A. By one's own hand. Power is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to protect the innocent.
[Though some have chosen to focus on protecting everyone and killing Intellect Devourers on sight, Emet-Selch has taken a more subdued and practical approach. If there is one good thing about turning into a dragon, however, it's that he need not abhor the cold quite as vehemently as he once did. Indeed, this body's inner fire and thick outer scales manage to keep the worst of the discomfort at bay as he makes his way through Town to join up with another, his large claws carving exaggerated footholds in the packed snow for those who come after.]
[Occasionally, too, does he pause to clear out snowdrifts with his long tail so that the residents don't become permanently trapped within their lodgings, and rarer still he will deign to light a fire or a cookstove for those who have opted to shelter in place.]
[All of this means that he has actually fallen behind schedule, and he arrives exactly one minute before he said he would, rumbling irritably as he shakes the worst of the icicles out of his beard and gives his eel-like tail a sound and ungracious flick which sends a barrage of wet and half-melted snow clumps splattering against the nearest wall - or person, if he's feeling particularly sour. Emet-Selch huffs through his nose, a puff of smoke rising to tangle around his horns as he folds himself into an awkward sitting position much like an oversized cat.]
Apologies for my lateness, though I would not have been had I run into a few less interruptions during my journey here.
B. Time moves in one direction, memory in another. We do not remember days, we remember moments.
[Try as he might, Emet-Selch is dragged under, his consciousness succumbing as pain and an unfamiliar darkness overtake him. Mayhap you are there to witness the great beast of golden sheen scales as he collapses into a snowy heap. Steam curls in white tendrils around him as the trio of Intellect Devourers drink to some twelve thousand years of knowledge.]
[Or... mayhap you instead find yourself caught within a psionic wave as yet another of the pests are destroyed. Mayhap you yourself are also a victim and your mind is subsequently poisoned with the memories of others.]
[Whatever the case may be, shadows play over your eyelids as the last motes of light are seemingly snuffed from existence. All is pitch black and silent. You cannot be sure if you are standing on solid ground, or if you are floating within some void.]
[But at last, as if all at once, there is a sound like a shattering mirror. Above you the sky breaks open into four distinct quadrants run through with jagged lines. You have a choice to make.]
➤ To the West is a gentle azure punctuated by billowy white clouds and sunlight glinting off towering helical spires and glittering stone facades. An immaculate afternoon beckons within the shadows of Amaurot's sprawling skyline. Here, the sweet fragrance of jacaranda blossoms intermingled with the heady scent of wisteria permeates the air, as if inviting one to linger upon the lawn for awhile and bathe in its magnificence. 'Twould be the perfect place for a nap, you think, and perhaps you do doze off - for a time. Soon enough, however, you become aware of another presence approaching in the form of footsteps.
----
➤ To the South the firmament is painted red with blood, fire, and tears. The air is thick with acrid smoke, both bitter and suffocating, and meteors fall from the heavens in a breathtaking and heartrending spectacle both. Should you focus your ears, you can just make out the echoing screams of terrified voices not too far off. The ground rumbles beneath your feet and then shakes again violently as an apartment building, some fifty stories tall, comes crashing down across the wide boulevard, obstructing your path. The so-called "calamity" had seemed such a distant anomaly, once, and yet it has come. Indeed. All too soon it had overtaken the world, and now: it is here.
----
➤ To the North all is a calm and joyless gray. Snow falls now and again, adding some scant few ilms more to the immutable permafrost that serves as a foundation to this militaristic nation. Indeed, as you peer down at the streets below, you can see something of a charming little cavalcade beginning to take form. Magitek vehicles maneuver into neat lines, and between them legions of soldiers in full armor, with the occasional hound brought smartly to heel. You might be excused for thinking that the proceedings have something to do with the recent uprisings in occupied lands but this... this is a celebration. To the future of Garlemald.
"Your Radiance?" a voice calls from behind you, and you turn to regard one of the empress's servants. Her hair is all askew and exhaustion colors her eyes, yet there is no hiding the timid and delighted smile that tugs at her lips before she remembers herself and her place. She curtsies swiftly, from the waist.
"The, ah, the chirurgeons sent me, Your Radiance. They bid me ask if you would like to see him before the parade begins. See Prince Lucius."
----
➤ To the East, all is Light. Euphoric and blinding. This world has not known the rest and relief that the night may bring in nigh over a century, and all is changed for it. Humanity has fled to what settlements remain, and few wander alone for fear of being set upon by them - by the sin eaters. Perhaps you remain there a moment to get your bearings. After all, anyone would require a little stretching after being so rudely interrupted from their first nap in 90 years...
