agentlelog | event: a gentle web

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event: a gentle web

I've lived a lot of different lives
Been different people many times
I live my life in bitterness
And fill my heart with emptiness

► The OOC plotting post for this event can be found here.

► Direct all questions to the mods at this link.

► Characters can speak with Fayura or Verim in response to her request or her web. If you would like to speak with them, please add a prompt to your top-level or as a comment to your top-level. A thread with Fayura can be requested here. A thread with Verim can be requested here.

STRANGER SUMMONS
In the morning
You wake to a feeling of unease. It’s not the room, which is comfortable and well-appointed, if plain—much like the guest room of a hotel. A note rests on the nearby bedstand, inviting you to breakfast with Queen Fayura, her court, and the Strangers who make their home with her, and it lets you know you can ask the many footmen in the twisting halls of the Queen’s Residence for directions.

That isn’t what leaves you uneasy, no.

There’s a strange flavor in the air to those both new and already present. Some of the Strangers who have been in Draega for a month or more will recognize this unease as the psychic flavor of the Queen’s emotions. Fayura’s dark presence fills the residence, and while it is normally calm and steady (if a bit wrinkly around the edges, like an exuberant young woman rumpled from her activities), now it is outright unsettled. Because her presence is so strong, because it permeates the very rocks of the bizarre building, it changes the mood in air.

Breakfast is lean: little more than thin porridge, glasses of milk and water, and carefully rationed cups of fruit preserves. The Queen’s Court, those of her First Circle, look wan and hungry. There is as much unease between them as in the air.

In the afternoon
Around midday, a psychic call touches the minds of each Stranger in Draega. Fayura’s mental presence slips along your own, quietly seeking permission to speak to you mind-to-mind, and when she has it, she says: Come straight to the Residence if you are not there already, close your minds to every thought but the beacon I leave for you, and speak with no one, not even your friends.

The beacon is a mental loadstone calling you to the Queen’s Residence. When you arrive, you’re ushered not into the Great Hall, but into a little used room. Here, the Queen holds formal court, something she rarely does.

Though witchlight and candles fill the room with light, a psychic darkness creeps across the floor. Tendrils of ice fill the spaces between the old, hardwood floorboards. Frost spiderwebs across windows and over the walls. In spite of this, the room itself doesn’t feel cold.

At the end of the room, the Queen of Hayll sits on a simple stool. Gowned in black spidersilk, she looks like midnight come to life. To her right stands a frame two feet by two feet: a tangled web simply woven. At its heart sits a Jewel chip. Should you probe it, you find its color and rank difficult to determine. Red, but not. Something darker, something strange, something that isn’t quite right. Her Consort stands just behind her, his golden eyes glazed.

“A coven of Black Widows has come to my city,” the Queen of Hayll tells you once all the Strangers are assembled before her. “They broke a young girl who had the potential to be a Queen when they tried to kidnap her last night.” A wave of fury ripples through the residence, something dark and dangerous—a dull roar from the abyss in the mind from which the Jewels’ power springs. “I have never directly asked you to put your lives in danger, but I ask you now: find these Black Widows. Bring them to me or bring them to Grand Master Niall or Lord Grejor, whomever you trust more to mete out justice, but bring them.”

She gestures to the web beside her. “A Black Widow rarely shares the webs she weaves, but I will share this one with you.”

Fayura's web Trigger warnings: mental assault against a child
Webs of dreams and visions are not concrete things. To weave them, a witch steps to the side in her mind, looking through the veil of madness to read possibile futures. But Fayura’s web doesn’t tell of possible futures. It recounts a single past, a vision pulled from walls that echo with a child’s agonized cries of pain and fear.

Three spiders crawl through the night. They chitter and clamber. They weave their wicked webs in dark corners of the city, ensnaring minds. They search, they search, they look, they seek, seek, seek, probing dreaming minds, peeling back shields around vulnerable minds, tasting the air for the earthy flavor of a Queen. (this one this one take this one to rip and rend)

They find her— is that her? —a girl that is a Queen but a girl who is not a woman— too young to have her adult strength it makes her sweet so sweet —young enough to be woven into a new shape— CONSUME HER DESTROY HER

They sing to her from the Darkness, but she doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t want to leave her dreams or her family her home this place this city it’s not dark but it’s Dark and it feels right and good there’s more right and good in the Darkness than in the dark corners and she fights and she pulls and she won’t go, she won’t, and she—

White
Yellow
Tiger Eye
Rose
Summer-sky
Purple Dusk
safety that's safe
it's safe there it is
it's safe it's safe
it's safe it's safe
it's safe it's safe
it's safe it's safe
it's safe it's safe
it's safe it's safe
it's safe it's safe
it's safe it's sa
She flees into the sanctuary of her mind, where the Darkness is a caress around her. She plummets past the White and the Yellow, and the Black Widows give chase, thrilling to the scent of fear.

