escordvi | December open log

Who: Emet-Selch and YOU
Status: Open
Where: See individual prompts
What: The new-ish Ascian on the block hasn't even been here a month and he's already fought off a tombstone spirit(?) and gotten recruited into a crew, what more shenanigans could this place possibly pull him into?! LET'S FIND OUT TOGETHER
Warnings: Out-of-context spoilers for prompt 1 and 3

(Will match format)

1. The Picture of Dorina Grey (MANTA General)

What manner of portrait could a blind woman possibly paint? That is the question he asks himself as she cajoles him into taking a seat. Were she any less insistent or, indeed, possessed of the usual sight, he would have stood firm and walked by. But time is something he has an abundance of to waste at present and he is still reeling from the realisation that the last twelve thousand years of his work have been for naught.

So, it isn't unfair to say that he welcomes some time to talk through the sordid details of his long, long...long life. Summarised, of course, for her benefit.

The end result shocks him into silence. He hardly knows what he had been expecting, but it certainly isn't to gaze upon his original face, with a clarity that he has long forgotten. Sharp yellow eyes, irises gleaming like the stars above, yet the expression twisted into one of savage glee as it gazes upon the viewer. Like an emperor gloating over their final victory. A psychotic man enjoying the fires of purgatory surrounding him being visited upon others because he knows no other way to make them understand his pain.

Is this what I look like? he wonders.

Caught up in his own thoughts, he doesn't notice anyone approaching until they're right beside him or they speak up.

2. Magitech Madness (MANTA General)

Having successfully introduced non-magical means of energy to the natives, is it any surprise that they would immediately turn to thinking of ways to weaponise it against each other? Emet-Selch gazes upon the workshop he's been enthusiastically invited to assist with open resignation on his face. This is how mankind is and always will be. This is the sort of world that the Warrior of Light and their friends are intent on defending.

Sighing to himself, he finds an empty spot at a table for himself and starts to tinker with some of the leftover munitions and scrap. Should one choose to join him, one can either find him building a crude, Garlean-style gunblade prototype or testing its firing capability on targets.

3. Fountain of Blades (MANTA Paladin)

Emet-Selch has a lot of memories for the pools to use against him.

Being a solitary man, he, of course, has set off without a companion. With his magicks, he's confident that he won't run into anything particularly troublesome. Besides, he doesn't care for the 'competition' that the other paladins are making of it, to see who will be the first to find the sword. He's only here to clear his mind and distract himself from brooding.

Once he reaches the pools, he carefully navigates across the wet and slippery terrain. As he does, he glances idly down into the water.

(3-A) Firstborn
"Lucius?" he says without thinking. He wades further into the water, tiny little fish darting away as he reaches for the face he sees in the pool's reflection. Cold and still as death, he thinks with an aching heart. He doesn't realise that it's because his hand is submerged.

(3-B) Home
Amaurot is beautiful any time of day, but it is almost certainly more beautiful at night. Windows softly lit by gentle lights, its twisting spires reaching for the heavens, wide, beautifully paved streets and gentle slopes - oh, how he misses home. Emet-Selch stares at the image in the water and ignores those trying to pass by him, lost in his own homesickness.

(3-C) The End
Emet-Selch yelps as he slips into the water. There, in the dim, ruddy depths, he sees a fireball hurtling towards a group of cowled figures fleeing through broken streets. Water churns and Emet-Selch almost swallows some trying to stop the meteor striking his people. Coughing, spluttering, filled with indescribable terror, he flings his own dark magic indiscriminately through the cavern. Watch out!

4. Untitled Goose 2 (Bounty)

If it weren't for the large bounty being offered, Emet-Selch wouldn't bother. However, in a new land, with few resources, it's prudent to gather coin as quickly as possible. With the reward from this, he should be able to use it and invest in something to gain an easy return - or so he tells himself.

First, he has to slay the damn thing.

His arena of choice is one of the ports. He's not foolish enough to challenge it on the open water. Of course, he isn't the only one trying for the bounty. Plenty of strangers ~~(i.e. NPCs)~~ have turned up hoping to get a share. While they distract the goose-hydra, Emet-Selch has found a high position roughly eye-level with the monster to set up his spell. He stands in the middle of an arcane circle with his eyes closed, chanting. At the final line, he thrusts out the arm that has thin, red 'vines' twining around it.

"Begone!"

A thick streak of dark magic laced with red sparks shoots forward and strikes one of the goose heads directly. It seems to do heavy damage...but it's not enough to completely take off the head. And unfortunately, his strike has the effect of attracting the goose's full ire.

Help?

5. Wildcard

For anything else!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His footfalls are near-silent as he walks past, clearly heading for the provided workbenches with purpose. He does stop, however, at the strange look on Emet-Selch's face.

"If you have such an expression, I wonder why you are here at all."

He is curious as to why - the thoughts that come with such a resigned expression use such sweeping, broad terms, some of which seem specific and he has no context for. A man of experience, clearly.

