kenoscomm | [ open communion ] || POINTS MY GUN DIRECTLY AT THE SUN

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[ open communion ] || POINTS MY GUN DIRECTLY AT THE SUN

[ Some recent arrivals have not really been treated to Silco via communion, and the crime lord does not frequently use it, and certainly has never initiated it en-masse, even though he's spoken his mind time, and time again. You all know him, because it's always some kind of rant. Well surprise! It's another one today! As always, communion feels like being dropped into cold, slick water, that clings like it's vile and corrupted, like pollutants make it feel clingy, like it doesn't simply dry off normally. It's like being dunked into that water, like being drowned in it. Like there is no escape from it, ever-present, pulling one under.

This communion is sharp, and agitated. Silco does not do this lightly, and it shows in the general anger expressed from the man. Roiling under the water like a furnace spilling heat that gets quickly swallowed by the cold, but still it churns deep beneath the surface. Intensifying. Ever intensifying. ]

How many of you have struggled? Truly struggled, where you have to fight for your very survival. Every moment of every day. Have any of you fought to find a place to sleep? Hunted for hours for food? Winnowed your fingers to the bone for the mere scraps of what those who look down upon you only allow you to have? Struggle is what war is, after all.

[ In communion, there is the sensation of something in your hand. Small, and delicate. So small, so easy to crush, should you only choose to do so. And you want to. You hold off, of course. What is it in your hand? The sensation of holding it up to the light, and there's the impression of a glimmer, brighter and more unknowable than you could imagine. ]

For too long, you all have lacked the resolve to take this seriously. Who can blame you, of course. So warm in your little beds under Meridian's light, or Yima's watchful eye. There is no true danger, is there? Even the most powerful among you would never go too far with their enemies, would they? [ He has no clue what had happened in the manor. He had been in Kowloon, deep in the bowels beneath Springstar. No news made it to him down there, and this only a scant bit of time after the manor was leveled. ] No, they would keep you, perhaps. Leave you a nice little bed for a rock.

[ A derisive snort, ripples through communion, before it is swallowed with a ripple of... something dark. Hopelessness. ]

Let me teach you a final lesson. Zenites, I suggest you pay close attention. Do not look away, should you not learn this lesson, you will have wasted your opportunity. Where I come from, we do not abide waste.

They do not care about you, the Meridian. They will do anything to see you stopped. The new world that you dream of will be nothing if you do not fight for it. You make friends with them. You coddle them. You allow them victory when the Oracle is nearly in our hands Do you not understand? If you do not take this seriously, then there will be no world at the end of this. There will be only what they want.

Meridian will not show you mercy. They will not allow you to go anywhere. They will shatter you, for the crime of wanting something different. Of refusing to look back. Our worlds are gone. Destroyed. It is not your fault, it is not their fault. It simply is. They detest us for accepting this. They hate us for looking forward, to trying to take the ashes of our shared tragedy, and make something new. Meanwhile, they refuse to accept the inevitable, try to put it back like it was before.

They proclaim it as hope. I call it regressive. They will take our world from us. [ In communion, the self-editing is more obvious, and the echo of 'revenge' can be just barely sensed, behind the impression of "world" ] Unless you fight them, and take the threat that they pose seriously.

[ Thin, small fingers clutch the small, round thing. You can all feel it. It is power. Deep, and weighty, like what is contained within -- the soul inside -- is vast. It nearly buckles under the force, but not quite yet. You know it is jade, and teardrop shaped now. You can feel it burning, in your hand. The impression of it, anyway. ]

Consider this my small gift to you. [ His fingers start to press down. It starts to buckle, and crack. ] I will level the playing field.

[ It shatters, the impression of it in your hands. Crushed into many pieces. The burning prick in your hand starts to subside, and fade. The impression of remnants in your hand goes cold.

In Springstar, for a moment. There is a Solar Eclipse. ]

Do not waste this opportunity, Zenites.

[ Communion like this does not normally cut off with such finality. This time, however, it will become rapidly apparent. Silco will not be responding, since he's uh. Busy. By the time he is ~~able~~ willing, it will be several days later, and communion does not last that long.

Feel free to gossip amongst yourselves though! ]

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[ The shot to the heart that this entire thing is — and then, to hear Amos say it. Convinced that this is the right way. ]

What about those of us who don't want this, Amos? Are we to fall in line, or die too?

[ He's knee-deep in rubble right now; forgive the frustration that bleeds off of him. ]

You don't have to kill anyone if you don't want to. [ His voice softens, but he's also still running pretty high on adrenaline. ] Just don't get in the way of those of us who can.