One peels off with a shriek of rage.

Deeper, darker darker, where the abyss is quieter (quieter still deep below in the frigid depths of the BLACK and she reaches reaches for a presence deep below her) and full of Summer-sky power—she can’t go much further, her web is made of Purple Dusk, but the other doesn’t slow. The little girl slams through the web of her mind, shattering it, collapsing the abyss with a scream of power, flooding her body with more power than it can contain.

The spiders withdraw. Their prey is no good to them like this, but maybe they’ll feed on the corpse of her mind later, filling it with nightmares until not even the Black Widows of the Lady’s court can piece the little girl back together.

beneath them far beneath them a quake of power a profound fury a silent song of rage and sorrow that spirals and shivers

TANGLED WEBS OF FEAR AND LOATHING
This Black Widow coven has left tangled webs throughout Draega. These webs snare the minds of light and dark Jeweled Blood and Strangers alike. In many of the webs, the mind of a captured victim assumes an active role within the vision contained inside the web, forcing them to live through the vision. Landen minds can’t be trapped by tangled webs, but their moods and actions are certainly affected. Until the webs are cleared, they will radically alter the behavior of landens throughout the city, twisting their behavior.

Fayura has tasked you with not only finding the members of the coven but with removing the tangled webs the Black Widows wove throughout the city. The events in the web can be changed—much like with lucid dreaming, you need only realize you’re trapped within a tangled web to change the course of its vision or to escape it, and then, when you understand it, you will be able to destroy it.

A Web of Violence Trigger warnings: female on male rape, sexual violence, impending death

run
run

run

RUN

breath burning run faster faster legs aching heart hammering pulse pounding throbbing throbbing throbbing

She’s behind you, you know she’s behind you, hungry for your body and your mind, but you can’t slow down. Your sister, you think about your sister, who just barely wears the White. You need to be there for your sister. She could be a Healer, she could be more that what the Blood have become, she co—

An acrid psychic scent hits you, sour and sharp and seductive. You want her and you hate her as her power slams into your back and throws you into a wall.

A second later, she’s on you, her nails ripping through your skin as she tears off your clothes. You try to shield with your Purple Dusk, but she’s stronger than you. Shields shred like butter beneath her hands. Skin parts and opens and burns. She jabs the snake tooth under the nail on her right ring finger beneath your skin (the rough edges of all her rings cut into your bleeding flesh, and you scream before she muzzles you with an aural shield) and pumps poison into you.

Your panic spreads it faster. You feel the poison in your limbs. You’re going to die. You know you’re going to die. She’s climbing onto you, and you’re going to die like this.

A Web of Desire Trigger warnings: dubcon, sexual assault, assault, sex work, abusive relationships

You were pretty, once. You paint your lips with red paint made from the venom you milk from your snake tooth during your moontime, and you smile. Your face is hazy in the mirror, but your lips are red red red (he wears the Red, and one day, he’ll see how much you love him and he’ll love you, too) and males love red lips. Red mouth, red body, red between your legs when they ride you too hard.

You were pretty, once, but that doesn’t stop them from pushing you down. You watch the ceiling as they pant and groan and heave above you. This will keep you safe. This will keep you alive and fed. There’s nothing left in the wilderness except dead, dry desolation. Same as the desolation inside you. You’re not a Queen, but you feel it, too.

You were pretty, once. You remember what it was like to smile and watch a male’s blood drop from one head to another. You remember the power you had before they used you up and left you dry, before they wrung the joy from loving someone else. You love him, and you wear him close to your heart.

You were pretty, once, and then you told him no, not tonight. You were pretty, once, until he held you down with Summer-sky power. You railed against the Darkness for letting him be just one rank darker than you as he took your beauty from you. A blade over your eye and down your cheek. Sharp edges in your arms, across your breasts, cutting new roadways of pain all along your abdomen.

You were pretty, once. With red, red lips and a smile that drove males to their knees before you, but now red repulses you and your love never came for you. But in this memory, things are different. You are not you. You are someone else, and you can escape the one who wants to cut you.

A Web of Innocence Trigger warnings: domestic violence, violence against women, blood, implied medical torture

You’re five years old, on a ship that rides the waning waters of the Heartsblood River. Your face to the wind, adventure on the horizon. Papa calls out to you, and you turn, running barefoot across the deck to him. He holds his hands behind him, and you jump around him to see what he hides. A shield hides your prize, but Papa is kind, and once you close your eyes, he puts something soft and warm in them. You cry out with delight, opening your eyes: a stuffed animal in the shape of a puppy. From Draega, he tells you, where the landens make amazing things.

