middleofsomewhere | Into the Unknown Part Two

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Into the Unknown Part Two

On day twenty-five of the month of Symphony, everyone is gathered together, at least everyone who follows the request for a meeting to be held.

One of the head scientists - named Till - stands before the group, a look of excitement on their face.

"We have found something, an anomaly in the void. We are not sure what it is exactly, but there is a lot of activity coming from its coordinates. More penitently, initial investigations have picked up readings that are constant with a void storm.

I believe from your own reports you have experienced void storms before, and you know they can be dangerous, but always fleeting, never lasting more than a few days. However, this storm seems to be static. It has not moved or changed since we first detected it.

We understand there may be people who do not want to venture into this storm, and we understand. The loops we have added to your tethers will allow you to stay on the base long enough for those investigating to return. You may experience some discomfort and disorientation during the time your craft is away, but it should only be mild and temporary.

For those investigating, we know little of what you will face. Every storm is different, and this one is already stranger than anything we have come across before."

The scientists stick around to reassure people and help them make their decisions. Those going to investigate are told to report to their craft in the morning.

INTO THE UNKNOWN: PART 2

SYMPHONY 26-29 ~ OOC POST ~ QUESTIONS ~ FIRST PART

JOURNEY INTO THE UNKNOWN

Those willing to go will leave on the Voidtrecker Express first thing the next day, with only warnings and well-wishes to be careful to go with them. There is an estimate for how long it'll take them to reach the anomaly, about half a day's travel by the train's clock, give or take. But there's no telling the true time it'll take, nor the effects of the void that will be waiting for them. Keeping away from the windows or putting up blinds is advised as a precaution, just in case, and to monitor each other's health.

"Warning: Approaching Voidstorm, please take precautions." The train warns as they arrive on the edges, all the usual train precautions have been taken, the lab cart has been shut down, the ovens in the kitchen are disconnected. The train begins to shake as it enters the first layer.

LAYER ONE: CHANGING SHADES
They first experience changes by sight - literally. Around them, objects start emitting an aura that's unique to each passenger, colouring it to match their mood towards that particular thing. Coffee machines? Amazing, paint that gold. A boring book? Ugh, the entire thing is turning grey.

It's a small effect at the start, yet objects aren't the only things being affected - so are the people on board. Their own moods are changing their hair colour, eyes, and skin, shifting more rapidly than the furniture's paint job. And as time goes on, passengers will be able to affect one another's colouration and aura, giving away how they may feel about that person at that moment, if their feelings are strong enough. Never noticed how fondly one feels about you? Now you do.

LAYER TWO: LOOSE LIPS
Going into the next layer, there's an itch that starts to gnaw at everyone - an itch to talk. To friends, to strangers, to anyone; you have a need to chatter, and it has to get out. Attempting to isolate yourself only makes the need worse, and you won't be able to sleep it away. It doesn't matter if you don't know what to talk about - you'll find something.

A good chat will subdue the need for a while, but it will eventually return. So while listening to others talk might help keep it at bay, it won't forever.

LAYER THREE: CONFESSION - I THINK YOU'RE OK
The changes become stronger, and with them the urges. Passengers will feel compelled to tell those they know their feelings for them, whether it's as simple as finding them okay, to having stronger inclinations of friendship, dislike, or even love.

These urges can be held back on for a time, but it's easy for it to slip out; and many may still be suffering from the previous layer, where they get the sudden need to talk.

LAYER FOUR: A CAKE FOR MY BELOVED
Talking is simply not good enough in this layer: actions speak louder than words. You want to create ways of expressing your desires, regardless of how creative you actually are. Building a shrine to your loved ones, challenging rivals to duels. You can't stay idle, and your hands and brain need to be at work! What can you manage on this train?

EYE OF THE STORM

Finally, all of it stops. The colours, the emotions, the compulsion of dramatics; their minds go from being caught in the storm to completely calm (or, as calm as they ever are). It is much like waking from a dream, or going from one very noisy overwhelming place to complete silence.

A second passes, and then another, and then... there's a feeling. Fear, terror - even those who normally have no ability to feel the emotions of others can feel it, emanating from the train itself.

