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Priscilla	Today is a little different from before. Whereas the person who had asked them all to do this in the first place had been terminally absent since she realized her own powerlessness in this situation, for reasons unbeknownst to all but one, Priscilla has returned to the throne room, and awaits the Elites with an inscrutable kind of sad, silent expression that radiates such quiet intensity that it feels hard to even be around her.     Today is very different from before. Anyone leaving the last time knew it would be. With how the painting had gradually accelerated over time, as if possessed of a consciousness of its own, it was inevitable that there would be no more time to interfere and reflect on the past. There may be no more desire to do so left, after the sights they've seen. The exponential scale of darkness, of depravity and despair and horror, could only become too much to bear from then on, and like a knot coming loose bit by bit, it is perhaps a mercy that time should unravel many hundreds of years at once as the last of it snaps loose.     Some hearts can be spared the pain of seeing it all spiral from there, beyond every rock bottom previously thought possible. They already know, instinctively, from the dark fog and swirling gravity that enshrouds them as they step through, that they will have to face the present, or at least, very near to it, and accept the end of the long story they had witnessed in bits of pieces. To face its inevitable, unalterable conclusion.
Priscilla	Windy Cliff - <Great Painting of Ariamis> (Year AF-2217/AC-2) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------     The mountains surrounding the lonely peak seem endless, with nothing but grey crags, snowy plateaus, and precipitous canyons as far as the eye can see. No matter how high one climbs, a horizon never comes into view; the distance is always shrouded in an impenetrable fog that one can never quite reach, lit grey-viridian by an eerily green sun perpetually out of view, obscured by a thin haze of leaden clouds. Much of the mountain range is veiled in thick forests of ancient evergreen trees, the dark, twisted, and tangled boughs of which cast everything into a deep shadow that limits visibility to a mere handful of paces and seems to swallow ambient sound. Like something out of a dream, the surroundings appear to subtly repeat themselves in vague and indistinct arrangements, as though the land itself twists and loops when not intensely observed. Landmarks that one strays too far away from seem to vanish when returned to, with something else entirely taking their place, as if slowly consumed by that dreamlike indistinctiveness that seems to crawl from the outer world in. No matter what, however the moment one gives up looking, the sight of crows wheeling overhead betrays that the crumbling castle is only just out of reach, always coming back to the only accessible point to it: a single, impossibly lengthy, dilapidated rope bridge, heavily laden in years of snow and seemingly slowly crumbling away. The far away sounds of scouring winds, and the chilling cries of hunting beasts are the only things that break the utter silence. The feeling of being watched is omnipresent, becoming overwhelming the longer is spent in the deep woods, and yet the feeling when one approaches the impenetrable blackness that swallows the land between the isolated, lonely keep, and all the mountains surrounding it, is somehow even worse. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Contents The woods are dark and impervious The moon and stars are gone The beasts are strange and unnerving The wind mourns what once was Only the crows remain though the dead are long gone There is but one way forward Don't look down There is no way out from here
Kushiko	Such differences were... frankly, to be completely expected, given the last time they were here. Kushiko wore Valkyr once more, the Gersemi aspect equipped with the Javlok speargun, Venka claws and a pair of heavy caliber machineguns affectionately known by at least one Grineer as the legendary /two/ Grakata. She half-anticipated violence to some degree given the last encounter here, but on the other hand... She hoped it wouldn't be required, and short of the speargun, all of them were concealed, given the heavy state of affairs that lay before them. What Velka had told her needed to be likely said, though it most likely would confirm all of what people suspected. There was a few notable things, however, as they arrive, and she begins to speak. <"Velka seemed practically eager at first to discuss what I was curious about. Not something any of us who have talked with her would expect."> For ease, she's got an isomorphic projection being emitted from her shoulder of her face to look towards the others here. Ever the child, scarred and ephemeral. She goes on in detail: decades before Lord Gwyn Linked the Fire, Ariamis was well known, having made many 'living' paintings, but naturally the Painted World was his singular, greatest and final piece; it used ten years of his life, then his life altogether, as to why, Velka was more than reticient on why. As most suspected or outright knew, the painting was there for Priscilla, to seal her away due to her ability which gods feared. But Ariamis adored Princess Gwynevere, and wanted to save that child so much, and did his best to make it comfortable for her. <"But once he died, people forgot. And in their forgetfulness, with Priscilla so unknown to everyone, the Painted World became exile."> God-hunters, occultist, plague vectors, blasphemers, necromancers, criminals, and the like, are all obvious candidates. Velka herself shamelessly admits to covertly supporting a conspiracy to assassinate Gwyndolin, being her arch-nemesis for a long time, but when her followers implicated her directly, and created something profane enough to threaten /all/ gods, she had no trouble cursing them, and they were deemed too tainted to kill and take the souls of. Her expression turns somewhat cynical. <"She had no idea for how to fix or restore it, and all indications might be that there's some notes somewhere but as he kept much to himself... I'm hoping some of you had better luck. She did mention he might have had an heir or two, but no idea as to where if they even existed at all."> That's right about when her projection flickers off, and she turns her attention. They can go forward, and only forward, but only forearmed with all that must be known now.
Captain Flint	Once again, Flint is alone, not even joined by his accomplice or the man who was once his closest friend. He knows all too well the look on Priscilla's face, but forces himself to face her all the same. Sometimes, the quiet puritan woman with whom he's tried to build a life has that same face. Thinking of the way things used to be, comparing it with the way things are, and finding the present sorely lacking in the most unjust way possible. And, like Miranda, Priscilla has a constant reminder of her past close at hand--the only difference seems to be that hers is consolidated entirely within the painting, rather than strewn about her domicile.      When Flint first stepped into the Multiverse, the superfactions were already in their death throes, and it wasn't long before Priscilla rose to her current level of prominence on the world stage. At first, he found her measured, smart, if aloof--but kept her at arm's length, as he did everyone else. In the time he's spent piecing together the history of the Painted World, his opinion has changed drastically. So much so, in fact, that the captain has again showed up despite having lost the support of his crew in this venture. It's stopped being about currying for favor from the Multiversal elite, and has become instead a personal mission for a kindred spirit.      When the 'real' world fades away and is replaced with the Painted one, the bitterly cold mountain air matches his demeanor, and his thoughts, rather well. The captain reaches for his looking glass, surveying the land surrounding him. It seems to have a mind of its own. Were the surroundings merrier, he'd almost ascribe coyness to the way they change when not looked at. As it stands, it seems more... reclusive, like an old and tired thing that refuses to evermore be scrutinized. The only thing that doesn't change is the rope bridge. Flint doesn't like the look of that rope bridge.      Ordinarily, he wouldn't cross it--but the Painted World, as strange as it seems, does appear to have a mind of its own. So, with cutlass drawn (to deter the odd predator lurking in the brush) he approaches the bridge. Provided there are no attacks from predators either wild, sapient, or both, the sword is used to carefully scrape snow from the planks. This way, he can reveal which planks are rotten, and which are missing, hopefully making the bridge easier for others to cross as he himself crosses it.
Eryl Fairfax	Eryl has a single nod to offer the forlorn Priscilla. He is at once gladdened and saddened by her presence. What is to come will likely be harsh and painful, made worse by the fact that she experienced the time before it first-hand. He always had the benefit of detachment from the desolation he saw, only knowing of it through records. She will have no such protection from the brunt of what lies within.     When they finally, collectively, stride through, they are assailed by bitter winds and harsh cold. He bundles his cape around himself and looks about as Kushiko disseminates the knowledge she got from Velka. "The Dark Ember," he chips in when she mentions the something that threatened gods. "Anything forged with it becomes anathema to the divine. Little wonder they were afraid of it."     Exploring the woods upon the mountains reveals little, save shifting locations and the instinctual terror of being watched. Eryl marks a few trees to try and create a path, but it all proves futile. No matter what, he finds himself before the dilapidated bridge once more. Immediately, he tries to peer down into the abyss below it, to see if the marking shots he made were still visible, and if so, how much had the darkness swelled.     Flint takes it upon himself to cross the bridge, and Eryl nods his approval. He takes it upon himself to go last after anyone who might want to use it. "I'm heavier than I look," he explains. As others cross it, he follows them with his eyes, calling warnings about any sections of rope or wood that look especially brittle to his implants.     Finally, once everyone else has gone, he follows. Keeping a tight grip on the rope and placing his feet on the edges of the boards, so as to not strain the centres.
Kushiko	Obviously, the catlike berserker will cross without any real concern for things like stability. Freakin' ninjas, but does appreciate Flint also poking it while she spoke!