He flicks the stranger a glance. Looks away and crosses his arms.

"Perhaps I want to see for myself the extent of their progress before I blow it all up."

It's difficult to tell whether or not he's speaking in jest.

"And what will that accomplish besides a great waste of lives and resources?" He sounds coolly curious, perhaps a little judgemental - but to Kimmuriel, it is because of the potential inconvenience, rather than because he's morally repulsed by the idea. "You think to prevent disaster before its roots can take hold?"

"Nothing I could do would prevent disaster, only delay it."

Nothing short of a calamity of a scale to match the ones he orches-- used to orchestrate.

"Mortal men have short memories besides. The lesson would not take hold for long."

"You sound very certain that such punishments will not make them take heed."

He'd done little more than the listening he usually does, the skimming of surface thoughts around him. But the mention of 'mortal men' is interesting enough that he brushes his mind against this stranger's, seeking further information. Can he probe deeper - or at all? What kind of mental defenses does Emet-Selch possess?

"You have encountered such follies before." He speaks as if confirming a suspicion, not asking a question. It is simple enough to guess that the problem is something of that nature - it is not uncommon to see in longer-lived races.

He doesn't remark that the man looks human. Plenty of creatures can look human.

This stranger encounters no resistance. Emet-Selch doesn't seem to notice initially either as he scoffs and shrugs his shoulders.

"I would go so far as to say that it is an unshakeable truth about mortals. Their inability to learn or remember lessons of the past across more than two or even three generations is both a boon and a failing."

His reply brings up the sorts of memories that the other male is perhaps looking for: images of the effects of war, calamity, famine, drought, flood, fire, world-wide thunderstorms, and even extreme gales. Emet-Selch has experienced them all across a period of some twelve thousand years - some of them very, very personally. In the midst of disaster, the strong take and the weak make do with what remains.

--Until enough of the weak gather to present a strengthened front. Then society rebuilds and the whole damn process starts over.

As they dig deeper into his mind, Emet-Selch frowns. Memories surfacing he can understand, but it does not feel like he is recalling them himself. On a hunch, he narrows his eyes and snaps out, "Get out of my head."

"It is more of a failing, I have always thought," he says, impassively. "The wounds and follies of older generations can be carried long after everyone involved forgets the reasons, or if there was ever a reason at all."

Interesting. This man is truly long-lived, longer lived than even the most aged matron of his race or any other (though that means little, in the span of things; many drow died quickly and young in Menzoberranzan, the Underdark was not terribly conductive to a long life regardless, and Faerun itself was not exactly conductive to a long and happy life, full of dangers as it was). That breadth of experience and memory puts this stranger more on par with the hivemind's archives than a mortal. Twelve thousand years....

He doesn't blink or flinch at Emet-Selch's rebuke, nor does he apologise, but he does withdraw. Whether the other man will feel it is another thing entirely.

"You have seen much," he comments. "The capacity you retain for memory is impressive."

Edited (rewording) 2023-12-31 14:04 (UTC)

And to think, those twelve thousand years don't even cover the entirety of Emet-Selch's life. There is more - far more - to see but he is wary against intrusion now, even if he has no means to stop them from delving again.

He harrumphs at their comment. "I had little choice in that regard. I had to remember. I was the only one who could. And if you go rifling through my head again without asking, I'll make sure you don't forget either."

He had only dipped into the shallows, he knows. A mind of such great depth is of tantalizing interest to him, even and especially because it holds such experience far removed from his own. Knowledge was what he sought for his own desires, the only desire that he allowed himself to have, and there were differences here - such differences. People from worlds he could hardly imagine, had never imagined, with their own places and times and magics and artifice. Some of it was surprisingly similar, but much, much was different.

If he could take it all back - what a grand contribution that would make. A honor, perhaps, in the eyes of the hivemind, as they perceived such things.

I had to remember. I was the only one who could. A jarring note, a strange unfurling of fellow feeling that comes unexpectedly.

There is no word for the last of a House in Menzoberranzan. (And he truly was, unless there were any stragglers who had been away - no servant nor soldier had escaped and he doubts the kobolds that thronged the tunnels in the sides of the Clawrift would consider themselves Oblodra.) But no doubt that is...

He is capable of some tact. He does not ask are you also the last?

"You must have been honored among your people," he says, with no apology but a certain change of tack. "To be charged with the duty of remembrance." He cannot imagine giving the post of record-keeper, if given it was (if a post it was) to someone lowly.

"Honoured? Hah!" The thought is laughable, only because of the way things turned out. "No, I wasn't honoured. Between one man whose intense passions drove him mad and another who was cursed to forget everything about himself, I didn't have a choice."

He didn't choose to be amongst the last of his people. No, Hydaelyn made that choice for them.

A surge of resentment grips him. He would have rather she simply sundered them all than let the remnants live with the memory of their loss.

"...Enough of that. I came to make myself a weapon, and this time I'll not be sharing any insights with these war-minded idiots."

December open log

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apologies, holiday retail etc

i understand completely, no worries

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