3228/She Who Would Inherit the Fire of Our World

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She Who Would Inherit the Fire of Our World
Date of Scene: 18 October 2015
Location: Great Painting of Ariamis <PoA>
Synopsis: The seekers of adversity have overcome their final challenge and gather one last time to peer through the mists of time, in order to rectify the mistakes of those who came before, and create a future from their last, desperate efforts.
Cast of Characters: Tomoe, Maya, Staren, Priscilla, 168, 183, 253, 395, 560, 570, Reiji Arisu, 707
Tinyplot: Dark Souls TP


Priscilla has posed:
    The process at work, known only in full to Priscilla, and perhaps only /knowable/ to her as well, must be exponential in design within the Kiln of the First Flame, as in keeping with the pattern, the changes since previously eyes were laid upon them are greater than the last, but this time to a far more drastic degree. The oppressive heat, the rolling wall of thunderclouds and cinder, the flickering light of the ethereal 'sun', are all obscured by the heavy, timeless haze that hangs over the blasted lands that have not known its touch in centuries, filtering sunlight and shadows, heat and shade, and even the softness of the ash and the coarseness of the rocks to a sort of finely neutralized patina, as if the world itself has lost some of its definition. Sounds are muted, breathing feels strange, and the eyes can't help but catch patternless movements in the deep fog that seem to subconsciously tick all boxes of cognitive recognition as important, despite being without form or design. Walking past the ancient sprues of titanite towers, and the shattered remnants of the titanic battle that had taken place only a week ago, feels utterly surreal, as if one is visiting ancient history rather than all too recent events.

    There is no reason to summon phantoms here, and in the heart of the Ashen Mist, it may only end up summoning the real thing regardless. Priscilla waits at the sight of Gwyn's last stand, beside the flickering embers of the withered and guttering wellspring of the world. Though the First Flame is little more than the burning of a match, the Dark Soul and the Flame of Chaos orbit around it in eerie unison, swerving through a cloud of departed souls so dense as to be visible to the naked eye, almost choking in their electric embrace. The seed planted in the fertile ash of the old world has sprouted into something not unlike the primordial crystal; a similar, strangely organic, even plantlike arrangement of fractally branching fixtures of the same neutrally colourless glass.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Credit to Psyber, he's here pretty soon after Priscilla summons him. Granted, he's dressed pretty much how you would expect a guy who got called in on his Sabbath to be dressed: Short coat, jeans, a t-shirt that says "Safety First. Awesome Gun Tricks Second', and a pair of high-top Chucks on his feet.

    In one hand, he has a lobster roll with extra butter and in the other he has a beer. He figures Priscilla is summoning them to wrap up the world, but by his estimate they've killed most things that could pose a substantial threat, so this is a mix of a wrap-up and a victory lap for him.

    "Yo Pris. Wad'p? Want a bite of lobster roll?"

Reiji Arisu has posed:
    Here, amidst the fog of origin, light and darkness, hot and cold, and even greatest summoning sign all lose their meaning. The wavering mist flickers across the kiln's broken landscape, hiding all that cannot resist its touch in formless obscurity.

A flame ignites deep in the fog.

The smell of tobacco wafts through the mist.

    "This is it, then." The voice belongs to one Reiji Arisu, his hands slid into his pockets, a smoldering cigarette glowing between his lips. He stands not far from the eerie, synchronized dance of the two souls. "Is there anything else we need to do to make this work, or should we just stand back and watch for now?"

Kimiko Shinobu (570) has posed:
    The danger has passed, but that doesn't mean much to Shinobu Kimiko's default level of wariness. She arrives in her outfit as a Puella Magi, though it would easily double for casual clothing in at least some worlds. She gives a snort at the scent of tobacco, real or imagined, but otherwise seems more interested in staring at those unformed shapes in the fog. It takes some hidden effort to pull her gaze back and focus on Priscilla.

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
    Shirou's made his way here the hard way, trudging through ash and bleached landscapes that tug at his mind and confound in the strangest ways. But the Kiln of the First Flame is his desintation. No matter how many imes he comes here, he never feels worthy of such a location. A simple mortal amidst giants and legends.

    But he joins the group nevertheless, pulling up alongside Reiji and looking around with a growing sense of awe and curiosity. "All that pain, all that struggle, all that loss... we've done things that can't be taken back all for this plan."

    And yes, in addition to curiosity and awe, intense apprehension.

    Will this work?

Nathan Hall (168) has posed:
    Nathan Hall is here. He's in pretty soon after Psyber, because they're traveling together a lot more. Shirou seems on-point about his thoughts. "Mmm. No more opposition. Our efforts to save this world have killed nearly everything within it that possessed enough power to threaten our intentions." He seems to ponder that as he enters the inner area of the Kiln, the chamber of the First Flame. "I am not sure how I feel about that. Hopeful that this was all worth it."

    Nathan gives a bow-like nod to Pris, a silent greeting, and prompting for her to speak on what to do next, if she wishes. For now, he stands, in that usual robotic posture, ready to observe events.

Amalthea (395) has posed:
    And Among the arrivals is Amalthea. Though the battle with Kalameet is done, and this should hopefully be a venture where no one dies for once, the unicorn wears her armor regardless. It is not her heaviest set, this time she chooses the chain, light plate, and blue surcoat favored by Astora knights, palm resting on the pommel of her sword. No words. There's not really much of a need for them.
    Everything is just about done now. Right?

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Mizuki might already have been here, or she might have just arrived. Either way, she's come in her sanguine cloak and obscured her countenance to all onlookers. She quietly appraises the ember that gave life to the world, holding out her hand to feel whatever heat it has left to offer her. She does not move, nor breathe, nor speak, only quietly watching the thing flicker like the wick of a candle before some skeletal hand pinches its fingers closed upon it.

    In a way, this is a sad day for Mizuki: she loved this world as it was, and she does not know that she'll take so well to the world this event creates. Regardless, there really is no 'better' option, and there is no 'happier' end. Just, a world loses something when more people are born, when things become more lively; strife and loneliness create a certain atmosphere that nothing else can replicate. What... what will Lordran be like with a bustling capital and cheery streets? What is this act going to create, and what will it take away? In time, people will cease to appreciate the luxuries of a world without the darksign, and indeed, forget that there ever was such a thing. What if the inhabitants of that world don't 'deserve' what they've been given?

    Well. That is simply not hers to decide.

    Still, it may be more within her rights to mourn the loss of what is: a world populated by Few who banded together, and who grew strong with adversity. Of people whose experiences made them reflective if not kind, and whose nuances endeared her to them. As she closes her palm above the flame and draws her hands back to her side, she can't help but think these things.

    She does not look to Priscilla today, or anyone. She doesn't want this to be her day with Priscilla or any other person so much as she wants it to be that which she shares with this world, this place, this time. She wants to internalize this Lordran -- their Lordran. For surely, whatever world that comes after this...

    ... will not be hers any longer.

Xiaomu (707) has posed:
"I'm pretty sure the stink of cigarette smoke isn't going to help resanctify this place, Reiji," complains Xiaomu from upwind of her partner. "If I were a universe beign reborn I sure wouldn't want cigarette ash mixed into my kindling."

Good-natured kvetching aside, Xiaomu is also here as flesh and blood. She's outfitted much as she usually is, black qipao with silver patterns under her usual red vest, and she has her monk staff with her as usual. She also has her sometimes-usual carrypack, but she could have anything in there from extra bullets to fried tofu to holy water and prayer seals.

