People inexorably catches Lilian's eye. She draws her sword no further than the length of the engraved dedication, and swallows too hard.     "These aren't . . . the ghosts of all of them can't be contained in the same blade. Is just one real? Or is it none of them? This . . . we're inside the Psychohazard itself, aren't we Parsons? It's taken up her whole mind."
Trudy Grimm	Pulled into a mindscape amidst a cloud of poison, Trudy coughs. The glimmering Eiwaz rune fizzles out and the Grimoire's pages turn. What replaces that sickly green light is a vibrant yellow rune of protection, Algiz. Breathing out and then holding her breath, the witch curls her fingers around the rune, encasing it in a glimmering sphere braced by her fingers.     A runic circle spins out around her feet as Trudy pulls Algiz from the Grimoire and forces it down, prompting the circle to pulse with golden light. Only then does she inhale-- without coughing, ignoring the noxious mist that still clings to her body. The tome's pages change again and, without hesitation, the witch pulls out the Rune of Gifts, Gebo. This is not hurled downward but, rather, hurled.     By rote of triage and noticing who Odette is already taking care of: Trudy's target is Ru Li. The god, burning in agony under a god-harming venom, soon finds it dulled. It's not enough to remove the pain entirely-- which is why Trudy has already pulled forth Thurisaz; the rune of one of her world's great gods also linked to protection.     "You are far wiser than I am, Ru Li Cheng," the witch states with cheerful jest forced into her voice, "I can't let you suffer like that. Come on."     With her spells cast, Trudy lets out her breath again. The Grimoire thumps shut, fastening itself and then going slack on its strap to dangle at her side. Only then does she address Roland-- without looking at him, "Terribly rude way to get our attention."
Flamel Parsons	Flamel turns to Lilian for a moment, looking up and down the engraving... and he looks to her face after that. "The amount of energy and complexity you'd need to carry a psychometric echo of eight different people at this intensity is pretty absurd! Which could match up with Durandal's sheer power. Project Mystic explored this for a while, and it couldn't reach even a fraction of this level of stable complexity because of power and mental mass limitations. But at scales like this, theoretical telepathy behaves strangely, like physics in the interior of a black hole."     He turns back to the work at hand, with a serious posture. "And that means we can't guarantee she wouldn't be vulnerable to being killed here."
Angela	IN THE REAL WORLD All three agnets feel that strange pull but-- Haschen and Ceri resist! Their training basically instinctively tells them to not go into some kind of sword + horsegirl's mindscape as a general rule and they instinctively pull back against the pull before they realize what's going on. "Oh wait--was that going to be a good out of body experience?" Haschen says, pulling on a standard issue LobCorp gas mask (meant for Melting Love scenarios). "Ah we should get people out of the gas cloud! And uh. Maybe. We should--" She starts trying to reposition the people who are presently in another mindscape. She thinks that's what's going on anyway, but--keep them out of the poison cloud sounds like a good idea. She draws out a gun and starts shooting the injured but-- "Oh ah! sorry! These are healing bullets! It's fine!" She waves the pistol rapidly in the air in a wild panic. "I'm sorry I don't know how to do the heart outpouring stuff yet I just have this, I'm really sorry, I just sort of started automatically??" Ceri kind of just hobbles away. UNFORTUNATELY Tennant, who wanted to see what would happen, totally did accept the pull to go into the spooky mindscape. They marvel around and take a long look around. "Gosh..." They say. "Golly..." ''Please. I do. It's hard enough already; don't make me feel guilty. If I don't... we'll have no future at all.'' "..." Tennant looks to Dysnomia and they make their way over to them, raising their rifle and points it straight at Roland. ''Go...Ahead, then...'' "Ah...ahah... I'm afraid not, you don't get to die yet, Miss Dysnomia! I can already imagine how Miss Angela would respond to something like that happening over a silly little flashback like this! No, no no-" They shake their head. "I am not so certain there would be much of a future if you do! Perhaps in the past you had no choice, but in THIS loop--you have the choice to make! Even if it does not change what happened, it is ''not'' meaningless!"
Aidan Proudpick	A tug. Aidan grabs at Marcus' hand and shoves it down on the gauze, "Hold that ti-" Grass. He looks around quickly, eyes a little wild. Aidan doesn't like this. The Train. The Lotus Dream. Sixty years of a pleasant fantasy, then death. Then waking up back on the train, the last one to wake up. So engrossed in a fantasy that he didn't bother to remember his old life and go back to it. Panic fills Aidan's eyes, roaming back and forth. They are wild, his fists clenched, breathing ragged. Where is he. Is this another dream? "Where- Where is!" Aidan is shouting by the time he finally seems to realize where he is. He takes a step towards Ru Li, in panic mode still. He leans on the back foot, doing his usual of pushing his claws over his eyebrows, pain to focus his mind off everything else. Focus here. Focus now. Eyes flick back and forth, then towards Roland, "What- No!" He starts pushing forward quickly, hands up, weaponless. "Listen to them. Listen to Ru Li. You can't just build a world on blood or greed. It'll just fall apart. I've seen it. I'm watching it happen!" He keeps moving slowly forward, trying to get himself to be in position to take a sword blade if he has to. His attempt at a heroic speech is interrupted by the appearance of a lindworm. This SHOULD be something vaguely normal, but Aidan is wound up like a spring and he is off kilter, eyes wild.
Blemishine	Dysnomia is fallen and terribly, terribly injured. Madeleine is backing off as Drogrung rampages and thrashes. Marcus has been stabbed through...     Were Blemishine in the proper state to communicate right this moment, rather than striking out as if pulled along by effortless slashes of the Blazing Blade, she'd probably have a lot to say about that.     Or maybe she wouldn't get the opportunity; while the divine dragonslaying weapon is possessed of great power, the one currently wielding it and under its compulsions is still only one Elite. Ace's dropkick is defended against by turning the flat of the massive blade his way, making it a steel wall to absorb the blow. Alucard's disarming strike is met with pulling it back, a deafening clang of steel-on-steel resounding as he's forced back...     Drogrung's poison spew isn't so simple to deal with, however, and the jaw-shaped cloud of poisons clamps down into her body and finds purchase. Durandal offers no protection from the stuff now running through her (thankfully non-divine) bloodstream, posture staggering and limbs trembling yet grip on the weapon growing that much tighter for it.     Leaving her wide open for when Shinmyoumaru brings the Miracle Mallet to bear. Durandal itself seems resistant, but the magic surges through so that the horse knight can't escape the effects. Reduced down to half her height, practically waist-level with most of the others here, armor and all...     ...and still wielding the full-sized Blazing Blade with no issues at all, even readying it once more without issues. Durandal is a sword too heavy for even our Hector to lift, which gives its wielder the strength to bear it.     Which makes it quite a good thing that Flamel manages to stick her for the mental dive before anything more comes of that.     ...     This . . . we're inside the Psychohazard itself, aren't we Parsons? It's taken up her whole mind.     "Then I'll have to thank you, Mister Flamel, for giving me the chance to get a word in." A familiar voice follows up after what Lilian says, although you won't spot it just looking around. You'll have to look down.     It's Blemishine in miniature, maybe only two and a half feet tall, as if the effects of Shinmyoumaru's mallet carried over into mindscape projection. Maybe it did. Or maybe it's because so much of her mental real estate is being taken up by Durandal right now, leaving only this much. Aren't her proportions a bit exaggerated, actually?     It'd maybe be a little comical, if the situation weren't so serious.     And serious as it is, there's a pained wince on her face, looking down at Dysnomia as if she wants to say something, before she looks up - very much so - towards the man wielding Durandal. She looks to be at a loss of words, glancing between him and the others assembled, before she finds them again with a simple question.     "...If I'm your chosen, for whatever reason-- then can you tell me why you think that? Why it has to be this way? Please-- ...Roland?"