Starbound Flotilla	"Finally, dumb art obsesssion makesss a fun thing." "Hold steady on the commentary, lass. 'Tis a serious agenda." "Solid and fair, but you really think we need to go this heavy today?" "Expenses covered by First. Always use maximum force." "Somber. Seeing the pain she has gone through... It is worth it." "I would not dare /insult/ our First Priscilla by bringing resolution to her past with anything less than the utmost force. We have a rare opportunity to strike at the embodiment and personification of all her ails and all her suffering. We must do so, and do so with no hesitation and no restraint."     The STARBOUND FLOTILLA are here, in their STARSTRIDER rigs! These fifteen-foot-tall mecha-suits menace with powerful weapons and armor. Moonfin's swift melee-spec'd Starstrider is designed after the aesthetics of submarines, with a heavy glass-domed cockpit set against heavy finned limbs, all pulsing with shining cyan energy, especially along the katana. Biteblade's construction is a mix of metal and densewood, heavy organic constructions mixed with scavenged machines. Its eyes and mouth glow bright green, the same green as its shining knife at its hip. Pavo's is made of huge gems and engraved temple-stone facades, it looks like a powerful mesoamerican warrior golem, with a pair of brilliantly shining yellow eyes, yellow wings, and even a brilliant yellow halo to match its ritual-looking cutlass. Albert has crafted a tremendous militarized walking tank, with thick limbs, treads at its feet, and large, fat arms that float at its side bearing five different artillery projectile weapons each, though it maintains a shiny white gleaming smooth aesthetic. George has an industrial mecha, looking far more like something designed to load huge and heavy cargo, with shining, crackling fists and drills, and a bright red HUD filling up the unsealed cockpit. Seft, the robotic Flotilla member, has created what looks very much like a fifteen-foot-tall knight, whose thick helm hides a bright blue glow below the faceplate, and under the surface of its sword and shield.     They were already suited up when they arrived at the painting. Seft seemed like the only one who wanted to say something to Priscilla specifically, maybe something comforting or kind, but... After a moment of trying to assemble the words, she lost her nerve and kept her silence. They've chosen today's equipment in the interest of striking with maximum force despite the higher expense, but they assume quite reasonably that the size will be no trouble. After all, this was a castle meant for a being as tall as Priscilla often is. Perhaps the bridge was not, though. Leaping over the chasm means the Starbound Flotilla spend a short time launching each other by way of cooperative boosts over the chasm, until the only flight-capable Starstrider, Pavo's, can fly over on its own. From here, all six form up and press inside, but not in a way that seems like it's a foreward to violence.     Seft explains their intention. "Determined. We know what we'll do soon. The dangerous cast-off pain found in here is something Moonfin hopes to navigate, fight, and purge. And... I admit that I'm hoping to do that too." Her massive knightmech shifts its shoulders uncomfortably. "Decisive. We're going to find somewhere and somehow to get ready to kill it. A beachhead, in a sense. Don't worry, we'll probably be leaving these behind there, rather than fighting with them today." They've brought these in purely to get them stationed and ready for the final battle, looks like, on the assumption that there won't be any great and terrible battle against the Abyss to be fought today.
Reiji Arisu	How the glories of the past can fade, forgotten and abandoned to rot and decay as the world marches ever onward. Gone is the cozy, welcoming place that Reiji came to know. Gone are the people, the warm glow of the cottage village. Now there is only fog. The crushing grip of the indistinct, featureless mist that suffocates the once magnificent painted world. It seems smaller, now. Diminished in ways beyond simply the metaphorical. If it weren't so dangerous, Reiji might decide to wander deep into these woods. If he did, he's certain that he could look over his shoulder and discover himself close to where he had started. "That would make sense," Reiji agrees with Eryl's assessment of the nature of the Velkans' mistake. He shakes his head sadly as he takes careful steps across that precarious rope bridge. "It's a shame. But perhaps it has something to do with what has become of this place. But one seed of corruption among many, contributing to the greater decay." "I spoke to Nito's proxy," Reiji begins, "About the... abomination we found earlier. What he told me is deeply concerning." He relates the details of the meeting. How death would typically mean leaving a soul behind, normally to go to family members or close friends. The souls of those who died lost and forgotten would, in all but the rarest of circumstances, gradually dissolve into the background energies that fuel sorceries and other magic. In the old days, this would lead, inevitably, to the end of the universe as the energy would dissipate beyond the bounds of the world. The First Flame now draws them in, however, recycling them and forming a complete, closed loop. Necromancy is a relatively recent development, he says. But human necromancy has always been something... impossible. Humans are not like other things; they turn into Undead. The Dark Sign insulates them from the influence of necromancy. But for it to fail entirely, rather than simply animating a dead body as a skeleton, for instance, is bizarre and unusual. Nito can nullify necromancy, but he is not /here./ Some other force has claimed dominion over the cycle of life and death here. Something dark, insidious, all-encompassing, such that the natural cycle of life and death itself are overridden. Nito's scion was greatly disturbed by the implications. Reiji is, too. But still, he steels himself and pushes onward. If they don't fix this, then that threat- whatever it is- might spread to Lordran as well.
Tomoe	They have returned to the painting and she has no idea of what they might find this time. Tomoe is never unarmed these days really,though her weapons are not visible but she is ready. For a moment, the Grakata get her interest for half a second, if she were using guns, she'd be interested in using such firearms. With that slight diversion gone though she seems ready to go. The Tenno's words come and she just stares as something seem to click now for her on what's going on. "So that answers a question..." She doesn't have much more to say as she makes with the others she'll flare out her wings and take flight to try and get over, hopefully she can get some good information on what lays ahead for all of them, yet? She has a feeling none of it is good, none of it is good at all she muses.
Staren	So the crow was quoting scripture, from obscure old epics that considered the darkness of humanity paradoxically external, and warned to hold it off. Huh. Staren's not sure what to read into this. Sure, holding back the darkness is something he tries to do anyway, but if the crow wanted anything /specific/ it would have just asked, right? Not that he's beholden to it, but it doesn't even seem to have a specific wish for him to consider.     So now they're back at the bridge. "I wonder how that dragon worked out." Staren muses. He's in armor again. It's just generally a good idea.     Kushiko fills them in on the background of the painting. It's a shame Iianor's not around, if anyone from outside Lordran might have an idea about the workings of magic paintings, it's him.     Seft has a plan of action. "That sounds kind of like what the crow turned out to be asking for. It quoted scripture at me about fighting the darkness in humanity, but not humanity itself."     As people work on crossing the bridge, Staren watches first to see if flying works, before trying it himself.
Xiaomu	For reasons of her own, Xiaomu skipped out on the last sojourn into the Great Painting of Ariamis; however, she's made a point of coming for this session - having heard what Reiji told her previously, and listening attentively this time as Kushiko, Seft, Reiji, and others lay out they've learned about the situation. The weight of the atmosphere upon entering the Painting's chamber, and then the Painting itself, seems to weigh on the centuries-old fox spirit no less than on the others, and perhaps moreso than for some - the passage of time is different for her than for mortals, but the encroachment of darkness within the Painted World is on a different scale than she normally deals with. Or 'has dealt with' - because she isn't forgetting the adventures she was around for before the remaking of Lordran, either. She has her own guesses about what might have happened, or be happening; for now, though, she keeps her own counsel, listening rather than talking, and occasionally tapping the butt of her staff against the bridge's surface ahead of her as if to make sure it's safe footing. On the premise of 'heavier people cross first,' though, she's probably fairly close to the rear of the group. But once solid ground supports their feet again, she *will* be taking up position next to Reiji.
Carna	Enark looks haggard. Gaunt and pale beyond what he normally does. He has existed through three apocalypses now, and as he expressed to Count Kord, he believes that may only be the ones he was concious of. What he witnesses of the Painted World, the slow fall into ruin that can not be averted with any effort on his part, no knowledge, no magic, no clever tactic, is rehashing an experience he has had too many times already. A fourth apocalypse is not what he had expected to endure when he set out to help one of those who saved him from an eternity wandering the same warped spaces in the depths of a madness engineered to prevent his psyche from breaking completely.     He explains to the others since it appears to be story time that his research has revealed his earlier suspicions that the plague was magical in origin, a parasite from outside and potentially tied to the World Mimic, was a fruitless dead end idea. It is definitely natural in origin, and probably comes from Lordran or somewhere else in this same world. The fungus is another dead-end, and even seems to be native to Ariamis. It has no apparent reproductive function, it just grows from magical blue that has been left to sit in the cold and dark for too long. (Is Ariamis this Painting's name, its maker, or both? He never quite got an answer on that.)     But either way, he is tired. His soul is strung tight, the idea that this is 'unchangeable' disagreeing with him enormously even though intellectually he knows that must be the case. He has looked for some way to break those rules, to circumvent them, despite his misgivings when Carna tried it. All his common sense, all his ages of research into the subject, tells him how this must work, or is most likely to work, and like a young acolyte of the Blue Scholars, or a first year Psychology student, he thinks he knows enough to analyze and revolutionize something he has barely touched upon.     Time is not his specialty.     However, Enark's despair deepens when he sees what the Painted World has become. This is not his first time here. Not 'this Painted World', but HERE. This place. This vision. Surely, it was a bit different, but one of the first group efforts he engaged in with the others was to venture to a place much like this. And now he's here again, the place where they all died, over and over and over, until they finally broke the cycle.     Except... The fact that he's here again means... Maybe the cycle wasn't broken after all. Maybe this is where it will all begin. The recursive nature of the landscape only emphasizes that impression, as does this mythology concerning a 'First Flame' that Reiji gives them.     The rope bridge leading to the castle... The mage half-expects to see Priscilla formed from static and cosmic radiation standing at the far end waiting for them, and discover what it's like to be eaten by a Mimic.