Or perhaps you dawdle instead. Your attention interrupted by the shout of a lowly guard. He shuffles backwards on hands and knees, armor clattering along the ground, his eyes wide and terrified.
"Who's there?" he cries. "Show yourself! I- I'm not in the mood for games!"
You hear yourself sigh, but it isn't you at all. You take a step forward, and then two. You cast no shadow, and the man trembles as he looks around wildly but does not see. You hate this part. Always so unpleasant.
"Nor am I," Emet-Selch says. "So let's just get this over with, shall we?"
The man's face goes white with terror as you make your move, his body falling limply around you as you settle in and atune your soul with this paltry offering of flesh, wresting control away and ushering his consciousness into a vacant corner of your now shared vessel. You stand, dusting yourself off and snapping your fingers. This body reconfigures around you, reshapes itself into something a little less foreign. Dusty armor is soon replaced by pristine Garlean regalia and you roll your shoulders testingly.
"No fretting now. You'd have died out here, anyway, before long. Consider it the lesser of two evils."
((OOC: Please choose a direction and I will tailor a memory experience for you. o/))
C. Recovery is about progress, not perfection. In my recovery, I'm a soldier at war. I have broken down walls.
[Mayhap you rouse the dragon from where he lays upon the snow, half-buried and unmoving, or mayhap a few days have passed that sees Emet-Selch draped in blankets, nursing a hideous migraine. He feels carved out and overstuffed at the same time, his mind struggling to gain its proper footing, to separate dream from reality, and his own memories from those so unceremoniously foisted upon him. His throat is parched, vision threatening to bleed together and grow dark once more. Yet he hasn't the energy nor the desire to say anything about it or to call out for help. All he really wants is to rest, to make the horrible throbbing in his head cease once and for all.]
[He toys idly with the ribbon wrapped around his fingers, his bangs hanging limply over his eyes. Gods, what has he gotten himself into now? And why can't he remember the half of it? As far as he can recall, he was headed outside. How did something so simple go so utterly wrong?]
Emet-Selch | Final Fantasy XIV (cw: major spoilers, body possession, apocalyptic themes, tba)
Power is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to protect the innocent.
[Though some have chosen to focus on protecting everyone and killing Intellect Devourers on sight, Emet-Selch has taken a more subdued and practical approach. If there is one good thing about turning into a dragon, however, it's that he need not abhor the cold quite as vehemently as he once did. Indeed, this body's inner fire and thick outer scales manage to keep the worst of the discomfort at bay as he makes his way through Town to join up with another, his large claws carving exaggerated footholds in the packed snow for those who come after.]
[Occasionally, too, does he pause to clear out snowdrifts with his long tail so that the residents don't become permanently trapped within their lodgings, and rarer still he will deign to light a fire or a cookstove for those who have opted to shelter in place.]
[All of this means that he has actually fallen behind schedule, and he arrives exactly one minute before he said he would, rumbling irritably as he shakes the worst of the icicles out of his beard and gives his eel-like tail a sound and ungracious flick which sends a barrage of wet and half-melted snow clumps splattering against the nearest wall - or person, if he's feeling particularly sour. Emet-Selch huffs through his nose, a puff of smoke rising to tangle around his horns as he folds himself into an awkward sitting position much like an oversized cat.]
Apologies for my lateness, though I would not have been had I run into a few less interruptions during my journey here.
B. Time moves in one direction, memory in another.
We do not remember days, we remember moments.
[Try as he might, Emet-Selch is dragged under, his consciousness succumbing as pain and an unfamiliar darkness overtake him. Mayhap you are there to witness the great beast of golden sheen scales as he collapses into a snowy heap. Steam curls in white tendrils around him as the trio of Intellect Devourers drink to some twelve thousand years of knowledge.]
[Or... mayhap you instead find yourself caught within a psionic wave as yet another of the pests are destroyed. Mayhap you yourself are also a victim and your mind is subsequently poisoned with the memories of others.]
[Whatever the case may be, shadows play over your eyelids as the last motes of light are seemingly snuffed from existence. All is pitch black and silent. You cannot be sure if you are standing on solid ground, or if you are floating within some void.]
[But at last, as if all at once, there is a sound like a shattering mirror. Above you the sky breaks open into four distinct quadrants run through with jagged lines. You have a choice to make.]
