Roseline Jones
Everything is going as expected, cheered the incipient seer. We’re in the dip. The dark part of our story… It couldn’t be avoided, but now. Now we will rise! And I shall make sure we do it the right way. She felt a little guilty for feeling giddy, but the threads of possibilities were so beautiful to her eyes. The Tapestry quivered as choices were being made. An array of what the Sixty could become. The Dysphoria was a time of major decisions and echoes would be lasting. Roseline dove in and began to play the strings to see where they led.
It all rushed through as a confusion of images and feelings. Her tongue twitched ready to babble, but the moon-eyed woman was ready to bite down if it tried anything more. Roseline didn’t have absolute clarity. Nor necessary to pick out the good paths. The goal was to stick to short-term shifts as the Ocean of the Future was still relatively close. Her understanding was all too new. She wasn’t ready to take big risks. Impressions were all that was necessary. The incipient seer hoped.
Little nudges. That was the plan. A single word or phrase could change someone’s timeline. It was simply amazing and Roseline adored the process. Like a wisp caught in the wind, the incipient seer darted through Tapestry to mark in her mind the correct pattern. Her first job was to restart the momentum. The shock and grief of the day had left the Sixty stunned. Without a push, they would flounder.
Their leadership was in disarray. Malachi wouldn’t be any help to anyone for some time. She could see Warner trying his hand, but the big man was not up to the challenge of this morale issue. Roseline would prepare everything for when the Council was ready to act. They could hold things together until Malachi reemerged from his path. She had tried to peek, but the catalyst was shrouded from her.
The moon-eyed woman could see now. A lace and pattern that would guide the Sixty to the best future that Roseline could find. She would weave an event so that the right reactions would follow. Yes, I see it, thought the incipient seer. Her eyes filled with the infinite colors of the Tapestry. This will be our way forward. A true unity formed from the ashes of our naive initial drive into the Dungeon. There’s a lot of work to do.
She grinned with excitement as her mind and Mana aligned in purpose. This was the first time since awaking that Roseline’s mind felt like her own. Purpose giving strength to control. Her perspective of the future finally felt like a blessing rather than a curse. Nimble fingers of the incipient seer’s mind danced the threads of time as her pale eyes picked out who needed a nudge.
With fey-like steps, Roseline began the great labor. Foresight guided her every move.
Clarissa Evans
Julia laid asleep on the bed and the archer ground her teeth. She didn’t understand why her friend wasn’t already awake. Moreover, Clarissa was angry with herself. LIfe is a joke, but I have been going too far for a laugh, she bitterly thought. Her friend had died because the Sixty weren’t strong enough. The death of everyone else was a dull throb in comparison to the sharp breach that flowed from Julia’s condition. It lashed at her with the contrition that the power to prevent it should have already been in hand.
She stared down at the unstrung bow that was being wrung in her hands. A tool and skill that was so familiar to Clarissa that it had been an instant advantage to her in The Pit. Beyond the Doors, her arrows had piled on kill after kill. Granting more cores than the archer had any use for. The redhead had rested on her laurels knowing how much she was adding to the community’s wealth. It had seemed enough. She had felt strong enough. Nothing had been enough.
I gave the other archers hell when I trained them, reflected the redhead. Putting them through it all. Everything I could think of to instill a lifetime of practice and desperate need to be at your best. I am a hypocrite. I’m the best, but that doesn’t mean anything here. Not enough. You can always be better. I should have tried. Actually tried to be stronger. And I didn’t! I will be better dammit.
A fiery gleam appeared in her eyes. An energy shot through Clarissa and her feet scuffed the floor while they shuffled in anticipation for a run. Malachi’s darkened eyes shot to her with a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. She ignored him, but went still. Looking down at Julia, the archer understood. They both just wanted the shieldmaiden to wake up.
Clarissa stood there divided. Desperate to see her friend wake up, but also frenzied to start training. Her Mana surged in reaction to the drive to be better. It felt like the energy had just been waiting for the archer to take this place seriously.