Carna	"I wonder how many times it will take before someone finally ends it." he mumbles to himself, looking warily and wearily around the area, and off towards the forest, where the sensation of being watched emanates from. He moves towards the bridge as it seems that is where most of the group are headed, at least trying to splash some magic water about as he goes to 'restore' the ropes, in the hopes they will last longer that way for all of those crossing it. It may be an unnecessary precaution, but he'd rather not chance it. However, some resolve returns to him from that very act of trying to help others. He realizes the group composition is different. 'The Six' are not all here, and so maybe this time, he can make a difference. Even if it is subtle, who he is at his core is not a person who will give up. He must keep trying, no matter how awful it gets. Unlike a Lantern, he does not have the option of surrendering and just not coming back.     He is Dead. And the Dead do not change, for better or worse.     Carna takes the time to write down what Kushiko recites to them, and Eryl, and each of the others in turn, compiling things she will not remember otherwise. Then she wanders away from the group, until she is standing at the edge and staring down into the emptiness below. The... 'Chasm'. She managed to get the details of the trip into the duplicate Painting by passing her Journal to Finna to record them in. (And then forgot she slipped it to her because she hadn't written down she was going to do so and has no way of checking it for a reminder if she had.)     Finding the information there later, she had come to expect that when she came here she would find this Chasm full of bodies. Instead, she just hears distant voices or whispers. Scarcely new to her. But they are different from the ones she always hears. So she tries to make out what they're saying. She has little sanity to lose, so whatever their import, if she can make it out, if her Darkness-tinted perceptions of the world can glean any secrets, the one with the least to lose may be the best choice to sit in the cold, stare, and listen.
Priscilla	The bridge, broken as it is, and creaking subtly under its own weight, is remarkably sturdy. Having never approached it before -never /been/ able to approach it- it is astonishing to see just how long it is, how little it sways in the wind, and when Flint clears the snow off its planks and Enark works the ropes, how bizarrely intact it is. The wood looks as aged as everything else, but in centuries, it has failed to rot or decay at all, perhaps due to being so prominently depicted on the canvas itself. There are perilous gaps that some will have to jump over, but despite the slight swaying, it supports several people at a time with no issues, including Eryl. The mecha might be a bit much, but nothing catches the Flotilla on their way to the far side, where they can land in a clearing before the gates, over a thick grove of pines that shelter the castle from looking in from outside.     Flying is likewise no obstacle. Whatever freakish thing hangs in the sky beyond that acerbic haze, Tomoe's wings recognize it, though they operate at strangely low power. Going too high into the sky might very well result in being lost like the Flotilla's satellite. One might wonder if it is still here, but though the presence of electromagnetic waves would be encouraging, it's such a fragmented and crackling ghost that it could easily be background noise of the twenty other strange and clashing energies of this place.     Stopping to stare at the chasm, even to find the depth marks, somehow feels like a bad idea, and not in the expected sense. There's no particular magic to it. No unnatural, compelling allure like the Abyss, or an aura of projected fear like the dark Enark had suffered. Staring into that black hurts the mind in a very intuitive, almost primal sense, stirring recognition and reflexes so vestigial as to be useless, and only quickening the pulse and shortening the breath, sending the senses into a slow, dizzy spiral for the effort. As far as Eryl can tell, the darkness has swallowed all but the highest mark, and that one might just be a dint in the mountain since it's so hard to tell with the wind and the-
Priscilla	Lonely Castle - <Great Painting of Ariamis> (Year AF-951) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------     Atop the central peak, at the nexus of the painted world, is a castle built like a fortress, and yet quaint in its own right. The walls are high and the construction is unrealistically vertical, conveying the sense of a fantastical tower, built in tightly concentric circles to fit all of it atop the peak. It's like an entire, self-contained town behind the walls, with a mill, storehouse, workshop, smithy, a chapel, a grand hall, courtyard, cellars and dormitories as well as barracks.     The night air is cold, but gentle, and the sky twinkles with innumerable stars; far more than there would be in the real world. People in bright clothes have gathered together for a festive occasion, singing and drinking and making merry around a towering bonfire and having hung decorations from every pillar, fence, arch and statue. Running amongst them is a tiny figure in a bright white dress; a girl barely any taller than the other children who is clearly the focus of the occasion. Her fluffy white tail swishes back and forth in excitement as the adults practically crowd around to foist gifts on her and their children gather to petition her to resume playing. A muscular blacksmith with a huge, grey beard lifts her up onto his shoulders when the crowd begins to grow too much, and she---     Lonely Castle - <Great Painting of Ariamis> (Year AF-1123) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------     Atop the central peak, at the nexus of the painted world, is a castle built like a fortress, albeit not unpleasant. The walls are high and the construction is unrealistically vertical, conveying the sense of a fantastical tower, built in tightly concentric circles to fit all of it atop the peak. It's like an entire, self-contained town behind the walls, with a mill, storehouse, workshop, smithy, a chapel, a grand hall, courtyard, cellars and dormitories as well as barracks.     The evening air is cold, but not unbearable, fogging the breath, and only lightly stinging the skin despite the deep snow. Lights twinkle from windows and smoke billows from chimneys as families hurriedly wrap up their last matters before the onset of dusk. A handful are returning from a small cluster of graves, out at a wide cliffside through the eastern arch, with a beautiful view of the valley, though it seems no funeral has taken place for a while. A gathering of what appear to be town elders have convened in the central courtyard, about a statue of a robed woman and tiny daughter, discussing and debating in unsecretive, but low and hushed tones. A young lady in white, clearly their junior, sits among them with a position of some authority, fiddling with her tail in her lap as they argue what to do regarding some sort of crow cursed---
Priscilla	Lonely Castle - <Great Painting of Ariamis> (Year AF-1346) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------     Atop the central peak, at the nexus of the painted world, is a castle built like a fortress. The walls are high and the construction is unrealistically vertical, conveying the sense of being sheer and insurmountable, built in tightly concentric circles such as to be impregnable from the outside. It is completely self-contained behind the walls, with a mill, storehouse, workshop, smithy, a chapel, a grand hall, courtyard, cellars and dormitories as well as barracks, but the number of people clearly exceeds its capacity. Wherever food is produced here, there can't be much of it left, with the number of empty sacks and barrels dumped out from the granaries, and the hooded lights furtively kept away from windows betray the great majority of the population to be indoors, secreted away from the air outside, and cramped into tight and overcrowded bunks.     The night air is cold and chilling, uncomfortable and restless to be out in, and the sky is obscured by clouds of fire smoke rising from burning lights from afar. Those who remain outdoors, do so huddled around various fires, largely parents who have abdicated their board to allow their children to sleep inside, looking various shades of gaunt and exhausted, startling at every cough that breaks the quiet, and staying far, far away from the overflowing graveyard on the eastern cliffside, fenced off with temporary iron pickets. Watching from the highest tower at the north end, is a woman in white who looks clearly far healthier than the rest, but even less happy, staring with a miserable expression out at the courtyard and fiddling with her horns, before someone comes to hurry her away from the window, saying to her that she may want to sit down before hearing---     Lonely Castle - <Great Painting of Ariamis> (Year AF-1624) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------     Atop the central peak, at the nexus of the painted world, is a castle built like a fortress, and every bit as grey, featureless, and hostile as its mien would suggest. The walls are high and the construction is unrealistically vertical, designed from the ground up to keep everything possible away, further communicated by the shattered and broken bridge away. It is completely self-contained behind the walls, but the mill is vacant, the storehouses sparse and spartan, the workshop long decrepit, and the smithy tirelessly hammers away even in the leaden dark to churn out nothing but weapons. A chapel has been completely locked and boarded off, as has a decrepit, sprawling graveyard The air is utterly frigid, biting down to the bone, and the sky dark, though it is impossible to tell what time of day it is with the thick, steely storm clouds overhead, hanging motionless and stagnant.     Despite its size, few people seem to live here. Only small gangs of friends and family, often heavily incomplete, move furtively across the open, and are quick to go back inside. Most things here, from abandoned carts to people's clothes to the walls themselves, are dark, frequently stained, and pitted with age, from being used and reused over and over again, as it seems few dare to venture outside. Even the heavily armed knights of foreign colours have armour that is beaten and dinged, visible at every entrance in full regalia rather than their barracks. Only the thousand mile stares of the hardened, civilian militia that join them are any worse. An extremely tall woman in white, holding what appears to be a war scythe, is arguing with them at the gate, apparently demanding that they let her go outside. The tip of her tail twitches anxiously in increasing agitation as they insist that last time she---