With it comes an invitation. Hard to describe, but a tugging at their mind. They can push it away no problem, but if they accept...

They are looking out. The familiar colours of the Void are all around them, but they can't turn to look. Ahead is a hole where space should be, nothingness curving and spiralling out from a point deep within that wound in reality, tearing and tugging at the unfortunate observer. The chaotic nimbus at the edge of their vision spins inwards to meet it, and vanishes at the edge of the hole. A void within the Void. And within that terrifying chaotic darkness there are shapes.

The train rocks as energy rushes past it, tossing the craft from side to side. It spins, lurching out of control, the connection snapping as everyone is thrown back into their own awareness as the train starts vibrating to at full speed.

But the tell-tale signs of movement isn't there, and a creaking of metal can be heard. The train shakes more as the view outside the windows shows them inching forward towards where the hole had been, and parts of the roof start to bend inward, water pipes burst and the electricity fails in multiple carriages.

Until there's a rush, a shaking and twisting, and the void flashes violently in the windows. The ever distant choral singing becomes a roar as a kaleidoscope of colours fills the interior of the train itself.

Then there is stillness. It calms, and there is no storm, no terrifying darkness. Just the void, as it ever is, ever changing.

OOC NOTES

NOTES: They will be in the storm for three days, each layer takes about half a day.

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The ~~puppy~~ overeager friend in question is quick to add an extra rib-cracking squeeze, before giving Rezo just enough space to get his bearings back, a wing drawing away while the other lingers behind him, almost as a brace. There's still the fan of his tail tickling at the priest's calf, rather like a cat keeping track of him without needing to look, and his arms help keep him steady as Esteban audibly grins, his voice lilting in his abundant happiness.

"It's been a while~" He greets enthusiastically, the rasp of claws clicking against the stone underfoot. The way his wings rustle is so loud, leather snapping and stretching and tap-tapping, a constant movement that overtakes Esteban's own perpetual shuffling about. But not enough, unfortunately, to cover the sound of his voice.

"I mean, I've seen you 'round an' about, but it's not the same, an' it's been a while since we talked." He snickers merrily, words flitting from him like a dam has burst down somewhere and there is no stopping the floods. "Y' have all these tales in your world that are just so fascinatin' an' y'r a good storyteller!" The wings rustle again, a gentle press against Rezo's head, his shoulders, but not enough to make him stumble.

"Not 's much as my grandfather, though," he adds, but the snicker indicates that Esteban more than knows he is biased in that comparison, and it's a bit rude, if he's to be honest-- Melchor has had many years to refine and whittle his stories into works of wonder.

There's a short pause after this, a silence that weighs a little heavier by its sheer presence, by the fact that Esteban is not picking up immediately something to say. Waiting. Waiting for something. But a rustle, a shake, and he's prattling again, the easy chatter that comes to him lingering between them as he goes on.

"It's been fun talkin' to someone else 'bout my own world too~ Stories an' customs and the way the world's shifted about. It's pretty rare that I get t' talk about it!" he mentions off-handed, and there's a lull in his voice. A note of something, a nuance over the words. Embarrassment? Awkwardness? Longing?

"So-- thanks!" It falls... woefully short, Esteban thinks.

As air returns to him, Rezo starts revising his theory of Esteban being a secret mazoku assassin, as the boy- he knows Esteban is technically eighty something but it’s hard to think of Esteban as anything but a boy- is doing a very inefficient job of actually killing him.

…Also Esteban is taller now. When did that happen?

The chattiness, at least, has remained the same, and is immensely reassuring in light of the physical changes that Esteban has definitely undergone for some reason. It is somewhat easier to ponder the mysteries of Esteban’s transformation than the fact that Esteban is bombarding him with affectionate snuggles and words, but Rezo does manage to grab hold of some of what Esteban says, much like a man overboard clinging onto a stray bit of flotsam.

“Were you listening to the story I told over the comms some weeks ago?” he asks. “I’m glad you seem to have enjoyed it, even if I pale in comparison to your grandfather.”

Rezo suspects there may be some bias due to Esteban’s grandfather being Esteban’s grandfather, but he’s far from an expert on how grandfather-grandchild relationships are typically supposed to work. To say the least.

