heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

Here is the thing: Ellis understands Wysteria has the capability to do magic, but he has very little idea of what it looks like when she resorts to any kind of magical ability.

And Ellis certainly can't see the way the rings light up under scrutiny. The rings are old, and the magic on them stems from something far older. It casts a bright, sickly glow under her examination, a green tinge to the brightness there.

In his palm, the pendant grows heavier. His fingers twitch closed and stay closed over it this time, as he looks up into Wysteria's face.

"What is it?" he questions, examining her furrowed brow.

With her hand very close to her face and her attention having gone slightly cross-eyed given the intent fixture of her study, Wysteria at first answers with only a faint noncommittal reply. After a little more poking and prodding, and the very careful turning over of the twin rings in her palm, she at last deigns to begin formulating a proper answer.

"I'm not certain. The enchantment is very old; I've never seen anything quite like it. You have a needle and thread, Mister Ellis. I have seen them in your satchel. You must picture magic a little like needlework, strung along lines as if stretched between points where the needle has passed. And it is rather like the pattern on these is unfamiliar to me. I can't say precisely what the purpose is, only that it exists. And I suppose that it would be strange to find very old magic in a place which is meant to be haunted and not have the two be in some way related."

She pauses. Which she is standing above him, her fingers part so that she can look at him through the gaps between them.

"I might be able to undo it. Cut the thread, as it were."

Low to the earth, Ellis is not positioned well enough to take her opposite hand.

What she proposes sounds innocuous enough. Impressive, but surely not taxing in any particular way. How much does it take to snip a bit of thread and allow the fabric it's holding together to fill into pieces?

But still—

"Is that wise?"

Though it occurs to him almost immediately after—

"Someone in Research might want to have a look at them."

Ellis says this very neutrally, as if his real opinion isn't that they should chuck all three pieces into the forge in the smithy to have done with them once they return to Kirkwall.

"Need I remind you that I am a member of Research?"

It is equally mild, hardly a point of contention at all. It's true that Isaac might prefer to see the pieces for himself.

Still.

"I don't know that I've ever seen pieces connected in this way. I've read about it certainly—sympathetic rings and our crystals and books are in fact fashioned with a similar principle—, but this is...different." What was that about wisdom? "What makes the enchantment on them functional is the whole. You cannot unmoor one of our crystals from its companions and have it still be functional. But I can see right here where these could be separated from one another."

It is part talking to herself, part thinking aloud, and part persuasive argument for his benefit.

"And besides, we don't know that taking they are the definitive source of the disturbance. So it seems prudent to do a little testing in the field, yes? I can disconnect one of the rings and then we will still have the other and the amulet to fetch back undisturbed."

Truthfully, it seems hard to believe that three pieces of tarnished jewelry could have caused such a commotion that it merited action. Even with the disquieting warmth of the metal and the smears of blood, they are old rings and a gaudy amulet. Where's the harm in trying something that sounds so easily done?

Still, Ellis gets to his feet before answering her, so he can follow through on the impulse to take her free hand in his own.

"Alright," is almost an afterthought. There's a pinch of worry at his brow, but is that not commonplace? "If you think you might find something of interest in doing it, I don't see a reason we shouldn't."

Well, he does. But some that he recognizes are overprotective in a detrimental way, and are thus set aside. Wysteria is capable, and knows better what she can accomplish. Ellis' perception of magic is fair enough when it comes to a battlefield. This kind of smaller, inquisitive type of magic is new to him, and likely very specific to Wysteria herself. He trusts her assessments of it.

There is in fact quite a long list of why shouldn'ts which Wysteria, in some more prudent hour in which she were not so very fascinated with the how coulds, might give serious consideration. There is a possibility for the release of some stored arcane energy. It is possible that the links between the enchantments are what is keeping the unknown effect of the spell in check. It is possible that by unwinding them, they will become all that more dangerous. That if there is some spirit tied to them, the weakened of the bonds will release it. That—

And so on and so forth.