Priscilla	Lonely Castle - <Great Painting of Ariamis> (Year AF-2217/AC-2) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------     Atop the central peak, at the nexus of the painted world, is a castle built like a fortress, utterly ancient even at first glance, eroded and broken down by age, violence, and the elements. The walls are high, worn, badly pitted, and topped with wrought iron spikes, and the unrealistically vertical construction bristles with bars, barbs, and is ornamented with the dead, both strung up, skewered five to a bushel of pikes, or having apparently hung themselves from high ledges. The night is bitterly freezing; or is it day? The eerie green cast of whatever celestial body it is that illuminates the ground below, casting the snow into a surreal, ghostly hue, makes it impossible to tell. Large structures are built just inside, or as part of the walls, including what used to be a mill, storehouse, barracks, workshop, smithy, a chapel, a grand hall, and cellars; all of which have long ago fallen into disrepair, where snowflakes perpetually drift down through the splintered beams and collapsed masonry in sullen silence.     Here and there are signs of previous habitation. Rusted plates. Broken tools. Burnt out torches. Shredded clothes. Even barrels half full of rotting food. The floors and walls are all pitted and stained, though what with is impossible to say, despite the fact that it often appears to be dried blood. The center of the castle grounds is an open-air courtyard, dominated by a statue of a mother and daughter so worn as to be completely featureless, leaking some red, rusty substance from its eyes. The yard is littered with grave markers that have crawled out from an impossibly full graveyard on an eastern cliff, overlooking a plunge of complete and utter blackness. Massive stone cubes with barred windows, like portable prisons, litter the ground, as well as broken chains and shattered manacles, vying for space with the trees of impaled corpses. The sporadic, ominous squawks of crows and the distant, echoing howls of wolves against the wind are the only natural companions here. Low, chattering calls and almost dove-like cooing accompany them, terminating in frighteningly human sobs, coming from dark, hunched shapes perched atop the highest rafters, far too large to be an animal. Frantic skittering sometimes sounds from below, and rhythmic splashing echoes up from a long abandoned well, matching the irregular crunch of snow from things pacing just out of sight.     Just outside the castle gates, and the crumbling outer walls, degraded by wind and frost, burns a strange bonfire built around a rusted old sword jutting out of the frozen earth, flickering away in deathly silence. Closer inspection reveals the presence of a heavy bench just beside it, and that the fire pit is comprised not of wood, but filled entirely with human bones. A woman in white stands before it, staring forlornly into the flames, before finally looking up to acknowledge you. A pendant bearing a crystal eye stone hangs from her neck, and a minimalist, silver crown, set with a whorled black stone, adorns her brow. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Contents Crumbling Walls Last Prisons Endless Graves Corpses of Mercy, Exile, and Suicide Echoing Well Abandoned Buildings Ominous Statue The Tallest Tower
Captain Flint	Once the danger of the bridge is over with, Flint elects to offer his own thoughts on the matter of the painted world. Kushiko had mentioned Velka was all too eager to discuss the painting, save for one notable piece of the puzzle: why did it take Ariamis' life? There are those in Lordran who have their own opinions on the matter, and Flint managed to find them. Leave it to a pirate to find the dark underbelly of any world. "Kushiko, yes?" he looks over his shoulder to confirm he's gotten her name right. "You said Velka was elusive on the matter of Ariamis' death."      The pirate steps aside, making room for others to cross the bridge. He waits until Eryl, who opted to go last, crosses, before he shares what he learned. Sure, there's no /proof/ of it, but there's always a grain of truth in hearsay. Between everyone here, he's certain a nudge in the right direction can uncover the complete truth. And Velka's reticence to divulge /why/ the painting cost Ariamis his life? That's already a telling detail. It takes one manipulator to recognize another. "Velka likely helped him create it in the first place." His brow lowers, his seafoam eyes narrowed into a squint.      His voice lowers, conspiratorially. "You'll not find it in any census, library, or noble's bureau--but some say she might have taught Ariamis certain dark and forbidden prayers to facilitate the creation of this place." He gestures behind him at the castle, the most obvious facet of the painting--higher than everything else, the place to which the eye is most immediately drawn, the 'essence' of the painting, designed to look down upon the town below. At least, in Flint's mind. He has authority issues.      With a nod to Eryl, he continues. The Grandmaster had offered some interesting insight, which allows Flint to indulge in some speculation. "I'm no gambler, but I'd wager Velka's instruction to Ariamis also played a part in the creation of this 'Dark Ember.' /If/ the rumors are to be believed."      It's important to clarify that what he's heard is just rumor. But! If it's true? It would certainly explain Velka's tight-lipped refusal to say what cost Ariamis his life. If the other gods knew she was responsible, however indirectly, for the creation of god-killing weapons? Well, that would throw their little power games into all sorts of chaos, wouldn't it?      To push the envelope just a little farther, Flint adds, "I imagine the Lady of Sin is none too popular /without/ being implicated in the creation of the Dark Ember."      Behind him, the very castle to which he only just gestured changes. The painting, it seems, wants to move things along. When Flint turns around, he is stricken by the abuse that time has put upon this place. The only thing here which is remotely welcoming is the bonfire, and then only for the warmth it promises in the biting cold.      With his take on things already shared, the captain pulls his coat close to him, and approaches the bonfire. His hands extend towards it, seeking respite from the aggressive, deathly air of the place. The captain steals a furtive glance--Priscilla looks exactly as one would expect. Exactly as one would expect to see someone whose home, whose birthright, slowly died before their very eyes over centuries.      "Know this." He turns his head towards Priscilla. "If there is a way for us to restore this place... to, in any way, erase or mend what's been taken from you, we will find it. Later, you and I should speak privately. But for now, you have my assistance." Priscilla no doubt noticed he's here without his crew. "Such as it is," he adds bitterly.
Captain Flint	The erie quiet of the castle grounds is disrupted only by a few things. Flint has no interest in the brute beasts and wandering birds which hide in the surrounding wilderness. The rhythmic splashing, however, is another story. Flint enters the courtyard, gathers up some dry, rotten scraps of cloth, and small fragments of long-broken barrels. A rusted lantern is yanked unceremoniously from its post, and the wad of refuse thereafter stuffed inside.      Using the bonfire and a stray plank, Flint lights the lantern and slowly lowers it into the well.
Eryl Fairfax	Finally, after all these jaunts, they stand in the castle across the bridge. During their first visit, Eryl felt a bottomless sense of unease as he approached it, but that is absent this time. He takes in the walls, the bonfire, and realizes something. This is only a relatively short while after his visit. Finally, they've caught up with the Painting as it is.     That Priscilla sits by the bonfire only confirms it. No longer bound to experience things as a non-presence, she is properly here with them. He looks from her, to the gates of the castle. He strides past her, patting her on the shoulder before entering the castle grounds. Looking to Flint, he says, "I would imagine that even gods sin in her eyes. But with few means of properly punishing them... yes, I could see it. Thank you, Captain." He next first towards the graveyard, and heads in that direction.     No doubt the slabs of stone have been worn down by centuries of wind and cold. But there must be at least a few that can be rendered readable. If not by his eyes, then by carefully running his fingertips across the stone, to try and feel out the faded inscriptions.     He had told Priscilla that it was her final duty to this place to remember it. But that doesn't mean he can't help her in certain areas.
Staren	Staren flies across, to be met with... Priscilla. But is it the Priscilla they know? Radio says yes. "So... What now? It's... it's your home. We probably can't bring back all the people who are gone. Do you want to build it up again? I suppose we would need to ensure the disease can hurt no more visitors... But would there even be any more visitors? You have the painting now -- People will only come here if you send them..."
Kushiko	A slight nod from the faceless, technorganic Warframe towards the good Captain as they traverse. Once the matter of names is affirmed, she nods again, <"Yeah, she simply refused to go into it. Which struck me as odd, but I couldn't press her anymore."> She too felt and suspected as the pirate had; the manipulator telling of her manipulations but /NOT/ telling that? She makes an odd little sound--odder still since it's not from a voice or set of vocal chords exactly /here/, but that isn't the whole sum of it. <"... oh. Gwyndolin. She hated him. Maybe that was part of why she could have helped steer Ariamis towards this creation. She avoids having a direct hand, so maybe just enough guidance in the right wrong direction..."> She makes an irritated sound at this. The pieces begin to fall into place--there's little other way to describe what they're seeing thanks to the fact the Castle, the central fixture chose now to do this other than the fact that /Priscilla wasn't here for it/. With all the pieces, all the information between what she, Seft, Eryl, Flint and Reiji had uncovered, this was all there was. And all there was lain before them. The innocent joys followed by the descent into death and decay. A child forced to grow up here.. There's a tiny, strange little pang of twisted jealousy. Seeing all of this... the fact that Priscilla has this, however painful memory is a memory she has makes her long for being able to remember what she herself cannot. It's a fleeting thing, as the general sense of being 'unwanted' is something that does resonate even if she cannot properly place as to why. Only that she knows the feeling, somehow. She decides to speak a little further, <"Rare is popularity of anyone who carries the role she does in Anor Londo."> Especially when they dealt with... oh. <"... Yorshka. Everything..."> It may simply be a red herring in that regard. Could... how she came about, the HEIR...? No. No, surely not. No, she's pretty confident that's the wrong way to go about thinking, isn't it? Ahem. Given that they too see Priscilla here, she approaches the First as well. <"It should go without saying, that as others have said that we'll do everything we can here to bring this to the resolution it needs to be."> A slight pause. She's finding it slightly hard to make the words. <"There's been enough pain for several generations."> she concludes, giving a slight bow before turning to what remains here. Her attention shifts, not to the endless graves, but to the echoing well; if someone could probably seek it's bottom, she could.