That train of thought nearly leads Rezo into another spot of brooding, despite the fact he has a draconic puppy of a man snuggling him at the moment and is thus in a less than appropriate position for brooding. Fortunately, Esteban has more to say.

Rezo’s a bit surprised that Esteban wants to thank him for just… talking? But he manages to say “You’re welcome,” with relative grace.

“I haven’t had many recent opportunities for that kind of talk either,” Rezo says. “Well, I have also discussed similar things with Lioriley. Do you know her? But before I arrived on the train, it had been a long time.”

"Yeah, I heard it," Esteban mentions at the story Rezo had shared over the comms. "Didn't get to share any of mine, I was too busy. But I heard!"

"Melchor hoarded stories," the half-dragon explains, somewhat to defend his friend. "Collectin' them since the first moon hatched, so of course, he got a lotta really good ones. But yours was great! Y've got a good pace an' a great voice for stories; y' must've practiced them a lot. We should trade those we know 't some point. I'm not nearly 's good as him either, but he's been tellin' them to me since I was tiny, so, I can recall a few."

There's movement from the half-elf, the very faint skitter of claws on the ground again, and the warmth at Rezo's back grows a little more insistent. Not quite a push or a pull, but a light pressure, like someone taking his arm and guiding him while Esteban's chatter keeps them going. He seems to be guiding Rezo to a bench, possibly to sit down while they talk.

"Sure, I know Glimmer!" He grins, beaming wide enough that it can be heard, even though he hasn't gotten that many conversations with her. "She's got a lot of interestin' stuff to say too. Her people live und'rneath the mountain' an they have mushrooms that glow t' light their way!" He snickers lightly, still baffled at the fungus' name, but not willing to tug Rezo into that particular debate.

"She still hasn't told me if the soup they make from 'em glows too." The chuffed laughter that accompanies his words makes it hard to tell if Esteban really wants to know, or if he is too amused by the idea of the glowing soup to ask again.

Edited 2022-09-02 04:57 (UTC)

Esteban’s compliments are flattering, in a bemusing way, as Rezo doesn’t really consider himself a storyteller. And his little aside of how Melchor had been telling Esteban stories since the younger man’s early childhood makes Rezo reflect a little.

Some of Rezo’s earliest memories were of the priestesses teaching him and the other children at the orphanage the story of Flare Dragon Cepheid and his subordinates; but he feels like he didn’t hear proper storytelling until he was an adult, and married with a child just old enough for bedtime stories. His wife had been the one telling the stories while Rezo had discreetly eavesdropped, nonplussed by the animated way she narrated the stories, most of which he had never heard before. He’d gotten better at keeping their son’s attention just by imitating her.

While Rezo doesn’t try to explain all this, he does say, “Myths and folktales are one of the areas I have researched for a long time. There is sometimes a grain of useful truth hidden in a fairytale. But even when there isn’t, they’re useful to distract patients with.”

Speaking of distracting- Oh, he’s being guided along. With everything being as much as it has been lately, Rezo decides to cooperate with Esteban’s rearrangements, while he tries to find a tactful way to ask about the claws and tail and wings and extra height that Esteban’s taken on.

Rezo does not grin when Esteban begins to speak about Lioriley- or ‘Glimmer’ as Esteban has apparently nicknamed her- but he does smile, the expression soft, small, and sincere.

“Yes, she’s very easy to talk to. She’s so thoughtful, and intelligent, and patient- I can spend hours just talking about nothing with her, and still find it enjoyable,” he says.

If Esteban’s observant, he may notice the way Rezo’s ears turn pink as he realizes he’s in serious danger of gushing over his girlfriend to Esteban. With a quiet ahem Rezo goes ahead and changes the subject.

“...Speaking of unusual food, have you eaten any mysterious candies recently?”

~~(It’s going to be a long time before Rezo trusts little hard candies again.)~~

The half-elf nods along as Rezo mentions the usefulness of stories, because he knows a fair few things about getting distracted by them himself. A snicker escapes him, far too aware of his own tendencies surrounding the tales and myths and legends that surround him, that surround others, that speaks of their world and how they see it.