Tomoe has posed:
There'd been a lot that happened here Tomoe had been through alot she didn't consider herself very imporant to this whole affair but she was seeing it through the very end. So here she was she came with a cloak on and was just haning back for the moment she felt very small here but she wanted to see how this would all end how could she not even if she played a small part of all of this?

Staren has posed:
    Staren is here too. A bit uneasy about showing up here as a non-phantom, but... it /should/ be safe, right? ...Right.

    Reiji says what he had to say already, though. So he just nods to the others and looks around for a bit. "So... how long will it take, anyway? For... the new world we worked so hard for to be created?"

Priscilla has posed:
    Priscilla owes Psyber a little too much to scold him for his choice of apparel for this occasion; especially with nobody to impress for it. Oscar, joining the party from the winding ramp down, equally armoured as he ever is, has no benchmark for how casual a t-shirt and chucks can be considered to be, after all, the visor of his helm merely momentarily pointing towards his dinner. Priscilla simply shakes her head, only offering "Pray, finish with it before we proceedeth. This may yet be delicate." The knight goes so far as to semi-formally bow to the rest of the group, but moves immediately to the crystalline 'tree', even more quiet than he usually is. "Though I imagine we'll need as many strong souls as we can, and I know none any greater than yours."

    Priscilla responds to Reiji "I wouldst not hath so casually demanded thine presence if there were nothing of import for thee to accomplish. I must calleth upon thou all one last time, to . . ." she falters suddenly, having difficulty expressing the words. ". . . temper this process with the weight of thine presence. To impress thineselves in the formation of history, to ground and giveth substance to these works, and thus legitimize them in the eyes of the universe."

    She turns to Shirou and Nathan next. "And yet we kill to upholdeth the institution of death. Slay to ensureth the sanctity of the soul. If the darkest stains left by the old world must be purged to ignite the flames of another, so be it. None but us were willing, or able, to account for such transgressions left behind and abandoned to fate. As it is, the future we hath chosen is not one of platitudes and hollow moral victories to be celebrated as a return to golden peace. We build today, a crucible of strife to forge a future free of the errors that wouldst, inevitably, one day lead to its extinguishment. We deliver this world from madness, not from its struggles." Her tempered words relent with the faintest traces of cheer. "A little ash shalt maketh no difference here, Lady Xiaomu, even were it to survive what is to cometh. As for thee, Sir Staren, the answer to such a question is highly subjective."

    Once all are ready, free of trivial tasks and dalliances and fully calmed and fed, Priscilla makes motion towards the crystalline tree as well, standing beside Oscar. In the knight's presence, the pinprick of the First Flame brightens, sending ripples throughout its false twin and its dark shadow circling above it. In the presence of the crossbreed, the mist shifts and stirs, whispering formless nothings into the minds of those around her as the colourless glass seems to flex and bend. A shimmer of light flickers faintly from her conquered eye, refracting through the organic prism, and then a wave of heat and light blasts forth from Oscar as the four Lordsouls separate from his body, joining the bizarre, cosmic orrery of conceptual facets of the world returning to each other. The two of them approach the dying and spent flame at their feet, guttering on its last legs . . .

    "~The manifestation of Ashen Mist, received from the Everlasting Dragon.
The magic of the dragons allows one to delve into the memories of the withered.~"

Priscilla has posed:
    The world abruptly fades into darkness, the clinging of the mists becoming a crushing void of pure nothingness as time slips out of focus. The ground that reforms beneath everyone's feet is . . . solid. Hard, unyielding rock, interspersed with ancient, unliving roots winding their way through it, and yet the lay of the land, from every subtle rise to jagged outcropping, is exactly the same. The walls that hem them in are no longer of grand, architectural design, but the twisted whorl of an exceptionally massive Archtree, old beyond comprehension, and so gargantuan as to defy the imagination. Though its bulk casts everything into deep, penetrating shadow, the group is caught within a wide island of flickering light, caused by the towering bonfire burning on nothing at all, seeming to seep from the air itself before combusting into monolithic pillars of flame. Silhouettes can be seen against its light; wraithlike shadows staggering towards it as if transfixed by its radiance, uttering no sound but their first footsteps in all of time, trudging forth to claim the prize of substance and purpose. At the far side of the fire, encircling it at a distance, can be seen the fire-lit ghosts of three faces. An old, bearded man, a pale, hooded woman, and a faceless, grinning skull.

    "~MEMORY OF THE FIRST FLAME~"

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "When you want a field to grow new crops, you have to slash and burn what's left of the old ones to fertilize the ground. Otherwise, there's nothing for it to grow out of," The half-angel comments as he stuffs the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, chugs the beer, and discards the trash from his meal to prepare for the ensuing journey into the finale of this particular world's woes.

    He is glad he heeded Priscilla's advice and did so, because travelling back to the memory of the First Flame is a jarring experience, to say the least. He takes a slow look around, taking in all the sights and letting out a soft noise of awe, "Mmn. To have come this far back. To the origin point of it all. I continue to be surprised by this world."

Tomoe has posed:
Tomoe had not yet pulled back the hood she does however listen to Priscilla as she deos so. She seems quite curious now where this is going and if anything will be needed of her. She listens to Priscilla for the moment and she seems to be taking this very serious, after all they are rebooting a world, right? She halts as the world changes a bit about them she tries to make sense of this placve and is able to just do so.

"I have never seen anything like this..."

Kimiko Shinobu (570) has posed:
    Kimiko looks from Priscilla to Shirou. "There is a justice," she says, "in purification of a world. Given that we bear responsibility for that which proves in error." She speaks with an uncommon sense of impassionate certainty for a girl of her youth, though the hazy environs helping to cast doubt upon even age, for moments' reaction.

    Behind Priscilla and Oscar, Kimiko follows, watching the Lordsouls separate, and then--

    "..ah." Surprised, that's all she utters, staring up first at the archtree, and then down again, at the flame that seemingly sustains itself. Beings... shadows? Something walking into it... "What are they?"

    And past the flame, faces. Two, at least, are not unfamiliar. The hooded woman is not one she's seen. A few steps to the side, and she tries to take a better look at the bearded man. "Lord Gwyn...?"

Staren has posed:
    "What's happening? Is it forming now...?" Staren wonders as the world fades away. And then they're at... a campfire? "What is this? Is this... just how this world always begins? People around a campfire?" He's quick on picking up things sometimes, but when he's missing pieces he's easily kind of... lost.

Reiji Arisu has posed:
    "It's fine," Reiji says to Xiaomu. "Like Priscilla said, it's not like adding a bit of ash to this place will change much at this point." What's a few more grains going to do to the immense sea of grey soot that fills the Kiln, anyway? Probably not much.

"So we're to serve as fulcrums, then," he muses, inclining his head. "How do you intend for us to-- Ah."

The Lord Souls orbit their progenitor. The world shivers, and then fades away into the mists.

    When it clears, they are among the flame again, but in its original form. The great, towering bonfire that is the First Flame roars in all its infinite majesty before them. Reiji's jaw unhinges briefly, but he snaps it shut as his cigarette starts to topple out of the corner of his mouth.

    "I see. So as we did when we claimed the Flame of Chaos," he murmurs, turning his eyes to the figures gathered near the flame. "Those must be... The witch, the king, and the First of the Dead?" He makes a soft, curious noise in his throat as he approaches, idly wondering where the fourth must be? Or perhaps the Furtive Pygmy has already come and gone?

"You're..." His eyes fix on the figure with the skeletal face. "Gravelord Nito. If I'm not mistaken."