Reiji Arisu	This is in fact the first time Reiji has been inside the Great Painting of the Present Day. That doesn't change how... forlorn the place strikes him. He isn't quite sure what's worse; that someone trapped Priscilla in this place for as long as they did, or that this citadel used to be... more than just a hollow, empty shell. That the Portrait of Ariamis was once a warm, loving, idyllic place. The decrepitness of the present is only made more tangible by the wholesomeness of the past. "I think perhaps the good captain draws connections where there are none," Reiji says with a slight frown. "Maybe Ariamis was a worshipper of Velka, but it seems more as though Gwynevere was closest to his heart." Perhaps they should have asked the Queen of Sunlight about the artist's final fate? Maybe that might have shed some insight into what had become of him. He shakes his had, then, and looks to Xiaomu with a nod of acknowledgment and gratitude. It's a small gesture, but the way he matches step with her is as much of a statement as the stoic exorcist needs to make. "Priscilla," he inclines his head briefly at the once and current regent of this broken place, before turning his attention to the great tower and the birds atop it. "Xiaomu," Reiji asides, "Do you happen to speak Crow?"
Carna	Carna is a complicated creature. The very thing that tells her this is a bad idea pushes her to keep pursuing it. The more it hurts the more she presses her own will against that instinct, testing herself against forces within and without. She has no clear reason for this. But she does not like being denied that which she seeks. It is very high on her list of triggers, alongside 'being taken from', and 'being attacked'. She has long accepted that even her own mind is untrustworthy.     But the sound of Priscilla's voice chattering out of the wax skull that dangles from her belt snaps her attention away, crimson eyes turning to the device as others speak, and then Enark--Whom she interrupts to ask about the message she left on the side of a building before. She is still fixated on that? It's surprising she even remembers doing it!     Enark is definitely surprised by how intact the bridge is, but when mecha start going over it, he is glad he did something. Or maybe that's just him trying to convince himself that he did something -- anything -- of use here.     When he starts hearing Priscilla being addressed over the radio, his heart leaps (figuratively, since it continues to be rather functionless). Is this the Priscilla of the past, finally being met? Does this mean they have a chance to warn her, to tell her about what is coming? To make preparations... So that the next time this group comes to the Painting, even if it's a different version of themselves, they can change it? He finishes rushing across, still cautious despite the bridge's intact nature, so using the hand rope rail things. But then the confirmation comes. It's 'their' Priscilla, but also the one of the present. Even so...!     He emerges into the same area as the others, seeing Priscilla by the fire. No static. That is when he begins to address her himself, and Carna interrupts him. He frowns. What message? Well, he's right in front of her, he'll talk from here. "I thought that we were told over and over that this could not be fixed. But if there is any way to repair this mess... You know that you have all that I can give for the cause, your majesty."     He looks towards Reiji distractedly and confusedly. "Crow? Is he here? Is this where he wound up--" Then he glances up and sees the birds. His expression falls a bit, but then just becomes placid and emotionless. He is not about to lose his hope again when they are now speaking of restoration. That is one of his specialties.
Tomoe	Tomoe's not going to be doing combat flight with this light but it's enough that she might be able to get across. She's wary to go too high and will keep lower to the ground than she might normally do, she's aware of how dangerous this place can be. She does not look into the depths of the chasm, she has no time to do so she's also almost fearful to see what's down there. She moves on making for the castle itself it seems to be the best place to go and scout ahead, she listens on the radio as she comes in for a landing to join everyone else. Priscilla is here she looks her friend for a moment and start understand a few things. Captain Flint's rumor-mongering goes over her head a bit and she seems to be lost in thought for a moment before she speaks. "Lady Priscilla..." What ever she had to say though dies on her lips as she has no idea what to say now about this whole situation. Then reiji's idea to Xiaomu comes up the crows maybe there's something there.
Starbound Flotilla	The rapid-fire rush of imagery is something that affects the Flotilla deeply. The rush of militarization slams into Albert's mind like a ton of bricks, and his mecha stops and locks up while his traumatized rage surges inside; Biteblade is the one who moves to assist him, bringing her Starstrider up alongside him and whispering words of comfort and assurance. Pavo would claim she's only hit by the pain of seeing so much lost value, but the story of one abandoned, cut off, and abused by this sort of vast order is something that hits too close to home for her, and George's soft spot for children is one that makes it tougher for him to get her active again.     Seft is the one hardest hit though. As a rejected noble daughter herself, seeing the loss brings out a series of stressed, pained synthetic sounds that cut off badly as she disables modules of her own mind, and she approaches solemnly. She doesn't speak with her usual emotive notation, prefacing her words with tone. Instead, her synthesized words are utterly plain. She echoes a bit of what Flint said. "Priscilla, when all this is done, I would like to work to restore the castle. Please." It sounds like Seft is asking more for the opportunity as a gift for Seft herself than for Priscilla's own benefit. She makes a soft, urging electronic noise.     Moonfin's doing something a little more focused though. He presses on through the castle, speaking urgently as he goes. "The knotted timeline unravels, but in doing so, does it not show something of great import, here and now? What truth lies at the center of this, that would twist time so? What was worth holding in this vast temporal knot, and was it the bow of a parcel, the cuff of a prisoner, or the noose of the dead?"     Move on. Move in. He strides forth, looking for signs of what he saw before deep, deep down in that chasm... And listening. Specifically, he's listening for whispers. That's the signature of that influence and that entity. He's taken some of Seft's scanning equipment and put it into his Starstrider to enhance hearing, searching for sounds like that...
Xiaomu	The ripple of the palace's vista shifting through the ages actually catches Xiaomu by surprise a bit, but she rides it out with quickly-reasserted equanimity. Damn, Priscilla was *cute* as a little girl, who'da thunk she'd ever get the chance to see it? ... anyway. Back to business. Xiaomu goes over what she's heard about the Painted World, pursing her lips - only to give Reiji a decidedly 'what' look at his query. "I speak several versions of Chinese and a good handful of dialects of Japanese; I've learned enough English to game across the Pacific, enough Russian to talk shop, and enough Portguese to haggle with foreign merchants. And that's all before the Multiverse dragged our world in." She looks up at the tower. "Still, if the crows here want to make conversation with us, I'm sure they have ways to see that somebody among us can understand them. I suppose I can at least try to help poke an arrow slit through the language barrier, though." She reaches into her vest, taking out a package of fried tofu, and carefully tears it open, removing a piece and holding it up - very much as though saluting, or perhaps offering a toast, to the dark-plumed avians upon their high perch. Okay, so it's not birdseed - if they want a snack, she's offering it. If they don't like fried tofu, don't ask a *fox spirit* to try opening the discussion.
Priscilla	Under any other circumstance, at any other time, and in any other place, Priscilla would probably bristle at the sympathy heaped on her. Even before she had taken the position of ever-increasing authority that she had, she had long begun to reject even the most heartfelt overtures of others, for what always followed next, and it had never been a habit easy to shake. Here though, the crossbreed looks as if the wind has been so thoroughly taken out of her that standing up is a necessary chore, and this worn down, she can only appreciate the empathy of others for what it is.     "The past is inviolate, and the present is unavoidable. Even in the convolution of time, it cannot be changed. However, the future is not, and thus I am thankful that thou look towards it. I am . . . sorry, for this. I had not meant for thee to see all of this as I once did, even if only in glimpses. It is not something that I wouldst wish upon any of thee. If it compels thine hearts to act in any such fashion, then I wouldst gladly allow it in order to heal them."     Priscilla takes a really, really deep breath, and then exhales slowly, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders once she finishes. "It is as I had feared, then. Though the world outside is mended, inextricable from its alteration of the First Flame, no life hast returned to this place. The Undead, and thus the Darksign, still exist within these walls. The Bonfire that was lit here was never connected to the outside, such that the Undead couldst never leave it, for the Bonfires art the beacons which guide them. As small and sorry a thing as it is now, it is this world's 'First Flame', to which there is no further use tending, with nothing else alive to hath need of it. With the seal broken, however . . . I knoweth not what still separates it. What surrounds and insulates it, and keeps its light from joining that of the true First Flame beyond. It is not meant to be this way." She briefly rests her hand on the hilt of the coiled sword, and then shakes her head. The flames slowly lick at her skin, but they don't seem capable of burning her, or possibly anyone, only very quietly humming and chiming as they give off their warmth.     Flint's lamp catches on it just fine, however, and a perfectly normal fire springs to life within it, readily crackling away. Lowering it into the well reveals a corroded iron ladder set into its side, allowing one to climb all the way down, clearly installed after the water had run dry after the weather had degraded until the rain had stopped. There appears to actually be a fairly cavernous space below, not simply meant to be a hole to draw water from, but an entire small catacomb carved very deliberately beforehand, which would have naturally been partially full at all times, but possible to enter.     After a minute of lingering by the side, the splashing starts to grow louder, indicating it is not totally dry yet, and there may still be some shallow portions within, indicating it is at least warm enough down there to melt ice and snow. After a minute longer, his view into the bottom is abruptly cut off by a small horde of lurching, clattering shapes; walking human bones that climb and scrabble over one another to try and claw their way up the well, looking to Flint with empty eye sockets that somehow radiate malice despite their blackness. They can't quite get to the ladder, though. Unlike the typical skeleton, all of them appear to be stuck to something, nailed to planks and wagon wheels, impaled with precisely placed spears and iron spikes, and variously either crucified in life, or purposefully disabled in death, and dumped down the well where they couldn't get out again. A makeshift quarantine for the fruits of necromancy.