You’re 12 years old when you meet him. He’s landen but he’s smart and he makes you giggle and blush, and you give him the stuffed puppy you’ve cared for all these years and he gives you a blue ribbon. You wear it until it falls off your wrist, and then you go back to Draega and buy another.

You’re 20, at the altar in Draega. You want to wear the Sapphire, because Sapphire reminds you of the landen boy, but no one gets Birthright Jewels that dark anymore. Still, you squeeze your eyes shut and hope and hope and hope and hope and pray and pray and pray until you bite your cheek and taste blood. A wish offered with blood is a prayer to the Darkness. That’s when you smell the smoke. You know you should run, but you have to finish your Birthright, you have to succeed, you have to complete it, so you struggle and struggle and struggle. The fire takes your eyes but you take the Sapphire.

You’re 21 and you’re with him now. Your family disowned you, but you don’t care. At last, you’re happy. “Can you tell me our future?” he asks, and you weave a web that shows you with two Sisters but no husband. You lie and tell him something pretty.

You’re 27 years old, reading fortunes not just for your husband but for the hypocrites among the Guild. The Guildmasters come to your husband in the dark and pay him for your visions. He trades the money for drink and comes home stinking of alcohol. Even their Grand Master comes to you, the young prodigy they all adore. “Tell me how to ensure the Blood don't destroy the landens,” he tells you, and you give him a vision of Ebon Askavi and a song that resonates deep within the mountains, growing louder with every passing year. He strikes you hard across the face, but you know he’ll go to the Black Mountain within the year.

When you’re 29 years old, your husband drags you to the Medico Guild and leaves you there. “Weave, little spider,” their Guildmaster says, and you weave because they hurt you when you don’t, turning on their muters and cutting into your skin to see what color you bleed. You weave and weave and weave, pressing deeper and deeper into the sanctuary of your mind until at last you break yourself when you drift down below your inner web.

You’ll kill them all one day. You’ll leave them broken on the floor, eternally sleeping in puddles of their own blood. But you need to find a Queen, and the Queen you want is here but she isn’t ready, not yet, so you’ll wait ten years or find another. You’ll make her understand, you’ll make her see what you no longer can.

AIR TIME
Whether you catch the news on a Far-caster in the city or you're spinning the dial on your own device, you'll hear…

etiquette with evandra and aren
[Today, Evandra speaks softly and slowly. Sorrow thickens her throat and stretches her words into brittle filaments.] How do landens deal with Black Widows, Lord Aren, when even the Blood can be destroyed by them?

[Aren, too, is quiet.] Trust is—

[Evandra, sharply:] The Blood always speak of trust! What good is trust so often broken?

[Aren stumbles over his words.] I… that is, as Blood, we… We rely on Queens… [He trails off.] You are right to be furious. Nothing can be said that repairs a shattered mind.

the weather
[A soft-spoken man’s voice rumbles out of the Far-caster. He’s pleasant to listen to, with a soothing cadence to his voice.] …flooding along the banks of the Heartsblood River to the southeast. The river walk will be unsafe for the next week, and pedestrians are advised to take great care if they want to walk it. Interested in sailing? The Transport Guild…

the news
[Garret speaks with his usual briskness, but his temper snaps behind his words in a way it never has.] The Ebon Council and Guilds have spoken out against Queen Fayura, demanding to know what use a Queen can be if she can’t keep “undesirables” out of the city.

[Wilt sounds hollow.] While the Ebon Council demands the Queen's Court do more to guard the city’s gates, the Guilds have announced their intention to build a large-scale muter that would suppress the power of the Blood within a two-mile radius of the city. A spokesman from the Tinker Guild says they’ve already begun work on this device.

[Garret:] Indeed. The Strangers’ support for the Guilds the past few months…

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( Sansa has devoted herself to helping Fayura and her Court in any way she can in the past two moons she's spent in Draega. She's spent days in the poorer parts of the city, helping to cast warming spells in landen houses. She's helped negotiate between Blood and landen over both food and politics and when the Queen asks her to help dispel the webs left behind by this coven of Black Widow witches, Sansa volunteers.

She only wishes she'd realized how dangerous it would be. Thinking there would be no physical harm to her person, she'd not hesitated to volunteer. It's only when she's trapped within the web that she sees that it's not a physical harm but a mental one; Sansa's mind is her treasure and as soon as she touched the threads of the web, she'd become paralyzed with fear.

