EVENT: MELPOMENE ▒ HOME

[ataraxites]

CHARACTERS: Ensemble production!
LOCATION: Corridors in the belly of the Tranquility
WARNINGS: Creepiness, disturbing imagery, violence, etc.
SUMMARY: Characters discover slices of sanctuary deep in the maze.
NOTES: Open to all! Covers Stage Four of the plot & Escape.

You've been running and fighting for what feels like weeks now. Exhausted and desperate, you find another door, stumbling through into— You're home, finally, far away and safe from monsters or spaceships. You're not alone, someone here who's been waiting for you, and they're so happy to see you. Relief overcomes you; you just want to rest, and there's no reason to believe anything here isn't what it seems, is there?

Comments

[regicidium]

I'm alive.

[ Correction. And the inevitable conclusion; ]

Your father is dead.

[ So who could possibly be the dream? But this is getting more difficult, as the rules of this land seeks to undermine him; even now, the features most recognisable to Bran, green eyes that had gone so easily from coldly kind to peculiar and dangerous are starting to blur in a distortion that washes over Jaime's face. Liquid visual strangeness ripples to blur hard lines, throwing him into haunting obscurity.

And Jaime knows that ignoring this figment of Eddard is a luxury he can't push for much longer. He rises out of his crouch, a hand going to the hilt of his sword. ]

You're still within the Tranquility, this is-- all of it-- a falsehood. If you come with me, I'll deliver you to--

[ No, Lady Stark isn't on board. Arya is a child. Fucking-- ]

--your brother.

[wolfdreamer]

[The twist and shift of that face makes Bran feel ill, in a deep way that he cannot put words to. He looks away, quickly, up at the deep red leaves of the heart tree that twist in the breeze. There are stories, where men wear faces that they can shift and change--not as a skinchanger might borrow a skin, but the way a potter might change the shape of clay, pulling and pinching and twisting. It is a sorcery, and an ill one.

But it is easier to look at the man when he does not look like the Kingslayer, when the sight of his face does not make Bran feel dizzy. He risks a glance back at him, as the man shifts to stand and touches his hand to his sword--a great sword, worthy of a knight, but he is no true knight--

Yet even as Lord Eddard rises to his feet, to meet this challenge, the words of the faceless knight with the green eyes come through to Bran.]

Robb?

[There is a pinch of misgiving in Bran's voice--too fearful to be the voice of the Lord of Winterfell, or even a lord's son. Robb, he speaks of Robb, who was Lord of Winterfell. King in the North. Empty, Winterfell is empty. Beyond the gate to the godswood there is nothing.

So even as Lord Eddard draws Ice from its sheath on his back--and the summer's light that filters through the red leaves of the heart tree turn its blade a deeper color--Bran swallows, hard, and asks the faceless knight:]

Who are you?

[regicidium]

Yes, Robb.

[ Not Stark, this time, and Jaime can't read Bran's tone, querulous and fearful, distracted as he is in his regard of the phantom of Eddard. It's a rare thing that Jaime is second to draw his blade and rarer still when he keeps it in his sheath as his opponent shows steel, but he has faced Ned before, formidable even when Jaime had both hands -- and this isn't Ned at all.

Something much stronger. He takes a step back.

And he is being asked who he is, which brings about hesitation. Tyrion would say something clever. He'd remember some old world story, some mythical figure, perhaps even one with one hand, something that would win a child's trust. Or perhaps he would recall an obscure bannerman of the North, or a trusted servant that resembles Jaime's bearing enough to make off with the lie.

But Jaime is not Tyrion. ]

A man who made a promise, [ he says instead ] to protect the children of Lady Stark and bring them to their family.

[ His hand curls around sword hilt, his attention slowly being gained by the figment of Eddard. ]