Shinmyoumaru Sukuna	The horrible poison washes over where Shinmyoumaru is, and her response is simple, instinctive - and completely wrong; she crouches in her bowl, slamming the lid on top and closing up the rice bowl to keep the world out. Which works great when it's a sword or a spell you want to keep out. It works fine with water, too; Shinmyoumaru has submerged with her bowl before (though it tends not to stay down because the air in it makes it float). It even works this time with the tail, because it sweeps under the hovering bowl, tugging it along with air currents - but leaving it floating innocently off the bridge. When it's gas, and you bring a waft of it in when you close up, it doesn't work well at all. The bowl rocks as Shinmyoumaru coughs inside it, trying to catch a breath and failing. The whole thing weaves back and forth, presenting a difficult target for Blemishine even if she wants to take it, though there isn't much of a chance to. She makes a dive for the mind-dive door, and makes it, though her bowl remains completely closed up for several long seconds. Eventually, it cracks open and Shinmyoumaru half-pops out, half-drags herself out with hands on the side of the bowl, gasping for breath and disoriented enough that she doesn't quite realize where she is for a few moments. ... "Uh," she gets out, her voice raspy from coughing. Shinmyoumaru knows she's not the smartest person she knows, and she feels off-balance here. She knows revenge, and vengeance; she understands hating people for what they and theirs did. She still hates the youkai, and the oni. So *she* can't really object to someone like that. Except... she likes Madeleine, even if she doesn't know Dysnomia so well, and so is inclined to defend her and her lindwurm. (Even if she did just get a lungful of poison because of Drogrung.) "She's not the one who's messing with the future!" Shinmyoumaru says, sounding offended. "That's the dragon ... revenants." Are they revenants? Close enough. "They're back and we need help and we don't need you trying to kill us over it!" She rises to her full height (not very). "We didn't even fight the ghosts." She poles herself over to Dysnomia, though frankly there is nothing she can do for her and she knows it, and points at Mini-Blemishine. She uses her needle to do it. "And you hurt HER by making her do it," Shinmyoumaru says, "and she's not a dragon at all." Pause. "I think." She's going to feel really stupid if she is. "So tell us already!" A pause. "Also can someone stop her from bleeding," Shinmyoumaru adds, a little more quietly, because she sure can't.
Odette Raskins	Something tugs at Odette while she's in the middle of getting Flamel properly medicated to deal with the poison. She tries to ignore it, as she realizes a little late that she didn't really drink enough of the medicine herself if the horrific pain building in her throat and body is any indication, but before she can dose herself with more of that stuff... Odette is no longer in the cave. She looks down at the grass, then up at where- "Where's Mister Marcus? Where..." At first, she doesn't see anyone she anyone else she was supposed to be treating. Instead, she sees Dysnomia and several familiar, yet unfamiliar faces standing around- "Miss Mia! And Mister Cheng!" She can worry about Marcus once she sees him again. Lugh's movement directs her to Flamel's presence, at least, but she'll have to settle for what she did give him and take herself to power through the rest of the pain in her lungs. For now, she has two more patients to treat, and an uncertain amount of time to do that. Or one, rather, as Trudy works on treating Ru Li. "Good job, Miss Grimm! K.. Keep that up, just like that. I'll take care of Miss Mia, and then..." "Is just one real? Or is it none of them? This . . . we're inside the Psychohazard itself, aren't we Parsons?" "Who are they supposed to be? The... Imprints of their ancestors?" Odette REALLY doesn't want to say ghosts, even if Lilian does and all the evidence keeps pointing her towards such a conclusion. "I-if it's something inside the sword itself, then that means... Wait, what does that mean? Uh. Sword?! Durandal? We're not the enemy here! L-listen to Mister Parsons!" She looks over at Zephiel, then at Mia just behind him and Lucius' mom. If not for the circumstances, Odette might feel something hitting her chest again, but her mind is elsewhere right now. Mia's still bleeding, and Odette slides to a knee besides her, trying to figure out what she's even looking at. Stars? A miniature galaxy? A person-shaped singularity? Does Dysnomia even have the same arrangement of organs a human would have? It's all too complicated to think about right now, and Odette just has to focus on one thing at a time. First, the bleeding. Out comes an array of surgical tools, laid out within Odette's bag on top of all her piles of bottles and things "Miss Mia, you'll be okay. Count to seventy for me. Mister Roland, Miss..." She doesn't know Lucius' mom's name. Flamel mentions Saint Elimine. Good enough! "Miss Elimine. What's in that weapon that could have done something like this? Do you have a staff somewhere?" Despite speaking clearly, Odette's tone is still shaky and nervous. How could she not be? She's trying to sew up wounds she can barely comprehend! Is that flesh, bone, or viscera? She just has to hope that whatever she's trying to piece together and mend Mia's wounds, she's doing it the right way instead of worsening everything. Her tools are high quality enough, but are her skills and luck?