Yet here they are in this hour and the temptation to be clever is very powerful. And yes, she does suspect they will find something of interest. She smiles at him, quite self-assured indeed as she lifts their linked hands so she can press a swift kiss to his knuckles.

"Very good. Now, take the spare and tell me if you begin to notice anything different about it. I will require my hand back, Mister Ellis," she explains, all sunshine as she breaks this very recently made point of connection and carefully passes the second ring over to replace her hand in his.

Centering the remaining ring in her palm, Wysteria creates a flat plane with her free hand and with it hovers directly above the ring. "I have been told that this is a very unnecessary step, you know. This use of the offhand. But I find it much easier to visualize how to accomplish the thing with both, and confidence is of course one of the foremost tools in any magician's repertoire."

What is perhaps significantly less clear is what else might be in that tool kit. There is no hum of light, no crackle of ozone-scented energy. There is pulsing shadow, no magic word, no indication whatsoever that anything at all is occurring in the space between her hands. And yet somewhere, somehow, to some other eye, something must become. Or rather, it must unbecome like a thread plucked free of a tapestry or how tugging the loose end of yarn unravels careful knitwork for all at once, there is some disorienting sway to the air as reality rushes to fill a space which once was occupied by something else.

And what follows is—

At first, nothing.

The pause stretches long enough for Ellis to tip his face to her, a question half-formed. (Spellwork that is an absence, an extinguishing, the aftereffects of which linger like smoke curling from a snuffed candle, how did such a thing—) Wysteria might explain the principal in such a way that Ellis could not, was not capable, of following, but he knows innately that it would please her to unravel even a part of her capabilities for him. (It would please him to hear it, incomprehensible or not.) The ring is still warm in his hand, and the fact that it has grown warmer escapes his notice as he considers Wysteria's face.

And then, a concussive thoom of pressure erupts from the paired ring. It explodes from Ellis' palm, shoves them both back from each other with a harsh slap of force. The ring is dropped. There is blood welling from a gouge in his palm, which nonsensically registers before Ellis fully makes sense of the grotesque thing unfolding disjointed, blackened limbs from a puddle of black on the floor of the room. Shadow and dark comes off it like smoke.

Ellis is scrambling to his feet, shouting, "Run for the door, run for the door!" as he moves immediately to reclaim his weapon, swing for the creature's blurred, monstrous face.

For a disorienting moment, she struggles to grasp why she is looking at the chipped plaster of the ceiling or how she has ended up on the floor. The facts catch up to her at the pace of a half step behind. She registers the surge of force only after the dark thing has begun to unfurl in the room's center; she is on her feet before she realizes it is because Ellis has shouted at her.

She is on the wrong side of the room, but is fleeing without a second thought with as wide a berth afforded the demon as it shrieks into being as is possible. And there is the cracked piano forte, and the rotted books which have come free of their shelves, and here is the shadow of the creature and the impact of Ellis' mace crashing against the crackling barrier which has sprung up in defense of it.

The wan daylight filtering from the overgrown window frames dims so instantly that its as if a curtain has been abruptly drawn, or as if they have somehow collapsed beyond the reach of the day, or, or, or.

A series of calculations that come together almost instantly:

He surely will not kill this monster on his own.

He cannot devote himself to the task too thoroughly with Wysteria in the room.

But he cannot turn and run, because Wysteria is on the wrong side of the room and she needs to make it through those doors.

So, in spite of the crackling barrier and rapidly coalescing form, Ellis weaves in closer. Ducking an unnaturally bent limb, Ellis heaves his mace up in a fluid arc to land a hit in the center of the rippling black mass. The barrier sparks and then gives under the force of the blow, and the impact of it shatters defensive magic and buries into the sucking morass of the creature's form.