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
    "We're replacing a broken and system failing system with a self-sustaining, less broken system. The other options were try to prolong the Age of Fire for another few centuries and be right back where we started or let the fire sputter out and let humanity become monsters. I'm not happy at all that this new world's very existence will be fueled by conflict. It's just the only option that doesn't mean an immediate disaster. Shinobu. Killing people to save people is a contradiction I hate."

    But he's not contesting that this is the path they've chosen, that's for sure. No matter how much it rankles him, this is their chosen path. Now he has to follow through with it.

    The only question is...

    "Errr... where are we...?"

    Reiji clarifies things pretty quickly though. Shirou boggles. "What?!" When did things shift so drastically?

    Typical overwhelmed Shirou!

Xiaomu (707) has posed:
For all her normal casual air, it's a sign of how seriously Xiaomu takes this that she didn't have one of her handheld game systems out while she was waiting on the others. The shift of the scenery from the Kiln to darkness, and then to a solid rocky ground lit by the primal fires catches her only slightly by surprise.

"Everything that has a beginning has an end; everything that ends must begin somewhere anew," she murmurs. Then she murmurs, more formally:

    Heaven and earth begin in the unnamed;
    Name's the mother of the ten thousand things.

    Two things, one origin, but different in name, whose identity is mystery.
    Mystery of all mysteries! The door to the hidden.

She pauses briefly, as if recalling a different quotation - and it's pretty clear she's quoting from somewhere. (It's not hard to recognize the Tao Te Ching, though, if you're familiar with the text. Given her ostensible Buddhist background, though, it may seem like an odd choice ...) When the sage fox speaks again, though, there's an even deeper solemnity in her normally-playful voice, as if she were not merely reciting something, but leading a prayer or blessing ...
    The Way bears one.
    The one bears two.
    The two bear three.
    The three bear the ten thousand things.
    The ten thousand things
    carry the yin on their shoulders
    and hold in their arms the yang,
    whose interplay of energy
    makes harmony.

It may not sound like a benediction for the birth of the world, but she can think of few better passages for the purpose, from any of the traditions she knows.

Nathan Hall (168) has posed:
    Nathan needs to give the enkindling a sort of legitimacy. While his emotions are overwhelmed -- is he at the /beginning of history/ for this world?! -- he keeps his face stoic as the beginning of the world resolves around him. Here's where everything branched out, where everything began to change. The myriad timelines of Lordran, and the entire world beyond, spread from this point. He will have only a scant few seconds before the other shadows take their piece of history.

    His mind flashes with a million vindicative plans. He has to complete a stable time loop, but what are the ways he can use this incredibly powerful chance to hurt the people who hurt him and his allies in all this. His mind flashes with schemes to harm Gwyndolin, methods of causing debilitating harm to Seath's past...

    No. Nathan has that atmosphere about him, that look like he's going to do something like that again, but he does not. For now, Nathan focuses on the important things. He opens his book, the pages turning rapidly all on their own, to his agreement with an Eidolon. The ground below rumbles. "Midgardsormr." The top half of the massive earthsnake's head peeks above the ground. The tremendous creature has been summoned by his injection into the memory, rather than him, and as such... It won't return when they return to the present.

    "As many of the hatchlings as you can find, while the war progresses. Create a hiding place in Ash Lake. Keep them safe. Enough that they can restore their footing, in debt to humanity, when it comes time. Return to me at the Kiln, when we have completed our memory."

    And, if that's how the mechanics of this memory will acceptably function, Nathan's godly Eidolon will spend the next untold eons finding, acquiring, and protecting dragon eggs left unattended by the war, meant as a reserve for the Everlasting Dragon, to help her begin her race again, with more than just one egg... And a fresh debt to humanity for the draconic race. Nathan doesn't just want to do something to prevent violence, he also wants to make sure humanity has a better chance to do something major this time around.

Priscilla has posed:
    "Sir Psyber has the right of it." intones Oscar. "Something this grounded and unfanciful could only be the real thing, even if I am to understand that it is just an echo. Fleeting, piecemeal memories." Priscilla takes over. "Perhaps, in some iconic sense, Sir Staren, that is in fact the truth. As for whom they are, Lady Shinobu, I couldst not beginneth to say for certain. This transpired well before even I was born. These beings shalt later becometh gods, lords, monsters, and all manner of stranger entities, but it is beyond mine ability to tell such apart from one another." Oscar concludes in a murmur. "From the Dark, they came, and found the souls of Lords within the Flame . . ." Neither of them make an effort to contradict Shirou. He can hate it all he wants, but he's clearly grown up enough to accept it for what it is, and both the knight and the crossbreed seem content to leave him with that.

    Taoist philosophy is certainly a strange thing to be reciting in a place, and time, like this, but Xiaomu's words seem to carry far into the air, as if nothing but the emphasis she had placed upon them with her composure and tone had somehow made them objectively more important. Two of the Great Lords are directly addressed, though the opposite seems to happen, as Kimiko's and Reiji's voices become quiet, almost intimate whispers; the kind dimly recalled in the corner of one's memory years into the future, the words clear but the identity of the speaker long since lost.

    Gwyn himself looks to the puella magi, bereft of crown and finery, and already old, yet in such a way that appears strong, stately and wise, his magnificent beard silver and platinum rather than ash and cinder, and his eyes bright, reflective gold rather than burning coals. His gaze is hazy, as if not all entirely there, like even the First Flame itself doesn't recall with perfect clarity, but it is intense and lucid enough that she knows he will hear what she says, even if he will forget her name and face. "There need not for titles here, small one, for we art all brothers and sisters in this hollow." he says, for all the world like both the warrior, the king, and the grandfather he has yet to become. "Speaketh thine mind easily and well, for we yet possess time."

    Reiji is instead fixed with the empty visage of death itself, hardly changed from the day he had subjectively first encountered the Gravelord to be, though when Nito speaks, it is with the gentlest of surging whispers, rather than the tumult of endless voices that will one day join in the embrace of the final rest. "The first graves have yet to be dug, but I accept the premonition gladly, you, carried aloft in the drifts of life, death and rebirth." That's something he hadn't said when he'd given up his Lordsoul. Something he hadn't seen.

    Midgardsormr goes unnoticed by the many, and will remain so for many, many centuries to come. There will be whispers of another Serpent, different somehow from those arising from the Abyss, but the association with the primordial form of the snake and the link to the Everlasting Dragons will only grow, or perhaps it was only so to begin with. The world serpent may never be known by its proper name to be jotted down in the annals of history like those of Frampt and Kaathe, but whispered mentions not of the Kingseeker or the Darkstalker, but of the Ashfinder, will be known to the most fervent researchers at the newly unlocked Regal Archives, and the devout few who will come to know the Covenant of the Everlasting at the root of Ash Lake, soon to be bolstered with the addition of twenty three new eggs.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber looks to Nathan as he takes this moment to make a momentous impact on the world. The half-angel only then realizes the incredible impact that could be wrought with the moment they have been granted. He takes a slow breath and considers what possible impact he could make on a world so far in the past.

    It doesn't take him too long to realize that choice had already been made for him once before. As he stands there, his mind flashes to Sburb, already so many years ago, and the path it had known he would take before he ever knew he would step on it. And the particular concept it would impress upon him that would inform so far into the future that even now it affects his actions.

    He slowly steps forward, and as he does so, his right hand ignites in a brilliant white wreath of energy, swirling and causing the hand to glow from the wrist up. This choice hadn't been his to make, he had simply been the one chosen by his actions to carry a message echoing into the future (or in this case, into the past) of another world.