I thought... you wanted to follow me. To let me help you, so you didn't have to...

[ Be this.

Amos's softening is something he reaches for, seeking it with his hands — scuffed and stained and scarred from fighting back at every angle. Against Meridian, against Zenith alike. ]

If I asked you not to do things this way, would you still listen? I don't want us to be this.

Edited 2024-02-11 00:10 (UTC)

[ Amos is too busy in the physical world to react to or even acknowledge Drizzt's metaphysical reaching for him. Let him take him or not; he doesn't care, the rest of his presence becoming similarly closed off. Not shutting Drizzt out, but shutting anything that could make him human down. He doesn't have time for it.

But still softly. And still practically, ] How do you propose we win a war.

[ Because Drizzt sounds awfully naive right now. ]

By not starting one in the first place. By just winning the Oracles, or taking them from Meridian!

[ Maybe it's naive, but he's been in war. He's fought one, slaughtered in one, and he hated it. He hates this for Amos, for Zenith. ]

I believe in Zenith, I do. I don't want these people to run back into the arms of Oblivion and die again, they're too important and all that's left. I just... I don't agree with this, and I wish you [ it's a group "you" bc it's not ENTIRELY fair to place this ALL on amos ] talked to the rest of us before making a decision on our behalf.

[ For a moment, Amos shuts the door on Drizzt. Cuts off their connection, leaves him to himself with a frustrated air. Maybe he's busy with a particularly tough piece of debris, maybe he's stopping himself from biting Drizzt's head off — maybe both.

But it's just for a moment, and then Amos comes back. The frustration is still there, and his voice is harder. ]

Well, it's war now. They were going to attack us either way. Doesn't matter that we struck first.

[ Although there's an air of — but that's how you win. You strike first. ]

So. How do you propose we win a war?

[ In the current reality, because we don't start one is no longer an option. ]

[ It surprises him, briefly, to feel the door slammed in his face. He wasn't aware that Communion worked that way ( he doesn't feel that way with Gavial, like the two of them could never hide from one another ), and he's unsure if he should wait or cut his losses and prepare for the worst.

But, Amos comes back. Harder, and Drizzt knows in that moment that he'll never have an answer that means anything to him. Nothing he can say will be practical enough, direct enough. Drizzt is a man of just acts, of high morals, and he has never once held anyone else to them. He quiets for a moment, and it's as if he's chosen to slip away into the night instead. ]

It matters. It has to matter, or what comes next is meaningless.

[ There's the sense that he refuses to compromise on that. That he's willing to kill and fight for it. ]

There is no "we', Amos. This is not my Zenith, and I am not going to fight her war.

[ They've reached a divide they cannot bridge. Drizzt speaks of meaning, and Amos comes from a world— city— scant few blocks where nothing had meaning. He might as well be speaking a dead language to him.

So he stills, and then he accepts. Drizzt is going to be useless here.

Here, but. There's here and there's there, and so his voice softens once again. ]

If anyone comes after you, I'll protect you.

[ Because as far as Amos is concerned they're still kin, and that remains one of his roles. He kills so others don't have to, and he looks after his own. If nothing else, that remains who he is. ]

[ That's not something he expects. A schism between the two of them, insurmountable, has grown — and Amos... he still talks about protecting him.

It blindsides him. A tender thing that lances into his heart, wrapped up in so many layers of old scars and defenses and losses, it finds purchase. "I'll protect you", Amos says, but Drizzt hears it in his father's voice before his puppeted corpse threw himself back, away from his dying child, into the acids to free them both. In Wulfgar's voice, before he'd yield to his inner madness and throw himself into battle until he was dead or done. ]

Don't.

[ He says it, softly. Aloud and in their minds, but his voice is not angry.

It's sad, and it's firm. ]

I can take care of myself. [ He has, since forever. ] But, if you're offering. Would you — protect someone else of my choosing, as if they were me. Could you grant that request?

[ Don't.

The word takes Amos by surprise, and he slows, in movement and communion both. He's inclined to argue — don't does not fit the only role he's ever assigned himself on his own, dating back to childhood — but lets Drizzt finish first.

Pauses before answering. ]

Who?

[ Because by now, Amos understands enough that there are some promises he probably shouldn't try to make without all of the information at hand. ]

[ Nice as Drizzt is, he also has a bit of a mean streak — and his kneejerk thought is to demand that Amos accept first, and promise later. Drizzt first thinks of Fane, to be honest. Fane, who is rough and inconsiderate, but so deeply caring that he cannot bear the thought of him not making it. Fane, who he wants to see continue to survive Oblivion and come forth to a new world with him. Where he may not be entirely happy or satisfied, but he will be able to see his memories and experiences live on, preserved and given to others.