That and... myths and stories have a way to bring people together. Tall tales and small morals and poems that patter along with their unique pace. Esteban could never get enough of any of these.

The bench is found, and his feet skitter to a stop, no longer scratching at the stone as they move. Rezo's rush of compliments over Lioriley has Esteban blink lightly, his head shifting to the side. There's a notion, an interest that Rezo has never spoken of another-- not even his own gods-- with compliments attached to the person, and it makes him grin a bit, noting that the two of them seem to have a good relationship.

Is-- is Rezo blushing?

And the change of subject? Hmm. Maybe more than just a good relationship then. Esteban is not particularly observant per say, but people say a lot between their words, and that, he is a little familiar with. He'd like to prod, but it's none of his business, and as nosey as Esteban is, he's not close enough to Rezo to stick his nose into this matter per say. He'll just cheer them both on from the sidelines.

He makes a note to prod at Glimmer later though. Just a light nudge.

"Candy?" he asks lightly, tone rising. "Not really?" There's a snap and shuffle of wings as he does end up sitting down on the bench himself, tail skittering across the stone as he curls it to the side to sit more comfortably.

"Candy aren't my thing. I like spicy stuff, an' the occasional cookie, but hard candies aren't." They're just. Sweet. Which Esteban is fine with, he's just not a big fan either.

"How 'bout you?" Because of course he would ask in return.

Freed from his Estebonds, Rezo leans forward to touch the bench. Once he’s felt out where there’s some room for him, he takes a seat next to Esteban and even goes ahead and answers the younger man’s question.

“I was one of the people who had an unfortunate transformation after consuming some a little while ago,” Rezo admits. “I know there were a few left over, so I thought it might have something to do with your… New accessories.”

Rezo briefly taps one of Esteban’s wings, just to make it (hopefully) clear what he’s referring to.

“And please don’t try and tell me that I merely didn’t notice them before,” Rezo adds drily. He may be blind, but the effects of Esteban’s transformation are both audible and tactile enough to be obvious, thank you very much.

There's more confusion as Esteban tries to piece things together until he finally remembers the candy that had made him and Seto lounge around in the spa for a nice, slow hour in long noodle-shapes. Right! That had happened, hadn't it?

His limbs shiver at the light tap against the bone and leather, surprised by the touch, but hardly minding it. He leans against Rezo's hand again with the wing, leaving it in easy reach for the priest to touch if he wants.

"Of course y' didn't see them before, I wasn't in this form." There's an easy, casual shrug, even in his tone, the statement so obvious to Esteban. It's not exactly an easy transformation to miss when it leaves him tall enough that crossing doorways is actually a worry now-- and will be until he shifts back. The horns, wings and tail are also a bit of an obvious tell.

"I just felt like stretchin' today," he adds, wondering if that's what his friend might mean. He did tell Rezo he was a half-elf, hadn't he? Oh-- wait-- he hadn't said for his other parent though.

"The train's too small," he adds, because he might as well keep going with that. "An' my wings itch somethin' fierce when I can't stretch them-- it's drivin' me crazy sometimes." A breath. "A lotta times. Like, nearly all of it." Oops. Now he's complaining.

"Dragon." He adds, unprompted, but feeling like he didn't need to state it. And yet, strangely nervous? Wait-- Rezo's world did have supernatural beings, didn't it? He wonders briefly if there's anything closer to what he looks like above his true parentage, and the words stumble out of his mouth before he can think too hard about that.

"It's why I was so curious 'bout yours. I love any story with dragons, since they're kinda extended family in some ways?" The chuffs of his laughter are clearly heard in the silence that surrounds them; the peace and quiet and warmth of the weather carriage. The tip of his tail rasps lightly against the stone by their feet, and there is a quick bounce to his knee that speaks more of nerves than the way Esteban's voice remains steady through it all.

"At least, that's how it is in my world." Dragons are the most selfish creatures that he knows of. And yet, they are family. Each and everyone of them. Siblings, bonded whether they have chosen to or not.

There’s a moment of surprised hesitation when Esteban’s wing leans into his hand, but after that initial surprise Rezo is happy to accept the invitation. He runs his hands over Esteban’s wing, keeping his touch light and gentle, though he has an expression of blatant curiosity that wouldn’t be out of place on a small child.