    On some small level, he would hate Tewer for how far reaching that stupid skeleton iguana had made this fate something indelible upon him. A blessing and a curse that he was forced to carry to so many places now, even beyond Sburb.

    He clenches his hand into a fist and thrusts it into the flames, holding it there. He lets the energy mix in and plant the seeds that would one day sprout. For now, it was time for the flame to be separated, divied up, and given out to people.

    But the Hand of the Redeemer, and the message it embodies, is not about satisfaction in the now. It's about the knowledge that, at times, one must break themselves to make something else whole. And that while that's necessary, it will scar someone with darkness. But that scar is not hopeless, and that some day they may be healed, if just a bit.

    And that is Psyber's plan. To seed a concept into the flame, something more than he could do simply with the hand itself, something beyond his own capabilities or anything he can have the hand do. Because it's not something he's placing from the hand into the flame, but rather a concept he's trying to use the Hand to push into the flame and see if it creates its own, unique version.

    And it is his hope that the next time all parts of the flame are reunited and kindled, something will sprout.

    Something called Redemption.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Suddenly, though, the flame is enveloped by darkness, and Mizuki's gaze is forced from its point of concentration. Immediately she begins to survey the area, curiously, until she realizes... precisely where they are. Mizuki has ever been one known to appear at the ends and at the beginnings of stories, and so again has she found herself here, at the origin of all things in Lordran. The Witch Izalith, Gwyn, Nito -- all three of their faces illuminated by the light of lordsouls and a flame that has yet to become the grand thing that history has made it. As if instinctively, she walks up behind the three of them, her head bowed and her own visage still lost beneath the veil of her robe. She allows her arms to rest neutral at her sides as she stares past the three of them, into them.

    As she raises her head, colors dance across her eyes. For a long time, she is still. Her eyes flit between a man whom they had only recently slain, a woman she had known as little more than a husk, and an envoy with whom she had only had a precious few moments to speak before they were hurried along on their journey. All of them are enigmas to her, but at this moment she feels a certain kinship with them. This is, after all, what it was like in her beginning, too. Blackness, nothing, a vacuum -- a vacuum to which she gave resolution, concept, word, meaning. All of a sudden, she begins to feel an incredible nostalgia for bygone days: the day when Palora was first born, the day she first shaped her world, those long epochs of rest that followed until she finally awoke again to see the Multiverse at her door. Were there only more time, oh the things she should like to say to these three.

    But alas, she only has so long before they need to move on, before one of the staggering shadows lunges toward the first light like an insect. This moment cannot exist forever, and the entire world is on the precipice of a change that it would rightly wish to hurry along. By that same token, however, she has all the time in the universe -- this is what happened in the beginning, is it not? She was here before she was ever here, and so she can be certain she will have every moment that she needs to make her decision. She nods to herself. Yes. If she had the time then... she will have the time now. That much is sure.

    Though what a question to ask. 'If you can change only a few things about this world, what will they be?' Or otherwise, 'If you can be a part of what this world already was, what will that be?' It is unfathomably vexing. Though a younger iteration of her would well have criticized people for balking at this sort of possibility, for being so dumbfounded, so at a loss, she nevertheless finds herself in just that shape. She had just finished lamenting that this world would 'no longer be hers', yet now that she has been posed with the possibility of making that completely untrue, what in all creation's majesty should she do? Is there some corner of Lordran that she can crystallize and make 'pleasantly stagnant' through the coming storm? Is there any place that can encapsulate the loneliness, the melancholy, the poetic nature of things that she so admires? Then, in an instant, it hits:

    Ariamis.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Yes, of course. That place already exists, and Priscilla can take her there whenever she likes. Though it isn't a part of Lordran in earnest, it encapsulates its better qualities and shall keep them for eternity. So truly, her worries were unfounded in their conception. Yes... but speaking of Ariamis, that gives her an idea. The first of a few, perhaps, but she sees no reason why she should be pigeonholed to exactly -one- contribution when others are going to be fundamentally altering the nature of the soul. No, this should be so small as to leave most others' wishes uninterrupted. That said, she waves a hand down, opening a small portal to her home. From that portal she draws a pen and a quill, using the latter to write a small note. Shortly after she approaches the Lord of the Flame, bowing deeply to him. Still holding on to her scroll, she says,

    "In the world that you create," She says, softly, "there will be an artist of some renown. He will craft an image so large as to overspread the face of an entire wall. They shall call it a 'painted world', and indeed will it be so that one can traverse its oils as they might walk upon the mists, now."

    But this man will not create only one such painting," She says. "There will be another. When your flame creates the seasons, then you will know the difference between Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall. Where the first of these paintings should show the state of its landscape in Winter, this latter painting..." She tightens her grip around her scroll just briefly, "will show the state of its focus in Spring, the season of life. This painting will then be placed in the same room as its predecessor on the other side of the wall, then covered by curtains such that no trespassers would notice it. It will then be left there, undisturbed, even by those guardians that come to defend the original. Therefore, Lord Gwyn," She finally offers him the scroll, "I entrust this to you. It is something that I believe will inspire the painter in question to make the second work I describe. Please bequeath this to him when you feel the time is right."

    After offering him a parting nod, she walks next to Nito, bringing her eyes to study deeply his facade. "First of the Dead," She greets. "If you would suffer me, I have a request for you as well. As in my proposal to Lord Gwyn, it pertains to your distant future. In that distant future, there will come a plague -- a plague more horrible than any could conceive of. You will know that plague by the fact that it keeps men from you: they will not die, lingering instead as spiritless husks upon the world, ever in a lieu between life's proper cycles. To this plague I can offer no cure, but I would beseech you instead for a favor. As it is with all things, of course, that sickness will one day fade, and all the people of the Earth will be cured. Yet it will already have wracked the bodies of many irreparably."

    "My request, then," She goes on, "is that you offer them solace. When the curse of the darksign fades, find each of the afflicted and grant them peace. Leave not a single body free of death's solace, nor a single soul without warmth. So long as I may speak as a voice of the covenant between you and your flame, allow me to leave you with this edict: it is the responsibility of the first of the dead to grant all creatures of the Earth who seek it rest. So long as it is within your power, adhere to this. Do not stop until all the diseased may pass on, and to each of those whom you must be compelled to reap, give them a vision to lull them into their everafter. Leave no soul in fear. This I ask of you as one warden of souls to another." With a finalizing nod, she adds, "Allow my appearance before you in the future to let you know that the time draws near." Speaking of when she met Nito in the Tomb of Giants 'before', in the 'present'.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Mizuki has less to say to Izalith, though she still offers her a long, deep bow -- one that is simultaneously respectful and mournful. Something that is careful not to give specific hints toward the future, but likewise communicates the sort of deep respect one can only hold for the departed. That accounts for all of the three 'Gods', however, and now...

    ... now she moves on. Mizuki moves forward to the flame with Psyber, sparing him but a fleeting glance as she, too, commits her hand to the flame. She summons Aelinos for but an instant before drawing its blade against the length of her upper arm, cutting a deep gash that sends hundreds of cyan flecks fluttering about the first flame; fluttering, where they are promptly consumed. Quietly, she imbues these small constituents of her will with meaning:

    "Hear me, Abyss, for I speak as one of those who has given you life. I speak as one of those who aided in the birth of the First Flame, and I therefore make this wager against you: we have found a way to prolong the age of fire indefinitely, and in so doing we have ensured that your shadow will continue to exist alongside it eternally. We have done you this kindness, and now we barter a small recompense."