He's beginning to see that Amos might not, exactly, care to extend himself that far. There's a brief flicker of understanding between them, as Drizzt clearly shifts that first desire aside ( he'll do it himself; Amos isn't someone he can trust with that ) and gives a different name. ]

Link.

[ A fellow Zenite. ]

Unless you think you're capable of helping someone I value greatly, even if you don't.

[ Amos would not protect Fane without condition; certainly not when the two of them are at an understanding that they will kill in order to see their respective sides victorious. Fane's daughter, on the other hand — even if all she is a shard at the moment—

There is a shift from Drizzt, the specifics of which he does not know. And then he provides a name, and— ]

Yeah. [ Amos agrees readily: Link. ] He died recently, didn't he? I know he was trying to warn us...

[ The last two words come out a little stuttered, because this is where Amos feels some guilt. He'd been too focused on his mission to come in Springstar to pay it proper mind, and now look where they are.

A sense of: that isn't happening again. ]

Someone else you value, though... I don't know. You'd have to have a reason.

[ Translation: Maybe? He isn't sure. Not with things as precarious as they currently are. ]

We both were in the Beyond, looking for what Meridian had planned. We were separated.

[ Morosely, the elf looks down at his naked hands. Pale scars on dark skin, calluses from years and years of battle with blade and bow. His ears collapse a little, folding down along the line of his jaw: ashamed, regretful; white brows draw together in the center of his forehead, and he curls his fingers into fists. ]

I failed him.

[ It's obvious he feels deeply responsible for Link's suffering, for not being there for him. The warning had come, and in the end, it hadn't been enough. He doesn't understand why the Manor hadn't been emptied. Why Yima had remained, until they felt the scalding pain of her being torn from them. Honestly, he doesn't miss her; putting faith in her felt like a betrayal of what he stood for, and there's a cool mote of relief that she's gone swimming in his mind. ]

We didn't fail Zenith, though. I don't know why Yima failed to warn the Manor residents, when she was given all that time to move them out. Instead, she remained where you all were, and got you all caught up in this.

[ Frowning, he looks back toward the rubble of the Manor. Angry, and tired, and judgmental. Because this didn't have to happen, and it did.

He looks up at Amos, quiet and thoughtful as he studies him. ]

What reason would be good enough for you?

[ It's asked breathlessly, as if Drizzt expects nothing he desires to be enough. ]

[ Drizzt's remorse is obvious, but there isn't anything he can do about that. There are no reassurances, because he's right — Drizzt did fail Link. It's one of those things they just have to accept, move on from. Shitty, and unfortunate, but dwelling on it isn't productive—

That notion of relief doesn't escape his notice, as out of place as it is with the rest of Drizzt's mental state, and Amos sets his jaw, hard. Time and place, but.

But.

He's far sterner in answering. ]

She has her reasons. [ And — ] And I didn't get caught up in this. I chose this.

[ And everything that came after, it would seem. Amos stares back down at Drizzt, gaze cool and unflinching. ]

I look after my people. So I figure if they're your people, then that's your reason.

[ And they're both Zenites, so that's who their people should both be, he figures. That's more than good enough for him. ]

I don't care what her reasons are. They aren't good enough to validate THIS.

[ He jabs a finger at the wreckage of the Manor envisioned in his mind, at the destruction and fire. However much faith Amos has in Zenith's leader, there is absolutely zero proof to Drizzt that his love for her equates to her being good for anyone. ]

Link died to warn her. I will never forgive her for her inaction.

[ He has some savage opinions rising within him about her, about how she didn't evacuate her people. How she let them come back to her home and go to sleep, rest after their own crimes — and they nearly died. ]

And if they're all my people? Every Shard-Bearer.

Edited 2024-02-19 11:58 (UTC)

[ Amos doesn't react to the image of the wrecked manor; not when he's still in the midst of the real thing, hands working to salvage what they can. He has experienced similar before, and so it's especially easy to block out any emotional despair that could accompany physical destruction. It doesn't help, so he simply feels nothing about it.

What he does feel is an agitation towards Drizzt, at his rejection of Yima. He uses that spike of adrenaline to heave a particularly hefty piece of rubble aside, while in communion he feels ready as though to round on him, grip him fiercely—

Amos shakes it away. ]

You will, one day. [ It's not even a question in his mind. Okay, some take longer to accept Yima than others, but eventually they'll all come to her. He's sure of it. Drizzt is lost now, but he's too... too reasonable, and good, to not come to her eventually.

