Who told you so, dilly dilly, Who told you so? ‘Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, That told me so.
ouch is one of the most intimate, romantic ways to be close to someone else. The Town knows this very well -- the Town wants everyone to be as close as possible.
Perhaps that's why this bonding is so...aggressive.
Because you're in for quite the shock on this otherwise peaceful day when you brush against the next person on your path.
Maybe you're going out of your way to touch people. Maybe you've got a terrible urge to just see what's lurking in someone's heart. Maybe you trip over a conveniently placed rock -- whatever the cause, you're getting an up close and personal look into someone else's heart.
Welcome to Awash's eighteenth event log, everyone! Further information on this event can be found here at the OOC post. You are welcome to make your own logs and posts for this event!
If there are any questions, please ask them here. Thank you!
[ berkut has a fairly good idea of what that was—or perhaps it is his mind, addled from a previous venture, that makes him believe so. with that uncertainty looming over him, he says nothing of his suspicion.
instead, he meets dextera's eyes in search of an answer. ]
What was that? Or do you not know this one, either?
he didn’t see it, so he doesn’t know, and that bothers him. it bothers him more because this is berkut, and every single one of their encounters has been strange—but because of berkut’s manner, he just wants to smooth it over and prove his worth. ]
I’m sorry.
[ he already knows what the answer will be, but he offers one hand to berkut to take. it will mute him slightly more, but maybe some people would prefer that. ]
[ so he nods, and glances around. what is he supposed to do now? there’s nowhere to walk, but—at the same time, they could go anywhere. do anything. the possibilities are limitless.
he steps away, and invites berkut to walk with him anyway. ]
[ he is not touching the hand that handled organs without utensils.
berkut wordlessly accepts that invitation to walk side-by-side, though he has a question of his own. again, why the writing? but that's not important right now. ]
[ if berkut looks at the forums, he’ll recognize the question—but dextera is actually interested in his take on it, specifically, rather than throwing it generally to the winds and hoping someone responds.
he looks at the crystal floating near his hand, perfectly smooth and yet reflecting nothing. ]
…what kind of world… do you want to live in?
[ as he asks, a hand ghosts at berkut’s back, making itself known without grabbing. ]
[ berkut had just opened his mouth to answer, when there's a strange sensation at his back. whirling around with a grunt, he throws a hand out to capture the cause. if he can feel it, he should be able to grasp it in return, yes?
[ the hand is made of darkness, and it disappears as soon as he tries to grab it—dissipating, perhaps, into the same black void from which it was formed.
“your heart!”
dextera’s voice, as clear as day, without an echo.
[ given how they've been communicating all this time, it would be strange for that to change all of a sudden. berkut surmises that the body next to him didn't say those words, but that doesn't really change anything. shaking his hand like he means to flick off invisible water, he looks over his shoulder at dextera. ]
[ again, dextera shakes his head. he has a heart of his own—he doesn’t need it. his brother is the one looking to fill the void in his chest, not him.
(but then, dextera has always been terribly lonely, seeking any and all validation from even the cruelest people.) ]
I don’t…
[ before he finishes that thought, though, there are suddenly several hands, from any and all directions, and now they pull at berkut as if to take him, not just hold him in place. ]
[ why is it always hands? filthy, disgusting hands—
the instant he feels the collective weight of the pull on his body, he steels his legs and jerks his arms close to his chest. there's no doubt that dextera can now see what's been harassing him, but berkut can hardly spare a glance to keep himself upright. ]
so the voice cries, the voice from which far too many hands extend, struggling to pull berkut into the pitch black, but dextera knows for a fact that he doesn’t really want berkut to be stuck here, even if that’s his voice speaking. he doesn’t… ]
Nn…
[ he holds the light against the hands, and they still—but this time they don’t disappear, merely hold tighter to berkut without moving.
[ a heart that would swallow anything in the world it could get its hands on—there’s no way they’re going to get out of here anytime soon, with two people so thoroughly at odds. ]
Ngh—!
[ dextera is sorry, but he doesn’t know how to make it stop. so, of course, he does what any sane person would do and shoves the crystal at berkut’s chest instead. take it. take the light, since that’s all dextera can think to do.
the hands relent one arm, for berkut to hold the crystal. (for as unassuming as it looks, the feeling of it is one of limitless possibilities.) ]
[ wonderful. the crystal sits heavily on the palm of berkut's gloved hand as he wonders what he's meant to be doing next. to make matters worse, he doesn't like the feeling it gives him.
if he's the one with the light now, then what of dextera? because this place is connected to him, does it not matter?
berkut looks down at the hands, seething. incoherent grumbling slips through gritted teeth, and his mood seems to worsen despite everything being put on pause. he hates this mystical nonsense, loathes these hands, despises this dependence upon a strange power— ]
Do you find this entertaining? Watching while I struggle, when you . . . you're just . . .