Julia first, she thought. Then, the redhead was determined to push herself beyond hell training. The necessity to find out how far she could go was very clear. With a growl Clarissa added, The Pit is below hell and I need to treat it as such.
Anastasia Pascal
Screaming. She died screaming in panic, shrieked into the unnoticing void, and when life was returned, it was with the same wail. Anastasia fled shortly after. It was from the pitying eyes of those who couldn’t understand. The knowing eyes were far worse. There was no comfort to find under either of those gazes. So, screaming, she went as fast as possible. Using her fresh throat hard the whole time.
The acolyte darted into her rooms and dove under the covers. Acting like a child hiding from nightmares. Once safely there, the howling still didn’t end. Only muffled by the pillow held to her face to escape all sights. Her throat went from tight to painful before becoming numb.
When the screaming turned to quiet sobs, the acolyte wasn’t sure if it was because her throat gave out or she had calmed down a little. Neither outcome really mattered at the moment. Only hiding did. She was secure under the blanket with the world trapped on the other side. Curled around herself, Anastasia squeezed her eyes shut. Blessedly her quick breath was the sole sound to fill her ears. Isolated and shielded.
It wasn’t enough. Anastasia had shut out the world, but horrors still remained. She had brought them in with her. A memory that refused to be forgotten. One too recent and raw to be flung into her mind’s depths. In the bubble of blankets, she tossed and turned in an attempt to escape the replaying scenes. Watching the death of Phelain’s fleeing party and not feeling safe even in the crowd. Joining her power to Jorgenson in desperate hope. Completely in vain.
Her death came as the monster would not be deterred from existing. She fled, but was torn by the red galvanized claws. A small part of her was infuriated by the fact it hadn’t been on purpose. The dead thing had simply scrambled past her. In doing so, it had left a fatal wound without even noticing. Mostly though, Anastasia was ashamed to die so pathetically. So unimportantly. A painful death and there wasn’t any real reason why.
A very painful death indeed. That was the hardest part of the memory to resist. The rest to the acolyte was just fickle emotions, more to do with pride than anything else. She still felt the weight of the pain as the burning red light had soaked in her gushing wound. As her vision became tinted in red, Anasatisa vaguely remembered someone trying to heal her. Apparently pointlessly, as everything went black and painless.
That had seemed a relief at first. No pain and there weren’t any monsters in sight. There had been nothing at all in sight. That thought brought on the pressure. At the edge of oblivion, her screams only skipped a beat before changing their tune. It was worse than dying in agony. Anastasia didn’t have words to describe the sensation of staring into the null void beyond death. Trying to actively think of that detestable emptiness only resulted in a high-pitched whine and a shutter. She wouldn’t try and there was nothing to gain but madness trying to.
Anastasia huddled in a cocoon and tried to be nothing herself. To escape her torment and fear by becoming a stone. It was taking a tremendous effort to try. The insistent knocking at the door didn’t help. Someone was banging loudly. She tried to roll away from the sound, but it was bearing down on her. With a groan that would have been a scream, the acolyte kicked herself free of the blankets. Sick and dizzy, the blonde stood up. As if knowing that the door would be answered now, the knocking stopped.
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Anger stirred and she almost returned to bed. It was only the thought and feeling of surety that the knocking would just start again that kept her moving. Anastasia reached the door and threw it open ready to do her best to shout out every ounce of anguish. No one was there.
Only a note was three to greet her. Sitting on the stone, folded to stand like an old tent. The acolyte’s name was written delicately, but hastily. She stared down at it. Eyes flickered to either side to catch anyone who could have left it. The hall was empty and the mummers were too distant to matter.
With a sigh, and a spark of annoyance, the acolyte bent down. Her finger played along the rough edge from where the paper had been torn from a notebook. She held back from flipping the note to read it. Stood there and continued to stare at the unfamiliar handwriting. A tremble ran through her hand from a mix of trepidation and old childhood hatred. Times beyond count, she had found similar notes left by her parents. They often went on their own business with only those absently written words to inform her. A parentless child, but never an orphan. That was what it had been like growing up. Always left behind.