Alucard	The heirloom blade clashes with the Blazing Blade. Sorcerous sparks fly as the nigh-divind weapon impacts the enchanted blade. Luckily nothing breaks. He backdashes by kicking the ground, and swings the blade up, readying to make another pass. Even as the knight starts to shrink. The lindworm's tail swings his way, and the dhampir dissapates into a cloud of grey mist, the tail swinging harmlessly through. Alucard feels that tug. He starts to fight it, not knowing what it is. The lindworm's poison, though, makes him cough violently, even his inhuman stamina feels it. He hacks, spitting out a gout of dark, dark red, his blood obviously not human. He reaches into his coat for an antidote, because he carries these things around in there, but by the time his hand is able to slip into his coat, he falls as his consciousness is wrenched from his own mind and drawn into the mindscape. Inside the mindscape, the half-vampire resembles himself, but somehow he lacks all of the regal bearing and grace. Alucard's hair is bone white and slicked back like an ivory carving. His noble features are drawn and gaunt, like a drying corpse. His golden eyes have no shine, instead being flat and almost seeming to be patinaed. He's dressed in a tattered black sackcloth robe that seems somehow wet. Chains, heavy iron with barbs are wrapped around his arms and harnessed across his torso. Every step he takes seems an agony. He leaves a trail of red behind him as he walks, though since this is a mindscape it fizzles out fairly quickly. He approaches the Eight Heroes and the dragons, silent and moving like a one man funeral parade. "Death," he says, at least his voice is the same. "Seems an easy answer. Killing something...someone to save everyone may be the correct answer, but it will also hurt. Forever."
Petra Soroka	"I-I don't know if that's-- safe?"     That's a pointless question; it's never safe for Petra to be around bared hearts. Even after she says it, she's moved on to considering *who* she'd be endangering by taking Flamel's offered portal instead, weighing risks and benefits.     She knows next to nothing about what entering a mindscape would do to her own body, but it barely factors into consideration if *she* would get hurt by doing it. There's the connected worry that somehow, her mere presence in a psychic environment is dangerous enough that she'd hurt or disable even closed, visiting minds; that being 'everyone else', most notably including Lilian. The likelihood of that being the case doesn't seem very high, and besides, even in the most emotionally consistent outcome like that, where she hinders everyone's ability to engage with whatever's in there, she could probably just leave. Kale left early from hers, somehow, so there'd be no harm done.     That leaves the only person that Petra can imagine being grievously wounded by her presence being the one whose mind is open and inside out to invite her inside, and Petra barely knows Blemishine so she can't work up too much distress at the idea of that happening. Petra sighs and consciously releases the tension in her flinched-frozen posture, effortfully standing back upright with her sword hanging by her side. It's a few heartbeats after everyone else, when she decides on following Flamel behind them, but with her ever-complicated relationship to psychics, and tense history with Flamel's specifically, even, it's a relatively snappy decision.     And then, nothing happens. Petra doesn't vanish from the superheated cave with its ivy-coated altar, and doesn't appear in the psychohazard's field with the others. The tug, the draw of the astral portal, is still insistently present inside of her, but weighing her down in overwhelming, inviolable opposition is still her. A muscle that remains clenched, calcified and fused in crucible heat to be unyieldingly firm no matter how Petra's own resolve might waver in the future; her glass-shard wish anchors her in reality like a railroad spike.     It takes her long, still seconds to realize why nothing's happening. Petra's braced shoulders and gritted teeth in anticipation jolt, and then settle, merely frowning instead of grimacing, and she moves to shove her hands in her bomber jacket pockets before settling for her jeans, on account of lacking a bomber jacket. Her aura is still at full, stingingly-painful intensity, and her eyes slide over to Haschen, the only other offworlder still around.     She glares at the other agent with shockingly disproportionate intensity for a few seconds, before looking away and shrugging. "Yeah, I guess it's probably bad to leave them in the poison. I'll carry Marcus out and treat him, everyone else can walk, probably. Let's get some..." 'Ventilated air', Petra was going to say, as she distractedly rummages through the contents of her mirror. Her best option for ventilation, when she pulls it out, is a green plastic spray fan bottle, which she stares at blankly for a few seconds before hurling it into the lava now that Lilian's not around to scold her.
Marigold	The Saint seems to rouse from her 'dream' as well, noticing Ru Li. She steps behind the Hero, trailing a hand around his shoulders, and looks scornfully at the god in the grass.      "The weakling speaks of mercy, but he cannot afford it," drips bitterly from her lips. The Hero shivers slightly under her steadying touch, but he doesn't disagree. "Tell me, when you are a corpse in the ground, who it is within your power to spare. I doubt you will even grant life to worms."      Odette asks the Saint for advice saving Dysnomia. The look of raw disdain she gets could scramble Petra's brain. "Slit what passes for her throat."      Roland's eyes trace down from Flamel to Lugh and Blemishine. He starts to speak, grimaces, swallows, and then tries again. 'Explaining to a child' is a crushing burden, and 'explaining to a fellow shining knight' only somewhat less so. Neon's accusation makes it even heavier. Roland is a small, delicate man up close, only about Odette's height. Small men aren't used to being called pitiless.      "You come from a happier place," he finally says to Lugh, the orphan, who flinches away from the words; and Blemishine, the Otherworlder. Roland's eyes are starting to water. "The beautiful future we've created. All you've ever known is peace and freedom. You've never seen things uglier than death. I can't describe to you what they've done to us. So please believe me when I tell you... that we're being as gentle as we know how." His voice aches. It doesn't quite crack.      Roland takes a difficult breath before looking back to Ace. "I don't want to keep fighting," he says, still quivery. "I'm not strong enough. You're right. But everything I had in me, I left it on that road. Please don't make me keep struggling, for a better and better future. Even if it haunts me, I'm just tired." His eyes trace over Alucard and land on Mia. "I just want it to be over. I want to end it already."      But it doesn't come naturally to him. It never has.      WHERE IS THE BLOOD OF YOURS THAT *I* HAVE SPILLED?"      He shivers again when Drogrung bellows. It's the Saint, again, who intercedes. She steps toward the dragon and squares her shoulders. "And yet you prove yourself exactly like them, beast," she enunciates with a chilling absence of passion. "Look at you. Thirty times my size and bellowing for 'mercy'; the strong extorting the weak while crying abuse. If you are any more than an animal, feel shame and kill yourself. Else I will do it for you."      The Saint scornfully steps in, too, when Shinmyoumaru and Madeleine plead about greater threats. "And will sparing that worm of yours help you? You think to fight dragons with dragons? You see how readily-" she gestures at Drogrung- "-they rally to one another's defense. Roland has removed a traitor from among your ranks. Thank him." Roland doesn't look like he wants to be thanked.