There's a guttural screech in answer as the rippling mass quails and lashes out indiscriminately. It's flailing limbs whip blindly, no specific target beyond the impulse of pain animating joints that stretch, claws grasping for any purchase. One catches Ellis' across exposed cheek. Others shatter what's left of the piano forte, splinter a rotted chair, and some slice clumsily out towards Wysteria, even as it's attention stays narrowed on Ellis.

Edited (html no) 2021-08-02 03:46 (UTC)

The splintering of the room's contents about her prompts a flinch, a mindless throwing up of her arms to protect her head and maybe some sharp sound of distress as a thrashing limb crashes before her, bringing down shelves and dozens of books after it. To say that she ducks and weaves to avoid the assault would be to give Wysteria more credit than she is truly due—it implies some sense of strategy, where in reality she has none. Luck is not the same thing is good sense or practiced instinct as she stumbles half blind and fully desperate through the unlit library without any real sense of where the spirit is manifesting, and only the memory of where the door had lain, and hardly any grasp at all as to the state of—

"Ellis! You must come away from it!" A book is snatched blindly from the nearest shelf and chucked with force at the deepest miasmic point of shadow at the room's dreadful center. Arcane energy thrills over the receipt.

The inevitable outcome of this misadventure: a full suit of armor for Wysteria.

But while that consideration flashes across his mind, it takes an immediate backseat to the roiling mass in front of him. It's a toss up as to whether the impact of the book did any damage, but it was a reminder of a second person in the room. The swiveling, shadowed face shifts towards the secondary threat, and there's nothing for Ellis to do but shift with it, keeping himself centered in it's vision, even if he can't singularly counter the abundance of lashing tendrils. The sweep of his mace swings low, clanging against something substantial enough to provoke further pained writhing.

"I'll be right behind you!" is perhaps not the most reassuring thing, when Ellis has held his ground. A mace is not effective at a distance. "Get out into the hallway, and we'll go!"

Would this follow them? Is it bound here? Ellis doesn't recognize it, but he's hopeful that it's contained to the house. The disturbances had seemed centered here, and surely, surely just this once they could get lucky.

In the dark on dark, with the glowstones scattered and lost, there is nothing at all reassuring about his assertion. But what is there to be done?

Wysteria flings another book at the writhing mass of tendrils, and then— "I'm going then!"

And she does, ducking another lashing of dark tendrils and fumbling through the uneven terrain of scattered books and splintered shelving and the warped moss slick floor until she reaches the doorway.

And slams into the closed door, briefly baffled. She tries the latch and only once she discovers that it's stuck does Wysteria realize the wrongness of the door's alignment. Hadn't it been open? Why would they have closed the doors behind them?

Somehow, even about the roiling, ozone crackle surrounding the creature, Ellis is still very aware of the rattle of a locked door. It raises the hair on the back of his neck, dread lancing through him.

It's a miracle she hasn't already been hit, even with the creature's attention more or less held. The room is not so big that Ellis can rely on that forever, and it's not so certain that he can kill this creature. When his mace lands, the sense of it is substantial, a connection is made, but the effect is so much less than it should be.

Ellis has no magic, no cleansing run on hand.

"Wysteria! What's happening?" is shouted around the thing, and over the sucking clashes of the mace as Ellis tries to drive it back towards where he thinks the window might have been.

Can they realign whatever it was Wysteria had severed between the rings? The thought comes and goes, followed by the recollection of the pendant and the blood. If there was a ritual, then how would they manage it? Wysteria would have to do it on her own, and Ellis isn't sure—

"I don't know!" Is cried back, alarm flashing brilliant and dreadful in the sound of it. She can hear it in her own voice—that unrestrained bolt of fear that runs through, "It won't open!" as the latch rattles uselessly in her grip. She throws her shoulder against the door again. The thump of it is lost to the destructive cacophony.

Why hasn't the spirit at the room's center collapsed yet? Why hasn't Ellis killed it yet? It's going to devour them in this ridiculous little room and it will be her fault for being so eager to be foolish.