[ dextera shakes his head, withdrawing from berkut as he’s scolded, but there’s nowhere he can go. if he moves all the way into the darkness, he might disappear, or worse, berkut could get hurt without him. the hands… ]
N…
[ no! he wants to say no, to explain himself, but his voice is broken and his own hands just don’t seem to be working with him, as he clutches at his side. everything that’s gripping berkut shifts and pulse, like a panicked heartbeat in their quick but predictable rhythm.
“give me a part of your ‘self,’ too.”
as one hand claws, for some definition of clawing with their strange, heavy intangibility, at berkut’s chest like it wants to dig out his heart. anything will do. a story, a memory, even a word. dextera, whether he realizes it or not, just needs something. ]
[ were he not in this predicament, berkut might have been amenable to sharing a thing or two. either way, that means nothing now as he doubles over. though there's nothing that he can do about the intangible force, he instinctively clutches at his chest.
[ whether that was the right answer or not, the hands still at his unpleasant response—they don’t disappear, but they aren’t trying to hurt him. they’re simply there, and dextera takes a step back. ]
…
[ he doesn’t want anything from berkut. he doesn’t need it. except, perhaps… ]
[ for a second, berkut spits in his mind, "what question?" before he recalls their discussion from mere moments ago. he strains to stand tall.
what kind of world does he want to live in?
isn't that obvious? ]
As next in line to the imperial throne, I've honed my skills all my life. It is my destiny to rule Valentia in due course. What other kind of world should I want? I've no time to waste on make-believe.
[ dextera may not understand the details of berkut’s life, especially not now when his heart is beating wildly at the comprehension that this is the sort of encounter that’s impossible to come back from, but he understands the essence.
to rule. for someone like berkut, power is absolute. ]
…
[ he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something with his voice, but just as he does, the darkness swallows them both with a lurch—probably a very real one, in berkut’s case, since he’s being held all the way until the point that they’re out.
back in chroma.
the light of the world outside burns in dextera’s eyes, compared to the true black of the place they just left.
[ berkut, on the other hand, comes back to chroma with a sharp intake of breath like a man desperate for air. he staggers in place, but quickly rights himself. when dextera comes into view, his expression morphs into one of utter disdain. ]
[ dextera is more than aware that he’s in trouble. even if berkut has no real authority to punish him here, that’s never stopped anyone before—and without guren, with the defense force in purgatory, it would be easy to… ]
Are you going to kill me?
[ oddly, he seems less scared about this possibility than anything he felt while they were inside his heart, even if his hands remain positioned defensively in front of him when his message is out there. he doesn’t understand what the strange exchange that just occurred was. truthfully, he doesn’t understand any of this. ]
As if that would be enough recompense for this . . . this insult.
[ a beheading wouldn't be enough! at this rate, he might very well pass out from all the rage bubbling inside him. a hair's breadth away from losing what tenuous grip he still has on his temper, he all but spits: ]
[ it would be better for both of them if berkut did pass out, honestly, but the angrier he gets—the calmer dextera finds himself becoming, not because he isn’t scared, but because this is all too familiar territory. the archangel, standing in front of him, hurling insult after insult because dextera is a fool utterly incapable of doing anything correctly, or learning from his mistakes. ]
[ if only there hadn't been the accursed hands. he hates the reminder; he hates that dextera, of all people, had to be the one to deliver it. the cheeky response doesn't help.
what happened to that meager display of strength from their last encounter? this is painful to watch.
he turns away sharply. ]
I had thought that you might have more self-respect than that. It seems I was mistaken. Begone from my sight!
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ouch is one of the most intimate, romantic ways to be close to someone else. The Town knows this very well -- the Town wants everyone to be as close as possible.
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instead, he meets dextera's eyes in search of an answer. ]
What was that? Or do you not know this one, either?
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he didn’t see it, so he doesn’t know, and that bothers him. it bothers him more because this is berkut, and every single one of their encounters has been strange—but because of berkut’s manner, he just wants to smooth it over and prove his worth. ]
I’m sorry.
[ he already knows what the answer will be, but he offers one hand to berkut to take. it will mute him slightly more, but maybe some people would prefer that. ]
…?
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Spare me your apologies. I've heard [ and read ] enough of them.