➤ To the West is a gentle azure punctuated by billowy white clouds and sunlight glinting off towering helical spires and glittering stone facades. An immaculate afternoon beckons within the shadows of Amaurot's sprawling skyline. Here, the sweet fragrance of jacaranda blossoms intermingled with the heady scent of wisteria permeates the air, as if inviting one to linger upon the lawn for awhile and bathe in its magnificence. 'Twould be the perfect place for a nap, you think, and perhaps you do doze off - for a time. Soon enough, however, you become aware of another presence approaching in the form of footsteps.
➤ To the South the firmament is painted red with blood, fire, and tears. The air is thick with acrid smoke, both bitter and suffocating, and meteors fall from the heavens in a breathtaking and heartrending spectacle both. Should you focus your ears, you can just make out the echoing screams of terrified voices not too far off. The ground rumbles beneath your feet and then shakes again violently as an apartment building, some fifty stories tall, comes crashing down across the wide boulevard, obstructing your path. The so-called "calamity" had seemed such a distant anomaly, once, and yet it has come. Indeed. All too soon it had overtaken the world, and now: it is here.
➤ To the North all is a calm and joyless gray. Snow falls now and again, adding some scant few ilms more to the immutable permafrost that serves as a foundation to this militaristic nation. Indeed, as you peer down at the streets below, you can see something of a charming little cavalcade beginning to take form. Magitek vehicles maneuver into neat lines, and between them legions of soldiers in full armor, with the occasional hound brought smartly to heel. You might be excused for thinking that the proceedings have something to do with the recent uprisings in occupied lands but this... this is a celebration. To the future of Garlemald.
"Your Radiance?" a voice calls from behind you, and you turn to regard one of the empress's servants. Her hair is all askew and exhaustion colors her eyes, yet there is no hiding the timid and delighted smile that tugs at her lips before she remembers herself and her place. She curtsies swiftly, from the waist.
"The, ah, the chirurgeons sent me, Your Radiance. They bid me ask if you would like to see him before the parade begins. See Prince Lucius."
➤ To the East, all is Light. Euphoric and blinding. This world has not known the rest and relief that the night may bring in nigh over a century, and all is changed for it. Humanity has fled to what settlements remain, and few wander alone for fear of being set upon by them - by the sin eaters. Perhaps you remain there a moment to get your bearings. After all, anyone would require a little stretching after being so rudely interrupted from their first nap in 90 years...
Or perhaps you dawdle instead. Your attention interrupted by the shout of a lowly guard. He shuffles backwards on hands and knees, armor clattering along the ground, his eyes wide and terrified.
"Who's there?" he cries. "Show yourself! I- I'm not in the mood for games!"
You hear yourself sigh, but it isn't you at all. You take a step forward, and then two. You cast no shadow, and the man trembles as he looks around wildly but does not see. You hate this part. Always so unpleasant.
"Nor am I," Emet-Selch says. "So let's just get this over with, shall we?"
The man's face goes white with terror as you make your move, his body falling limply around you as you settle in and atune your soul with this paltry offering of flesh, wresting control away and ushering his consciousness into a vacant corner of your now shared vessel. You stand, dusting yourself off and snapping your fingers. This body reconfigures around you, reshapes itself into something a little less foreign. Dusty armor is soon replaced by pristine Garlean regalia and you roll your shoulders testingly.
"No fretting now. You'd have died out here, anyway, before long. Consider it the lesser of two evils."
((OOC: Please choose a direction and I will tailor a memory experience for you. o/))
C. Recovery is about progress, not perfection.
In my recovery, I'm a soldier at war. I have broken down walls.
[Mayhap you rouse the dragon from where he lays upon the snow, half-buried and unmoving, or mayhap a few days have passed that sees Emet-Selch draped in blankets, nursing a hideous migraine. He feels carved out and overstuffed at the same time, his mind struggling to gain its proper footing, to separate dream from reality, and his own memories from those so unceremoniously foisted upon him. His throat is parched, vision threatening to bleed together and grow dark once more. Yet he hasn't the energy nor the desire to say anything about it or to call out for help. All he really wants is to rest, to make the horrible throbbing in his head cease once and for all.]
[He toys idly with the ribbon wrapped around his fingers, his bangs hanging limply over his eyes. Gods, what has he gotten himself into now? And why can't he remember the half of it? As far as he can recall, he was headed outside. How did something so simple go so utterly wrong?]