Yima could wait, and so can Amos, he decides. ]

If every shard-bearer can be your people — even the ones who are wasting the Oracles for fucking nothing — [ the sentiment hissed out, because Meridian didn't just fuck with Highstorm, but they're fucking with things in the long term, too — ] then you can forgive Yima.

No, I won't.

[ Drizzt's walls fly up, the images of predatory women speaking in sweet tones about submission in return for acceptance nearly soaring out from his own memories before he locks them away. His tone and mind grow cold as the permafrost, immediately resentful of Amos's assertion. If anything, being told that he will, one day — it makes him dig his heels in harder, and feel more hostile towards the woman in question.

The agitation Amos feels toward him, even briefly, feels like acceptance of Yima is an expectation. Not a choice. That because they're both Zenith, they have to feel the same way. Never. Not ever. The ranger wants to hold a blade up, immediately, and dare Amos to answer: If I never do, will you make me? To demand to know where Zenith's people really stand, if they're required to understand their leader. To care for her. Accept her. ]

Amos.

[ Softly, he levels his mind upon the man. Calm and steady and mournful. ]

I will never choose a leader's will over that of the people. Every time, I will choose them. If that means we opposed, then so be it. But, I truly hope we can find common ground, and work together. I'm still here, after all. Whether the Oracles could achieve Meridian's goal or not isn't what I'm worried about.

[ He's not so far entrenched that Zenith is the only way. But, it's the essential way. ]

I don't want anyone going back. That's where Oblivion is. They'll die again, and we'll lose... everything they represent. We lost Quetzalcoatl. Her memories, her perspective and power. She would have been so good to the people.

[ Drizzt's walls fly up, and Amos is ready to turn away. Alright, not now, then. Not the right time to bring it up. That's part of what being patient is, though: being able to wait for the other to come around, be ready for them when they do. So he'll wait.

And turn his attention back when Drizzt gently says his name, undoubtedly for something else — he isn't going to change his mind that quickly — but surely, something important.

He still is his people, after all. ]

She's gone. It doesn't matter that she would have been good for the people; it's never going to happen now. So we focus on who's still here instead.

[ He does not comprehend caring about what people represent; they don't represent anything. They're people. They live, and then they die because they got an illness or a bullet or some shit, and then everyone moves on without them. That's how this has always worked. Zenith understands this, and so Zenith is the way forward.

And Drizzt is still Zenith, so. He feels something over Drizzt's emotions... can't figure out what. So Amos levels his mind to him in return, calm and steady with emptiness layered overtop something too deep for him to comprehend. ]

As long as we're focused on a new world, then we're still together.

[ And everything else will come with time. ]

Every loss matters. [ Said, solemnly. ] Oblivion took so many people already. We cannot keep doing its job for it.

[ The Zenith within Drizzt seeks to move forward, but his twisting of it — speaks to memory and preservation. Of the sacredness of the living, especially in a situation where every life who dies or does not make it to the new world is someone who they are robbed of. To him, Zenith is the route someone take when they are running away, but it simultaneously exists as a way to save people from a dire threat, to create a multifaceted world and fill it with people from all walks of life.

A chaotic, difficult world, but a real one. The Zenith that Amos believes in is, glaringly, not the same Zenith that Drizzt has placed his faith in. It's the one he plans to fight, to the bitter end. He'll fight even his own, to ensure everyone feels welcome, to ensure as few people perish as possible. Quetzalcoatl was already an individual too much, and with her death, it opens the battlefield to slaughter of Shard-Bearers. Dishonorable conduct. ]

We're together on the idea of a new world.

[ That's it, really. ]

[ The solemnity makes Amos pause before reaching out, as if to place a gentle but sturdy hand on Drizzt's shoulder. The impression of it. ]

This is war. More people are going to die.

[ And potentially more shard-bearers with them. Still, he's trying to take a gentle tone. Not patronizing, not explaining as if to a child, but... but Drizzt seems almost naive, in a way (because he won't recognize the same Zenith that Amos does — and even if Amos' is the bigger pipe dream, he wants it, and so it must be the right way forward). No, it's an attempt to be understanding, because something inside of Amos is now pushing him to it.

And he'll have more thoughts on that later, when the dust settles and he has time to begin to make sense of them, on what he believes he should do.

In the meantime they're together, and that's going to have to be good enough. ]

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[ open communion ] || POINTS MY GUN DIRECTLY AT THE SUN

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