    "You hold captive one who is dear to this world," She continues. "Free the soul of Artorias that he may manifest in this plain once more, and be with the one who guards his grave. Do this, and we will do no harm to you. Refuse, and as we destroyed Kalameet, we will destroy you." Her offer made, Mizuki withdraws her hand from the flame, allowing Aelinos to fade into the fabric of the memory.

    Then, finally, it seems that she is satisfied. She stands completely still, allowing her hands to disappear within the pitch of her vestments again, her eyes flickering against the furnace of the first flame.

    It's time.

Reiji Arisu has posed:
    The last time he had spoken with the Gravelord, Reiji could recall the incredible weight in the ancient's words. It was as if Nito were speaking with the combined voices of all those who had fallen to rest eternally in his domain. The archives claimed that the characteristic nature of dark is that of quiet and calm and tranquility.

Perhaps then death, like life is a function of flame, is something more akin to dark as well?

    But that's irrelevent now. This Nito is younger in so many ways. Now, Reiji Arisu hears his true voice, a soft but inevitable note that plays across his mind. "I'm afraid that they will someday fill to the brim, that even death may one day find its limit," Reiji sighs, allowing himself to rest against the roots of this impossibly massive tree. His hands open to warm themselves in the glow of the first flame. "Though we hope to avert such a thing by our works here."

He pauses for a moment, allowing the fire to twist and dance its light across his own dark eyes.

    "In those days- the ones from which we hail- we came to a place," he begins again, still staring into that great flame. "It was a place of great peace and great beauty. And there, in that place you built, death gave life to its wardens, and you gave us the knowledge by which have accomplished..." The exorcist gestures vaguely with one hand, indicating towards several of the others, "All of this. But."

    He looks to the Gravelord once more, inclining his head deferentially, "It all made me think, you know? How interesting it was, that what caused so much chaos in that world was not a plague or a catastrophe, or some terrible monster as I've heard of in so many other stories. It was the loss of death, and the creeping meaninglessness that infested what had come to pass as 'life.'"

    "Perhaps people do not realize it," Reiji murmurs, his voice lost beyond the narrow window of space that surrounds him in this strange place. "Perhaps people do not say it enough, but what you do has great importance, First of the Dead. That place I mentioned before, the tomb beneath the deepest roots of the archtrees. You intended for it to be a resting place, the ultimate crypt- a place of perfect peace. Yet, death and life are inexorably linked. Those who shall come will of course exult in the glory of life, but if they knew of its import, perhaps they would not need to lose death to come to respect it, even if they may never embrace it."

    "Perhaps," he suggests, allowing his eyes to drift back towards that warm, brilliant flame, "Perhaps the wisdom of the dead need not be entirely lost to the living, if they are given a place to listen and a hand to guide them. Perhaps that place can become more than just a memorial, and perhaps your children can become more than mere wardens?"

    Reiji allows himself a wan smile and leans back to rest his weight on the palms of his hands, "But more than that, I suppose I wanted to say thank you. None of this would have been possible if you had not been there to aid us. So, from the future to the past, you have my thanks, old one. Though I suppose you're not so old now, are you?"

Staren has posed:
    Staren has fundamentally misunderstood what's going on here, but someone's able to explain to him. The details of that aren't important. Staren considers, and thinks, while Nathan makes his plan through a summoned agent. Hmm. He can't go that route. He looks to Mizuki, as she gives directives. Ugh, that won't work either!

    How can he ensure that a mistake is still made, /but/ in a way that it can be fixed after?

    He could ask Izalith how much she knows about time travel...

    No. He's got it.

    Staren thinks for a long moment about how to frame it, then approaches Izalith. "Hi. I'm, um... I guess I'm here as a messenger or spirit or something of preparedness. Sorry for the tone -- I'm /not/ the messenger of politeness or well-written speeches or something. I know what you want to do. It's admirable, whatever people might say about the ambition to achieve great power." He looks at her a moment, as the knowledge that he is MESSING WITH TIME, and how dangerous that is, weighs on him. "I.... um... I just want to ensure that you take proper precautions. Maybe I'm the spirit of precaution, is a better way to put it. There might be side effects. That will hurt people. Change people. You... you need to have a backup plan. Put something in place first that will, if everything goes wrong, fix it. Then... then you can, with my blessing, reach for incredible power." He bows dramatically. "Responsibly. I'm sure, if you do that... then one day, good things will come." He forces a smile. "I'd say good luck, but luck doesn't have much to do with this sort of thing, does it? Good skill. Do your best." He looks around awkwardly. What happens now?

Tomoe has posed:
Tomoe she's small she knows it but she starts to think abut what she could add to this place some mark to leave on the world. It's not that she's small minded nay, it's more she thinks what right does she have when the otehrs have done so much more. She does start to think of omething she can so he has an idea of what she could leave in the system of this new world. There would always be those things that would rise as Tyrants be they mortal or otherwise, something to level the playing field somewhat would be needed. Wouldn't it be needed? Yes it would.

She does not with to ask many things of people.

"I'm not one to talk I'm really just a nobody but the small people will need help they will need a way to do waht they can all I ask is this."

She pulls a blade from her back and that's when the hood comes down. This isn't tomoe the Iron Lily. Sheena herself has come in the flesh her red hair is visable and as ever she's sitll a bit on the lean side even for her build.

"Forge a wepaon to allow the like of Sir Oscar or those like him who would stand up for those weakther them thenselves take this blade forge a Dawbreaker of this world that would let a mortal man or woman be able to fight back against the tides of darkness that may assail them. Have a blade of light known as the Dawn Breaker be forged and woe be to those who would use it for their own personal gain."

Xiaomu (707) has posed:
Her recitation concluded, Xiaomu opens her eyes again, looking amongst the native spirits - the Great Lords. "There's a lot I don't know about Lordran's history from the last time around," she admits, "and I don't know how much it'll change this time ... but that balance is important. The plague of Undeath arose because things fell out of balance, right ... ?"

She looks to Gwyn. "I should hope as well, that the balance between those who are mortal and those who are immortal will be less precarious. I don't even know why Kalameet turned out the way he did, but between your Knights and the Dragons ..." She looks at the other Great Lords, not sure if one of them has dominion over the Dragons of this world.

"Value all of them as well as you can, and raise them to value one another, to the best of their ability."

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
    Familiar faces, if far different. Shirou's attention falls on Gwyn. Gwyn, the man behind the ENTIRE mess. Gwyn, father of the one guy who really pissed him off. Gwyn, whose nation fell apart.

    If Lordran had had leadership in Gwyn's absence... if Gwyndolin had been kinder...

    "You're walking into hell with this path. It'll mean a future for your people, for your family, but when your age is over it will fall into chaos and injustice. When you write your laws and train your enforcers, they have to be something to look up to. They can't just favor the gods. The world you're about to make is for everyone who survives to live in, no matter what sort of birth they have. Human, God, dragon, or any combination of them, I don't care. Locking someone away forever just because they're different or an embarassment isn't justice. You're taking this path because you want something better for the world than it is right now, right? Then don't overlook things like these. Plan ahead so someone can keep your nation and people working together. Make it a respectable thing people will look up to, that doesn't leave people crying in the dark and shut out. You're supposed to be a hero, so you can't fail to do the right things!"

    It comes out a little angry. Sort of a plea. Almost a wish. Certainly not very organized. And after Shirou gets it out he promptly clams up... embarassed, maybe? Startled at himself.