There is the hot prick of frustrated and terrified tears both, and the crack of some shattering plaster, and it's only when she throws herself against the door a third time to no real effect that it occurs to her that she's learned nothing at all from the entirety of the afternoon. That she is being ridiculous. That Ellis will be the person to suffer for it if she isn't quick about it.

She releases the door handle and levers her hand at the door. An instant later, in a bright shock of nauseating green light and force and the liquid heat fade tang of ozone, the heavy wood snaps free of its hinges and crashes outward into the corridor beyond.

Later Ellis will consider this: the sound of such fear in Wysteria's voice is exceedingly effective motivation.

But in the moment, he has time enough only to process that Wysteria is in this room and she is afraid, and he will have to kill this creature because the alternative is—

Strike that.

This is what Ellis had thought her shard capable of, back on the road. But he will take it now, a boon when they had so few other options. That he's maneuvered himself into a less than ideal position to flee is certainly less important than bellowing across the room to her in the wake of splintering wood:

"Go! Run, go on!"

Congratulations can come later. In the moment, Ellis hoists his mace and brings it down with all his might at the point where he thought he saw two eyes, bright spots shifting within the deep, shadowy center.

The answering screech raises all the hairs on Ellis' neck. It's not dying, but it's hurt, enough so that Ellis can duck under thrashing limbs and sprint towards the door. Wysteria won't go without him, he knows this. Even if she's gotten as far as the hall, there will be a point where she looks back for him, and Ellis doesn't need her to return to the room.

Or that is the plan, right before one of those distended, shadowed limbs lashes out at Ellis' legs and brings him crashing to the ground halfway to the door. (Very literal crashing, considering the plate.) Even years of experience still means the processing of rolling up to his feet is slowed, just enough to be a liability in the way it would not if Ellis were the type of combatant that wore leathers instead of armor. The sort of thing that's only an issue when there's no one to provide a distraction from the process of finding his feet.

Which, in Ellis' immediate calculation, there is not.

She has indeed made it into the hall, for let no one say that Wysteria Poppell is not capable of being at least fractionally sensible in times of great stress. She has not, over the course of service for Riftwatch, hidden under tables while various parties descended into assassinating chaos around her out of cowardice. These are merely rational acts. For why should she not do as directed in this? Ellis tells her to Go and she does. In moments such as these, he has never given her cause to disobey him.

(And she is frightened; terrified of that dreadful thing which lives in that pitch darkness; of that fact that she in part summoned it; of what will happen should it follow after them—)

The crash of plate is very loud.

In the room, those myriad limbs take full advantage of Ellis' newly prone position. They lash after him, felling hard against his plate with such shockingly powerful impact that it's a blessing he has fallen forward rather than back and receives the blows across the sturdiest sections of his armor. Still, the hammering impacts are heavy enough to compress, to dent, to mangle as yet more limbs dredge the spirit's main form forward from the rotted library's center. If it's multitude of limbs are whip quick, this part proceeds with all the elasticity of a weeping, tumorous growth. Something to be levered and pried and pulled along by its grasping tendrils. What doesn't beat Ellis finds some murdering grip at first one heavy boot and then an arm or his mace, avaricious as it is unintelligent with mad fury.

(Maybe that's what it is: rage. The kind that consumes. The kind that curses. The kind that begets the most insidious kinds of pain; which lurks in dark places and grows like a cancerous thing, its numerous wretched branches insinuating itself in all directions.)

With a screech of armor and warped floorboards, it drags him nearer.

The crack of Fade energy is loud like a thunderclap. Or like something being ripped open. Or the sudden rush of air to fill a space which once was occupied. The acid green flash briefly illuminates the whole of the room, searing the dark outlines of the creature at its center on the eye. It recoils from the concussive force of Wysteria's anchor with a twisting metal shriek.

It is not so dissimilar to how Ellis imagined death would find him.