It starts with someone else's face, someone else's body, but it twists until it's Ramsay wielding knives and Ramsay smiling his slick, evil smile. She hears the knives sharpening against leather, hears him laugh when he says he'll make her a good wife who does her duty for her husband. She doesn't want to be Reek, does she? Oh, oh no. There's only parts of her he needs and he takes glee in dragging the point of the knife between her breasts and curves it around to come dangerously close to a nipple. He thrusts his fingers into her, dry, as he debates whether or not she needs both breasts, if she needs all of her toes. Sansa hates giving him the dignity of a response and she doesn't when he's atop her, doesn't when he seeds her.

She screams and nearly bites her tongue in two when he draws the edge of the knife along the curve of her left foot and she swears that he likes this more than he likes anything else. His cock no longer makes her react but his knife does and he threatens to plunge it in her after she's given him the son he needs. Sansa wishes he'd just do it now and end this. )

No...Ramsay...no...no please...I've been good, I was good, I'll never run, I'll stay here with you, I'll never run.

( He reminds her that she did run, though, ran to her bastard brother at the Wall and fled from him before he could give her his son. He tells her that she'll never run again as her feet are slick with blood and tells her that after he fucks her he'll let the whole Bolton army have a turn - the lowborn and the highborn - and that every man and boy from the Wall to Moat Cailin will have their turn in Sansa Stark and for each bastard she bears him, he'll take away something else she loves.

It goes quiet, though, as she goes away. She goes away inside her mind where there's snow falling and her family lives, where she never went south and never thought to marry a king. The snow swirls, White and Yellow, Tigers-eye and Rose. Sansa falls as the snow goes Purple Dusk all around her and stays but there's claws of Opal beneath it, Opal too deep for her to touch. What if she went there? Would Ramsay be gone there, deep in the Opal? )

_-nsa..^Sansa-

[His voice is a distant echo. With it comes warmth in the snow. The comfort of furs and wool cloth against an icy wind. The pleasant heat of a sunny day breaking through the chill of winter. The flicker of campfires - numerous enough to look like stars in the sky. The dance of happy company, enjoying the fleeting joy of victory with each other. An attempt to beckon her away from the claws.

The Opal-tinged snow contrasts by growing hot, seething, like a cooking plate getting too close to the hand. It is a molten crucible. A bright inferno. Tongues of dark hellfire. Half a web shield and half a blunt instrument of will, trying to pull her away from the precipice. As much as fire can warm, it can also warn of impending danger. Guts can't say he's good at gentle applications of Craft, but his message is clear: Turn back. Stay the hell away.]

Sansa!

( Sansa recoils from the scalding hot of the Opal, wrapping herself in Purple Dusk but ascending no higher. She feels the warmth of the campfire and the beckoning of the flames and she wants to go to it but she's still so afraid. Here in her wintry world, her family is alive and she's safe from Ramsay. Ramsay cannot cross the snow, cannot chase her through the thick blanket of Purple Dusk all around her. Where she is, he cannot follow.

She hears the voice, though, and that isn't Ramsay. She strains to hear it again and finds it, touches the thread of it. )

Gu...Guts? Is that you?

Yeah.

[He's a little amazed that his attempt actually works. A more adept magic user may have a better way of coaxing a frightened mind out of its shell, but he wasn't that. The best he had was his voice and his own stubborn willingness to go through those dark pains with her. The scars of suffering raked across her mind in ways he found more familiar than he'd ever admit. Guts knew this kind of pain couldn't be forced through - she needed to work through the web with her own strength.

But now - where to go? How do they get out? He keeps his own mind focused on the tenets of that same memory - the beacon of flickering fires against the cool night. He assumes this snowy land was her home - Winterfell. He didn't know the people that inhabited it, but he remembers the way she spoke of it with fondness. The rare loyalty of a kind leader.]

You can't stay here. People need you out there, remember?

Edited 2019-04-20 08:26 (UTC)

( Guts' voice is soothing to her, for all that it's a bit rough, and Sansa inclines her head to it. The Purple Dusk snow all around her is comforting and she wants to stay in it but his voice is telling her to come out, telling her that people need her out there. She wants to stay in here but people need her? Her? )

I'm afraid, Guts. It's safe here. It's safe in the snow. Nothing bad ever happened to me in the snow.

[He hasn’t known Sansa all too long, but he can’t help but find his voice soften for her. He knew that fear, even if it took a different form. One manages to avoid thinking about it for years and years and years until it crashes full-tilt into one’s head. It all replays again, like it happened the day before, and your world turns upside down.

He understands. If nothing else, he understands. He will stand with her, and at least let Sansa can know she isn’t alone. Guts makes a attempt to reach to her, a touch to the shoulder, so that maybe she could find a comforting hand in the snow.]

It’s going to hurt. Things like that, they never really go away. But you’ve survived it before, you can beat it again. You’re in control here.

a web of desire (locked to close CR; CW for extreme canon assault)

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