Sick to her stomach, Anastasia opened the note. Inside was the same delicate writing, but much more deliberate. As if making sure that each word and letter was just right. A shiver ran through her. The note said sharply, “Do you want to be left behind again? Is it that frightening?” Her hands twitched with indignation. The blonde woman almost tore the paper apart. An old rage rose up. With that rush of old memories, a thought came to her.
No, I don’t want to be left behind, she admitted. I like these people, though I don’t know why. Clarissa is rude, Molly is cold, Warner and Malachi are both arrogant in their own ways, Julia is too nice, Soren has such a smarmy smile for every woman, the Sisters are wackjobs, and hell, everyone here is a weirdo… Still, I can’t forget that despite all of that, has there ever been anyone I was closer to? Even on the edge of their circle, I’m closer to them than my parents and siblings ever let me be… That’s a really fucking sad thing to realize.
As if waking up, Anastasia looked where she was. Still standing in the open doorway. Empty of any solid thoughts, the acolyte stepped inside and closed the door. Thoughtfully returned to the bed and got in. She didn’t recreate the cocoon. Instead, choose to sit up in bed looking down at the note.
“I’m scared,” whispered Anastasia. “Which one am I more scared of? Death or being alone?” She sat there to decide.
Soren Hill
For the first time, he felt homesick. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been missing home. More that it had been a distant thing before. The Pit for all its danger had been more of a vacation for the gunman. After all, his life back home had been fraught with hazards as well. Being a federal marshal in the field alone could bring you close to death. Soren often pushed for or chose the higher-risk cases. Restless and danger-seeking had always been qualities of his.
The events of today had dramatically changed that. It wasn’t guilt that burned at him. His post had been to support the less experienced as they held the gate to the upper tunnels. That the reaper had visited the Sixty in the form of a mad monster hadn’t even come to his attention until the vanguard limped back. A cold shiver had run down Soren’s back when Malachi drudged through them. The call that the others had returned had brought the gunman running. The expectation of stories of victory died quickly from the dark mood brought by the survivors.
Clarissa had paused briefly to inform him what happened. The archer was quite distracted even as she did him this courtesy. Her eyes latched on the back of their bearded leader. Soren’s heart dropped with every word and broke when some of the names came slipping out. In shock, he almost followed after her. The redhead had patted his cheek and darted after their leader. Duty restrained him to see his charges returned. They waited for all of the Sixty to come down from the upper tunnels. Not until then could Soren return to the Hall.
By that time, everyone had cleared away. The Hall was empty except for a few souls. From them, Soren could learn nothing. That people had died and he didn’t know all of their names weighted heavily on the former lawman. He tried Clarissa’s door, but she wasn’t there. With nowhere else to go, the gunman went to his room at the end of the hallway. A day’s work was weighing in and sleep seemed a good idea. Unfortunately, his mind was unwilling to play along.
Sitting in his room at the edge of the bed was when Soren began feeling homesick. It was a reflection of how lost he felt. There was an impulse to use the screens to buy some whisky. A good liquor to have with sad times. Cores weren’t an issue. His bounty of kills brought enough that a bottle would barely dent it. Even the fact the gunman didn’t recognize any of the names was only a tiny barrier. Trying new flavors was a small trace of happy times that made the impulse so much harder to ignore.
He didn’t move. Any pushes to rise his humor completely incapacitated. Fear clutched at his throat as he tried to take in the new shift in his world. Guilt was considered, but already knew it wasn’t involved. There was nothing the gunman could have done for any of them. Soren wasn’t fool enough to believe he would have affected the odds meaningfully anyway. Something else nagged at him. It was the shattering of their reality. On some level, he had been operating on an incorrect understanding of The Pit.
“I thought of this place as more of a game than real,” mused Soren. His face was deathly pale. “Dying. Yeah, that didn’t feel like an issue. It was all too absurd. A magic gun, heh, like a goddamn toy. Monstrous rats like we were a level one party. Fuck me, man, can’t be too mad I didn’t take it seriously... A joke, feels like some stupid joke. Jesus, I am a dumbass.” Looking down at his shaking hand, “This is all too real now.”