Marigold	"They're right," says Harmut- still protecting Mia with arms outstretched- and it's so strange to hear 'Zephiel's' voice being so gentle. He smiles, strained, at Aidan. "Before now, our hands were forced. The weak can ill afford mercy, Elimine. But now look at us, the victors."      "This is the first free choice any human being has ever made. This is the foundation of the bright future we've fought for. What will it be, Roland?" "You mistake this for a beginning, you fool. It is an end, and you are irresolute." "Elimine, look at her. She is barely more than a child." Roland quakes. He grimaces like he's holding back a sob. Still he hasn't let go of that terrible sword, and Tennant's gun doesn't dissuade him from taking a single step forward.      ... But 'barely more than a child'? Dysnomia? Are they seeing what you're seeing?      Hartmut looks over at Lilian and Flamel, a moment later, and manages another uncomfortably forced smile. "Ah. No. Only Roland's soul is truly contained here. I'm afraid the rest of us are just his memories." It's so strange to hear him say that; an actor acknowledging their part.
Marigold	In the outside world--      "I-- I can walk. Don't mind me," says Marcus, who can walk but absolutely shouldn't. Roy takes him under one arm and gestures for Petra to take the other, while trying to cover his mouth and nose against the poison gas. Hector carries Blemishine's unconscious body.      Once everyone's back out on the lava-bridge, Lucius administers healing along with Haschen- he only flinches a little at the gunshots, even; it's likely these people don't know what normal guns are- and casts a worried glance back. Chad emerges from the toxic fog later than everyone else, staggering even with his face half-covered by his cloak. He shakes his head, and Lucius grimaces.      "Oh, Lugh... that poor boy." "He's with them. He'll be alright." "So I hope."
Dysnomia	When Odette tries to tend the Astral Dysnomia's wounds, in the incomprehensibility, reminds her a little of a Jacent, creatures of geometry, wandering into a material world, agreeing to abide by the rules of its existence-including injury, disablity...even death. There were rules here too, and if Odette could use them...     "...Wasting your time..." Dysnomia's voice rumbled. And her wound didn't WANT to close. The place where the sword had parted her flesh struggled to pry itself apart, insisted, as thought the will of Durandel itself was speaking into reality that she will die. Killing dragons was what it was meant for, and its purpose bled through Dysnomia like a poison. It's an uphill battle, but the torrent of blood spilling from Dysnomia's side lessened to a stream.     "I'd wondered." Dying, Mia met Roland's eyes, barely able to lift her head from the ground. "Why there were none at all...Did you smash their unborn eggs on the ground? Did you...murder their whelps...when they were too weak...To do more than cry?"     "Did everyone you kill...march to war?" She hissed, eyes drooping, half-shut. "Did none...stand aside? Did none...Want peace? Did none...Beg?"     "I bled for your damn...Lycia. And you'll...kill me for it. Serves me...Right."
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Drogrung hisses. "I call not for mercy but for justice. What has this girl done to earn your scorn, besides the misfortune of her birth? What have *I* done? You know me not. If the memory of you is so cold," it rumbles, "I would struggle to imagine the true depth of your inhumanity." It coils defensively, but does scoot a short distance back from the saint.     Madeleine, meanwhile, steps closer to Roland. "Well? Is this saint of yours so important that you would let her speak and choose for you, even in death? Do not stain your hands for she who would scorn your freedom. If you are to change the world, change it into what *you* wish to see." She jabs a finger into his chest at the word 'you'. "Elimine speaks like a true saint - what does not fit her vision must be purged. Forget her demands. Build something for yourself."
Ru Li Cheng	Well, she's right.      There's nothing he can say about that. Even if he could speak right now, Ru Li can't say that he isn't weak. He keeps failing. Over, and over, and over, and over. Every time, he fails. He wasn't strong enough to beat Petra and save Quicknest. He wasn't strong enough to step forward and demand to talk to the Spiral King. He wasn't strong enough to even try and touch Durandal. And now he's on the ground, doubled up in pain, his head against the grass. As a result of someone losing control and making it everyone else's problem.      He pays for the mistakes of others.      He shoulders responsibilities for other people.      That's the other side to being a god, right? A public servant you can blame distantly for your problems. If the fields fail, you can blame the gods. If the relief money doesn't come through in time, you can blame the gods.      If someone hates, they can blame the gods.      He tries to hold in tears. They're selfish, self-centered tears. And that, too, makes him angry. His shimmering, overlaid form, with black cracks, dulls just a little. Fades. What can he say to that? What exists that can be said there? Too weak to save Belial. Too weak to save anything. Never the right words. Never the right actions.      you selfishly go about playing hero to impress your barbarian lover and the rest of them      What good is determination without strength? What good does shouting 'no' do if you cannot back it up?      Fingers clutched around his stomach.      He stands. He's weak. The black cracks around his body aren't growing, but they're still there. He stumbles. This is a mindscape, right? If he's not worthy here, he's not worthy anywhere.      He reaches, haltingly, into his sleeve. From it he draws a red and black device. It looks like a blade, almost plastic, with two slots on the back for something to be inserted. He stumbles forward, gears still screaming, and grabs the device in both hands.      And then he drives it directly into Drogrung's back with all his very considerable might.      "Shut up." He's only once been this angry before - at someone claiming to have been 'made to be a hero' while flaunting the very idea. That anger gives him strength. "You wield your hate and speak of justice. You destroy because you were afraid. You are no different than what they hate. That which is like you is why they hate at all."      He pulls the strange weapon out and sweeps it sideways, clutching it like a lifeline. Like something precious. "You cannot answer hate with hate. You cannot cry for justice when you yourself destroy without thought."      He hits the ground with one knee, clinging to the strange thing like it's keeping him up, and maybe it is. "And you cannot call slaughter justice."      Those last words are for Roland, as he meets the eyes of the Hero. "Build your future on slaughter, if you wish. It is not my future. I am not the one who must live with it. If you are so tired, then lay down your sword, else resign yourself to a bloodshed that will last forever."