A singular mistake is all it ever takes. A mistake and then the exploitation of it, and then—

And then Wysteria breaks the chain of events apart. (Ellis had hoped she'd kept running, feels some immediate, muddle of relief and anger that she'd stopped her flight.) The single-minded, ravenous work of those tentacles falters. The thudding charge of adrenaline keeps the damage to his body at bay. There's no time to inventory the extent of injury, only the recognition of an opportunity and the instinctive reaction.

The coiled, spindled limb around his arm loosens, and Ellis wrenches free, uses that momentum to whip around, bowing his body up to give himself enough reach to splinter the clutching, sucking coil around his ankle.

"Again!" is instruction in spite of himself, strategy overtaking the desperate need for Wysteria to remove herself from this place. "Do that again!"

Once more, that will be enough for him to roll up onto his feet and meet her at the doorway without the process of levering upright being yet again interrupted. Then they hope whoever bound this creature into those rings bound it to the room, to the mansion, whatever keeps it from pursuing them into the woods. There is nothing about this great, oozing mass that promises speed, but it has locked onto them and means to consume them, whatever that looks like. Ellis has no reason to assume it wouldn't give chase to the best of it's ability, to the detriment of whatever crosses it's path in the process.

Again! he says, and this work has always been more demanding than it appears. It requires gathering her thoughts. The conscious focus of direction. Tapping into something which sends the sensation of hot fire up the length of her arm and into her shoulder and to the very core of her. Yet Ellis has hardly gotten as far as Do that again! when the consecutive burst of concusses free of Wysteria's extended hand in an explosive discharge of veilfire.

The spirit recoils. It makes the sound of a thousand mirrors shattering, or like the point of a knife shrieking across the face of a glass (or a stone). Just inside the doorway of that pitch dark room, Wysteria wavers.

It's enough.

Or it's enough for Ellis to make it onto his feet, and sprint out of reach. (Maybe out of reach. It's hard to say how long those limbs extend.) Almost immediately he is aware of all the places where the armor is digging into his body, the points where compression threatens to constrict his breathing, the immediate spiking objection from his ankle when he puts weight on it. Pain thuds grey at the edges of his vision.

None of it matters. It won't matter until they're both out.

"Time to go," is the first thing he says, just as he reaches her, hand immediately catching her elbow to steady her, then draw her along with him. Behind them, the hair-raising shrieks are only rising, going from pained to enraged. "Come with me."

This is a gamble. Running and hoping it cannot follow. Running, and hoping that the blood-rusted pendant in his pocket having remained untouched keeps this demon locked into this place.

The sound of it's pursuit follows them down the hall towards the staircase landing, progress marked by splintering wood as it begins to force it's bloated form through the entryway. Ellis refuses to look back, focus narrowed down to his hold on Wysteria and the distance between them and the main doors. He'd left her things in one corner, he remembers, and if he is fast enough, if Wysteria keeps running, if that thing is stalled by the narrow corner, it will not be so difficult to retrieve them.

In a clatter of plate and to the thump of her much worn field boots and her hammering pulse and the crackle of somethign giving to pressure at their heels, they rush from the corridor. There is no time to find the grip at her elbow reassuring, but it does the job it most desperately needs to do: keeps her on her feet and moving and centers her in a world which has begun to go nauseatingly crooked about her.

(This is the most she's used the anchor in a single day, much less a single hour.)

They reach the staircase landing. They careen down the stairs. They have not quite reached the ground floor when, with an ear splitting shriek and an ominous descending darkness, the burbling form of the unleashed spirit bursts free from the upper level's corridor. Its thrashing limbs reach onto the railing, dragging its heaving shape toward it with a single minded ferocity. Spirits have no use for stairs; there is nothing to stop it from prying itself to the rail and over it. In a few seconds, it will come crashing down into that once grand foyer and if they fail to cover the ground now then it will be between them and the main door.