    His words might not have been the best, but perhaps his feelings got through nonetheless. Of all the things that happened in Lordran, nothing has upset him more than the behavior of Gwyndolin and the way the hidden enforcers of Anor Londo treated Priscilla. Many things that happened could not be helped. Seath going crazy. The First Flame flickering dimly.

    "Man, it would've been great if Solaire had been giving them pointers instead of Gwyndolin..." He mutters to himself. Perhaps a simpleminded view born of not knowing the full truth, but deep feelings are just that.

Priscilla has posed:
    It is perhaps appropriate that of all places and times, Mizuki would pick here and now to finally tip her hand, and do so with such volume and intent as to cause the ashen mists themselves to flicker, as if briefly suffering a skip in the disc at such a hefty weight being placed across the strands of time stretched between memory and waking. Nevertheless, noo champion or dragonslayer or folk hero herself, the Author's constant yet subtle presence throughout the last years of the Age of Fire seems to have granted her some of that right, as though it would only make sense for such a heavy hand to at last come from her, and then be stayed completely for the eras still to come, like a watchful, if flightly, little goddess.

    All among the First are equals here, before titles and heirarchies, monarchies and regalities, and so, though the notebook Gwyn accepts will fall to dust in the blink of an eye in the scale of the ages, the pensive look in the eyes of the old king of the gods as he silently looks over the work presented to him instantly tells her that it will not be forgotten, even if that appraising stare does not yet comprehend its meaning. "A little prophet, now art we? . . . days when works such as these may yet be made . . . such art the ideals I shalt carry forth into battle . . ." he trails off, seemingly lost in thought. Her following words are utterly meaningless to the rest, but the First of the Dead, and thus the only being currently in existence to know the existence, and nature, of death, hears her well. There are few words or expressions an amalgamation of ageless, faceless bones can give the Author, but the cascade of falling whispers that follows her over to the fire, tingling on the back of her neck, reminds her very much of the hint of compassion in the Gravelord's voice she will hear, and has already heard, far from now. As for the flames themsleves? They have no answer. They are beyond such communications, consuming the traces of her essence utterly; and yet all can feel the darkness against the walls shiver, the shadows dancing as someone speaks to them directly, long before they are to be recognized as alive, or given a name of any kind.

Priscilla has posed:
    It isn't until Reiji begins to speak so sincerely of the future that things begin to catch on, the mist skipping once again, ever so slightly, to smooth out the disjointment in continuity. None will ever recall visitors from far away in time coming to give counsel, but at least for now, the First of the Dead seems to realize something, and thus commits to taking what he hears to heart, so that he might not forget it whence the rest is worn from memory, this one, particular face eroded from the millions he will otherwise keep perfectly in mind for all time. "For the aid I have yet to give, you are surely welcomed, for it must have been great if you were to greet death with open arms before the first soul is consigned to it. I have not intended once for my work to be loved, but if it would be so vindicated, then I shall do what lies within my power to meet what it would desire of me. Death is not my creation, nor my will, but my child."

Priscilla has posed:
    Pale, almost blued lips twist into a smile as Staren approaches the Witch, her porcelain face expressing all the appreciation that her ever-veiled eyes cannot. As she raises one hand, he can see that her palms are already burnt, from grasping some aspect of the Fire that the others had not, but it feels silken smooth and gentle regardless as she places on his head as he bows. "We all reach for that well beyond our ken. I cannot say that any of this will be worth remembering as anything other than foolishness. At times, there is no choice but to accept that caution is not always the better part of valour, and to recognize when one must simply pass through the flames as swiftly as possible if they wish not to be burned; but if we are remembered as anything but as a pointless disruption in the course of all nothing, and there comes a time where we are given the luxury of these thoughts . . . well, I cannot withhold my word from such earnest and impassioned concern, can I? You have my oath, upon the soul granted to me, that no work shall I undertake without these words in mind."

Priscilla has posed:
    The god of the forge, who will go on to create all weapons of the Lords, build much of Anor Londo, and the very battlements Tomoe had fought Kalameet from, will only attain his form mere minutes from after the words leave her mouth, but in those moments where a shadow borders on substance, and a piece of nothing verges upon meaning, those few, formative phrases can ring well into the mind that is only just about to take shape, long before they can be examined, rationalized or rejected. On the other side of the flames, a hulking figure of stoney sinew, magnificent mane and wizened eyes takes his first breath, his skin taking on the first hue of metal, and his gaze fixed on the magnificent blade she draws, peering through the raging of the bonfire to take in every detail of its construction, and in seeing the form of a sword; instantly finding the meaning of his life, and the knowledge of what he will do, until the day he dies and his name is forgotten.

Kimiko Shinobu (570) has posed:
    Kimiko nods to... Gwyn. And she takes her time, while others act, or speak. She sees what Nathan is doing--and understands. She cannot do the same, but--then she understands Mizuki's request, and it becomes clear. If it is possible--but if it is not, what can she do but try?

    "Gwyn. When the Age of Fire dwindles, and the plague comes, without a cure, there will be but one treatment." She speaks in a slow and even tone, the words coming now without hesitation. "Those of greatest will and purpose, they hold on to their humanity. So long as they can still see the importance in their goal, they will continue to fight for it. Strength and conviction--without these, all else is useless against the encroaching Dark."

    Kimiko pauses, a trace of uncertainty appearing on her face, and her tone a little more stiff as she says, "First, I apologize--Gwyn, for the role I will play in ending your life. Please take my sincerest apology in that these words may be lost long before this unfortunate, necessary transgression takes place, at the turning of the Age." So saying, she bows, formally. Those who've seen her long may also have noticed that, despite her country of origin, this is not something she does often.

    When she looks up again, determination has returned to her expression. "For the sake of the world, and for the sake of humanity, and for the sake of the Fire, I make this request. Establish a tradition that will last through the Age. Teach those who take up this tradition what they must have to resist the plague's curse, for as long as they can; to hold on to one purpose, valued above all else, and from it gain the strength to continue their fight."

    The Puella Magi rases one hand, palm-up, as if in entreaty, and her outfit disappears in a flash of silver, replaced in the same moment by the far less formal clothing of a 21st century girl's outdoor autumn dress. Her Soul Gem, in its jeweled-egg-like container, sits atop her hand. "Give them this purpose: Protect the weak. Defend the innocent. Respond to threats, but place guardianship above even retribution. Entrust these words to such knights as will hold to them, and carry this will into the future, without end. When the curse comes, it will be to them to decide how best to act." To evacuate towns before a vengeful dragon burned them down wouldn't be a bad start, but that thought isn't relevant in this distant memory.

    "I understand the scale of what I ask. If my request is too much--I offer as much of myself as can be taken. I will be selfish with only the final shred."

    Nathan showed her a potential intent. Mizuki showed her a potential method of carrying out that intent. But, even if it may not be necessary, or even meaningful at all, for the sake of giving this plan any greater chance of success, Psyber's is the third example for her to follow.

    'I entrust my care to you,' she mouths to another, turning away from Gwyn as she thrusts her hand, her soul gripped within it, into the First Flame. Even if it will not burn as it is, she further wills a purely aimless, rapid outpouring of her magic, letting her very self feed the fire. Pure intuition drives the final judgment of when to pull herself back, knowing only by feel and experience how much may kill her.

    She stumbles, then, and allows herself to fall, Soul Gem clutched to her chest in both hands.