Lilian Rook	'The beautiful future we've created. All you've ever known is peace and freedom. You've never seen things uglier than death.'     That's not true. But to some degree, it is. Lilian wants to reach out, and connect with this in the only way she knows how; to press a stinging wound of the living to an old scar of the dead, and speak out; but her throat constricts around the words.     The ghosts are still fresh in her mind. Not the soldiers outside, but the ones she knows back home; the remnants of family that only she never knew. The more abstract ghosts, as well, of the man her brother was before she was born, the girl her sister could have been if she were born only a little earlier or later, the parents that raised them in a different world than herself. No amount of declaring her enmity, no hatred, no violence against the enemy, ever bought her anything.     She wasn't there. She couldn't ever know. The things worse than death that are known to her are impossible to convey to another.     'I'm not strong enough. You're right. But everything I had in me, I left it on that road. Please don't make me keep struggling, for a better and better future.'     "He . . ." Lilian opens her mouth, and the withering dryness in her throat distorts the words. "He deserves a better explanation than that. Stop. Just stop." Lilian swallows. "Expecting everything out of the few people who can do anything, asking more and more out of them every time they shoulder the last thing. There's a limit."     'If you are any more than an animal, feel shame and kill yourself. Else I will do it for you.'     'You see how readily they rally to one another's defense.'     Lilian recoils, discomfort mingled with shame as she averts her eyes. The way she grits her teeth makes it clear. She remembers when she spoke like that often. Held that same anger to anything outside the humanity she wanted to protect, for the wrong reasons. Even now, where she should step forward and rebuke the saint for the wrong she grew from, Lilian doesn't. She only 'doesn't disagree'. No one could mistake that look for anything less than guilty empathy.     "Hang on-- A traitor? To the dragons?" Lilian's queasily hopeful gaze is dragged back by overpowering gravity. "Did I really hear that right?"     'Before now, our hands were forced. The weak can ill afford mercy, Elimine.'     "Mercy is the privilege of the strong." Lilian repeats, near to under her breath. Her own words. She expects them to taste more bitter, and feels only the cold conviction they usually summon. Lilian breathes in deeply, and then fully unsheathing her sword, dedication undimmed, she trudges with stiff, automatic stride into the middle of the gathering.     "If the dragons are your hated enemy, and she betrayed them, then you have to do better than this." Lilian says, ashen. "Not 'more'. It's . . ." She wishes she'd figured out the words earlier. All that comes to mind is the old refrain she'd spoken before Angela, interrogating Yuri. "If she abandoned them, and took your side; if that was her choice, then she can't meet the same end the rest of them deserved. It doesn't matter if it's even only slightly better, only . . ."
Flamel Parsons	Flamel looks to Hartmut. His eyebrows come up. "A whole soul? I thought this was just echoes..." He blinks a few times. "Wait. Memories?" He seizes up for a moment. "You were sparing someone...?" He moves forward towards Roland. "No. No, I understand."     "Roland. Stop. I think I understand what you're doing. You're remembering her as she was. But this isn't the Saint Elimine I know about. Look at her, violent and angry and vicious-- this wasn't how she was. I heard how she grew and changed. Didn't she grow and change because of this? Because you *did* have the strength to do something merciful? Stop remembering this moment, you need to remember a lifetime of what happened after. She changed. She became someone new. Remember? If you're too tired, then don't hold on to this moment so hard that you turn away her help. So many other people were helped by the way she grew, can't you let yourself be helped too? Didn't she say things, didn't she try to help you too? Didn't she learn from this moment herself?"     He gestures meaningfully to Saint Elimine. "You can't do that to her, or to yourself, or to the people in your life. She meant a lot to you, didn't she? You all meant a lot to each other. And now you've been here alone with just the memories. But you have memories of the good person she became, you have memories of what she wanted for you. Didn't she have warmth and light too? I know you're tired and you're not strong enough, Roland, but I bet she wanted to leave you some strength to keep going through times like this. Didn't she?" His hands wring a little. "Lugh... come on, you know this a thousand times better than I could. What was she like?"     Flamel is trying to employ classic psychonautry tactics on a ghost. The mind yearns for peace, healing, and health, and if you connect enough sources of strength to other sources in the mind, eventually it'll move towards that. Saint Elimine is clearly a strong presence. And if she's connected the right way... these people, these eight people, they *must* have been good for each other. There's no other way they could have saved the world and rebuilt human civilization, not without sharing their kindness and support with each other.
Lilian Rook	Lilian manages to make eye contact only around that mark. "Don't think about her. If someone, anyone, steps out line and goes against the wrongs done to you, and you kill them just like all the rest, then what was the point? If nothing changes; not how you feel or what happens to them, for that tiny bit of good, then why should anyone be good to you at all? Dragon or not, the world you want is the one in which anyone who's earned your ire should flock to the protection of your enemies, rather than resist them."     Lilian's grip on Night Mist tenses, turning the blade sidelong, but she doesn't quite raise it. "Please. No one should try to help; actually try, in faith; and be thrown away by the people they reached out to. Even a fucking monster. Punish her in some other way, instead of being too proud to let the subhumans bleed for you."     The worst part. Lilian grits her teeth. "And yes, I didn't fight your war. But the heroes who fought the one that I know decided thus: Thou art responsible to thy blood first above all else, both the blood of thy line, and the blood shed for thee."
Shinmyoumaru Sukuna	Honestly it's kind of a wonder Shinmyoumaru looks the same in the mindscape. Almost the same, anyway: she's closer to five feet than four. She must actually be exerting some kind of mental effort to think of herself as the same size as all the humans, because she knows how tall she actually is... but rarely interacts with humans at that scale if she can help it. But right now she is certainly interacting with them - staring at the Saint with an intensity in her weirdly red-purple eyes that isn't always there. "I don't think I like you very much!" A beat, then: "But you don't get to pick, either? He does. It's his sword, and you're just a memory." She was listening to Harmut, then. And so she delivers the most cutting insult she can possibly imagine to Elimine, because it is what would hurt her, Shinmyoumaru Sukuna, Princess of the Inchlings, the most: Shinmyoumaru ignores her. She turns away from her, toward Dysnomia; seeing her under care, she continues toward Madeleine, who she likes; toward Drogrung, who she knows less well. Ru Li stabs, and Shinmyoumaru yells. "HEY!" She'd just been coasting before; she accelerates now, using her needle to push off the ground so hard that the needle flexes slightly and springs her forward. She is, of course, far too far away to prevent a stab, but she's coming in fast, now: "Don't YOU do it either! Look at how it hurts her!" She jabs her needle at Madeleine for emphasis. Then she raises the needle, bracing it like a short spear, shield-lid at the ready. "Don't you hurt them again." She likes Madeleine, one of her friends, but... "I thought we were friends too," she adds, her voice a little less steady than she'd like. "So don't you dare."
Desire Stars	I don't want to keep fighting. I'm not strong enough. I just want it to be over. I want to end it already.     "Then end it some other way! You had your reasons for fighting. All of us are trying as hard as we can to keep your future alive here--especially her--so why are you trying to stomp all over what little there is left?!"     "What does it matter, if we've known war or not?!" Neon pleads, her voice strained as she holds back tears. "It's here, and the people here have to deal with it whether they know how to or not!" Her Desire Driver is shaken, her hand pumped in anger at her side.     "And even when so many of the people who were supposed to help us turned on us instead, Dysnomia and Drogrung have stuck with us! That's why..."                                  DESIRE DRIVER!                                     The belt fastens itself around her waist, and she hovers her Propeller Buckle over the slot on its side. She's nowhere near as experienced as he is--there's a little waver in the passage of the Buckle towards the Driver. She's also outnumbered. But..."Henshin!"                       SET! ARMED PROPELLER! Ready? FIGHT!                           Kamen Rider Na-Go rushes to place herself between the two of them, holding the unwieldy weapon like a quarterstaff. I bled for your damn...Lycia. And you'll...kill me for it. Serves me...Right.     "Don't say that!" Na-Go shouts, over her shoulder. Taking her eyes off of Roland. "Roland... if you believe in this future at all, just stop. Let us do the fighting."