As enjoyable as it is to examine the structure of Esteban’s wing- Rezo certainly hasn’t gotten a chance to personally handle a dragon’s wings before- he’s not so distracted that he misses what Esteban is saying. He wonders if a lack of space is entirely the reason that Esteban has kept his draconic features hidden before, but refrains from calling him out on it.

“That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” Rezo remarks. He certainly doesn’t think of other humans as extended family- hardly thinks of anyone as family, really. It’s never been a framework he’s fit easily into.

(There isn’t really any framework he’s ever fit into.)

“I don’t know if it is the same for the dragons of my world,” he adds. On the very, very few times he’s spoken with dragons before Esteban, it’s always been for reasons related to the pursuit of his cure.

Rezo shakes his head, trying to shake away the melancholic emotions that inevitably arise with the thoughts of his hopeless dream. Better to distract himself- and he does have something that may work.

“By the way,” Rezo says abruptly. “I made something for you.”

Rezo withdraws his hands from Esteban and digs around in his pockets, producing a stuffed… Something. Clearly made from the most random hodge-podge of materials Rezo could find in the art car.

(It’s meant to be a chinchilla.)

Touch tickles him, not used to having anyone's hands on his wings. It makes him want to shiver, but Esteban contains the feeling; Rezo is his friend, and he wants to show them to him, let him look as much as he wants. The tip of his tail still rasp against stone, tiny flutters of movement he can't quite keep steady, but curled on his other side, he doesn't think the priest minds it.

He's not sure what Rezo means by interesting-- or what he (they?) are looking at exactly, but he figures there's no need to prod. Even though curiosity burns across his lips brighter than a beacon, he holds it back as Rezo slips along to other subjects. He takes a breath to speak when his friend moves things along, and Esteban blinks at the mention-- made something.

For him?

It's a small, handful of fluff that gets passed down into his hand, a little grey pocket that of awkwardly sewn fabric. There are stars and flowers patterned across the tiny toy, and two button eyes of different sizes and garish colours. Felt makes up uncertain limbs, in bright blues that clash or compliment the grey quite well-- Esteban isn't quite sure-- and the tail puffs out in a feathery fluff.

"Oh that's gorgeous!" He can't help it. It could be the ugliest thing he's ever seen-- actually, he's really not even sure what it's supposed to be-- but there is... there is such a treasure to this.

Rezo made this for him. Rezo made this for him. There's something strung tight between his ribs at this, and he plucks the small toy in both hands, running a thumb along its clumsy seams and fluffy, bright-aqua tail. His smile doubles, as impossible as that might be.

"So soft! Y' got such great fabrics!" It feels so nice. Esteban isn't much for material things-- not really. But there is something about this tiny gift, this little thing, that makes him all the more touched by it. Maybe it's the way it's so clearly cobbled together clumsily. Maybe it's just because it was made for him specifically. He doesn't know how to--

"Thanks!" It falls too short. "I love it!" A bit closer, but it still doesn't-- words are so hard for him. He can't help squeezing, turning the little gift over in his palms, the brushed yarn tail trailing across his wrists in fluttery caresses. Esteban makes a note to attach a strap to it, so he won't lose it. He doesn't ever want to lose it.

If his words fall short, his limbs, however, do not, and there's a fluster of movement from the moment he spots the little toy, wings rustling in his excitement, tail tapping and darting in short, eager bursts, scuffing against the stone. Rezo is never in danger of being smacked, but the wing behind him is possibly the loudest, short lithe bursts of sound as the leather flutters endlessly just behind him.

Rezo may be entirely oblivious to how objectively ugly his creation is, still in the grips of the voidstorm’s mania, but he’s not so far gone that he isn’t surprised by Esteban’s sheer enthusiasm. Compliments, excited bouncing… Generally, when people are that effusively grateful towards him, it’s because he’s saved either their lives or that of their loved one’s.

Clearly, Rezo is better at sewing than he thought.

He lets out a laugh that is only a little embarrassed. Esteban is so… sincere. Rezo can’t help but appreciate that, despite his own insincere nature.