Priscilla has posed:
    Such words from Xiaomu are hard for Gwyn to accept. It will take time for humans to first appear to give meaning to them. Time for him to contextualize them. To understand them. To evaluate them. Time to decide what he makes of them, so long after he had first heard them. Indeed the first of his knights are already about to take form, of the gleaming silver legions that will one day turn burn black and disappear. The Lord of Sunlight is not one who takes to the concepts of balance in all things easily, but if ever there was a time he might consider it, this is, and was, it. After all, though she is somewhat distant to him, the way he looks to Xiaomu indicates that he had very much heard, and perhaps even memorized, her recitation, soon to turn up in the long forgotten philosophies of the divine monarchy, transformed in one manner or another through the ages. Something about four beasts . . .

Staren has posed:
    Staren listens, nodding at the Witch's words, though he looks nervous as she goes on, then relieved at her promise. "Thank you... You are correct, of course, but... I wouldn't be telling you this if there weren't a reason. It's... time travel stuff is going on, okay?" He wrings his hands, and gives her a look that tries to say 'that's why I can't be specific', and maybe he can't help a little bit of 'I'm sorry' leaking into it. "Do what you believe is best, and things will work out, one way or another."

Reiji Arisu has posed:
    "We're all touched by death," Reiji says to the First of the Dead. "Some of us," he admits, brushing idly at the scar that cuts from his brow into the line of his scalp, "More so than others."

    He nods, then, turning to look into the eyes of the First Dead. Though it may be dangerous, he thinks, to influence the timeline so. But he speaks to the greatest Death God of an entire plane of existence. There are few opportunities like this one. "A child needs its father," he agrees, feeling a dull ache somewhere above his left eye. "You'll raise it well, I'm certain. Maybe once they know, they'll call you by your proper title."

"Eh, Father of Death?"

Priscilla has posed:
    Likewise, arguing justice, equality, and the nature of mortality to a being that has yet to experience any of them, only just having gained the necessary comprehension to do so perhaps hours . . . days at most, ago, is something of a losing prospect for Shirou. However dim in the light of the steadily lessening fire though, as more and more claim it piece by piece, he can see the old Lord turn those names over on his tongue, silently repeating them as if they somehow resonate with him. "Though I wouldst very well wish history to remember mineself as a hero, I cannot promise it shalt be the case. The world shalt be what we art able to maketh of it, as best as we art able. None of us hath even dreamt such a task until this day. Perfection is beyond mine means to guarantee thee, but if such is of such great concern that thou wouldst busy thine thoughts with it rather than the coming days of war . . ." He finally, slowly nods, hesitantly but firmly all the same. It'll only be a matter of time until someone takes a serious look at Gwyn's symbolic tomb made lair by Gwyndolin, and realize why exactly the twisted godling had so fervently made his stand there, of all places.

Priscilla has posed:
    Gwyn looks to Nito, who looks back, and then to Izalith, as this is again something they have heard of a plague. They do not question it, for each one of them was granted some facet of knowledge of the workings of reality from this flame, and it would be foolish to question the inherit intuition of another equal between them. The Gravelord and the Witch turn to speak with one another, leaving the Lord of Sunlight, the better with speeches, to respond, succinctly but surely. "Hold no misconceptions. I raise a host to go to war; to kill and to destroy, and thus to earn the right to live. War will ever be a part of mineself, and ever something that dwelleth under the light of the sun. All the same, purpose, strength, conviction . . . these art very well the things which our crusade will embody. Which mine Knights, will embody. If their purpose ever comes to an end . . . no, even if it does not, there shalt be more of them, for it is the oath I swore upon the light that cries out to be born, to standeth ready in the face of all that wouldst darken it. I cannot afford to assumeth that the dragons shalt be our only foe for all time. By that same oath I wouldst swear that no changing of the ages and no ravages of time shalt cometh so that a single great enemy may be without opposition from a true, faithful Knight."

    The flames are not kind to her, but they are not cruel. They do not burn her body and soul as they had, or rather will, to the Lord of Sunlight for his sacrifice, to sustain themselves, but to breathe fresh power into something else. Power by which Gwyn will accomplish something in secret, not known by any until after his deat; just a little more than he could once back then.

Priscilla has posed:
    Finally, Psyber has no words for the grand progenitors, nor any specific, concrete designs for the function of this world. It is simply his nature, given to him, guiding him, and crafted by him in return, to whatever degree one believes, that is bled into the fabric of this history; the thread from which all of Lordran's tales, triumphs and tragedies will be one day spun from. His contribution is not so easy to define, nor so easy to trace back through the annals of history to a specific point of inception. Indeed, it's difficult for most to pin down what exactly he might have changed, if anything at all. Lordran's established ages will play out the same as they have before, as the Flame will dissipate long before anything takes root, but the seeds are planted; sewn into the ash beneath the flickering hearth of creation, no matter how cold it may grow. Thousands of years in the future, this very day and instant, they will blossom into something else, woven invisibly into the fabric of fate that the Everlasting Dragons alone may perceive. To those destroyed in their pursuit of what is right, and to those whose fortitude failed them and turned their back on it instead, the coming age of his own design will offer them, and all like them, something new.

Xiaomu (707) has posed:
Xiaomu reaches out with her free hand, squeezing Reiji's hand gently as he speaks of those who are touched by death, and a child's need for a father. She knows better than anyone what drives him to speak of those matters.

Priscilla has posed:
    It's odd that these people, these heroes and visionaries as some might call them, would so easily come to speak with, and even to smile with, the ancient, tragic legends that will eventually, recursively, come to cause them pain and suffering, and even odder still to consider that they, in fact, already had. What is most odd of all is whom Priscilla chooses to spend these few, precious moments to speak with. Far from the others, well out of earshot, the snow white half-dragon converses openly with a raven-haired woman swathed in black, as if she had meant to a hundred times before, and yet never did, with all the awkward, animated passion that only something deeply personal could justify. Oscar does but one thing. Shield across one arm, sword at his belt, he trudes towards the Flame, one clattering footstep at a time, lifting the visor of his helmet for just a few, scant seconds as he is reduced to a start shadow against its brilliance, and withdrawing from his surcoat a simple pendant on a chain, holding it aloft between his fingers as it spins slowly back and forth, and then dropping it into the raging inferno, where it is consumed within instants. A clack of metal sounds out as he snaps his visor back down. The Ashen Mist, fades.

    It isn't long -- only moments -- before the group is once again ankle deep in dust, the scentless, motionless haze against their skin once again. As their senses come to however, they find themselves standing back from a fire much like they had just witnessed, growing and growing as the ocean of suspended souls sinks into it in a great, torrential tide, until its crackling tongues billow through the zenith of the tower surrounding it, and yet coloured a searing, yet almost soothing, pure white, shrouded in a lively corona of shifting monochrome shapes. Distantly, they may realize that the rumble of thunderclouds has gone, the scent of ozone and toxic burnt metal and rock having vanished, to be replaced with the faintest sounds of distant ringing, and an aura of strong sunlight, fresh blood and morning dew. It's difficult to know whether they had simply missed the cataclysm, or whether there never was one. Truly, the pure intensity of heat is unrecognizable, but it is not an awe-inspiring kind of destruction that has greeted them. It is simply as if it always was.