Trudy Grimm	The witch chalks a lack of even a 'thank you' up to Ru Li's state of mind and overall lingering pain. Letting out a soft breath, she pins the spell to the god's projection while he confronts Drogung. She then snaps the Grimoire shut and releases it to dangle at her hip.     Stepping up beside Ru Li, she places her hands on her hips.     "You are acting like a hatchling. Are you so unused to being challenged that even the smallest slight is a great insult to you?" Leaning forward at the hip, the witch scold Drogung as one would a misbehaving pet, "Think of those who had nothing to do with your hurts and apologize for harming them with your little tantrum."     Raising a hand, she waves in a gesture not just to Ru Li but to Flamel and Lugh, still recovering from their own poisonings. She pointedly does not include Blemishine in this; the horse knight was, after all, the one wielding Durandal and actually hit the wyrm.     "As for you--" Trudy doesn't turn her body. Rather, she cants her head back and turns it enough to look sideways at Elimine, "You aren't even a ghost of a memory. Merely a specter of a specter. Do you represent his hatred, then?" Her eyes shift towards Hartmut, "And you, his compassion?"     After a moment, the witch's eyes close, a hand waving dismissively, "Begone, both of you. Only Roland should have any say in this. I refuse to converse with such wretched puppetry."
Odette Raskins	That look from the Saint... It's withering, but it's wrong. It's coming from Lucius' face, but Elimine isn't Lucius, nor could he be mistaken for her. Unlike Petra, it's also not the sort of look that would scramble Odette's brain (close, but not quite). The EMT pauses just long enough to look up and over at Elimine with her usual amount of nervousness, only hitching her breath for a moment before narrowing her eyes. "Your bedside manner stinks, Miss Elimine. Are you really the same...?" There has to be something Odette's missing here, but there's already so many moving parts in all of this, and she hasn't finished doing triage on Dysnomia. The more she hears Elimine speaking, addressing the group, speaking to Roland, the more Odette continues to doubt that this is the same Saint in that book, that someone like Lucius could ever have put his faith in. "Elimine, look at her. She is barely more than a child." Isn't Dysnomia older than her? Odette can't really tell at a glance, but she can at least tell that Mia's older than every child she's ever met. What are they all seeing, anyway? Hearing Dysnomia speaking reminds Odette that she has more important things to focus on than such weird discrepancies with everything. Turning back to Mia's busted up body, she starts to piece together some things mentally, and the longer she works on her... The more she realizes she's still really in over her head. "I'm not. There's nobody else here that needs this." Odette responds brusquely to Mia's assertion, tilting her bag a bit to loosen some of the blood packs inside from being trapped under other junk so she can pull one of them out. She pops the little needle out, sticks it into... Is that a vein? It's probably a vein. With the mini-IV in and pumping blood in, she tears some medical tape off a roll with her teeth and sticks the whole thing to Mia's arm to hold the blood bag in place. "M.. Mister Roland. Is Miss Mi... Is she in any position to hurt you right now? Could you ever see her doing... Wh-whatever it is you want to kill her for?" Odette asks, sparing the not-quite-Roy image within Durandal a brief glance and gestures towards Dysnomia with her head before getting back to work. "You said you're tired of fighting for the future, so why half... Um. Why do a bad job and mess it up worse, then? J-just leave it alone, if you're that tired." Odette's seen this kind of body once before... Sort of. At the very least, she's seen enough that she's starting to recognize what should go where, enough that she's not making as many guesses as before while trying to circumvent Durandal's effects on the astral's body. When she sees the flesh practically peeling itself before her eyes, though, there's a few moments where Odette wonders if maybe she should just stop. Wait. She still has some tricks up her sleeve. "Don't give up on me now, or... I-I'll be really mad." Odette really does, too, even if she does have to make a few guesses about what would even work. This spray? that bottle? Screw it, spray more, smear more, back to pinching and pushing and closing up the parts she can before starting to stitch and spray more things on to try closing and clotting up more of those terribly cursed wounds.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Drogrung is very large - it will take more than a single blade to bring it down. Even so, it shrieks in surprise and pain as it rounds on Ru Li. "I shall not," it snarls, "be silenced by the likes of you." Its tail begins to curl around Ru Li, coils threatening to spring shut like a trap if the god makes a sudden move. "Do you forget what I am capable of? Rouse me not to-" "Enough!" Madeleine snaps at the lindworm, as she rubs a sore spot on her own back. But before she can tell the weapon-dragon off herself, Trudy steps in to give a scolding.     Something about the witch's attitude lands with Drogrung, who relaxes its coils around the Ru Cheng god. "I have not been injured in the waking world for a very, very long time, it admits, just a little sheepishly. "I will make amends when there are fewer lives on the line." It tips its head slightly in the direction of the eight heroes and Dysnomia.
Ru Li Cheng	Ru Li grabs Shinmyoumaru's spear in his free hand and looks her in the eye. His hand is bleeding slightly, now, gold and silver and little droplets of black poison that hiss when they hit the ground. His eyes - one familiar flesh, one strange glass - say that he's making a point - that he won't hurt Madeleine again.      "Then kill me!+      Ru Li's voice is both machine and flesh now, simultaneously a harmonious, beautiful, glorious divinity speaking out of the speaker grille of his metal mien and the hoarse, angry voice from the mouth of his flesh mien.      +Kill me, and show them what it means for the strong to demand justice for others while refusing consequences for themselves! Show them what it means when the strong have no mercy!"      The black cracks still aren't receding. "Show them what it means to continue the violence without end!+      'I will make amends when there are fewer lives on the line.'      +You will make amends *now*," Ru Li's voice hisses, +Not to me, nor to the others, but to the people looking upon you as an example of what they hate. You will apologize. Now. When it matters. Not later, when it does not."
