======The Road Taken====== [CW: gore, violence] //So you're going "outside," then. How much of yourself will be left to places past? There's a reason I've never left my home, you know.// ---- “The islands… well they’re at least a chance at something //better//. A chance to Rebirth our lives rather than spiralling in Decay.” She glances at Martya on //Decay//. Though she must sense it within herself. Encompassing, cell by cell. She scoffs at the mention of the Fourth Time Maker, “That charlatan? As bad as the Bulwark. Trying to con desperate people who have nothing left to believe in. But there’s always some truth to the myth… and the islands are the place to find it.” Martya has hidden the worst of the infection under her overcoat. Concealment will be the only option, if the borders are as closely hoarded as you expect. Coerna and Salithra’s absences trouble you. Did the undercurrent of contagion bleed through, exposing this dead parade to all who look? The rot is set in now, barring a miracle from Naomi. It must be accepted for what it is -- a Decay Rebirth; destruction revelation of hidden beauty; Talamh’s punishment gift of transformation. //You see an oasis, shimmering in the heat. It matches your every step, tumbling away until it disappears over the horizon. You look back, but your footprints are already swept away by the wind.// ---- //There is no evil in decay. There is only the motion of stillness, the markers of forward progress blurring into something non-linear...something we can mold into time of our own.// ---- “I’m no mystic.” Her hands make folds in the battered playing card to a hidden rhythm. You can guess its destination, but the final surge into completion still startles, as suddenly a small boat rests on Shansa’s palm. “An offering,” she explains, “To the Third Time Keeper.” It flames bright but short, your eyes watering from the burning ink. “I’m no more a mystic than anyone with faith. It worries me, that the Time Being thinks it necessary for such… direct guidance. But anyone with eyes can see that staying in that place means Decay.” She watches the smoke rise, up past the trees which support your makeshift shelter. “And your vision, too. Tides of blood… well, to me, that sounds like someone’s going to die.” Her eyes flick to you. “Let’s just hope it’s one of //them// and not one of us.” Martya’s cysts grow by the day. You do your best to keep the smell hidden beneath flowers and herbs which Shansa can brush off as esotericism; if Martya becomes too obvious for deception, she might decide to take action. At least that’s what you tell yourself. But maybe the real reason is so that you don’t have to sit in that stench, full of bile and pus. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. A meadow somewhere filled with wildflowers. A life, of sorts. Your attempts to divert the caravan off the road, following the paths that have scrawled themselves across your map, are quickly shut down by Shansa. You don’t argue too far. She has the gun, after all. //Your feet drag on, against your will. You try to stop, to turn, to run, but the shuffling metronome is impassive. A lone vulture circles overhead. It, at least, will find beauty in your staggering attempt at salvation.// ---- //Though I know little about this illness, I'm perplexed at how these "infected" are so different. Are we not all journeying towards a different state of being? Even in health, I know that I decompose, and I find beauty in my body's manifestation of time.// ---- “You’re infected?” Her eyes widen. “But-- well, you don’t-- you don’t seem infected. You’re still walking and talking.” Her gaze flits searchingly, looking for any signs. “But-- No, I can’t be infected. You’re wrong.” A breath. Then another, quick and shallow. A glance to Martya, before she stalks over, throwing back the heavy coat with little resistance. She staggers back at the sight, spitting out quick syllables as she makes a warding motion with her hands. “And her-- as well? I can’t believe--” “I ought to shoot you where you stand.” There is less conviction in her voice than she wants to muster. She begins to mutter, verbally pacing the room. She turns, facing you and Martya. “We’re not going to the islands.” You protest, but in a moment, the rifle swings from over her shoulder into her hands. “I don’t care what you think. If there’s even a chance-- I’m not risking my home. I owe it that much, at least.” Her hands shake. Would she pull the trigger? She’d regret it later, maybe, but that would be little comfort when your brains are soaking into the floorboards. “There’ll be someone else, someone” -- her lip curls -- “//healthy//, in the Bastion to go with me.” A heavy pause, before an attempt at comfort. “I don’t think you are infected. And I won’t tell the others your… speculation. But as for //that//…” The gun swivels to target Martya. Your heartbeat roars inside your head, blood crashing hotly through your veins. You see her finger tighten on the latch and close your eyes to wait-- But the gunshot never arrives. You hear, instead, a choking noise that almost sounds like words. Shansa’s eyes blur behind a veil of tears and she just shakes her head. The tip of the gun lowers, and again you can breathe. “You should stay away from her.” //The wind thickens, the coarse sand wearing at your skin. Lifting a hand to your face, you feel blood. The grains suddenly swarm, coalescing into a not-quite shape. And you know you are staring into death itself.// ---- //Why must others remain so preoccupied by "what" you are, when you are so obviously you?// ---- The outskirts of Din Talin are quiet enough to hear Shansa’s nerves. Her eyes dart between the surrounding alleys and you and Martya. Warily, like you’re a //threat//, something to be //studied// for any signs of danger. A shadow flits past, pulling her gaze away. Jocelyn strains with a sudden burst of energy, yanking the caravan forward. You hear a jangling of metal and movement, getting closer. Jocelyn tires, and stops as you come to the mouth of a side street. Just in time to see Naomi, before she is buried beneath two infected raiders. Even from this distance, you can see the bloodstains seeping through rags, more than you imagined a body could hold. It mingles with the pus and sweat of the raiders, the trio becoming indistinguishable in an incarnadine agglomeration. Between you and the mess of legs, you see the Relic Seeker falter. The pack’s scarlet eyes turn to her. Behind her, a third raider pounces -- wait, no, runs //past// her, intercepting the eager horde. She takes the chance to run, but stumbles, then-- A gunshot rings out. You look up at Shansa through the smoke of gunpowder. You look back, searching for the corpse. Instead, you see flits of fabric disappearing round corners, leaving behind a scrambling Relic Seeker, scraps of paper swirling in the wind and a road running with rivulets of red. “Come on!” shouts Shansa, already spurring Jocelyn on. She does not look you in the eye as she drags the Relic Seeker aboard. //The grains fall to the ground, satiated for the moment. It never felt like your death, in any case. No, your death is the chain on your ankle, pulling you back insistently, taking the road from under your feet. It rattles loosely. But where would you go, in this empty desert? It is excusable to do nothing when you are trapped.// ---- //As far as you went, did your heart ever leave? Even as your form continues to change, did it not lie in the hands of others all along?// ---- Shansa and the Relic Seeker stay on the roof, but you can tell they’re listening. You reserve yourself to looks across the caravan at Martya. You wouldn’t be able to convey it with words, anyway. During the nights, Shansa makes a point of confining Martya to the caravan. She doesn’t notice or doesn’t care whether you join her. A hollow token of grace. It was a mistake, trusting her. Always more attached to the ideal of the islands than anything else. And a strange sort of mercy, sending you back to everything you long to escape. She won’t let you leave again, not if it means her precious islands might be at risk. The revulsion in her eyes… that was worse than any deterioration Martya could bare. In that moment, you felt… inhuman. You pray to the goddesses that you have never given that look to Martya. She at least allows you to leave Martya in a hiding spot, caravan joining the ragged canvas you found before. No such luxury for you, as she leads you -- not literally at gunpoint but it is hard to forget -- back into the mouth of the beast. //You hover at the lip of a bunker. A stream of messages, their source pincered in concrete. Yet, when you enter, more cavernous than a city. She smiles, but there is a pull at your heels. “Well?” she asks. “What’s it going to be?”// {[]}{{tag>writeup4 gm_ben complete}}((with excerpts by EJ))