    The two flames have been consumed by the First that now rages around the barely visible form of the crystalline tree, placed at the eye of a silently swirling storm of fog, but the four Lordsouls have not. After all, there is no need for them to be, with this utterly insane plane concluded. Priscilla waits patiently, until Oscar turns to leave, at which point she suddenly, urgently grabs hold of his hand, one of the rare instances she will touch anyone without obvious need. He pauses only briefly, before looking upwards, and intoning through the muffle of his helmet. "If this world has any mercy, they're waiting for me back home. I have no need for the Souls of Lords to see their faces again, and no time to waste if I am no longer to live forever. We've . . ." he turns to look at Psyber, Nathan, Kimiko, Reiji, Mizuki Xiaomu, Staren, Tomoe, and Shirou "All come this far with an expectation of how it'll end. I already owe the lot of you more than I could possibly express, and yet I must finally, selfishly beg you one more thing, that I may see my ending through. If you would allow me, I would go home."

Xiaomu (707) has posed:
"Can't speak for everyone else here," Xiaomu says with a smile, "but you've done much for us and our allies who've journeyed here. May your journey home be safe and swift, and the days of your life hereafter peaceful and long. Rest in well-earned peace, Sir Oscar, and with our best wishes for you and yours."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    As quickly as she falls over, Psyber is there to hoist up Kimiko over one shoulder. It's a traditional fireman's carry that Psyber seems to show no real effort for doing, holding the girl in a sort of stoic way as he does so.

    He looks to Oscar, "I never became as close to you as many. I was simply a force guiding this world to, admittedly, my own ends. And selfishly to benefit someone I care about. If anything, I should thank you for following a plan conceived of insanity and executed via vast mass deicide. And for trusting in me that I would see it to an optimal conclusion."

    The half-angel watches the armored man flatly, "Because of this, you owe me nothing and have no need to ask me for anything."

    "Go home. I know I'm going to."

Staren has posed:
    Staren continues giving Izalith that look. 'this is serious' 'but I can't say more' 'I'm sorry'

    ...until he's standing in the ashes once more. He straightens up, and wipes his face with his sleeve. Messing With Time is nerve-wracking work.

    Staren looks to Oscar. "...Of course." He smiles. "We fought so hard to make this world better... but what makes it better is that the people here will have better lives. That includes you..." a sad look flashes across his face, "whatever you've got left, anyway. Go. If anything, we should ask if we can help you get there faster."

Reiji Arisu has posed:
Reiji squeezes her hand right back. He doesn't need to say anything more than that. This small moment of contact is all that he really needs. So much is exchanged between them with that small gesture.

The ache on his brow dissolves again into the background of his thoughts.

    And then the world fades away again into the mist. When it resolves again into view, all has been made right. The Flame burns as tall as it has ever burnt, now fed by the new cycle they have etched into the very ebb and flow of the cosmos. Reiji smiles... And then he looks to Oscar and nods.

    "None of us can keep you here," he says to the Chosen Undead. Undead no longer, he thinks. "Go wherever you please. Return to your family, or to your friends. You've earned every moment you can spend with them."

Kimiko Shinobu (570) has posed:
    Kimiko returns, but her state is much unchanged. She's not quite unconscious, but not in a good state (or position) to say her parting words to Oscar. On the other hand, she never had many words to give.

    She doesn't think Oscar owes anything further, either.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    As the phantoms of the three lords fade away, Mizuki's final gesture is to reach her hand after Nito. A part of her had forgotten that he is one of the few still left in the present, and yet... and yet she knows that it will indeed be a very, very long time indeed for him. So much will he have to endure between now and then. So many people will be born and die, so many seasons will come and go, so many cities will rise and fall... and he will watch all of them. Never has she felt more kinship with another being in any time, world or place than she does in that moment, contemplating what the First of the Dead will watch as the years that separate them pass by. Never has she felt so strongly that, truly, earnestly, there are many others like her in the Multiverse. She knew -- of course she knew. But Nito, and Lordran, were the tangible examples she needed to allow her to internalize that feeling of universality.

    Though it isn't long before the Ashen Mists fade from sight, and the group return, as it were, to the present. -Their- present; Priscilla's present, and Oscar's and Solaire's. She takes a deep, unnecessary breath, and her ensuing exhalation gives her a distinctly human sort of relief that, in almost any other context, she could never know. It's some time before she looks back to see the rest of her friends again, but when she does it would seem that Oscar has summoned some parting words. Well, Mizuki certainly isn't going to let that go without some response of her own.

    "Live," She says to him, giving her last order for the evening. "This world will come to a time of tribulation again -- no peace is permanent. But that is why it is so important that people cherish their simplest, human pleasures: they are, after all, what we have done all of this to defend." Wearing the most contented, quiet look as she retreats, she mutters, "Be well, Oscar. Cherish these days as I know you will. That is the only thanks I -- any of us -- require from you."

    With that, she begins what is likely to be a long, long walk. She only clarifies her destination to Priscilla as she passes by, saying, "I want to see the sun rise in Anor Londo before I go."

    And, maybe, to peek behind a curtain to see if a certain painting is still there.

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
    "You've done great, Oscar." Shirou exhales after taking in this mighty sight. A true victory bonfire it is! One that fills him with a renewed sense of hope for things to come in this world.

    "nn. What they said. And if you need help, just call for it, alright?" He smiles a little, looking at the fire. It does, indeed, feel like something Big was accomplished. PErhaps not his true victory, but something was achieved here. Somethig worth noting.

Tomoe has posed:
Tomoe says "Look I was in a bad place as a lot of others were when we first unified, your welcome Oscar get going humm and hopefully we can check up on you at some poing. Just take care all right?" he also looks to Priscilla for a moment before she looks to the others she's not sure what else to say this point.

Priscilla has posed:
    It's funny to think of how closely they'd nearly become mortal enemies, the Chosen Undead whose prophecy had been hijacked, and those who had done so, but yet now see each other off on the best of terms after countless fights by one another's side, quietly reassured by one another's presence, and rescued more often than once. For the first time since they had met him at the Asylum, Oscar allows himself to laugh, scratching his helmet more symbolically more than anything. "I suppose it was foolish to expect anything less of you. To all of you, and to all of your friends who aren't with us today, you have my unending gratitude." As his fingers slip from Priscilla's, he briefly flashes a standard Union communicator in his palm, leaving the implication unsaid.

    Priscilla, however, is left with the heavy task of turning to the four, gloriously golden souls left suspended in space, abandoned for the sake of a single man's family after deific genocides had been wages to claim them. It registers in her expression that she might have seen this coming. That she might have even obliquely discussed it in veiled terms with the Knight of Astora who now trudges out into the fog, and then into the sunlight of the new world, finally feeling the warmth of day after years of perpetual dusk and twilight. There is little else for her to say, and even less for her to do. After all, who else? /What/ else?

    Priscilla is left only with the option to reach out her hand, and in one last explosive blossom of flames, take on the mantle of the Lordsouls that the Undead knight had abandoned, predictably four times as intense as each of their dramatic appearances has been individually, and yet somehow almost expected. The mist tingles, crackles and fizzes with the last arcs of power surging through its tendrils, the ash beneath Priscilla's feet glassed in place. It's difficult to feel anything metaphysical past the lingering heat haze of divine powers that blisters from the ground in their wake, but in keeping with what seems to be a certain theme, the unlikely, unexpected, and unceremonious inheritance of her birthright is reflected in the fact that Priscilla's eyes now almost match, evened out as the last green is replaced with bright, sunlit gold, like that of her mother and grandfather. Her breath fogs as it leaves her in a long, drawn out sigh of deeply weary relief, turning to motes of pale crystal as it passes her lips.

    "Very well. Then at last, I believeth it is time for us to do the same." She turns to the others. "Let us go home."