Blemishine	The beautiful future we've created. All you've ever known is peace and freedom. You've never seen things uglier than death. I can't describe to you what they've done to us. So please believe me when I tell you... that we're being as gentle as we know how.     "I believe you."     Blemishine's response to Roland comes without pause, a melancholic sort of tiny smile on her face. "How could I not, with that look on your face, with your voice like that? You couldn't be telling anything but the truth. ...I can't imagine how terrible the Scouring must've been. To do what you had no choice but to do. Maybe the fact I can't - that the people of Elibe can't... is proof of how different your time and ours is."     "If you didn't, the Elibe we know... where people /can/ be gentle, might not exist."     It'd be terribly easy to cast judgement on Roland; she possesses every right to be upset that she was been this close to ending the lives of several of her friends. There's actually no guarantee Dysnomia will pull through, even. That's exactly why even her smallest smile has to be filled with sorrow, and when she takes an audible breath in, it's shaky not unlike the legendary hero's own.     Elimine, look at her. She is barely more than a child.     That's right. This is memory, after all. Something like this must've happened in the past. Roland preparing to deliver an execution, with Hartmut being the sole sympathizer to the executed. Who is it they're seeing? That Roland's soul must see in Dysnomia? She has no way of knowing. But hearing the softness in Harmut's tone, the way he stands against the others...     Speak not of Hartmut or the Binding Blade. His blood dishonors me.     She wonders just what it is that Zephiel despises so much about this man, who asked for a child to be given mercy. It's a thought for another time.     "I might not be from your world, in every meaning of the word," Blemishine finally speaks back to Roland, taking a few steps forward. "But I've seen some of the one you've helped create. It's a wonderful place, with wonderful people in it-- and one day, I really want to see it without this awful war looming over it."     While a tiny horsegirl is far from a deterrent if a gun is not, the little knight nevertheless moves to stand in front of him, arms at her side as she stares up at him. "I won't ask you to keep struggling for better and better futures. You've done enough. I'm asking you to entrust the one that you and the other Heroes made to us. Believe Hartmut's memory-- believe /us/, the ones who live in that happier place, that things like this don't have to be necessary anymore."     That forlorn smile comes to her face again, mixed together with solemn sincerity. "I might not know Dysnomia as a longtime friend, but we're comrades. We've fought together, plenty of times now. It's not just others who trust her. I do, too. If you saw something in me, that has to count for something," the smile grows only a bit wider. "Right?"
Marigold	Looking at Mia makes Roland ill, but he's not enough of a coward to look away. His lips part. His inhalation crackles. "No," he says to Ru Li. "No, she's the last one." Why would he say that when Drogrung's right here? "If I kill her, it's over. If I spare her, it goes on forever. Don't you understand?"      He can't answer Mia's questions. Marcus had told her that some of the dragons got away. But does Roland know that? "I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm so sorry. You wouldn't understand if I told you." But he still white-knuckled clutches the sword.      Na-Go intercedes, but he stares through her. Hartmut places a hand on her shoulder from behind, grateful to have someone else to block Durandal. "War. War in Elibe, again... then I was a fool to spare her," Roland says wretchedly. His cheeks tense to hold back tears. "It did go on forever."      "Wait. Memories? You were sparing someone...?"      "Hang on-- A traitor? To the dragons? Did I really hear that right?"      Hartmut's smile aches. That coaxes something new from his memory. "They're right, Roland. That girl is innocent. She tried to help us. As much as we hated her, she always loved us. You have to spare her. We did spare her." "And we made, the wrong choice," Roland nearly sobs. He swings at Hartmut half-heartedly to break the stalemate. Hartmut clashes blades, and Na-Go can tip the balance. "Listen to them! We couldn't coexist after all! Your peace didn't last, Hartmut!" "Would yours?"      Lugh, clutching Flamel's sleeve in wordless distress, looks up at him and takes a little heart in having a way to help. "The kind of person Elimine became... um, Father Lucius always said... she was graceful, and patient, and sweet." The memory of the Saint glares down at him, but he stammers and continues:      "She- she understood! That, um, you have to practice being kind. That it's not enough to see a bigger picture... that you have to keep yourself compassionate in every choice you make. And maybe... maybe Hartmut or Roland taught that to her."      Roland stares into Dysnomia's eyes. Somehow, being congratulated like that is what makes him well over into tears. His mouth hangs open in a grimace, but he can't swallow this sob. 'You've done enough' devastates him. Durandal, the Blazing Blade, finally falls from his hand.      "I'm sorry," he coughs up while sinking to his knees. "I'm sorry, I, didn't know how to leave you a better world. I'm sorry I was almost too scared to try. I'm a coward. Please. Do better with it than I did." With 'Durandal', or with 'the world'?
Marigold	As Trudy asks, the figures of the other seven heroes begin to fade away. But Hartmut puts a hand on the Saint's shoulder- "Wait, just a moment".      Roland has, after all, spared 'her'. And that's the choice that taught Elimine compassion. Overhead, the sun spins through the sky ten thousand times; Roland's hair grows out and grays, vegetation covers the temple, and Elimine ages but glows from within with a beautiful light.      Her smile, finally, looks like Lucius's too. She kneels next to Dysnomia and touches her with that staff, mending the dragon's wounds. "Thank you," she murmurs- to Mia for the chance for kindness, or Roland for the lesson, or Blemishine for her pleading, it isn't clear. And then she and Hartmut fade, as memories do, too.      Roland, gray-haired, picks himself up from the long grass and hands Durandal back to Blemishine. "Please," he murmurs, "help me not to regret what I've done." Just now, or a thousand years ago?      The sun blurs overhead a third of a million more times, and the world in the present day is beautiful, but Roland isn't here to see it, because he's dust blowing away on the wind.
Flamel Parsons	Flamel disengages the mental projection. Astral connections will safely sever shortly. Everyone will be brought back to where they were, the chamber they were at before, though not immediately. On his way out, Flamel smiles, positively to the graying, fading, dusting man. "We can only do better because of you. Kindness makes better worlds, and better worlds create more kindness. Rest well, Roland. We'll do our best to follow your lead and make something better."     He also turns to Lugh. A quick thumbs-up. Good goddamn work. Lugh's earned a fresh psicadet badge today, for sure. He did exactly what needed doing, in ways Flamel couldn't.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	If Drogrung had loved its job, it would crush Ru Li like so much scrap metal. But it didn't, so it won't. As it uncoils its tail from the Ru Cheng god, the Blazing Blade passes to its new owner. As the lindworm takes a deep, slow breath in, the sun whirls by overhead. As the poisonous mist - the spiritual poison, at least - seeps from the cracks in Ru Li's shell and flows back into Drogrung's mouth and nose, Roland is dust on the wind. And there are fewer people to apologize to, before Drogrung gets a chance to meet Ru Li's demand. It curls up like a snake, and clears its throat with a deep rumble to address the elites. "I would like to apologize," it begins, and the psychic projection ends and it's half a cave away from everyone. Even so, there is a rush of wind pulling the choking vapors out of Durandal's chamber and, presumably, back into Drogrung's weapon-body.