Soren stared at the shaking hand. His body was almost vibrating from the strain to will something, anything to happen. What that exactly was, he didn’t know. He just wanted an answer or this newfound fear to fall away. Nothing changed and his hands brushed through the gunman’s hair to grip the skull. The whole of his attention now staring down at the stone between his boots. It felt like a metaphor for his position. Boots fit for a gunslinger’s quest and the hard cold reality he had tried not to think about before.
The dry laugher that burst free from him was no comfort to the former lawman. There was too much madness on the edge of it. This was the humor of a man who knew too much and was buckling under the pressure. Soren didn’t like that thought and stood up with vigor.
“No, I won’t crumble here,” growled the gunman. His hands fell to his hips, one grasping the ivory handle of the magic gun and the other air. The emptiness in his right hand felt wrong. “I gotta do somethin’. This isn’t the end for me. Just a goddamn lucky wake-up call. I gotta make a move.” Looking down at either side of the hip, he added, “And I’ll address the imbalance while I am at it.”
Dawson Wu
On the floor, the reborn fighter sat with his back against the mattress. He didn’t want to lay or sit on the bed. That was too risky. Sleep was far too close to death. Dawson sat. Staring at nothing and thinking about nothing. The lights of his room were off with only the soft glow peeking through the bottom of the door. It wouldn’t have mattered. His attention was nowhere. After entering the room, the warrior hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on. Only sat and waited.
There was nothing in particular that he waited for. That was too close to thinking and that was too risky. Far too dangerous for the recently dead. Instinctively Dawson knew that such consideration would only lead to one thing. Contemplating death. Not the concept either, but his own dying. Rebirth should have made him feel better, but it hadn’t occurred to the man. He was refusing to reflect on anything for the moment.
Time passed and so did others in the hallway beyond the door. The warrior didn’t notice. Desperately continued his attempt at a twisted state of zen. It didn’t stop his eyes from flickering about in a paranoid pattern. His conscious mind saw nothing, but part of Dawson was looking out for more monsters. A deep terror of dying soaking into his flesh and bones. Ever searching despite being in a sanctuary. Because the next impending doom could be right around the corner. The warrior had been taught that death was an all too real possibility for him.
During his deep silence, his frantic search caught on the shuttering of the light under his door. Shadows had passed by before, but these grew still as they came close. The shivering started from the spine and took him fully over. Something stood outside his door. A loan moan came from Dawson, though he knew nothing. His body simply reacted to the stimuli.
The dark shade shifted and hesitated. After a beat, it pushed something through before disappearing. He flinched. The object slid and drifted towards him before the momentum was spent. When nothing further happened, Dawson returned to surveying for danger. Every time his eyes came across the object, his focus paused. Over and over, longer and longer it happened. Until becoming more aware than he wanted to be. Then warrior realized it was a note.
The cycle continued as curiosity started to bring more of him out. Heavy with reluctance, Dawson stiffly leaned over for the note. Once in hand, he reeled back into the position. As if escaping a trap. He was now breathing hard, but lifted the note to his eyes. It took several seconds to find the right angle to read the note from the dim light. Revealing a single phrase written on a torn free slip of paper. “Take all the time you need.”
Dawson studied the words and found comfort in them. He wasn’t sure who had written them, but his appreciation was no less real. It was good to hear. The warrior wasn’t sure if he could ever return to the tunnel. Being swatted so easily during the first time at the front had damaged his courage. A deep wound. To have the time to pull himself together was a true blessing.
Enough that he came back to himself enough to feel ridiculous to be sitting on the floor. Dawson had to move slowly due to cramped muscles, but successfully switched to the bed. There was a spikey return of his previous fear of sleeping. The warrior pushed it away. It seemed too silly to consider. Besides, sleep was already coming swiftly and he was sure it would do him good. Things could be figured out after resting. There was no rush. He had all the time in the world.