“You’re welcome,” he says, pitching a little louder than usual so that he can be heard over Esteban’s fluttering. “Dolls are such interesting creations, don’t you think? There are few objects that exist for the purpose of receiving love, particularly in the way that dolls are.”

Which isn’t the only reason that dolls and similar toys interest him, but it’s one of the things that draws him to collecting them, when he has the time and space for such things.

“If you love it,” he continues, “Then it must be serving its purpose well. I’m happy if that’s the case.”

He's still running large fingers along the tiny patches of felt. His smile is wide, touched and endeared at the little palm-sized toy. Esteban is not one for material things much, but this is too precious-- and the fabric is smooth and soft under his touch.

"'f course I do!" he's quick to add. "Perfect pocket-size for travellin', an' ev'rythin' 'bout it's so soft!" If he has a bit of a accent in his regular days; this is far worse, joy lilting along with vanishing syllables as he speaks. "An' y' made it y'rself!" He snickers. "That's already more th'n I'd ever manage!"

Though, well, to be fair... Rezo's skills aren't much better than Esteban. And yet he's not disappointed? Of all things, it just makes the gift all the more heartfelt, he thinks. Maybe he should try his hand at it himself.

"I don't have somethin' for you though," he realizes, feeling a little bad at the lack of reciprocity. "Small finicky stuff isn't... easy 'cause of my hands. Don't have the dexterity in 'em, an' their calloused weird 'cause of the spinnin'." Which made some tasks a bit harder, especially with fine, delicate works.

"I can cook an' bake a bit though!" He's getting better at that, and it's a bit of an offer too. "I could make you somethin'? T' say 'thank you'!" He's already said it, but it doesn't mean Esteban doesn't feel it still falls short. "What would you like?!"

Clearly, he's not about to take 'no, thank you' as an answer.

Really, the enthusiasm continues to be shocking, if gratifying.

“You don’t need to give me anything,” Rezo says, automatically reassuring. It’s not as if he had thought about getting anything in return, or much other than ‘people who are nice to me deserve cuddly chinchilla dolls.’ And he supposes handling fire on a regular basis makes for palms and fingers that are resilient rather than dextrous.

But Esteban is not deterred- handicrafts may be out but food, apparently, isn’t. Which gives Rezo pause.

“Things I like?”

Rezo appreciates being given food though that is a bit of a problem as truthfully, he’s never been remotely picky about food. Esteban could serve him a boiled turnip and Rezo would probably eat it without bothering to ask for butter. But he does have preferences, if he tries to think about it. He drums his fingertips against the bench.

“Hot pot…” he muses, after a moment’s thought. “Curry… Cottage pie… Things like that, mostly.”

(Basically: Comfort food.)

There's the soft rasp again, the tap-tap-tap of his bouncing knee. A tiny huff of laughter barely there, when he notices his foot isn't the only thing making the lightest of sounds. So Rezo drums his fingers when thinking? He tucks the information away gleefully. His friend's polite protest falls to ears so deaf they might as well be stone; he said he was going to, so he was going to! End of the line!

It does help that the mage is cooperative at least, seeing as Esteban might have gotten a little overenthusiastic into finding something --anything-- if he didn't have a lead first. But he is surprised at the content; warm, hearty meals best eaten against cold nights. It brightens the half-dragon even more.

"Oh! I love those too!" His voice rises in an eager lilt, amused as he shares. "I make stuff like that for supper all the time!"

Rezo might even had gotten some if he ate late enough himself-- past the early sleepers, and when the kitchen wound down for the night. Esteban tends to take over it when it's mostly empty after all, and leftovers are always up for grabs for anyone who likes them. He'd never consider himself a fancy chef, but he has enough experience to make it tasty at the very least!

"How spicy d'you like it?" There's undeniable mischief in his voice as the half-elf leans forwards, his weight heavy on a precarious perch set on his ankle. Toothy grin and reckless amusement pour from him like the warmth that surrounds them, warmth blanketing them both from the wings that hover, far enough not to be in the way. Close enough to bring a bit of shelter, the way a bird might shepherd a flock close.

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Into the Unknown Part Two

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