Had Ellis been in better condition, he would have entertained the idea of Wysteria's equipment further. Had Wysteria been steadier on her fight, he might have still let go of her to send her ahead through the door. Surely there is a back exit. Surely smashing through the smaller corridors and hallways would slow down the pursuit of this creature.

But above them, the rail is splintering into kindling. The ceiling is groaning under the weight. And there is only so much time to get Wysteria out the door. Neither of them are sprinters, but the threat of having their only known exit blocked off turns out to be more than sufficient motivation to spur them on in their haphazard, clattering descent down the decrepit staircase and onwards.

It's almost enough.

They cross under the lip of the upper level in the same instant as the spirit impacts onto the floor behind them in a spray of debris. Ellis is instantly aware of the proximity, that they are both too close even if the door is only a few steps away.

Ellis shoves Wysteria hard, all but throwing her towards the doorway before he turns on his heel to meet this creature. What else can be done? He pivots and squares his feet and raises his eyes to watch as the first blow comes.

Only it doesn't. The lashing slice of limb meets a barrier, scattering sparks of blue-white magic as the netting of the thing absorbs the blow with nothing more but ripples. The answering wail of outraged rises to a shriek as Ellis staggers a few steps backwards.

Taking his eyes from it is nearly impossible, but he darts a glance back to find Wysteria in the same moment as he says, "I'll bar the door."

An almost ridiculous measure, as they both know a door won't hold it. But the urge to make some further attempt at sealing it away before they flee is vital.

Nonsensically, Ellis does not want it to see the direction they travel in.

She is easy to find, having staggered through the main doors and just catching herself on the lip of some cracked old decorative planter worn to a nearly indistinguishable lump by time and weather. Pale though she is from either exertion or terror, Wysteria is shockingly quick to straighten out of her full body flinch in response to the crackle of the barrier and twist back toward the sound of his voice.

For a moment she stands framed in the doorway in something near to uncomprehending silence as the roiling form of the spirit crashes repeatedly against the barrier.

"Oh, but—" Their things, is a nonsensical point of contention. With a jerk, she separates herself from the idea and moves to help shift shut one of the heavy doors.

"I know," Ellis answers. "We'll come back for it."

There is a note of real strain in his voice. But Ellis knows very well how to use adrenaline and practicality as a wall between himself and the gathering storm of pain. Panting, he sets his hands over hers and between them, the door is slammed shut.

It does not dampen the yowling shriek of fury that emanates from behind wood and stone and magic.

"But we need to go," is urgent in spite of himself; he'd wanted not to panic her. "It's not safe to do anything here."

The horses have startled, but gone no farther than the grassy stretch just beyond the door. Ellis draws his attention back to her, asking suddenly, "Can you ride?"

She is paler than Ellis ever recalls seeing her.

"Can you?"

As a reply, it could easily be an indictment—some defensive reflex along the lines of Yes, of course she can ride. But there is some anxious, high thing in it, the outline of a shape preparing to crumple in on itself: worry, the brief flash fire flicker of guilt. If she hadn't been so stupid as to insisted on being so very clever—

Beyond the door, the sounds of that terrible thing have yet to abate.

In a different context, she might have been offering something impatient and snappish, as is sometimes the case when he asks after her one time too many. But Ellis recognizes the look on her face, and shakes his head to dismiss it.

"I'm alright," is true so long as no questions are asked. He can be less than alright when they're in a more secure position and not at any point before that.

His hand comes back up to her elbow.

"Let's go," Ellis entreats, quieter, some labored edge in the words. "It's not safe here."

And won't that be an interesting fact to impart to Tony, whenever one of them is in a position to report in over the crystals.

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cant believe dw hid this from me

an OUTRAGE who do i call

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don't fail me dreamwidth

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spins roulette wheel to see if this notif arrives

denise heard us talkin shit

notifs return when danger is passed, coincidence??????

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