Priscilla	When Eryl finds the graveyard, he is in for a surprise. Every single one of the gravestones is legible. Though their faces are incredibly weathered, and their edges worn smooth, sanded down by centuries of wind and run over with water and frost, it appears that someone has meticulously carved every name and epitaph in by hand, over and over and over again, judging by the few scrapes and slightly uneven lettering, preserving them for hundreds of years.     The graveyard is also where Moonfin is lead. Having heard them once before, deliberately and intentionally opening his mind to the possibilities seems to let them back in instantly. Those whispers lower than whispers. That fundamental core of speech so without trapping and definition as to be utterly meaningless, perceived as nothing but tone and cadence and insidious babble within his head. It's everywhere. It's a haze. A fog. A miasma. It pervades the place in strong and weak concentrations, most dense around specific graves and the more gruesome remains, and weakest in the blank snows and abandoned buildings. The gradient slowly intensifies when he moves to the eastern cliff and its many graves and prison cubes, however. Those are especially suspect, seeming to have been built for single human occupants, and then dumped in here. The purpose of making such an absurdly tiny and sturdy prison and /then/ dropping it here is unclear, considering any human would die of thirst or starvation in there well before they could think to escape, no matter their soul.     The tallest tower at the far end, ornamented the most by flocks of motionless crows, has its doors shut tight. Great big iron things, they block both the way in, and by peeking through a window, a way beyond that. Some sort of building or walkway hidden behind the tower. The steps seem an unsafe place to linger, however. From there, Reiji, Xiaomu, and Tomoe can see other shapes -human ones- wandering aimlessly about the dark arches and shadowy, snowy corners, as well as repeating endless laps inside locked and vacant buildings. Several of them bear extremely obvious signs of the plague from long ago, apparently having made its way in after being frozen a long time, before finally being quarantined to the last few hosts it'd ever have. Undead ones.     "The plague is long gone the issue." Priscilla says to Staren at about the same time. "A blight of utterly ancient proportions by now. I hath no intention of sending anyone here; only of saving the remaining few who still remaineth, enthralled by the Curse of the Undead, as we didst before for Lordran."     Back at the tower, when Xiaomu holds out the tofu and tries to strike up a conversation, it isn't the crows that come down to meet her. One of the large, hunched, shadowy shapes, leans, tilts, and then dives off the very top of the enormous structure, plummeting on top of her with clawed legs outstretched, probably easily enough to kill her if they hit her neck or face. Flashing into view, the thing is clearly some form of badly warped human, but it no longer even resembles the Corvian exiles they had met before in anything but the most superficial sense. Everything at the collar and above is all crow, including apparently functional arm-wings, and everything below the knee is too, including the talons. The rest is naked, blue-grey skin, pallid and ashen, and the creature betrays no signs of higher intelligence when it comes shrieking down on the sage fox.
Captain Flint	Reiji may be closer to the truth than he realizes. Some scepticism is healthy--and Reiji's scepticism in particular receives a grunt of affirmation. He doesn't turn to face the exorcist, but nevertheless replies. "It's possible. My conclusions are based only on rumors--and from very diverse ones, at that." Still... As he lowers the lantern into the well, he's sure that, in this case, it's not /too/ far from the truth. Those at the top seldom suffer anything which might drag them down.      And, speaking of being dragged down, there's a whole gaggle of skeletons looking to do just that to Flint. "Of course," he says, looking dispassionately upon the horde of clawing hands, eyeless sockets and... scraping wheels? No matter. Had he jumped down into the well or climbed the ladder, they surely would've been upon him, and he'd have only had his cutlass and his pistol do defend himself against things for which those weapons are... ill-suited.      The skeletons can't know that giving Flint time to plan is the worst possible thing one can do. But, in their hungry, grasping throes, there might be some spark, the faintest inkling, in that general direction. Or maybe not. One hand holds the lantern steady. The other dips into his traveling bag and retrieves a bottle of port. Ploonk. The pirate's teeth pull the cork free of the liquor, which is then poured over the mass of skeletons.      Flint then releases the burning lantern, dropping it on the soaked, huddled skeletons.
Staren	OH SO THOSE VISIONS ACTUALLY HAPPENED Staren's not especially swayed by them, though -- one could have surmised such conditions occurred from their previous visits.     Little Priscilla IS adorable, though.     Staren nods. "So no living remain... right. So we need to find what's happened to the cycle of life and death here, and why it's cut off from the world outside." He thinks for a moment. "...Given the way it was used as a prison... could it be it's ALWAYS been cut off on such a level? Created that way, such that even when we changed things in Lordran, the changes couldn't reach here? Maybe there's more to the seal than whatever you broke to get us in. Or rather, the seal was to some degree redundant with the painting's properties?"
Reiji Arisu	Little Priscilla /is/ definitely adorable. Also adorable: Yorshka. Priscilla, when is Yorshka's birthday party anyway? There needs to be a party. And cake. And hugs. There are so many hugs that need to happen, as small half-dragons dese-- Ahem "Yes, well. I'm sure one of those is vaguely like crow," Reiji says. After all, that's kind of what Chinese sounds like to his ear when he's only half-listening. "But I think maybe the tofu is perhaps a better way of going about it, yes." Or, it would be. If... Not for the fact that it isn't a /crow/ that answers the clarion call of delicious treats. It is approximately half a crow. Half a crow, half a person, all hate and hunger and rage. Reiji's eyes go wide as the thing descends, his hands fly to his weapon rack and unlimber his favorite sawed-off shotgun. "Xiaomu, behind me," Reiji yells, lunging into the space between the bird and the fox. If it were a falcon, perhaps there'd be something poetic about this situation. Instead, he gets a pair of claws digging into his bulletproof coat. And an excellent vantage point to fire a series of point-blank shots into the thing's wings and legs.
Eryl Fairfax	Eryl is surprised. But not unpleasantly so. The meticulous engravings, evidence of upkeep over the many years brings a smile to his face. Priscilla, for all her austere chilliness, has a sentimental side to her. Those people in the vision celebrating her birthday clearly raised her well. He runs a hand over the names, memorizing them regardless, so they might be entered properly in whatever registers of deaths Lordran has or develops in time. They're owed that much.     As Moonfin wanders over, heading towards the cuboid cages, Eryl calls out to him. "Take care of the cliffs! It's hard to gauge the rate of erosion in all this snow and mist." The Hyotl might be unpleasant, but Priscilla would be crushed were someone to die here. No need to add to her low mood.     Leaving Moonfin to it, he walks back to the courtyard and goes up to the unnerving statue of mother and daughter with long-dried tears of blood. One could logically assume that it was Gwynevere and Priscilla, possibly created by one of the craftsmen. He gives the statue a quick scan with his eyes, comparing the faded shape to that of the goddess and the child to the young Priscilla he saw in the vision.     Lastly, he raps on the statue's base, pressing his ear against it. Were the tears a trick of magic, or engineering? Essentially, he's testing to see if the base has a space inside to hold a mechanism or not.     In the distance, he hears gunshots. But he has faith that whomever fired them can handle it.
Tomoe	The Visions she saw stick with her linking in the back of her mind, she sees the decay the struggle of Priscilla and the others to survive the nightmare the Painting slowly became., She doesn't know what to say and when she sees Priscilla's reaction to everything else it only telling of how bad it had to have been. She takes note of the shapes, human ones moving in the shadows. She wonder though it doesn't seem right, and then it dawns on her that they are likely undead. "Or we didn't change enough..." She thinks about the conversation on the comms and she thinks very deeply about it Wait an idea strikes Tomoe. "Could this be something to do with the souls here in the painting being cut off?".