Dysnomia	There's something of a sneer in the way that Mia's teeth set. A burning defiance in her eyes, the eyes of a someone who sees death and...Refuses to flinch away? Welcomes it? Who could say.     But then, the sword falls from his hand. Dysnomia stares as though she'd just seen a river run unhill, or the sun rise in the wrong place in the sky. That stare of hers, it loses its venom. Becomes something lost, as she looks up to Roland, to Elimine. She sees the sun spin through the sky, and the ages rush, and when the Saintess reaches down to touch her she recoils--or tries to, feeble and flailing as she was.     Was it the memory of her magic that mended her, or the simply lack of killing intent from the soul that so embodied Durandel? Regardless, Odette's hard work began to bear fruit, her flesh knitting together--but not unmarred. Where Durandel had passed through her flesh was an ugly, jagged scar across her side, seeping a thin mist, like a trail of gaseous blood.     An injury that would never completely heal.     Dysnomia stared into the place where Roland had stood, long after he and the Saint had vanished. At last, she just said... "...I don't understand."     Her astral projection peeled away, then, removed from the mindscape as clearly as if by strong smelling salts, drawn back into her body. By which, after a terrible, eternal moment of stillness, Roy saw her once more breathe.
Ru Li Cheng	The psychic projection vanishes. Ru Li is lying on the floor, screaming, because outside the psychic projection he never stopped.      -he's been screaming all that time, out loud, outside the projection, and aware of it the whole time inside, hasn't he?      He has.      When Drogrung finally breathes in and takes the mist away, he finally stops screaming, and his gears stop shrieking the shrill sound of misaligned metal, and his fingers pull out of the earth they've dug into so deep the rock's turned to dust.      "Thank you," he says, weakly, to the rapidly-aging Roland, "For trusting in kindness. So much harder than being powerful. Being kind."      It's all he can say, because then his head sinks back against the ground, trapped under his wheelchair, and the blood running down his face in trails of silver and gold hissing steam as they drop, and his eyes sink shut.
Blemishine	I'm sorry, I, didn't know how to leave you a better world. I'm sorry I was almost too scared to try. I'm a coward. Please. Do better with it than I did.     "You spared her in the end, didn't you?" Would-be knight responds to legendary knight with a heartwrenching twinge in her shaky smile, equally without specifying who 'her' is, before the future comes to pass.     And when after Elimine has delivered her last thanks, and after an old and gray Roland has passed Durandal onto her, she takes a moment to have her hands rest over top of his before firmly taking the blade in her grasp. "...I'll do my best. Have a good rest, Roland."     Just now, or a thousand years ago...     ...maybe both.     ...     In the waking world, Blemishine - hauled along by Hector as she is - is several different kinds of in pain as her eyes blearily open back up and she stirs awake. Mostly from the poison directly injected into her.     She doesn't complain, because several others have had had much worse. She'll surely soon be sliding away to hurriedly try to help tend to Dysnomia's wounds and offer desperate apologies to her, and Madeleine (plus Drogrung), and also Roy... and maybe later, wonder why Roy was a target at all. She'll surely be worried sick over Marcus as well, and doing all she can to tend to the wound she won't be able to help but feel like she's responsible for. And then she'll have to try and assist Ru Li, and several more still...     That's soon, though. Right this second, her hand twitches loosely, as if to grasp something, as words run through her mind. A question of Lilian's she didn't get to answer, in fact.     The Blazing Blade, able to scour the scars of war from Lycia...     You don't usually say things like that. Did someone say something that bothered you?     "Nope," she murmurs weakly, too quiet for maybe anyone but Hector to hear, much less the woman who actually asked it. "...The opposite. I was just thinking about how nice it'd be... to be able to help make the world better like that..."
Desire Stars	Feeling Hartmut's hand on her shoulder, Na-Go's grip loosens on the propeller buckle. The clash of blades isn't had without hers--one hand pushes, the other pulls. Sparks fly from the upper blade of the propeller as it strikes Roland's sword, her leg shot out in a kick meant to drive him backwards.     Na-Go pauses, only once Lugh speaks up, her weapon held defensively but her advance halted. She- she understood! That, um, you have to practice being kind. That it's not enough to see a bigger picture... that you have to keep yourself compassionate in every choice you make. And maybe... maybe Hartmut or Roland taught that to her.     Na-Go's helmet dips in slow contemplation. For the second time, Ace's smile seems warmer, more genuine. I'm sorry, I, didn't know how to leave you a better world. I'm sorry I was almost too scared to try. I'm a coward. Please. Do better with it than I did.     A soft, sad exhalation escapes Na-Go. "Thank you." What else can she say, to someone baring their sorrow that openly? Many years pass... Thank you.     Na-Go stifles a sob, removing the Propeller Buckle. Neon Kurama wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, and offers Dysnomia a hand up as she recovers.     Ace retrieves a golden coin from his pocket. It's old--visibly so, even for someone not from an Earth. A soft 'ping' as he flips it with his thumb, catching it midair with the other hand. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he concentrates on it for a moment, as if reassuring himself of something.     He smiles, steps forward, pats Neon on the back as he passes, giving Chad an upnod on his way out.
Lilian Rook	'It did go on forever.'     "Stop."     This time, it's Roland Lilian finally manages to be firm with. "It ended. It's over. It bought you a thousand years of peace-- a thousand years, and what's happening now is the fault of--" Lilian glances at Hartmut heatedly, without really seeing him, and back. "A king hellbent on burning everything because he saw your mercy as a mistake. Don't agree with him. Don't take the side of the man who hates humanity just as much as they did."     'That girl is innocent. She tried to help us. As much as we hated her, she always loved us. You have to spare her. We did spare her.'     "And no wonder." Lilian says sullenly. "You're what he knew he could have been, and missed his chance to." Now it's sickeningly bitter. "The light in your eyes is gone forever from his. Of course he hates you." Lilian blinks, and something is §wrong§ with her left eye, but she claps her hand to her face quickly. She lowers it away slowly as Roland falls to miserable apology, and all that's there is a look of feeling horrible for getting exactly what she wanted.     'Thank you'     Lilian knows the words aren't for her, and that she doesn't deserve them. The immeasurable cycle of time in such fast forward lifts her mood from bitterly sullen to a sense of awe mixed with the residual ache, but she finds nothing better to say before they're all ejected from the memory.