[ at the very least, he doesn't make a reckless show of simply walking off. he understands that, for this, they should remain together. ]
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…
[ so he nods, and glances around. what is he supposed to do now? there’s nowhere to walk, but—at the same time, they could go anywhere. do anything. the possibilities are limitless.
he steps away, and invites berkut to walk with him anyway. ]
May I… ask a question?
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berkut wordlessly accepts that invitation to walk side-by-side, though he has a question of his own. again, why the writing? but that's not important right now. ]
You may.
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he looks at the crystal floating near his hand, perfectly smooth and yet reflecting nothing. ]
…what kind of world… do you want to live in?
[ as he asks, a hand ghosts at berkut’s back, making itself known without grabbing. ]
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if not, he'll be sorely irritated. ]
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“your heart!”
dextera’s voice, as clear as day, without an echo.
“i want your heart.” ]
Ah…
[ but dextera wasn’t the one who said it. ]
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My heart? Explain yourself.
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(but then, dextera has always been terribly lonely, seeking any and all validation from even the cruelest people.) ]
I don’t…
[ before he finishes that thought, though, there are suddenly several hands, from any and all directions, and now they pull at berkut as if to take him, not just hold him in place. ]
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the instant he feels the collective weight of the pull on his body, he steels his legs and jerks his arms close to his chest. there's no doubt that dextera can now see what's been harassing him, but berkut can hardly spare a glance to keep himself upright. ]
T-this is . . . !
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so the voice cries, the voice from which far too many hands extend, struggling to pull berkut into the pitch black, but dextera knows for a fact that he doesn’t really want berkut to be stuck here, even if that’s his voice speaking. he doesn’t… ]
Nn…
[ he holds the light against the hands, and they still—but this time they don’t disappear, merely hold tighter to berkut without moving.
“i don’t want to be alone.” ]
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Are you mad?
[ they've yet to have a normal, civil encounter. knowing this, these hands would still pull him in? the commoner is desperate! ]
Know your place, lowborn fool!
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Ngh—!
[ dextera is sorry, but he doesn’t know how to make it stop. so, of course, he does what any sane person would do and shoves the crystal at berkut’s chest instead. take it. take the light, since that’s all dextera can think to do.
the hands relent one arm, for berkut to hold the crystal. (for as unassuming as it looks, the feeling of it is one of limitless possibilities.) ]
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if he's the one with the light now, then what of dextera? because this place is connected to him, does it not matter?
berkut looks down at the hands, seething. incoherent grumbling slips through gritted teeth, and his mood seems to worsen despite everything being put on pause. he hates this mystical nonsense, loathes these hands, despises this dependence upon a strange power— ]
Do you find this entertaining? Watching while I struggle, when you . . . you're just . . .
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N…
[ no! he wants to say no, to explain himself, but his voice is broken and his own hands just don’t seem to be working with him, as he clutches at his side. everything that’s gripping berkut shifts and pulse, like a panicked heartbeat in their quick but predictable rhythm.
“give me a part of your ‘self,’ too.”
as one hand claws, for some definition of clawing with their strange, heavy intangibility, at berkut’s chest like it wants to dig out his heart. anything will do. a story, a memory, even a word. dextera, whether he realizes it or not, just needs something. ]
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gods, why hands? ]
I've nothing to give you.
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…
[ he doesn’t want anything from berkut. he doesn’t need it. except, perhaps… ]
Please… answer my question.
[ what kind of world does berkut want? ]
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what kind of world does he want to live in?
isn't that obvious? ]
As next in line to the imperial throne, I've honed my skills all my life. It is my destiny to rule Valentia in due course. What other kind of world should I want? I've no time to waste on make-believe.
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to rule. for someone like berkut, power is absolute. ]
…
[ he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something with his voice, but just as he does, the darkness swallows them both with a lurch—probably a very real one, in berkut’s case, since he’s being held all the way until the point that they’re out.
back in chroma.
the light of the world outside burns in dextera’s eyes, compared to the true black of the place they just left.
he gasps, a sound a little more like a wheeze. ]
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You.
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Are you going to kill me?
[ oddly, he seems less scared about this possibility than anything he felt while they were inside his heart, even if his hands remain positioned defensively in front of him when his message is out there. he doesn’t understand what the strange exchange that just occurred was. truthfully, he doesn’t understand any of this. ]
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[ a beheading wouldn't be enough! at this rate, he might very well pass out from all the rage bubbling inside him. a hair's breadth away from losing what tenuous grip he still has on his temper, he all but spits: ]
How pathetic can a man be?
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…
[ how pathetic can a man be? ]
Keep going.
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what happened to that meager display of strength from their last encounter? this is painful to watch.
he turns away sharply. ]
I had thought that you might have more self-respect than that. It seems I was mistaken. Begone from my sight!
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