Kushiko	As much as some information is had, the rest of her is pretty well cofounded in some regards. <"Tch. Fun as that might be to deal with, all's the better. Presuming fire does the job with those..."> she muses in regards to Flint's judicious 'nope' of sending a blaze down the well itself. All told, with what's been said both by Priscilla and by others, she can't help but turn her attention to that radio, and wracking her brain as to the puzzle here that needs to be unraveled. Who or what... created any and all of this. Maybe more to the nature of the painting itself and what it did. Could it be a power that was not being /consciously/ directed? There was more to this painting they understood but even more left unknown. She looked about. The possibility existed here, but if it was what happened, it'd be even harder to fully investigate. For now, she was going to keep an eye on the well, just in case those skeletons were able to clamber out of the well.
Starbound Flotilla	The past tension between Eryl and Moonfin seems to have shifted to a low simmer. "These chasms hold a peril beyond even the ability of the Hylotl to comprehend. It is, in and of itself, the great and awful danger posed by the decay of beauty itself. I've little intention to touch it, and even less to fall victim to the treachery of the terrain." He says, broadcasting from the mecha's speakers. His keen senses pick up the concentration of the whispers, and he disembarks from his Starstrider, kneeling it down.     "Seft, with me. What do you make of these?"     Seft leaves Priscilla's side, content with the fact that her request to get to restore this place will be accepted. The mechanical thing heads for the graveyard and joins up, then heads out, checking the prisons, directing heavy sensor suites on her Starstrider straight into them. The head of the massive knight opens up enough to give her working space to use a suite of handheld sensors as well, and to cross-check things.     The whispers of the abyss are concentrated here. But are there trails? Tracks? Are there sources? Can a dense analysis of this bear any fruit? Seft will even split them open, if her heavy terrain-slicing gear allows, to get a better look. "Troubled. The cruelty put into this world... It's painful to see where Priscilla got so many of her scars from. I hope that if this world is healed a little more, maybe she can..."
Xiaomu	Okay, that's not what was supposed to happen and Xiaomu is *NOT* going to simply stand there and let a giant raven-harpy-birdman potentially tear her into hot, fresh carrion. She offered fried tofu, not *herself*, and she's long maintained a policy of not going on anyone else's plate. The sage fox and her fried tofu go in wildly different directions, and this is one of the VERY few times when you can expect their paths to diverge - because on the off-chance that the diving raven-harpy-thingy actually IS coming to collect the offered snack, Xiaomu flings the piece she was offering up into the air. If that's what the corvidian creep is after, he can grab it in mid-air if he wants to, or he can break off to scoop it up from wherever it may land. If, however, the raven-man was going for Xiaomu herself, then he's going to have to go through Reiji first. Or around him. Or something. Preferably not literally 'through' - Xiaomu isn't about to offer her partner up on the altar of 'feed the birds' any more than he's going to let her get pecked to piecesl. Still, there's one thing which actually spurs Xiaomu to do more than accept Reiji's offered protection. Once the immediate threat has been fended off, she calls out to the bird-man, "You don't happen to actually *remember* us from all those centuries ago, do you?" ... it seems unlikely, sure, but they were already under a curse - who's to say Velka's curse wouldn't keep them alive, if not human, over the course of such a long period?
Carna	The disappointing answer might have dispirited some. For Carna it simply tells her that she does not understand enough yet of how this all works, that she didn't go far enough, and that maybe it is as everyone, including Enark despite his dislike for it, has been saying all along: It can not be changed. There is no preventing or repairing this. Her own solution, to simply find a suitable weapon and cut the painting open, to dump its guts into Lordran and let it be changed regardless of the world itself may wish, does not seem to meet with much enthusiasm or support, but that's about standard in her experience.     Lantern philosophies seem to regularly clash with the Living, despite their supposed similarities in mentality. Oh, well. Just another myth put to rest. She moves to pursue the dark forest, the feeling of being watched a challenge to her, to see what is there that dares to watch her. Maybe this is the force that holds this place in the grip of decay. Maybe stabbing it will make things right somehow. That appears to be all she can really do well.     She has a very particular skill set after all.     Enark, meanwhile, hesitates to go near the well that is being investigated. He does not truly wish to revisit that experience in that cellar or whatever it was. Though the knowledge that there might have been others, other necromancers he left then without taking a template of, makes him feel sick with self-blame all over again. The Dead do not change. Enark has a very specific skill-set as well, and just as curiosity and optimism drive him, so too does guilt for those he can not help.     But he has a way to make up for that now, at least for one person. He is more convinced than ever that this is the one chance he has to make up for his failings. But that does not mean he has given up. "It is not what has been witnessed, tragic as it may be, that I am here because of, your majesty." he says as he clenches his fists and then turns towards Priscilla. "I am here, as I have been from the start, because you called for aid, and it is my privilege and honor to aid you. Whatever we wish to do, whatever we CAN do, I say again: you have all that I can give for the cause. You need merely ask for it."
Priscilla	The thing that falls on Xiaomu is not after her tofu. In fact, it's probably not even out to eat her either. The unholy screech it makes when Reiji dives into the way and its claws ram into his shoulders, allowing it to crouch down on top of him where it can slam its beak into his skull, only screams 'good enough', like all it's driven by is the urge to kill. A series of gunshots erupt into it at point blank, and the buckshot rips through its legs and 'arms', throwing it off of him and into the snow in a splatter of oozing, greyish blood. The crows up above don't even scatter, despite the incredible noise, remaining watching and unstartled as the horrid thing croaks and gurgles on the icy steps. If it has any sapience at all, its mind would have to be addled to the point of making communication impossible.     Flint has, comparatively, a trivially easy time on his end. The skeletons only thrash and claw at the ladder as he pours his liquor on them, one of them actually getting its fingers on the rungs, only for the bony claws to slip right off now that they're wet. The fireball is pretty intense, and there's plenty of wood between them to catch light, leaving them flailing and clawing in some voiceless recognition of the flames eating away their bodies. Eventually, the bones fall apart, whatever animating magic is involved coming undone and leaving the floor littered in smoking bones and flaming wood. Tiny sparks of soul-stuff rise out of them and flit into the sky, no doubt towards the Lordran native, not even close to a full blown soul. He could climb down if he really felt like it, whether or not that's a good idea.     Eryl moving to the statue finds something especially unpleasant in his way. Though he can easily see from a distance, the motherly figure is so heavily clad in robes that it's completely impossible to make much of their body type, and the face is so worn away that it's likewise impossible to make much of their features. The blood does not appear to have come from inside though. It seems that, if some dark magic wasn't involved with it as a focus, someone intentionally smeared it there, for what symbolic or arcane purpose is unknown.     Attempting to approach to examine it by hand is abruptly interrupted as the snow piled up around its base bursts upwards, and from it, a wall of tall shields and rattling spears rises, along with a chorus of aggravated moans. At first, it seems as if a swarm of Hollows had been lying under the snow in ambush, but taking a second look, if the things are Undead, they are abominably misshapen. They have arms and oddly boneless faces, but their spine practically floats atop an amorphous glob of mottled, frostbitten flesh, oozing around like a slime creature, and mostly of them appear to be /conjoined/ in a tangle of limbs, shields and spears. It makes for an intimidating, though perhaps only partially effectual, barrier to approaching the statue, which they seem to be actively /defending/.
Priscilla	Seft's examination goes better. It'd be best not to go too far into the ranks of grave markers, with the same decrepit silhouettes ambling about with what seem to be improvised weapons, perhaps the remains of the militia driven here, judging by the number of piked corpses, but the prison cubes aren't hard to find. The whispers of the Dark are especially dense around them, like heavy vapours of chemical warfare settled and congealed into a trench full of the recently dead. They don't appear to ooze /out/ of the oddly portable cells, though.     They seem like /an/ origin point, but it's impossible to pin down much of any kind. It'd be easy to posit that they had brought some kind of metaphysical taint in when they were dumped through the canvas, but then . . . so would hundreds of other things gathered around the castle, to say nothing of the surrounding towns. Of course, the unholy noises are strongest around the precarious cliff, but it doesn't seem like the blackness bubbled up from nowhere. Rather, this kind of thing descended into it, and built up over time. These things are traces. The deep dark not far from reach has grown steadily of its own accord.     Anyways, it's blatantly obvious they were used to transport Undead, if not just straight up Hollows. A great deal of blood has stained the stones orange, and there's no sign anywhere of anything being passed through the bars, or any accompanying human waste. Only something already dead would need to be imprisoned like that, and have broken its shackles and wandered off; that is if it wasnt let out on purpose.     "Of course it hath always been cut off, Sir Staren, but such was the entire purpose of the seal. None wouldst know how else to do so but Ariamis himself, thus I cannot imagine it a mere redundancy. What he gave his life for was the realization of a world, not a prison. I hath no doubt it was built such with the very intent of being unsealed one day, in a kinder time and place. This is what perplexes me. Thou art able to freely move between here and the outside now, without any action on mine own part, and thus clearly that of the outer world is not restricted, but this place so stubbornly refuses to rejoin Lordran's greater cosmos. It is as if even the Flame is trapped here, by something that shuns the light outside."     Right on cue, the little soul sparks from Flint nuking the skeletons flit over the wall, and rather than going to Priscilla, zip into the bones of the Bonfire; and no further. Priscilla is a little less contemplative and businesslike with Enark, knowing the scholar to be deeply, personally unsettled moreso than Staren, and likely floundering a little for direction. "Admittedly, I had hoped thine familiarity with, or at least access to lore regarding, thine Lord Tharmas, wouldst be of aid. Though it is greatly clear that his works and those of Ariamis art not the same even in spirit, there must be some sort of parallel for him to hath gotten as close as he didst."
Reiji Arisu	Getting a beak to the head is definitely not in Reiji's interest for the day. Thankfully, shotguns solve a /lot/ of problems. The exorcist whispers a soft curse as he backpedals away from the dislodged corvian only to frown, deeply, at the miserable thing as it tries to crawl its way back up the steps. He sighs, shaking his head, "Xiaomu. I really don't think... The passage of time has not been kind to these creatures. How long has it been since we met that one?" Even the strongest memories would find it hard /not/ to fade over the course of so many years. "Let's... Go help the others. I think Eryl and Flint found something interesting." Or at the very least, something worth investigating. Reiji decides to prioritize his boss' needs first. What he finds, though, is... "That... Isn't that a little too close to that necrotic /thing/ in the cellar?" The exorcist wrinkles his nose in a grimace before levelling his shotgun at the collection of frostbitten beasts. After a moment, he reconsiders and swaps to Karin. The flame blade roars as he swings it, trying to carve a path towards the statue at the center of the plaza. If he can get there in one piece, he'd spend some time trying to figure out just what manner of dark magic is responsible for its debasement-- and whether it can be reversed with a bit of Eastern Sorcery.
Captain Flint	Looking over his smoldering handiwork, Flint frowns. It isn't a good idea to go down into the well, but he'll nevertheless have to. Someone in this world has taken it upon themselves to assume here the mantle that Nito has taken in Lordran. And Flint personally suspects that whoever this is, is also the one refusing to accept the metaphysical changes which have taken place in Lordran. What better way to discern this pretender god's motives than by studying their handiwork?      Rather than heading directly into the well, Flint first investigates the smithy, or the place where it once was, walking briskly through the bitter cold, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. Once there, he'll look through the tattered and time-beaten remains for some sort of crushing implement. Hopefully, he can find one not entirely worn to uselessness.      But if not, well... he'll have to get creative. Or rely on the proven creativity of his friends in the Flotilla. He /is/ going to investigate the well, but he's not going to be caught off guard if he can help it. That seems to be something the underpinnings of this world absolutely delight in.
Eryl Fairfax	Eryl picks up something on his way to the statue. Something making the snow underfoot shift in subtle ways, quiet raspy breaths... he leaps back just as the amalgam erupts from the snow, menacing with shields and spears. He's seen many things in his long life, but something as twisted and pitiful as this is a new low...     But, they are but Undead. To that end, he feels less bad about what he does next. As Reiji rushes in to incinerate the lot with a burning blade, he simply measures the gaps between the shields with his eyes before he finds one suitable. He then raises a foot, points the heel at the cluster, and lets a grenade erupt from it.     With any luck, it should slip through the gap and explode right in the centre of the mass of Hollows, breaking up the configuration. Hopefully, in doing this, he's ensuring that when they resurrect, they won't be locked together. He also hopes it doesn't hurt too bad. Or at least, hurts less than the torment they've been suffering.     Once that's done, and Reiji begins his examination, Eryl gives him a hand where needed, most likely a boost so he can examine the bloody tears.
Xiaomu	Well, if the harpy-dude had been diving into conversation, he wouldn't have kept going to try and peck into Reiji's head like that, would he? Xiaomu looks on with dismayed disappointment as Reiji does what he has to do ... and then, after the corvian is down, the sage fox steps forward to offer a prayer over the bird-man, to ease his passing and - if Buddhism has any sway at all in this world - to facilitate his reincarnation in a less-cursed form. She's also keeping an eye out skyward in case any MORE of those things decide to try diving at her. Or at Reiji, for that matter. Or, y'know, anybody ELSE in the group who might be mistaken for delicious. (Or, indeed, edible. Granted, that's subjective too, but Elites don't take well to being eaten, do they?) Anyway, she'll be backing Reiji up while he attends to his own take on matters spiritual.
Carna	Enark tries to push down his emotions, to becoming clinical, calm, and in control, and focus on the task that Priscilla has given him. Significance... Why did Tharmas choose this place? Why not literally anywhere else in Lordran? Even if it was Priscilla that was important, since it was the Priscilla who had left the Painting and become Queen who eventually came to Lumiere, why was it Ariamis that was depicted? Was it really prepared that long ago?     He puts a hand to his head. A throbbing beginning to build. "There's a memory... That I feel is important... But every time I try to access it... It slips away like frictionless sand. I just can not get ahold of it. It is relevant to all this." He looks around, down at the bonfire, then back to Priscilla.     "He wanted a certain version of you, I believe. Or something from this Painting. The prophecy called for the version of you who was ruler of two nations. But he did not choose to depict you seated upon your throne in Anor Londo. He chose THIS place. If he was merely trying to recreate the prophecy, to provide the heroes who never came, why all of..." he gestures around. "...THIS? Was his information incomplete? That seems the most likely. But a Lord of Silence exists and functions on a level that thwarts even the gods. And the first generation were beyond gods. They were more like Titans. Or... 'Eternals'. If a Titan is a being greater than a god, who requires no worship to sustain that power, an Eternal is power itself. I can not fathom Tharmas, being able to paint worlds based on prophecy, and not knowing intimately what he was making and for what purpose."     He shakes his head, rubbing at his nose in all this cold and being glad for lack of life for once, so that there is no unsightly nose-running to deal with. The chill is still unpleasant though. "Youa are whom and what Los called for. But you are not whom Tharmas wished to save Lumiere. And yet you arrived regardless, in accordance with Los's prophecy. Perhaps there is still something of value here that we have overlooked. Perhaps if we find it, we will know better how the one who tried to provide Lumiere a chance to save itself differed from the one who wrote into being how others should live for the sake of a world not their own. There is something here. I know it. Perhaps the World itself, and whatever will or intent it might possess... And communicating with it is the next step."     'And perhaps', he thinks, 'I will determine why Lord Tharmas chose me, the last survivor of the Blue Scholars, to be part of all this, despite no prophecy of Los to my name. Maybe I can start saving worlds with this one.'
Kushiko	Honestly, Flint shouldn't even remotely have to worry about braving the well himself. Mostly because the Tenno is there, and even without the easy mode of Nova's Wormholes, the feminine figure pretty capable of either A) carrying or B) simply scouting ahead. <"Allow me,"> she calls out to Captain Flint, though she hasn't missed the fact those little soulsparks have gone towards the bonfire; what meaning lies there will have to be dwelt on later. While he goes to look over the blacksmith, she's going to help herself down the well itself, casting light down with her suit's nodes. The clawed fingertips and taloned digitgrade feet are pretty damn good for climbing, scraping and digging into stone. <"Not that this is something that's the best of ways in, we should be able to soak first whatever nastiness is down here."> It's an honest appraisal, her words somehow /not/ echoing off the walls as she slides down the well in short bursts of motion. For those like Flint who end up looking down after her, all that they might see without any extra light is the lights of her suit, like an odd, specter.
Tomoe	It was a lot to take in, today there. Yet? There still was a lot to learn still. Thankfully now though she had some idea,, what to do or at least she can help the people who better yet understands things. She trusts in those dealing with the last of the undead her and she turns her attention to Enark for a moment and she listens thinking on what he has to say. It brings up questions she needs to ask him but those can wait till another time. She needs to get moving and heading off to help Reiji and the rest.
Starbound Flotilla	"Comprehending. It seems as if this is a source, but not a concentration. Like it was brought in, but has not stayed. It is as though it was flowing...?" Seft says, thoughtfully, feeding data to Moonfin. She continues examining and gathering data, while the remaining members of the Flotilla begin properly moving and filtering into the castle and the areas beyond the courtyard.     Moonfin closes two eyes and takes a long, deep breath. "This," He says. "Is a familiar trouble. Not familiar in nature, nor behavior, but in premise." He flicks one hand dramatically, and the samurai-mecha behind him shifts position, gathering him up on the flat of the blade itself. Moonfin takes a somber, meditative seat on it, curling his legs under him, and leaving both eyes closed while the third flits about a series of projected holographic screens.     Among the Flotilla, Moonfin is an expert in one specific matter: Management and behavior of pollutants. Their command over terrains and environments, and of industry, encompasses the handling of such contaminants. Moonfin's understanding of this is that it may be a "cosmic pollutant". And so what he has chosen to do is to dedicate the fullness of his expertise to trying to match the Abyss' behavior to that of pollutants, and through that, to analyze a way to strike at it.     The rest of the Flotilla, for now, gather up to get things set up. Hopefully, if the core of this can be found, they'll have a forward base to launch the assault!